#Phase lock loops

[wliam2ttrr]

https://www.futureelectronics.com/p/semiconductors--wireless-rf--receiver-ics/clrc63201t-0fe-112-nxp-2283646

NXP, CLRC63201T/0FE,112, Wireless & RF Receiver ICs

CLRC632 Series Multiple Protocol Contactless Reader IC (MIFARE/I-CODE1) -SOIC-32

[boinin]

I know no one cares about another random Spotify Wrapped... but my nerd credentials are showing in this year's and since I'm sure as fuck not sharing this with my normie friends, I'll share it with you guys ⚽🧩

[electronalytics]

Optical Phase Locked Loops Market

[starktonyx]

Moral of the story - John Walker x reader

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Word count: 5.6k

Requested by anon: John Walker x reader based on the song Moral of the Story by Ashe . They used to be married with no kids, after tfaws she left him only to come across him during the events of thunderbolts. John attempts to reconnect with her as he never stopped loving her.

Description: You never expected to be blindly sent to kill your ex-husband, but when you cross paths again in looping shame rooms, it’s like going through the pain all over again.

Tags/Warnings: Language. So much ANGST. John being an emotional rollercoaster. Shame rooms. Lots of fighting and regret.

Note: This turned out longer than expected but I loved writing this (my angsty heart is thriving) I'm currently obsessed with this man so expect more about him.

Masterlist

John Walker liked to think he always had the answer to everything. Or at least, most of the time. His brain ran on tactical planning, constant gears grinding with strategy and precision. He was the guy who accounted for every variable, every angle, every possible risk.

But right now? He had no idea how the hell he'd ended up in this situation. Out of all the threats he could've anticipated, out of all the variables he could've ever considered, he sure as hell never expected one of them to be named Bob.

Yes, Bob.

The weird guy that popped out of nowhere, in a bunker buried in the middle of nowhere.

That clean slate Valentina had promised him seemed to be slipping from his fingers by the minute. It was the last thing he could afford himself to screw up, with all his past failures clinging to him like heavy chains.

And yet here he was, stuck with the blonde he'd been sent to kill, a phasing assassin, and Bob.

Middle of fucking nowhere.

"Come on Bobby, you missed legs, arms and torso day" John mocked him, as he pulled him out the elevator shaft they were using to escape.

But the moment Bob's hand touched his, the world around him melted into a black shadow as it shifted around him.

The once warm air went stiff, cold.

When he turns around, he's suddenly back in his bedroom. Those godforsaken walls he once shared with you.

He takes a step forward, his pulse accelerating, and he's met with a scene his mind only replays when he isn't punching someone, when it gets too quiet.

And the first thing he sees, is you.

The ghost of you standing by the bedroom door in front of him, arms folded tight over your chest like they were the only thing holding you together.

It was too quiet, almost, the only sound being the zipper of a duffel bag his past self had thrown onto the bed.

"You're leaving already?" you past self broke the silence, voice so soft it barely reached him.

You didn't sound angry. You didn't even look like you had the energy to fight, not anymore.

John takes a step forward, watching how his past self didn't even throw a glance your way. The prick was too busy yanking dirty clothes from the bag and swapping them out for clean ones.

"You just got here" you mumbled, quieter now when he didn't answer.

John remembered this moment differently. He remembered you nagging, picking up a fight. But standing here now, watching like some unwilling spectator in a memory he didn't want to relive he really saw it, saw ... you.

Staring at him with glossy eyes, looking like not one single bone in your body wanted to fight him that day. You just stood there, still hoping that somehow this time it would land, that he would listen.

"Yeah, well" He muttered, eyes locked on a dirty torn off pair of boots he needed to get rid off. "Val needs me again. You already know how it fucking goes."

A quiet sob was caught in your throat. He saw now how you tried to swallow it, like you'd done a hundred times before.

"I haven't seen you in weeks, John. Is it really that easy for you to leave me? Every goddamn time?" you said quietly.

And fuck, he cursed when he heard it, it didn't even sound bitter. It was desperate, tired.

He scoffed, and let out that bitter, dismissive laugh he always pulled when he didn't want to feel anything. "Jesus Christ, are we doing this again?"

He didn't stop packing, like the answer to all his problems was hidden in a pair of socks rather than just turning around to look at you.

"Doing what, John? You choosing to leave every time instead of fucking talking to me?"

There it was, the anger he remembered.

"Then yes, John, we're doing it again. It's always your need to feel important. Like if you're not out there 'saving the world' you're nothing in here" you finally snapped. The ache in your chest made your words feel sour as they left your mouth.

That's what got under his skin. He saw it in the way his past self stiffened, jaw tightening with that same goddamn temper he could never quite control.

"You think I like doing this? You think I like risking my ass every time to come home to this? To another one of your guilt trips?" He's yelling at this point, throwing the holster in his hand back in his bag.

You looked like you'd been slapped.

"This?" you repeated stunned, pointing at yourself with your hands. "You mean me? I'm this'"

He turned to the door then, finally. But not to deny it, or to apologize or to even spare one single glance at you. It was to grab a jacket hanging on the doorknob.

He didn't say anything. Just grabbed his duffel bag and tossed it over his shoulder like the argument was some inconvenience he could just walk away from.

He keeps pretending to ignore you when he walks past you by the door, but a hand pressed to his chest stops his getaway.

"This is the last time I'm asking you to stay" You warned him. The lump in your throat betrayed you, what you wanted to sound firm came out like a child plea.

He didnt even flinch. He brushed it off and kept walking, thinking he'd come back home in a day or two, bring some takeout and fuck it out like always.

"Jonathan..." Your voice sobbed his name as he made his way to the front door.

Yet still, he never looked back. And neither did you.

That was the day you gave up on him. He remembers coming back a few days later, your favorite takeout in hand, only to find a half empty closet, empty drawers.

An empty home.

And now? Now it burned him watching it from the outside. Watching you blink away tears while he was too busy being an asshole.

His eyes burned, as his heart clawed its way up into a painful knot his throat.

He snaps back to reality when Yelena calls out to him. All eyes watching him, but his were locked in the tempting elevator's dark void.

What the fuck are you doing, John?

They’ll see right through your bullshit.

"Im fine" He said, a little too quick for comfort.

But with a plastic smile plastered on his face, his mask falls back into place like muscle memory.

Once again, how the hell did he end up in this situation?

And because karma seemed to have fun making John Walker's life even more miserable, he'd ended up tied in a half collapsed gas station.

Hostage to none other than Bucky Barnes.

Naturally, he just couldn't help himself to mock Bucky's absurd political position. Though in his defense, the bastard kept gettting on his nerves. They already knew each other, so why was Bucky being such an idiot about the whole Bob situation?

So John did what he always does. He fucked around and, as usual, found out.

"Yes. I know you, John" Bucky’s tone was calm, but the hint of a smirk hid behind his words. "And you've made your choices. I know it's been hard since your wife left you, but that is no one's fault but yours"

The cruel words rolled out his tongue like he's been waiting to throw them in his face since he found him in the blown up limo they'd use to escape.

John just stares at him for a second, then his eyes drift to a particular paint chipping spot on the wall.

Yelena turned towards him, lips parted in surprise.

'I've got a gorgeous wife waiting for me at home' she remembered him saying it back in the bunker.

Liar.

Yelena had believed him back there. She knew a thing or two about John Walker, having read his file, recalled your name and picture being printed out next to 'affiliations'.

Must've been exhausting carrying that rage for two, was her first thought, but she wouldn't say it out loud. Not when he was giving her that kicked puppy look.

Cause he didn't shy away from her eyes, didn't say a thing. All he could do was give a small, tight shrug that said it all: add it to the fucking list of things I've screwed up.

Yelena didnt press further.

He was grateful for that, and for Ava being too busy bickering with Alexei to pester him any further about the matter.

But then, Bucky's stance shifted.

"Shhh" he hissed, hand going up to his lips. Alexei and Ava immediately stopped talking.

In a different occasion John could've laughed at the sight of Bucky Barnes looking like a guard dog about to bite, but if he was tensing up like that, it couldn't mean anything good for anyone. So he listened.

That's when he heard it too. An almost undetectable soft thump, but his enhanced hearing catches it. It was the slight creek of metal, straight above them.

"Someone's on the roof" John said at the same time as Bucky.

Everyone looked up. But before anyone could think about what it could be, the ceiling exploded.

The roof came crashing down in a cloud of smoke and ash. The room burst in chaos between shouting and coughing, debris flying everywhere as a smoke grenade rolled past their feet. All John could see was the flicker of Yelena's widow bites glowing blue as the haze blinded the room.

Then, a pair of boots landed hard on the floor.

He hears some struggle between Bucky and the unknown intruder, and then a thud of heavy metal hitting the floor. It must've been Bucky's arm slamming against the concrete.

Someone had taken him down.

"I'm not here for you" the intruder said, a woman's voice muffled by a mask.

John instantly frowned. Even with the sound of debris falling down and the fighting in the room that muffled voice sounded familiar to him.

"I don't care" Bucky growled back.

The fight went on, blows landing hard and fast. Whoever she was, was determined to take him out.

But Bucky was the fucking Winter Soldier.

John feels Yelena drop next to him, then what must've been Ava falling unconscious as well, as the smoke hit their systems.

"Lena!" Alexei shouts.

"Okay now, what the fuck is going on?" John choked out, coughing.

He hears the fight halt for a second when he spoke.

The intruder recognized the voice. His voice.

You recognized his voice.

Bucky got the upper hand at the distraction, catching your wrist mid swing. He slams you to the ground with a quick motion, pinning you down with his knee and pressing his metal hand against your throat.

You gasped, struggling, eyes wide with fear under the mask. Next thing you knew his gun was pointed at your head.

As the dust cleared enough for John to see the scene, his face turns to horror.

He sees the mask, and immediately knows.

You're about to get blasted into next week by Bucky.

"Bucky–Stop! Stop! It's Y/N!"

John broke his cuffs in one go, his arms fighting against the bent rod holding him back.

Bucky froze, confused. He ripped off your mask, and there you were, gasping for air. Still beneath his knee, throat red where his hand had been.

"Shit" Bucky breathed, when he recognized you. But before he could lift his weight off you, John tackled him to the ground.

The girls jolted back to consciousness at once. Coughing as they sat up.

"What the hell is going on?" Yelena rasped, seeing John on top of Bucky and you standing beside them.

"Man come on, I didn't know it was her!" Bucky snapped, twisting beneath John to shove him off.

You sat up in your spot on the floor, coughing, one hand still braced against your throat.

And then you saw him, that voice you heard. God, it had been years.

"John?" you said, voice hoarse. You wished it really wasn't him.

He pried his eyes off Bucky without loosening his grip, and half turned to you.

"Oh, you have to be kidding me" You curse, a hand covering your face.

It was really him.

You pushed yourself to your feet, ignoring the pain. "Get off him you idiot, I'm fine"

John didn't argue. Just got up and backed off, hands on his hips.

Everyone stared at him like he'd just grown second head. Why didn't he protest?

Bucky immediately got to his feet, annoyed, brushing dust from his shirt.

"So ... who even are you?" Ava asked. She was still tied up and this was getting annoying.

"Y/N Walker," Yelena replied, the name burned into her memory from that file.

"That's not my name anymore," you snapped, too fast, too sharp.

John's jaw clenched, eyes going back to that same chipped spot on the wall.

"Wait, you were his wife?" Ava asked, incredulous. "What, Steve Rogers wasn't available?"

Bucky bit his tongue to keep himself from saying something.

"Ava..." Yelena warned, voice low.

As much as Yelena might've loved to take a jab at Walker herself, she didn't, his expression had left a feeling on her chest that stuck to her more than it should've.

"No but really, where'd you even find this guy?" Ava pressed on, like the idea of you marrying John Walker had personally offended her.

You turned slowly, your glare enough to shut her up for half a second.

"Give me a fucking break, Ava. When you're young, you fall in love with the wrong people sometimes." you snapped, without even thinking.

The words tasted like regret as soon as they came out. And you knew the way John stiffened meant they landed like a blade on him.

His gaze burned the side of your head.

If he'd only looked at you like that then.

"Is no one going to mention she tried to kill Mr. Soldier?" Alexei chimed in, at least the drama was interesting.

"I wasn't going to kill him," you muttered, rolling your eyes. "I just needed to knock him out long enough to get rid of you—"

You pause, the pieces clicking together.

"Goddammit. Valentina." You muttered under your breath.

That bitch. She'd really sent you to kill your ex husband without even telling you. What is he going to think about you? That this is what you'd turned into?

"Wait–you work for Valentina now?" John asked, like the words physically hurt, like he couldn't believe that's the path you had taken.

"It's not like that, John," you sighed, suddenly aware of how many eyes were watching. "I was angry at everything. At you. I figured... if running helped you escape your life, maybe it would help me too."

He didn't speak, but you saw it in his face. The guilt, the disbelief.

Had Val gotten to you the same way she got to him?

"She told me she lost a facility to some rogue agents" you explained, more to yourself than to anyone else.

"Yeah" Yelena cut in, "Because she tried to kill us."

You blinked. And suddenly, it all made sense.

You turned back to John.

“She didn't tell me you were one of them."

Your eyes locked on his, for some reason needing him to believe you. To see the truth in you, if nothing else. He barely nodded, but it was enough.

And then, from the corner, Ava scoffed.

"Pfft... perfect family" Ava muttered under her breath, shaking her head at the lie he'd told.

It had been perfect once, you thought. The dates. The proposal. The wedding. The honeymoon. The house with the porch swing.

The high school sweethearts who got married right after graduation because you couldn't keep your hands off each other.

The partying, the late night drives, the making out in parking lots, it was reckless and "romantic", all that was okay as teenagers.

But running wild has a way of turning volatile.

And then suddenly you were grown ups, trying to build a life, a home, a future. But your boy? he only knew how to fight. Maybe for the country. Maybe with you. Maybe both.

That's what he loved, really. The fighting. The heat.

Screaming, slamming doors and then fucking it off was the usual. The real break? Was when there was no more yelling, the unbearable silence.

Silence in a home you thought was built on love. Turns out it was just paper house you burned out.

All that "marry your high school sweetheart, build a dream life behind a stupid white picket fence" bullshit?

Propaganda. Nothing more than that, a fraud.

You weren't perfect, you knew that. Maybe you were even selfish. But was it selfish to want to be wanted?

To want John to look at you like your company meant more than his next mission?

It didn't seem fair.

You thought you had your lives figured out. But then he was made Captain America. You were there when he went to the army. When he lost people. When the world turned its back on him.

But when he got the serum? It was different.

All that pressure. The eyes on him. Expectations he could never live up to, no matter how right he tried to follow the orders.

And he tried. God, he tried. But the weight of it all twisted something in him.

He started carrying it alone like he had to. Like letting you see the cracks would make them real. He stopped talking, started shutting you out.

And in the end, the silence between you became permanent.

So it wasn't the fight, the heat, or that stupid shield what got to you.

It was the quiet between two people who forgot how to ask each other for help.

—

It all happened too quickly. Even for John.

One second you were helping a little boy who fell, the next he saw you dive straight to push Yelena, shoving her away from a collapsed beam.

You barely dodge it.

But now there you were, in the middle of the chaos, standing directly in Sentry's line of sight.

John saw the way your body stiffened. You knew it. And he knew it too.

You made eye contact with him, just long enough to hold the blue of his eyes. That look, carved into his memory forever, like you were trying to memorize his face, like this would be the last time you'd see him.

He was horrified. He wanted to scream. He did scream your name so loud, so broken, it tore through the chaos and made the others flinch. But not even his enhanced speed could reach you fast enough.

One second you were there, and then the next ... nothing.

You turned to nothing more than a black shadow spilling on the ground.

John stopped dead in his tracks, wide eyes staring at the shadow where you stood. He blinked a few times, trying to make sense of what he just saw.

No. This wasn't happening to him again.

The ringing in his ears drowned out the screaming around him.

Not again. Please, not again.

It was Lemar. It was Afghanistan. It was everything all over again.

It was you, gone.

No, this couldn't be real.

He didnt give Bucky enough time to grab him. He didn't even think twice about it. He ran straight into the void, his footsteps so heavy they tore through the pavement, cracking it beneath his boots.

All he knew is that he couldn't fail at another thing in his life.

When darkness surrounded his eyesight, he crashed onto a wall. His ragged breath was the only thing he could hear as he came to his senses, and realized he was thrown into the same memory, that same room he had stepped in before.

"You're leaving already?"

Your voice behind his back startled him, and he whipped around expecting to see you. The real you. But it was your ghost.

"No, fuck that" John growled, marching forward. "I'm not watching this again."

