#Dozed off for a bit there but I think I can eke one more response out tonight!

[oculusxcaro]

Two sentence horror story. People that go into the sewers have started going missing. Killer Croc's still locked up in Arkham.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Portrait of a Dangerous Man🎨3

Warnings: (series) non-consent sex and rape; slow creep; cucking; (this chapter) sleep paralysis, stress.

This is dark!mob!Clark Kent x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: Your dream of having your work hung in an art show comes true but your first buyer is not all he seems to be.

Note: I’m so happy people are liking this story. Thanks so much to everyone reading and sorry if I’m a bit inactive lately, I’ve been exhausted and yesterday didn’t end, I swear.

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

On Monday, you yawned over your keyboard as your fingers moved on instinct alone. Your eyes ran along the text but the words were just letters to you. You had a lot to think about, a lot to do. 

You decided you would skip lunch and get through your work day an hour early so you could head to Clark’s right away. He was hard to deny when he asked if you could make it back so soon. You told him you worked everyday from home and you had hours beside that at the gallery three times a week at least. He accepted it with a nod but his silence was telling so you caved and said you could make it but not until the evening.

You texted Marcus as you waited for your Uber. He had a few hours to go still and you left him everything he needed to make supper with instructions; the veggies were cut, the meat thawed, and the pans already arranged on the stove. You had faith he could manage on his own.

The mansion was just as intimidating as the first time you visited. You walked up the drive and to the front steps. It was human nature to be envious of the sprawling yards and lavish estate and yet, it didn’t feel as if someone could truly live here. It would be like staying in a hotel as you were always overly aware of your every move, afraid to break something or make a mess.

You hammered the large knocker when your soft tapping brought no answer. You heard someone on the other side and wiggled your foot nervously. The door opened and square-faced woman greeted you in another language. You couldn’t tell if it was Swedish, German, or some other dialect. You were never a skilled linguist.

“Um, hi, I’m…”

“Ah, you are the lady painter,” she said, “I remember. I am Nina, Mr. Kent’s housekeeper.”

She turned and beckoned you to follow her. You closed the tall door and trailed her across the spacious foyer and behind the stairs into the kitchen. She turned through another room and led you out through the glass doors that opened onto the pool.

“Miss, would you like a drink? Tea? Coffee?” she asked.

“No, thank you,” you said as the water moved and your eyes were drawn to the figure moving beneath the surface.

“Miss,” Nina nodded and left you.

You stood, awkward and listless, and glanced around at the loungers and the umbrella over the round table. You weren’t entirely sure what to do. Had he forgotten about you?

“Hey,” your gaze was drawn back to the pool. Clark waded to the edge, his broad shoulders and chiseled chest visible as he made his way to the shallow end, “sorry. Lost track of time.”

He grabbed the metal railing and climbed up the stairs. The water slaked off his tight trunks and down his thick thighs. He appeared even larger with less clothes. You looked away before your thoughts lingered too long.

“It’s fine, I should have texted I was on my way,” you said, “I can go wait for you--”

“No worries,” he took his towel and rubbed dry his dark hair. The scruff along his chin was thicker than before, almost a full blown beard, “you’re not in a hurry, are you?”

“No, not really, can’t really rush… painting,” you shrugged, “I just… I didn’t mean to catch you off-guard.”

“Pfft, I’m ready for anything,” he grinned, “but I should also listen to the artist. I’ll go get changed and you can get settled in the studio.” He directed you ahead of him as he approached the sliding doors, “you just finished work? You should take a few minutes to unwind.”

“Uh, yeah, but it’s just, um, typing, not exactly hard labour,” you said as he followed you inside.

“Work is work,” he said, “I will never fault anyone who works hard, regardless of what they do.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” you stifled a yawn behind your hand.

He let out a breath as you came out into the foyer, “I’m sorry, you could’ve… you’re tired. We could have rescheduled. I’m sorry if I came across… pushy yesterday. I don’t mean to take advantage of you.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” you assured him, “I’m fine.”

“Alright,” he said doubtfully, “but you let me know if you need a break.”

“Will do,” you murmured as you neared the stairs.

🎨

You weren’t even close to done just the background of the portrait. Clark really didn’t even need to be there as you shadowed the folds of the curtains around his figure and the marble bust. Your arm hurt from reaching across and up the gigantic canvas and your eyes burned from squinting at your work.

You backed off the ladder carefully with your paintbrush and palette balanced in one hand. The paint was drying and you needed to mix more. You set down your armful and wiped your hands on the rag. He was watching you, he was always watching you. Well, no, he was just looking in your direction; it was all for the portrait.

You hit the button on the side of your phone and gasped. It was midnight. You had several messages from Marcus and you blanched as you unlocked the cell and quickly texted back. You rubbed your eye as you hit send and turned to Clark.

“I didn’t realise it was so late,” you said, “I gotta go.”

“What time is it?” he asked and looked at his watch, “oh.”

He pushed himself to his feet with a grunt and stretched out his arms as he neared. You took your brush and rinsed it in the tinted water in the jar.

“I’ll just clean up as I wait for an Uber,” you said as you let the brush rest in the jar and lifted your phone again.

“I’ll drive you,” he said as he grabbed a rag, “it’s a long way. I’ll hire a driver for you from here on out. It’ll be easier and cheaper.”

“You don’t have to--”

You flinched as he wiped your cheek with the rag. He smiled and showed you the paint on the white cloth.

“I wouldn’t offer it if it was too much trouble,” he tossed the rag down, “and I did have something to talk to you about. The drive will be more than enough to get it sorted.”

“Oh, okay,” you eked nervously. Had you done something wrong? Were you not painting fast enough?

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” he touched your arm gently.

He left you and you finished scraping off the palette and cleaning your brushes. You dumped the jar in the sink just inside the nearest bathroom and rinsed the porcelain back to white. You left everything arranged neatly on the table and descended to the first floor.

Clark stood by the door in a different jacket, his tie gone and the top button undone. He held the door for you and showed you to the garage. There were at least a half-dozen cars inside and he took you to the same silver one he drove the night of the show. You settled in and groaned as the tension left your shoulders.

He started the car as the doors rose behind him and he backed out smoothly. He turned down the long drive and onto the desolate roads of the wealthy countryside. He kept one hand on the wheel and dropped his other to his thigh casually.

“So, your job, you like it?”

“It’s work,” you said, “I get paid to sit at home and type. Half the time, I’m just waiting for an assignment.”

“I asked if you liked it,” he said more pointedly.

“Oh, well, not… really?” you answered, unsure. 

He could be so pleasant and then so blunt. He made you nervous and the more you thought of it, the more you realised you knew almost nothing about this man besides his name. You didn’t know how he made his money or what exactly he did outside of his extravagant mansion.

“If I doubled your fee, would you quit?” he asked without hesitation.

“Quit? This… the painting won’t take forever,” you said, “I can’t really just drop everything--”

“This is an opportunity,” he said, “you could spend your days doing what you love. And who’s to say it’s just one painting? I already have something in mind for the dining room and I have friends asking about you.”

“Friends? Who--”

“One thing at a time,” he said curtly, “I’ll introduce you to them in time. Is it a deal?”

“I… it’s all very sudden, can I think about it?”

He looked at you in the rearview and you caught his eye. For a moment, you were afraid. There was something in his expression that left you breathless. He lifted his hand and stretched his arm between the seats, his fingers gripped the leather just above your shoulder.

“Sure, I’ll give you a couple days,” he said at last.

“I--I’m sorry…” you didn’t know why you were apologizing but it felt appropriate, “I just, I’m tired.”

“It’s fine, sweetheart,” he assured and the epithet hung in the air.

“I have to go to the gallery tomorrow, I’ll get back to you on Wednesday,” you said as you rubbed your chin nervously. Your lips was quivering. He was smiling but you felt his impatience in the small space of the car, “if I… if I say yes, I have to talk to my boss and that might get messy.”

