#also i should have a fic out tonight

[doonarose]

Fic dump. Rated M (I think, correct me?). Really dumb fluffy thing that entered my brain two hours ago because of all the tomfoolery/hanky panky/monkey business discourse on my dash. And then I wrote it and that's my last two hours.

*****

Crowley reckoned that saving the world (again) had been rather a good thing. Getting Aziraphale back from heaven having finally seen the light (insofar as discovering various shades of grey, seeing reason and subsequently pushing the Metatron into a lake, at least) had been very good indeed. And coming to realize that Aziraphale actually, really, very much did want to kiss him had been wonderful, if a little awkward and also quite over-whelming.

Things had progressed from there and that was all rather glorious. Long, languorous afternoons in bed together, exploring comfort and pleasure and intimacy they could scarcely believe they’d managed to go without for over six millennia. And then that gave way to several frantic, frenetic shags around the bookshop, invariably punctuated by laughter and embarrassingly vulnerable and high-pitched sounds.

Crowley quite enjoyed seducing Aziraphale, but he didn’t want to be pushy about it and so after pouncing on him mid-breakfast – resulting in spilt tea and the discovery of twin ticklish spots behind Aziraphale’s knees – Crowley decided to wait him out for the next round.

He didn’t have to wait long because the very next evening, Aziraphale was overly fidgety. He opened and closed three different books without ever reading a page and then stood up quite loudly to ask, “Shall we retire upstairs for some tomfoolery?”

Crowley’s face shifted automatically into a sneer which then tumbled into a grimace as his shoulders tightened with concern that Aziraphale would take his revulsion that wrong way. Crowley was very quick to say, “Don’t call it that.”

Aziraphale seemed entirely unaffected, supremely confident in Crowley’s acquiescence, and was already on his way up the stairs. “I think it’s a rather lovely euphemism.”

Crowley was already trailing him obediently. “’s not. No room for you, me and Tom in the bed, certainly nothing foolish.”

Aziraphale was pushing open the bedroom door and shrugging his jacket off, his eyes bright as he rather deliberately tried to annoy Crowley. “You know it’s meant to be derived from a Tom who was, indeed, either very foolish, or made others do foolish things.”

“See, nothing to do with sex.”

Aziraphale pulled a face and looked ready to argue. Crowley shut him up the very best way he could think of.

*****

Nina held on to their takeaway cups for a beat too long and fixed Crowley with a cocked head and a raised eyebrow. “You two have been very holed up over there since you got back from wherever it was you went,” she remarked without handing over the beverages.

Crowley seethed silently and pulled his top lip back to bare some teeth. Aziraphale waited for a question.

“Lots of times I’ve walked past and it looks like you’re in, but the shop is closed. I mean, much more than it used to be.”

She handed over Aziraphale’s medium tea but, without any good reason, held onto Crowley’s four shots of espresso in a cup (he was cutting back).

“Not getting into any sort of trouble we should know about?” she finally asked.

Crowley still wasn’t sure how much she remembered of demons and angels, but clearly enough to have her a little worried. Or perhaps she was just being nosey.

Aziraphale smiled beatifically. “Oh, certainly not, my dear, nothing for you to worry about.” He did one of his bursting-with-excitement whole-body shimmies and Crowley’s embarrassment for him and for how ludicrously affectionate it made him feel turned the tips of his ears bright red. “Just spending some quality time together,” Aziraphale continued without any pretence whatsoever. Crowley discovered new depths to the embarrassment he could feel and to how deep underground he suddenly wanted to burrow. Nina hadn’t even so much as glanced at Aziraphale, instead she just stared down Crowley’s ever-growing grimace and red ears.

Aziraphale wasn’t done. “Discovering all sorts of shenanigans we can get up to,” he said, leaving absolutely no allusions as to what he euphemistically meant.

Nina grinned and Crowley bit out, “Don’t,” which may have been aimed at either or both of them. Beside him Aziraphale bounced on his feet and across the counter, Nina looked like she was thinking of a follow-up question. “Don’t,” he said again, warningly and reached for his coffee with urgently grabbing fingers.

Nina relented and handed it over so Crowley could take Aziraphale by the elbow and start pushing him towards the door. “Don’t tell people we’re discovering shenanigans,” he growled into Aziraphale’s ear.