He grabbed the shoulders of his past self who kept stuffing clothes into the bag like it wasn't costing him everything.

"Look at her, you fucking idiot!" He yelled at himself, shaking his body. “She’s right there!”

His past self looks at him with that same smug, distant, uncontrolled anger he used on everyone else.

John barely had time to react before he was spun around and yanked into a chokehold by himself. His arms crushed his windpipe like a vice.

"Should've done that when you could Johnny" Past John muttered coldly.

John fights to free himself from the chokehold, kicking wildly, clawing at his own arms, struggling against his own brutal strength.

He could feel his breath giving out.

"She’s not here anymore, John" You said, and if felt like adding salt to the wound.

This was it. This was the punishment. Watching himself ruin everything and then being choked by the same hands.

And then, it stopped.

The grip vanished. He collapsed onto the carpet, coughing, gasping for air.

The scene resets.

"You're leaving already?"

"No, no, no" He grunts, dragging himself up from the floor, looking around for a way out.

He spins, breathless. "Nice place, Bobby” he mutters bitterly under his breath, looking around like a caged animal.

He slams himself into the wall next to him, bent shield first. Nothing. The plaster doesn't even crack.

I have to find her. Where is she?

"Come on, baby. Where are you?" He spins again, searching for something, anything. A door, a window, a crack in reality.

His eyes catch on two mirrors standing side by side against the far wall. They shouldn't be there, they weren't before.

Both reflecting something different from what they were supposed to.

Two different scenes.

He steps towards the first one and sees those fucking pillars. The blood stain on the concrete. The day Lemar had–no. He turned his face away violently, he'd save that one for his nightmares.

He turns his eyes to the other mirror and catches the sight of an office. Your lawyers office.

He finds a silhouette across the room, watching the scene unfold on repeat. It’s you. The real you.

He puts his bent shield in front of him and pushes through the glass, landing hard in a new memory.

The crash doesn't startle you. You stand frozen, eyes glazed, watching the scene replay again, the end of your marriage looping in front of you like a broken film reel. Your back is to him.

John doesn't move forward, he can't.

He feels like throwing up when he sees it. The mahogany walls. The glass table. That goddamn vanilla air freshener like this wasn't the worst moment of your lives. 

The moment he signed the papers.

You were separated by that long glass table. You sat beside your lawyer, hands fiddling in your lap, eyes glued on him. He was across from you, beside his lawyer.

And worst of all, his past self doesn't look at you. Not even now.

He just sat there, head hung low as he fiddled with the corner of the page. Your fresh signature next to his empty spot mocked him.

He'd told himself that day he couldn't take your angry eyes. But looking now he sees the truth. You weren't angry. You were grieving.

Hoping he'd just meet your eyes one last time. Like maybe if he did, you could still fix it. Maybe he'd remember how he used to look at you, like you were everything.

Like he still had some love left for you.

The pen next to the papers laid untouched for too long. He was dragging it out.

"We just need your signature, Mr. Walker, and we'll be settled" your lawyer said. Her voice slices through the tension like a knife.

It made him flinch, of course she was in a rush. For her, it was another Tuesday. For you, it was the end of the world.

And for him, it was losing the love of his life.

He gathered the guts to finally reach for the pen, signed with one quick stroke, and tossed it back onto the table. The glass cracked where it fell.

Then came the screech of his chair, echoing off the polished floor, and the sound of his boots walking away.

The scene restarts. 

John takes a shaky step forward. "Hey" he whispers, voice rough. You flinch. "It wasn't supposed to end like that"

"You just ... wouldn't look at me" You reply, your back still turned away.

"I couldn't" He blurts. "I couldn't see you not wanting me anymore. Wanting to end it all"

You spin around, voice breaking with anger. "Look at my face, John. Did I look like I wanted to end it?–I waited. I thought if you just looked at me, maybe we could salvage something. But you didn't. You never did"

He can't speak.

God, he'd thought about that day a thousand times. About every way he could've stopped it, every word he should've said. But right now? that you're in front of him, sobbing and shaking, he was speechless, too ashamed.

"I tried to be there for you. After the captain America mess, Lemar, the government turning their back on you" You cry, remembering all the shit they put him through. "But you kept pushing me away, like being out there was the only place you mattered. Like having me wasn't enough for you."

"It wasn't like that" he said, shaking his head.  "After everything I ruined, the field was the only place I felt like I was doing something right."

You cut him with just one line.

"I'm sorry our home didn't feel like that to you."

The pain in your voice hits him like a train. His pathological need to feel useful, needed, like his skills still held some value, had already taken so much. Then he gave it the last thing that still loved him. You.

"I used to think I knew everything about you" you whisper, shaking your head. "But then you got the serum and it turns I never really knew you. God, I really tried to."

You wipe your eyes, and John feels the earth drop from under him.

"I know I made too many mistakes. But it was real" he says, desperate. "You did know me, you loved me as much as I loved you."

He still remembered everything. The way your laughter filled the room after he made a stupid joke. The way your hands always found his, in crowds, in private, even in your sleep. The way you looked at him like he was worth saving, even when he wasn't sure he was.

"We were never what they made us out to be" you said, bitter. "We thought we were in love, but we were really just in pain."

You lie. Because it's the only way left to protect yourself.

Because you still remember too.

The way his arms felt around you, safe, strong, like the world couldn't touch you as long as he held on. The rasp in his voice when he was half asleep, mumbling nonsense against your neck. The way he made love to you like it was the only way he knew how to say I'm still here.

And the way he looked at you, like you were the one good thing in a world that had taken so much from him.

But you also remembered when it started to change, when the look in his eyes started to fade. The never ending fighting. How the conflict just kept escalating, becoming bigger than it should've.

And it hurt like hell.

He wants to punch a wall. To throw himself into that void he'd seen earlier. He sees right through you, he knows you're lying. He knows you remember as much as he does.

And the scene kept playing behind you, over and over.

"No" He snapped. "We loved each other. I loved you. I still fucking do."

He points at himself with both hands, and that's when you see it.

A glint of silver poking out under his left glove. His wedding ring.

And that's what breaks you.

Because you can't answer. You can't admit you still love him too, not after all he's done. Not when he still wears the symbol of a promise he broke.

He steps forward, hesitating and you turn your face away, but he doesn't stop, not this time. Cause all you ever needed was for him to stay, to fight for you the same way he fought out there.

And now? He would crawl to the ends of the earth if you asked.

So he keeps walking, until he's in front of you. 

Your hands cover your face as the sobs tear out of your chest, and his arms wrap around you without hesitation. One hand on your back, the other pulling you into him as he rests his chin on your head.

Your cries break against him.

How could he have hurt you like this?

You don't know how much time passes as he holds you. How many times you heard the pen crack the glass. All you felt was the pressure of his arms wrapped around you.

And slowly, your sobs soften. All that's left is the quiet shake of your chest against his.

"I'm sorry" his voice cracked the silence. This time, he means it with everything he has left in him.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

Because what do you even say when the apology comes years too late? When the damage has already carved itself into the walls of who you are?

So you just stand there. Wrapped in arms that used to mean home. Sinking into a chest that once felt like safety. Trying to remember how it used to feel.

And maybe that's the tragedy, that after everything this is the closest you've felt to him in years.

And it wasn't enough, not now not ever.

“Please…” he breathes, his voice scraping at the back of his throat. “Please, just… let me try to make things right.” his voice cracks, it’s raw.

And for a second, you freeze. Just long enough to feel it, something you wanted to hear too long ago.

Then you pull away, not harsh, but before he can say more.

You don't want to hear it, not his pain, not his regret, not his late promises.

But his hand catches yours.

“Don’t leave me again, please.” His eyes search yours, desperate.

“John, you left me first” You shake your head, pulling your hand but he doesn’t let go.

“I don’t know if I can fix what I broke. And I know I lost the right to ask for anything from you. But if there’s a part of you, even a small one that still thinks of me when it’s quiet, then let me try. Cause I sure as hell think about you all the damn time”

You look at him, and it’s like he finally lets you see through him. Like he finally opened up the gates he shut on your face all those years ago.

“I was so scared” he admits, eyes looking to the ground. “Of all the weight, of failing, of not being enough for that shield or for you. And I didn’t know how to say it without sounding weak. So I fought everything instead, even…even you.”

“I would give anything just to go back to before I fucked it all up. To that night in the kitchen, when you asked if I still saw you in my future… and I stayed quiet.”

You feel something twist in your chest at that memory, the way his silence echoed louder than any fight you had before.

“I should’ve said yes. God, I should’ve said yes.”

There’s too much in you, too much pain, too much tired, too much history.

But for one second, you let yourself look at him. And it’s just your John in front of you. Bruised and begging.

And maybe that’s what love looks like sometimes.

Just the quiet, broken voice of someone asking for a second chance, even when they know they don’t deserve one.

Your throat feels tight, that fight in the kitchen.

You remember the way you leaned against the counter, arms crossed over your chest, trying not to break while your heart thudded like a war drum.

“Do you still see me in your future, John?”

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you with eyes that didn’t hold an answer.

And now here he was, years later. Begging to rewrite a chapter that had already been printed and bound in the pages of your life.

You take your hand back, gently this time.

“You always had perfect timing” you say quietly, voice steadier than you feel. “Just never when it mattered.”

His hands twitch, like he’s ready to beg, to reach, to hold on, but you shake your head.

“I don’t know what this is anymore,” you whisper. “What is left of us, or if there’s anything left at all.”

His silence says more than words ever could. You let it stretch for just a second too long.

You meet his eyes, steady, unwavering.

“I need you to understand that I’m not her anymore. I’m not the girl who built her life around you.”

He nods slowly. He’s not the same guy who did that to you either.

You take a breath, slow and shaky, fingers lifting to the collar of your suit. For a second, you hesitate, then pull it down just enough to reveal a chain.

A ring dangles there, silent and gleaming like a ghost.

His breath hitches like you just knocked the air out of him. His eyes drop to the ring, and for a second, he forgets how to stand.

You still have it, you didn’t discard it, you carry it with you.

Just like he does.

“You kept it…” he says, barely above a whisper.

His voice cracks like a fault line, and your chest tightens because you weren’t supposed to make this harder. You were supposed to walk away and leave no room for what ifs.

John takes a slow step forward, not touching you, just standing close enough that you can feel how badly he wants to.

“Can I…” His voice falters. “Can I still try?”

You say nothing, just looked at him. Really looked at him.

The dark under his eyes, the tired weight in his voice. The ache of someone who finally understood the cost of his actions.

You bit your tongue. You wanted to say yes, that was the worst part.

And maybe that’s the moral of the story. Some mistakes get made, that’s alright, that’s okay. In the end you choose what you think it’s better for you.

Even if sometimes it meant to throw yourself back again into what once destroyed you, because maybe, just maybe, it’s the only thing that can put you back together.

━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━━ comments and reblogs save author’s lives, thank you so much for reading <3

[wynn-43]

then do it

seo changbin x gn! nursing student! reader wc: 1427 warnings: fluff, slightly suggestive (maybe?), medical stuff, in depth explanations of measuring vital signs, soft, kisses, pet names, not fully proof read a/n: does this count as studying...?

“Bin! You need to stay still.” You murmur, trying to hold back your laughter.

“It feels weird!” He giggles, trying to evade you.

“I’ll give you as many kisses as you want, just stay still for 5 minutes.” You plead, gently patting his shoulder.

He turns to you, eyes wide with hope before nodding and sitting still.

“Okay, first I need to check your temperature, this will feel weird.” You murmur, brow furrowed in concentration.

You gently pull back on the outer edge of his ear before you gently slide the tip of the thermometer in, angling it towards his ear canal, until you feel it in place.

You click the button, waiting for the reading.

“36.8! Perfect.” You pat his shoulder as you remove the thermometer, ejecting the cover into the bin nearby.

You quickly mark the reading down in your chart before grabbing the pulse oximeter.

“Can I please have your hand?” You ask as you turn the pulse oximeter on.

He holds his hand towards you, staring up at you with an expression you can’t fully place.

You gently hold his pointer finger, making sure to support the rest of his hand. You gently rub his finger, ensuring that it was warm enough for the pulse oximeter to recognise it.

“Okay, I’m going to put this on your finger to measure your oxygen saturation.” You murmur, eyes focused on the pulse oximeter as you place it on his finger.

It beeps quickly, showing a perfect reading of 100.

“Wonderful.” You murmur, removing the pulse oximeter and putting it away as you mark the reading in your chart.

“Now, I have to measure your blood pressure. This is going to wrap tightly around your arm, let me know if it’s too tight or hurts at all.” You explain as you wrap the velcro around his toned bicep.

“Is it too tight?” You ask, patting his arm and taking the opportunity to feel his muscles.

“Nope, it’s perfect.” He murmurs as he looks up at you, that unreadable expression once again evident in his eyes.

You nod, slipping the dial into the loop on the side and arrange the pump to be in a position where you could easily release the air.

First, you get an approximation of his systolic blood pressure. You slip a pillow under his elbow, ensuring his arm was supported before you began to palpate his wrist, feeling for his radial pulse.

Once you feel the thump of his heart rate, your eyes lock onto the dial and you slowly begin squeezing the pump.

You squeeze until 40, pausing to check if you still feel the pulse. You then increase to 80, pausing again. Then, once you reach 100 you notice the thumping of his pulse has stopped. You quickly release the pressure, reaching for your stethoscope as you drop the pump.

“You okay?” You ask, checking in with him as you begin to palpate his elbow in search of his brachial pulse.

He nods and soon after you find his pulse.

“Wonderful.” You murmur as you put the earpieces of your stethoscope into your ear.

You twist the end, making sure it’s on before placing your fingers on either side of the diaphragm.

You gently place the chest piece on where you found his brachial pulse before you grab the pump.

You turn the valve, ensuring that it was turned properly.

You then start squeezing again, adding 30 to the approximation of his systolic blood pressure until the dial reaches 130.

You then turn the valve slightly, letting the pressure reduce slowly.

You keep your eyes fixated on the dial, quietly listening for the telltale thumping.

You hear the first Korotkoff phase at exactly 120, a sharp and clear tap that indicates systolic blood pressure.

With your eyes remaining focused on the dial focusing on the loud thumps, you notice the distinctive swishing sound of the second Korotkoff sound at around 110.

As you near 100, the thumping softens, still audible, but quiet. As you near 90, it quietens further, turning into a muffled tapping. Then, once you reach 80, there’s silence.

You remove your stethoscope, turning the valve fully to quickly release the air.

“Your blood pressure was perfect!” You beam as you remove the cuff from his arm.

You quickly turn, writing “120” in one row and “80” in the other, before drawing a dotted line between the two.

“Okay, finally. I need to measure your pulse.” You murmur, gently moving his hand so it was resting in his lap, palm side up.

You gently palpate his wrist, once again feeling for his radial pulse.

Upon finding it, you look at the fob watch attached to your shirt.

You start counting each heartbeat, carefully watching the time to make sure you counted for a minute.

Once the minute is over, you quickly write down ‘85’ before turning back to him.

“Okay, I’m just going to double-check.” You lie, trying not to smile as he nods.

You positioned yourself so you could see both your watch and his chest. You return your fingers to his wrist, pretending to measure his pulse again.

In reality, you were checking his breathing rate.

As the seconds ticked by, you watched the rise and fall of his chest, counting each slow movement.

“Okay, wonderful. Your pulse was 85, which is a little high for you, considering you’re fit, but it;s still within normal range.” You tell him as you lean down to write 14 in the ‘breathes per minute’ section of your chart.

“I also was not checking again, I was measuring your breathing rate.” You giggle as you turn back to him.

His eyes widened, surprised at your admission.

“You lied to me!” He exclaims playfully as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you onto his lap and pressing ticklish kisses to your face and neck.

“I had to! If you knew, your breathing rate would’ve changed.” You breathlessly exclaim between giggles.

“Okay, I guess that's reasonable.” He says, finally stopping with his kisses.

You looked down at him, breathless from your laughter. 

“You’re adorable, you know.” You murmur, your voice soft as you gently run your thumbs along his cheeks.

“No you.” He murmured, gently squeezing your hips.

“You looked so pretty, all focused and serious.” He whispered, eyes locked on yours. “It was taking everything in me not to attack you with kisses.” 

You smile, internally melting at his soft admission, before you wrap your arms around his neck, tangling your fingers in his soft wavy hair.

“Is that why your heart rate was high?” You ask, grinning as he blushed.

“Maybe…” He whispered, looking to the side with a shy smile.

“Do I make you nervous baby?” You murmur, your grin widening as you notice his blush deepen.

