#why does this man have such a vice-grip on my goddamn throat

[maharlika]

had to put @recurring-polynya's tags out here because they're so good

#byakuya kuchiki#hard agree#i think he was raised to believe that devoting his life to being clan head/serving soul society was the most selfless thing he could do#so he's not really able to process anything as selfishness after that b/c how can you be selfish when you had to give up your entire self?#(do not get me wrong. this is not sympathy. he is very selfish)#but i also think that a lot of bleach is about how love is fundamentally selfish and it's what you do with it that counts#like i'm not sure it's byakuya's *fatal* flaw only b/c there are lots of chars in bleach (gin and tousen for 2)#for whom loving selfishly becomes all-consuming and ruins their lives and ultimately kills them#byakuya is literally just like sora--he came back from the brink of being consumed by his own selfishness#the redemption arc is in progress. he is still deeply insufferable.#but that's kind of his charm right?

my read on byakuya is that he receives little joy from his social position and feels confined by the expectations of his status but endures the responsibilities because he's accepted his fate. his stoicism didn't come naturally, wearing it more like a mask, while his true emotions get shoved down deep and anger is the one most likely to surface. his fatal flaw is his selfishness. rukia's execution is all about how it makes him feel. ("when you were condemned I didn't know what to do. honor the oath I made to my parents or the promise I made to hisana"). he's accepted rukia as his sister but his love for her is expressed as an extension of himself ("you pointed your blade at my pride"). the losses faced during the invasion are his fault ("I could not take out those you trampled all over the seireitei. I led many officers to their deaths. I brought sorrow to their families"). he does genuinely enjoy fighting and finds satisfaction in proving his superiority as a swordsman.

[hellishjoel]

surfing the crimson wave

3.7k / pairing: linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader

Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

summary: You lash out at Frankie, he unexpectedly does you a kindness. You thank him in his truck the best way you know how. 

warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), swearing, discussions of having a period/emotions of going through a menstrual cycle (everyone’s is different! this is my rendition which may differ from your own experience), oral (m! receiving), slightly public sex (again, I’m not sorry), slight angst in the end, somewhat minimum editing, no use of y/n

A/N: These two live in my mind RENT. FREE. The next two to three chapters are outlined - wahoo! I’m writing this as if it's a sitcom honestly, so that’s why there’s that random interaction at the start of this chapter. Yes, this chapter is shorter than the last, the chapter sizes may vary depending on plot! I had a world to build in part one, but I still hope ya'll enjoy this even though it's shorter

Why the fuck did you have a growing soft spot for Frankie Morales all of a sudden?

Frankie forms a vice grip on the back service door and pulls it towards him with a yank, followed by the heavy scraping sound of metal crunching with orange rust. 

On the other side waits the Thursday morning food shipment. The bright red van made Frankie have to squint his eyes, his face curling up in annoyance. He observed the mismatched wheels and a certain clunking coming from the engine.

“You’re late,” Frankie mutters to the delivery truck driver, Smithy. 

The man wore a trucker’s hat to shield his balding head, loose greasy curls swiping out from under the brim. He mosied in, back hunched, old prescription cheater glasses on his nose as he slowly flipped through pages of his logbook with his pork sausage fingers. 

“Ya fackin’ doorbell don’t fackin’ work. Been here since nine.” 

Frankie narrows his eyes on the old man and takes a deep breath through his nose. His patience is evidently low this morning. 

“There’s a damn sign outside, that I wrote, saying that the doorbell is fucked. You know how to fuckin’ read, old shit?”

“I know how to fackin’ read, you greasy son of a bitch.” His gravely, smoke ingested wheezy voice makes every one of his words end with a shaky breath and a gross clearing of his throat.  “I’m not shoutin’-... DING DONG! Like a goddamn PRICK!”

Frankie scoffs and wipes a hand across his tired face, dragging sweat away from the tops of his brows. “You just fuckin’ did- Christ.” There was no point in arguing.

He murmurs curses to himself as he walks past Smithy and out the back door to the loading truck, unsnapping the latch and letting the door fly up with a loud rickety creak. 

“Fuck you, Francisco.” Smithy grovels, wobbling around the truck to watch from the pavement and keep an eye on him. 

Once Frankie verifies the order and signs off on it, you were clocking in at the back hall. Your eyes slowly scanned over him, slyly smiling. He pauses about ten feet away from you, further in the kitchen, and holds your eye contact. 

You look him up and down, shaggy appearance and all. He tries to give you his douchey smirk. “Mornin’, princess.”

You show no immediate response. You like watching him burn like an ant under a magnifying glass. You slowly begin to purse your lips and lightly narrow your eyes on him. “Your shirt’s inside out.”

Frankie’s smirk falters as he looks down at himself. His face flattens like a pancake as he brushes by you, untying his apron as he goes with an annoyed, “Shit.” 

---

Fold linen in half. Knife, fork, spoon. Fold the left side into the center. Fold the right side into the center. Roll up. Set aside. Repeat.

Fold linen in half. Stomach cramp.

“Fuck.” You murmur, attempting to pause rolling the silverware as you gently knead your palm into the lower part of your stomach. 

Knife, fork, spoon. Fold the left side into the center. Stomach cramp. Deep breath in, deep breath out. 

Fold the right side into the center. Roll up. Frankie approaches with a stupid smirk. Eye roll. Set aside. 

“What’s got you so down, princess?” 

The booth you’re in bounces as Frankie scoots in beside you. This is the worst time for him to talk to you. Cramps were coursing through your abdomen like tiny volts of electricity, pulling and tugging on your insides and leaving you sore. The clamp you have on your jaw is so tight, your teeth are grinding. Periods fucking sucked.  

Stomach cramp.

You whimper quietly and push the storage bin of extra linen-rolled silverware aside.

“I’m not in the mood.” You finally muster up, avoiding his eye contact. Fold linen in half. 

You and Frankie have had limited contact since fooling around behind the back of the diner. It wasn’t exactly on purpose. He didn’t work Tuesdays, you didn’t work Wednesdays. Now it was Thursday and your period hit you in the middle of the week on your day off. What the fuck was that shit luck? 

He plucks the red sucker from his mouth and looks over you slowly. Reading you. Trying to see if he should lean into your foul mood or not touch you with a ten-foot pole. 

He juts out his jaw to the left, then to the right, muddy brown eyes observing you before coming to the bright conclusion that:

“Somethin’s wrong with you.” 

Your eyes cannot physically roll back into your head far enough. 

“No shit Sherlock.” You muttered, unimpressed by his harrowing detective skills. “Why don’t you solve Stonehenge next, or deduce what happens at the Bermuda Triangle.” You mutter. Knife, fork, spoon.

You had been in a foul mood since first clocking in. It was one minor convenience after another. On top of that, your body was achy, slipping between scorching hot and freezing cold. Your periods hit you like a truck, and simple Ibuprofen often didn’t shield you from the pain for long. You tried to stick to yourself for most of the day, but now here Frankie was, about to drive you into a corner.

You have a very short fuse right now. 

Frankie slowly smirks and cocks up his head, throwing his sucker back into his mouth as he crosses his arms, making his biceps bulge.

“You’re pretty when you’re pissed.” 

You snort up a short laugh, folding another set into the basket and running a hand down your tired face as you sigh. 

“I’m on my period, Frankie. So, can you please just- leave me alone?”

He frowns lightly, eyes softening as he looks over you cautiously. The ten-foot pole option would have been a better route for him to take. He realizes that now. 

He tries to choose his next words carefully. “You okay?” 

You sighed in annoyance, emotions running high. You couldn’t bear the thought of anyone in your space right now, which is why you opted to take silverware duty during the dead hours of your shift. But here he was, in your space, making your anger bubble over as your stomach screamed at you, cried for food that your cramps wouldn’t allow you to comfortably digest. 

“Frankie- Christ! I said to leave me alone, I even said fuckin’ please! I’m tired, I’m starving, I’m- I’m fucking bleeding from my vagina, and all I want-” Your eyes are filled with rage as you turned to him, putting your little fists up before you flatten them open, pushing your palms in his general direction. 

“All I want is for not just you- but for everyone to leave me alone! Please!” Your voice was scorned, breaths heaving as you felt heat rush through your entire body. 

It felt like the entire staff of Tumbleweed was staring at you. Busboy Lou stopped mopping the floors, do-it-all Paul was glaring at you for disrupting his daily crossword puzzle, and Tina was looking around, unsure of what to do. This was the first time she had seen you like this. Angry, short-tempered, blowing up on the first person that crossed an unknown line. 

You sighed as you felt tears threatening to spill, trying to scoot Frankie out of the booth so you could escape to the bathroom. 

“Please,” you quietly whimper. Frankie’s already moving out of your way, a sympathetic look on his features with parted lips, unsure of what to say or what to do. But there was really nothing he could do.

---

As the more responsible member of your group, you usually adhered to the designated fifteen-minute break period without extending it, based on basic principles. But after twenty minutes in the dingy bathroom alone with some peace and quiet for your wrecked brain, you were starting to feel a little better. 

You changed your hygiene product and straightened yourself out. You washed your hands and scrubbed them under scalding hot water until you felt like your anger drained down the sink. 

All you wanted to do was go home. Be in comfy pajama pants and a big shirt, sleep with a heating pad over your stomach, and munch on some ice cream. Maybe watch some porn. Maybe watch a period drama. Ha. Get it? Period drama. You quirked up a half-smile at your little joke.

Maybe before all of that though, you could work up the nerve to apologize to Frankie. He just asked if you were okay and you lashed out at him. 

The restaurant is dimly lit in a yellow hue once you exit the bathroom. It's dark out, the velvet sky turning purple and blue. The tables are cleaned, and you see Tina working a rag over the line of barstools at the front counter. She gives you a sympathetic smile, and you give her a crooked one back. 

“You didn’t have to do all the cleaning, I’m sorry-”

“Hey, everyone has bad days! Don’t worry about it! Ya know why? Because-” She pauses before breaking into a short-lived rendition of that one Annie song. 

“The sun will come out, tomorrow!”

Your eyes widen, and you quickly take her by the shoulders, squeezing tightly. 

“You know what? My headache- This migraine I have is just- so bad, y’know?” 

Tina’s lips parted, eyes wide as you gave her a sympathetic smile. 

“Another time, maybe?” She offers excitedly. 

You give her a tight-lipped smile but eventually nod. She shoots you a thumbs up and takes her rag into the back. 

You sigh as you go to grab your silverware tub, pausing as you see a plate of food hot and ready on the table. 

“Tina- whose order is this?” 

You don’t receive an answer, but you don’t need one. 

You know every meal on this menu, front and back. This was your personal off-menu special. You always had the line cooks make it special for your shift meal. And Frankie made it the best. 

You examine the dish further, confirming it was your greasy double cheeseburger with bacon, extra cheese, and a honey mustard mayo with a side of fries, a zesty sauce drizzled over them and sprinkled with freshly grated parmesan and parsley. This was about as gourmet as Tumbleweed’s food got.

For the first time in forty-eight hours, your stomach aches for some food.   Your mouth waters as you reach for a fry and toss it past your lips. The flavor explodes in your mouth, sweet and tangy mixed with a salty golden crunch. 

“Fuck.” You murmured. You turn to look behind the counter, leaning back on your hip as you watch Frankie through the pass. 

His broad back was to you. You took in his signature look. He wore a dingy white short-sleeved t-shirt, the collar worn and warped from stuffing his head through haphazardly. The knot to his red bandana was circled tight and tied at ear level, dark curls circling the paisley-decorated material and wrapping around it like ivy. 

He tosses a rag over his shoulder and walks towards the kitchen door, swinging out into the dining area and walking to your table. 

He slows when he sees you, looking over your soft, apologetic face. He evades your eye contact after that and sets down a vanilla milkshake beside your food before returning to the kitchen.

You part your lips to speak, but the words fall silent in the air. You don’t know what to say. You barked at him, and he turns around and serves you food. Why the fuck did you have a growing soft spot for Frankie Morales all of a sudden? Fucking periods. 

You can’t ignore your food anymore, and you won’t let it go cold. You’re shoveling bites of food into your mouth, fingers greasy and lips slick with evidence. You use about six napkins to clean your hands and face by the time you’re finished, topping it all off with the milkshake. It was perfect. 

---

Frankie’s loading up his truck at the end of the evening. The manager, Rudy, lets you guys off an hour early since Tumbleweed was deader than the cemetery down the road and he can’t afford to pay you all for standing around twiddling your thumbs. 

Let’s just get one thing straight: You don’t know how to apologize, even when you know it’s the right thing to do. Fuck apologies. Fuck Frankie for being nice to you, and having to owe him an apology.

You’re just a few feet behind him, both of you walking to your cars. Tina had hopped into her boyfriend’s car out front, and Lou’s on-again, off-again girlfriend scooped him up as well. Rudy’s still inside doing closing administration crap, leaving just you and Frankie out back. 

He hears your feet scuff the gravel behind him. He looks at you as you walk by the back end of his truck, but you both don’t say anything. You hear him sigh before he gets into his truck and rotates his keys in the ignition, hearing it blast to life. Your hand is on your car door handle, but you stand there without tugging it open. 

“God... fucking dammit.” You mutter as you turn around and yank open Frankie’s passenger side door, hoisting yourself up before you close the door with a slam. And you sit there in silence as he slowly looks over you. 

“I’m not here to apologize.” 

He blinks a few times. “Okay.” 

“I’m not here to thank you for making me dinner.”

He slowly nods, large veiny palms resting on his denim-clad thighs. “Okay.” 

You don’t really know how to say I’m sorry and thank you like a normal person, so you opt to do things a different way. Your way. 

You reach into Frankie’s lap, his hands falling to his side as he looks from your fingers balancing on the clasp of his belt to your concentrated face. 

He speaks your name, and your eyes connect. 

“Don’t have to thank me like this.” He mutters, southern twang slipping through. “Know you’re not feelin’ good.” 

You shake your head and move to kneel in your seat, bending your front over his center console to finish undoing his belt. 

He says your name again, breathy, but persistently. 

Your head whips up to him. “Frankie, I’m trying to apologize here-”

“Okay, fuck, ‘m sorry.” He teases, mouth glowing with his stupid cocky smirk. There was the Frankie you knew well. 

He does you the courtesy of opening his belt buckle and popping the button of his jeans, the zipper going down echoing within his truck. His thumbs hook into the band of his jeans and boxers, pushing them down to the tops of his thighs and unleashing his cock. 

You remember him being girthy, but being this close to him was enough to make a shiver shoot up your spine. He’s a handful, to be generous. God, you just wanted to throw yourself over his lap and ride him until the sun came up. 

You move to flip your hair out of your face. Frankie strokes it away, his hand gentle at first as his fingers cast light strokes against your scalp. 

Saliva fills your mouth in pure excitement. Being on your period made you ferociously horny, but you weren’t in the mood to let Frankie fuck you. Not tonight. Tonight was an ode to Frankie Morales. 

You make yourself comfy over the console before ducking your head down and doing sweet kitten licks at his dark rosy tip. He twitches in your hand, you decide to show him mercy and start pumping over him. 

Frankie’s abdomen flutters, his head falling back against the headrest as he watches with half-lidded eyes and pretty parted lips. 

The warmth of your mouth consumes his tip, and you begin to suckle, tongue gliding over his slit and tasting drips of precum. Frankie grits his teeth and inhales sharply, his hand in your hair that was once gentle now turning into a fist for control. 

You smirk around him, long eyelashes fluttering before you slowly work him deeper into your mouth. He’s large, he fills your mouth and causes a spillage of your saliva that leaks trails down his swollen cock. You swallow what you can around him before continuing to take him in inch by inch. 

You push him to the side of your cheek when you need to breathe around him, your head weakly falling to rest on his thigh. He gently hushes you and strokes his thumb up your cheekbone. 

“Is this how you say sorry to me, princess?” 

Your eyes soften in slight shock. You whimper gently against him in response. 

“Take my fuckin’ cock like you’re sorry. Show me how sorry you are.” 

The ache between your legs only strengthens when he degrades you like this. Such a fucking dick. You know you can do better. You need to prove it to him. 

You take one last breath with his tip plunged against the inside of your cheek before you slip him back down the center lane of your throat. You flatten your tongue on the underside of his cock and feel the thick vein that lines his shaft. You breathe through your nose and manage to take him down to his balls. 

Frankie ruts his hips up into your mouth, and you choke around him. You clench your eyes closed, mascara stinging your eyes and making black smudges on your waterline. Your fist holds onto the meat of his thigh, nails piercing his blue jeans as you hold yourself against him. 

He grunts, long and low before he pulls your head up and he leaves your mouth with a pop. You take a breath but keep pumping over him, a sloppy smirk on your lips before you reattached around his tip. 

Your fist lightly twists as you work up and down his shaft, feeling his dick eagerly twitch in your hand. 

Frankie’s watching you with a worked-up smirk, continuing to bob over him as slurps and chokes were emitting from your throat each time he hit the back of it. 

He’s losing himself. His thighs twitch, and the hold he has on your hair is so tight it burns your scalp. You whine and moan against him, the vibrations only inch him closer to his end. 

“So fuckin’- shit- so pretty chokin’ on my cock like that.” 

Frankie's words make your hips rut into his center console. He releases your hair to skim his hand down the extent of your back, fist tightening around the hem of your skirt and hiking it up to reveal your ass. He takes a fist full and cups, making a messy moan shudder against his shaft. 

You’re slurping around him, head bobbing and fist pumping with a certain eagerness. His hips buck up on instinct, twitching up into your mouth and making you choke around him once more. 

“‘M close-” His words are taken by a rocky moan, jaw tight as his grunts echo the truck. He sounds heavenly, though you know him more comfortably as a hellish man. 

He takes control, fisting your hair and guiding your head up and down to fuck into your mouth. You take it like a champ, despite your shaky breathing and black mascara tears hitting the tops of your cheeks. 

You hear him take a sharp inhale, his head rutting back into the headrest, hips stilling as he holds you down on his cock. You feel his cum shoot down the back of your throat and on your tongue. 

You despise to admit how good he tastes. A mix of saltiness and his natural musk. 

You smirk lightly as you move to lay on your back, the center console causing a subtle arch. You laid your head in his lap, looking up into his hazy eyes as you suckle off his tip like the lollipop he sucked on earlier. 

Frankie lazily smirks, in awe at the way you’re looking up at him while sucking on his cock. His gears slowly become undone, and his hand that was cupping your ass comes up to gently cradle your head and stroke through the knots he had created in your hair.

You keep slowly pumping over his shaft until he’s hissing through his teeth at the overstimulation, doing one last circular lick around his tip before you pull off of him with a subtle pop. You kiss his tip and let his softened length go, sitting up and scooching back into the passenger seat. 

You shift your waitress dress back down your thighs, letting out a soft sigh as you flip down the sun visor and look yourself over briefly in the mirror. Frankie tucks himself back into his boxers, pulling the denim up past his hips and fastening the zipper and button. 

You still taste him on your tongue as you wipe the edges of your mouth clean and swipe your forefingers across your cheeks to scrub away any residual mascara. You look like a fucking mess, and it was all because of Frankie. 

After two sexual encounters with you in less than a week, Frankie was probably over the moon. 

“You’re welcome.” 

His words make you pause, turning to look over at him. “What?”

“I said you’re welcome. You apologized, you said thank you. You’re welcome.” 

You feel some heat rush to your neck and cheeks, slowly smiling and teasingly scoffing at him as you pluck open the door to his truck and land down on the gravel with a scuff from your sneakers. 

"Whatever, Morales."

You weren’t sure what Frankie was aiming for with you. Friends with benefits? Something more? Whatever this was or could be, you didn’t want to put any sort of label on it. You didn’t need him getting any hopes up that something real could forge itself from these sexcapades. He was a warm body, you were a warm body, that was all. 

You let out a shaky sigh and give him a soft nod. “Goodnight, Frankie.”

"Goodnight, Princess." You have to roll your eyes and slam his passenger door before he has a chance to come up with any more quick-witted remarks.

Let's go the fuck home.

---

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[breakyeol]

buzzed

drabble

┗ pairing: baekhyun x reader

warnings: pain :’)

a/n; I’m hurting. you’re hurting. we’re all hurting. this is how I cope. this is also cheesy and gross but I’m in need of a little cheesy and gross rn okay so leave me be. ALSO ik baek is doing public service so he’ll basically be home every night but FOR THE DRAMATICS let’s pretend otherwise.

“Byun Baekhyun, stay still! You’re going to make me mess up!”

“I– I’ve changed my mind! I’m not doing this!” Panic laces his voice as he lurches upwards, desperate to get away from the threatening buzz of the electric razor.

“You have to!” You hiss, grabbing his shoulders and shoving him back into the chair.

His hands fly to his head, protectively covering his head of full brown hair. “I can’t!” He shrieks, staring at you wide eyed through the mirror in front of him.

“You don’t have a choice!”

“But I—”

“No buts! I am shaving your head and that’s final.” You pause, before cocking a mischievous brow. “Unless you’d like me to go get Sehun? I’m sure he’d be just ecstatic to take a razor to your pretty little head.”

Baekhyun grimaces at the mere thought of it, a shiver of fear rippling down his spine at the thought of what kind of damage the maknae would do to his poor hair.

“Fine,” he huffs, defeated, slumping back into the chair, “just… just get it over with.”

A triumphant smile tugs at the corners of your lips, and you flick the on switch of the sleek black razor which buzzes to life in your palm. Baekhyun swallows thickly at the horrible sound, hands gripping the armrests so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He takes a sharp breath when the clippers finally make contact, squeezing his eyes shut as tightly as he can

You work in silence, carefully maneuvering the razor over his head. With each diligent stroke, more and more his thick hair falls, some into his lap, most onto the floor. The tension occupying his body is visible in his stiff, raised shoulders and the incessant bouncing of his legs. Your free hand drops, laying reassuringly across the juncture of his neck as your thumb traces light circles into his warm skin. It seems to help a bit. His legs stop bouncing.

It didn’t take very long. You should’ve expected as much, but it still took you by surprise just how easy it was.

Slowly, you flick off the razor, the room falling silent without its relentless hum.

“Done.” You finally speak, voice was little more than a whisper. Any louder and you’re certain it would shatter like glass in your throat.

Baekhyun doesn’t open his eyes, nor does he release his vice-like grip on the armrests.

“It’s looks horrible… doesn’t it?”

You glance at him in surprise, before sighing. Making your way in front of him, you lean over, placing your hands gently on top of his. Baekhyun flinches slightly at the contact, his head tipping up instinctively.

“Byun Baekhyun,” you hum softly, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss between his furrowed brows. He exhaled a shaky breath, umber eyes fluttering open to find yours as you drew away, look down at him with nothing but the warmest of affections.

“You couldn’t look horrible if you tried.”

A shy blush rose to his cheeks, and you couldn’t help the smile that broke out across your lips.

“Now, tell me what you think.” You chirped, swinging around to stand behind him once more so that he could see himself in the mirror.

“Oh god. I do look weird, you liar.” He whined, running his fingers through the what little remained of his hair, a familiar pout down turning the corners of his lips.

Your jaw dropped in disbelief. “You do not.”

“I do.” He insisted, face twisted in distaste.

“You don’t!”

“I do!”

“Okay, yeah, you look a little weird.”

“Yah!”

“Kidding, kidding.” You giggled, dodging his hand as he took a swat at your arm. Huffing, he attempted to shrug you off as you wrapped your arms around his, chest, but you only held on tighter, laughing lightly while he squirmed and kicked up a fuss.

After a bit of playful wrestling, he finally relaxed into your embrace, eyes fixed on his reflection in the mirror. It feels strange seeing himself like this. It makes everything feel way more… real. Enlistment had always been something to worry about in the future. But, now it was actually happening. He had a goddamn buzz cut and within a number of hours he’d be heading off to the training center. Talk about getting backhanded, curb stomped, and kicked in the balls by reality.

“You’ll wait for me?”

The question was unexpected. You cocked a brow, pressing your cheek to the top of his head, the unfamiliar pickling of his freshly buzzed hair rough against your skin.

“Why do you say that like it’s even a question?”

He hesitates. “I just— I know two years is going to feel like a long time. And I know it sounds selfish but I— I don’t think I could take it if you didn’t. I want you to wait for me. Please… wait for me.”

“Two years?” You scoff, propping your chin on his shoulder as you grin at him impishly through the mirror in a way that you hope hides the painful aching of your heart. “Two years is nothing. Two years is going to fly by in the blink of an eye.”

He giggles as you press a playful kiss to his sensitive neck, shoulder jerking at the ticklish sensation.

“For you,” you continue, voice suddenly softening, “two years is worth the wait.”

Baekhyun presses his lips together, eyes suddenly glassy. “You mean that?”

Your heart throbs as his voice breaks.