Aziraphale just wriggled like he was enjoying himself. This only made Crowley smile which he really didn’t want to be doing now. They had to side-step a gaggle of schoolgirls pouring through the door.

“Well, I couldn’t very well tell her we were… you know,” Aziraphale kept his voice low and Crowley bit back another smile to see the rose in his cheeks.

“Could tell them nothing,” Crowley explained, holding the door open and gently guiding Aziraphale through it. Of course, they were met by Maggie, on her way in, smiling, as always.

Behind them, Nina called out, loud enough for half the street to hear and in such a tone that probably half the street would immediately know exactly what type of shenanigans Crowley and Aziraphale were up to. “Good for you boys, about time.”

Maggie’s eyebrows shot up in understanding, a couple of the schoolgirls giggled, and Crowley just continued to push Aziraphale out the door as he gave up the fight and called back over his shoulder, “It is and we’re not!”

*****

“Were you up for a little monkey business tonight, dear?”

Crowley covered his entire face with both hands and leaned both elbows heavily on the table. Aziraphale had to be deliberately doing this, otherwise there was no hope for them. The sex the day before had been rather good, it was a shame it would be their last time, but Crowley really couldn’t go on with things like this.

Peeking out from between his fingers, through the dark shades he only ever wore in public, Aziraphale’s tight-lipped smile and squared shoulders confirmed he was teasing. Crowley dragged his hands down his cheeks, pulling at the skin and trying to rub some of the heat out of them. “Why must you vex me on purpose, angel?”

“I thought you might like to engage in a little amorous congress?”

“That one’s not even a euphemism, just sounds awful.”

“How about bumping uglies?”

Crowley reeled at that, casting himself right back in his seat and released a guffaw that drew a couple of glances from fellow dinners.

Aziraphale beamed at him.

Leaning back in close and contemplating a little demonic intervention to at least keep wandering eyes and ears away, Crowley hissed, “Just call it sex, angel.”

Aziraphale pretended to think on that, pressing another mouthful clearly worthy of its own moan of appreciation into his mouth. It would have been lucky if the terrible euphemisms balanced out the obscene noises he made when he ate, but unfortunately, at no point had Aziraphale’s language actually put Crowley off even a little bit, and, to date, there wasn’t a single shared meal that Crowley could recall that hadn’t turned him on quite a lot.

“It isn’t just sex though, is it?” Aziraphale eventually decided.

Crowley arched an eyebrow and resisted the urge to reach forward and run his fingers over the back of Aziraphale’s hand. They didn’t do that, not in public, not yet. “’s not?”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “What we’re really doing, my dear, is making love.”

Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled and he took another bite and Crowley groaned and leaned back in his chair once more. “Good fucking grief,” was all he could say (mostly because – and he’d never, ever, admit this to anyone – he entirely agreed, and hearing Aziraphale say it was actually kind of thrilling).

“But back to the point, were we intending on making whoopee this evening?”

“Angel, if you discorporate me with your dreadful language, there won’t be any whoopee for quite a while.” Aziraphale ignored him and just took another mouthful of his meal. Reluctantly, begrudgingly, Crowley answered: “But yes,” and then he bent right forward at the hips, across the table, as close as he could get, voice dropped low and rough and secret, as he tried something new and daring, and in his own way, rather vulnerable. “Yes, I would rather like to fuck you tonight. Ideally until you’ve lost the ability to speak.”

Even if Aziraphale couldn’t quite bring himself to say any such thing, Crowley was increasingly aware that he rather liked to hear it. In private at least. And at that moment, at their usual table at the Ritz, in the privacy of their heads bowed together, Crowley saw straight away that it was making the angel’s breath catch and his pulse speed up.

A small victory, then.

Aziraphale took another slow mouthful and Crowley slipped back into his seat to watch with his chin perched on his hand, his elbow on the table.

“Very good, then,” Aziraphale said, still satisfyingly breathless. He laid his knife and fork down on the plate. “I was enquiring as I thought, with that being the case, we could perhaps get dessert to go?”

“Sounds perfect, angel.”

“Since you’ve so gallantly promised to butter my crumpet.”