He groans as he buries his face in your neck, making you erupt into a fit of giggles.

You sit like this for a moment, him hiding in your neck as your giggles faded.

“Binnie, baby. Look at me.” You murmur, gently running your nails across his scalp.

He slowly pulls his face out from the safety of your neck, his cheeks still flushed slightly pink as you smile at him.

“I love you so much.” You murmur and your heart softens when you notice his eyes brighten at your words.

“I love you too.” He giggles as you start pressing soft kisses to his face.

You press soft kisses to his cheeks, his forehead, his nose and his jaw- before leaning back to look at his beautiful face.

But when you do, you suddenly erupt into laughter, confusing your poor boyfriend.

“I forgot I had lipstick on!” You exclaim breathlessly as you look at the soft red smudges that now littered his face.

“Yah!” He exclaims before his eyes widen and he rushes to grab his phone. “You attacked me!”

You erupt into giggles at his dramatism as he opens his phone, examining himself in the camera.

“Wait… why do I look kinda hot?” He whispered, voice quiet.

“You look very hot, baby.” You murmur as you press more kisses to his cheeks, which were now flushed a soft pink.

He lets out a shaky breath, dropping his phone to the side. He pulls you closer, his hands resting firmly on your sides.

“You’re making it so hard not to kiss you right now.” He murmurs, his voice soft and full of emotion.

You smile, leaning in and brushing your nose against his.

“Then do it.” You whisper.

This is a work of fiction, based entirely on my personal perception of him, and does not reflect his actual character or actions.

[taurulee]

A Demon Undone

Hi all! I’m super late with this I know, but it’s finally finished!

Warnings: this is an sfw tickle fic with some lightly implied RadioApple. LOTS of teasing! Probably a bit too much, but if you like anticipation this is for you! Lucifer really earns his name as the king of hell, hooo boy.

Word count: 4600 (buckle up! It’s a long one!)

It started, like most of their days, with bickering.

Lucifer sat regally on the sofa in the parlor lounge of the Hazbin Hotel, legs crossed and goblet in hand, exuding calm superiority.

“You’ve gone and scared another client off the premises,” he drawled lazily, not looking up from his wine. “Tell me, was your goal to exorcise them through sheer obnoxiousness, or was it just a happy accident?”

Across the room, Alastor adjusted the dial on his antique microphone, pointed teeth gleaming through his grin. “They were annoying. And slovenly. I did the hotel a favor, you’re welcome.”

“Oh yes,” Lucifer scoffed. “By all means, continue undermining my daughter’s dream with your charming homicidal tendencies.”

The two stared each other down like the air itself had dared to offend them. Charlie had made very specific rules—no bodily harm, no threats of violence, and, most critically, no reality-warping duels inside hotel walls. And yet here they were, toeing every line.

Alastor opened his mouth to respond, but Lucifer cut him off before he could even get a word out.

“You do know what shutting the fuck up is, yes?” Lucifer sipped his wine with an exaggerated sigh.

Alastor tilted his head, grin widening. “Coming from you? One would think your highness would hold some semblance of integrity.”

Lucifer’s eye twitched, eyes red as he jumped to his feet, chest flaring. “You insolent little—”

“Guys.”

Charlie’s voice chimed from down the hall. “Be nice. No violence, remember? I need everyone making an effort to get along here.”

Lucifer plastered on an innocent smile. “Of course, my dear. Just having a spirited discussion with my good friend Al, here.”

Alastor waved, far too innocently, the slight irritated twitch of his eye his only give away. “Just enlightening your father on the joys of radio etiquette.”

Charlie groaned audibly and walked off.

Alastor turned back to Lucifer. “You heard the princess. No violence.”

Lucifer grinned, sucking air through his teeth with a barely withheld sneer.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of hurting you.”

He stood, polished and precise, brushing a speck of dust from his vest. “But Charlie never said anything about shutting you up.”

Before Alastor could react, the world blinked out.

They reappeared in a flash of white light—crackling energy humming against the crimson marble floor of Lucifer’s personal tower suite. The doors slammed shut behind them.

Alastor snarled and spun, his cane raised.

“I will not tolerate—”

His words died in his throat when celestial restraints burst from thin air, golden cuffs locking around his wrists mid-motion and yanking his arms over his head. He stumbled, thrown off-balance, and his knees hit the floor with a thud. He gasped sharply as he felt cuffs loop around his ankles, keeping them locked to the ground.

“What is the meaning of this!?” he hissed, trying to phase through the bindings—only to find them maddeningly resistant to his usual power.

Lucifer approached, eyes glowing a soft, dangerous red. “A lesson, dear Bambi.”

Alastor bared his fangs, fur bristling, voice crackling. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh I will,” Lucifer purred. “Because it’s adorable. And you have gotten far too comfortable speaking to your king like an equal.”

“If you wish to be treated like royalty perhaps you should act like it.” The overlord spat.

Lucifer didn’t react to the disrespectful retort this time, crouching slowly to come face to face with Alastor’s kneeling form, though it wasn’t by much due to the sheer difference in height between the two.

Alastor met his gaze, unrelenting in the fury that blazed within his eyes.

Lucifer smirked, his face so close to Alastor’s he could almost feel the rageful heat radiating from his face. “You’re not in the position to be talking back, little fawn.”

Lucifer hadn’t intended to touch him, not really.

The plan had been simple: trap the Radio Demon in silence. Lock him in the tower with his own endless thoughts, away from Charlie, away from the staff, away from Lucifer. For once, a few hours of peace in the hotel without that grating, incessant voice chewing through every conversation like static on a wire. He’d let him go…eventually.

Alastor was still on his knees, wrists bound high above his head by golden celestial cuffs that shimmered and pulsed with divine energy. He scowled at the opulent room around him.

“I hope you’ve enjoyed your petty little display of dominance,” he spat, “because once I’m free—”

Lucifer sighed dramatically, absentmindedly inspecting his fingernails. “You won’t be. Not for a while.”

He walked a lazy circle around the demon, hands clasped behind his back. “You see, bellhop, the very sound of your voice is like a fork scraping glass. And since Charlie won’t let me maim you…”

He circled back to Alastor’s front now, leaning down again to meet him there, punctuating his words with sharp pokes to Alastor’s chest.

“I’ve—had—enough—of you—talking.”

The last jab landed a little lower than the others—right against Alastor’s sternum—and that was when it happened.

The flinch.

Miniscule. Barely a twitch.

But to Lucifer?

Obvious.

He paused, one brow lifting with interest. Alastor’s face was already tightening, going carefully blank as though to pretend it hadn’t happened at all. But it had. And Lucifer had seen it.

“Well, well…” he mused.

Alastor’s glare sharpened. “What?”

Lucifer said nothing. Just smiled. That infuriating, cocky smile.

Without a word, he stepped behind the kneeling demon, slow and deliberate. Alastor’s posture stiffened.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice now edged with something beyond his rageful snarl, something more raw.

Lucifer didn’t answer. He simply stood behind him, letting the silence stretch long and taut like a string about to snap.

Then—lightly, almost thoughtfully—he placed his fingertips against Alastor’s sides.

Not moving. Not prodding. Just resting them there. Barely any pressure.

Alastor froze.

The tension in his shoulders was immediate. His breath hitched, and he held perfectly still, spine rigid.

A devious grin curled its way along Lucifer’s face. Oh, this was far more effective than expected.

“Is something the matter, Bambi?” he purred near his ear, letting the nickname slither through the air like smoke.

Alastor didn’t answer. His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched.

Lucifer didn’t move his hands—yet. But the lack of motion was the worst part. Every breath, every micro-shift in Alastor’s body threatened to cause a ghost of a twitch from those poised fingers, and he knew it.

Lucifer’s voice dropped into a whisper. “You flinched.”

“No, I did not,” Alastor muttered, a little too fast.

“Oh, but you did.” Lucifer let his fingers flex the tiniest bit, barely enough to count. But it sent a tremor through the demon’s abdomen.

“You are,” Lucifer started, amused wonder in his voice as he paused between words, “sensitive, I take it?”

Alastor growled low in his throat. “This is juvenile. You-“

“You’re nervous.” Lucifer leaned close, breath brushing Alastor’s ear and causing it to twitch. “Which means this is going to be fun.”

Alastor’s entire body tensed like a coiled spring.

The weight of Lucifer’s fingers hadn’t changed—still feather-light against his sides—but it might as well have been claws pressed to bare nerves for all the fire it sent crackling under his skin. The radio demon grit his teeth, refusing to react. Refusing.

Lucifer let the silence hang for a few excruciating beats, just breathing steadily behind him, his presence commanding and smug and infuriating. Then, ever so softly, he whispered, “You’re practically vibrating, little buck.”

“I am not,” Alastor snapped through clenched teeth. His tone thickened with effort, voice like glass cracking under strain. “Get your filthy hands off me.”

Lucifer chuckled—a deep, indulgent hum that rattled straight down Alastor’s spine.

“Oh, no. No, no, I don’t think I will. I think I’ve just discovered something precious, and I’m not the type to waste an opportunity when it lands in my lap.”

He gave one finger the slightest twitch. Just one.

Alastor inhaled sharply, the sound thin and ragged. He kept his expression hard, but a bead of sweat rolled near his brow.

“This is beneath you,” Alastor hissed. “A cheap trick. You’re the King of Hell, not a petulant schoolgirl—”

“Oho, is that your angle?” Lucifer laughed, slipping a hand down to rest just at the curve of Alastor’s waist. His fingers were splayed lazily, not yet moving. “Trying to shame me out of it? Sweetheart, I’m the devil. Shame isn’t really in my wheelhouse.”

He leaned in close again, and this time, his voice was syrupy with threat. “And Charlie said no violence. But she didn’t say a word about this.”

Alastor turned his head just enough to glare at him, eyes narrow and dark. “You’re delusional.”

Lucifer chuckled in amusement, his breath against the back of Alastor’s neck making his fur prickle with goosebumps. “You really hate my guts, don’t you?”

“Passionately.”

Lucifer clicked his tongue, shaking his head in disappointment. “Such a shame. After all the grace I’ve given you.”

Without warning, he let his fingers barely flutter against Alastor’s sides.

Soft, hardly there, but enough to remind the demon how perilously close he was to total humiliation.

Alastor twitched. His whole torso jumped a centimetre forward, restrained only by the cuffs above.

Lucifer chuckled slyly, and in a teasing voice sang, “You’re trembliiiing.”

Alastor growled low in his throat. “Release me. Now.” His voice was raspy, broken and pitched up, and if he listened closely, Lucifer could hear the smile on his lips, which the king of hell found especially interesting. The radio demon was never without a smile, but this was different, to hear it this way through his voice, almost as though it was more raw, real.

Lucifer trailed a finger in a slow, lazy arc just below his ribs, a ghost of a touch. “Say please.”

Alastor’s breath hitched again—another giveaway, another tiny thread of composure unraveling.

“The radio demon does not beg,” he spat.

“No? You sure?” Lucifer crooned. He danced a fingertip in a slow circle around Alastor’s side, just light enough to make the muscle twitch beneath it. “You’ve got that ‘barely holding it together’ vibe. Very overlord-in-distress.”

Alastor flinched again, his face darkening. His lips were pressed tight, like holding back a damful of water behind cracking concrete. His ears twitched. His jaw was clenched so hard it might shatter, and his usual smug grin had abandoned him, something more unrestrained in its place.

“Ticklish little fawn,” Lucifer cooed softly. “All that power, all that pomp. And one well-placed touch and you’re already squirming.” The king stepped around to face alastor again, fingers not leaving their place on his sides.

“I’m not—squirming.” The word sounded like poison on Alastor’s tongue.

Lucifer’s voice dropped again, sweet and dripping with honey. “You’re blushing.”

Alastor turned his head away sharply. “It’s the lighting.”

Lucifer snorted. “Oh, I’m sure it is.”

He let his fingers drift down toward the softest part of Alastor’s belly, stilling them there. Not moving yet, but the threat hung in the air like static before a storm.

“I wonder,” Lucifer murmured, “how long you would last if I really tried. I’ve barely touched you.”

“F-fuck you!” Alastor’s breathing was faster now—still controlled, but uneven. The cuffed position left him completely open, completely vulnerable, and Lucifer hadn’t even begun.

Lucifer smirked. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

And with that, he let his thumbs give the barest stroke along the curve of Alastor’s ribs- soft, slow, and so light it almost shouldn’t have registered aside from the pressure of his nails against the delicate bones.

But it did.

Alastor made a sound—half gasp, half growl. His back arched a fraction of an inch before he stiffened up again, pressing his knees into the marble floor, as if grounding himself would help somehow.

Lucifer’s grin was positively devious. “So, not ticklish, hmm?”

“Go to hell.”

“I built it.”

Lucifer didn’t relent.

His fingers, still dancing just over Alastor’s clothes, pressed with a growing boldness now—softly stroking at his sides, lightly tapping along his ribs, and occasionally letting his thumbs draw slow, lazy circles against the soft fabric of his waistcoat. Nothing direct, nothing skin-on-skin—but it didn’t matter. Alastor was already feeling the effects deep in his gut.

And Lucifer knew it.

“You’re doing wonderfully, by the way,” he said smoothly, as though praising a child for good behavior. “Your composure is truly impressive. I would’ve cracked already, if I were a lesser king.”

Alastor’s jaw clenched tighter, nearly aching. His fists were still tight, shoulders locked, but the cracks were starting to show. His breath was just a touch too fast. His spine arched just slightly away from Lucifer’s hand every time he grazed too close to a sensitive spot. And most delicious of all—his silence was growing tense, strained.

Lucifer’s smirk sharpened.

“Still haven’t answered my question. ” he sang, his fingers now skimming along Alastor’s lower ribs with deliberate precision. “You’re holding up so well. But I do wonder… if you’re not ticklish, why is your heart pounding like a trapped rabbit’s?”

“I am not—” Alastor snapped, before catching himself, grinding his teeth together and looking away with fury burning in his eyes.

Lucifer only chuckled. “Ah. So we’re continuing with denial.”

He moved behind Alastor again, slow and purposeful, fingers never leaving him. One hand rested gently at his waist, the other now tracing the soft spaces between his ribs, testing pressure and rhythm like a pianist searching for the right key. Alastor barely suppressed a jolt when Lucifer hit a particularly vulnerable angle—just beneath the edge of his ribcage, where the fabric of his vest was thinner, less structured.

“I think we’re getting close to something interesting,” Lucifer murmured, pulling his hands away. ���But maybe I’m being too polite. Perhaps your pride needs a firmer push.” With that, Alastor’s coat and vest vanished, leaving his dress shirt as the only remaining barrier.

Alastor snarled, eyes blazing. “You think this will win you anything?”

“I’m not trying to win,” Lucifer replied easily, stepping forward. “I’m just reminding you of your place.”

He placed both hands firmly on Alastor’s sides now, fingers splayed across his ribs through his shirt. He gave a slow, experimental squeeze, pressing deeper than all his previous touches had.

Alastor jolted like he’d been electrocuted.

Lucifer’s grin widened, pupils blown like a shark sensing blood.

“Well now. That was a reaction.”

“You will regret this,” Alastor growled, voice ragged around the edge, pitched higher than it was just moments ago.

Lucifer only tilted his head, amused. “Eh, maybe. But I’ll enjoy it first.”

With wicked patience, Lucifer began to explore Alastor’s ribs again in earnest—light prodding, circular rubs, sudden jabs—all still over the shirt, but expertly placed. It was maddening. Every touch seemed to find a pressure point Alastor didn’t know he had. His whole torso was tense, back slightly arched, head turned away in desperate concentration.

But Lucifer didn’t need to see his face to know he was losing control.

He could feel it. The twitching. The trembling. He leaned in again, his voice velvety with taunt.

“You know what I love about this?” he whispered near Alastor’s ear. “You still think you have the upper hand. You’re still pretending you can handle me.”

Alastor didn’t respond.

Because if he did—he might laugh.

Lucifer smirked.

“Let’s ruin that little fantasy.”

With a casual snap of his fingers, Alastor’s dress shirt vanished in a puff of golden smoke, like the coat before it, leaving behind the soft curve of furred skin and faint, fawn-like spotting that began where the fur darkened on his sides, curling around to his back. Lucifer took a moment, just a moment, to appreciate the sight. If the radio demon felt exposed before, it was nothing quite like this.

“Adorable,” Lucifer cooed with venomous delight. “No wonder you keep this hidden. All those pointy teeth, that smug grin—and underneath it all, you’re just a sweet little forest creature.”

Alastor snarled, cheeks now burning a dark red. “Would you just shut up—”

Lucifer didn’t even wait for him to finish.