“No problem,” his voice softened, “you take some time and figure it out.” His thumb rubbed the leather seat and he pulled his arm away to grasp the steering wheel, “why don’t you close your eyes. We got some time left.”

You peeked over at him and nodded. 

“Okay,” you murmured and hugged your bag against you as you tried to relax against the leather. You turned your head and looked out the window up at the starry sky. You closed your eyes as the fatigue settled over you but you could only fake dozing as your nerves stormed inside of you.

He was right, it was a great opportunity, but you just couldn’t believe it would last. Was it your own doubt getting to you? Or should you be weary of this fairytale buyer? It was late and you couldn’t think. All those worries could wait until tomorrow.

🎨

You crept into the dark apartment. It was after one and you foresaw a long day ahead of you. You’d get maybe four hours in before it all started again. You put your purse down and went into the bedroom, undressing in the shadows and crawling into bed next to Marcus as the colours of the tv moved around him. The playlist he was casting kept on even as he slept.

He grunted as you laid on your back and he turned to graze your arm with his fingertips. 

“You’re home,” he grumbled and kissed your cheek, “I was worried.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, “I… it’s so far out there and it’s a lot of work. The canvas is like nine feet-- I’m sorry, I’ll let you sleep.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” his voice was gristly as he propped himself up on his elbow, “you’re gonna finish the job right?”

“I don’t know,” you said, “I don’t know if I can.”

“Of course you can,” Marcus insisted, “I mean, at that price, you can do anything.”

“It’s not about the money, Marcus,” you huffed, “I don’t know if it’s worth all this. Going back and forth…” you ran your hands over your face, “he wants me to quit my job and just paint for him.”

“You should,” Marcus said blithely, “why not? He’s paying you well enough.”

“And what about when I’m done,” you whined.

“You’ll find more work. Vanessa even offered to take on more of your work in her shows, so what’s the problem? Isn’t this what you want?”

“Y-yeah, it is but… I don’t know, it just seems too good to be true.”

“You do this and we might even have enough for a down payment,” he said, “something had to give after all these years. Why can’t it be this?”

You looked at him and tried to smile, “you’re only saying that because he has a pool.”

“Maybe,” he kidded, “but I also want it for you. You spend all your free time painting anyhow so why not get paid for it?”

“Mhmm,” you mumbled, “yeah, I just don’t know why I feel so… I don’t know. It just all seems off.”

“Sleep on it, you’ll feel better,” he leaned over and kissed your lips that time, “love you.”

“Love you,” you echoed as he grabbed the remote and shut off the tv.

You closed your eyes as the darkness shrouded you and despite your anxiety, you fell into a deep sleep. You didn’t even roll onto your side before you sank into your REM but found yourself caught in limbo. The abstract and intense sensation of paralysis overtook your body and your eyelids flicked open.

It was an awful feeling you knew too well. You knew you were dreaming, you knew it was all in your mind, but your body was filled with sand and your subconscious conjured visions of doom. The tall man stood by the door as he always did and just stared. He got closer, just a little at a time, and you fought to move just a finger and free yourself from the trance.

You felt like you were drowning as your body remained heavy and unmoving. He was getting closer and closer. As he did, his figure changed and his shoulders got wider as his features came clear in the slat of the streetlight that leaked between the curtains. It was Clark staring down at you, his blue eyes sinister and sparkling. 

He reached for you and you woke with a start as your name rose from his lips. You inhaled sharply and looked over at Marcus as he snored. It was only the two of you. You reached for your phone, it was just after three. You turned onto your side but your heart still raced. It always happened when you were stressed, the dreams felt so real that you never really came back down after.

You stared at the wall and curled up under the blanket. You didn’t expect to get much sleep anyway, not with the question on your mind. Should you quit and live your dream or should you kill all hope before life did it for you?

[ticklishraspberries]

A Day (Or Six) in the Life

Note: This is from Richie’s POV sorta, so fair warning, there is some vulgar language from time to time. Hope you like it!

Sometimes there’s just too much shit going on in Richie’s head. 

And like, don’t get him wrong – he loves the weird crap his brain comes up with. Makes things entertaining, a little spicy, a little zesty. The only problem with it is that he can’t find the damn remote that turns off the six different brands of Looney Tunes going on up there. 

(He’d once spent an entire lecture assigning different Voices to the markers his professor used on the whiteboard, to the point that he hadn’t retained a single iota of anything the man actually wrote down.)

Man, that red little minx was pretty sexy though.

He snorts to himself as he comes out of his dozing, shoved back into the real world for the present. He can feel the hot line of Eddie at his back, leg hooked over his hip like a seat belt. His lil jet pack. 

Richie reaches blindly for his glasses and pushes them onto his nose, sniffling. It’s still fairly early by his standards, but he doesn’t glance long enough at the digital clock to tell for sure, choosing instead to take one of Eddie’s hand and squeeze like it’s his own personal communications device. “Ground control to major Eds, come in, major Eds?”

No response.

Richie huffs, squeezes harder. “Psht. Major Eds? What’s your mission status, major?”

Maybe Eddie understands what he’s saying, maybe he doesn’t, but Richie receives a huff of hot breath at the back of his neck for his efforts, followed by what feels like a cheek smushed against his head. “S’too early, Rich.”

Flabbergasted, Richie turns over completely to grip a disgruntled, squinting Eddie by the front of his sleep shirt. “It’s never too early in outer space, Eds! Did the academy teach you nothing? I’m ashamed.”

And Richie doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to seeing Eddie so ruffled in the morning. Slow, blinking away sleep from his eyes with those impossibly long lashes, yawning around perfectly white teeth that look like little moon rocks, and - and it definitely seems like there’s a theme going on in his head today, doesn’t it?

“What are you even talking about?” The question sounds irritated, but that’s never stopped Richie before. If anything, it means that he has to go and run his mouth harder, because that’s his default reaction to any indication that someone might be upset with him.

(Except they both know that if Eddie really felt like it, he could just pick up his hot little self and go back to his own bed across the room. Hasn’t happened yet, so. Free game.)

“What am I -? I’m talking about the great race, major!” He pokes Eddie’s side, smiling knowingly at the resulting yip and defensive curl. “Space ain’t some pre teen with a secret collection of skin mags, babe-be, it’s not gonna explore itself.”

Eddie wrinkles his nose but can’t bury his smile in his pillow fast enough for Richie to miss it, sighing a long-suffering breath. “You’re so gross.”

“I try.”

“Where am I going, anyway?”

“Hm?” Richie kinda shifted out of the moment there, it’s gonna take him a second to catch up.

“You know,” Eddie yawns again, gesturing to the ceiling with a limp hand. “Space. Tell me where I’m going.”

“Oh, yeah. Uncharted territory, actually. Forgot to mention that.”

“Mmm…”

A moment of silence passes between them, which is really fortunate for Eddie because it gives Richie an opening for just about the best joke ever. 

Gathering him in his arms slowly, he kisses his cheek, nuzzles up to him, and whispers, “To infinity… and your mom!”

Eddie, who had resettled peacefully in the crook of Richie’s arm, stiffens instantly and snaps one angry eye open to glare at him something fierce. Before Richie even so much as smirks, he finds himself pushed down into the squeaky mattress, two hands digging into any spot they can reach.

“Wait- W-wait!” Richie tumbles back with the force of it so hard he thinks he might get whiplash, but it doesn’t matter because he’s laughing around his next breath, tilting his head back and squeezing his eyes shut.

Eddie’s like a freight train when it comes to this, hands jumping from sides to ribs to neck to armpits to stomach - it’s all Richie can do to hold on to his wrists, tickle-weak and letting it happen. 

“Yeah, laugh it up, Trash mouth.” Eds hisses, though Richie can see through a few tears that he’s grinning, biting at his tongue in concentration. Richie loves it, loves how Eddie can just reach into his head and jumble his brain until his thoughts whirl around like confetti in a snow globe. 