Aziraphale wriggled with his enjoyment at the way Crowley’s face crumpled.

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Crowley griped and then simply followed up with, “I despise you.”

“You don’t,” Aziraphale replied, singsong and knowing.

*****

Crowley was in a ridiculously good mood. But he wasn’t thinking about it too much, lest he scare it off. It probably had a lot to do with Aziraphale, and it was probably rather unbecoming on his moody, sharp, dark frame.

Just the other day, Aziraphale had prodded him into bringing all his plants into the bookshop to find permanent spots for them; then he had taken him shopping to buy quite a few more. The day after that, Aziraphale had not only allowed Crowley to wedge a rather large flatscreen TV up against the wall in the spare bedroom, but had then snuggled up between his legs on the single bed and managed to watch all of Pride and Prejudice with only a handful of interjections about deviations from the book (Crowley had no idea if it would be a mistake to press the 1995 mini-series on him next).

And then Aziraphale had spent two hours this morning bent over his desk next to a mysterious man with a thick accent, ooohing and ahhhing at a simply sublime set of books they were on offer for purchase. He’d made a big show of asking Crowley if he thought the price was fair and Crowley had followed the prepared script and helped him haggle another ten percent off the first editions he’d selected. Why that particular interaction made Crowley extraordinarily happy was not something he was ready to contemplate.

All of this was to say that it wasn’t his fault what happened when he got bored of the book he’d been trying to read (Aziraphale had insisted he at least try reading novels) and slinked up the stairs to search out Aziraphale.

He found him sitting in the center of the four-poster bed in their bedroom (that was still unofficial, that it was theirs, but it was), his back against the pillows fluffed up on the headboard, ankles crossed with only thick woollen socks covering his feet. His waistcoat was all the way undone, as was his bowtie and top buttons. His shirt sleeves were folded back to the elbows and his wire-framed reading glasses were perched on his nose as his brow creased with concentration. Intermittently, he scribbled into a notebook propped open against his thigh and turned the pages of a stapled photocopy of some ancient text back and forth with his other hand.

Like this, especially before he even noticed Crowley lurking in the doorway, Aziraphale was devastatingly handsome. And rather likely to be Crowley’s undoing, he thought, still very happily.

He moved into the room and Aziraphale glanced up, casting him a smile as he continued to scribble.

Crowley rounded the bed and considered his options, although really there was just one: slip onto the mattress, beneath the sheets, and have his way with this perfect, delicious, delectable angel, precisely as lazy Tuesday afternoons and high thread count bedding were designed for. And if Aziraphale wanted to make him wait, to keep working, or even just to tease him, then he would wait. What else was there to do?

“Are you wearing sock garters again”? Crowley asked, trying very hard to sound unimpressed when really he was the opposite and already delighted at the thought of the extra touches and movements required to unclip and slide them down Aziraphale’s warm calves. The fact that Aziraphale must be the only man left on the planet that bothered with them was also infuriatingly endearing, in much the same way most of his endearing qualities infuriated Crowley.

“I am,” Aziraphale responded without looking up. “I’m afraid these socks require them and these are my most comfortable lounging socks.”

“Nobody has lounging socks, angel.”

Crowley knelt onto the mattress beside Aziraphale’s feet and Aziraphale finally looked up at him. “Did you want to take them off?” he asked, holding far too much control and expectation in his voice. Crowley rather liked that, too.

“If you want me to?” Crowley slipped one hand up Aziraphale’s right trouser-leg, over the warm scratchy wool to the skin between it and the smooth elastic material of the garter itself. He stroked his fingers back and forth.

“Are you trying to tempt me away from my work?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well, I mean, ‘s my job, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale lips quirked up. “Trying to entice me into a little afternoon delight”?

Crowley didn’t entirely hate that one, or perhaps Aziraphale really had started to wear him down. And he was so very, very happy that afternoon, for whatever reason, deliriously so, which was the only explanation for why he next said: “A little hanky panky never hurt anyone.”

Aziraphale snorted and Crowley felt the euphemism trip dirtily off his tongue as though it was a proper blaspheme and as though blasphemy was a real thing. He tried to swallow it back down and spit it out at the same time, like it tasted truly awful and should never have been uttered, but it was all too late.  He opened his mouth with a flinch, rolling his tongue and pulling a disgusted face that just made Aziraphale laugh.