He placed his fingers gently on either side of Alastor’s now-exposed ribs—just the pads of his thumbs, resting right on the soft, vulnerable dip under the lowest rib. He didn’t move them. Just stayed there. Still.

Alastor froze.

No breath. No twitch.

Just wide, furious eyes and an internal storm of panic.

Lucifer leaned in, savoring the moment.

“I could break you with two fingers right now.”

Alastor remained silent—but his lips trembled. His jaw clenched tighter than ever, and a soft, involuntary twitch rippled down his side as Lucifer applied the faintest pressure. Still not moving. Not yet. And the worst part was, Alastor wanted to laugh. Laughter was begging, pleading with his body for release. But he couldn’t. He could not stomach the thought of Lucifer’s satisfaction, the humiliation.

Lucifer smiled.

“I wonder… how long you’ll last, now that there’s nothing between us.”

A deep, ragged inhale from Alastor fuelled the fire further within Lucifer.

And as he began to trace a circle, just one, around the bare fur of Alastor’s side—

The Radio Demon bit his lip, the corners of his mouth twitching further upwards.

Lucifer didn’t move fast.

He didn’t need to.

His fingers skimmed across the short, velvet-soft fur along Alastor’s bare ribs with maddening patience—just enough pressure to keep the nerves lit up like wires beneath the skin. He didn’t tickle, not exactly. It was worse than that. It was anticipation, dragged out into something more unbearable, and Alastor found himself wishing the king would just get it over with instead of holding him here in this uncertainty.

“Still holding strong?” Lucifer asked sweetly, his tone smooth, smug and silky.

Alastor didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

His lips were pursed so tightly they were nearly white. His whole body was trembling in his restraints, like a violin string pulled taut. His soft fur bristled, his chest rising and falling in uneven, shallow gasps.

Lucifer tilted his head. “Hm. No comeback? I was almost starting to enjoy our little debates.”

Still no answer.

But when Lucifer’s thumb gently stroked under the edge of his ribcage—just once, the edge of his nail gently scraping the lowest rib—, Alastor gave a sudden, helpless hiccup of breath.

Lucifer froze.

Then grinned, slow and wide.

“There it is.”

Alastor immediately growled, low and foreboding, forcing his expression back to a mask of fury. But Lucifer had caught it. That moment. And he was not going to let it go.

Lucifer lightly fluttered his fingers for just a beat against Alastor’s side. Breath caught in Alastor’s throat.

A little stammer. A harsh, involuntary huff of air through his nose.

Lucifer’s grin widened to something absolutely devious. “Sorry, what was that?”

Alastor glared at the ground, fuming, his mouth still clamped shut. His cheeks were flushed a deep crimson, his ears pressed tight to his skull in humiliation.

Lucifer leaned closer, voice a whisper against his neck. “Was that a giggle, Bambi?”

Alastor jerked at the nickname—an instant, furious flinch that made his sides tense—and Lucifer took advantage, letting both hands slide firmly around his bare ribs and squeeze, just once, quick and sharp.

“hh-hf —!”

Alastor’s head snapped down, still biting hard on his lip.

Too late.

Lucifer heard it. Felt it.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Another squeeze. This time slower, fingers digging gently between each rib.

Alastor gave a wheezy gasp and a stuttered, “d-don’t—!” before falling silent again, muscles shaking with effort.

“Don’t what?” Lucifer purred.

Alastor growled, low in his throat. Though, to Lucifer, it would be described as much closer to a desperate whine.

“I wonder,” Lucifer murmured, trailing two fingers in a lazy figure-eight over Alastor’s sides, “how much longer you can keep that in. This act. This is very… dignified of you.”

Alastor clenched his teeth again , his entire body rigid with effort. His ribs twitched beneath Lucifer’s fingers, responding involuntarily to the maddening softness of the touch.

He could feel the heat in his face rising sharply—his blush spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, and down the back of his neck like wildfire. He knew he must look ridiculous. His nose crinkled. His jaw was locked tight. His tail was twitching erratically behind him in barely-contained panic.

Not here. Not in front of him.

“I know you’re not laughing,” Lucifer continued smoothly, brushing a fingertip along the lower swell of Alastor’s side, where the fur was softer—embarrassingly reactive, “but you’re close, aren’t you? I can feel it.”

He was.

Alastor hated how right he was.

Alastor scowled, his teeth bared now, but his face—oh, his face was burning. He was glowing red all the way down his chest, the blush utterly betraying him. His body was twitching in tiny spasms, no matter how still he tried to remain.

He was falling apart.

“hh-he—!”

Lucifer laughed triumphantly. “Now we’re getting somewhere!”

Alastor gave a wheezy gasp, teeth still gritted.

“D-don’t—!” His voice cracked.

The muscles in his kneeling legs were trembling, and despite the red-hot rage in his chest, he couldn’t stop the shudder that tore through him.

Lucifer chuckled, wicked and sweet. “Oh come on, just let it out. You know you want to.”

His thumbs brushed gentle, fluttering circles just under his ribcage—soft and agonizing . It was unbearable.

A soft, high-pitched titter escaped before Alastor could clamp down on it.

No. No no no—

His heart slammed against his ribs, horrified. He could feel the laughter rising, pressing up into his throat like it was boiling over. His blush deepened—how was that even possible? He was sizzling.

Lucifer looked positively gleeful. “Oh. Oh. That’s precious.”

“Stop—” Alastor tried, but it came out strangled.

His entire body was shaking with the effort to remain composed. He was a breath away from collapse. His pride screamed. He was the one who broke others. He did not get reduced to a trembling, twitching mess.

Lucifer let him sit in that silence—hovering, poised, watching.

“You’re trying so hard not to laugh,” he murmured. “You’ve got that whole overlord reputation to protect. But here you are. Quivering like a scared fawn, ears pinned back, blushing so sweetly.”

Alastor snarled through his teeth again. His ears were so flat now they nearly disappeared into his hair.

His mind was spinning so fast, he was completely unprepared for Lucifer’s next move.

Both hands dove under Alastor’s arms from behind, latching onto his ribs, squeezing and vibrating fingertips in deep, wicked pressure.

Alastor broke.

“—p-Phfff—! N-Nohohoho—!”

No, he exploded.

Squeaky, frantic giggles burst out of him like a dam breaking.

He folded forward in the restraints, shoulders trembling violently as the laughter overwhelmed him.

“Pffhehehehehe—aAHAHA–! NO! HA–h-hold on–! You basta–AHAHA!”

Lucifer howled with joy.

“There it is! I can’t believe you thought you’d ever be able to hold out on me.”

Alastor was wrecked. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t think. His mind was a haze of horror and helplessness.

His chest burned. His face was on fire. His laugh spiraled upward into frantic, hiccupy bursts, broken and wild and nothing like the composed, elegant, terrifying image he clung to.

He hated it.

He hated how good it felt to let go.

Suddenly, lucifer was in front of him again, not wanting to miss another moment of Alastor’s wild smile. The demon was always smiling, but this was different. It was so…untethered. His hands slid lower.

Alastor knew, with the last thread of dignity he had left, that he was completely at the King’s mercy.

Lucifer’s grin widened when his fingers reached their final destination—the center of Alastor’s torment.

That soft, vulnerable, absurdly sensitive belly.

“Ohhh,” he purred, watching Alastor flinch even before he made contact. “Now what do we have here…”

Alastor tensed all over, teeth gritted through the giggles still tumbling out of him in helpless waves. “D-Dohohon’t—HAH!—y-you wouldn’t—!”

Lucifer hummed thoughtfully, scanning Alastor’s kneeling form. The way he had resolved to going slack in his restraints, head flopped forward in a last ditch effort to hide his flushed face. The trembling pale fur along his belly and sides—quivering, drawn tight with nerves, absolutely begging for attention.

“Hmm,” Lucifer murmured, cocking his head. “You didn’t say ‘can’t.’ You said wouldn’t. What a funny choice of words.”

Alastor’s eyes blew wide. “D-Don’t you dare—”

Lucifer gently wiggled his fingers just above the exposed skin, slowly bringing them closer to their destination. Alastor nearly stopped breathing altogether, whiny giggles tumbling from his lips, shoulders tight, every single nerve in his body screaming at him to brace.

“You’re already laughing,” Lucifer observed softly. “And I haven’t even touched your belly yet. What’s got you so nervous, little deer?”

He waited.

Waited.

Alastor made the mistake of shifting—just an inch—and Lucifer pounced.

Ten fingers descended like lightning, scribbling up and down the plush fur of Alastor’s stomach in erratic, devastating zigzags. He didn’t give him a moment to recover—each flick and scritch was purposefully uneven, unpredictable, keeping Alastor’s nerves overloaded and confused.

“NAHAHAHAHA—! LUHUHUHUHUCIFER—!!”

“Oh yes,” Lucifer breathed, positively delighted. “There it is. There’s the sound I wanted to hear.”

Alastor lost it.

He thrashed in his restraints, but they held firm, his knees trembling against the floor. His body shook with overstimulation, laughter pouring from him in high-pitched bursts, interrupted only by gasps and the occasional shriek when Lucifer zeroed in on a particularly brutal spot just above his hips.

“G-Get your h-haHAHANDS—! OFF—AHAHA—YOU SADISTIC—!!”

“Ah ah,” Lucifer scolded, brushing his thumbs in slow, lazy spirals around the shallow dip of Alastor’s bellybutton. “Charlie said no hurting each other, remember? This isn’t hurting. This is… correcting.”

“Y-YOU’RE DEAD—AHAHAHAHA!!—DEAD WHEN I GET OUT OF—!!”

Lucifer just clicked his tongue, his smile growing somehow even more smug.

“Oh? Is that a threat? I wouldn’t do that if I were your position right now.”

Alastor wheezed, red-faced and blinking back tears, laughter breaking into desperate little hiccups. Lucifer gave him a moment—just a moment—his fingers still resting wickedly over his belly. Alastor drew in three ragged, giggly breaths.

And then he dug in again, this time with rapid, focused scribbles across his lowest ribs, and Alastor squealed.

A high, undignified sound ripped from his throat as he threw his head back, laughter spilling out uncontained, pure and raw and broken.

“NOHOHOHO—STOHOP—THAHAHAT’S—THAHAHAT’S NOT F-FAIR—!!”

“Oh sweetheart,” Lucifer crooned, his voice practically a purr. “You thought this was ever going to be fair?”

He leaned down, lips nearly brushing Alastor’s ear.

“You ticklish little thing. If anyone finds out about this���well. I’m sure your reputation will never recover.”

Alastor hiccuped. “I—I’ll—I’ll rip yoHOHOU l-limb from liHIHIHIMB—!!”

Lucifer gave his ribs one last, devilishly calculated bout of pinches, fingers zeroing in on the soft flesh between them.

Alastor’s laugh shot up an octave, wild and unrestrained, as he sagged entirely in the binds, all his fight gone, reduced to nothing more than a flushed, breathless, giggling mess.

Lucifer finally relented.

His fingers stilled, drifting lightly off the trembling curve of Alastor’s belly, admiring his handiwork. The deer demon nothing like his usual composed image before—ears drooped, hair disheveled, fur tousled, cheeks cherry-red, chest rising and falling with every ragged breath. Lucifer chose to ignore the warmth that spread within his chest at the way Alastor smiled, bright and wide, so different from the one he normally wore.

And—most satisfying of all—he was silent.

“Not so chatty now, are we?” Lucifer said, mock-gently, brushing a thumb over Alastor’s shoulder like he was petting something fragile. “You should thank me. You’ve been begging for someone to knock you off that high horse since the day you arrived.”

Alastor didn’t speak.

Couldn’t speak.

Just glared, panting, still trembling from the aftermath. Still giggling.

Lucifer stepped back, smug and slow, and let the bindings begin to fade.

“You’ll be free in 10 minutes,” he said casually. “I’m off to enjoy the silence now. Do let me know when you’re ready to behave.”

He paused in the doorway, glancing back with one last smirk.

“And don’t worry, Bambi…your secret’s safe with me.”

He winked.

“For now.”

[spr1ngpvrinbunny]

🐰 When William Gets Sick: A Total Menace to Society

William Afton is not a graceful sick man.

In fact, the moment he realizes he’s ill, he immediately goes into full-blown denial.

"I don’t get sick.""This is just mild fatigue.""I’ve survived worse, bun, this is nothin'."

—he says, while looking one cough away from death.

Phase 1: Denial & Stubbornness

You try to get him to rest, but he refuses. You tell him to lie down, and he pretends he’s perfectly fine. You bring him medicine, and he looks at it like you just offered him poison.

"I ain’t takin’ that shite.""I can fix myself, thank you very much.""Bun, be reasonable—" (coughs violently for 30 seconds straight)

You stare at him. He stares back, trying to act normal.

"…Are you done?"

He mutters something under his breath and reluctantly drinks the medicine. Begrudgingly. Like a child.

Phase 2: Dramatic Self-Pity Mode

Once William finally accepts his fate, he enters his next stage—

Total. Theatrical. Suffering.

"This is it. This is how I die.""I was a great man, bun, tell my story well—""Promise me... you'll mourn me properly."

Dramatically flops onto the couch. Covers himself with a blanket like a tragic Victorian widow.

At one point, he just groans loudly for no reason—like he wants you to ask what’s wrong, only to say— "Nothin’. Just felt like expressin’ my pain."

Phase 3: Helpless & Needy (But Won’t Admit It)

Now that he’s completely given up fighting the sickness, he realizes something else—

He really likes it when you take care of him.

Like, a lot.

The way you fuss over him. The way you gently press a cool cloth to his forehead. The way you tuck him in and make sure he's warm.

He eats it up. All of it.

But will he admit he enjoys it? Absolutely not.

Instead, he acts like it’s your duty. Like it’s expected.

"You’re such a good lil’ nurse, bun.""Oi, you wouldn’t just leave me to suffer alone, would you?""Since you’re here, might as well rub my back a bit. Might help my recovery, y’know."

—this cheeky bastard.

And yet, when you actually start rubbing his back, his eyes flutter shut, and he lets out the most satisfied, relieved sigh.

Yeah. He’s loving this.

And the moment he gets better?

"Hah! Told ya I’d beat it. I knew I wasn’t goin’ to die."

—Like he didn’t act like he was on his deathbed two days ago.

Bonus: 🐰 William's Sneaky Loaf Attack: The Ultimate Kidnapping Fluff

You were minding your own business. Completely unaware. Totally defenseless.

And that’s when it happened.

A sudden warmth behind you. A presence.

Then—two arms looped around you, swiftly pulling you in.

"Gotcha, bun."

William had gone full cat-loaf mode, curling himself up in a way that made it nearly impossible to escape—his arms tightly locked around you like a human trap.

You barely had a chance to react before your face was already squished against his chest.

"Mmm... soft, ain'tcha?" he teased, resting his chin atop your head. His grip tightened just slightly, just enough to let you know you weren't going anywhere.

You struggled. You protested. You tried to pry yourself free.

—All futile.

"Strugglin' just makes me wanna hold on tighter, love."

His voice was so smug. So pleased with himself. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

You huffed, finally going limp in defeat.

"That’s what I thought," William chuckled, rubbing small circles against your back.

And just to rub it in even more, he nuzzled against your hair—completely shameless in soaking up your warmth.

This wasn't just cuddling. This was hostage cuddling.

And worst of all?

…It was actually kind of nice.

(And be prepared that you will start getting sick afterwards.)

[sainteclectic]

the world where you live is based on whole's memories. the house is his own, so it stays pretty consistent. the living room, the kitchen, a couple extra bedrooms for his thirds to live in... the town outside is a different story, a jumbled mess of childhood memories and landmarks and half-remembered street names.

no one lives there, of course. there's no one working the register at the corner store that whole used to visit as a kid, the one with the far too tall shelves, because that's how tall they were to whole at the time. no one lives in any of the nearby houses - in fact, there's nothing in them at all. the doors are painted on. whole never visits his neighbors, after all. no one works at the bakery downtown, though it always smells of fresh bread.

the world changes between loops as whole misremembers things. the streets don't intersect like they're supposed to anymore because whole doesn't know where they're supposed to meet. you're on one street, and then suddenly, you phase to another. there's no connective tissue. everything feels dreamlike, like those dreams where you're at your old school and then suddenly you're in the supermarket but the layout is all wrong.

it's always daytime, but the stars are still in the sky. how long has it been since you saw the moon? probably not since you locked him away.

the books in the library don't have titles. there are words in them, sure, but you don't understand any of it. whole never read these books. the bakery smells different now, and yet you still instinctually know that it's the smell of bread. did it change at all? are you going crazy? you're in the attic of his grandmother's house now. you don't even know her name. it still smells like bread.

the world where you live is based on whole's memories. he doesn't go outside much anymore.