“Of course.” The steadfast resolution in your voice has a hoarse, tearful laugh breaking from his quivering lips, his hand curling around your wrist and squeezing tightly. You feel your own eyes beginning to burn as he suddenly turns, nuzzling his face into the space just below your jaw. A shuddering breath rushes over your skin and then you feel the first splash of wetness against your shoulder. You rush to cradle the back of his head, gently caressing his warm cheek as he sobs weakly into your neck.

“Why are you crying, Baek?” You barely manage to get the question out without choking up.

“I’m gonna miss you.” He whimpers, hands fisting tightly at the fabric of your top. “I already feel like we’ve lost so much time. How am I gonna go two years without you?”

Clenching your jaw, you swallow down the lump forming in your throat and knock your forehead lightly against his. “I’m not going anywhere. And just think, when you get back, we’ll have all the time in the world to make up for what we lost.”

Baekhyun nods at your comforting words, sniffling noisily.

“Besides, you know what Junmyeon says.”

“Oh god please don’t—” he groans, hands flying to cover his face, already sensing what was coming.

“If you’re happy to wait…” you lean in close to his ear, whispering as airily as you can, “then it’s love.”

“Don’t speak to me ever again.”

You bark out a laugh, taking an immense about of pleasure in the way he glowers at you in disgust. But honestly, you were just glad he wasn’t crying anymore.

“They are wise words spoken by a wise man.” You wink, smiling at him cheekily.

“How about I shove my wise foot up your wise—”

“Hyung!” Both of your heads whip in the direction of the door, surprised to find Sehun peeking his head in, “are you guys done y—” his jaw drops when his eyes land on Baekhyun.

“Oh my god you’re bald.”

The older boy hissed, pointing an accusing finger in his direction. “I’m not bald! It’s just a buzz cut! There’s a difference!”

“Yeah, not much though.”

“You brat—”

A bright smile breaks across your lips at the duo’s familiar, brotherly bickering, warmth blossoming in your chest. At least, you know some thing will never change.

[captainsimagines]

traitor

Summary: It was only one night, no strings attached, just two friends working through their grief together. Steve went to live his life with Peggy and within two weeks of returning, he peacefully passed. Unimaginable things happen everyday, jokes have negative consequences, and protection doesn’t always protect from the possibility… the possibility of carrying a child. He would have stayed if he knew, everyone agrees with this, so why is the world calling Steve Rogers a traitor?

One-Shot (with a happy ending)

Pairing(s): Avengers x Fem Reader; brief Steve Rogers x Fem Reader

Warnings: Unexpected pregnancy; serious talks about abortion; brief mention of suicide (if you squint); mentions of Endgame deaths; strong language; minor descriptions of actual birth; ANGST but with a happy ending! This is purely fanfiction. 

Word Count: 6,600+

A/N: So, Olivia Rodrigo’s album just came out and dude, jfc every song is magical. like... wtf. This is essentially a ‘song fanfic’, but ehhhh not quite. The lyrics don’t match the fanfic lmao but the melody does??? idk this is a shit ton of angst, be warned. It was from a request I got a while back, so this is kind of a request fanfic. 

~

Up until the moment Steve pressed his soft lips to yours, you were certain you had never experienced such a wonderful sensation of magic. You had been witness to actual magic, to beings from other worlds, and yet Steve’s gentle touch was enough to erase any other image, to completely overpower your senses, a kind of magic that dug deep into the trenches of your heart and settled in its new home. 

No, you and Steve were not a couple. There were some flirty remarks over the years, some fantasies that lay dormant, but there was never the craving to actually act upon them. But when half the world disappeared and the remaining Avengers came up with a plan five years later, the loss of a teammate prompted the sudden push of two touch-starved individuals. The rest of the team had gone to sulk in their own corners of the compound, some hard at work at constructing the final piece to the puzzle, and you and Steve ventured off to the kitchen. Two cups of tea each, silent but heavy tears mixing in with the sugar and milk. 

You were the first to break, shoulders crumbling and knees rocking under your weight. You fell to the floor, sobs and hiccups forming into a full-blown attack, your hands scratching at your neck. Steve fell beside you, pulling you into his chest and rocking you back and forth. He cried too, the final words of his best friend ringing in his ears like a dreaded song on repeat. See you in a minute. See you in a minute. See you in a minute. 

Time was irrelevant, you had enough of counting time, estimating it, time-traveling through it. If you could sit there all night, all week, another five years huddled close to Steve Rogers, then so be it. 

‘I can’t believe she’s gone,’ you had sobbed. 

‘I can’t believe it either. I can’t,’ he had cried back. 

You had simply lifted your head and turned his face toward yours, searching his eyes for any hesitation before you had leaned in first. He had returned the intimate gesture almost immediately, gripping you tightly. Tears dripped in between your moving lips, sobs caught inside breathy moans, grips becoming tighter and tighter as each of you shared your first time together. No other partner up until that point had ever pulled such a pained but grateful cry from your throat, no other human being had ever made you feel so safe and peaceful. 

The final battle was over, you had lost yet another teammate, but the world had a chance to start over. And Steve had pulled you aside a few days before he returned the stones, letting you know that he wasn’t coming back the same man. He had been so scared of telling you, of possibly betraying you, but when your palms cupped his cheeks and you gave him a kiss on the lips with a soft whisper of ‘Be with her. Cherish her. Be happy. We’ll meet again’, his worries instantly shattered. He could only rapidly nod his head, grabbing your hands that were soaked in his tears, and kissing them until he said his final goodbyes. 

And he returned such a different man, but with a smile you had never quite seen before. Yes, he was older and you only had a few seconds to actually process that, but he was happy. He had been happy. He finally lived the life he deserved. 

Sitting in that pew two weeks later, both sad and happy tears streaming down your face, you felt at peace for the first time in a long time. You simply gripped Wanda’s hand as they carried the casket down the aisle, a sad melody drowning the church. 

`

The first round of sickness hit you the day of the funeral, but you obviously didn’t think much of it. It was the fits of sadness and grief, the hot coil in the middle of your stomach, you thought. It had to be. It wasn’t until your breakfast was regurgitated into your toilet only a few minutes after enjoying it that you were suddenly worried. 

You sneaked to some liquor store a subway ride away, careful of not leaving a trail. This was embarrassing, it was insane, it couldn’t possibly be real. You gave the cashier your money and ran to the stall provided, peeing on the stick the best you could before placing it on the dirty sink in the corner. You patted your hands on your thighs repeatedly, careful to not touch any other thing in a goddamn liquor store bathroom. 

‘Friday?’ your voice was so defeated, tears already stinging your eyes.

Your little bluetooth sprang to life, ‘Yes, Y/N?’

Your bottom lip was trembling wildly, hands now shaking. ‘Can you stay active with me while I read the results? I can’t… I can’t be alone right now.’

‘Yes, Y/N. Anything you need, I’m here.’ You sobbed openly, thanking her under your breath. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to contact anybody else?’

‘I can’t face them. I can’t face them if it’s positive, Friday.’

‘Okay, it’s alright,’ her voice was so delicate, so quiet and reassuring. ‘Just keep talking to me, Y/N. I think the results should be ready now.’

You inched closer to the test. ‘I’m scared, Friday.’

‘I know,’ Friday sighed, ‘But you will get through this. No matter the result.’

Grabbing the small device from the sink, you swallowed so much saliva that it actually hurt. The plus sign was so clear, so evident in its visibility, and your ears only registered the loud cries escaping your painful lungs because Friday was practically yelling in your ear. 

‘Please, calm down Y/N! Your heart rate is too fast-” she was stuttering, an AI was stuttering. ‘I’m calling for help. You need someone to be here with you. I’m sorry.’

It took ten minutes. Ten minutes of banging outside the bathroom door from the cashier, ten minutes of blurry vision and a strep throat. Sam broke through the door as quickly as he could, eyes flying around the small bathroom until he saw you huddled in the corner, a pregnancy test clutched in your small hand. He crouched down beside you, hands extended but not exactly touching you, and eyes trying to lock with yours. 

‘Y/N, Y/N?’

Just the sound of his voice, the voice of someone who didn’t need this added pain in their lives, it was just too much. Another weight added to your shoulders. 

‘I don’t know why,’ you choked out, ‘I’m so sorry.’

Sam’s face contorted into a pained expression, eyes brimmed with salty tears. ‘What are you talking about? No one is blaming you for anything. You’re safe, I’m here.’

You shook your head violently, ‘I didn’t mean to.’

But as quickly as those words left your mouth, the pounding in your head had become too unbearable. You collapsed into Sam’s arms. 

`

You woke to a single doctor who was monitoring your vitals. She was just sitting beside your bed, clicking random buttons on the screen in front of her. You whimpered slightly, the bright lights temporarily blinding you. The doctor quickly stopped what she was doing and removed the tube from your nose, allowing you to breathe on your own. You ignored the weird scratch that caused, and asked her the question you needed to have answered by a true medical professional - not a liquor store device. 

She confirmed what you already knew. There were no ‘congratulations’ or even ‘I’m sorry’s’, just the fact that you were pregnant and it was very early on. There were still options for you, it was healthy so far, you were healthy so far- 

Wait, options? 

The team were all huddled outside, nerves all over the place. They didn’t know what was going on. Sam knew but it wasn’t his information to pass on. It wasn’t until Bucky’s angry demeanor actually turned violent, a hole forming through the hospital wall. You were all on a private floor, completely displaced from the reality down on other levels, so any freak-outs were only slightly justified. Slightly. 

‘Sam, you gotta tell us. I made a promise to Steve, Sam! I promised to take care of her!’

Bucky’s words gripped Sam’s heart in a metaphorical vice. ‘She’s gotta tell you guys, man. It’s not my place.’

You had curled in on yourself, the doctor’s words echoing louder and louder. 

‘Abortion is an option. At this rate, it would be quick and safe. I can promise you that. It’s your choice.’

You wanted to die. You wanted the world to swallow you up and bury you alive. You wanted to disappear. If you had died in the snap, this wouldn’t have happened. It wouldn’t have happened. 

The ride back to the compound was a quiet one, with Sam driving you and the radio on low volume. 

‘Are you going to tell them?’

You bit your lip, ‘The doctor said I had options.’

Sam’s breath hitched and he tried to mask it, but you had heard it. You felt guilty, disgusting, like you betrayed Steve and the rest of the team. They had just lost him, you had just lost him, and you were carrying his child. And if Steve would have known, he would have wanted it. He would have encouraged you to have it, he would have been so happy, he would have been such a great fa-

‘The choice is yours, Y/N.’ He glanced over at you, ‘Can you at least tell me who the father is?’

The wrecked sobs were like second nature now, choking you with their strength. ‘I’m so sorry!’

Sam pulled to the side of the road and quickly took off his seatbelt, sliding over in the connected front seats to pull you into his chest. ‘Shh, hey. We are not going to be mad at you. Everything’s going to be okay. It may not seem like it now but-’

‘Sam!’ you cried, clutching his shirt in a tight fist. ‘I swear it was an accident! Steve didn’t know! He didn’t know, I swear he didn’t know!’

Sam’s mouth dropped open, an almost embarrassing noise of surprise sounding from the depths of his soul. He ran his hands through your hair, eyes rapidly searching for a single viewpoint. But he couldn’t focus on any one thing, not when you were shuddering against him and apologizing nonstop. 

Steve didn’t know. 

`

The team had reacted in a similar manner. They so desperately wanted to wish you a congratulations, it was the norm for this kind of thing. Especially with such a rough few years - bringing life into this world could be considered an ultimate blessing. But this was Steve’s child, his baby, his only baby in this timeline. It was a part of him, something he had unknowingly left behind. 

The team took a few days. The pain of losing Natasha, of losing Steve, of losing Tony. The gift of life. It was just too much. 

And you found yourself in front of Wanda’s bedroom door, hands clutching your night robe closed and knees wobbly. She brought you tea, she laid underneath the covers with you, she spooned you until you stopped crying. 

‘We weren’t together.’

‘You weren’t?’

You sat up, muscles straining due to your thousandth crying session that week. ‘No, it was one time. It was a mutual thing. We just… felt safe. And we made love.’

Wanda shut her eyes briefly, only to open them for two parallel tears to slip. ‘That sounds beautiful.’

‘We used protection. It really was an accident.’

Wanda interrupted, ‘No, don’t try and justify yourself. It happened. It’s done.’

You whimpered, reaching out to grab her hands. ‘I feel so guilty for even talking to you. I don’t know how you did it. I’m so selfish to be pouring all this on you-’

‘Hey, hey,’ she whispered, ‘But I am the only one who can truly understand. I have lost more in my lifetime than anybody ever should. But I am going to help you get through this, Y/N.’

You pulled her into a hug, ‘I missed you so much. I’m so sorry, but I can’t do this.’

Wanda slowly pulled away, eyes cloudy and touch of red twinge flying in her irises. ‘Alright. I won’t leave your side. No matter what you decide.’

` 

The chair was cold, the room was cold, no matter how inviting the hospital tried to make this room. It was decorated in the most neutral colors, so delicate in its designs, pamphlets and books scattered on every available surface. It was made to make the pregnant person feel secure, to feel comfortable in the hands of their doctor, but it just made you sick. 

And when the doctor asked if you would like an ultrasound first, that it wasn’t actually necessary for you to view it, you found yourself saying yes. You were at six weeks, it would be there. Wanda clenched her eyes shut, because even if you were strong enough to do that, she wasn’t. But she was here to hold your hand. She would hold your hand no matter what. 

It was the size of a grain of rice. That fuzzy, white figure off a little to the right of your uterus was the size of a grain. A literal grain of rice. The monitor shifted and the doctor cleared their throat, the slimy device absentmindedly being circled around your lower abdomen. 

‘Oh my god,’ you whispered, eyes locked on the place the doctor had their finger. Wanda brought her hand up to her mouth and looked away. 

That’s when you heard it. 

The steady rhythm of a strong heartbeat. 

Your chest started heaving, tears staining your cheeks as you listened to the beautiful sound. 

‘I’m so sorry,’ the doctor mumbled, ready to pull the monitor’s plug to end the live video but you gripped their arm before they could. 

‘No, no!’ you yelped, the heartbeat still sounding, so early in its actual life that this was for sure Steve’s child. 

You turned to Wanda, face contorting into one of agonizing regret. ‘I can’t do this. I can’t do this to Steve.’

Wanda gulped and took in a ragged breath, ‘Y/N, Steve’s not here.’

‘No,’ you whined, head turning back to look at the monitor. The monitor with yours and Steve’s child on it. ‘This is the only real part of him we have left, right?’

Wanda opened her mouth but shut it again, unable to formulate a proper response. 

‘This is Steve’s child,’ you stated, sucking in a breath through your sobs. ‘This is my child.’

` 

The team was alerted of your decision the minute you walked into the common room. They had known what you left for, dread itching in their souls and morals twisting greedily, but they hadn’t stopped you. They couldn’t do that to you. 

‘Hi,’ you mumbled, placing your things on the counter. Everyone kept their heads down, lumps growing in their throats as each second passed. ‘I’m okay.’

Clint was the first one to speak. ‘Did everything go well? Did they hurt you?’

You smiled with your teeth for the first time in weeks, ‘No, they didn’t hurt me. They didn’t even touch me.’

For a few seconds, no one caught on to your words. But Bucky was the first to register them, to etch them deeply into his brain, to stand from his seat and walk to you cautiously. ‘You decided-?’

You smiled wide now, happy tears falling over your strained cheeks. ‘I’m having a baby.’

The team erupted, cries and cheers deafening you. Bucky stumbled over and hugged you close, arms wrapped over your shoulders and face buried in your neck. He had to bend his knees to keep that position. He weeped into your shoulder and thanked you repeatedly, his own body rumbling with broken sobs. You held him close, fingers digging into his shirt and the skin of his back. 

‘We promise, Y/N,’ Sam said off to the side, waiting for his turn to hug you. ‘We promise to take care of you and this baby.’

A few more long-awaited congratulations were shared. ‘Guess I’m on desk duty for the next nine months, huh?’

Bucky held you tighter. 

`

The first four months were certainly eventful. Wanda insisted on taking pictures of you every few weeks. She had you model with a nice tight shirt to show off your growing stomach, different props in your arms as the weeks passed on.  Flowers, sporting equipment, random Avengers inventions, signs that read the number of weeks you were at. You even did couple shoots, with your teammates posing behind you with their hands on your stomach and an equally bright smile.

She had them printed out and framed, the compound common rooms now littered with random photos of you and your growing child. It was like a timeline, a museum considering you would catch someone inspecting the photographs. This time it was Scott, casually eating his cereal and balancing it in his hand as he walked the hallway. He had this silly smile on his face the whole time, milk dripping from his bottom lip. In his photo, he was posed behind you with a giant smile, back arched and head thrown back while you were trying your best to arch your back as well. And then he saw you watching him, eyes falling from your face to your stomach, and that silly smile growing wider. 

Happy insisted on doing yoga with you every other morning, his chosen playlists actually Tony’s. Half expecting the songs to only emit the essence of rock and roll, you were surprised when the playlist only contained acoustics. Happy winked at you, ‘He was a man of taste, Y/N. He, too, had those sad driving songs.’

Peter was hesitant to visit at first. He was still mourning Tony, as you all were, and seeing everyone again was certainly a hard thing to do. But he managed, and the moment he saw you there, trying to balance a plastic bottle on your tiny stomach, he burst into a fit of giggles. 

‘Oh, oh! I almost got it!’ you encouraged yourself, stomach not yet protruded enough to quite get it. 

Peter rushed over and caught the bottle as it slipped, ‘You’ll get there. How do you feel?’

You grinned at the kid, ‘Like I’m pregnant.’

Peter chuckled, ‘I wouldn’t know, so.’

‘It’s weird,’ you admitted, turning back to your abandoned bowl of fruit. You popped a piece of pineapple in your mouth, ‘But I just remind myself that they’re gonna be an angel when they come out.’

‘All slimy and angelic.’

You swatted at Peter, ‘They’re healthy. That’s all that matters.’

Peter placed his hand on your stomach, half-expecting something to happen. ‘I can’t believe you’re having his baby.’

You bit your lip, willing yourself not to cry. Steve should be here experiencing this. ‘Me neither.’

`

The next month had come so quickly. Your friends - your family - made sure to keep you occupied. Whether it was to shop, to nap together, to eat together, to exercise together, anything, they were by your side. It was so overwhelming at times, but not wanting to scare anyone, you took time for yourself whenever you could. You’d settle in your room, in a nearby cafe, in Natasha’s room, and just sit and breathe. With one hand on your stomach, you couldn’t possibly fathom the luck on your side. It always tore your heart in two when you realized Steve would never meet his child, absolutely mutilated it. But the realization that this child was going to have such a massive family, your family, uncles and aunts who would die for the kid - that realization was sometimes too much. 

The thunder from outside startled everyone. The quiet night everyone was having was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a certain god, hair now cut and beard trimmed, running into the common area. He was practically hyperventilating, his quick pace halting as he scanned the room. ‘Is it true?’

‘You got my message?’ Wanda asked, shutting off the water from the sink. 

‘I’m sorry, I was away. I just got the message and-’

Thor lay his eyes on you, your obvious stomach, and he started crying softly. ‘It’s true?’

You smiled at him, opening your arms for an embrace. But Thor fell to his knees in front of you, forehead resting on your stomach. ‘This is a miracle.’

‘It really is,’ you laughed, wiping away a few stray tears. ‘The condom broke.’

Laughter sounded almost instantly. 

Thor looked up at you, eyes red and eyebrows furrowed. ‘He didn’t know?’

You shook your head, ‘No, Steve didn’t know. I promise.’

Thor nodded, believing you. He stood slowly, encasing you in a tight squeeze. He hadn’t changed much since you last saw him, but he did seem to be drinking less. ‘After so much loss, the Heaven’s send us a gift from a beloved friend.’

`

Bucky seemed to be the happiest. Although he shared your beliefs that Steve should be here to experience this, to cherish this, to be the father he had deserved to be, Bucky couldn’t help but feel grateful that you decided to keep the baby. He knew he needed to stop relying on Steve to fix his mind, this he had to do on his own, but the bundle of joy inside of you just added to his undying love for his best friend. This was a piece of him, a true half of Steve’s heart that would soon be breathing air and opening its eyes. 

He was currently laying beside you, just woken up from a nap and lazily drawing circles over your clothed tummy. You were still asleep, deep breaths a little ragged since you were twisted slightly to your side. You had given up trying to sleep on your back nowadays. 

‘Hey there,’ Bucky whispered, a funny smile forming on his face because he can’t believe he’s talking to your literal stomach. ‘You know you’re a miracle, right?’

There was no response, obviously. But Bucky just positioned himself to lean on his elbow, temple resting in the palm of his hand. ‘We’re going to love you so much. Steve would have loved you so much.’

He placed his metal hand on your stomach, careful not to apply so much pressure. He was hesitant though, the metal hand now from Wakanda but still something he didn’t entirely trust. Still, he rubbed smooth circles on your side. ‘I already love you so much.’

Kick.

Bucky widened his eyes, a hitch in his breath. Was that real?

‘Did you just respond to me?’ Bucky asked, a little laugh escaping his lips. ‘Should I say it again?’

Nothing happened for a long while. He switched hands, rubbing a little deeper now. It was a free massage for you, anyway. 

Bucky bit his lip and looked up at your face, still peacefully dreaming. He leaned closer to your stomach and repeated his earlier confession. ‘I love you.’

Kick. 

Bucky shot up from his spot on the bed and covered his mouth, a loud laugh accidentally escaping and startling you awake. 

‘W-What?’

‘They kicked! They kicked!’

‘Seriously?’

Bucky was shooting through the stars, because even though it was a long shot, he felt like somehow Steve was telling him he loved him back. 

`

Sam’s leg bounced madly as he watched the doctor slick up the generator. You repeatedly tried to calm him, tell him that it would be quick and simple, and there was nothing to be worried about. 

You were six months now. Belly now protruding to the point where you could only see the tips of your toes when you glanced downward, and the baby was positioned farther into your back. If anything, you were having a giant freaking baby. He was a product of a super soldier. 

You remembered having that scary conversation with the doctors, your whole family beside you as they heard and relayed the information. 

‘Your baby is perfectly healthy. The serum isn’t affecting it. His lungs are forming less quickly than the other organs but there’s no serious worry.’

Bucky had literally cackled at that, confusing everyone in the room. ‘Steve and his shit lungs.’

But now you were finding out the sex. Only one person was allowed in the room this time, and Sam had literally begged you with his eyes to choose him. 

‘Are you two ready?’

You each nodded at the doctor, waiting for the monitor to spring to life. After a few seconds, the heartbeat was detected. You gripped Sam’s hand in yours, a quiet ‘thank god’ passing through his lips. 

Then the giant image of a literal baby appeared on the screen. It was so surreal. It resembled a quick sketch, like one Steve would have casually drew, and you couldn’t help but imagine him drawing that very image from memory. 

‘Y/N, I-’ Sam cleared his throat, smiling at you. 

‘Would you like to know the sex of the baby?’

‘Yes, please,’ you answered, gripping Sam’s hand harder. 

The doctor moved the generator a few times more, hitting the spacebar on the computer to capture the image. ‘Congratulations, you’re having a boy.’

You shuttered a tiny laugh as Sam flew out of his seat, arms extended upward for a moment before he brought his hands down to kiss them over and over. 

‘I’ll print this out for you,’ the doctor smiled, leaving you and Sam to celebrate. 

`

Everyone had gathered later that night to find out the news. You had printed enough copies for everyone who wanted one. Bets were placed, a multitude of gifts already mounted in online shopping carts. 

‘Don’t keep us waiting!’ Rhodey shouted, champagne bottle at the ready and propped up on his thigh for when you made your announcement. 

Sam was standing beside you, a massive grin plastered on his face. You rolled your eyes at him and urged him on, telling him that you were fine with him saying it. Sam didn’t need to be told twice. 

‘It’s a boy!’

Pop! Drinks were poured and hugs were shared, with even Friday coming over the monitor to congratulate you. 

Even in the midst of all the excitement, you felt a little empty. But you enjoyed your pre-baby shower, happy that everything was so unbelievably working out. 

It was midnight when you alerted Friday to call Happy to your room. You needed a ride. 

Happy was slightly irritated at being woken up, but once you told him where you were heading, he obliged. The ride was silent, comfortable, with Happy glancing at you once in a while to make sure you were okay. 

You walked across the grass slowly, hands resting on your stomach and just a little waddle in your walk. You flashed your phone light over the headstones even though the headstone you were looking for was in a secluded area. Happy trailed you, keeping a respectable distance. 

You stopped in front of the small building, the fence somewhat blocking your path. But there was no security around, and even if you were caught on camera, your face let everyone know who you were and your connection to Steve. You had no worries. 