At any rate, those insistent little fingers wring every last one of them out of him by the time he stops, looking down at Richie’s flushed excuse for a face and beaming like he won a prize. Always a competition with him, hoo-wee. “You done yet?”

Richie blinks, drudging through the mud pile that is his brain for a witty retort. “Uh… I…”

Eddie leans down and kisses his nose. “Good. Let’s go get breakfast, I’m starving.”

——————————

“Oh. My. Fuck.” Richie pulls off his hat and tosses it aside the moment he’s through the door. He stops only to kick off his shoes, one landing near the rack and the other hitting the wall. He doesn’t care, though, limping into the living room. After an eight hour shift, he has no fucking business being vertical and wants no part of it, no sir.

He collapses face first into the cushions of their couch and breathes in. It smells like Bill’s cologne. Richie’s back fucking hurts. 

“Owchie mama, that’s sore.” He complains out loud as he stretches to the full length of his gangly limbs, feet nudging the arm of the couch. He doesn’t expect his legs to get lifted up though, hello?

“What’s sore?” A voice asks curiously as the couch dips under his weight, Richie’s legs falling back down across a certain someone’s lap.

Mike. A godsend, for sure. “Oh Micycle, is it really you? It’s been decades since I’ve heard that macho voice, I almost forgot what it sounds like.”

“It’s nice to see you too, Rich. How was work?”

How was work? How was work?? Richie’s gonna combust, but he’s too tired to go all out, so he settles for a small tantrum, flailing. “Never mention that word to me again. If you do, we’ll have to get a divorce, and then who would look after the children? The traumatized little lads, fuck.”

“That bad, huh?” Mike chuckles, and it’s deep and fond and warm, and Richie looks over his shoulder just so he can picture it better. Mike’s holding a book in one hand, and the glass sitting on the table means that he was definitely sitting there before Richie got back, but now he’s sharing his seat like the fine friggin Georgia peach that he is, holy shit. 

Richie whines. “I thought being a barista would be sexy! Like, a wet dream soccer team of sweaty Brazilians asking me for juice and my number, but instead - pardon my French - I get a bunch of douchebaguettes complaining how I spelled their names wrong. I’m gay and illiterate and I didn’t fucking ask them, did I? Stop laughing at me, Mike n Ike, this is serious business.”

“I’m sorry,” he chuckles again, chest shaking with it. “Douchebaguettes?”

“You’re making fun of me. I’m wounded. Way to kick a man when he’s down, M- ah… never mind, I love you. Keep laughing at me.” He groans outright when a warm hand wraps around his foot and squeezes, eking out the ever-present ache that Richie had gotten used to ignoring. 

“I love you, too.” Mike snorts, and Richie doesn’t have to look to know he’s shaking his head. Fine by him, as long as he keeps touching him like that.

“Mm, your hands are the best,” he slurs into the couch. He will abso-fruitly say anything to encourage him at this point, not that Mike seems to want to stop anyway. His palm pushes delicious friction along his arches, pulling satisfied purrs from Richie with each pass until he’s a good and proper puddle. He might actually be drooling, a little bit.

It’s only when his touch lightens that Richie jerks, and the hand pauses. “Is this okay?”

Bless Mikey’s farm boy heart, asking for consent. Richie’s heart’s gonna burst. “Y-yeah, m’good.” 

And he is. Mike’s fingers trace, feather-light, and it’s like there’s shivers buried underneath Richie’s skin, waiting for Mike to pull the trigger. It feels good. 

It also really, really tickles.

He snags a cushion to bury his smile in, the muscles in his leg going taut every time Mike’s fingertips venture down towards his toes. More than a few times, Richie’s foot twitches away from the tingly zaps before he can stop himself, choked off mirthful noises tightening in his throat until a few burble out.

Each time Mike waits patiently until Richie resettles his foot back in his lap, and then his drifting touch returns, slow like tree sap and unbearably electric. It’s an awful game that forces Richie to expose how much he really wants it, but then again, Mike never plays like that intentionally. He just does what seems right because he’s perfect and a gentleman. 

Richie loosens like an uncoiled spring when Mike rubs his thumb over his heel, whining his loss. 

And because he’s a fucking gem, Mike picks up on it right away and huffs softly. “Sorry.” He scribbles gently at the arch of Richie’s slender foot in apology, earning him a muffled snicker and scrunching soles.

“Mihihike.” 

“Mhm?”

“Tickles.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

Pfft. Richie shakes his head, laughing harder into the cushion when Mike’s fingers drag down to his toes, scritching repeatedly. It’s not fair. He’s still wearing his socks with the pineapples on ‘em, and it’s worse than if he’d gone bare foot. He guesses it’s true that standing around for too long makes them more sensitive, but then, he’s always been this way. 

His knees jerk far more often now that Mike’s put some gusto behind it, albeit a very small amount, but Richie thinks he does a damn decent job at keeping his feet from wiggling away, all things considered.

Still, eventually, he hears the sound of the book getting set aside. Mike stops his gentle tapping at his soles, and Richie realizes as he sags back into the couch that he’s… tired. Like, stupid sleepy. He yawns and stretches again, humming his surprise when two strong arms turn him over.

“Well hello, handsome.” Richie grins back at Mike’s amused half-smile, more than happy to be the center of his attention for a while. 

“C’mon, Rich. It’s late, time for bed.”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice.”

He doesn’t fight it when Mike uses those absurdly strong arms to lift him up, despite being taller than him, wrapping his legs firmly around Mike’s hips and holding on to his shoulders. “Onward,” he yawns with enthusiasm. “Quick now yungin’, before we die of dysentery. Go on now. Git.”

Mike rolls his eyes and adjusts his grip as they head for the stairs. “Yeehaw.”

——————————

Richie tosses his controller on the couch beside him with a pout, watching the letters ‘game over’ flash across the screen. “Man…”

Behind him, he can hear the sound of the kitchen door opening and closing, and with a furrowed brow he gets up to investigate. “If you’re here to rob us, take Eddie first. He’s the easiest to carry.” 

Around the corner, Ben smiles up from where he’s taking off his shoes by the rack (careful, because Stan insists). He’s beaming, actually, and still in his hot little karate outfit that makes him look like a formal dumpling. “You’re so mean to him. What if I wanted to rob you instead?”

“Everybody wants to rob me, Benny boy, get in line,” He hops up onto the counter to watch Ben’s face in the refrigerator light as he goes rummaging for a smoothie. “I’m just saying, if you’re any good at this, you gotta take the valuables first. Bottom shelf.”

Ben chuckles, leans down, and reappears, drink in hand. Richie nudges the door shut with his foot and grins back. “Who says you aren’t valuable?”

“Aw shucks.”

“Besides myself, I mean.”

“Benjamin.” 

Ben laughs at him around a sip of his drink, and Richie couldn’t stay fake mad at him even if he wanted to. It’s really nice that the cheeky fuck has some confidence now, since he’s been losing some extra pounds here and there. He’s not afraid to brush past people anymore, doesn’t shift uncomfortably when his thighs touch someone else’s, and he hip-checks them on purpose with a sly look every now and then. He’s not afraid to take up space now, and all of the losers are proud of him for it, including Richie.

(He’s just, like, super jealous that he can’t have that sorta weight transferred over to himself. Just a little bit, so he’s not all jabby angles and pointy bones. Also? He’s going to miss Ben’s love handles.)

“You seem extra bold today. Care to share anything with the class?”

That happy look from a few minutes ago returns like Ben just remembered something important. “Yeah, actually - hold on…” He turns, fishing in his bag for something before turning back, fingers clutching a bundle of blue fabric. “I, uh, I got my blue belt today.”