[lilacxquartz]

a bump in the middle of the night

oc male!demon × human female!reader

w.c: 1.1k

plot: a potential intruder sets midnight completely off and you learn just how dangerous he can truly be.

other works in this series.

—

The area I lived in was once decent, but now it was struggling.

A dwindling economy does that to a place. Most businesses that were once thriving were forced to close and those who could afford to leave, did just that.

Others stayed but they also struggled. I otherwise had the luxury of this apartment belonging to my grandparents so the mortgage was long settled, leaving me behind with only the regular bills to pay.

Most of the people that lived here did their best to just get by though, so for the most part it was safe.

But then the break-ins started to happen more often.

So maybe it was a blessing that I had a literal live-in demon cohabiting with me.

Keeping an eye on the things that went bump in the middle of the night.

Not that I could trust it. I still couldn’t bring myself to do so. Not one bit.

I woke up earlier during the night to a strange sound, though. I was a lighter sleeper than Midnight and would at oftentimes wake up to subtle sounds. This was initially annoying to me, but I quickly learned that as long as Midnight remained asleep, then there was nothing ever to worry about—so I always just dozed off again.

It was something about instincts, he said. If he’s awake during the night along with me, then that’s when I can feel worried.

I woke up to a noise just now, either way.

My eyes parted slowly, feeling the curl of his tail that looped around my legs. I could sense his breathing change and as he almost jolted awake. I shuddered at the sensation of his stare intensify at the back of my head as his body stretched, pulling me closer towards his chest.

Tonight, his instincts were on high alert.

“Quiet,” he whispered, noticing that I was awake too.

My voice remained hushed as I turned to face him, “Is someone else in here…?”

“Not yet,” Midnight replied, slowly bringing himself up to a sitting position, reluctantly letting go of me, “stay in bed.”

Something dangerous stirred within his presence and I harboured more fear for Midnight than the prospect of an actual intruder. It was as though his words were laced in something much more sinister, like a threat.

When the lock to the front door finally gave in, I could feel a change in the atmosphere almost right away. Midnight kept me grounded in bed by pressing his one arm behind him, locking me into place against the mattress. The way that he seemed to be guarding me felt territorial once again.

I remained deathly quiet as I felt the air continue to grow heavier; some type of droning sound playing from Midnight’s lips. His body reacted on instinct, almost, as his head jerked in slight movements—as though he was tracking something, or someone.

The hum slowly phased into a low growl, filling up the space with an unsettling aura that wafted through the confines of my home.

It was as though Midnight was making his presence known to send a warning.

People were reckless though. That’s what I started to understand after just a couple of weeks with him. Humans acted unpredictably, especially if influenced by fear.

So, perhaps he was just trying to strike enough unease into this person into leaving, but this didn’t seem to be the outcome just yet.

Midnight was gentle with me up until this very moment. He spent the last couple of weeks trying to gain my trust but he seemed to have a different priority right now. The way he seemed so tense during his investigation was quite jarring, especially now that he seemed hostile. Malicious, even.

Closer to an actual demon than ever before.

I felt afraid.

Noticing this, his demeanour softened for a moment, although it felt forced. He turned to face me, sensing my unease.

Cupping my face into his palms, he leaned in with a sedating kiss, “I’ll be right back.”

While his tone seemed calmer and while his touch bordered feather light, it was that same type of kiss that dulled my senses like all of those other times before.

Usually it was used as a nightcap for when I couldn’t get to sleep or for the earlier days when I couldn’t bring myself to relax within his company. However, it seemed to be for something else tonight.

Something seemed off.

His body language was different—almost erratic.

I drifted off into a fabricated sleep and phased on and off back into lucidity against my control. Certain sounds played in my mind, like screaming and low drawn out whines. Like bones waning and cracking. Faint imagery burnt into my mind of bloodied flesh and torn skin.

Under any other circumstance, I would have shaken that off as a vivid nightmare but it felt all too different this time.

Especially since the atmosphere since then felt even heavier than before and to an extent, almost suffocating.

My breath locked in my throat as I felt an anchoring presence settle over me, sinking me further into the mattress. I writhed just a little bit as my body tried to readjust into comfort, but I couldn’t move much at all.

I knew Midnight was on top of me, that much was clear.

I opened up my eyes once again, feeling the sedative finally fade. It was almost a jarring sensation, as if the ease washed away along with it. The air continued to thicken but now tinted with the smell of copper, my senses recoiling as something warm dripped from his lips and onto mine.

(Blood…?)

I couldn’t see him too clearly, but from the brief moments that the moonlight shone through the blinds—I could see it. He looked feral, almost as if he was drunk on something.

My breathing remained shallow as I felt some sort of innate fear settle deep within my core. I was starting to slowly understand why I felt so terrified in this very moment—my eyes widening in panicked realisation. I finally got it. My breath caught in my throat again as the dream-like stupor finally faded away, replacing itself with striking lucidity instead.

Midnight was savouring the taste of something.

Or someone.

Yet, despite catching onto my suspicion, he tried to brush away my almost overwhelming concern.

“Please don’t worry,” he cooed, that same soft tone returning as he finally settled, the one that carried the same facade as before, “go back to sleep, it will be okay.”

“But-“

“—the danger is gone, I promise,” Midnight purred as he stroked my cheeks with his fingers, leaning in closer as he licked the dried blood off of my lips, “in fact, the intruder isn’t just dealt with, he’s…”

“You didn’t?” I asked, finally able to say something. My voice sounded hoarse, almost dry.

Midnight simply smiled, his pointed teeth momentarily illuminated by the passing moonlight. He wasn’t going to elaborate even if he did suspect you knew. Instead, he fed you a cryptic response, sealed with yet another soothing kiss.

“Let’s just say that… he’s gone for good.”

[scribblesofagoonerr]

Monkey has a little bump now? 🥹

Oh I bet Leah's eyes widened when she saw that because it's one thing to know someone's pregnant but to physically see is a whole other thing

She's all '...you're pregnant...' and Monkey giving her looks like 'tf, yeah I know?? You've seen the ultrasound, you've seem me throwing u-what is wrong with you right now?!' Because she somehow hasn't noticed, give her a break she's been barely functioning until now okay?

Leah now makes sure Jordan gets that surprise too because their girl has a baby bump and holy shit, they actually have a pregnant daughter!

Yes!! Monkeys little bump has finally popped, and Leah is absolutely shocked when she actually sees it.

She’s been so caught up in helping Monkey with her morning sickness, making sure that she’s still eat and drinking, and just generally functioning that she still hasn’t somehow really fully processed that Monkey actually is showing now

Cue Leah walking into the living room, seeing Monkey lounging in a hoodie that’s just tight enough to show it, and stopping dead in her tracks. She’s just stood there with wide eyes, and mouth slightly open

“You… You’re pregnant,”

Monkey just staring back at her, looking at Leah slightly concerned like “Duh. Yeah, no shit,” vaguely gesturing to herself, “You’ve been to the ultrasound appointments—You literally held my hair back while I was throwing up. Why is this new information?”

However, Leah swears this is different, seeing it with her eyes. The bump makes it a whole lot more real like it wasn’t before, and she is now phoning Jordan up to get her to experience the same holy shit moment for herself.

Leah waits patiently (not at all) until Jordan comes round, all but practically dragging her into the kitchen where Monkey is making a cheese sandwich and pointing at her like “Look, Monkeys pregnant.”

Jordan’s reaction is priceless, and exactly what Leah had hoped for.

“Oh… Oh my God. You’re really, it’s true… You are pregnant,” Jordan is stumbled for words, locking her eyes on Monkeys bump, “You… You—holy shit.”

Monkey is just sighing dramatically, “Oh god, not you as well. Yes, I’m pregnant. It’s obvious now. Why is everyone acting like this is sudden big news today?”

Monkey isn’t phased. Leah and Jordan are stuck in a loop of realisation, pointing at Monkeys stomach and muttering to themselves.

“That’s our grandchild in there.”

“Holy shit, we’re going to be grandparents.”

And Buddy? She’s convinced that Monkey is just getting fat and in her words “Stop eatin’ all the buscuits.”

[verysium]

blu lock top artists on Spotify??? i need your thoughts on it

anon you had me pulling up my spotify playlists and browsing through the entirety of genius.com for three hours straight. i'm going to tweak this prompt a little bit and include specific songs that best represent them since it's easier for me to explain that way.

RIN

the fanon answer for this is chase atlantic. while their songs do encapsulate parts of his personality (mostly the edgy teenager and disillusioned youth persona), i feel like this choice does not do his full character justice.

the canon answer for this is king gnu, more specifically the song "prayer x." i can picture this since rin seems like the type to enjoy alternative rock/indie, but the fact that it's the ending theme to banana fish is what gets to me. like...do you see yourself in ash or something? i hope you don't cus it doesn't end well. that anime had me bawling my eyes out for months, and i still can't think about it without breaking down again.

furthermore, the lyrics and music video to this song are very cryptic and borderline nihilistic. for example, "hiding behind this nonchalant smile" and "my life's spark will wink out of existence." i feel like this speaks volumes about rin's mental health and internal thought process. he obviously does not process his emotions normally and instead represses them. he also struggles with the idea of finding a purpose in what is otherwise a cyclical routine with no end. he's worried and, quite frankly, afraid that if he ever stops pursuing his dream, everything will come crumbling down, and he will have to face all the demons he's avoided for so long. the main theme here is that he cannot face his reality (the fact that sae's dream is not his own.) so he does everything in order to escape this fact even if it ultimately destroys him.

from my own playlists, i'd assign him the following songs/artists:

"beautiful boy" by john lennon

this is a love letter to baby rin. i feel like he would've enjoyed this song as either a lullaby or something he listened to on car rides to the beach during summer vacations. he probably still listens to this when it's raining outside or he's had a bad day. reminds him of his childhood and the good parts of it.

"the love club" by lorde

this is something pre-teen rin listened to. the irony is spot-on, and i feel like the lyrics would be relevant during a time when he was going through his rebellious phase and fully fleshing out his place in society. in this instance, the club would metaphorically be wherever his brother is at, whether that's the guys sae meets in spain or the group of football players considered "top-notch" in japan. everything is about finding a place in this club/clique in an effort to become free and differentiate himself from others. the only problem is that rin ironically loses his freedom because he tries so hard to be among the best. he signs his life away in pursuit of a dream, and it's something that now defines him.

"the only problem i got with the club / is how you're severed from the people / who watched you grow up"

this lyric in particular could apply to either one of the itoshi brothers. it's one of the caveats that comes with fame. you gain everything, but you lose everything before that. both of the itoshis likely experienced some amount of separation from their loved ones, including each other. also lorde's vocals are beautiful as always, so there's no reason not to include this song.

"howlin' 404" by DEAN

the production for this song is on point. the intro has a segment from a 1930s american horror radio program which is fitting because rin canonically watches horror movies. i think this song is something rin might listen to during cold autumns or midnights when he just can't sleep.

lyrically, there is the motif of a time loop which is also present in "prayer x." rin's character itself just has this connection with the raw grittiness of existentialism and this idea of repeating days without purpose. (in fact, he would make a great psychological thriller lead.) rin is also a control freak. if he lets one loose end go, it will unravel the entire thing. that matches up with the idea of "killing me softly." rin would rather prolong his pain than have it ripped from him all at once and leave him with nothing. i find this in a lot of people in real life too. even if your trauma wasn't good for you, it sometimes becomes the only thing you truly own. it's like that one quote from bojack horseman. "if i don't, that means that all the damage i got isn't good damage, it's just damage." rin feels like he has something to prove, and if he fails, all his suffering would've been for nothing.

"moonchild" by RM

i may be a bit biased since i love the mono mixtape, and i've written a rin fic about celestial bodies, but....this song just fits him. there's also a remarkable similarity with the lyrics of the previous songs i've listed. i'm just going to list a few:

"smiling in endless pain / you know / there's no freedom when you say freedom out loud"

one thing i love about RM is that he doesn't shy away from character flaws. he writes songs specifically for those who are always picked last, who aren't remarkable in any way, who feel weighed down by their normality. he gives them their spotlight and due diligence. for example, the entirety of the chorus is a repeat of "moonchild, you shine." i find this interesting since it's usually the sun that shines. but the sun is already sae, and rin is relegated to being the moon. yet even though the moon doesn't have its own light (it merely reflects the sun), it still shines bright in the darkness. rin doesn't know it yet, but he himself is a big role model for others such as isagi, his fans, and people just like him. so yeah....i'd take this song as a message of hope for future rin.

SAE

the fanon answer is lana del rey, and i would agree to a certain extent. under the right circumstances, he could become one of those dreamy, emotionally stunted, and tired men you guys all lust over. if y/n ever wrote a romantic song about him, it would be either "west coast" (for the spanish influences) or "art deco" (for the vibes.)

the headcanon answer is nothing. i don't think he listens to music much. even if he did, it would be probably classical/instrumental or just white noise for his long flights. i imagine him listening to erik satie's "gymnopédie no. 3" on a train ride or something.

from my own playlists, i'm going to give him these songs/artists:

"remind me" by röyksopp

i don't know how to explain this, but this song gives a bittersweet sense of nostalgia. think early 2000s when the TV footage was still grainy and had retro graphics. you're carrying around your mini mp3 player whilst wandering through the airport and wondering how the hell you even ended up there. that's the general ambience of this song.

lyrically, the song also matches well with sae. i'm going to give you a few examples:

"it's only been a week / the rush of being home in rapid fading"

again, this is a tribute to the disconnection sae feels from his home. he goes everywhere, but he belongs nowhere. when he finally returns to japan, he finds himself missing spain. when he's in madrid, he thinks about the ocean back in kamakura. there never is a place that truly fills that gaping hole in his chest. i also feel like sae experiences FOMO on a whole other level. he constantly feels like something is wrong/missing and he's not doing enough.

"brave men tell the truth / the wise man's tools are analogies and puzzles"

the idea here is that though sae is blunt with his words, he is a coward with his intentions/true feelings. he can brutally call out someone without hesitation, but to actually reveal his own truths and motives? he'd rather shrivel up in a hole and die. this is especially applicable to love. to him, a wise man is someone who doesn't open his heart up easily. instead, he hints at his feelings, and whether or not you can figure that out is on you. sae hates it when others play games with him. it's where his hypocrisy lies. he demands straightforward honesty from others, but he himself will unintentionally play games with you if it means he can hide himself behind his walls.

"a woman holds her tongue / knowing silence will speak for her"

this is the closest you guys are ever going to get to sae itoshi's ideal type. he loves people who don't need to say something for him to believe it. they just get it. your silence is automatically enough for him to know that you love him. similarly, you don't even need to speak a word to understand what he's feeling.

"night shift" by lucy dacus

this song is sae if he was that one ex-boyfriend who really fucked you up emotionally, and you never got over him even though you said you did. now that i think about it, the story could be told from either POV. this could be sae trying to erase you from his mind, or it could also be you post-breakup.

"you've got a 9 to 5 / so i'll take the night shift / and i'll never see you again / if i can help it"

i know this one lyric caused controversy all over tiktok, so i'm going to add my own interpretation. at face value, this is exactly what it says it is. sae doesn't want to see you again, nor do you. he's willing to go out of his way just to avoid you, and truthfully he would. when sae finds himself in trouble, he doesn't look for something new to fix him. instead, he cuts everything off and subtracts anything that is deadweight. if you're out of his life, then you're out of his life. he's not coming back for you (or at least that's what he says to convince himself). same thing with rin. he knows he hurt rin, but he's not going to go back and try to make it right. he's going to move on and try to justify his actions every step of the way. one day, rin will move on too, and then sae would have been right all along. (unfortunately, that is not the way things work, but that's a lesson for another time.)

the alternative interpretation is that y/n is the other woman. this could be literal as in sae already has someone else in his life, and he only sees you at night. you're only ever going to be the night shift. it could also be metaphorical as in you're merely a distraction in the grand scheme of things. you're the mistress, but football is his wife if that makes sense. his career will always take precedence.

"you get me so high" by the neighborhood

this song is all the words sae wished he said to rin but never did. it made me cry because everything would have been so different if they had just set aside their pride and truthfully sought each other out.

"hope you don't regret it / i pushed a lot back but i can't forget it"

repressing feelings seems to be a recurring issue with the itoshi brothers. like....maybe if i just push it out of sight, it will also go out of mind. and at its core, this all stems from fear. fear of facing the consequences, the hypotheticals, the terrifying realization that you did something you regret and there really is no turning back from it. but realistically, if you think about it, a lot of this is the byproduct of overthinking. sometimes the situation isn't as complicated as we might make it out to be. sometimes an apology doesn't fix everything, but it's a proposition to be something more, an attempt at a solution. but sae and rin are so blindsided by their own internal turmoil that they cannot see this.