You broke the lock easily and opened the door. It was almost entirely marble, a good deal of Steve’s actual aesthetic. So simple, not overly patriotic, and secluded. He had refused to be buried in Arlington. 

You sat on the bench provided, the three names in front of you standing out like they were begging to be read out loud. So you complied. 

‘Sarah,’ you muttered, smiling as the name rolled off your tongue. ‘Thank you for sending everyone a literal angel.’

You muttered his father’s name as well, but felt no personal connection to it. You spent at least ten minutes building up the courage to utter his name, to say his name in front of him again. He was buried right underneath your feet, his name the only thing for you to see. 

‘Steve,’ you sighed and rubbed your stomach. ‘Steve.’

You sobbed silently and watched as the tears fell on top of your resting hands. ‘I don’t regret it.’

You were met with silence. ‘I don’t regret any of it. God knows why he did this. But you lived your life, and I just can’t believe I have to bring life into this world without you here.’

‘It’s a boy, Steve. A lovely little boy.’

You brought your hand up to your mouth to bite the side of it, throat clenching. ‘Everyone is so happy. I am, too. I promise you.’

You lowered your hand back to your stomach. ‘I just wish that you could feel that happiness.’

The moonlight moved slightly, shining on his name brighter now. ‘He’ll know about you, don’t worry about that.’ You laughed. 

You didn’t want to keep Happy waiting. You stood from the bench slowly, feet sore. You walked closer to him, wishing you could easily bend down and give him a kiss. But you physically couldn’t right now, so you blew him one instead. ‘Thank you.’

`

Somehow the rumor got out that an Avenger was pregnant. And when Wanda was seen outside without a large stomach, all fingers were pointed at you. 

The news went ballistic, most positive and raving, while others pondered just who had gotten you pregnant. You had been seen with everyone in paparazzi photos, so no actual conclusion had been made. 

Until a picture of you at Steve’s gravesite was leaked. 

It was constant bombardment, timelines were stitched together, magazines and their headlines were having a field day. Rhodey had tried to cancel these news stories, to threaten lawsuits, but to no avail. The world was now cursing Steve’s name - ‘how dare he leave her while pregnant?’, ‘how could he leave her pregnant and for another woman?’, ‘did he even know?’

The team had done everything in their power to try and clear yours and Steve’s name, but no one was having it. Steve’s love story was now tarnished, with many calling him a traitor and a deadbeat. It was no use. 

You struggled to climb the stairs, inwardly cursing the staff for not installing a ramp instead. The flashes were blinding, the lights were hot, and the various microphones placed on the stand were comical. 

Everyone hushed, looks of sympathy and pity slapping you in the face. 

‘I know what you’re all thinking and what you’ve all been saying,’ you started, eyes wandering to the far corner of the room where your team were huddled. ‘But I need to clear a few things up.’

‘Steve didn’t know.’

The crowd erupted, questions flying at you like fast bullets. They were silenced after a few moments. ‘We shared a moment with each other before we brought everyone back. I didn’t know I was pregnant until after his funeral.’

The crowd murmured amongst each other. ‘He told me he was planning to stay in another timeline. To live his life. I encouraged him. He did not leave me alone and pregnant. He truly didn’t know.’

You finished, they didn’t deserve a deeper explanation. You ignored their calls for questions, some even trying to crowd you at the doors. But you pushed through them, cradling your stomach with a newfound sense of pride. 

`

It was time. 

You sat up in your bed and quickly wiped away the hard crusts from the corners of your eyes. You sat there for a few seconds before you felt another harsh twinge. ‘A-ah!’

You didn’t know why you paused, legs now thrown over the side of the bed. They felt like menstrual cramps, it could be false labor. You let out a heavy breath and pushed yourself up, legs wobbly. But the moment you did, it was like something snapped. Your legs were wet and a tiny puddle had started forming on the floor. 

‘Friday!’

The lights in your room turned on immediately, ‘Y/N, is it time?’

You moaned at the uncomfortable cramping, ‘Yeah, I think it is.’

‘I’m waking and alerting the team right now, Y/N. Sit back down, please.’

You listened to Friday, sitting at the edge of your bed for a few moments before you realized you had to pack a bag. You shuffled across your room and grabbed the duffel bag Scott had left for you a few days ago. You packed a pair of socks, sweats, underwear, vaseline and your toothbrush, hairbrush, and phone. You zipped your bag just in time for both Bucky and Sam to throw open your door, Sam struggling to put his shoes on and Bucky slipping on a jacket inside-out. 

‘Y/N, is it really time? Are you ready? Are you okay?’

You ignored the cramping in your back and laughed at them, ‘Yes! My water broke, I’m in pain, it’s time.’

With both Sam and Bucky at your sides, they held onto you as you all stumbled down the hallway. Thor was already waiting with the elevator open, the biggest smile on his aging face. 

‘Wanda and Bruce are preparing the room. Scott already called the doctor. Clint’s in route,’ Bucky reassured. The three men huddled into the elevator with you, all instructing you to breathe and to squeeze them if you needed to. 

But even though you were in pain, albeit not as extreme as it was going to inevitably get, you were so incredibly happy. They were all so loud, so chaotic, and you were as calm as a cucumber. 

The elevator dinged. ‘Good luck, Y/N,’ you heard Friday call after you. You pinched your eyes closed, the thought that Friday was ultimately a part of Tony’s consciousness - Tony was wishing you good luck. 

The pressure in your hips was starting to build and you didn’t know how long this would actually take. Some people had quick births, some people lay in labor for hours, some for a day. But it seemed like this was going to be pretty quick, because your next scream was completely involuntarily. 

Bucky winced, leading you to the bed Wanda had just lay sheets on. ‘You’re doing great, Y/N. Absolutely perfect.’

You laughed at Bucky and gripped his hand in silent thanks before slipping into the bed and trying to get comfortable. Before you could truly feel like you made it, like the first hard step was done, you sat up quickly. 

‘Wait, wait! Nat’s sweater! I was gonna wear Nat’s sweater!’

Thor was already out the door, ‘I’ll get it! Don’t worry!’

You smiled at the ceiling, beads of sweat now rolling down your forehead. ‘Oh, this hurts!’

It was an hour. Once you shimmied into Natasha’s purple knitted sweater, you lay there trying to control your breathing. Everyone had piled into the room one right after the other. The room was big enough, spacious enough for even Bruce to roam freely. Although you were in an immense amount of pain, you still focused on your team. 

Scott was on his third cup of coffee, sipping excitedly as he conversed with the others. Bruce was constantly checking your vitals and wanting everything the doctor was saying repeated. Wanda was beside you, a hand gripping yours and the other running ice chips along your lips. Bucky was on your other bedside wearing one of Steve’s sweatshirts because it still smelled like him. His logic was that if he was wearing something of Steve’s the first moment he held your baby, then the first thing he smelled would be the remnants of his father. 

And Thor was practically speechless, silent in his own little corner and feeling like the god’s really did bless everyone in this room after such turmoil.

Clint arrived with Peter trailing behind him just when the doctor instructed you sit up - you were at ten centimeters. 

‘You gotta push, Y/N! You gotta push when the doctor says push!’

You yelled until your lungs gave out, head almost rolling back but Sam held it in his palm. ‘C’mon, Y/N! You’re doing great!’

You usually had perfect pitch when you sang, never faltering when it was time to hit a high note. But your voice was cracking at the most unusual times, throat rubbed raw as you felt your hips splinter open. 

‘He’s crowning!’

Wanda traded places with Sam real quick, deciding that she wanted to see the baby when he was finally out. Bucky had a death grip on your hand, tears flowing freely and a smile to match Thor’s. 

‘Push, Y/N! Push!’

‘I’m-I’m! I’m sorry! I can’t!’

The doctor was working her hands around the head, trying to ease the baby out easier. ‘Trust me, Y/N. One more big push and the shoulders will be out. That’s the hardest part.’

The doctor’s words were starting to drown out, and your head lolled back again. You felt tiny smacks on your cheeks, ‘C’mon, Y/N. You can do this. Everyone believes in you. You’re so goddamn strong, Y/N!’

That was Bucky’s voice. Bucky. 

You opened your eyes, delirious for a second. ‘Steve?’

Bucky whimpered and nodded, bringing your hand up to his lips and pressing kisses all over. ‘He’s here. I feel him, Y/N. You can do this.’

And you could feel him. You could see your family but you could feel him. It was so light, like a gentle whisk across the cheek, a promise that this truly was a miracle. 

You screamed as you pushed under doctor’s orders, feeling numb and abused but satisfied. His shoulders slipped out and along with them came his arms and torso, legs and all ten toes. The doctor caught him quickly, lifting him up vertically to let you see him. He was already crying. 

‘He’s here!’

You sobbed and smiled widely, laughter rattling your chest as the team bombarded you with quick hugs. Sam remained at your side, his eyes motioning for Bucky to go see the baby. 

‘Who’s cutting the cord?’

You looked around the room but you knew. You answered the doctor’s question. ‘Bucky.’

Bucky was truly confused. Not because of your decision, but because he couldn’t possibly be worthy of this. His hands, those hands that had killed so many people involuntarily, had almost killed Steve, those hands were now gripping a pair of medical scissors to cut the symbolization of new life entering the world. He turned to you for permission one last time, before he gripped the cord in his hand and cut where the doctor pointed. 

His shoulders felt a million times lighter. Like he was set free all over again. 

They cleaned the baby up quickly and swaddled him. The doctor placed him in your arms, all warm and utterly safe, to look back up at you with the same blue eyes as his father. 

You sobbed happily, brushing your fingers delicately along his pink cheek. ‘Hi. Hi there.’

He was no longer crying, just staring up in pure astonishment at the various faces staring back at him. 

‘Y/N, he’s beautiful,’ Clint said, tissue already in hand. 

‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ you spoke softly. 

‘Do we have a name?’

It was like everyone said it in unison. ‘Steve.’

You snuggled into the bed and Natasha’s sweater, somewhat aware of the doctor still fixing you up down there. You would try feeding later, but for now your newborn needed to be passed around the group and be awed at. 

You carefully guided him to Bucky, holding his head gently in your palm. Bucky took him, arms instinctively curling in the correct position. Once Bucky had him in his arms, it was like everything that happened in the world was worth it. Absolutely everything. 

Bucky watched in fascination as the baby curled deeper in his chest, little fist clutching Steve’s sweatshirt. He took the sweetest little intake of air…

`

xxMoni

[afriendlyblackhottie]

P*$$Y Fairy

Summary: you and Chris just like to enjoy each other’s company away from LA sometimes. Part 2 of Risk.

Pairings: Chris Evans x black!popstar!reader

Warnings: Smut, fluff, daddy kink, oral sex (female receiving), weed use

Ask 1: um i just found out that chris evans used to smoke weed 😳 but like the sex tho?? 😩😩😩

Ask 2:  how are black!popstar!reader and Chris Evans doing because I loved that one

(A/N: this is like four WIPs combined into one because that second ask really helped me figure out what direction to take the first one in because for some reason I was str.ugg.ling. Apparently all the ideas I had were meant for Chris and black!popstar. Based on P*$$Y Fairy by Jhené Aiko and Positions by Ariana Grande. I also listened to the whole Confessions album while writing this because I don’t care that it came out when I was 11 it’s still so good. Anyway, reblog always 💜 ✌🏾)

Tagging: @titty-teetee​ @iam-laiya​ @zaddychris​ @hqneyyincc​ @mariahthelioness29​ @olyvoyl​ @liquorlaughslove​ @harrysthiccthighss @donutloverxo​ @queenoftheworldisdead @whiskey-cokenfanfic​ @night-of-the-living-shred​ @buckyownsmylife @blackmissfrizzle @fullofmelaninsarcasmandepression​ (Just tagging people I know that read the last one)

——————————————————————————-

Things were hectic for sure. You had your career and he had his. Yet the romance was still enough to where you got swept up in. You felt like you were living in an old movie. He was always sending you flowers. When you couldn’t see each other he’d send you cute texts like they were love notes.

No one knew about what was going on, though. Sure everyone had fun on Twitter for a few days, but it quickly became yesterday’s news when everyone thought that was it. You’d sworn to secrecy to the point where your friends had no clue who your mystery man was. When anyone would ask you who sent the flowers you’d just shrug. Even on the card he’d sign with his middle name instead of his first.

He wanted to keep you to himself and vice versa. Like you were each other’s dirty little secret. It didn’t matter that everyone saw the chemistry between you. You like sneaking around with him when the both of you were in town. Sometimes even escaping the craziness of LA to just be together.

Like right now. It was stupid maybe. Everyone was bound to be worried because this was last minute and you’d left your phone at home and yet it still sounded like the best idea ever. You’d been so stressed about your newest album when he’d asked you to go away with him. You weren’t going to turn spending the weekend with him down over stressing and arguing with your producers.

As you laid in bed tangled in the sheets beside him it felt so worth it. The polaroid camera you’d picked up flashed as he took another picture of you as you let out another puff of smoke, you giggled throwing your head back making him do another one. “I think this one is my favorite,” he said, looking down at it with a smile on his face.

You raised up letting the sheet fall from around your breasts so you could look at it. “I love it,” you said, resting your chin on his bicep. He kissed your forehead before moving his lips to yours. He pushed you onto your back getting on top of you, tickling you at the same time until you were giggling again.

“Stop!” You tried to push his hands away still laughing as he took the blunt from your hand flipping over so he was beside you.

You rolled over so you were nestled into him. He was letting his hair grow out for a movie. He looked so damn good with that beard and that hair. You kissed his shoulder needing to feel him against your lips. He shivered looking at you before turning his head so you could kiss him.

He grabbed your hips so he could pull you on top of him. The way he was touching you, made your skin prickle. Your breathing heavy from how intense it felt to have him this close. Your head felt overwhelmed from all the sensations yet somehow it was like it wasn’t enough.

You laid on top of him. Enjoying the feeling of his chest moving up and down against yours. You bit your bottom lip feeling like you could fall asleep like this. He kissed your forehead again before peering up at him through heavy lidded eyes.

You don’t know you let out another giggle before kissing him. Were his lips always this soft. Yet his beard scratched against your skin. It felt so warm and inviting. Probably why you deepened it.

He wrapped his arms around your waist as you got better situated to straddled against his abs. He traced patterns into your skin with his fingertips. The soft lightening of the room only making you feel deeper into this haze you were in.

“I love you,” he mumbled.

“Yeah?” You asked him with a lazy smile spreading across your face.

He nodded, sitting up making you sit with your ass against his suddenly growing dick. “Yeah,” he breathed, looking down at your lips before nuzzling your face.

“I love you, too,” you replied, you put your head on his shoulder needing to feel him as close as possible. It never felt like it was enough.

All the flirting you’d done at that interview and this is how you’d ended up a few months later. Heads in the cloud in love. You never wanted to come down. When it was like this, it felt like nothing else even existed.

“Fuck that sounds so pretty,” he said, he smiled against your temple. “You’re so goddamn pretty, Baby. Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you, Daddy.”

You started kissing again except this time he sank you down on his dick. Making you feel so full you thought you might actually explode. He still had the blunt in his hand even as he helped you ride him, through no longer lit.

Your nipples were aching for his lips, but you were too lost to ask him to pay attention of them. His deep breaths tickling your neck yet making you feel more tingly. It was like you couldn’t think anymore. Just feel. Feel how good he always did you.

Combing his soft hair with your fingers. Tugging on the ends every time he went a little too deep. He was already stretching you out so good. It didn’t make sense how deep he got inside of you.

“Daddy,” you whimpered.

“That’s my girl,” he panted. “Yeah you like Daddy’s dick, huh, Y/N?”

You nodded. “Uh huh.”

“You love me?” He asked bouncing you up and down on top of him.

You nodded this whimper coming out of your mouth. Fuck you were getting so close. He was making you feel so good. You don’t think you ever felt like this before.

“Say it,” he demanded, moving you so you had to look in his eyes.

“I love you.” As your pussy clamped around him he forced you up and down his cock. “Fuck,” you cried, “I love you.”

“That’s my girl,” he said grabbing you so he could put you down on your back. He fully put out the blunt in the astray on the nightstand. He climbed back on top of you, spreading your legs out so wide as he started licking your pussy.

You gasped running your hands through his hair. “Fuck,” you repeated quivering as he tongue fucked you. The grip on the back of your thighs so strong as he had them in the air. His beard burning into your thighs.

“Oh, my god- Daddy!” You gasped as another orgasm creeped onto you. He was quick to move up so he could use that time to push into you. Moving his hips so he was deliberately brushing into your spot.

It was already too much. Why did he have to be doing this to you. “So good for me,” he whispered in your ear. “My girl, huh. No one else’s.”

“Never.” You tilted your head back and be took advantage, kissing prepping your throat with kisses. Then wrapping his hand around your throat gently.

“Love you so much,” he said, before finally bathing your tits in attention as if he was reading your mind. His mouth hitting this spot you’d desperately needed to be touched.

“I’m gonna,” you squeaked out like a warning, “I’m gonna cum.”

“That’s okay, Baby,” he panted. “Cum for me. Don’t you ever not cum for me.”

You started to nod when you felt it. Starting deep in your abdomen before spreading with this warmth over your lower half at the same time that this tingle sparked all over. It felt like you could turn inside out. Or like if he wasn’t on top of you, you might float away.

“That’s it.” He smiled lazily taking in how pretty you looked, your mouth open all wide as you squirted just for him. “Fuck,” he hissed as he began to reach that point soon after.

He’d fucked it into you until he couldn’t anymore before slumping on top of you. Drawing his hands around your waist so your back was arched, head buried in the valley between your breasts. You were pretty sure you could stay like this forever.

—————

At some point you had to get back to life. Inspiration seemed to hit you out of nowhere. Everyone thought you were crazy when you’d told them you wanted to scrape the album, but you couldn’t let the feeling go. You needed to capture those thoughts in your lyrics.

You didn’t want to admit that a huge chunk of the album was about him. About the things you did together. How he’d hold you down and fuck you just the way you liked. How no one else has ever been able to do you like he does.

He’d left to Boston to film another movie. It was kind of lonely in LA without him. It was crazy. You barely got to spend time with him as is even when you lived in the same city. Yet when he was away you missed him. Even the calls every night weren’t enough.

Which led to you sneaking off to Boston. You could try to keep a low profile. At least until you got to the safety of his home.

He picked you up in his Audi also you guess trying to keep a low profile in his baseball cap and sunglasses. Taking your bags after giving you a quick hug and a kiss hoping no one would notice the two of you. It was getting harder and harder for you to sneak away from everyone, but somehow you managed.

Dodger greeted you as you walked through the door. You got down to pet him while Chris went to set your things in his room. When he came back he pulled you into another hug, savoring this one.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he said kissing you all sweetly. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you, too,” you sighed into him.

After washing the flight off of you and changing into something comfortable. The two of you enjoyed glasses of wine over the pad thai you’d ordered since neither one of you felt like cooking. You talked about finally maybe going public soon. About not wanting to hide it anymore.

You poured another glass of wine as he started kissing down your neck, pressing your stomach into the kitchen counter. He was so hard against you. He’d made you take him right there. First from behind and then turning you around so he could fuck you while you were sitting on top of it.

You scratched at his back as he carried you to the living room, bending you over again over the back of the couch. Somehow that led to you riding him on the stairs. Each time he’d made you cum so good yet still held on.

Finally he’d led you to his bedroom where he fucked you all night. Made you call him Daddy while he was deep in your stomach. Alternating between the intensity of his thrusts or pulling out to put you in all these positions so he could hold out longer.

When it was time for him to finally fill you he didn’t hold back. Cumming into you so deep that if you weren’t on birth control you were sure he would have just gotten you pregnant right then. The thought of it only made it so much more intense.

You’d finally fallen asleep all curled into him. Not being able to keep going any longer. He’d left you worn out barely even able to think. He whispered I love you against your skin.

When you woke up the next morning all wrapped up in him, both of your phones were loud going off. The buzzing noises against the wood of the nightstand made you jump. “What the fuck,” you groaned sleepily as you reached behind you to grab your iPhone. “Hello?” You asked with your voice feeling like it was all worn out.

“Y/N, where the hell are you?” Your agent asked. “And do not lie to me.”

“What?” You asked looking over to see Chris looking at his phone.

“Oh shit...”

“What?” You asked him.

“You’re with him right now?” Your agent asked and you groaned.

You wrinkled your nose as she kept talking because your brain kind of wasn’t turned on yet. “I’ll call you back.”

“Do not ha-“

But it was too late. Chris held out his phone showing you whatever was on his screen. “I’m not gonna lie I have no idea what’s going on right now,” you said putting your face into shoulder.

“Babe, they fucking got a picture of us,” he finally said.

“What?”

“Mhm. At the airport yesterday. Even got a good one of us kissing.”

You groaned. “Wow, we suck at disguising ourselves.”

He laughed bringing you close to him so you could lay on his chest. “I know.” He kissed the side of your head. “How’d you sleep?”

“Good.” You yawned into him. Your phone was still going off, but you just wanted to sleep.

“So I take it your team isn’t really happy that you’re here with me?” He asked.

You shrugged. “To be honest I don’t know if I actually care to even find out.”

He chuckled. “Good. Maybe this was a good thing?”

“Mhm. Now we don’t have to sneak around anymore.” You sighed contently. “I bet Twitter is having fun.”

“Oh definitely.” He laughed.

“I think you broke me,” you told him. Your legs felt all stiff and sore. Liked you’d just come back from a workout.

He placed more kisses on your face. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

“Why so you can break me some more.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Who do you think is going to be the most mad at us for this?”

“Hating ass people on Twitter,” you said with a chuckle. “Who will also be the happiest. I can imagine all the comments now.”

He laughed. “Oh, we’re definitely going to be reading them over breakfast.” He started rubbing your back trying to soothe you back to sleep even as you whispered to each other. You could worry about the outside world later. For right now you wanted to enjoy the cloud the two of you were alone on.

As he laid there, he promised himself that things would be different with you. That no matter what happened he’d stick beside you. Because as Chris looked down at you, your eyes closed all nestled into him he realized he didn’t want anyone else. You were it for him. And it didn’t matter what Twitter or your teams had to say. He didn’t care how crazy life got or how busy the both of you were. Now that he had you, he wasn’t letting go.

[not-me-simping-for-blasty]

Wrong Number, Asshole - A Bakugou Katsuki Soulmate AU

All Parts

Part 19:

You stared helplessly at your phone.

He still hadn’t answered you or even read the texts you’d sent him- it had been over a week since you sent the last two.

Bakugou told you that he’d be away. That he wouldn’t be at his phone, but that was almost two entire weeks ago, and nobody would be without a phone for that long. You knew something was wrong. Could feel the incorrectness and hollowness in your soul- in that same part of your heart that had suddenly been filled since you met him. 

You sent him another text, fueled by nothing but desperation. 

Another few days went by. Nothing. Radio silence, and unread texts, and a heart that felt heavier with each passing moment.

That wrongness that you felt seemed to multiply by the minute, your skin seeming to itch and feel too tight and too lose all at once. You felt helpless. There was nothing you could do, no where you could look, nobody you could tell. 

All you knew was a last name- a last name that was common. A last name that was shared by 1000s of people all across Japan, and a last name that was shrouded entirely by a pro-hero who was everywhere you looked. 

You’d already tried searching, desperately typing in that last name, but the only thing you could ever pull up was articles about Bakugou Katsuki. Dynamite. Pro-hero highlights and various smear pieces were all you could find under that last name. It was just picture after picture of a blonde head of hair and a scowling face that wasn’t your soulmate’s. Explosions and ash and burning debris and villains and heroes and- you resented Dynamite. He was the reason you couldn’t reach your Bakugou. 

There was nothing you could do. Absolutely nothing, and it nearly killed you.

You threw your phone away in frustration, crushed by another search that yielded nothing but Dynamite. 

You wanted to cry, wanted to yell, wanted to scream until your throat tore for all the things being stolen from you. If he wasn’t okay, if he wasn’t still able to be there for you, all of your childhood dreams were over. There would be no happy ending for you, no fairy-tale love, no perfect puzzle pieces finally slotting together. There would just be you. You and your one-half of a soul and one-half of a name and a potential funeral you couldn’t even go to because you didn’t know who he was or where he lived or how to reach him past a phone. All you had was his voice, all you got to have was his voice and his jokes and a siew of nicknames and texts and it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough because it was bits of him; little, tiny, miniscule pieces of someone that was supposed to be yours but apparently wasn’t. Instead of him, it was just you- alone and waiting and etched with a ugly tattoo you should’ve never expected to guarantee forever. 

You didn’t want to think about it- didn’t even want to entertain the idea of him not being okay- but at this point it felt like you had no other choice. Bakugou didn’t seem like the type to just disappear- had proven time after time to you that he wasn’t. Something was wrong. Horribly, terribly, catastrophically wrong and you just knew it. Could feel it settling in your bones like a poison.