“Holy shit!” Richie adjusts his glasses, leaning in to run his fingers over it when Ben offers it up. “You’re pullin’ my leg.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re making it up.”

“I’m not!” Ben’s voice just brims with infectious joy, like a little kid excited to show their first ever drawing from art class. He even has the little jump in his step, too.

“Benny, that’s awesome, dude!” He jumps down to punch Ben’s shoulder, smiling wide at the other’s shy but obvious pride. “And you know,” he thumbs at his upper lip and sniffs. “Not to fuck my own ass or anything, but I’m something of a dōjō master myself.” 

“Really?” Ben smirks, pushing back when Richie continues to push at his shoulder with his knuckles, bouncing on his heels anime fighter style.

“Really really. Call me Sensei, ‘cause I’ll teach you to mess with me.” He dodges with a surprised bark of laughter when Ben grabs for him, ducking and bringing his hands up to defend himself as they tussle right there in the kitchen, play-wrestling – Richie’s favorite thing.

Well. Almost favorite.

“Oof!” Richie hurumphs when the quick scuffle ends with him caught in a headlock, twisting back and forth fruitlessly. “Oi! Unhand me you fiend! You scoundrel! I’ll have you nicked, I will!”

Ben, not even winded, slaps his hand away. “Admit that I won and I’ll let go.”

“I’d rather bloody perish.”

“You’d rather perish?”

“Aye.” Richie grunts, straining against the hold. It’s like trying to empty a lake with a bucket. It just ain’t happening.

“Okay.”

Ben’s free hand digs into his side and Richie collapses back into him instantly, like a buck learning how to walk, except he’s really fucking bad at it and giggling maniacally. “Ben!” 

They crumple to the ground together, though Ben anticipates it, wrapping a solid arm around Richie’s waist as his other hand snakes up under his shirt to scribble at his ribs. 

Richie himself is a pale pile of squirming limbs, pushing back into Ben’s chest and squeaking with each sneaky pinch to his side. He tosses his head back against Ben’s shoulder in helpless snickering, tugging at his arm. “Ch-cheater!”

“I don’t hear you complaining!” Ben shoots back, fingers darting to where his shirt rucked up at his stomach to lay ticklish waste there. They move in a constant clawing motion, gentle because Ben is always gentle, but sadistic in the best worst possible way.

Richie convulses with how hard he laughs. He’s trapped in the most backwards tickle hug to exist, socks slipping on the tile of his kitchen floor, getting tortured by the group’s designated teddy bear.

A wayward finger brushes over the curve of Richie’s hip, sending him jolting even farther into Ben’s lap, tittering. 

“C’mon, Trash mouth. Fess up.”

If Ben thinks he’ll ever tap out, he is sorely mistaken.

“Never!” Richie cries, and then dissolves into cackling when Ben goes straight for his momentarily unprotected armpit.

Neither of them notice when Stanley steps into the doorway and promptly turns to walk back out, not once looking up from his phone.

——————————

Every now and then, Richie forgets that he might actually come off as attractive to the other losers. He’s always jokingly attractive, obviously. ‘Who wouldn’t want a piece of me?’ or ‘Golly, buy me dinner first!’ Are a few easy phrases to throw around, usually with a suggestive cock of his hip or an over exaggerated flutter of his eyelashes, which gets him a laugh now and then.

But like, for realzies? Richie isn’t hot hot, not like Mike or Bill with their big shoulders and mouth-watering biceps, Jesus Christ on a stick. He doesn’t have that cute allure like Eddie or Ben, either. Richie’s just a scrawny friggin beanpole, lanky, unlike the elegant way that Stan and Beverly manage. 

Being so gay is hard sometimes. Everyone looks hotter than you. 

“Rich?” 

He startles out of his musings and comes firmly back to himself where he’s reclined next to Bill on the trampoline, reminded of how his train of thought had gone that route; they’d been messing around until they weren’t, until Bill had cupped his face and brought him into a kiss, and then a fuzzy little parasite called insecurity reared its fugly head.

Richie squashes it down around a dazed smirk, seemingly quelling the momentary unease on Bill’s face. “Yowza.”

Bill snorts and rolls his eyes, plays with the hem of Richie’s “Support Whale Sex: Use Shampoo” shirt. “I thought you weren’t in the mood, for a second.”

“Vat?” Richie cries incredulously, shifting upwards and straddling Bill’s lap. “Bullsheet. Lies.” As if Richie could ever resist a man with legs like that. Damn.

Bill’s smile is genuine when he pulls Richie back down into another kiss, their lips meeting sparking a whole new wave of something in Richie’s chest, so intense that he’s pulling back within a few seconds, “Ven you look like zat? You lift, yes? Vat kind of –“ 

A hand covers his mouth, and Rich realizes that Bill is furrowing his brows at him. “Why are you doing a Voice right now?”

“…I’m nervous.” He apologizes, muffled. 

Bill snorts again as if to say ‘yeah right,’ but his expression softens when Richie doesn’t say anything else. “Nervous, huh?”

Richie nods, then licks Bill’s palm. He pulls it away with a disgusted chuckle, and then.

Then Richie is suddenly on his back, looking up at two dark, mischievous eyes. “Hoo shit.” He whispers. They are not in Kansas anymore.

“You should be.” 

That’s all the warning Richie gets before devilish fingers attack his sides, letting loose a bout of hysterical giggles from somewhere deep in Rich’s stomach. It’s like opening the floodgates every time. A head rush and a half. He squirms immediately, laughing harder when Bill drags him back down and pins him with one forearm against his own.

“Where are you going?” He muses, fond, and Richie’s face blushes ten different shades of crimson.

“B-Bill, please!” He wriggles, fingers clawing uselessly against slick fabric. If he struggles any harder, there’s a good chance the trampoline might start bouncing them for real.

“Please what?” His fingers are skittering up his ribs now, because Bill knows Richie just can’t stand that, and he’s smiling down at him like Richie makes him the happiest he’s ever been, and Richie can’t stand that either.

He squeezes his eyes shut, laughter coming freely the more that Bill tickles up his sides and over his stomach, curling up. Bill doesn’t seem to mind his lack of answer or the way Richie’s knees jerk into his hips, content to pull an endless amount of loud snickering from his partner.

It’s only when Richie arches away with a desperate wheeze that Bill stops what he’s doing, hands rubbing firm circles into the hips he’d just been scritching at - probably a routine he knew well from getting revenge on another particularly bony little shit they knew.

“You’re so - so mean. Gah. I’m taking you out of my will, Billiam.” Richie breathes, reaching up to wipe behind his glasses. 

Bill just chuckles at him and leans down, and they share a soft kiss that makes Richie’s heart flutter in his chest all over again.

——————————

 Kerplunk, sploosh. Kerplunk, sploosh. Kerplunk – 

“Fuck!” Richie jolts with a quiet hiss of surprise, shifting his attention from the lake to the offending pen that had just jabbed his side. Bev, sitting next to him, giggles and points to his textbooks with it. 

“Focus.”

Richie sticks out his upper lip, dropping his handful of pebbles in the grass at his feet. It took him, like, a whole twenty seconds to find those. “I was focused.”

“Focus on your homework, ding dong.” She gestures with her pen again, not looking away from her own book, which she holds easily in one hand. Show off.

Richie grumbles and hunches over, scrubbing a hand over his face. He makes it through two paragraphs before he fidgets again, making to reach in his shirt pocket for a smoke before he realizes, oh, yeah, I’m giving those up. Shit. 

Sometimes character development is just not worth it.

Bev appears to notice the gesture though, because she gently elbows Richie this time, gesturing to the book. “It’s really not so bad. You’ve already gotten through a few pages.”

“Yeah, with like, a bajillion more to go.” He huffs, flipping through the pages one more time before sitting up straight and slapping the table. “That’s it! I quit college.”

“Mhm.” Beverly is far too nonchalant but she can afford to be, since she’s heard the exact same statement fourteen times since the beginning of the semester. Two weeks in and going strong.