"for a long time i took it all for granted / i really thought we had it / but at the time it was more than i could manage"

ah....the "taking for granted" part. i could ramble on about that for hours. i think it really is some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy that we never miss something until it's gone. and in a way, it's not something that we can always control. the value you assign to a person/object when you have it is going to be fundamentally different from the value you assign to it when it's no longer in your grasp. that's how scarcity works. something with a limited supply is always going to be worth more. the vice versa works as well. you might yearn after something but then throw it away the moment you finally have it and grow tired of it. this sort of dilemma that comes with appreciation is so common i really wouldn't blame the itoshi brothers for what they did. it is immensely difficult to know when you're going to lose something or when you need to let it go. and sometimes it's hard to be constantly grateful for what you have because many of us are wired to want something more. tbh that's what makes the itoshis relatable.

"if we can leave it all behind us / and meet in between"

now sae would never say this unless he himself had actually reflected on what happened and fully processed it. but maybe in the future, they could set aside their differences and reach out to each other. (this is how i cope)

"but i just had to let you know / i never meant to hurt you, though / i had all my motives / i didn't know they wouldn't mix with your emotions / i just had to reach my goals / never knew i'd meet you though"

that's the thing with personal ambition. sometimes you get so caught up in yourself, you forget all about others. and this isn't really selfishness, or at least intentional selfishness. it just sort of happened that way. you never meant to hurt them, but you still somehow did.

"we should stick together / you're my best friend / i'll love you forever"

yeah....this line was the one that did it for me. something about the dysfunctional sibling dynamic just eats away at my insides. like....i could've loved you, we could've been so much together, but why aren't we? what we have isn't hate, but it isn't the love i know and crave either.

"we could be the greatest / it doesn't matter if we're never rich or famous"

ok but if rin ever heard this leave sae's lips, i think all of his trauma would just be magically healed. he just wants his brother to see him. like fully see him and love him. but alas, what is blue lock without angst, am i right?

"love in the dark" by adele

now i don't think sae would ever listen to adele, but the lyrics are just too fitting. i was going to write a fic on this, but it's going to have to ferment a bit in the drafts for now. basically this is the entire rin/sae traumatic scene but as a melodramatic torch song with adele's heavenly vocals.

"take your eyes off of me so i can leave / i'm far too ashamed to do it with you watching me"

um...this is literally sae's internal monologue??? i feel like letting go of things is something both the itoshi brothers struggle with. their lives are constantly pulling them in different directions, and eventually they become numb to it all. they don't form any strong attachment to anything besides football because that's the one thing that won't change for them. in a way, this is necessary for their character development (in the sense that they need to discern for themselves what to keep and what to let go), but it also destroys any sense of belonging they might have (hence why they feel lonely.)

"don't try to change my mind / i'm being cruel to be kind"

sae would definitely say this. like word for word. if only he wasn't a vague dumbass with no communication skills.

"i can't love you in the dark / it feels like we're oceans apart"

this is literally their dynamic in one lyric. there is the physical distance, and then there's the emotional distance.

"we're not the only ones, / i don't regret a thing / every word i've said, / you know i'll always mean"

this sort of reminds me when sae said that the world is huge, and there's so many players way better than him out there. i think spain really gave him a reality check, and he grew angry at rin when rin couldn't understand his disillusionment.

"everything changed me / and i don't think you can save me"

adele sort of echoes this softly at the end of the song. i feel like sae would do that too. he wouldn't admit his own insecurities until the very end, and only then does the truth come out.

"i'll sleep when i'm older" by bruno major

this is sae when he's older and fully mature, preferably after he meets you. he finally decides to damn it all and do what he wants.

"conversations with elders and the wisdom they bring ... / the view from an aeroplane at twelve thousand feet"

sae views things that previously annoyed him in a new light. he used to hate his elders, but he visited you and your mother once, and something changed within him. now he calls his parents more often, and his eyes linger on the old couples near the park benches. sometimes, his gaze softens just a bit when he imagines the two of you growing old just like them.

flights used to be a mundane part of his routine, but now he finds himself leaning over your window seat to see the mountains down below. the clouds and sunny weather set him aglow. and you just look so pretty when you fall asleep on his shoulder. he doesn't ever want this change.

"meet god on a mountain top along with the stars / find love somewhere, anywhere / fall deep from the start"

sae used to avoid love, but now he's running at it full-force. people tend to shy away from making sae a romantic because it seems too ooc. however, in the right situation, i think sae could entirely abandon his previous ideals and become someone else entirely. (that's why it's called a character evolution guys.)

"misplace my mind and follow my heart"

again, if you're able to make sae lose all rationality and let his heart guide him instead, then you've really done something. kudos to you for penetrating the walls of the coldest asshole known to mankind.

"i'll be a firework, not a flickering flame / treat life all around me like a one-player game"

this one lyric applies both to younger and older sae. younger sae is someone unafraid of risking it all if it means he can achieve something worthwhile. it doesn't matter how many players he has to defeat, how many people he has to leave behind. in this world, it is just him and the goal he has to accomplish.

however, after he's mellowed out after a few years (i'd say around middle age), he probably reinterprets this as something else. he's not going to constrain himself to his tunnel vision anymore. there's so much more to life than that.

"i'll go to the party and forget all the names / should it climb back to haunt me, / it ends all the same"

sae finally lets himself live the life he never thought he'd have. he does stupid things like get drunk and make a fool of himself. but you're there for him, so he doesn't really care. in fact, he can finally say that for the first time in a long time....he's having fun.

KAISER

the fanon answer is the weeknd. i'm not going to lie, i completely agree with this one. i saw this one edit of him to "party monster," and i can say i have been fully enlightened and converted. however, this is not just about a toxic male manipulator anthem. it's much more than that.

this is about running away from the ugliest parts of yourself, becoming a slave to your vices, knowing you're broken somewhere and you can never fix it. i would say his character is most similar to "starboy" in the fact that he literally flaunts everything he has to hide the fact that deep down inside, he really has nothing else to hold onto. "starboy" is all about the status symbol (money, red lamborghinis, glass table girls turning into ebony table girls lol). but at the end of the day, he doesn't really have anything except an empty heart and a satirical quip for all those who made him famous. the same theme applies to "the morning" and "house of balloons."

in the romantic sense, i think "don't break my heart" would represent kaiser. and no, this is not a justification for him being an f-boy. it's more so an exploration of why people might think he is an f-boy. i do not condone his actions, but i do try to understand them. in particular, i feel like the lyrics of "sacrifice" also fit him well.

"i was born in a city / where the winter nights don't ever sleep / so this life's always with me / the ice inside my veins will never bleed"

i headcanon kaiser as being born in either berlin or munich. and if you don't know anything about those two places, just know that you freeze your ass off during wintertime. i think it's interesting how his past could be intrinsically tied with a place, and he takes a piece of his past self with him wherever he goes. the ice in veins part also made me think about how kaiser would rather freeze up every weakness within himself than let them run free and make him human.

"every time you try to fix me / i know you'll never find that missing piece"

guys...did you hear that? to all you delusional people out there, this is your service announcement. you cannot fix someone who does not want to be fixed. write that down and memorize it. all meaningful change starts with a shift in mindset, and if they themselves are not in the right headspace to recognize that something is wrong and actively want to change, you're not going to get anywhere. so yeah....kaiser is not going to change unless HE starts doing the changing.

"i hold you through the toughest parts / when you feel like it's the end / 'cause life is still worth living"

i think this lyric sort of explores kaiser's dynamic with ness. on one front, he is the one picking ness up from his miserable past and instilling a sense of hope into him (intentionally or not.) but on another front, this could also be a problem. kaiser is almost forcefully optimistic in the way that he believes anything is possible. it has to be possible because there can be no other way. but the thing is.....you have to know your limits sometimes. blind optimism is, ironically, similar to cornering yourself.

"i can break you down and pick you up / and fuck like we are friends / but don't be catching feelings"

this is definitely the type of bullshit kaiser would spew. i could picture a fwb or situationship with him where y/n just constantly receives the short end of the stick. now this may be reaching, but i also feel like this is how kaiser projects his own trauma onto others. he himself clawed his way up to the top and put himself back together every time he fell down. the problem is that he also expects you to be that resilient. he's going to treat you badly because you're supposed to be like him: someone who can overcome everything and strive towards the impossible.

the headcanon answer to his top artist would be keshi. in particular, i think kaiser would fit the vibe of "2 soon" and "drunk." long story short, you finally broke up with him, and he's still reeling from the impact.

within my fics, i envision a dialogue between kaiser and y/n from each one of their perspectives. so based on that, i'm going to assign him the following songs/artists:

"gibson girl" by ethel cain

i know i said earlier that kaiser's character is not solely about toxic manipulation, but you have to understand that all bad habits originate from somewhere. kaiser is innately self-destructive, and he brings you down along with him. this song is about that but from y/n's perspective. there's this idea of trying to find agency in a situation where you have none. i don't have the word count to explain ethel cain lore in all of its naked glory, but all i can say is that this song is a banger and deals with themes like femininity as a performance, finding power in pain, religious motifs, etc.

"glory box" by portishead

this song is y/n's last plea to kaiser before they fully give up on him and leave. i'm also a sucker for anything that involves an exploration of gender dynamics and what it means to be a woman, and this song is riddled with it.

"suffocation" by crystal castles

this is kaiser post-isagi defeat (cue that one scene where he was trying to choke himself.) similar to sae, it's all or nothing with him. he suffers from this feeling of inferiority. everyone made him out to be this great figure of impossible dreams and legends, but look at him now. he's nothing. aren't you disappointed? he had you fooled, but he also fooled himself. so yeah....kaiser is definitely the most self-deprecating out of all of the boys at blue lock.

ISAGI

the fanon answer is laufey, and i also agree. he's so sweet, and laufey's music just makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. he would also be that one love that came creeping up on you when you least expected it. "valentine" would be the song for that. i picture a reader who's had a series of unfortunate breakups and is right on the edge of giving up entirely. but then isagi comes along, and it's just so easy to love him. as easy as breathing. and then you think maybe it wasn't so bad after all. you just never found the right one until he came into your life. furthermore, isagi is a jazz pop princess, and you can't convince me otherwise.

the headcanon answer is IU. more specifically, i would say "troll" from her lilac album. i feel like even if you and isagi broke up, it would still be like you two never broke up at all. you're both on good terms, and even though you know it's counterproductive to keep cycling back to each other, you do it anyways. and it's okay because you're both still in love.

from my own playlists, i would assign the following songs/artists:

"winter bear" by v

this is my comfort song. it feels like those big sherpa blankets you tuck yourself under when you're lying next to the heater in winter. isagi would kiss your forehead and nuzzle your nose before you two drifted off to sleep.

"a boy named pluto" by hailey knox

this one is so romantic lol. i also like the dynamic where one party is afraid to love, but the other person loves them unconditionally. that would be isagi. he'd respect your decision and wait for you as long as you need it. but if you're ever ready to give him a chance, just know that he's going to treasure all of you.

"put your records on" by ritt momney

the inspiring thing about isagi is that he never lets anyone put him down. he takes rejection as redirection, failure as room for improvement. and in that way, i think this song encapsulates his resilience. he'd be such a good boyfriend not just romantically but in the way that he would literally pick you back up to your feet, dust you off, and make sure everything was alright.

"fairy of shampoo" by dosii

i picture isagi as someone who falls first and falls harder. he just loves you so much, and he doesn't even need a reason why. i saw somewhere that sometimes you don't love someone because they're your soulmate/twin flame/supernaturally fated other. you love them because you consciously made the decision to. isagi is like that. he loves you on purpose.

helppp why does this sound like an academic paper...i'm sorry anon. i got carried away with this, but i hope u like it.

[fungusrice]

Hii fungus! I was wondering about the jackal's voice line you can make out in the movie where he yells "leave me alone". Who do you think that sentence was addressed to!? 👀

Hey there, champ!

Oh boy, I've been thinking about this question for so long, because it is a heartbreaking sentence coming from someone as volatile and aggressive like him, although it makes perfect sense, but I plan talking about this later.

Anyways, you was talking about this particular voice line at the end:

The most likely reasons behind that line in my eyes:

Cyrus Kriticos - In this scene, Bobby has been lured deeper down to the basement by the Bound Woman, while his mother tried to protect him and keep asking him to leave. However, you can only hear the Jackal's cackles and laughter until that particular moment. It means he was still locked somewhere around that area, and remember, that soon after this, Cyrus captured Bobby before he could've leave. So what I think is that the Jackal possibly sensed his capturer's presence or straight up seen him. Ryan is more than self-aware of his surroundings, he can make logical sense of many things (we seen him taking revenge in the movie two times). His "insanity" does not make him dumb, so it comes no surprise that he'd know exactly why he is locked in the Glass House Possibly stirring up his trauma by being restricted and used. So my first thought is that the Jackal reacted to Cyrus' presence, reminding him his former tormentors in the Asylum. Remember, the Jackal grew to hate every human contact at some point, likely because the only treatment he received was humiliation, physical and mental abuse. He was yelling, screaming at people who tried to approach him, covered himself from them, a painfully desperate attempt of self-defense. Cyrus was possibly someone in his eyes who appear as a tormentor too, just like the people who ruined him - ultimately, Cyrus was no better. One of the many.

An echo of the past / Him struggling with his traumas - If you listen closely, you can hear his muffled voice at 0:17. It sounds like the "Leave me alone" line, but not as clear like the one at the end. He may have been covering himself in some way while shouting it, hence why the "muffled" tone. I can feel a more violent "struggle" in it. It could be him re-living some of the abuses he had to endure in life. Between this muffled scream and the voice line, you can still hear his signature cackles, laughter which may indicate an emotionally unstable state. Remember, he is an Earth bound spirit and it'd make perfect sense that one of the reasons that keeps him from moving on is the suffering and haunting trauma that has been inflicted upon him, while the wild rage could stir from his betrayal by humanity. Traumatised, tortured souls used to re-experience their worst moments again and again in a never-ending loop, and it is a grim possibility for Ryan too.

Regardless, we only seen him in this particular phase when Cyrus was undoubtedly nearby. Perhaps the truth is a mixture of both of these possibly reasons. Either way, it is obvious that he has been severely traumatised and him trying to protect himself from the abuse is still a real struggle for him even after death.

[edgedstupid]

Locked in a room with all lamps turned off, with the only source of any light being a plasma screen that covers the entirety of the wall and is protected by bulletproof glass. The TV plays unstoppable looping porn that, from time to time, changes just to keep your mind fresh and broken, together with hypno instructions in unbearable volumes teaching you to be a good submissive gooner. On the floor, lots and lots of sex toys scattered around, all of them with wireless chargers, ensure no matter how much you use, they'll never run out of battery.

Would you rather be free to walk around and play at your own phase, but staying alone for the duration of it, only being watched from far by your new owner?

Or would you rather be tied to a chair, being force fed estrogen and pheromones by them, wearing a VR and a headphone concentrating all of the hypno inside your mind, being constantly on the edge of cumming, stimulated every single moment by wand vibrators, just so they can leave and return every day to use your body and increase your agony even more?~

- ⚖️

Oh gods this is sooo hard... But as much as I like the idea of being able to feel good whatever way I want whenever I want, I think I'd have to go with the chair. Because, fuck, oh fuck, oh fucking gods, being forced to sit there, constantly right on the edge, having my mind utterly melted until I'm as much of a mindless toy as the dozen wands deleting my every thought, never getting release, just getting dumber and hornier until something just breaks. Fuck I'd do anything to have that. Anything.

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

the world (it burns through me)

Chapter 18: Angel

Ao3 | 3.2k Words | Angel's POV

Angel hasn't been home in three months. Asher thinks everything is fucked. Angel and Quinn have a nice little coffee date. David brandishes an ax.

TW: Threats, use of weapons, mentions of past abuse and assault.

It had been nearly three months since you’d been inside your own house and you were starting to think that you were going certifiably insane. The 10-19 was nice, apparently much nicer than it had been before Davey got his perfectionist hands on it. The bed in the bunkroom that you and Davey had claimed was comfortable. The kitchen had all of the same snacks Davey kept at home. You could see him in between calls when he was on duty. No more sleepless nights when he picked up a graveyard shift. 

No sleepless nights except for when he picked up Milo’s shift after a full day because somebody had carved up your friend like a Thanksgiving fucking turkey. 