You fell onto your bed, peeling back the covers and collapsing onto your pillow. You couldn’t remember falling asleep. Couldn’t even be sure when you stopped crying. 

--/--

You suddenly jolted awake- fingers scrambling to find your ringing phone.

Bakugou :)) - Incoming Call 1:07 AM

You felt like you couldn’t breathe- like there wasn’t enough air in the world to make your lungs work. With shaking fingers, you accepted the call. 

“Hey, idiot.” Bakugou’s voice was hoarser than you remember, barely there and weak through the phone. He coughed. “Been a fuckin’ while, huh?”

Your heart jumped, seeming to nearly seize at the sound of his voice- at the sound of his croaking breath, at the sound of him present and okay on the other end of the phone. You pressed your palms into your eyes, trying to will yourself not to cry, but you couldn’t help it. He was there, and fine, and talking and it didn’t feel like your heart was breaking anymore.

“You motherfucker,” You choked out, trying to clear the tears from you throat. You were sure Bakugou could hear them anyway. “Fuck you- you asshole.”

Bakugou just seemed to laugh- a thin, withering sound that got stuck in his throat. He coughed again, the sound of his chest rattling audible and frightening through the phone. 

“Yeah.” He croaked. “Fuckin’ deserved that one, huh?”

“Where were you?” You held your phone with both your shaking hands, clutching at it desperately. “Y-you didn’t- fuck- you didn’t answer! And I texted you and texted you and you didn’t fucking answer and I was so worried, you absolute fucker, and scared and I-I-”

Your shuddered, gasping to catch your breath. It felt like every bit of anxiety you’d had from the past two weeks was crawling up your throat all at once. It was torrent of worry and desperation and anguish tearing apart your ribcage and bursting out your mouth. You were tired and your chest hurt and you couldn’t seem to stop crying. 

“It-it’s okay. I’m okay. Stop crying, sunshine.” He soothes, but his voice is too thin and too ragged and all it does it make you worry. “I’m right fuckin’ here- not goin’ anywhere, okay?”

“Y-you’re not! You’re not okay! I can fuckin’ hear you. Y-you’re coughing and your voice doesn’t sound right and-” You take a deep breath, wiping at your eyes. “What happened to you?”

A pause. Another cough. Another round of chest-rattling coughs.

“I, uh, jus’ got a little fuckin’ hurt s’all.” He grits out. “It’s-I’m fine. It’s alright. I’ll be just fuckin’ fine.”

“For two weeks? You were hurt for two weeks?”

“No- I, uh, got held up for a bit. And then hurt.”

“What?” You gasp, incredulous. “Bakugou- t-that doesn’t- it doesn’t make any fucking sense! Held up? What the hell does that even mean?”

There’s silence from his end, but you can hear his ragged breaths and a steady, mechanical beeping through the phone.

“W-what’s that beeping sound?” You ask.

“It’s nothing- it’s uh-”

“Bakugou. Cut the bullshit, please-” You beg voice high and desolate. “Just tell me what’s going on. I-I don’t get it! How could you just be gone for two weeks and then be hurt a-and that noise- it’s a monitor isn’t it?”

More silence. 

“Isn’t it?”

“Yes.” He bites out. “It is.”

“Oh my god,” You want to scream, panic once again overtaking you. “Are you in a hospital, right now?”

“Yes.”

Something in you breaks. Something lodged deep in your chest, and all you can think about is seeing him. Making sure that he really is alive in a hospital bed and not some fucked-up figure of your imagination right now.

“Where?” You demand. “Where?”

“W-what?”

“I said fucking where, Bakugou.” You caught your breath, willing your voice to be solid. “Tell me. Right now.”

“I- No!”

“Oh my god, why won’t you just tell me- anything! Ever! You don’t tell me fucking anything and all I know about you is fuck-all nothing and-” Your voice rises, higher and higher and louder as you rant. “Do you even know what I’ve been doing these past two weeks? Worrying! About you! And fucking looking your name up and finding nothing because I don’t know who you are or how to reach you or where you live or even what you look like- a-all I have is your voice and your last name and that’s not even fucking helpful because all I can find is some goddamn hero, Dynamite, who isn’t you and I couldn’t- I couldn’t-”

You’re gasping for air now, nearly shattering your phone in your vice grip. You chest aches, burns, and all he’s doing is sitting on the other end of the phone. Silent. Breathing. Saying nothing like always.

“That’s me.” He finally says, quiet and subdued. 

“Excuse me?”

Bakugou coughs again. It sounds painful.

“Dynamite.” He finally whispers out. “It’s me.”

You drop your phone. Watch it slip out of your hands and onto the ground. 

Dynamite. It’s me.

Bakugou Katsuki. Scowling, blonde, angry, Bakugou Katsuki. Ash-ridden pro-hero covered in gunpowder and searing burns and surrounded by fire Bakugou Katsuki. 

He was your soulmate. The man who seemed to infect your life for the past two weeks. The man you couldn’t find was exactly the same man who was everywhere you looked no matter what you did- on TV, on the internet, in every article you read, every bit of research you ever conducted for your project- and apparently on your phone. This entire time. 

You’re angry, shaking and seething and fuming as you pick your phone back up.

“Fuck you, Bakugou,” You spit venomously, tears once again falling. “Y- you just- you disappeared, for weeks, to go be a fucking hero and didn’t even tell me? You put yourself in danger, fucking knowing- w-what if you- what if you- I wouldn’t have known! I wouldn’t have ever fucking known what happened to you and I wouldn’t ever get to know- and you’d just be- you’d just be-”

“Gone.” 

“Gone.” You repeat.

“T-this is why I didn’t wanna fuckin’ tell ya.” He wheezes. “Because it fuckin’ changes things when you say you’re a hero.”

“A-a hero?” You’re nearly yelling into the phone. “You think I’m upset over you being a fucking hero?”

“Aren’t you?”

“No!” You scream, enraged. “I’m not- I don’t. I don’t care about you being a fucking hero! I care about you, you fucking asshole! I’ve been sitting here for weeks worrying about you, and searching for you, because you fucking vanished and I didn’t know how to look for you and I couldn’t find anything and I just wanted to find you because I like you- I like you, you fucking idiot!”  

He’s silent, the only sounds are your raging breaths and the beeping of a machine.

“You like me?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You’re screeching now. “That’s what you fucking got from that? Are you fucking stupid? That’s the stupidest fucking thing you’ve ever said to me! Are you even fucking listening to me right n-”

Bakugou laughs. He laughs, loud and unrestrained and slightly rattling, interrupting your train of thought completely. You’re clutching your phone, pressing it to your ear and seeing red.

“A-are you fucking laughing? Stop fucking laughing- this isn’t- I’m fucking mad at you! Stop laughing, you’re being fucking immature and stupid and a fucking asshole right now! Did you hear a fucking thing I sai-”

“You fuckin’ like me.” He repeats. “I like you too, idiot.”

The wind is knocked out of you- every bit of oxygen is a struggle and your heart is beating fast, faster, so very fast like it’s racing around your ribcage and ripping through the skin of your chest and everything hurts but it doesn’t at the same time and all you can think and see is Bakugou. Bakugou Katsuki.

“I like you, too.” You respond, suddenly dazed.

A pause, another rattling laugh.

“You said that already, idiot.”

Just kidding. Back to thinking and seeing red and only bleeding red.

“Actually, you know what,” Your voice is tight and overwhelmingly loud. “Fuck you! I hate you, you fucking asshole! Made me worry for fucking weeks just to sit there and make fun of me! I’m fucking mad at you- so fucking mad! You know what? I’m hanging u-”

“Don’t.” He says suddenly. “Please.”

His voice stops you in your tracks. Bakug- Katsuki sounds soft and tender and quiet and he didn’t swear once. He’s hurt and he’s probably still hurting and you decide then that you couldn’t do that to him- hang up on him. It was an empty threat. You figured it probably always would be from now on, no matter how angry he made you. 

“Y-yeah. Okay.” You start. “But only because you’re fuckin’ hurt or whatever and even I couldn’t fuckin’ do that to-”

“You sound like me.” He interrupts, and there’s something so fond in his voice that it makes you shiver. “Swearing like a fuckin’ sailor, sunshine, what the hell happened to you, huh?”

“Y-you!” You sputter, trying to recover from the way the nickname wounded you. “You fucking happened to me, you absolute prick! You never telling me anything happened to me! The last two fuckin’ weeks happened to me!” 

He just laughs again, and you think you could kill him. Are suddenly really contemplating just finishing the job off- until he coughs. Until he coughs and rattles and shakes and doesn’t stop coughing for almost an entire minute.

“You- you’re okay? Right?” You ask, voice quiet.

“Mhm.” Bakugou hums, voice deep and raspy. “Everythin’s just fuckin’ peachy.”

“No. I’m serious. Be serious. Are you okay?” 

There’s silence on his end, but you think maybe you can hear the shuffling of blankets.

“N-no.” He grits out, almost like admitting it is painful. “It’s- I’m not. I will be, though.”

“Okay.” You nod. “How long are you in the hospital for?”

“Not sure. Jus’ fuckin’ woke up.”

“And you called me,” You were yelling again. “Call a fucking nurse! Call one right now! You probably need like fucking meds or treatment or like your vitals taken or something! Hang up! Hang up right now and call a nurs-”

“No thanks.”

“Excuse me? Bakugou, are you even listening to me? You’re hurt! You need to fucking call somebody- a nurs-”

“I wanted to talk to you.” Bakugou interrupts, voice hardly there. “Wouldn’ta if I knew you were gonna yell so much, though. Who the fuck yells that much?”

You pause. Taken aback by his words, by his admission. Only for a moment though. 

“You! You fucking yell so much, you asshole! I learned it from you!” 

Bakugou coughs again, and you lower your voice. You sober up.

“I’m serious. Hang up. Get a nurse.” You suggest gently. “Call me again later, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He agrees. “Okay.”

Bakugou hangs up and you finally feel your heart begin to calm. He wastes no time, sending a text only seconds later. 

--/---

eat up, bitches!! it’s an identify reveal, near death experience AND confession scene- welcum to the sweet sweet world of my favorite tropes ~ it only goes up frum hear 

[occult-castiel]

Leave a message (after the beep!)

Suptober. Day 13: Rewind Dean has a few things to say to Cas. Word count: 2542 [Read on Ao3]

3 Weeks.

Dean's been stealing glances at his phone for over an hour. The dim light of the hall that creeps from under his door is the only reason he can see the thing, blurred out to a barely-there grey hunk of plastic.

The idea is fucking stupid. He doesn't care what Sam thinks. Sam wasn't even supposed to know. Let alone have fucking opinions.

But Dean slipped.

And it took more effort than he will ever admit to walk out of the kitchen without clocking his brother in the goddamn jaw.

Fuck Sam and fuck the phone.

He turns around, away from the stupidest temptation of his life, and demands sleep come.

It's only mildly successful.

2 Month, 1 Week.

Nothing bad can happen from a phone call. Doing it once can’t hurt you any more than you are now

Sam's a well-meaning kid. He really is. But sometimes he just needs to can it.

'Cause he had to go and say some shit like that, completely unprompted — they were talking about potential witch activity in Utah, not Dean's feelings, for Christ's sake — and now it's all Dean can think about now that the distractions of the day have bled into a dark room and cold bed.

And that gray hunk of plastic on his desk is laughing at him. He could reach it if he sat up. Stretched a bit.

But the idea is dumb. And Sam doesn't get it. He really fucking doesn’t.

Except Dean knows he's kind of full of crap.

He grits his teeth, shoves the covers to the side, and grabs his phone.

With each passing buzz, his heart stutters, breath cut into shorter and shorter spurts.

Stupidstupidstupid.

It- it isn't like he's gunna answer. Dean knows he not, but it just rings and rings and —

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."

And it hurts.

He calls again every night for the next week. Of course, he never picks up. Sam doesn't ask.

4 Months.

Dean kicks the door after it slams shut. Throws his gun at his headboard, if it goes off and shoots him, oh fucking well. It's great. Just fantastic.

He pulls his phone out without thinking. Clicks Cas.

It rings, and for a moment his shoulders relax as the familiar greeting plays. Cause its Cas' voice. And fuck. Just… fuck.

Then it beeps, and he actually does the one thing he's wanted for months.

"None of your douchebag family will answer me. And I've tried friggin' everything, I swear to Christ."

He runs his hand over his face, glances up at the sour-yellow ceiling.

"How you ever stood them is beyond me dude."

And then, like a rational human being. He hangs up and pretends that whatever that was didn't happen.

Once the bitter taste of angels that don’t pick the fucking phone up from earlier that day fades, Dean stares at the darkened ceiling.

He left a voicemail. A fucking voicemail.

Pathetic.

4 Months, 3 Weeks.

So he hasn't called again since his, uh, slip up. And Sam keeps giving him these little looks. And he knows that Sam knows, and knows he isn't calling because he's a changed man or whatever.

Maybe Sam would drop it, whatever the hell he thinks Dean's mess is, if he could manage to eat.

Jody, Claire, Kaia, and Alex are all around the table with them. Jody's the charmer she always is, talking about how she's grateful for the help and oh, of course you guys are gunna stay for dinner! Ah-ah! No buts.  

There was a hunt in town she tracked down with Claire, a huge vamps nest — we're talking dozens — and called them over for help. And is now feeding them. Because she's a saint and never deserved to be in the know in the first place.

Dean looks at the food. Pork lathered in dark brown graveyard with a mountain of buttery mashed potatoes. There's a pile of carrots on Sam's plate. Dean opted out.

Not that he's eating now. No, mostly just pushing it all around. He does eat in general.

But Claire isn't looking at him. Hasn't. She barely managed a glance up when he saved her — just a small nod and weary glance.

Sam, on the other hand, may as well be ogling.

Dean wishes he could read Sam's mind, find out where he's keeping it so Dean can wallow in misery without his brother being keen on some of the finer details, thank you very much.

He manages a few bites. Its excellent, mouth-watering, home-cooked goodness he's missed fiercely since he got a taste for it the few days Mrs. Butters was around.

But right now? Turns his stomach.

On the way back home, Sam clears his throat. Dean grips the wheel a little tighter.

"So —"

"I didn't ask for your opinion, Samantha."

In the corner of his eye, Sam's shoulder slump. His brother looks down and sighs out a sad little noise.

But the rest of the drive is quiet. And that's a win in Dean's book.

*

It's roughly midnight, and books are scattered across the library table. They're all open to different pages, but none of it matters. Not really.

Dean's combing through it all anyway. Has been since Heavens decided they have a no-call policy with anyone named Winchester.

The piles he has laid around him have grown increasingly larger as the weeks have drug on. Spiked exponentially when he decided not to call anymore.

"Hey Dean."

Dean snaps his head up mid-sentence. Sam stands in the threshold, holding a plate. In pajamas.

Dean just looks at him. "What?"

"Made you food." He lifts the plate up a fraction

"That looks like a cold cut, so made is a generous word."

Sam has the audacity to slump into himself, full-on wounded-puppy mode. So Dean rolls his eyes and waves him over.

The plate gets sat down with a distinct clank, and Sam pats his shoulder.

"You know I just… want what's best for you."

Dean tenses his shoulders, closes the book in front of him. He speaks through his teeth.

"Yeah, well I never had it in the first place. And now it is gone, and there's nothing I can do."

"You don't know that Dean."

He glues his eyes to the back of the book. Balls his fists.

"Don't I? That — That fucking thing just —"

"I know. But it's also gone. We don't know what happened."

Dean chooses then to look over, fix his brother with a proper glare so he'll go the hell away — but sees it.

Sitting innocuously on the plate, like it isn't an affront to everything Dean would rather not, is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Sam's talking but he can't hear it. His brains turned to mush, a radio-static circus of nothing.

The bottom of his chair screeches as it drags against the floor.

And Dean can’t see.

Sam grabs his arm, he shakes it off. He moves decisively, tries too, but his eyes prickle and he can’t see shit, and he isn’t about to cry right there in front of his brother, validate every stupid thought the guy has that’s probably one-hundred percent right.

His door clicks shut, and he pressed himself against it. Slides down until he hits the icy floor.

Dean's throat is a constricted cage, each breath in has to be muscled in, down, out. Each wobble as much as the last.

Sam doesn't know shit. He doesn’t know what he's talking about. He really doesn't.

Calling someone who can’t answer, won’t ever answer, is fucking stupid. It's not therapeutic.

When he rubs a hand over his face. It comes back wet, and his eyes sting.

"Fuck."

He fishes for his phone. Going to Cas' number is muscle memory at this point.

It rings. Cause Sam can't help but keep the thing charged.

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."

The ball in his chest is impossibly tight. Why hasn't he called? Just to hear him again, the gruff tenor that's like gravel and silk and the only thing he ever wants to hear, ever. And now he only has nine words he'll ever hear him say again.

That's it. Two sentences.

You saved the whole world. He didn’t save shit.

And what the fuck is he supposed to do now? How is he supposed to do anything? He’s never been any good, not as good as he needs to be. Maybe if he would’ve been — or did somethin’ different, anything different —

Dean threads his fingers in his hair and balls his fist. Squeezes his eyes shut against the pool of tears that just leak out, and curls in on himself. His guts are twisted and tight, just like the rest of him. Every part of him shakes, the hand vice-gripping his hair should hurt, should be enough to pull him back to sanity, but the tears don’t stop.

And really what does it matter if he cries. Chucks gone, and The Empty, that — that thing got what was coming to it.

But Cas didn't come back.

He lulls his head against the door, untangles the hand from his hair like his fingers piston operated they ache so bad

God, Cas should’ve just left him in Hell.

Maybe he's Heaven, Billy had said with a shrug. Casual. Like she didn't understand. And Dean knows she does. She gets it more than any of them, saw just what this shit did the last time. Saw exactly how much he didn't want to be around.

Jack had to fuck off to put the universe in balance, so he’s MIA and no help. And Heaven doesn't seem to give a shit.

There must've been a beep somewhere, so Dean just goes with it. Presses the phone to his ear again and works his jaw open until it’s loose enough to allow something resembling words can happen.

"It's — it's bullshit." God Dean can't recognize his own voice, pulled thin and hoarse. "You — you know that right? Bullshit." He shakes his head. Tries to take a deep breath that comes out only slightly less ragged. "You always left. And I — I get that you had to sometimes. But no one wanted you here more than me."

He wipes his face off with the collar of his shirt. His skull screams in sharp pain, and his temples thud. And normally this would be too long of a pause, but normally you don't start a voicemail off trying not to sob, and normally they're made for people who can actually listen to them. So whatever.

"This is stupid. It's not — voicemails ain't your style." His breath leaves, and exhaustion sets deep into his bones. "You always just called back for the explanation. You'd leave 'em, though."

At least Dean assumes. Every call back he'd ever gotten from the guy he'd have to fill him in on whatever was happening anyway. Guess it makes sense in a way. If you have enough time to listen to a message, you've got enough time to call.

The space behind his robes aches when he says, "We both shoulda picked up more, I guess. And Sammy wants me to call now. Like it makes up for shit. It doesn't."

He swipes the little red phone to the left, and stares at the word Cas in his contacts page.

But the screen goes blank, and all he can see are his puffy red eyes reflected in the black screen, and that's motivation, so he gets ready for bed.

1 Year, 10 Months, 13 Days

He calls a few times after that. But tries not to leave voicemails for someone that's just gone, in every sense of the word.

It’s dumb. Still really dumb. And he has no defense for it. Eventually Sam hands him Cas' old phone and a charger. All of the missed voicemails untouched.

Dean could swear he remembers ever last one.

They're mostly simple crap, sometimes. Updates.

"Sam and Eileen are getting hitched. They're pretty fucking disgusting together. But sometimes they look at me, and I can just see it, man. See how they like, bubble themselves off." He laughs, but it's strained.  "Guess it just be written on my face. Which is just friggin’ fantastic. Cause I'm happy for them. I've always wanted that for Sam. But I wanted it for us too. Fucked up that I can only say it now, huh."

"I don't like the way burgers taste anymore. And I, uh, have a bumper sticker now. It's a bee. I kept it together until Sam got misty-eyed." There's a pause for a touch too long, then, "That mixtapes been the only thing in Baby for a month."

"I kept the trenchcoat. Wore it earlier. Got cold out for the first time since —" he sighs. "You wore it better. Looks like shit on me. It pretty much lives in my closet. Can't get monster guts on it that way."

But sometimes it's just a confession, none of the other bullshit. Just the truth.

"Look. I'm not mad. So don't think that. Cause I'm not. Wish I was. It's — it's always been easier. But I was trying to get my head on straight. I would've for you. I just… Don't know how now."

"Can't tell if I like using your old angel blade or fucking hate it. Don't like much of anything anymore. You were better with it."

"Id pray to you, but this is all I got. And I wish I could hope you're up there. But then I'd hope there isn't any pay per view Earth or whatever. Cause this shit? Is pitiful." A sigh. "G'night, Cas."

And one night, a long time later, he's sitting with his back against his bed, nestled next to the end table he never used, he says the truth in a way he knows he should've years and years ago.

"Guess this is like prayin', ain't it? Sammy caught me a few months ago. He wasn't even surprised I'm still doing this. Told me it was, uh — It was okay. Even if I just… never did. And you know what? I don't think l can." He gives a small laugh. "Hell, I only leave messages when I'm feeling, I dunno, brave? Like some part of me thinks you could still hear it and tell me to get lost."

Logically, he knows Cas wouldn't have kicked him to the curb. Wanted him just as much.

"God I listen to it almost every night dude. Just hearing this stupid fucking line —  It's like hitting rewind, for a few seconds."

The rest comes off easy, in its own way

"I miss you, Buddy. And I — I love you more than I know what to do with. I wish it would've been enough. But instead, it killed you."

He ends it, and calls back. Just to listen to the only thing he'll ever hear Cas say again. It’s not a replacement, never will be until he can see if Heaven really does have an angels left.

But the only faith he ever had is just an echo on the other end.

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."

[gamerwoo]

Hongseok: Make Damn Sure

Characters: Hongseok x female reader

Genre/warnings: mafia au, angst, literally just a lot of angst, toxic relationship stuff (like the whole thing is just one big very very mentally/emotionally abusive relationship), cheating, murder, kidnapping, there’s literally no fluff here ok

Word count: 2,792

Summary: I just wanna break you down so badly. Well I trip over everything you say. I just wanna break you down so badly in the worst way.

a/n: hi yes as u can probably tell this was inspired by makedamnsure by taking back sunday. i’ve actually had this in my drafts for a long time but i kinda forgot about it????

Hongseok paced back and forth by the door, waiting for you to come back. He knew damn well you were back at the bar you always ran off to so you could avoid the tense feeling when your boyfriend was around. He was well aware of the feeling because he felt it too. He wasn’t sure when the two of you changed, but things felt different, and while the two of you only addressed it when you got into heated arguments, neither of you ever seemed to pull the plug and end things.

For whatever reason, neither of you wanted to.

Maybe you found a bit of pleasure in the way you made Hongseok’s face go red as he screamed at you. Maybe he sometimes enjoyed seeing the tears streaming down your cheeks that were caused by him. There was something both of you enjoyed about hurting the other, and while it was absolutely sick and twisted, neither of you bothered to leave. So it was a constant cycle of Hongseok always being gone, you avoiding him when he’d come home, the two of you getting into a screaming match, and the cycle continuing.

Things hadn’t always been bad. Deep down, you both must’ve loved each other because you absolutely did before and why else wouldn’t you just leave each other? But somewhere between him always being gone and you being fed up with not seeing him, your relationship evolved into something that couldn’t even be considered a relationship at this point.

As soon as the front door opened, Hongseok stopped and glared at you, crossing his arms over his chest. You were already expecting him to be waiting so you just sighed, keeping your eyes trained on the floor as you shut the door.

“You know I hate how you go to the bar every night,” he scolded.

“And you know I hate being told what to do,” you grumbled back.

He scoffed, rolling his eyes, “Don’t feed me that bullshit. You knew going into this that I had to be controlling considering I’m in the mafia and everything wants me and everything I’ve ever loved dead.”

“Oh good, so I’m safe,” you offered a sarcastic smile, finally looking back at him.

Hongseok took a step closer, causing you to step back and press your back against the door as he tried to make himself seem far bigger than you, “If you keep this attitude up, you won’t be.”

Despite stepping back, you weren’t that afraid of him. Hongseok had threatened you before but he never went through with it. You knew he didn’t have it in him to physically hurt you.

You rolled your eyes, stepping around him, “You don’t have the balls.”

As you brushed past him, he gripped your wrist tightly, almost making you second guess him. But he hesitated before letting out a sigh, still staring at the ground by the door and dropping your wrist.