“I’m serious this time! I don’t need a degree to be funny, I’ve got that part in the bag. Also, capitalism? Who needs it.”

“Do you really hate classic mythology that much?”

Richie groans and drops his head against the picnic table. “Yes.” He’d thought that it would be cool! Gods and Goddesses and monsters (oh my), but instead he has to bear through three whole paragraphs of a list of men, all sons of other men, because any of that is just so integral to the understanding of the Trojan war. Everyone knows that Achilles was the only real bitch on that battlefield, okay? Literally nothing else matters.

He jumps again, this time snickering, when Bev scribbles at his side. “Hehehey!”

“Cheer up, Tozier. Your vibes are ruining our study date.”

Richie eyes her up, adjusting his glasses. “Are you saying that my vibes are off, Marsh?”

She nods sagely. “They’re atrocious.”

“I’ll have you know that I’ve never failed a single vibe check in my life.” And that isn’t going to change today, no sir. Just ask Eddie, the last time he tried to pull something. 

“You’re gonna fail more than just this vibe check if you don’t do your reading.”

“Not true! I know the stuff, I just… don’t like it.” He’s of the philosophy that memorizing shit just makes it harder to remember. Richie can go over some of the professor’s notes online and be just fine. 

Heaving a sigh, Beverly gets up. She pushes at Richie’s back. “Scoot in.”

“If you say so, ma’am.” Though Richie just complies because he wants to see where this is going. When Beverly slides in behind him, legs on either side of his, he can kinda feel her boobs pressing against his back. Nice.

“Oh hello.” Richie grins, feeling free to press back into her. She smells nice - changed her perfume for some reason - and her presence is a welcome warmth, inviting and –

She blows a raspberry against the back of his neck.

– and a fucking trap!

“Bev!” He jerks forward instantly, shoulders hunching. She follows, nuzzling into the space behind his ear, and Richie shivers violently. “O-oho my gawd, why?!”

“I’m just making sure you pay attention.” She teases, weaving her arms around his chest so that her fingertips rest at his sides, making Richie tense. But nothing comes, yet.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Tickling him is definitely not going to make him want to read more. It’s going to make him want to be tickled. It’s like trying to punish an addict with cocain.

Bev snorts, fingertips wriggling briefly enough to get a squeak and a weak squirm out of him. “Just keep reading. If you slack off, I’ll bring you back!” 

Ah! So simple! Haha! Wow. Genius. 

Richie sighs heavily to indicate how much he turns his nose up at this frankly childish behavior, but reluctantly opens his book back up to where he was before. Admittedly, having Bev close might help his attention span, just slightly. He can feel her cheek resting against his back, ankles brushing his every now and then, and her arms are a soothing weight against his chest. Like the fancy weighted blanket that Eddie uses on his more fidgety days.

That doesn’t stop his attention from drifting occasionally, of course. When he takes a little too long to turn the page, Beverly tweaks his ribs or snuffles at the side of his neck until he lurches forward in a bout of giggles, holding on to the wooden table for support. And sometimes, when his leg starts bouncing of its own free will, she smooths her hand down his thigh and starts squeezing his knee, earning stronger fits of squirming and yelping that even gets her to laugh. What a meanie.

“You have your own stuff to read, you know.” He huffs after a brutal attack to his hips, having nearly torn his page in half. Richie immediately regrets it though, because he doesn’t want her to stop. He silently prays that she doesn’t move, and whoever’s listening grants him a little mercy.

“I know.” She says, nudging his head with hers. Richie reaches for her hand, thinking he might off himself if she doesn’t take his back, but she does, and they sit like that together for a while, listening to nature do its thing.

“Hey, Rich?”

“Yeah?”

She uses her free hand to get at his stomach, and Richie chokes.

��Do your fucking reading.”

——————————

They’re barely three steps through the door before Stan is on Richie like strippers to a pole, pushing him up against the wall and staring him down with so much intensity that Richie doesn’t have enough breath left to ask the obvious question: what the fuck?

He grips his bag with his work outfit inside of it and tries to remember if he did anything particularly annoying on the drive home, but nothing comes to mind other than when he tried to poke Stan’s jaw and he swatted him away. Richie wasn’t actively pursuing anything because that never works with Stan. He’s like a fucking cat that way; if he gets even the slightest bit ruffled, he leaves the room, all indignant and huffy. 

Hence, his confusion at this particular stunt.

That doesn’t last long though, because Stan shakes his head slowly and pulls Richie’s hat off his head, tossing it aside without even looking to see where it goes, which is a very unlike-Stan gesture.

“Stan –?“

“Shut up.”

“Shutting up.”

They look at each other, and Richie nearly trips over himself when Stan starts moving them both backwards, towards his room. Normally that might raise some flags, but they’ve been through scenarios like this before. Richie doesn’t really mind getting pushed around (in fact he might even like it a little bit if his first childhood crush is anything to go by) but not knowing the reason is… fishy.

Stan kicks the door closed behind them, still walking Richie backwards, but grabs a hold of his shirt before he can go tumbling back on the bed. “Here’s how this is going to work.”

“Uh –“ Richie’s already on board.

Stan’s grip tightens, and then Richie’s world goes scrambled for three seconds when he gets pushed - fucking pushed, the nerve - onto the bed, Stanley following after him easy as pie and hovering over him, predatory, focused. “I’m going to tickle you.”

Richie can’t hide the way his body almost seems to curve up at that statement. If his body was a temple, it was a temple to some very traitorous limbs. Stan deciding he wants to do anything even close to roughhousing is a special treat, but this one in particular has Richie’s name on it

He realizes after a beat that Stan is waiting for him to say something, and Richie, in true Richie fashion, momentarily forgets the English language. “Uhm - yes?”

“Good. Put your arms up.” 

That’s not going to last, but Richie does it, and Stan leans in like the sexy Mr. Rogers that he is and… plucks his glasses off his face, sticking them in his shirt pocket. Friggin thief. When did everyone in this house get so bold? “Hey –“

“Can’t risk breaking them.” Stan answers, fingers already slipping under Richie’s shirt to flutter at his sides. Richie wiggles and his complaint trails off into a snicker. Can’t argue with that anyway he guesses.

Stan tickles him like he does everything else: thoroughly, and with dedication. Quick and nimble fingers drill into the spaces between Richie’s ribs, blunt nails scritching down to his sides, then pulling at his jeans just enough to expose his hips, and Stan’s ducking his head and Richie can fucking see those curls, almost, through his blurry, tear-stained vision, helpless with laughter already, grabbing at the head-board -

– And they pause. Stopping is so much than starting. Richie can feel Stan’s breath against his stomach, where his shirt is rucked up, when he speaks. “When’s the last time you took a shower?”

Through giggle-heavy breath, Richie struggles to answer. “Uhm, like, y-yesterday? Wh- fuhuhUCK!” 

He squeals when Stan’s tongue joins the mix, starting at his belly button until he meets the curve of his hip, nibbling along his V-line with so much enthusiasm that Richie thinks he must actually taste like the coffee he smells like. That’s the only explanation for such an assault.

Richie curls in on instinct, hands going for Stan’s hair, but he must anticipate this because he sits up instantly, grabbing Richie’s wrist and glaring at him. Or, he’s probably glaring. He looks like an angry blur at the moment.

It’s…. pretty hot. Not gonna lie.

“I said keep your arms up.” He growls. When Richie slips obediently back into place without question, Stan moves down even further, hoisting Richie’s calve over his shoulder and setting to work again. 

The sweeping motion of his fingertips is not as aggressive as before, though it’s probably because they don’t need to be. Even through the denim, that light swishing motion from his thigh to his knee and back again has him cackling, all reserve flying out the window as he scrambles, pulling at the sheets.