You started working from ‘home,’ a spare office next to Davey’s with none of the string lights and knick knacks and picture frames from your desk at work. You ordered groceries direct to the firehouse. Bean Me Up had burned down, so you had nowhere to go to get coffee. You didn’t dare to ask Davey to take you dancing. He didn’t really have the energy for that anymore. 

You knew that his nightmares were getting bad again. Usually, they ramped up in the lead up to September, around his dad’s birthday too. But this was something else entirely. 

He would wake with a start, arms locking down around you so hard it was almost painful, his breath ragged and uneven as he pulled you impossibly closer to his chest. You thought that he probably thought you were sleeping, and you didn’t dissuade him of that belief. You didn’t want him to worry, but you hadn’t been doing a lot of that recently. 

You wanted to go home. You wanted to crawl back into your bed and sleep for a month. At this point, you didn’t particularly care if there was a monster hiding in your closet. 

Davey had told you about that eventually. You had felt Quinn’s heavy breathing at the back of your neck for days, a perpetual shiver running up and down your spine, a feedback loop of creeped the fuck out. It had kept you very grateful to not be in that house for a good few weeks, grateful to be surrounded by big, strong, sexy firefighters day and night. 

Those big, strong, sexy firefighters had their appeal. Just not twenty-four hours a day for three months straight. 

You were horny. That was the real problem. There was very little privacy in a firehouse that ran twenty-four hours a day. Davey had closed his office door for the first time since he’d made Captain so you could take up a very short residence under his desk a month in. He’d been called away before you could get your fill. Besides a few shared showers in the only private stall in the locker room and wandering hands under the covers at night when a call went out and Davey wasn’t on call, you had been perpetually unsatisfied. 

Before your home was invaded, you and Davey had fucked like bunnies. Most of your exes had liked your sex drive during the honeymoon phase, but once that passed had a hard time keeping up with you. Not Davey, though. He was worse than you were. You were pretty certain that he could get it going anywhere anytime that you gave him any indication you were at all interested. 

You were in sync, had been since you’d met each other. So you knew how stressed out he was, and you knew that he was without an outlet for it. 

So his dreams got bad. He barely slept. You found yourself going to bed alone and waking up alone, only the barest, hazy memories of his arms wrapping around you sometime in the dead of the night. He was a firefighter. He needed to be alert on the job. He was going to get himself killed at this rate. 

You woke up in your bed in the bunk room alone. You shuffled into your slippers. You made a cappuccino in the fancy machine in the kitchen. There was no breakfast in the kitchen, which meant Davey had gone straight from his shift to the hospital. You thought about meeting him there. But you were sure at this point that Quinn knew what your car looked like. You weren’t completely incapable of defending yourself, but Quinn gave Trouble… well, trouble. You certainly weren’t going to put up much of a challenge for him. 

So you waited instead. Asher made his way into the kitchen shortly after seven, frown firmly set across his features. The world just didn’t feel right when Asher wasn’t smiling. 

“Hey, girl,” you said softly, none of the usual jovial tone in your voice. 

“Hey, girl,” he replied, “they’re okay.” You sighed, shoulders sagging. 

“Davey hasn’t texted me.” You flashed your phone to him, a picture from the wedding covered up by notifications from TikTok and Instagram and random promotional emails that you would never open. But nothing in response to your many texts to Davey. 

“Yeah, I had to get my intel from Marie.” Asher said. You expected him to sneak a joke in, but he didn’t, just sat heavily on one of the barstools, laying his cheek flat on the cool marble countertop, staring out at the empty kitchen. “It’s really bad.” 

“The injury? Marie wouldn’t tell me what it was. She said that she didn’t-” 

“No.” Asher sighed, closing his eyes. You stepped forward, brushing his curls out of his eyes, gently scratching your fingers over his scalp. “Well, yeah, it’s gonna take several surgeries to fully take care of, but they’re alive. I mostly mean this. All of this. Everything about this whole fucking situation is fucked.” You hummed, sitting on the stool next to him so you could rub your hand over his back, up and down his spine in slow, deliberate movements. 

“We are gonna be okay.” You said, decisive, certain. “This guy isn’t invincible. He will slip up. He will get caught.” 

“But who is he gonna hurt in the meantime?” 

“Who?” 

You spun around, Asher jerking up from his seat and on to his feet. Trouble was standing in the open doorway that led out to the bunk room, patch covered jacket tossed over their shoulder, still in their plain clothes. They worked the early morning shift, you remembered, cringing back from your poor timing. A lie was ready on your tongue, some balm to ease the suspicion that hung around them like a storm cloud. 

“Quinn.” Asher answered before you could spit it out. “There was a run in.” 

You watched Trouble’s face drop, go pale, their free hand grip into a tight fist at their side. 

“Ash!” You whacked him in the chest, but he didn’t pull his eyes away from Trouble. 

“You deserve to know.” Ash said decisively, refused to break eye contact, as though their shared look alone could keep them rooted in place where it was safe. “I know David likes to keep some information close to the chest. It’s for the right reasons. He wants to protect you. But you deserve to know what’s going on.” 

Trouble shifted on their feet, one booted foot sliding back, as though they were about to pivot and run. Asher stepped forward in turn. 

“But if you try to run I’ll tackle your ass in the hallway.” He said it with a smile, but you knew he was serious. “Come on.” He jerked his head, relaxing his posture purposefully. “Let’s commandeer David’s office. I’ll tell you everything.” 

Trouble’s sharp eyes flicked over his face, searching and searching for a gap in his certainty. Asher was many things, but when people needed him, he was first and foremost steady. 

You watched the two of them leave, Asher’s arms wrapped around Trouble’s shoulders in a casual swoop. Asher was one of your best friends. You knew that, when it came to the people he loved, he never did anything casual. He was keeping them close, tucked against his side, where he could guard them from any danger, even themself. He had a tendency to do the same thing with you. 

You sighed, rubbed a hand over your face, and plucked your phone from the counter. Your jacket was hanging on the rack next to the firefighters’, comically small compared to theirs. The cold hadn’t let up, the days seeming to grow shorter and shorter even though you knew it was the opposite. This winter just wouldn’t let go of you. 

You could have driven, but you chose to walk. Geordi was still working on getting his insurance money sorted out, so Bean Me Up wasn’t an option. You still refused to go to Starbucks. Dunkin’ Donuts it was. 

The sun was high and the sky was clear, and you reveled in being outside of that fucking firehouse as your breath puffed up into the air around you. You closed your eyes to the light filtering in from between the buildings, listened to the sounds of the city around you. 

You’d always been a people person, but you hadn’t realized how much you missed being on your own, in your own head, on your own time. You soaked up all you could in the three blocks it would take you to get to the cafe, knowing that you probably wouldn’t work up the nerve to do this again anytime soon. 

You ordered your coffee, more sugar than anything. You got a stale donut and inhaled it. You sat in the window of the cafe, staring out as people bustled by on the sidewalk. You breathed in the bitter scent of espresso as the morning passed you by. 

You didn’t notice when he entered the cafe, but you certainly did when a lidless cup of coffee plopped down on your table and splashed across your hands. You jerked back, hissing, and shook your hands out, spitting out a quick insult before the man plopped down in the seat across from you. 

When you were fifteen, the meager money you made at your fast food job wasn’t nearly enough to both feed Guy and pay for his Honor’s Society dues. A second job wasn’t an easy swing, but your fake ID got you a spot on the graveyard shift stocking the shelves at the grocery store. You could get to school in the mornings by eight, stay long enough that you wouldn’t trip the truancy alarms and get yourself arrested, and then make it to your shift at McDonald’s. 

It left absolutely no time to sleep or do homework, but you weren’t doing too much of those either way. 

He was your manager, a forty-something named Trevor with a receding hairline, a wife he loved to bitch about, three kids, and hungry eyes. 

The furthest he got was pressing you against the warehouse doors and feeling you up over your clothes. You punched him square in the jaw and were fired the next day. You knew from the whispers around the building that Trevor worked that particular shift because he ran out of people to assault on the day shift. As far as you knew, he kept his job because he was the victim of your brutal attack. 

The man who sat in front of you at the table in the Dunkin’ Donuts looked nothing like Trevor. He was lithe and tall, clad in an immaculate leather jacket, perfect, dishwater blonde hair swept over his forehead. He was handsome in a distant, plastic way, like a Ken Doll was. Angry, purple bruises had blossomed on his chin and under his right eye. His teeth were perfect and straight and framed by thin, red lips. You would probably find him cute if it weren’t for his eyes. 

His eyes were hungry, just like Trevor’s, just like your line up of shitty exes, just like every man who had ever made your skin crawl with a glance. You froze like a prey animal, eyes flashing to the worker behind the counter who was staring right back at you, his eyes wide as he took in the dynamic shift. Fuck. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen. You didn’t need to drag him into whatever the fuck this was. 

“It’s good to put a face to all of those pretty noises you make.” The stranger said, those hungry eyes flicking over your form. 

Ah. The accent, the threat swimming just below the surface of his sultry tone. This was Trouble’s ghost, the man who haunted them. 

“From what I heard,” you managed, voice steady even as you felt your hands shake, “you’re plenty familiar with my face.” You crossed your legs casually, leaning back against your uncomfortable cafe chair. Quinn smiled, teeth too sharp. 

“That’s true.” He laughed. “So peaceful when you sleep. Do you want to see the pictures?” 

“I’m good.” You said, smiling gently. “So what, you just happened to be stalking me today? I get graced with a conversation?” 

“I saw an opportunity.” He shrugged. “I dealt quite the blow yesterday. Wouldn’t it be nice to make it a killing one today?” 

“Killing is an interesting choice of words.” You took a long, purposeful sip of your coffee. “What do you want?” 

“They know.” Quinn said. He swirled his coffee in his cup, black and untouched, dangerously close to the rim. “I’ve told them. I want them. And if I can’t have them, I’ll take you.” 

“Or stab our friends.” You shot back. You hadn’t dropped your pleasant smile and neither had he. Your heart was pounding in your ears and you were terrified he could hear it. “That’s not exactly how you negotiate, you know.” 

“Oh, Darling,” Quinn laughed loud, tossed his head back, “this isn’t a negotiation. It’s a hostage situation.” 

“Gonna kidnap me?” You quirked an eyebrow. “I’ll scream. I’ll scratch your eyes out. Make a big scene.” 

“Don’t be so literal.” He rolled his eyes.

“Oh, a metaphorical hostage situation, gotcha.” 

“I’m showing them, bit by bit, what I’m willing to do to the people they love.” Quinn had gone serious, his face dropping into something scarily neutral, barely human. “If they keep pushing me, they’ll simply run out.” 

You let that bit of information hang in the air. You swallowed, hands falling away from your drink. You’d lost your appetite for it. 

“The firehouse is three blocks away.” You said, offering him information he already had. “Walk me back.” You stood, pushing your chair in politely. Quinn followed, leaving his cup, untouched, on the cafe table. You would have barked about how rude that was if you weren’t currently terrified for your life. 

Quinn offered you his arm and you took it, linking them together as you walked out of the front doors of the cafe. You shot one last look to the kid behind the counter and hoped that he would remember your face and Quinn’s, just in case. 

Quinn’s pace was languid and slow, pulling your short walk to an agonizing speed. You did your best to keep your cool, maintain your tenuous, causal attitude. 

“If you touch me.” You said as Quinn’s fingers stroked along your hand. “My husband will beat the shit out of you.” Quinn laughed, low and sharp. 

“He can try.” 

“I just mean,” you said, “that it doesn’t matter what you do to me or anybody else. David won’t let you hurt them.”

“David isn’t here, is he?” Quinn drawled. 

As you came up to the parking lot outside of the 10-19, you had never been so relieved to see David’s ugly, giant truck. That stupid thing was the least comfortable vehicle on planet earth and you wanted to cry at the sight of it. 

You barely made it halfway across the lot before David was walking out, still in his uniform from the day before, a fire-ax held firmly in his hand. You pulled your arm from Quinn’s and he let you- let you, he was strong enough to hold you wherever he wanted- and stopped where he was, boots clicking against the asphalt. 

“Captain Shaw.” He grinned, slipping his hands into his pocket. “Glad to put a name-” 

Before you could comment that he had already used that particular threatening line, David was on top of him, pushing him bodily back, away from you and the building, that wicked sharp ax flushed with Quinn’s slender throat. Quinn laughed, his adam’s apple flicking past the blade, blood sliding down his throat, dark against his pale skin. 

“Don’t talk.” David snarled, more growl than voice. His chest heaved like an animal, towering over Quinn like a predator over his prey. “Shut up. Do you remember what I told you that night?” 

Quinn’s sharp, hungry eyes turned on David. 

“I do.” He said, his mouth curling around the words like it was a vow. “Do you remember how I replied?” 

David sneered, flashed his teeth like he was threatening to bite. 

“Get the fuck away from here.” David snapped. “I won’t give you another warning.” 

David let Quinn go with a shove. He stumbled back, throat smeared with blood, and caught himself against David’s truck. He turned back as he retreated, flashing his eyes up at the building. Something caught his gaze in the window, and he stopped to wave. You spun around just in time to see Trouble standing in the window, the look of abject horror on their face before it morphed to rage. Their fists pounded against the window, a wordless shout leaving them as Quinn turned and sauntered away. You were afraid they would shatter the glass and come tumbling out. 

An arm wrapped around their waist, Asher pulling them away from the window. You watched them fight for a moment before Ash pulled them back into the darkness of David’s office. A breath shuddered out of you with your strength, your resolve. The ax in David’s hands clattered to the ground. 

“Angel,” he breathed, big hands coming up to frame your face. His dark eyes scanned over you, thumbs tracing over your cheekbones to soothe the shake that had overtaken you. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” 

“I’m fine.” You shook your head in his hold, movement restrained. One trailed down your neck, your chest, your side, patting you down for injury. “David, I’m fine. He didn’t… he just talked.” 

When you looked back up to Davey’s eyes, they were full of tears. You could count on one hand the number of times you’d seen Davey cry. On the anniversary of his father’s death. The day he had pulled a child’s charred corpse from a structure fire. On your wedding day. 

A tear slipped past Davey’s unfairly full lashes. You reached up, hands shaking, to wipe it away. 

“I just wanted…” your throat was tight all of a sudden. You thought you might cry. “Just needed to get out of this place for a little bit.” Davey’s face crumbled, and his body went with it. He curled over you, pressed his face into your neck, breathed in your scent. 

“Don’t do that, please.” He breathed, a gentle order, but an order nonetheless. You liked to play at being a brat, but you couldn’t deny him anything when he asked you like that. “Please don’t scare me like that.” 

“I’m sorry.” You said. You tangled your fingers in his hair, held him against you as close as you could. “I’m sorry, Davey. I won’t.” 

He stood there for a moment, breathing you in, sniffling against your skin as he got himself back under control. Eventually, he emerged, face stony and exhausted. 

“What did you tell him?” You asked, voice wavering. Davey bent to grab the ax, his grip flexing against it uncertainly. Davey pressed his lips together, his jaw clicking as he snapped it shut. He met your eye when you stepped back into his space, his lashes still wet. 

He bent to press a kiss to the top of your head and didn’t answer. 

[shewroteaworld]

Movie Date Migraine

Premise: On a movie date with Peter Parker, a migraine strikes you down. You don't want Peter to see you like this, but he refuses to let you go home alone.

Reader is female-identifying. Reader has hair long enough to be put in a ponytail.

Word count: aprox. 3,500

tw: descriptions of nausea and vomiting, reference to childhood trauma (unspecified)

(Y/N) knows she should go home. 

But, she can’t. Not until this movie is finished.

Sitting next to Peter Parker in the darkness of the movie theater, with your forearms touching and fingers brushing when you reach for popcorn, is typically an experience that sends heat dancing up your arms and butterflies flitting around your stomach.

Right now, nausea was the only thing pulsing through your stomach. And with the surround sound tightening the band around your forehead and the lights sending sparks across your vision, Peter’s arm touching yours is only adding to the sensory tsunami slamming you. 

You denied it when zigzags cut across your vision when you touched up your lipstick in the elevator. You denied it when Peter’s voice distorted on your walk to the theater. You denied it when a wave of dizziness hit you on your way to the restroom. But now, you couldn’t deny it any longer: a migraine storm was upon you. A rough night awaits, but you’re not ready for Peter to get up close and personal with your migraines yet.

For your entire life, you battled with migraine. In grade school, the pain forced you out of field trips, sports practices, and musical rehearsals and into bed with blackout curtains drawn, a cool cloth laid on your forehead, and a bucket by your bedside. Not a particularly attractive sight for your new(ish) boyfriend to see. 