“Just go upstairs,” he growled. “You’re lucky you’re my girlfriend or--”

“Or what, Mr. I’m-Scary-Because-I’m-In-The-Mafia?” you chuckled coldly as you went upstairs, not bothering to look behind you.

You knew you were making things worse, but that was how you and Hongseok interacted. You’d egg each other on despite knowing it was best to stop. You just couldn’t stop.

There was one surefire way to really get under your skin which would effectively end the conversation. There was one insecurity of yours that Hongseok used to always reassure you would never be a problem, but now tended to use it against you. And when he really didn’t want to deal with you, he’d always bring it up.

“Y’know, I could just leave you and find someone better,” he smirked, tilting his head to one side as he looked up at you. You were halfway up the stairs when you stopped and looked at him over your shoulder. You wanted to punch his perfect smirk off his beautiful goddamn face. “You’re so easily replaceable, remember? I can have anyone and anything I want. Piss me off enough and you’ll be out of this house faster than you can say ‘oops’.”

Hongseok had always been perfect. He looked perfect, he acted perfect. He was intelligent, sweet, understanding, and everything he did, he seemed to excel at. So when you first started dating, you were worried he would find someone better. You felt you were so plain compared to him. The guy looked like he should be dating a supermodel, but he picked you out of everyone he had.

Even now, while you hated his guts, you still didn’t like that he held that over you.

You glared at him, eyes turning glossy.

“Go fuck yourself,” you spat before turning and running up the stairs to your shared bedroom, slamming the door behind you.

Hongseok sighed before carrying on up the stairs, taking his time.

“Well it’s not like you do anymore,” he chuckled to himself.

By the time he was done getting ready for bed, you were already curled up in bed on your side. He entered the bedroom, barely sparing a glance at you who he assumed was silently crying under the covers as he made his way over to his side and got into bed. He turned off the lamp on his nightstand before getting comfortable and closing his eyes. He hadn’t tried to cuddle with you in months and you knew that wasn’t going to change -- not that you wanted it to. You still shared the same bed but never slept close enough to touch each other. But that was just how things were. You were hardly a couple anymore but neither of you would leave. 

Truthfully, you liked the danger of being with Hongseok too much because your life before him was so cookie cutter and boring. Hongseok still enjoy how normal it felt to be at home with someone after spending long days doing things that most people didn’t do. You wanted Hongseok because he was what you weren’t, and vice versa. Maybe you were both just masochists who couldn’t leave the things that hurt you. It was like a bad addiction where you knew you should quit but you just couldn’t.

-

The doors to their HQ burst open with a disheveled-looking Hongseok striding in. His shirt wasn’t buttoned up all the way, his tie was hardly done, and he was carrying his belt in one hand. His hair was a mess, he looked like he was hardly awake, and the sight made Hui annoyed to no end. He was already pissed that Hongseok was late, but now he was more than likely hungover because he knew it wasn’t anything he’d done with you -- he was well aware of what your relationship was like.

“You take care of it,” Hui grumbled to Wooseok, not even wanting to yell at Hongseok at this point. “I’ll be in my office.”

“Alright,” Wooseok sighed, not exactly thrilled with having to handle Hongseok, but he had to listen to the boss. So he turned to face the older boy while Hui left the room. “Wow, real cool of you to get drunk the night before work. Yeah, you seem like such a tough guy.”

“Not today, Wooseok,” Hongseok grumbled.

“Rough night?”

“You have no idea,” he huffed as he started to put his belt through the loops in his pants. “You know what _____ did this time? She fucked another guy.”

Wooseok just blinked, “...So?”

“So she’s my girlfriend!” Hongseok growled. “She belongs to me!”

“Seemed to me like you didn’t care much about her anymore,” the taller boy shrugged, turning to walk with Hongseok when he met up with him. “Why would you care what she does? Just dump her.”

“No,” he scoffed.

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated.”

“She literally cheated on you,” Wooseok pointed out.

But Hongseok had done the same before, and everyone knew that -- even you. But unlike Hongseok, you tried to be sneaky. You waited until he had left for work to invite the guy over, but you didn’t realize he’d be home early that day. And then he found you on the bed with your legs spread, some guy he’d never seen before on top of you, and his hand around your throat.

Before you could even get a full sentence out, you heard a shot ring out, and then you were covered in red with the guy’s body limp and lifeless on top of you.

Hongseok’s eyes raked over your body underneath the man’s. He merely licked his lips before looking back into your eyes, nodding his head, and leaving with a, “Good luck with that.”

He went out to a bar and didn’t come home until you were fast asleep in the bed that Hongseok had sent men to clean, knowing you wouldn’t be able to take care of it yourself -- but he did it because he wanted a clean bed, not because he wanted to help you.

Hongseok shrugged, “I killed the guy, so we’re even.”

“That’s--” Wooseok paused to let out a deep sigh, “Dude, this isn’t healthy for either of you. Even Hui hates seeing you two like this. Just give it up.”

He shook his head, working to button up his shirt and fix his tie, “You don’t get it, alright? You’ve never been in love before.”

“Are you in love?” Wooseok let out a harsh laugh. “I may not have anyone significant in my life, but I know that shit isn’t love.”

Hongseok stopped and turned to face Wooseok. He glared up at him, but he didn’t move to do anything. He was just annoyed, not angry.

“You don’t know shit,” Hongseok spat, “so just stay out of it.”

Despite the older member’s warning, Wooseok sighed and continued, “If you still love her deep down, why do they two of you literally never get along? Why can’t you even attempt to get along?”

“Shut up, Wooseok. Just drop it.”

Hongseok strode off as Wooseok stopped and stared at him. Honestly, Wooseok wasn’t sure he’d ever understand what Hongseok’s relationship had turned into. He didn’t get why at least you didn’t just leave him -- especially after the stunt he pulled today. But he was apparently wasting his breath and energy trying to talk sense into him. Something inside Hongseok apparently still loved you enough to stick around, and the same must’ve been true for you, but why would you constantly fight that badly with someone you loved?

If that was love, Wooseok didn’t want it.

-

As Hongseok pulled into the driveway, the lights to the house were off. He groaned, knowing you must’ve been out a bar again. This time, he contemplated leaving to get you.

But then he noticed the taillights of your car were on. Were you in the car about to leave? Why would you leave for the bar this late?

As he parked his car and stepped out, you got out of yours. He could see into the back windows that you had suitcases and bags piled up. His heart dropped, but he felt fire burning in his chest, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

“So,” he began, trying to sound casual, “where are you going?”

“Hongseok, you literally shot someone and left him dead on top of me,” you stated as if that would give him the answer he wanted.

He shrugged, “You cheated. Seemed fair.”

“When have I ever killed the three separate girls you’ve intentionally brought home when you knew I would be back from errands?”

“That’s different.”

You let out a deep sigh, shaking your head as you looked into his dark eyes, “Hongseok, I’m done.”

He scoffed, “You say that all the time.”

“But this time, I’m really done,” you insisted, and something flashed in his eyes. For a split second, you were sure it was panic. “That was the last fucking straw. I stuck around and put up with all of this bullshit, but that? Fuck no.”

“You stuck around because you didn’t want to leave,” Hongseok said, trying to convince you that you still wanted to stay. “We stick around because we love each other, and I know you still love me.”

“Do we love each other?” you laughed softly. “All we do is intentionally make the other miserable. And for what?”

“Relationships aren’t always rainbows and sunshine, _____!”

“But they’re not this fucking awful, Hongseok!”

“_____--”

“No,” you stated loudly enough to cut him off. “I’m done. We’re done. I’m leaving for good. You can go off and find that person who’s ‘way better than me’ that you’re always talking about.”

As you turned around to go back into your car, you felt Hongseok tug on your wrist, saying lowly, “I’ll give you one more chance to change your mind.”

You assumed it was like every other time. He was trying to give an empty threat only to give up when you challenged him. You never fell for it, and you weren’t about to now.

“Too bad,” you told him.

But instead of dropping your wrist, his grip tightened. You gasped as he tugged you backwards, your back hitting the side of his car. His hand moved to grip your neck, squeezing it so you couldn’t breathe or scream as you looked into his narrowed eyes.

“You can’t leave me,” he stated like it was a rule he’d put in place for you.

This wasn’t just an empty threat. Something inside Hongseok snapped knowing you were finally going to end it. You weren’t sure why because while somewhere in you, you still loved him -- he was right about that -- you knew this relationship wasn’t a relationship anymore. It wasn’t healthy, and you couldn’t handle it anymore. You had to be the one to end things and leave.

But now you couldn’t.

Hongseok flipped you around, pressing you hard enough into his car that you were sure you would bruise. He quickly yanked his tie off and stuffed it in your mouth as you opened it to scream for help. Then he took of his belt and tied up your hands with it. He opened the back door to his car, shoved you in, buckled you up, and closed the door. Then he went over to the driver’s seat and got in, starting the car back up.

You continued to shout muffled words at him even though he couldn’t hear you. He had taught you plenty of things in your relationship: how to get out of the trunk of someone’s car, how to get out of various ties and binds, and even self defense moves. But there were things Hongseok didn’t teach you, like how to get away from him. You knew how to get out of zipties, but not how to free yourself from a belt. You knew how to fight against any other person, but since Hongseok was the one to teach you all the moves, he knew what to expect. He was the one person you couldn’t get away.

“I’ll make damn sure you can’t leave,” he growled, angry eyes shooting dagger at you in the mirror. “You’re mine, you hear me? You belong to me.”

For the second time ever, you were afraid of Hongseok.

-

HQ. You knew that’s where he would take you. He could tell the lower ranked men that you were a captive, and he could just hide you from the others. The only person who could do anything about it was Hui, but he knew the boss was so fed up with Hongseok’s situation with you that he wouldn’t bother getting involved. You would never be alone, their men would make sure you didn’t escape, and you would be Hongseok’s as long as he wanted. You really wouldn’t be able to leave him.

He shoved you into one of the rooms before he walked in behind you and closed the door. He took the tie out of your mouth and undid the belt only to tie you up properly to a desk chair -- at least it was more comfortable than the wooden one they usually tied people to. You must’ve been in Hongseok’s office.

“What the hell?!” you demanded as Hongseok draped his tie over his shoulders.

“You still love me,” he insisted, “just like I love you. And you’re going to stay here until you realize it.”

“I don’t care if you love me, this is insane!” you shouted.

But he ignored you, turning his back to you and heading for the door. “Yang Hongseok, get back here! Hongseok!”

He left the room, closing and locking the door with you still shouting his name.

[proofconcept]

      journey to the underworld    //    kinda plotted for @fvckingmagic

           I’LL    BE    COMING    FOR    YOUR    LOVE    ,    OKAY    ?

      mistakes had been made.    a lifetime thrown away & for what    ?    some deep - seated fear of being loved & abandoned    ,    thrown to the curb like garbage    ?    the mere thought used to terrify him    –    keeping everyone at an emotional distance for as long as he could.    that is until he spent centuries with him & built a family out of nothing.    a love built of peaches    &    plums    ,    disintegrating the moment they returned to the real world because being in love was simply too complex for his fucked up brain to maintain.    & then reality became fiction    ,    body dominated by a childish creature    ,    lured into the world to put an end to everything.

                SLOWLY    LEARNING    THAT    LIFE    IS    OKAY    .    .    .

      it wasn’t until the nameless had been defeated that the magician even realized what had happened    ;    waking in the infirmary to a solemn soulmate    ,    who informed him that he was gone.    had made the ultimate sacrifice    &    for what    ?    for the magician that had been too busy keeping himself intoxicated or sedated most of his life to realize when he’d found the one.    ha.    what a ridiculous thought    –    to be stuck with a singular person for the rest of his life.    so why had it been so goddamn appealing    ?

                     IT’S    NO    BETTER    TO    BE    SAFE    THAN    SORRY    .    .    .

      months passed.    the stages of grief along with them.    acceptance never came.    a delusion created by the friends around him    ,    encouraging him to slow down before he drowns himself in sorrow    (    &    the variety of drugs or alcoholic delight he indulged in that day    ).    would it matter if he did    ?    margo threatened to kick his ass if he left her.    he wouldn’t.    not now.    not when he’d done so much research on just how to get a loved one back.

      a trip to the underworld.    not the brightest of his plans    ,    but desperate times    &    all.    vices turned to benefit    –    a concoction of addiction aiding in the spell created    ,    something he’d found after getting drunk in the library.    who knew.    the mission seems simple enough : get quentin’s shade    &    return to the world of the living with him.    was he making another error    ?    was he at peace now    ?    heartbreak caused by the one that was willing to save him    –    no    ,    desperate to.

      sacrifice is made through blood    &    spirit.    in truth the alcoholic would do anything to save him from the grips of the other world.    ritual takes more out of him than he cares to admit    ;    waking to a strange elevator    ,    breath pulled out of him like a punch to the gut    ,    gasping for air to regain his composure.    that’s when he spots him    –    penny    ?    words fall from the ex - magician’s lips    ,    though the feeling of drowning muffles it all.    he’s been expecting him    ;    despite the fact that he shouldn’t be there.    eliot’s own lips part to argue though nothing comes out.    it doesn’t need to.    the other knows exactly what he’s trying to say.    he doesn’t plan on leaving.    not without the lover he lost.    in all his chillness the master of the underworld appears to understand    ,    doesn’t argue    –    &    instead allows for the man to tempt his fate.    one chance.

      before he’s invited into the darkness the leader explains : you can take him    ,    if he wants to go.    simple enough.    why wouldn’t he want to go    ?    fingers grasp at the emptiness    ,    desperate search lasting endlessly.    how long has he been walking    ?    the fear of running into anything dissipated after the first few hours.    the least the mind reader could have done was give him a fucking flashlight.    maybe this was all in his head    ,    maybe he was still stuck in the basement of the cottage    ,    having taken a little too much ecstasy for the average person.

      does magic even work here    ?    fingers move through the darkness    ,    bright halos surrounding wrists    &    arms in a beautiful dance as his voice breaks out in the silence.    light breaks through the darkness.    barely    –    like a guide bringing him where he needs to go.

      ❛    they say I'm going crazy    ,    they say i got a lot of water in my brain.    ❜    hands move carefully through the dark    ,    song reverberating through.    ❛    ah    ,    got no common sense    ,    i got nobody left to believe in.    ❜

      why are there tears welling in his eyes    ,    seeping down his cheeks as the sound in his throat turns to despair.    was this all a huge waste of time    ?    breath catches in his throat painfully    –    ❛    find me . . . somebody to love . . . find me . . . somebody to love . . .    ❜

[pinknerdpanda]

Help Me Understand

Word Count: 2k-ish Pairing: Dean x Lisa, Dean x Reader Warnings: Angst, cursing, mutual pining, cheating

A/N: Hey, ya’ll! Long time, no fic, amirite? Anyway - I’m back again, though you may wish I’d just stayed away. ;) This was written for @rockhoochie​’s Love Supernatural Style challenge. My prompt was “Maybe I’m Amazed” by Paul McCartney and Wings (x). Congrats on your milestone! This takes place around Season 6.

Beta’d by the always lovely and very talented @shy-violet-soul​. Thanks for the love and support, sweet cheeks! *hugs*

x

Help Me Understand

Another night, another hunt, another smug smile from the green eyed man seated across the room from me. It’s not aimed at me; not this time anyway. No, that smile - that toothy, eye-crinkling, “light up the room” smile - it’s for her. I scoff, bringing the bottle to my lips and taking a swig, desperate to look anywhere but at his arm, curled possessively around her shoulders, or his lips as he brushes them gently against her temple.

I wish I could make myself leave; walk away and have literally anything else to look at besides them. But if I do, it would raise questions I’m not ready or willing to answer. It’s easier to stay here, glued to this seat, pretending to celebrate the end of a long-ass hunt than face the fallout of my abrupt departure.

Her laugh is bright - throaty and full of joy - as Dean whispers in her ear, her fingers fisting in the front of his shirt and her head thrown back.  

I have no right to feel the stab of jealousy as it twists into my side, steals the air from my lungs, burns at the back of my eyes. As if that wasn’t enough, it’s quickly paired with a gut wrenching, nauseating pang of guilt. The feelings aren’t new - haven’t been for longer than I care to admit. But their intensity hasn’t lessened over time. 

I focus my attention on the flimsy, brightly colored coaster protecting the already blemished wood of the table from the condensation dripping down my beer bottle. 

I can feel it. I don’t know how, but I can and I know if I look up, I’ll find a pair of moss colored eyes focused on me, despite the girl tucked under his arm.

There was a time when the pull of his gaze felt too heavy to ignore, or maybe I was just unwilling to try. This pain, though - it’s hardened my resolve; the constant friction has calloused a part of me. These days, I’ve found I can refuse him the satisfaction of direct eye contact, though I can’t be sure how much is out of self-preservation and how much is full-on, unbridled bitterness.

I wish I could say it wasn’t always this way; that the years of working together had formed this indelible bond between us. But it was there from the moment we met. The memory of that day is so vivid in my mind, I can practically feel the sizzle of electricity between us as our hands touched the first time. I may not have known the exact road that lay ahead, but I could read the road signs enough to know that things could only end one way. 

Our interactions were largely professional at first. He’d call, asking for some help on a case - sometimes vice versa - both of us eager to help the other. We’d talk about the victims, the M.O., lore, but even then, the tension was there, bubbling under the surface but neither of us addressed it. In fact, there were a multitude of things left unsaid between Dean and I. 

One night, a few months back, I’d mentioned the possibility of getting out of this life; trying to find some semblance of normalcy. He’d nodded as he listened, the cold air of the evening enveloping us as we sat on the hood of his Impala. Despite the dark, I could make out the way his throat convulsed as the moon reflected the shine of unshed tears in his eyes. 

That was the closest we’ve gotten to addressing the elephant in the room. As the conversation drifted on to other things - Sam, the Campbells, her - he stopped, sucking in a breath and looking away from me.

“Life is weird,” he began, his breath hanging in the air. He licked his lips, eyes cast downward. “It’s like, ya know, you’ll never see yourself the way I see you. Your voice sounds completely different to me than it does to your own ears.”

Silence followed. 

What could I say? Maybe it was just a brief moment of introspection, but it felt heavy.

Something had shifted then. He started calling me late at night - sometimes short conversations about the mundane, sometimes lengthy discussions about what was going on with Sam. I think he felt lost; alone. Finding out Sam’s soul was gone broke part of him, and there was only so much he could talk about with Lisa. She wasn’t raised in this life. He needed someone who understood, but someone who could provide an objective opinion. I guess that someone was me. 

Lisa’s laugh carries across the room again. Glancing up, I watch as she stands, shaking her head and grabbing empty beer bottles in each hand. Just as she starts toward the bar, Dean’s hand shoots out, gripping her wrist and pulling her down for a quick kiss. She giggles when Dean slaps her ass playfully as she walks away. 

Before I can look away, his eyes lock on mine. As much as I want to ignore the tingle running down my spine at the pleading expression on his face, I can’t. And that’s what propels me to my feet, the chair creaking backward abruptly and me knee banging on the underside of the table. My nearly empty beer bottle wobbles precariously before tipping over completely, the remaining liquid splashing against my thigh. Gathering my coat and purse, I reach inside to grab a few crumpled bills and throw them on the table. I don’t look back as I make my way to the exit, but hearing the sound of shuffling behind me hastens my steps. I’m desperate to feel the kiss of winter air against my flushed skin.

“Y/n.” Dean’s voice is muffled as the front door swings back in place behind me. Maybe it hit him in the face. 

I rifle blindly through the contents of my purse, anxious to find my keys somewhere in the mess. Just as my fingers close on the metallic ring, a hand grips my arm, halting my steps.

“Y/n?” Dean sounds slightly breathless. 

Though I’ve stopped, I haven’t turned around and frankly, I don’t plan to. As though he realizes this, his grip tightens as he pulls me around to face him. 

Lines of worry and confusion furrow his brow and his lips are pressed together in a harsh line as he searches my face. 

He tries again, his voice low. “Y/n. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just getting late.” A carefully practiced smile curves my lips as I gently pull my arm from his hold. “I think I hear my bed calling my name. Goodnight Dean.”

“Y/n, wait. Please?” The pleading look I’d seen from him inside seems to have found a voice, the words thick on his tongue.

“What?” My response is more clipped than I mean for it to sound. Sighing, I try again. “What do you need, Dean.”

His mouth moves silently, stopping and starting as though he’s weighing his answer carefully. The muscle in his jaw flexes under his scruffed cheek.

“I’m sorry.”

The words are so soft, I wonder for a moment if I’d imagined them, but the look in his eyes shows me I didn’t.

“Sorry for what?” I try for oblivious, but it just sounds tired.

The dull roar of the bar behind him echoes around us, and Dean looks back to find two men stumbling out of the building toward the patio, probably to smoke. Wordlessly, he pulls me behind a large dumpster and out of view from anyone coming out of the bar. The pleading look I’d seen before is back, his eyes flicking across my face as he steps closer. 

My heart is beating violently inside my chest due to his proximity and his scent is overwhelming - beer and gunpowder mixed with something musky and clean. Then, it happens. It’s simultaneously the best and the worst thing that’s ever happened in my life.

His lips are soft against mine and a stark contrast to the bristles of his beard against my cheek. It’s slow - not demanding, or full of fiery passion. A sigh passes from my lungs to his as he tilts his head to one side. I know it’s wrong. I know this is exactly what was never supposed to happen, but it is. It is, and there’s no point holding back now.

I flick the tip of my tongue against the crease of his lips, and he moans, opening up to me as he pulls me closer - one hand in my hair and the other in a crushing grip against my hip. He tastes like beer and home, and my heart aches at how right it feels and at the same time, so wrong. 

The sob that bursts from my chest ends it and I pull back, dropping my gaze to the ground to hide the tears. Dean just pulls me against him, pressing my face against his chest and rubbing soothing circles against my back. He shudders, pressing his lips against my hair.

When I can finally catch my breath, I pull free and step back. He doesn’t try to stop me, just lets his hands drop to his sides, sighing.

“Why?” 

It’s one word; three letters to try to unravel everything between us. 

Dean pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and takes a deep, shuddering breath before speaking.

“I feel like these last few months, there’s been this thing,” he sighs, “between you and I. I don’t understand it. It’s like you’re the only person in the world who really sees me. Sometimes it feels incredible, and sometimes it’s so damn scary I can hardly breathe.”

When I don’t answer he scrubs a hand across his face, huffing out a breath.

“I’m so fucking stupid,” he mutters.

“What about Lisa?” Dropping my gaze to the ground, I cross my arms tightly, trying to hold myself together against the crack in my chest. I don’t know whether he’s hurt or angry, but I can’t look at him as he scoffs.

“I love her.” His voice catches. 

The crack in my chest deepens, and I curse myself as another sob breaks from my lungs.

“I can’t help it. I do.” Dean pauses, gripping my chin and forcing me to look at him. The sight of tears trailing down his cheeks catches my breath. “But I love you, too. And honestly, it terrifies the shit out of me. I know, it’s so goddamn selfish, but I can’t lose you.”

“Well, Dean. You can’t have it both ways,” my voice trembles, but I continue. “It’s not fair to me, and it’s sure as hell isn’t fair to her.”

“I know.” He releases my chin and rakes his hand through his hair, tugging violently on the short strands. “I know. I’m sorry.”

And there it is. The answer I always knew, but never wanted. It will never be me - at least not while she’s around; it can’t be. No good can come of me staying. I can’t be responsible for her heartbreak, no matter how shattered my own heart is and no matter how selfish I wish I could be. I straighten my shoulders and suck in a steadying breath.

“Goodbye, Dean.”

I don’t wait for a response before striding past him. The cacophony of the bar fills the night once again, and I know before I ever hear her voice.

“Dean? You out here?” It’s clear from her tone that she’s clueless, and I’m grateful for that, at least. 

I wrench the door of my truck open, tossing everything across the seat before climbing inside and shutting the door. It’s fitting, I realize as I look up to see Dean striding to meet her. The door is finally closed for good and, despite the ache in my chest, I feel relief wash over me. Some doors are just better closed.