Stan pulls at him in response, taking a firm hold of his ankle and scribbling in a relentless, spidery motion at the back of his knee.

Richie 1. Screeches, then 2. Does his best impression of a hula dancer having a seizure.

Apparently breaking the arm-up rule no longer matters at this point, because Richie is just beside himself in the agonizingly sweet, tingly jolts running through his nervous system, spasming on the bed and doing anything within his physical power to get away from it.

Stan doesn’t let go, though, only moves with him, tickling and tickling. Yes, Richie thinks. Please don’t stop. This has to stop. Don’t stop. Don’t let go. Oh god, this is the fucking worst this sucks this is so good, don’t stop, don’t stop – 

By the time Stan has thoroughly decimated Richie’s thinking capabilities, having seen to it that both legs have received proper attention, Richie is a curled ball of silent, wheezing laugher in the center of the bed. He takes a deep breath only to let out another fresh peal of laughter, shaking, as Stan lays beside him to rub his shoulder.

“Don’t.” He sighs after a few moments of cool down, as if exasperated, but it sounds fond. 

“Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh while you were killing me, I’ll take note of that for next time.” Richie snarks, sniffling and wiping at his eyes.

“No, I mean don’t whine like that.”

Richie whined? “Like what?”

“Like the minute someone stops touching you, it’ll never happen again.” Stan explains patiently, like it’s obvious, twisting one of Richie’s curls around a slender finger and, for now, neglecting to mention how he needs a hair cut.

Oh, that… that – “You don’t know that.” He defends feebly, accepting his glasses when they’re pushed into his palm. Sometimes he forgets how easy it is for Stan to just look at him and see him. It’s unnerving how perceptive he can be, and possibly just as unnerving how much Richie wants to be seen, scary as that might be. He’s had killer clown dreams that terrify him less, and yet.

“I do,” Stan disagrees, making room for Richie to turn over. Neither of them are surprised when Richie ducks his head to hide his face in Stan’s button-up, cheeks burning pink from more than just exertion. “You make it painfully obvious, but it’s a ridiculous fear. There’s six other people in this house. No one’s going to stop touching you unless you ask them to.”

Richie snorts into Stan’s chest. Fat fucking chance.

Still, there’s always that lingering Voice - the one that sounds most like himself - asking him if six people will be enough. Richie Tozier has not one, but six partners and he still wonders if that attention is enough. Talk about high maintenance.

Richie closes his eyes and just enjoys Stan’s hand in his hair, trying not to think about that too much, even as he counts down the seconds to that touch stopping too. “Is it…annoying?”

“That you like tickling? No.” Stan scratches at the base of his neck and Richie hums, pressing closer. “It’s only annoying that you think it’s going to go away.”

Well fuck him, Richie can’t just control how he feels about it, okay? It’s not like he hasn’t tried before. It’s hard, he doesn’t want to think about it, he doesn’t want anything good in his life to ever end, and he especially doesn’t want Stan to stop tracing the curve of his ear like that.

Two fingers tilt his chin up, and Richie blinks back at Stan’s surprisingly soft eyes. “It’s not going to stop.” He murmurs, then kisses Richie’s forehead. 

It hits him harder than a baseball bat to the gut. How did Richie Tozier die? It was the curly twink in the bedroom with unconditional love.

That being said, it’s not like he doesn’t appreciate the reassurance, even if it makes him the slightest bit vulnerable. Just a little too open. A little too raw. Tickling allows him to be like that for a short while, and maybe that’s why Richie likes it so much. Instant satisfaction, zero commitment, and it’s fun too. No arcade game or cold shower can scratch an itch for something like that.

He smiles back up at Stan and took his hand so he could kiss the back of it. A moment of mushy, romantic weakness if you will. “Aw, Staniel. You make me blush. If you wanted to woo me so badly you could have put on some judge Judy and those cute little pajama pants, maybe with some ice cream - no, definitely with some ice cream -“

Stan sighs but indulges Richie in his rambling, fingers trailing through his hair all the while. Things have already shifted back into normal territory, but there’s this new, unspoken truce between Richie and this obsession of his - the confirmation that each of his partners knows what he needs, when he needs it, and that they’re not going to drop-kick him out of their lives for asking for it one too many times. It’s nice to have something consistent in his life.

But if those six losers think they don’t have the same exact fate lingering over their heads, they have no idea what force they’re reckoning with. Richie is nothing if not a giver, and he intends to deliver their due retribution.

In full.

[mldrgrl]

Bang Bang, My Baby Shot Me Down

by mldrgrl Rated: PG Summary: Post-Tithonus.  Mulder makes a confession that Scully can’t agree with and ends up getting herself (more) hurt in the process.

She tried very hard not to resent his hovering, but it was a difficult task.  She was grateful, truly grateful to him for staying in New York and for driving her back home as soon as she could get herself released.  Though her relationship with Mulder had some ups and downs lately, she had felt, at the time, that allowing him to escort her back to DC was an easier option than calling her mother.  At least she could bid Mulder adieu at her door, or so she thought.

Displaying more stubbornness than usual, Mulder insisted on seeing her comfortably ensconced in her apartment, which meant not just bringing her, and her bag, inside, but changing her sheets, getting her videos from Blockbuster, books to read, and groceries.  She let him run all the errands he could think of because at least it got him out from underfoot.  She just wanted to be alone with her pain and not have to pretend to be fine for anyone.  Pretense was exhausting.

One of the more frustrating aspects of the nature of her gunshot wound was that no matter which way she turned, sat, lay, or breathed, she always felt a slight burning in her abdomen.  Even if she was making a remarkably speedy recovery, something the doctors attributed to her overall health and fitness, it didn’t mean the healing was easy.  Alone, she would’ve felt free to give in to the need to groan or curse in frustration.  With Mulder there, she had to hide her grimaces.  The smallest squeak and he was by her side asking if she was all right and what he could do.

She had been laying in bed for over an hour, propped up slightly by a pillow and lightly dozing.  All that morning, whenever she sat up or stood up, a hot and cold flush would wash over her and she’d sway slightly with the feeling of being faint.  It was an aftereffect of the blood loss, she knew, but the little pauses she took to collect herself had kept Mulder on her like a barnacle since she’d woken up and found him making oatmeal in her kitchen.  She finally escaped him by feigning the need for a nap, which turned out to be the truth.

She heard the shuffle of Mulder’s feet outside her bedroom door, but she didn’t open her eyes.  The door, which she kept ajar at his insistence, eked open and she felt his presence in her room.  He whispered her name and she sighed, but kept her eyes closed.

“Yes?” she answered.

“Just wondering what kind of soup you want for lunch.”

“Go away, Mulder.”

“The doctor said you-”

“I don’t care what the doctor said,” she snapped and opened her eyes, annoyed and feeling smothered.  “Why won’t you just go home?”

“I took the hippocratic oath before we left New York and it compels me to stay.”

“Well, I release you of your self-imposed indentured servitude.”

“I can’t do that, Scully.”

She sighed in exasperation and pushed herself up, gritting her teeth against the flare of throbbing pain it caused in her abdomen.  The icy hot chill ran up her spine and a sheen of sweat instantly bloomed across her chest, making her flannel shirt stick to her skin slightly.  She sucked in a breath as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and Mulder put his hands on her knees as though she might fall.  She flung his hands away from her and he stumbled back with a look of shock on his face.

“Go home,” she growled.

“Scully, you need-”

“What I need is for you to leave me alone.”  Her stomach began to burn with nausea and she swallowed hard to keep it down.  “You’re not responsible for what happened, so just quit it with the guilt complex and go home.  I’ll be fine.  What I don’t need is this...this hovering and smothering and...and whatever it is that you’re doing here.  I can take care of myself.”

Mulder blinked a few times and pursed his lips.  She blew out a shaky breath and bent her head a little.  Her muscles ached terribly and she had to slap a hand over her mouth as she felt the burn of bile rising from her gut to her throat. 