The aura for this headache was coming on strong. When the actors’ voices began changing intonation like a chameleon changing colors, you knew a harsh spell encroached. You need to make it through this date and get back to your apartment before Peter sees you collapse in a pile of puke and tears. 

And, you have a game plan. Phase 1: Make it through the film without collapsing or puking. Phase 2: When Peter walks you home, hold his arm and lay your head on his shoulder. It’ll masquerade as a cute gesture, when in reality, you’ll be using him as a human cane. Phase 3: Get home, lock the door, and go into Migraine Emergency Mode. 

Slowly but surely, you were revealing your layers to Peter at a safe, comfortable pace. This shitty action movie was not going to get in the way.

An abrupt on-screen crash shocks you out of your scheming. The main characters sent their car careening into a ditch. Just as the jackhammering in your head began to die down, the car burst into flames.

You throw a hand over your eyes. A gurgle of nausea twists in your gut.

“(Y/N)? Are you okay?” Peter whispers in your ear. 

You snap your eyes open. So much for appearing nonchalant. You take your hand from your face. Red hot pain radiates down your body, but you clamp your lips into a neutral expression. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

“Do you need some air?”

On one hand, you could surrender. You could let Peter walk you into the foyer and buy you an icy drink to hold to your eye. Maybe you could even let Peter take you home and cuddle you through the pain. You know Peter wants to be there for you. 

You shove those fantasies from your mind.

“No.” You whisper at a volume only Spider-Man could hear. 

Suddenly, a yelling match breaks out on screen. You close your eyes shut. You can’t hold back a whimper.

Peter wraps his arm around your shoulders. “Honey, you don’t seem alright. We can leave.”

Your resolve crumples. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry” barely passes your lips before Peter’s slung both your jackets over his arm and looped the strap of your cross body bag around his fingers. “Please, don’t be sorry.” Peter stands in front of you, but you stare at your lap. Peter’s fingers intertwine with hers. “I’m sure this blockbuster will be here all summer.” He jokes, and in your mind’s eye you can see his smirk. You don’t have the energy to crack a smile.

“C’mon, sweetie.” Gently, Peter grabs your limp wrist. 

You focus all the energy in your body to propel you out of the chair. You stumble into Peter’s chest. 

He stabilizes you. “Okay, baby, okay.” He soothes.

“I’m sorry.” You say. 

“Sweetheart, you’re fine.” He’s bending down to meet your eyes, but you refuse to look at his face. “Lean on me. Let’s get you out of here.”

With Peter’s arm wrapped around your waist and your head resting on his chest, you descend the cinema stairs and make your way out of the theater.

***

Getting down the stairs wasn’t as hard as you thought it would be. Typically, during a migraine, stairs are your personal hell.

But, with Spider-Man supporting most of your bodyweight, the physical exertion lessens significantly. 

Plus, it’s not just the safety of Spider-Man that’s helping. It’s Peter Parker’s safe hands holding you close. It’s Peter Parker's frame shielding you from gruff moviegoers working their way around you down the mall steps. It’s Peter Parker keeping you upright, and that’s enough to keep your brain generating numbing happy chemicals even in the worst of times.

Peter guides you to a bench next to the atrium. You lay your head on his shoulder, but abruptly sit up. 

This nightmare gets worse from here. You have to go home by yourself. You’re not ready for this. You’re not–

“(Y/N), honey? Are you with me?” Peter’s tenderly cradling your face. “You’re starting to scare me.”

You blink. “I’m here, I’m here.” You take a deep breath to ground yourself from the swirling dizziness. You force a weak smile. “Just a little headache.”

Peter cocks an eyebrow. “A little headache?” He cradles your chin. “You look like you’ve been concussed, babe.” Softer, he asks, “Do you get migraines?”

Your chest falls. The jig is up. “Yeah, I��m having a migraine.”

“Okay.” His tone is soft, but there’s a hardness in his eyes and a pinch between his brows and you know it’s not from worry. He’s annoyed you didn’t tell him. If there’s one thing that puts a rift between you and Peter, it’s that you won’t let him help you. You didn’t tell him when you forgot your lunch the day you had a big presentation. You didn’t tell him when your insomnia came back. You didn’t tell him when you caught the 24-hour bug 2 months ago. And now he knows you’ve been hiding this. 

“I’m sorry.” You squeak.

“Oh, honey, no.” Peter whispers. “Let’s just focus on getting you out of here and in bed. Don’t even think. I’ll get you back to my apartment.” 

“No,” you shake your head but stop when nausea slithers up your throat. You swallow hard. “No, I need to go home.”

“Sweetheart, your apartment’s across town, and I don’t think you can walk or swing right now.”

The damp wool of your sweater constricts your sweaty skin. “I have all my medication and things in my apartment.” You argue, but the fight in your voice is weak.

“I have lots of meds and supplies stocked because of…you know. I think I’ve got everything you need, and I can always swing over to your apartment to grab something.”

Suddenly, a crowd of moviegoers comes stomping towards the foyer, ushering in a cacophony of laughter and voices. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, and Peter drags your face into his shoulder. You fist his sweatshirt and squeeze until your fingers hurt. 

“Let’s get you home, my love.” He whispers.

You know by home he doesn’t mean your apartment. You know he means his place, where you spend half of your time and have your personal belongings threaded through his. 

Maybe it’s the crippling exhaustion. Maybe it’s the fact that every step sends pain shooting through your skull. Regardless, you surprise yourself with your answer. 

“Okay.”

***

“I know, I’m sorry, honey.” Peter whispers into your hair. He presses your body against his side as he leads you to the second set of elevators in the foyer. 

Dating a chemical engineer has its perks; Peter could afford a nice apartment. However, the first set of elevators broke an hour after you left for your date. More steps for you.

Even with Peter nearly carrying you, the final stretch to the elevator feels like a mile. The wait for the elevator to arrive worsens when a twist of nausea wracks your stomach. But soon, the elevator doors ding open.  

As soon as the doors shut behind you, you push against Peter’s hold.

“Babe?” He asks. He lets you go free.

You sink to the floor and unbutton your jacket. You take a deep breath, reveling in the coolness of the air conditioning and freedom from residual body heat. 

“I feel nauseous.” You groan.

He kneels next to you. “Do you need to throw up?” There was something about his hand on your shoulder, his tone, and his stern yet compassionate expression that reminded you of Spider-Man. He’d likely posed that same question on the beat to trauma victims. The guilt bubbling in your stomach amps up the queasiness. 

You take a deep, shuddering breath. 

“No.” You say. Peter cocks his brow again. Despite yourself, you shrink. “Maybe later. Not at this moment.” 

“Okay, darling. Would you let me carry you in?”

You swallow your shame. “Yes,” you say. 

Peters picks you up as if you weigh a feather. You wrap your arms around his neck as the elevator opens to his floor. 

***

You’re laying in Peter’s bed with his sheets wrapped around your face. Even with the blinds drawn, the New York City lights burn your sensitive eyes. 

Despite your prior objections, you can’t deny the comfort of laying in Peter’s soft duvet with the spicy scent of his cologne filling your nose. 

You hear the creak of the door as Peter steps into the room.

“Baby?” He whispers. “I brought you some stuff.”

Peter’s gait is slow and light, as if he’s trying not to creak the floorboards. Something taps the bedside table next to you.

“Can I see your head, baby? I know it’s bright outside, but I have this wrap around ice pack I think will really help.”

With a groan, you pull the blankets below your chin. You crack open your eyes, and to your surprise, Peter is holding a black version of your favorite migraine ice pack. It’s like a thick bandage that wraps around your eyes and forehead and velcros closed in the back. It’s cold, pitch black heaven.

You smile weakly. “Thanks, Peter.” You mumble. Dating someone with super hearing is a huge perk when you’re a migraineur. 

“Of course.” He whispers. 

Peter lays the ice pack on your forehead, and your body relaxes. The pain still pulses like a bass drum beat in a metal song, but at least there’s something combating it. 

“Can I help you sit up, sweetie? I want to tie this behind your head.” 

You hum your approval. 

Gently, Peter raises your limp body and velcros the ends of the ice pack behind your head, creating 360 degree relief. 

You moan in relief. “Thank you, Peter.” 

“Oh course, sweetheart. There's a glass of water on the bedside table for you. Would you like some Pepto-Bismol?”

You hold back a gag. “No.” You croak. “But thanks.”

“After I change, can I get into bed next to you?”

You can’t help but smile. He’s so conscientious. Too conscientious. “Of course, Peter.” 

A few minutes later, the bed slowly sinks as Peter gingerly adds his weight.

“Can I speak, darling?” He asks.

“Mm-hmm.” You hum.

“I’ve never been with you during a migraine before. I want to know how to take care of you. Could you answer some yes or no questions for me?” He whispers. “You don’t need to speak. Maybe one finger for yes and two for no.” 

You point your index finger.

“Excellent.” Peter says. “Are you sensitive to light?”

You hold up one finger. 

“Are you sensitive to sound?”

Once again, one finger.

“Are you sensitive to touch?”

You hold up two fingers. There’s some nuance to that, but there was only so much you could communicate. You really needed some sleep.

“Okay. Can I hold you?”

Warmth fills your ribcage. “I can’t lay on my side, but could you hold my hand?” Heat burns your cheeks. “And maybe lay against me?”

“Of course.” Peter whispers, a smile in his voice. 

He presses a tender kiss to your shoulder. “Goodnight, my love. Feel better.”

***

You wake to a knot in your stomach. You twist onto your side which only tightens the cramp. 

You moan. Your eyes crack open only to be weighed down by the ice pack from last night. 

Last night. Peter was a saint. You were an embarrassment. A well-loved and well-cared for embarrassment, but falling over yourself all the same. 

Your shame spiral stops as soon as it begins when a bubble of queasiness turns you rigid. 

Shit. 

Not here. 

Not now. 

You take a deep breath. Peter is slumped against your back, and thanks to his spidey senses, an infinitesimal movement could wake him up. To make matter worse, when it came to you, Peter was always extra jumpy. It was a miracle he hadn’t woken already. 

You take another deep breath. Maybe if you lay as still as a statue, the nausea will go away and you’ll drift off to sleep. 

A second later, like a wave careening to shore, nausea swells in your chest and up your throat. You sprint from the bed, shoving the sheets onto Peter who instantly jumps awake. 

You dash into the bathroom, nearly tripping over your own feet when the carpet transitions to ice cold tile. 

You collapse and promptly stick your head into Peter’s toilet bowl. Your face burns with embarrassment, and the humiliation has not reached its peak. 

You dry heave three times. Of course, when you start throwing up, you feel your hair being lifted from your shoulders.

“I’m so sorry.” Peter whispers. He must have grabbed a scrunchie from your purse, because your hair stays off your face and neck while Peter’s hands rub your back and hold your hand gripping the toilet tank cover. 

You can’t get out the words “get out!” to Peter with all the retching in the way. 

“It’s alright. You’re alright. Breathe, baby.” Peter whispers. He draws wide circles on your upper back, and your shoulders betray you by relaxing into his palm.

You didn’t think your stomach could hold so much. You continue to gag, making a mess of Peter’s bathroom, but Peter never flinches. He continues whispering sweet nothings to you until you finish expelling all of last night’s dinner and popcorn. 

Stomach aching, you collapse against Peter’s chest. 

“You okay?” Peter asks. 

“Yeah.” You pant. 

“Take some deep breaths.” He whispers. “Would you like some water?”

“Could you make me ginger tea?” You ask. Guilt tightens your throat. You were already puking in his bathroom– you could’ve settled for plain water. 

But that’s exactly what Peter has been insisting you work on– being honest about asking for what you need.

He kisses your temple. “Of course.” He says, a smile in his voice. 

Two minutes later, Peter returns to the bathroom, a steaming mug in his hand. 

He places your tea on the edge of the marble counter. “It’s still brewing.” He whispers. 

“You can speak at a normal volume now.” You croak. You were laying on the floor, arms and legs limp yet heavy as lead. 

“Is your headache better?” He asks. 

“Marginally,” You say. “If I throw up, it’s usually better after.” Like the climax of a movie, once you puke during a migraine attack, it’s usually coming to its resolution.

“Okay.” Peter said, returning to his normal volume. He sits next to you. “Do you want to brush your teeth and go back to sleep?”

“Yes, please.”

Five minutes later, you’re curled under the covers, half a mug of ginger tea sitting on Peter’s bedside table. 

You’re about to slip into slumber when Peter asks you a question.

“Can I text your boss that you’re not coming in tomorrow?”

Your breath hitches. Your instincts scream “No!” You have to go to work. 

You take what feels like your millionth deep breath in the past 24 hours. But going to work wouldn't be good for your body. You already tried to sit through an action film with a migraine which resulted in you hurling at 3 am. It was time to take Peter’s advice and give your body a break. 

“Yes.” You say, relief and guilt washing over you simultaneously. 

“Okay.” Peter says, satisfaction in his voice. “Sleep tight, my love. Rest up.” 

Peter presses a soft kiss against your hairline as you fall back to sleep.

***

“We need to talk.” 

“I know,” you say. You knew this was coming. As soon as you walked into the kitchen this morning, you could tell Peter was holding something in from the hitch in his jaw. Being the gentleman he is, he gave you the grace of waking up a bit more and making sure your migraine was gone before starting any serious conversation. You watch the brown sugar dissolve into your peppermint tea as you trace the spoon around the circumference of the mug.

“Can we sit?” He asks.

You stop stirring. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.” You keep your back turned to him. Guilty tears fill your eyes.

“(Y/N), look at me. I’m not mad, I’m just….frustrated? I’m at a loss.” He amends. 

Blinking wasn’t helping. You twist your face further away from Peter,  determined not to let him catch a glimpse of your melodrama from the kitchen table. “It’s okay if you're angry with me. We already talked about this. And I ruined your night.”

“But that’s the problem.” Peter says. “You didn’t ruin anything. The reason I’m annoyed is because you think any little inconvenience like you being sick or unhappy is an annoyance when it’s really not. You’re my girlfriend, and I want to help. I want to figure out how to help you.” He sighs. “And before I can do that, I want to figure out what I can do better to build that trust between us."

You face Peter. “Peter, there’s nothing more you can do. You’ve been perfect.” Peter Parker is more of a perfect boyfriend than you could’ve imagined. He’s a human– he’s flawed— but he has one of the most beautiful souls you’ve ever come across. “It’s just me, I’m just…scared.” You admit. You turn your gaze to the kitchen island.

“What can I do to help you feel safer?”

And there was the crux of the issue: Peter has done everything to make you feel safe. But the wall between you and Peter has nothing to do with Peter.

“It’s hard for me to feel vulnerable with people because of…you know.”

Peter nods. He knew most of the unsavory details of your bittersweet childhood. “I know. Did I do something that triggered memories?” Peter asks, anxiety creeping into his voice. 

“Peter.” You meet his eyes for the second time. “Absolutely not. You’re so good to me.” A tear drips down your cheek. “I want to tell you. About everything. I want to call you when I’m sick and tell you when I’m hurting.” You blink up at the ceiling. “It’s just so hard to break through that wall. To feel safe feeling vulnerable again. And I’ve talked about it with my therapist, I’ve been trying it’s just…such a big step.”

“Would it help if we discuss it together? All three of us?” Peter asks. The confusion must have shown on your face. “Maybe we could have a session together so we could work through this.”

“Really?” You ask, voice cracking. 

“Of course, really.” Peter says, half-smiling. 

“You’re not breaking up with me?” The question slips from your lips before you can hold your tongue. 

Peter looks like he’s been slapped. “Over a migraine?”

“Over not being vulnerable enough. Not giving you enough.” The words leave a bad taste in your mouth. You weren’t able to give Peter what he needed. Your caged heart won’t open.

Peter stands. “(Y/N), you’ve given me more than enough. Who’s there to stitch me after patrol? Who’s on the phone with me at 3 o’clock in the morning when I have night terrors? Who has all of my grounding strategies memorized because I have panic attacks?”

A small smile slips onto your face. “Me.” 

“(Y/N),” Peter smiles. “You’re the most amazing girlfriend I could ask for.”

You open your arms, and Peter wraps you in the warmest hug. 

Even with someone as safe and loving as Peter, being vulnerable was going to be hard. But if there’s someone you want to go on this trek with, it was Peter Parker. 

“I wouldn't want to go on this journey with anyone but you.”

Peter squeezes you tighter. “We’ll get through this together.”

---

Author's Note: Hello! This is my first fic I've ever finished, and I'm super excited to post this! I'm new to having a writing blog, but would love to start chatting!

xoxo, shewroteaworld