-

Like what you see? Want more? My Masterlist is here. Thanks for reading! :)

-

My Forever Tags - Stay weird. I love y’all:

@wheresthekillswitch​ @pretty-fortune​ @arryn-nyxx​ @emlostinwonderland​ @becs-bunker​ @cookie-dough-lova​ @impandagrl​ @maddieburcham1​ @trexrambling​ @beachballsizeladyballs​ @hannahindie​ @rosie-winchester​ @winchesterprincessbride​ @that-writer-one​ @fandomismyspirit​ @angelsandwinchesters​ @cfordwrites​ @charliebradbury1104​ @mogaruke​ @luulaachops​ @supernaturaldean67​  @barbedwireandbubblegum​ @karlee-fay-my-wayward-son​ @muliermalefici​ @galaxy-jellyfish-queen​ @canadianjelly​ @kathaswings​ @feelmyroarrrr​ @captainradicalpassion​ @bethbabybaby​ @myfanficlibrarium​ @akshi8278​ @emoryhemsworth​ @boxywrites​ @atc74​ @anticipate1003​ @super100012​ @lovesj2m​ @masksandtruths​ @ellen-reincarnated1967​ @growningupgeek​ @there-must-be-a-lock​ @mrswhozeewhatsis​ @amanda-teaches​ @cassieraider​ @thing-you-do-with-that-thing​ @its-my-perky-nipples​ @squirrel-moose-winchester​ @sandlee44​ @paintrider13-blog​ @arses21434​ @petra-arkanian-1497​ @sasbb23​

[iwhumpyou]

Interrogation (Part 4)

Masterlist.  Mole.

Taglist: @smileevenwhenyoudontfeellikeit.

Part 3.

~#~#~#~#~#~

She made it all the way down the hall before a field agent materialized out of the shadows.  Becca skidded to a halt and ran the other way – another hallway, cut through the break room –

Agent Tamer loomed up, next to the coffeemaker, and she nearly gave herself a concussion diving out of his way.  She caught herself with broken fingers, stifled a scream, and backed away as he tracked her.

It never started with serious injuries.  First, they would chase her, looming out of the shadows to cut off escape routes.  Then came bruises and breaks, minor scuffles in case the prisoner tested their limits.  And then, when they couldn’t run any longer – then they were dragged back to the very cell they left, drowning in despair.

She burst into the stairwell – enclosed space, she needed to get out – and met eyes above her before practically hurling herself down the stairs.  She burst through the doors and went straight for the service corridor, suppressing a strangled cry as she tugged on the door with broken, bleeding fingers.

The service corridors were a maze with few cameras and no sensors.  Bursts of steam went off around her as she tried to keep her footsteps quiet. She gotten turned around at the stairs – there was a service door in the front entrance, right next to the elevators, but which direction –

A hand clamped around her mouth, another pinned her arms by her sides as she was unceremoniously dragged backwards and into darkness.  A door swung shut, trapping them inside.

She tried to scream, tried to struggle, tried to kick out – but she was pressed against a broad chest and the grip was like a metal vice.

“Quiet,” a voice snarled into her ear, and she went very still.

That…that couldn’t be who she thought it was.  It couldn’t.

“I’ll let you go if you promise not to scream,” the voice said.  Becca nodded her head as much as she was able to.

As soon as the hands let go, Becca whirled around and shoved at the chest.  The man stumbled back a step, knocking into what sounded like a shelf. “You’re supposed to be dead,” she hissed, terror and confusion transforming into fury, “I’m getting tortured into fucking confessing to your goddamn murder, you fucking asshole –” 

David grabbed her hands – and Becca couldn’t suppress her cry as his grip tightened on broken fingers – and slapped a hand over her mouth, slamming her back against the wall.

For a long moment, the only thing she could hear was their breathing.

And the footsteps echoing through the corridor, a low, annoyed set of mutters – “This place is a goddamn maze, why did they let her get down here?” – that passed their location and continued deeper into the set of passageways.

David waited until the echoes died before he stepped back.  “I said quiet,” he said as Becca curled her fingers to her chest and imagined punching him in his stupid face.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Becca snarled back.

“So sorry to disappoint, darling,” David laughed, but he couldn’t entirely conceal the tight, pained undertone to his words.

Either Leia and Damien had truly believed he was dead, or they were better actors than Becca thought. And if they did believe David had died, then the evidence had had to look convincing.

“What happened?” she asked, wary.

“We have a mole,” David said pleasantly.

Becca stiffened, “I didn’t –”

“If I thought you were the mole, I would’ve slit your throat before I dragged you in the closet.”

Becca swallowed.  On one hand, at least someone believed she was innocent.  On the other hand, David’s cheery tone was frightening, the same way clowns peering through your bedroom window at night were frightening. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked finally, “Why haven’t you just told everyone that you’re alive?”

“Because there’s a mole, Becca, do keep up.”

Becca laughed, high and unamused.  “So you what? Want me to run around the building until I get shot in the head?  Tortured some more?  All for the sake of a crime that I didn’t commit?”

David was silent for a long moment, but she was aware that he was between her and the door.

“Finding the mole is in both our best interests,” he said finally, serious for once, “I need a little more time while they think they’ve won.  Your little chase is taking up a lot of attention and manpower – give me that time.”

“You’re going to get me killed,” Becca said, hollow.

“You really have no faith in me at all, do you.”

“Have you ever done anything to earn my faith?” Becca narrowed her eyes at his general outline.

David sighed.  “Look, Becca, this person set you up, knowing full well what the Division does to traitors.  Don’t you want to catch them?”

Becca did.  Becca wanted to find whoever had done this to her and wrap fingers around their throat and squeeze and watch the light drain from their eyes.  Becca wanted to make them hurt, the same way she had when she looked into Leia’s eyes and saw nothing but hate. 

“One condition,” she said, her voice sounding like it was coming from far away.

“Shoot.”

“I get to watch their interrogation.”

“That I will give you happily, darling.”

“Good.  Find them.  Make them pay.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

~#~

Part 5.

[haloud]

into the palm of your hand ch. 2

- ao3 -

Jake is tall. That’s the first and only thing Michael notices about him. He has to unfold himself out of the chair to avoid banging his knees on the bottom of the table, and when he manages and pulls himself up to height he towers a good six inches over Alex and Michael both. He has a nice smile, too, if you’re into that sort of thing. And he’s beaming as the two of them approach, comes out to meet them with his hand already outstretched to shake, and Alex takes it, Jake pumping his arm up and down while he grins so big his face must be killing him. Michael hangs back to let the reunion happen, hands in his pockets, thumbs in his belt loops so he can tug at them with all the nervous twitching in his hands.

The restaurant is nice, but not too nice, not even by Roswell standards. Jake’s clearly made an attempt with his clothes, but his attempt is a business-casual button down with the top button undone and the sleeves rolled up to reveal his tanned forearms. His slacks are pressed and neat as a pin, but Michael won’t judge too harshly for that. His hair is still close-cropped like it was Halloween of 2009. He’s…yeah, he’s handsome, in a normal and kind way, an honest way that reminds Michael of the smell of the old hayloft in the summer and the feeling of straw on his back and warm hands exploring his body on a scratchy old blanket. Michael doesn’t trust easy, but if Jake’s calling up memories like that, he can let himself relax a little bit.

“Jake, this is Michael. My boyfriend.”

“Hey,” Michael says, taking Jake’s hand. His handshake is a little more subdued than the workout Alex got, but Jake is still firm and eager, and he hasn’t dropped that grin of his.

“Thanks for coming! I was a little worried when Alex said he’d like to bring you—thought I might be signing myself up for the third degree or something—but when I found out it was the same Michael I knew I had to meet you.”

“The same Michael?”

“Yeah.” Jake winks at him, and Michael’s eyebrows go up. “I’m happy for you guys.”

“Uh…thanks?”

“Should we sit?” Alex cuts in. The tips of his ears are bright red, and Michael’s eyebrows climb even further towards his hairline.

“It really is so good to see you,” Jake says as they take their chairs.

The second they’re seated, Alex grabs Michael’s knee in a vice grip, nails digging into the denim. His hand is a little sweaty, clammy when Michael covers it to try and settle him. Is Michael being here part of what’s making him so nervous?

“Gotta say, I was surprised to hear you re-upped this time,” Jake continues.

Alex clears his throat. “Yeah, well…you know how it is.”

“I do. And if nothing else, I’m glad it’s giving me an opportunity to work with you again.” Another ready smile follows right on the tail of the last one, even if this one is a little more subdued and sympathetic. “How do you feel about it, Michael?” He takes a sip of water, and his muddy hazel eyes are suddenly hawklike over the rim of the glass.

“Uh.” Alex’s hand digs into him harder, and Michael rubs the back of his hand with his thumb. Jake hasn’t even opened his menu yet; he watches and waits for his answer with that smile on his face and something dangerous in his eyes. “Uh,” Michael glances over at Alex, who is laser focused on his glass of water, face like stone. “Well, I mean, it’s what he—what we thought was best at the time, and since he was able to get it in his contract that he’d be staying put for a while, I was…fine.”

Oh, you know, I’m still working through the soul-crushing guilt that not only did Alex sell more of his life to the military to help me and mine but also I that I was too busy trying to drown myself in household chemicals to talk about it with him, but every relationship is a work in progress! Anyway, I’m an alien who’s wanted by the same government you serve for blowing up one of the black site prisons they use to experiment on my people and also for existing, how’s your mother in law doing?

“Fine, huh?”

“Jake,” Alex says.

“Okay, fine, I’m being a little intense. I’ve got family who don’t get why I stay,” he directs to Michael, then to Alex he says, “I got in a huge fight with Sarah over it, like, five hours before I got on the plane. Sorry for being weird.” He laughs and looks genuinely contrite.

Michael tries to relax, but Alex doesn’t lose any of the stiffness in his posture. He does at least stop squeezing Michael’s knee like he’s trying to rip his kneecap off, though, and Michael massages the back of his hand again.

“How is Sarah?” Alex asks, then to Michael he explains, “Jake’s sister.”

Jake shrugs, his massive hands coming up in an exaggerated ‘what can you do’ gesture. “She’s doing well. Divorced and remarried since the last time you saw her. Went back to school and got a teaching degree, and she’s real happy with the new guy, so. It’s just we still don’t see eye to eye on most things. But I’m happy for her.” He fishes his phone out of his pocket and holds it out to them, flicking through an album of pictures of what looks to be Sarah’s wedding day. From the pictures, Michael wouldn’t be surprised if she was even taller than Isobel, so it must run in the family. The last one in the album is of Jake on the dance floor with a guy in a matching vest, the two of them chest to chest and mouth to mouth, off in their own little world.

“That’s Rohit, my boyfriend. He couldn’t get away from work to come out here with me, but he’s visiting for the first time in about three weeks.”

Michael makes a sympathetic noise. “That sucks for you guys. Been together long?”

“Almost five years, right?” Alex says. “After you had your appendix out, wasn’t it?”

“Okay, the pictures are going away now,” Jake replies, his skin showing a blush way brighter than Alex’s does, “Didn’t realize I’d be roped into telling that story just for showing off my guy but okay I see how it is.”

Alex grins his sharp grin, finally looking up, and after one last brief squeeze his hand comes off Michael’s knee. “You should have been more prepared then, Lieutenant.”

“Let’s just say that the man I love is as patient as I am susceptible to the aftereffects of anesthesia and leave it at that, huh?”

Alex laughs, a true rocking-back-in-his-seat laugh, and it sets Michael fully at his ease, most comfortable letting Alex lead the emotional tone of the conversation. With the tension finally cut, Michael lets himself lean forward and rest his chin on his palm, watching Alex talk, letting the conversation flow over him without cutting in while Alex reconnects to his friend, talking more with his hands, laughing more easily. Jake seems kind of contagious that way, a smile and a laugh for everything—and he doesn’t try to freeze Michael out of the conversation, either, even though Michael is content to just sit there and not really listen and watch Alex talk and move. He’s gorgeous tonight, his shirt open a little at the neck, his long-fingered hand back on Michael’s knee, warm and caressing this time.

The conversation flows for a good couple hours. Michael is a convenient audience for them to share stories and relive them a little bit over again. Even when they’ve paid the bill and are getting up to leave, it’s with promises to do this again when Rohit is in town and Michael smiling to himself with a wry little smile because he’s the double dating kind now and goddamn if he isn’t happy about it.

Then, when they reach the parking lot, Jake stops.

“Hey, do you mind if I borrow him for a couple minutes before we head out?” Jake asks, inclining his chin toward Michael. Alex raises an eyebrow and glances between them, and Michael just shrugs his agreement.

With a bemused smile, Alex says, “Sure. I’ll be in the car.” He gives Michael’s shoulder a squeeze as he passes, and Michael looks around to watch him go, eyes on his back until he slips behind the driver’s side door.

Michael shoves his hands in his pockets for lack of anything else to do with them. If Jake wants to corner him to read him the riot act or tell him he’s not good enough for Alex or something he could have at least had the decency to do it somewhere Michael had something to lean against or sink into, to hold him up or have his back.

“You got the height advantage, but I’ll warn you—I’m scrappy,” Michael drawls.

“I’m…not going to hit you? What the hell, man.”

“Just like to be prepared. I got one of those faces.” Michael gives Jake a grin and a wink, but all Jake gives back is a concerned look starting to border on shrink-y, so Michael hurries on, “What’s up?”

“Okay. Okay.” He takes a huge breath like he’s psyching himself up for something. “There’s no socially acceptable way to say this, really, so I’m going to jump in.”

“I’ve never been socially acceptable a day in my life. Shoot.”

“Okay.” He takes another huge breath. “The first guy I loved was killed in a drive by when we were eighteen.”

Michael rocks back a bit at that, at the ice-cold awkward shock of someone else’s old grief. His eyes go huge and wide and he scrambles for something to say, something that’s different from the plain shit people spout.

Jake doesn’t wait for him to find it, though. “He was coming out of a club and a car jumped the curb and it was just…over. There was no real way to know if it was a hate crime or if the driver was just drunk. I was two hours away at school. We didn’t talk every day, so I didn’t even know for two weeks. His parents wouldn’t even let me go to the funeral, because I turned their son gay, and if he hadn’t been at a gay club then he’d still be alive.”

“Fuck, man.”

“I know. And I’m sorry to dump all that on you, but it’s important for what I need to tell you. It’s why I joined the Air Force in the first place—I was lost, depressed. I couldn’t keep going in school and I couldn’t stand the thought of going back to my hometown where everything would remind me of him, so I dropped out and joined up. And then I met Alex.”

Michael coughs to hide the catch of his breath. He can picture it so clearly—the way Alex looked with his hair shorn and his dark, dulled eyes set straight ahead, like the way he looked when Michael hid behind the neighbor’s car and risked getting hauled in for trespassing or—caught—so he could see Alex off that day he left to report for training.

“I was—I mean, I was a mess. Could barely keep it together. Kept getting everyone in trouble because of it, and he was so…when he cornered me one day, I honest to god thought he was going to kill me. But he helped me instead. Taught me how to keep my head down and survive, and I just…my story just came out. And after that, I didn’t know why until way later when he finally told me about what happened with his father before he enlisted, but we just kind of clung to each other.”

And again, Michael is relieved that Alex wasn’t as alone as Michael was, that even as tangled up and hurting and hollow as he must have been, he had someone to help him, someone to share that piece of himself with even when it was against the law. Michael owes this man, even if he wouldn’t accept it, even if Alex would deny it too. Michael’s in his debt.

“We dated for a little over a year before we broke up because we didn’t have a whole lot in common other than a little bit of shared trauma. If you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of chatty.” He winks. “And since I’d already spilled my tragic backstory, I wanted to talk about Jordan, like, all the time. Things I missed. Regrets I had. Fears. And Alex was a great listener…but not so great at reciprocity. He’d never let me in, never let me take any of his burdens on. Made me feel like a real dick. But there’s one thing he did let me do. Insisted, actually.”

“You don’t have to tell me this,” Michael says. He leans back as far as he can go without actually taking a step back, trying to give Jake space, trying not to look too interested. He’s hungry, yeah, for any scrap of information he can get about this part of Alex’s life. But if Alex wants him to know, he has to trust that Alex will tell him. It took a massive government conspiracy to get Michael to open up the first time. He can’t be overly critical of Alex’s struggle to do the same.

“I think I kind of do, actually.” Jake shoves his hands into his pockets and lets out a long breath, steaming the cold night air. “I don’t know if it’s for me or if it’s for Alex or what, but I think I should tell you this. You know…I look at him and I still see that nineteen year old kid. My escape. The only gay guy I knew, the only person who knew my grief. It’s not especially healthy. It’s a big part of the reason we’ve been avoiding each other for half a decade. But yeah, I think I need to do this for him more than anyone else.”

Well. What’s Michael supposed to do with that? At seventeen Alex had big, expressive eyes and he licked his lips as a nervous habit and Michael could have sat for hours in the too loud violent cafeteria watching him paint his nails from four tables away. He didn’t know Alex at nineteen, not really, but Jake did. And Michael wants to honor every version of Alex everywhere.

He sends a quick text: Jake caught me up talking about the good old days. You ok with that?

Alex types, then erases, then does so a couple more times before a reply finally comes through: I love you. Tell him I said thank you.

Michael slides his phone back into his pocket. “Okay. Hit me.”

“It’s just this.”

Jake holds out his phone, open to his contacts. And right there: Alex’s Michael.

Michael’s fingers tremble, just slightly, as he reaches out to take it, to hold it in his hands and marvel over it and what it could mean.

Jake shoves his hands back in his pockets. “I’ve had you in my phone for nine years. Don’t know if the number’s any good anymore, of course. But you were the one thing…he never wanted to talk about the past. He never wanted to talk about you. But before we deployed, he asked me…if anything happened to him, if I would talk to you. Tell you he was sorry. That he was always thinking of you. ‘Hear his voice for me one last time.’ That’s how he worded it. I’ve never been able to forget those words.”

Michael’s mouth is too numb to form any words at all. He’s all—cracked open, Alex has reached inside his chest and pried his ribs apart. Michael used to write Alex letters and burn them in his fire pit because smoke becomes air and particulates travel on the wind and there was as much chance of Alex breathing him in from a world away as there was him opening any letter Michael sent him. Then there are the letters he kept, the ones full of hope and pain and—Michael kept them, just in case, like he kept one of Alex’s too-small black hoodies, so that he’d have something to bury if the nightmare came to pass.

Alex’s Michael. It’s there like teardrops smearing the ink off his ten cent ballpoint pen. It’s there like a cotton sleeve held to his cheek on a sleepless night.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Jake says, slipping his phone out of Michael’s limp hand. The man has a smile for every occasion, and the one he’s wearing right now is sweet and sad. “I really am just so happy you guys found each other in the end. It was really nice to meet you, Michael. Thanks for helping me keep a promise, yeah?”

And with a jaunty two-fingered wave, Jake turns around and heads for his car, those long legs eating up space so quick that before Michael can process him leaving, he’s gone.

His phone buzzes: Just saw Jake’s car leaving. Everything ok?

Fine. Headsd yiour way, he responds. It takes him four tries to type the message even that legibly, his hands are shaking so bad.

He nearly jogs across the parking lot, fumbles with the handle before he can yank the door open and climb inside, climb over the gearshift still clumsy and needy to stuff his unsteady hands into Alex’s pockets.

“Hey,” Alex croons, cupping the back of his neck when Michael ducks in to rub his forehead against his shoulder, sawing out rough breaths in the space between them.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Alex says, holding him close. “Whatever he had to say, it’s in the past. I’m here. You’re here. We are.”

There was a time when Michael laid on his back and begged the sky to let him stop needing Alex Manes, and there was a time it broke him that the begging didn’t work. And now he’s here, with Alex’s voice present and physical in his ear, the whole biological process of speaking, from the vibration of his chest to the movement of his throat and lips and tongue to the way his breath blows past the outside of Michael’s ear, and he’s home. He’s not alone.

“Michael?” A little bit of fear creeps into Alex’s voice, so Michael pulls back to look at him, blinks away the wobbly film of tears in his eyes.

“I just. Love you. God, I love you,” Michael rasps. He’s never going to stop saying it, now that he’s allowed, and it’s never going to feel any different. Like ripping the Band-Aid off a cut that’s all healed and feeling fresh air on the skin beneath.

“I love you too,” Alex whispers back, a kiss pressed to Michael’s temple, his other hand coming up to grab his waist.

“Take me home,” Michael says, but he doesn’t let go, not to let Alex drive or for any other reason, not for several long minutes.

[welllpthisishappening]

I Would Sing You to Sleep

Hey, uh, remember when I was like “Immmma focus on original stuff and that’ll be that.” Good joke. @lillpon wrote this incredible meta recently and, like, you ever have a thought that just grips your brain and then you hear a My Chemical Romance song one morning and you type two-thousand words in 45 minutes?

Well, that’s what happened. If you’re not here for angst or just a metric ton of Millian feelings, this might not be for you. Happy Thursday, here’s some Underworld nonsense that ignores the timeline of things completely.

-----

They can’t move very quickly.

He’s covered in blood still, every inch of him stiff and awkward even as Emma supports most of his weight. It’s not doing much to help the overall state of her knees, but she’s already used her magic to teleport them out of Hades’…torture chamber, or whatever it was and she’s not sure if she should use more. Isn’t really even sure what to do, if she’s being honest with herself, far too many twisted emotions and fears that rattle around the spaces between her ribs.

So they walk. Slowly. Methodically. Every step is a challenge and Killian’s fingers aren’t all that tight where they curl around her shoulder.

“It’s not that much farther,” Emma promises. “We’re—do you think your lungs are alright? I don’t…I’m not really sure if I can fix that, but then—you’d…we’d know, right? If something was wrong?”

She’s rambling.

It’s stupid. But Emma isn’t sure what else to do and the silence stretches heavy over both of them, oppressive and far too warm, a heat that reminds her of that cave and the fire and she absolutely cannot cry.

Not right now.

Not yet.

She’s determined. She’s impossible. He loves her for it.

He loves her.

Still.

“What is this?” Killian breathes.

Emma has to remind herself that he’s actually just said words. It doesn’t really sound that way in the moment. Because his voice doesn’t sound right. It’s not even soft, really, just a slight scrape of syllables against the inside of his throat and passing through chapped lips. There’s no lilt to it, nothing positive, exhaustion hanging from every letter and Emma tightens her hold on the back of his jacket.

There’s a fucking hole in it.

And it’s a fair question.

It doesn’t look the same, not with the hazy color of the sky behind it or how the shutters are barely hanging on outside, more than a few loose bits of wood on the wraparound porch that Emma has found herself thinking about with a startling amount of regularity.

“It, uh—well, it’s a house,” she stammers. She hates that. “Our—“ Killian tenses slightly, and Emma bites down on her lip so sharply she tastes blood. “Can you lift your legs, do you think?”

He grunts in response, even slower movements because Emma doesn’t trust her balance all that much either and they both flinch when the door to a house with less creaky hinges at home flies open. Mary Margaret’s standing there, breathless and obviously worried, tear tracks on her cheeks and Emma can dimly hear a baby crying a few feet away.  

“Oh, Killian,” she whispers, rushing forward and Emma tries to shake her head discreetly. It doesn’t really work. She’s going to blame her knees. “Look at you. Are you alright?”

And that’s an entirely unfair question with an almost too obvious answer, but Killian makes another nose low in the back of his throat.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Emma, couldn’t you—“ Mary Margaret continues.

For a moment she briefly considers yelling at her mother. But that’s just pent up frustration and her own lingering guilt and Emma has a list of people to apologize to, least of all the man still hanging off her side and there are more footsteps.

She shouldn’t have brought them here.

Not with an audience and goddamn swords everywhere. She can see Robin’s quiver of arrows in the hallway.

The house feels wrong.

“Can you just help us get inside?” Emma asks, tempering her own emotions and the small flickers of magic that lick at the base of her spine. “Please?”

Mary Margaret blinks. Her eyes jump, scanning Killian’s face and the bruises there, an eye that’s still swollen shut, but then she’s nodding and moving and Regina might mutter holy shit under her breath when she sees them.

“Emma, why didn’t you—“

She grits her teeth — something vaguely threatening, or so Emma can only hope, but then they’re a mess of shifted weight and unsteady steps and David is pacing in a living room that doesn’t look entirely familiar either.

Killian freezes.

Emma nearly pulls him to the floor with her.

That’s not ideal.

“Hook,” David exclaims, and Emma can just make out Regina’s less-than-subtle hand movements. He does not get the hint. “Where have you—we’ve been waiting and it’s…Emma, are you alright?”

She sighs. And not because it’s almost nice that her father has asked her that, but that also feels exceptionally selfish and Emma wants to get rid of the blood. She wants to do something.

She wants—

“Killian?”

He tilts his head. That’s it. No response, no words that don’t sound like words, just a slight shift and blood-caked hair that still manages to fall artfully towards his eyes and Emma holds her breath.

Milah has taken her jacket off.

And Emma isn’t sure why that feels important — as if she’s shed the costume she’s been forced into for the hundreds of years she’s been stuck in this actual hell hole, but something about it sparks in the back of her brain and her eyes dart towards Killian.

He swallows.

She can see the muscles in his throat move, the way his teeth obviously clench and how tight his jaw goes. His fingers grip her shoulder like a vice. Like he’s making sure she’s still there.

Like he’s making sure he’s still there.

Milah nods.

“Real,” she promises softly, steps that aren’t cautious or desperate. They’re balanced, like falling back into a memory and a moment and feeling, air that’s suddenly a little easier to breathe.