With lightning reflexes, Mulder grabbed the wicker trash can that was at the side of her bed and held it up under her face.  It took a few moments, but she finally shook her head and pushed his arm away.  Her lips were wet from the pressure of her hand and she wiped them with her sleeve.  Her shoulders tensed when Mulder tried to put a hand on her back.

“Go,” she whispered.

“This isn’t about guilt,” he said.

“I don’t care what it’s about.  I don’t want you here.”

“I won’t think less of you for needing-”

“Dammit, Mulder, what I need is for you to get the hell out!” she exploded.  “Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

Her outburst caused another flash of heat to rush through her, this time from her toes to her scalp.  Prickles of sweat dotted her hairline and the skin under her eyes and above her lip and the back of her neck.  Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she was making herself worse, but if only Mulder would just leave, she could deal with it.  It was her pain to deal with, and hers alone.

“You’re in pain,” Mulder said.

“Well thank you, Dr. Mulder, for stating the obvious.  It’s called getting shot.  It’s also called recovery, something I’m perfectly capable of achieving on my own.”

“Jesus, Scully, is that what this is about?”  He tried to put a hand on her shoulder again, but she shrugged him off.  She was too hot and it hurt too much for him to touch her.  He backed away from her and clenched his fists at his sides.  His posture was rigid.

“Go,” she said.

“No.”

“Go!”

“You don’t get to choose who you fall in love with,” he shouted at her.  “It’s not fair, but you don’t!  When you’re in pain, I’m in pain.  I just want to help.  Dammit, Scully, I just want to make you soup, because there’s nothing else I can do!”

She gaped at him.  He paced away from her and threw up his hands in the annoyed, dismissive manner he had a habit of doing when she refuted one of his outlandish theories.

“Don’t look so surprised,” he said.  “It shouldn’t come as such a shock, and it’s not the point.”

“Now you want to tell me how I should feel?”

This time is was Mulder that gaped.  He stared at her for a long while and then his mouth snapped shut and his jaw clenched.  He turned, but paused in her doorway.  They were both still and silent for a long stretch of time.  Without looking at her, he broke that silence with a hushed and strained voice.

“Call me if you need anything,” he said, and then he lowered his head and chuckled.  “I guess I’ll see you when you’re cleared for desk duty.”

After he walked away, she waited until she heard the front door open and close before she slid off the bed and stood on shaky legs.  The nerve of him for dropping a bomb on her like that at a time when she couldn’t fight back.  She was angry.  So angry.

If he had told her he loved her, she could handle that.  She could roll her eyes and forgive him for being his typical jackass self.  But, what did he know about being in love with someone?  How could he say that to her?  It was cruel and it was unfair.  If it was a fight he was looking for, she was too weak to argue.  Honestly, how dare he?

She slowly made her way to the kitchen, taking light, easy steps.  A hand on the wall or the furniture helped.  On the counter was six different kinds of canned soup, two bowls, and two spoons.  A can opener sat on top of the can of chicken noodle.  She knocked it off and it landed in the sink with a clatter.  There was a slip of paper behind the cans, a list of some sort in Mulder’s handwriting.  She picked it up.

Softer pillow for the couch That removable handle thing for the shower from that infomercial Those girly sponges with the soap inside - the mall body shop? Water bottles More gauze and tape? Relaxation CD (Enya?) Decaf coffee Anti-itch stuff

“God dammit,” she muttered, crumpling the list in her hand and hurling it across the counter.

With slow, calculated steps, she made her way to the living room and eased herself down onto the couch.  There was a stack of Blockbuster videos on her coffee table and she studied the eclectic choices from afar.  L.A. Confidential.  Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.  Die Hard.  Invasion of the Body Snatchers.  Dr. No.  The Neverending Story.  The Swiss Family Robinson.

Her brow furrowed with puzzlement.  There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the choices Mulder made.  When it dawned on her, she closed her eyes and bit her lip.  Nothing in that group was liable to make her laugh or cry.  

So what?  So what if he did all these thoughtful things for the first time in six years.  Okay, that wasn’t true, he’d done a lot of thoughtful things for her in six years, but none of it meant he was in love with her.  In love meant...in love meant...she didn’t know what in love meant.  Certainly, that couldn’t be true.  It might have been awhile, but she knew what being in love was like.

She thought back on her past and tried to recall the way she had felt about Jack and Daniel.  Daniel had captivated her and thrilled her with his want for her; it was the first time she’d ever experienced being pursued so passionately.  He was the first man to call her beautiful and to make her feel like her intelligence was something to be desired.  She’d been in awe of his confidence and his brilliance.  She did love him, but she also had to admit to herself that he also left her feeling unnerved most of the time.  He could be belittling and controlling and when they disagreed, she often felt reduced to that of a teenager with a hopeless schoolgirl crush.  Quite often, it seemed like he was trying to convince her that she should consider herself lucky to have caught his eye.  

The enthrallment with Daniel dissipated and it soon became clear she was just the other woman.  He was living a double life and she was a burden to him.  When she’d tried to walk away, he’d told her he would leave his wife and child for her.  That had caught her off guard and she did give the notion serious consideration.  She tried to see her future as his wife and all she could envision was heartache.

When Jack entered her life, she was initially reticent about her feelings for him.  He was yet another older and wiser teacher figure that she grew enamored of.  She admired his passion and dedication to justice.  When he spoke about making the world safer and making a difference, it moved her, inspired her, and she felt a great connection with him.  His lofty, selfless ideals made him irresistibly attractive to her and in the end, she did the pursuing.

Because the affair with Daniel had left her feeling young and naive, she felt like an adult for the first time when she was with Jack.  She had far more control in that relationship than with Daniel.  It didn’t take long for her to realize the reason she played a dominant role was because the only thing Jack was truly passionate about was his work, not her.  He wasn’t giving her independence, he just never really cared enough about her to require her presence.  When she finally left, she wasn’t quite sure he really noticed.

Those were the two men in her life that she’d been the closest to being in love with, but she couldn’t conjure up the feelings she’d had past mere infatuation.  The difficulties in the end overshadowed whatever else had been there.

She had no idea how to define her feelings for Mulder.  Yes, she did love him.  They were too close and had been through too much together for her not to feel some sort of love for him.  He certainly had a combination of the qualities Jack and Daniel had that had initially enchanted her, but that she wasn’t so foolish to fall for again.  He was brilliant and passionate and confident and dedicated.  But, he was also narrow-minded, moody, unpredictable, and needy.

The nature of their relationship was not what she wanted to be thinking about with an aching gut and lethargic body.  She should be focusing on putting mind over matter and convincing herself that the pain was a necessary, temporary evil that she could work through.  Angry, she pushed herself up from the couch, got caught up in the blanket that fell at her feet in her rage, and hit the floor, narrowly missing the coffee table as she went down.

For just a moment, there was no discomfort, only the shock of the fall, and then a sharp, blinding pain exploded from her abdomen and radiated outward.  She moaned in agony, couldn’t stop herself from clutching at her stomach as though the press of her hands could stop it, but it made it worse.  She felt wet and didn’t know if it was from sweat or blood, terrified she’d ripped her stitches, but unable to lift her head to check.

Her arm was about the only thing she could lift and her fingers fumbled for purchase on the coffee table.  By some miracle, her cell phone was the first thing in reach and she clutched it gratefully and hit speed dial number one.  It rang for an unusually long amount of time before Mulder picked up.  The tone in his voice was flat when he said his name.  She swallowed the pain and tried not to sound as breathless as she felt.

“Come back,” she said.

“What do you need?” he asked.

She licked her lips and breathed through her nose.  “I need you to please come back.”

“Why?”

“If you don’t come to me, I’ll come to you.”  Obviously it was a lie, she wasn’t going anywhere.  She couldn’t even get off the floor, but she knew if she threatened to do something dangerous and stupid, he would stop her at all costs.