He exhales.

And Emma isn’t entirely sure what happens after that. Because it all seems to happen suddenly and impossibly slow, Milah’s steps crowding into Killian’s space, a hand on his cheek and his nose brushing the inside of her palm and she doesn’t flinch at the blood, Emma didn’t really expect her too and—“Are you alright?” she whispers.

Maybe it is a dream.

Emma blinks several times to make sure. She looks at her mother, glances towards her father, tries to focus on the crying baby she could probably time most of her breathing to at this point, but that would also require her to be breathing evenly and Killian shakes his head.

She didn’t expect that.

He’d told her he was fine. And she knew it was a lie — could hear the forced bravado even as he screwed his eyes shut and held onto her when the first few bits of smoke curled around their ankles, but this something else altogether.

This is—

“How long have you been here?”

“I don’t know, I—there wasn’t any light and I—“ Milah hums when Killian can’t finish the sentence, pushing up on her toes to brush the hair away from his eyes and something clenches in Emma’s chest when his eyes flutter shut.

It’s not jealousy.

It’s not. It’s something deeper, another brand of want and maybe even a few flickers of hope, trying to memorize exactly how easily his shoulders move when he takes another deep breath.

“You’re here now though,” Milah continues, “not quite sunlight out there, but sometimes if we’re lucky—“

“—You can smell the salt of the sea if the wind turns.”

“Ah, there it.”

Milah smiles, leans back as soon as Killian’s arm circles her waist and Emma is loathe to realize he’s kept his left arm trained at his side. She bites her lip again.

And part of her knows she should leave. Retreat back to the hallway and the arrows and the crying baby, but her legs feel like cement and David’s fingers have found hers, lacing them together with a soft squeeze.

So Emma doesn’t move.

She watches and listens and—

“I wanted to get out,” Killian mumbles, and those words are different. They’re not scratched out, they’re rushed over, as if he’s simply been waiting to admit to them and Milah’s smile turns understanding. Emma tightens her fingers. David doesn’t let go.

“Wanted to leave…would have done anything, but I didn’t deserve, Gods, what I’ve done, it’s—I…it was—it hurt, everything hurt and he was there and then he’d leave, but I could still hear—“

“—I know, darling—“

“—Couldn’t sleep, even when it went dark…it was always dark and—“ He takes another deep breath, eyes gone glossy and Emma should have moved. “Gods I’ve missed you.”

Milah drops back to her heels. Presumably because Killian’s knees also give up at that precise moment.

They drop down — no twisted limbs, but a few grunts of pain because his legs are cut too and there’s a rather large bruise obvious under a rip in his jeans — but Milah’s face doesn’t show anything except a quiet determination and her fingers move into Killian’s hair like there are magnets involved.

Emma isn’t sure there are magnets in the Enchanted Forest.

It’s a ridiculous thought.

Particularly when she hears the first hitch in Killian’s breath.

And the tremor that runs through him isn’t like anything she’s ever seen — no sign of Captain Hook or any hint of Darkness, not even the Killian Jones she’s come to love with every single fiber of her being, not really.

There’s nothing even remotely familiar, which is frustratingly cyclical considering the house they’re in and the place they’re stuck and Emma’s mind surprises her once more because the only thing she can think as soon as she realizes that Killian is crying is that he looks so much younger.

No jacket. No metaphorical weight. No armor.

There are no adjectives or precursors, no monikers, colorful or otherwise.

The color in his cheeks is blotchy, uneven dots of pink, Milah’s voice barely audible over the sound of his sobs and Emma can’t remember the last time she took a deep breath. Her lungs burn with the lack of it, but she doesn’t dare do anything except stand there and watch.

Her eyes trace over him, watch Milah’s fingertips ghost across his temples and the side of his jaw, dragging up the ridge of his spine and the bend of his neck, his nose burrowing into the curve of her shoulder.

Killian Jones cries.

And cries.

He mourns and mutters words into Milah’s t-shirt. Lets her push his own jacket off his arms, the leather dropping behind him with a soft thump and it takes a moment to tug the left sleeve over his hook, a terror that etches itself on his face as soon as he realizes.

“Don’t be silly,” she murmurs. And, well, that’s that.

Killian hums, head dropping back down and the whole thing starts again. Emma doesn’t blink. She watches, waits until the crinkles around his eyes disappear and the tension between his shoulder blades evaporates and—“It was so dark,” he whispers, more than once.

She’s going to need stitches in her lip.

She’ll ask Regina about a spell for that later.

“That’s over now,” Milah says, and it sounds like a guarantee. Emma hopes she can follow through.

Although she is ridiculously stubborn. Impossible, even.

Her fingers reach up to curl around the ring hanging over the front of her shirt.

And there’s more, all in rather quick succession — a glow and a voice that makes Emma’s heart jump, but she doesn’t actually cry and Milah’s smile as soon as she sees her son is enough to inspire just a bit more hope. She turns towards Killian before she leaves, another look that’s as heavy as it is light and he leans into her hand as soon as it cups his cheek.

“I love you,” she says.

He kisses the inside of her wrist, tucks a strand of hair behind her cheek. “And I love you.”

She presses up again, a quick brush of lips and then she’s gone and Killian glances over his shoulder at Emma. Neither one of them say anything, but they don’t really have to — not after all if it, life and death and quasi-life, but his eyes flash down to the ring she keeps toying with.

One side of his mouth quirks up.

“C’mere,” she says, nodding towards the couch they’ve both been ignoring. “Let me help with some of those cuts.”

[tastefullynefarious]

Torment never looked so goddamn fine

Chapter 3 / 10 - Kansas - Carry On Wayward Son 

Words:  3,387

Warnings: Stuff!, you can kinda see what to expect from the moodboard lol, SMUT!, emotions i think?, probably typos.

I was going for something, not sure how well it translated from my head but hope ya’ll enjoy! 

°˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°

Masquerading as a man with a reason

My charade is the event of the season

And if I claim to be a wise man, it surely means that I don't know

On a stormy sea of moving emotion

Tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean

I set a course for winds of fortune, but I hear the voices say

Carry on my wayward son

For there'll be peace when you are done

Lay your weary head to rest

Don't you cry no more

Billy had no idea if she'd still be there, but he didn't know where else to go, didn't have where else to go. In hindsight, it hadn't been his initial choice. He tried the quarry first but it was buzzing with horny teens basking in the late afternoon sun. He even went to stumble into the forest hoping for some alone and quiet, but he almost bumped into the chief of police, a trail a yellow flags in his wake. Billy didn't know if he had the energy to explain his bloody face nor to find out what was the cop doing. So he just hopped back into his car and drove aimlessly for a while, warm blood seeping from above his right eye. Passing by Motel 6 had been nothing more than pure coincidence. Sandy had been a good fuck, a great one even, but she was not his friend and definitely not his savior.

Despite his little rant, as soon as he saw the sign he turned the steering wheel and entered the parking lot almost mechanically. He passed the rooms on the ground floor, 01 to 10, in a daze. Would she still be there? Would she even open the door if she was? He went up the metal stairs and counted the doors, 11, 12 and finally 13, the world slightly spinning, or maybe it was just his pounding head wound. She was still a stranger despite their little midnight encounter a few days prior, she owed him nothing. If she was behind that door, she would send him away. He was not her problem, not her responsibility. Not a charity case.

The door flung open before he beat down this pride enough to knock.

"Well shit. Come on in." It was all she said as she stepped aside and he didn't question her sanity for letting him follow. Even in his state, blinking briskly to keep the blood out of his eye, it was hard not to notice she was only wearing an almost sheer bathrobe, her lean legs in full view.

She guided him to sit on the edge of the bed, gathering the notes and pages scattered on the mattress with some urgency before coming back with a first aid kit and began checking on his bleeding temple. Her cool fingers were already doing wonders for his headache. He relaxed into her touch, hands moving his head to find better angles with a steadiness and dexterity that only came from experience. His eyes never left her, the question of what was her story resurfacing like an undertone in the storm of thoughts that was raging in his mind.

"It's not that bad, head cuts just tend to bleed a lot." It was strange, the way all his wounds seemed to hurt less when she was the one treating them, her hands not particularly light as she whipped the blood away. And stranger still that she seemed to be able to find all the sore spots that weren't even visible, pressing her fingers to his side to see if his ribs were cracked. She even poked at his knee, an old surfing accident that didn't usually bother him, but a weak spot that his father sometimes exploited, knowingly or not. "Nothing's broken, but you should really watch yourself for a while. Stay off that leg as much as possible."

"Doesn't hurt much..." It was more of an afterthought. He knew the pain of broken bones well and that was not it. But she gave him a half smile, her eyes averting from his fast. His hands balled into fists at his side, anger running hot beneath his skin. He hated it, the pity, the walking on eggshells around him like he was one step away from breaking. He loathed himself even more because it was very close to the truth. But Sandy didn't seem to notice his fury, or chose to ignore it completely, picking up his left hand instead. Her brows furrowed as she examined the fast forming bruises on his knuckles, his fingers loosening at the unexpected touch.

"You should take a shower first. Then I'll bandage this up." He opened his mouth, but she was faster. "No complains, Billy! Get in that shower."

"You just want me naked." She faked an overly dramatic gasp, hand brought to her gaping mouth and wide doe-like eyes, but she was already moving backwards towards the door Billy assumed was the bathroom.

"Even if you discovered my wicked plan to get in your pants, you're not getting out of this, mister." There was a deafening silence left behind her as she disappeared from view and it rubbed Billy wrong. He shouldn't have come! Why did he? His usual routine would have been to seek an abandoned place where he could lick his wounds in solitude. So what brought him to this stranger's room? Sure, a part of him had been certain that he would only find an empty space, no traced left behind the mystery Florida girl named Sandy. But she had been still in town, still at the cheap motel, so what was he still doing there, sitting on her bed, waiting for her to dress his wounds for him? The damage was not even that bad this time around, the pain having mostly subsided already. He was left… numb, an endless black void inside of him screaming to be filled with something, anything, else.

Billy got up from the bed faster than he intended to, stumbling on the short distance to the bathroom. She was slightly bent over to reach the faucets, adjusting the water temperature. "Fucking finally. Get it."

Sandy sauntered towards the spot just past the doorway where he seemed to have caught roots. His eyes were dark, face set in all hard lines and jaw clenching. Paired with all the bruises and overall scuffed up appearance, he looked dangerous, the bad boy mothers warned their daughters about, the hungry wolf stalking the pen. The corners of her lips curled in a playful smirk, hands already tugging at his shirt. She pulled it over his head, her powers alerting her of the strain in his shoulders so she turned his dial lower. It was a risk, too much and he would start noticing something was off. Billy had other things on his mind though. One swift pull on the cord that held together the thin robe covering her and it was pooling at her feet, only a pair of lacy panties underneath. The snarl that came out of his sinful mouth was all kinds of cruel, his shoulders straightening as he inched even closer into her personal space.

"Were you already expecting company, doll?" She batted her eyelashes, eyes all big and feigning innocence.

"I was hoping you'd come around-" It seemed to be the correct answer, his mouth on hers barely letting her finish the last word. He pushed her backwards towards the shower and she made fast work of his jeans and boxers. In turn, he ripped the fragile lace than hung on her left hip letting the panties slide down her other leg just as they reached the shower.

The water was steaming, leaving their skin red and raw. Sandy turned their pain down another notch, breaking the kiss to wipe the blood from her nose, but masking it by quickly starting to nip and kiss down his throat. He let his head fall backwards as she went lower and lower, nails digging in his sides. A small groan escaped his lips and she thought he was enjoying it, but was surprised when he pulled her up and pushed her against the tiles rather forcefully, both her wrists caught in a vice like grip above her head.

On any other given day Billy would have more than welcomed her to wrap those lips around his cock, but he was desperate for something else. He lifted one of her legs, a jolt passing through his wrecked arm, but he ignored it, the pain already fading under the boiling water. He was inside her in one swift motion, her back a perfect arch and head pushed back against the hard wall. They settled in a frenzied rhythm, bodies slamming into one another with a ferocity that could almost be mistaken for passion. She moaned loudly and his eyes were drawn to her face, eyes half closed and lips parted. And blood flowing from her nose, still evident even under the heavy stream. She must have caught on his worried expression, his pace slowing down.

"Shit! Don't you dare stop now, Billy!" She rolled her hips with force and he followed suit, his thrusts becoming long and deep rather than fast. He let go of her wrists and wiped the blood off, her arms snaking around his neck instantly. She kissed him as soon as his thumb brushed away from her face, biting his lower lip and sucking on his tongue, teeth clashing as they rushed towards their releases. His now freed hand found her waist and pulled her even closer, fingers imprinting five dotted bruises on her skin. He wrapped her leg around, freeing his hand to tease her clit and she let out something between a moan and a scream as they both came, seconds apart. She rolled her head forward, resting it gently against his. The gesture was far from new yet somehow still foreign and he took a sharp inhale, the steam filling the minuscule motel bathroom making it particularly difficult. He checked her face for any signs of distress, but her eyes were closed and there was no more blood.

"You okay?"

"Better than." She lifted her eyes to meet his, but started coughing almost immediately. "But we should really get out of here before our skin melts off or we suffocate."

She untangled herself from him and turned off the water, the absence of both her body and the hot pour making him shiver despite the temperature still high in the small fogged up space. He followed her into the room, his eyes settling on her back. In better lighting he could finally see the long gashes marring her skin and they looked like anything but accidents. His hand shot up to trace one, but a baggy shirt was covering her before he could. She picked up the first aid again and sat on the edge of the bed, one leg underneath her. The burn-mark on her leg ran all the way from her the middle of her upper thigh to her waist line where he'd felt it.

"Sit." She patted the spot besides her, the tone of her voice sparking a little defiance in him. No one told him what to do! But he sat down nevertheless, towel wrapped around his waist. She was only helping him after all. She'd done nothing but help, taking his mind off of his father, off the aches in his beaten up body. He stared at her concentrated expression as she applied some cream on his shoulder, delicate fingers massaging it into his skin. When she moved to bandage his hand, he snapped at her a little, eyes averting from her when he thought she hadn't deserved it.

"Are you not even going to ask?!"

"Are you going to be honest if I do?"

"I don't know. Probably not."

"Well, that is refreshingly sincere." She continued her little ministrations unaffected by the exchange, while Billy was having a small breakdown on the inside, thoughts forming in his head only halfway through before another idea took their place, all mixed with images of his mother donning identical bandages and bruises to his own. Sandy's voice silenced the madness, cutting through it like a beam of light in the dead of night. "It's not hard to guess though. You already established your father is an ass, I just didn't realize how much of one."

Sandy let her hand fall on his chest and trail all the way down to where she knew the ribs were injured. She read his cuts and bruises like braille, each ache on his body mapped in her head and telling a story. Her powers allowed her to see the big picture better, distinguish between what was new and old. Her voice came out a little shaky as her eyes finally shot back to find his blues. "It happens often, too."

"It was my fault."

"I sincerely hope you don't mean that." When he gave no response, she caught his face between both her hands, thumbs pushing away some of the wet strands of hair. "There is nothing you could have done to deserve this from your dad. Any of it." He would have looked almost cute, a lost little puppy, if his eyes weren't so tired and sad. She could see in them that he didn't believe a single word she had uttered.

Billy stared back at the young woman, a range of emotions washing through him. It started with a seeping anger: who did this girl think she was? She knew nothing about him. It went on to a polar opposite calm curiosity: what had she been through? She looked like she'd seen some shit. It did a back-flip to annoyance: she was acting all high and mighty, but she was running away from her problems just as much as he was, she admitted it that night at the quarry.

Finally, Billy decided he wasn't up to reliving the 'fight' with his father, the memory still just a few hours old. There was no need for her to know how he disrespected Susan, reminding her that she'd never compare to his mom, and the unfortunate matter of Neil hearing him say it. In truth, he had no quarrel with Susan. She was the one who convinced his father to eventually let him buy the Camaro and not just take his hard earned money, arguing it would be useful to have another car. He just- he couldn't think clearly when she was trying so hard to replace her. There was also nothing heroic or dignifying about his torn knuckles, the wall he'd punched repeatedly in frustration the clear winner of the altercation.

Sandy's hands finally slipped away from his cheeks, accepting that he was not going to open up, and rested on her lap. He found his eyes drawn again to that little scar in the corner of her upper lip.

"What about you? Done anything to deserve that?" He gestured to his own lip, resisting the instinct to feel it with thumb. He was expecting some kind of sob story, but her face lit up with laughter.

"Never run around with scissors, that shit is real." He lifted an eyebrow, her words making close to no sense. Had she injured herself? Was she that big of a klutz? She just shrugged in turn. "What can I say, I was a bit of a mess a few years back. A walking danger zone." He wanted to ask more about that particular time of her life, but she shook her head dismissively before he ever got the chance. So he moved on to the next scar.

"And that?" He traced his fingers this time along a long gash peeking out of her short sleeve. It wasn't too obvious, barely a faint line a few shades lighter than her skin.

"Hmmm, got it in a bar fight."

"Bar fight?"

"Yeah. Believe it or not, some men are offended by my personality." There was an implied 'unlike you' at the end of her sentence, her eyes burning into his. Or so he liked to believe. "You should have seen the other guy though." The corners of his lips curled into a proud smirk. He could almost picture her, spunky and wild, breaking a bottle over some douchebag's head, taking no shit from anybody. He reached for her thigh, brushing his fingertips from the normal, soft skin to the rougher, scorched patch. It was almost three of his hands spawns wide, red and angry. He couldn't even begin to imagine how it would feel, the flesh sizzling and shriveling up.

"Must have hurt like a bitch." She shrugged again and he couldn't quite make it if it was bravado or she genuinely was over it.

"I don't really remember. Feels like it was a lifetime ago." She touched the mark herself, her eyes following his to it but not really looking. Her fingers brushed against his and he caught her hand without thinking. Which brought him in an odd stance, caught between wanting to pull her in and realizing he should push her away. The latter won by a landslide.

"I should go." It was getting late and there was no more reason to stay, she had served her purpose. He'd already spent more time with the chick than he usually did after a round of sex and he didn't want her to get any ideas. He went straight to the bathroom to gather his clothes, still damp from the steam and water they splashed around. It mattered little, the need to bolt out the door rising by the second.

Sandy didn't know what she'd done to offend him so, but it was not like she had been expecting him to stay over. From her experience with people in general, limited as it was, she thought she had a pretty clear picture of Billy's type. It was, in retrospect, not so different from her own. They both had walls put up, thick and high and mighty impenetrable. She was proud to be getting better at opening up and accepting her past as a lesson learned, but she had the advantage of breaking free of her torment. Billy stilled seemed to live it on a daily basis.

She was rummaging through some leftover pizza boxes when he came out of the bathroom looking confident and stone cold, ever the charming devil, but he wasn't fooling her. He went straight to the door to get his leather boots and Sandy took the opportunity to feel his sore points again, making sure she could keep the pain levels lower for him even from a distance. It was going to be a bit of a struggle to keep that up long term, but it was something she could at least try. When he nodded at her and opened the door, she crossed her arms.

"Billy!" He turned towards her, one foot already out the door, eyes wild with an emotion she couldn't quite place. She worded her next sentence carefully, not wanting to sound neither needy nor indifferent. "My offer still stands, you know? Come over anytime."

"Already miss me, doll?"

"You read me like an open book. Can I hide nothing from you?" She couldn't resist rolling her eyes. He was such a duffus. A drop dead gorgeous one, completed with the emotional fucked up baggage. He chuckled at her deadpan expression, the sound pure and honest. She'd succeed in not scaring him off. Probably.

"See you around, Sandy."

"See ya, Billy."

She watched him go from the doorway, followed him while he crossed the parking lot and started his car, her eyes narrowing when he drove off into the setting sun. He was still on the back of her mind when she was arranging the files on the lab and ever present in her thoughts as she brushed her teeth before bed. She was convinced she had Billy all figured out, but he was not the problem. She wasn't sure what her next move was with the whole Upside Down situation, or where to start looking for El and the other MKUltra kids. She didn't even know for how long she'd be in Hawkins. Only one thing was beginning to be certain though, the idea forming and cementing itself deep into her brain.

She had to pay Neil a visit before she skipped town.

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

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[occult-castiel]

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Suptober. Day 13: Rewind Dean has a few things to say to Cas. Word count: 2542 [Read on Ao3]

3 Weeks.

Dean's been stealing glances at his phone for over an hour. The dim light of the hall that creeps from under his door is the only reason he can see the thing, blurred out to a barely-there grey hunk of plastic.

The idea is fucking stupid. He doesn't care what Sam thinks. Sam wasn't even supposed to know. Let alone have fucking opinions.

But Dean slipped.

And it took more effort than he will ever admit to walk out of the kitchen without clocking his brother in the goddamn jaw.

Fuck Sam and fuck the phone.

He turns around, away from the stupidest temptation of his life, and demands sleep come.

It's only mildly successful.

2 Month, 1 Week.

Nothing bad can happen from a phone call. Doing it once can’t hurt you any more than you are now

Sam's a well-meaning kid. He really is. But sometimes he just needs to can it.

'Cause he had to go and say some shit like that, completely unprompted — they were talking about potential witch activity in Utah, not Dean's feelings, for Christ's sake — and now it's all Dean can think about now that the distractions of the day have bled into a dark room and cold bed.

And that gray hunk of plastic on his desk is laughing at him. He could reach it if he sat up. Stretched a bit.

But the idea is dumb. And Sam doesn't get it. He really fucking doesn’t.

Except Dean knows he's kind of full of crap.

He grits his teeth, shoves the covers to the side, and grabs his phone.

With each passing buzz, his heart stutters, breath cut into shorter and shorter spurts.

Stupidstupidstupid.

It- it isn't like he's gunna answer. Dean knows he not, but it just rings and rings and —

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."

And it hurts.

He calls again every night for the next week. Of course, he never picks up. Sam doesn't ask.

4 Months.

Dean kicks the door after it slams shut. Throws his gun at his headboard, if it goes off and shoots him, oh fucking well. It's great. Just fantastic.

He pulls his phone out without thinking. Clicks Cas.

It rings, and for a moment his shoulders relax as the familiar greeting plays. Cause its Cas' voice. And fuck. Just… fuck.

Then it beeps, and he actually does the one thing he's wanted for months.

"None of your douchebag family will answer me. And I've tried friggin' everything, I swear to Christ."

He runs his hand over his face, glances up at the sour-yellow ceiling.

"How you ever stood them is beyond me dude."

And then, like a rational human being. He hangs up and pretends that whatever that was didn't happen.

Once the bitter taste of angels that don’t pick the fucking phone up from earlier that day fades, Dean stares at the darkened ceiling.

He left a voicemail. A fucking voicemail.

Pathetic.

4 Months, 3 Weeks.

So he hasn't called again since his, uh, slip up. And Sam keeps giving him these little looks. And he knows that Sam knows, and knows he isn't calling because he's a changed man or whatever.

Maybe Sam would drop it, whatever the hell he thinks Dean's mess is, if he could manage to eat.

Jody, Claire, Kaia, and Alex are all around the table with them. Jody's the charmer she always is, talking about how she's grateful for the help and oh, of course you guys are gunna stay for dinner! Ah-ah! No buts.  

There was a hunt in town she tracked down with Claire, a huge vamps nest — we're talking dozens — and called them over for help. And is now feeding them. Because she's a saint and never deserved to be in the know in the first place.

Dean looks at the food. Pork lathered in dark brown graveyard with a mountain of buttery mashed potatoes. There's a pile of carrots on Sam's plate. Dean opted out.

Not that he's eating now. No, mostly just pushing it all around. He does eat in general.

But Claire isn't looking at him. Hasn't. She barely managed a glance up when he saved her — just a small nod and weary glance.

Sam, on the other hand, may as well be ogling.

Dean wishes he could read Sam's mind, find out where he's keeping it so Dean can wallow in misery without his brother being keen on some of the finer details, thank you very much.

He manages a few bites. Its excellent, mouth-watering, home-cooked goodness he's missed fiercely since he got a taste for it the few days Mrs. Butters was around.

But right now? Turns his stomach.

On the way back home, Sam clears his throat. Dean grips the wheel a little tighter.

"So —"

"I didn't ask for your opinion, Samantha."

In the corner of his eye, Sam's shoulder slump. His brother looks down and sighs out a sad little noise.

But the rest of the drive is quiet. And that's a win in Dean's book.

*

It's roughly midnight, and books are scattered across the library table. They're all open to different pages, but none of it matters. Not really.

Dean's combing through it all anyway. Has been since Heavens decided they have a no-call policy with anyone named Winchester.

The piles he has laid around him have grown increasingly larger as the weeks have drug on. Spiked exponentially when he decided not to call anymore.

"Hey Dean."

Dean snaps his head up mid-sentence. Sam stands in the threshold, holding a plate. In pajamas.

Dean just looks at him. "What?"

"Made you food." He lifts the plate up a fraction

"That looks like a cold cut, so made is a generous word."

Sam has the audacity to slump into himself, full-on wounded-puppy mode. So Dean rolls his eyes and waves him over.

The plate gets sat down with a distinct clank, and Sam pats his shoulder.

"You know I just… want what's best for you."

Dean tenses his shoulders, closes the book in front of him. He speaks through his teeth.

"Yeah, well I never had it in the first place. And now it is gone, and there's nothing I can do."

"You don't know that Dean."

He glues his eyes to the back of the book. Balls his fists.

"Don't I? That — That fucking thing just —"

"I know. But it's also gone. We don't know what happened."

Dean chooses then to look over, fix his brother with a proper glare so he'll go the hell away — but sees it.

Sitting innocuously on the plate, like it isn't an affront to everything Dean would rather not, is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Sam's talking but he can't hear it. His brains turned to mush, a radio-static circus of nothing.

The bottom of his chair screeches as it drags against the floor.

And Dean can’t see.

Sam grabs his arm, he shakes it off. He moves decisively, tries too, but his eyes prickle and he can’t see shit, and he isn’t about to cry right there in front of his brother, validate every stupid thought the guy has that’s probably one-hundred percent right.

His door clicks shut, and he pressed himself against it. Slides down until he hits the icy floor.

Dean's throat is a constricted cage, each breath in has to be muscled in, down, out. Each wobble as much as the last.

Sam doesn't know shit. He doesn’t know what he's talking about. He really doesn't.

Calling someone who can’t answer, won’t ever answer, is fucking stupid. It's not therapeutic.

When he rubs a hand over his face. It comes back wet, and his eyes sting.

"Fuck."

He fishes for his phone. Going to Cas' number is muscle memory at this point.

It rings. Cause Sam can't help but keep the thing charged.

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."

The ball in his chest is impossibly tight. Why hasn't he called? Just to hear him again, the gruff tenor that's like gravel and silk and the only thing he ever wants to hear, ever. And now he only has nine words he'll ever hear him say again.

That's it. Two sentences.

You saved the whole world. He didn’t save shit.

And what the fuck is he supposed to do now? How is he supposed to do anything? He’s never been any good, not as good as he needs to be. Maybe if he would’ve been — or did somethin’ different, anything different —

Dean threads his fingers in his hair and balls his fist. Squeezes his eyes shut against the pool of tears that just leak out, and curls in on himself. His guts are twisted and tight, just like the rest of him. Every part of him shakes, the hand vice-gripping his hair should hurt, should be enough to pull him back to sanity, but the tears don’t stop.

And really what does it matter if he cries. Chucks gone, and The Empty, that — that thing got what was coming to it.

But Cas didn't come back.

He lulls his head against the door, untangles the hand from his hair like his fingers piston operated they ache so bad

God, Cas should’ve just left him in Hell.

Maybe he's Heaven, Billy had said with a shrug. Casual. Like she didn't understand. And Dean knows she does. She gets it more than any of them, saw just what this shit did the last time. Saw exactly how much he didn't want to be around.

Jack had to fuck off to put the universe in balance, so he’s MIA and no help. And Heaven doesn't seem to give a shit.

There must've been a beep somewhere, so Dean just goes with it. Presses the phone to his ear again and works his jaw open until it’s loose enough to allow something resembling words can happen.

"It's — it's bullshit." God Dean can't recognize his own voice, pulled thin and hoarse. "You — you know that right? Bullshit." He shakes his head. Tries to take a deep breath that comes out only slightly less ragged. "You always left. And I — I get that you had to sometimes. But no one wanted you here more than me."

He wipes his face off with the collar of his shirt. His skull screams in sharp pain, and his temples thud. And normally this would be too long of a pause, but normally you don't start a voicemail off trying not to sob, and normally they're made for people who can actually listen to them. So whatever.

"This is stupid. It's not — voicemails ain't your style." His breath leaves, and exhaustion sets deep into his bones. "You always just called back for the explanation. You'd leave 'em, though."

At least Dean assumes. Every call back he'd ever gotten from the guy he'd have to fill him in on whatever was happening anyway. Guess it makes sense in a way. If you have enough time to listen to a message, you've got enough time to call.

The space behind his robes aches when he says, "We both shoulda picked up more, I guess. And Sammy wants me to call now. Like it makes up for shit. It doesn't."

He swipes the little red phone to the left, and stares at the word Cas in his contacts page.

But the screen goes blank, and all he can see are his puffy red eyes reflected in the black screen, and that's motivation, so he gets ready for bed.

1 Year, 10 Months, 13 Days

He calls a few times after that. But tries not to leave voicemails for someone that's just gone, in every sense of the word.

It’s dumb. Still really dumb. And he has no defense for it. Eventually Sam hands him Cas' old phone and a charger. All of the missed voicemails untouched.

Dean could swear he remembers ever last one.

They're mostly simple crap, sometimes. Updates.

"Sam and Eileen are getting hitched. They're pretty fucking disgusting together. But sometimes they look at me, and I can just see it, man. See how they like, bubble themselves off." He laughs, but it's strained.  "Guess it just be written on my face. Which is just friggin’ fantastic. Cause I'm happy for them. I've always wanted that for Sam. But I wanted it for us too. Fucked up that I can only say it now, huh."

"I don't like the way burgers taste anymore. And I, uh, have a bumper sticker now. It's a bee. I kept it together until Sam got misty-eyed." There's a pause for a touch too long, then, "That mixtapes been the only thing in Baby for a month."

"I kept the trenchcoat. Wore it earlier. Got cold out for the first time since —" he sighs. "You wore it better. Looks like shit on me. It pretty much lives in my closet. Can't get monster guts on it that way."

But sometimes it's just a confession, none of the other bullshit. Just the truth.

"Look. I'm not mad. So don't think that. Cause I'm not. Wish I was. It's — it's always been easier. But I was trying to get my head on straight. I would've for you. I just… Don't know how now."

"Can't tell if I like using your old angel blade or fucking hate it. Don't like much of anything anymore. You were better with it."

"Id pray to you, but this is all I got. And I wish I could hope you're up there. But then I'd hope there isn't any pay per view Earth or whatever. Cause this shit? Is pitiful." A sigh. "G'night, Cas."

And one night, a long time later, he's sitting with his back against his bed, nestled next to the end table he never used, he says the truth in a way he knows he should've years and years ago.

"Guess this is like prayin', ain't it? Sammy caught me a few months ago. He wasn't even surprised I'm still doing this. Told me it was, uh — It was okay. Even if I just… never did. And you know what? I don't think l can." He gives a small laugh. "Hell, I only leave messages when I'm feeling, I dunno, brave? Like some part of me thinks you could still hear it and tell me to get lost."

Logically, he knows Cas wouldn't have kicked him to the curb. Wanted him just as much.

"God I listen to it almost every night dude. Just hearing this stupid fucking line —  It's like hitting rewind, for a few seconds."

The rest comes off easy, in its own way

"I miss you, Buddy. And I — I love you more than I know what to do with. I wish it would've been enough. But instead, it killed you."

He ends it, and calls back. Just to listen to the only thing he'll ever hear Cas say again. It’s not a replacement, never will be until he can see if Heaven really does have an angels left.

But the only faith he ever had is just an echo on the other end.

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."

[boasamishipper]

written for day 11 of @writersmonth for the trope prompt ‘whump.’ 

--

Their latest TOPGUN class had graduated two days prior, with Magpie and Raven beating out Cobra and Zulu by half a point. Cobra had taken the loss hard — which Maverick would have figured out even without Ice telling him, since Cobra hadn’t even bothered to show up for graduation. Maverick was a little worried about him, and Ice had noticed, which was why he’d insisted on going out that night. Not to the O Club, which was still full of their graduating class trading jeers and drinking up a storm, but to a civilian bar downtown with no pilots within a twenty mile radius.

“Hey.” Ice nudges him under the table, and Maverick looks up, startled out of his thoughts. “You’re going to pull a muscle if you stay that tense. Relax.”

Maverick snorts, because that’s just priceless. “You know, I never thought I’d see the day when the Iceman told me that I needed to loosen up.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Ice says, unfazed. He takes a pull of his beer. “Still thinking about Cobra?”

“Hard not to.”

Ice’s eyes soften. “I know,” he says, because he does know. Sometimes it still shocks him that his former rival now knows him better than anyone else — and had become more important to him than anyone else. “It’ll be okay, Mav. He’ll get over it.”

Maverick shrugs — not because he thinks Ice is wrong, but because he’s out with Ice and doesn’t really want to keep thinking about Cobra anymore. “You still heading to your parents’ house this weekend?”

“Yeah. Taylor’s coming up from Bakersfield, we’re driving together.” The corner of Ice’s mouth quirks upward. “All that means is we’ll be arguing about who gets to pick the music all the way to Santa Ana.”

“What, she’s not a fan of The Doors?”

“I listen to bands other than The Doors, thank you.”

“You listen to music that literally no one’s ever heard of, Kazansky. The Doors are the only good band you like.”

Ice rolls his eyes, but Maverick would have to be blind to miss the fondness in his expression. “Oh, excuse me. And what was it you liked to listen to again, Maverick? Bon Jovi? Def Leppard?”

��Def Leppard is iconic, Ice, and I won’t sit here and listen to your slander—”

“Commander Mitchell?”

Maverick huffs an irritated sigh. “What?” he says, automatically turning around in his seat, but when he sees who had called his name, all of the air leaves his lungs at once.

Cobra is standing in the middle of the room, fifty feet away from him. His hair is greasy, dirty, like he hasn’t washed it in days, and he’s wearing his dress whites, but Maverick is more focused on the look of utter loathing on his face. And the gun in his hand.

“Cobra.” Maverick gets out of his chair and turns to face him completely. His pulse is hammering in his ears, but he somehow manages to stay calm. The entire bar has gone as silent as the grave. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Commander?” Cobra’s sneer is fresh and ugly, like an open wound, and his grip on the gun does not waver. “I’m taking care of unfinished business.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Maverick notices that the bartender is dialing 911, which means he’s got to keep Cobra calm (and keep him from shooting anyone) until the police get here. “Cobra, listen.” The words stick in his throat from terror but he forces them out anyway. “You don’t want to do this. If you shoot me, they’ll throw you in jail for the rest of your life. You’re not thinking straight. Don’t throw your life away just because you’re upset.”

This, apparently, had been the wrong choice of words. “Upset?” Cobra repeats, his voice shrill. “You ruined my life! I should have been Top Gun — that half a point was bullshit! That fucking cunt Magpie didn’t deserve the trophy; I did!” His expression goes dark with rage, and he aims the gun directly at Maverick’s heart. “And if I can’t have it, then the least I can do is take care of the man who prevented me from getting it.”

“Cobra,” Maverick says desperately, trying to backpedal, trying to diffuse the situation, “Cobra, no, don’t do this, don’t—”

The gun goes off.

Something slams into his side, knocking him out of the way and into another table with the force of a speeding train. It hadn’t been the bullet, Maverick realizes once he gets his bearings back. The bullet hadn’t hit him, something else had, and that means—

Maverick’s heart stops cold.

Ice is standing in the same spot Maverick had been a moment before. His eyes are wide with shock. His hand is over his chest, like someone had just punched him, and he slowly retracts it, leaving a deep red stain behind.

No. No, this can’t be happening. This is a nightmare, this can’t be happening, it can’t be—

And then Ice collapses to the ground.

It’s not slow, and it’s not graceful. He just falls like all of his muscles have given out at once, like his legs no longer have the strength to keep him standing. He just falls, his head cracking against the linoleum, and everyone is staring at him, unmoving. No one can think. No one can breathe. Or maybe that’s just him.

And after that happens in the span of one uncomprehending second, and Ice does not move or make a sound, everything jumps back into play at once.

Cobra drops the gun with a clatter and makes a run for it, but he’s tackled to the ground before he even makes it to the door. Someone is screaming, a long, high-pitched scream that seems to go on forever, and still more people are sobbing, racing for the nearest exit, and Maverick throws himself forward, skidding across the floor on his knees to get to Ice.

Ice is lying spread-eagled on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. He’s gone pale and his eyes are squeezed shut and he’s breathing too fast — but he’s still breathing, thank God, thank God — and in the span of a few seconds the blood has spread across his entire chest, staining his white shirt crimson. It’s real. It’s all painfully real.

“Ice! Oh God, oh God, Ice, hang on. Stay with me, Ice, everything’s going to be okay, just hang on.” Maverick shrugs off his leather jacket and presses it hard against the wound, and the strangled, keening noise Ice releases makes Maverick want to start sobbing in unison with everyone else. “Open your eyes, Ice. Come on, Kazansky, goddamn it, look at me! That’s an order!”

Ice’s eyes open at those words automatically, because even situations like these where everything has gone shit over teacups Tom Kazansky still follows every order to the letter. His gaze lands on Maverick, and inexplicably he seems to relax. “Mav,” he breathes, like his name is a magic word. A lifeline. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Maverick’s throat is so tight he can barely breathe, let alone speak. “Yeah, I’m okay. God — Jesus, Ice, what the fuck were you thinking? Why did you do that?”

Ice doesn’t seem to have heard anything past Maverick’s first sentence. He tries for a smile, but there’s a bit of blood bubbling up between his lips, and Maverick wants to throw up. “Good,” he mumbles. His eyes are fluttering shut. “That’s good.”

Maverick pushes down harder on the wound in an effort to force Ice to stay awake. “Hey,” he says once Ice’s eyes have opened again. “Talk to me, Ice. You didn’t — you didn’t tell me why you did that. You’ve gotta tell me why, Ice, please.”

“Because,” Ice says. His voice is so soft that Maverick can barely hear him over the commotion in the bar and the promise that the police and the ambulances are nearly there. “M’your wingman. Gotta…gotta protect you.”

Tears blur his vision, making it near impossible to see clearly. He wants to grab Ice by the shoulders and shake him, scream at him that Maverick’s life isn’t even worth a quarter of Ice’s, but all he says is, “Since when are you the dangerous one?”

“Not dangerous.” Ice is fading now, eyes growing duller as his gaze goes distant. His breathing is noisy and shallow, and Maverick can feel the sluggish beats of Ice’s heart even as the blood soaks through his jacket. “Necessary risk.”

Maverick chokes on a sob. “Ice,” he says, and he taps Ice on the cheek, grips his chin, tries to keep him looking up at Maverick even as his head starts lolling to the side and his eyes close again. “Hey. Stay with me, Ice. Just a few more minutes, man, come on. You’ve gotta stay with me, Ice, please.”

“M’right here,” Ice whispers, and then he goes still.

Terror takes him in a vice grip, making it impossible to breathe. “Ice?” Maverick fumbles for Ice’s throat, feeling for a pulse, which thrums faintly against his fingertips. Too faint. “No. No, no, no — wake up. Wake up, Ice.” Maverick jostles him, shaking Ice the way he knows he should never shake an injured person, but he doesn’t give a damn about proper procedure right now. “Come on, Ice. Come on! Don’t do this to me, Ice, stay with me. Stay with me!”

Not him. Not him. God, please not him too.

Maverick is barely aware of anything, only firm hands — not Ice’s is the only thing his brain registers — on his shoulders trying to pry him away, but he can’t let go, because if he lets go then Ice will slip away forever and he’ll be all alone again and—

“No, let go of me, I can’t leave him, I can’t—”

“Sir, you have to let him go,” says a voice from behind him, and suddenly he’s not even there anymore; he’s back in the ocean, the hot sun beating down on his back and Goose’s dead body in his arms. “You have to let him go, sir.”

“No.” Maverick’s sobbing so hard he can barely breathe. His grip tightens on the body in front of him — Goose’s, Ice’s; what does it matter? How many times will he lose the people he loves more than anything in the world? “No, please.”

But despite his best efforts, they take him away from Ice, who is immediately surrounded by paramedics poking and prodding at him, cutting away his shirt — no, he wants to protest, that’s his favorite, don’t do that — and applying a pressure bandage; strapping an oxygen mask over Ice’s too-pale face before setting up an IV.

“Sir,” says the same voice, and Maverick is finally able to focus on the face the voice belongs to. It’s a woman, maybe in her late thirties, a few inches shorter than him and her hair pulled into a ponytail. “Are you alright, sir? Were you injured?”

“No.” They’re lifting Ice up now, strapping him to a gurney, and he’s completely still, covered in blood. Lifeless. “Only him.”

Maverick makes to go after the gurney that’s being wheeled out the door, but a police officer stops him before he can get far. “Sir,” he says. “I’m sorry, but we’re going to need a statement.”

“No, I can’t — I can’t now, I have to go with him—”

“Sir,” says the police officer, who has the good grace to sound apologetic. Twenty feet away, a couple of cops have handcuffed Cobra and are escorting him out the door. He’s got bruises all over his face and his nose is broken. Maverick has never hated anyone more in his life. “Sir, I’m afraid it can’t wait.”

Through the window, Maverick can see the ambulance pulling out of the parking lot, sirens wailing, and all of the fight leaves him at once. “Alright,” he whispers. “Okay.”

--

Giving his statement to the police takes over an hour: over a goddamned hour of explaining who Cobra is, why he wanted to shoot Maverick, their jobs, their names, etcetera. He tries to include as many details as he can — anything that’ll help put Cobra away for the rest of his miserable life — but he keeps looking down at the blood on his hands (Ice’s blood) and trembling like a leaf and fighting the urge to throw up.

One of the cops takes pity on him afterwards, since Ice had driven them here and Maverick can’t drive a car, and she takes him to the hospital. The ride is painfully slow, each red light taking an eternity to pass, and Maverick can’t stop seeing the look of shock on Ice’s face, the way he’d fallen, how he’d looked Maverick in the eye and told him it had been a necessary risk. He chokes back a sob at the very thought.

“Was he a friend of yours?”

Maverick looks over at the cop. She’s young; looks like she’s barely old enough to drink. “What?”

“The man who got shot. Was he a friend of yours?”

Maverick’s throat goes tight. “Yeah,” he whispers. He and Ice might be in a relationship now — and have been for the last few months, which have been the best of Maverick’s life — but ‘friend’ is all that the police (and anyone who could potentially end their careers) get to know.

The quietly controlled bustle of the hospital is so overwhelming that Maverick almost makes a run for it, but he forces himself to keep breathing and wait for the police officer (Rollins, according to her name tag) to get the information from the receptionist. Maverick sits down hard in the nearest chair, ignoring the confused stares of the people around him.

“He’s been redlined up to surgery,” Rollins reports about five minutes later, and Maverick lets out a breath of relief, because surgery isn’t great, but that means Ice is still alive. He can handle anything if Ice is still alive. “They called his next of kin — his sister, I think? — but she says she won’t be able to make it here until sometime tomorrow morning.”

Maverick had figured as much. “I’ll call his parents,” he says, his voice hoarse. “They deserve to know too.” They deserve to hear it from him.

Rollins hesitates. “It’ll be a tricky surgery,” she admits. “They said the bullet shattered one of his ribs.”

The news turns Maverick’s stomach.

“Do you…do you want some company? I can stay with you, if you’d like.”

Maverick looks up again, meets her eyes. She goes red at the eye contact and shifts from foot to foot, but she looks like she means it. Still, he shakes his head. “Thanks,” he says, “but I’m alright. You can go.”

Rollins nods. “Alright,” she says softly. “I…I hope your friend will be okay.”

Maverick manages a weary smile. He appreciates the sentiment — and he hopes so too — but he’d watched Ice collapse to the ground and choke on his own blood and go as still as death. Blind faith isn’t going to be enough for him this time.

--

Maverick waits.

He fidgets in the chair, paces around the room, flips through the outdated magazines without taking anything in. The people in the waiting room come and go, and a nurse drops by occasionally with bits of news. Nothing good, but nothing bad either. There’s nothing for him to do but wait.

Taylor joins him in the early hours of the morning, her shirt half-buttoned and her hair in a messy bun. “I got here as fast as I could,” she says, dropping down gracelessly in the chair next to him. She’s gripping her car keys like a lifeline, and they keep clacking against the other keys on the ring. “Mom and Dad are driving down now; I called them from Bakersfield. Is he — how is he?”

“He’s still in surgery.” Maverick scrubs a hand down his face. “I don’t — they haven’t told me anything else.”

“Jesus.” Taylor lets out an exhale like she’s been punched. “Oh, God. Maverick, what happened?”

He opens his mouth, closes it. Looks away, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands hard enough to hurt. One of the paramedics had stopped by to give him back his jacket, which is stiff and crusted with Ice’s blood, and he’d taken one look at it and left to empty the contents of his stomach in the nearest trashcan. “He saved me,” he manages. “One of our students was going to shoot me, and Ice…he pushed me out of the way. He saved my life.” Tears well up in his eyes. “It should have been me.”

“Oh, Mav. Maverick, no.” Taylor wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close just like Ice always does, and he can’t help the tiny sob that escapes him. “He’s going to be fine,” she promises. “He’s going to be just fine. And when he wakes up, you can go in there and tell him to leave the heroic stunts to you next time.”

He doesn’t laugh. “He said it was a necessary risk,” he whispers. “I don’t…why?”

“Well,” Taylor says softly. “You would’ve done the same for him, wouldn’t you?”

Of course he would have. Especially considering that he should have been the one in surgery right now in the first place. “Yes.”

Taylor manages a shrug. “Well,” she says with a wet laugh. “There you have it.”

--

Bill and Jess Kazansky arrive with the sun, bringing with them a couple of thermoses of coffee and endless hugs for both Maverick and Taylor. Jess insists that Maverick go to the bathroom and wash up while Taylor catches them up on everything she knows, and Maverick goes. When he returns, having splashed some cold water on his face and scrubbed the remaining blood off his hands, he feels marginally better, but his heart instantly takes refuge somewhere in his kidneys when he hears the words, “Family of Thomas Kazansky?”

Bill, Jess, and Taylor stand up, and Maverick moves on unsteady legs to join them. “He’s our son,” Bill is saying to the doctor. “How is he?”

The doctor inhales slightly, and Maverick’s heart stutters. It can’t end like this. Ice can’t have died like this. Not when things between them have only just begun, not when there’s so much he still has to say. Not like this. Please, God, not like this.

“It was a difficult surgery,” the doctor says, almost by way of confession. “But we think he’s going to make it.”

It’s like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. Taylor and Bill give twin sighs of relief, and Jess whispers, “Thank God.” Only Maverick’s tenuous grip on his composure keeps him from bursting into tears. Ice is alive. He’s still alive.

The doctor has a litany of news to share after that, most of it less than good. Ice’s condition is critical, and they have to watch him closely for the next couple of days to make sure they hadn’t missed anything. They’d taken out his spleen, and there’s a chest tube in place, but they’re hopeful that none of the bone fragments had gotten into his bloodstream.

When the Kazanskys finally leave the ICU, Maverick almost doesn’t get allowed in. Family only, or so says the doctor. But Jess stares down the doctor (even though he’s about six inches taller than her) and informs him that Maverick has been waiting for hours and is part of the family, and he will be allowed to see her son, or there will be hell to pay. It’s a kindness he doesn’t deserve, but Maverick accepts it anyway.

Ice looks like hell. His normally tan skin is ashen, and there’s a tube taped down around his mouth, and his hair is sweaty and lies flat. His chest is partly covered by a blanket, but the tubes and wires that are keeping him alive are still visible. His hands are resting at his sides, pale and speckled with bits of blood that no one has cleaned off yet. Maverick’s heard that people who are comatose are supposed to look like they’re sleeping, but Ice is never this still when he sleeps. He’s always moving, trying to get comfortable, breathing without the aid of a machine. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

Still, he’s alive. That has to count for something.

Maverick sits down in the chair beside the bed. “Hey,” he whispers, his voice nearly breaking on the greeting. “Hey, Ice. It’s me.”

There’s no response. Of course there isn’t. But that doesn’t mean it still doesn’t hurt.

“You saved my life,” Maverick says. “I wish you hadn’t, but…”

Real eloquent, Mitchell, he can hear Ice saying, and he manages a laugh at the thought of Ice’s mock-affronted expression. I take a bullet for you and this is the thanks I get?

“…thank you.” He reaches out, and after making sure that they’re alone, takes Ice’s hand in his. “Wake up, okay? Just…please wake up, Ice, and be okay.”

(Eventually, Ice will wake up. His recovery will be slow, but steady, and Maverick will stay by his side for every second of it. He’ll thank Ice for taking the bullet for him, but add in no uncertain terms that he’s never allowed to do it again; Ice will stubbornly maintain that it had been a necessary risk that he doesn’t regret, and reassure Maverick that one bullet wound is enough for him.)

For now, though, Maverick sits. He holds Ice’s hand. And he waits.