“I’ll be right there.”

The click of disconnection was loud in her ear.  She figured she had twenty to thirty minutes, tops, to try not to look so helpless.  Tears burned at her eyes and slid hotly down her temples and she angrily wiped them away, but they kept up a steady stream.  It was ridiculous.  She didn’t even cry when she’d been shot, yet there she was, lying on her floor feeling sorry for herself and crying.  She needed to pull herself together before Mulder got there to preserve at least some of her dignity.

The sound of locks turning startled her and she heard her front door swing open while Mulder softly called her name.  She wiped at her eyes, but couldn’t suppress the pitiful sniffle that drew him to her.

“Scully!”

“I’m fine,” she said, automatically.

He crouched beside her and shoved the coffee table out of the way.  “You are not fine.  What happened?”

“What are you doing here?”

“You called me.”

“I know, but you left at least half an hour ago.”

He shrugged.  “I was sitting in my car.”

“Doing what?”

“Thinking.”

“I tripped,” she whispered, and her chin wobbled as a fresh wave of emotion came over her.

He slid his hand under her neck and lifted her head gently to slip one of her throw pillows underneath and then wiped her temples with the side of his hand after he laid her down.  “Should I call an ambulance?” he asked.

She shook her head, but then her eyes flicked down to her abdomen.  “I don’t know if I ripped a stitch.”

“Do you want me to check?”

“Could you?”

“Okay.”  He started to unbutton her flannel shirt at the bottom, working his way up just enough to expose her wound.  

She watched his face until she felt his fingers lightly trace the square area of surgical tape holding down the gauze covering her wound.  She didn’t see any blood, which was a good sign.  He was going to need to pull the tape off though so they could determine if there was any damage.  She closed her eyes.

“Just...peel from the top down,” she said.

“Okay.”  

He put one hand on her ribs, above her wound and just below her breast.  She wasn’t sure if he was trying to steady himself or her.  She bit her lip when he started to peel the tape back.  It didn’t hurt much more than she already was hurting, but it did slightly elevate the aggravation.

“Looks fine,” he said.  “I think.”

She opened her eyes inspected the site.  The stitches were intact and aside from the same normal redness and swelling, it looked okay.  She nodded in agreement and closed her eyes again.

“Do I need to get a new bandage?” he asked.

“In the bathroom.”

He left her and then returned with the package of gauze, tape, and scissors that were given to her at the hospital.  He’d also pulled out a pair of latex gloves from the box she’d put out with the supplies.  They were sized for her hands and would never fit him.

“Let me,” she said, taking the gloves from him as he knelt beside her.  He gave them up wordlessly and after she snapped them on, gave her the package of gauze.  She plucked out one of the sheets and folded it into a small square.  “Could you cut the tape?” she asked.

She held the gauze lightly over her wound as Mulder cut strips of tape and gently affixed them to her skin.  She peeled the gloves off when he was done and he buttoned her shirt back down before he took the supplies back to the bathroom.  He crouched down next to her again when he came back and looked her over.

“Would you like to get off the floor?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I don’t know.”

He rubbed his hand across his chin a few times and then got down on his hands and knees.  She watched him as he crawled over her at an angle, one hand between her hip and the couch and the other up high by her opposite shoulder.  He leaned down so their noses were almost touching and her eyes widened a bit in surprise.  

“Can you put her arms around me?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He nodded and then angled his head to the side and lowered himself down even further to his elbow.  She wrapped both her arms around his neck and he slid his arm under her thighs.

“I’m gonna lift you up,” he said.  “Just stay relaxed, but keep your arms locked.”

She nodded against his cheek and he slowly tilted his upper body so that hers rose up with his.  When she was nearly sitting up, he wrapped his arm around her back and paused.  She nodded against his cheek again to let him know she was alright, and then he rearranged himself to get up on his knees and lift her up into his arms.

“Okay?” he asked once he was completely on his feet.

“I’m okay.”  Her face was pressed against his neck where her arms were locked tight.  Her upper body was erect and slightly angled into him, but it was comfortable and less painful than having been sprawled out on the floor.

“Where would you like to go?” he asked.

“Back to bed.”

He walked slowly to her bedroom, careful not to jostle her and overly cautious about moving her through the narrow hall and doorway so they wouldn’t accidentally bump a wall.  He eased her onto the bed and lowered her in much the same way he’d lifted her, slowly and in stages, moving with her so that he was doing all the work.  Once he let go of her, he stood back and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“I can call your mother,” he said.  “Someone should be here in case…”

She gave him a slight nod.  “You’re probably right.”

“I’ll stay until she gets here.  I’ll just...I’ll be in the other room.”

“Mulder.”

“What?”

“I need you to know that I don’t think I’m in the same place that you are.”

He dropped his head and looked uncomfortable.  “Just forget about it, Scully.  I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I don’t want to forget about it.  I want to know how you’re sure that what you feel is really what you think it is.”

“You think I wouldn’t know?”

“I think it could be mistaken.  I think I’ve been mistaken in the past and I...I’m not sure I would know what it felt like.  So, I’m asking because I just don’t know.  I just...don’t know.”

“Oh.”  He looked a little surprised at that and moved one of his hands out of his pockets to rub the back of his head.  “You’re the first thing I think about in the morning.  As I’m getting ready for work I’m usually wondering what kind of mood you’ll be in, if I should get you coffee, what you’ll be wearing, if you’ll have a different haircut from the day before, if you’ll have finally forgotten to cover the mole above your lip, stupid things like that.  If I get a new case before I see you, I wonder what you’ll think before I try to determine what I think.  When I go home at night, I think of excuses to call you because I miss your voice even though we only said goodbye an hour before.  When the call came through that an agent had been shot, and that it was you, I don’t even remember driving to New York, I only remember needing to be there and needing you to be okay.  Maybe I am mistaking it for something else, but it feels real to me.”

All the things he said had definitely not existed in her past relationships.  She was surprised by most of it, because she was never made to feel like a priority to him, and she didn’t mean that negatively.  He’d hidden his feelings very well, but she would admit that it felt genuine.

“There are other thoughts too,” he said.  “Ones I can’t say because they’d just embarrass us both and would probably get me fired.”

She felt a blush rise to her cheeks and she lowered her eyes a bit.  Of course attraction played an important part of being in love, and even with all Mulder’s flirtatious banter, it never crossed her mind that he might actually find her attractive.  Not in the way that someone in love would feel.

“Say something, Scully, you’re making me nervous.”

“I had no idea.”

“None?”

“Not even a little.”

“Either I’m the world’s biggest idiot or you need to quit your day job.  And I think we both know you’re the best thing the FBI has to offer.”

“You know I’m not very good at needing people.”

“You don’t say?”  He smiled at her and she gave him a small smile in return.

“I can’t really claim to have the same perspective.  It’s different for me.  I think I need time to examine my own thoughts before I can come to a conclusion.”

“That’s what you do best.”

She reached her hand out to him and he took a step forward, but didn’t slip his fingers into hers.  He took her wrist instead and moved her hand back down to the bed.  He brushed his thumb along hers once and then stepped back again.

“I’ll go call your mom,” he said.

“Before you do that, would you think i was taking advantage of you if I asked you to make me some soup?”

“Scully, you know you could take advantage of me six ways from Sunday any time, any place.”  He grinned and it earned him an eye roll.  “Yes, I’ll make you soup.  Which one do you want?”

“Chicken and rice?”

“Coming right up.”

She watched him leave with a bit of sadness.  She wanted to be in the same place Mulder was and feel those things he felt.  When she’d said to him that she was bad at needing people, what she really meant was that she wasn’t sure if she was capable of sharing herself with someone.  She was too damn independent for her own good.  She didn’t know what it was going to take, but she wanted to love him the way that he loved her.  It didn’t sound like much, but letting him make her soup was a start.

The End