“Shut up,” he said without venom and very quickly stripped Aziraphale’s right calf of sock and garter, scratching his nails through the hair across his shin as he did.

“Say it again and I’ll let you take my trousers off,” Aziraphale teased.

“Didn’t say anything,” Crowley grumbled, slipping his hands up the left trouser leg.

“What don’t you just ask me for a roll in the hay?”

Crowley said nothing but stripped the second sock and garter off, taking a moment to give Aziraphale’s naked foot a good, tight squeeze. Foot-rubs were a thing they did now, although Crowley was still making his mind up whether he preferred to give or to receive.

“Knocking boots?” Aziraphale tried. “The horizontal tango? A rendezvous beneath the sheets? What about making sweet, sweet music?” He was failing to keep the laughter out of his voice.

And Crowley was turning red in the face of it, he moved to crawl up the bed and put a stop to what should really be quite an off-putting monologue but Aziraphale stopped him with a foot against his chest.

Which in itself should certainly not have done what it did to Crowley’s stomach.

“Hanky panky,” Aziraphale reminded him.

“Fuck,” Crowley breathed out. “Just fucking call it fucking, angel, you’ll find it freeing.”

Aziraphale did not look convinced but he also didn’t look like he didn’t quite enjoy Crowley’s dirty mouth. He’d admitted as much a couple of times by now, only ever in the dark, and only ever in between blissful, euphoric little moans.

Aziraphale let his foot drop back to the bed, moving his leg up and wide, inviting Crowley in. He seemed to search for a middle ground, “Fancy a shag?” he tried.

“What about a screw?” Crowley wasted no more time and crawled up the bed, slotting into place over and against him easily.

“You really are ridiculous,” Aziraphale told him.

“You are.”

#####

The war of the euphemisms waged for months. Aziraphale cheated by ordering in an entire book dedicated to the topic and once Crowley discovered this, there were moments in which he genuinely wondered when it would truly start to annoy him. Except it never did. There were many more moments where it served as a gateway to dalliances – to fucking, to, satan help him, making love – and, importantly, to talking about it. They got tremendously good at it, rather fast, as they very much deserved.  

And in the end, Crowley had to admit, it was all worth it: the red-tipped ears and the giggles of Nina and Maggie, the way his whole body recoiled every time he heard Aziraphale’s latest bad euphemism, and his tongue tasted like cabbage every time he was tricked or enticed into uttering one of his own. And it was especially worth it for the moment when Aziraphale seemed to finally tire of the game, or perhaps, there was just something in the air.

Aziraphale sidled right up behind him, never one to be quiet about such things, and rested his hands on Crowley’s hips from behind. He hooked his chin over Crowley’s shoulder and Crowley learned back into the embrace automatically, entirely ready for whatever romantic, archaic, trivial thing Aziraphale felt the need to tell him.

Instead, Aziraphale whispered, hot breathed into his ear, “Darling, would you like to come upstairs and fuck me?” and that broke Crowley for quite a long while.

[violetsareblue-selfships]

good morning!! <33

[seventh-district]

.

[reitziluz]

thrashing furniture ripping down wallpaper throwing laptop out the window

realized i got stuck because the emotional flow is nonsense (or just. incredibly weak. things don't connect and flow properly. where's the focus, i don't know, it should be there somewhere to make the ending scene hit properly) and you know, it's good to not get stuck on finer details and just power through a draft, but also when you get stuck stuck it's likely stemming from an issue way upstream of where you got stuck, which is the emotional flow as i mentioned.

but.

i tracked it back all the way to the first paragraph. and ohhhh fucking shit hell it's bad and i don't know how to get it to work.

i don't want to expand the initial setup, but must, don't i? it just won't work if it's too dense, if i want to keep all the fun little stuff. and if i don't keep the fun stuff, what's even the point.

but fuck it's going to take so long to get to the juicy part at this rate

rip me

[izzy-b-hands]

I have my shot drawn up (managed to stab my fuckin' finger with the back of the lid of the sharps container trying to open it in preparation, which is just stupid funny to me after being initially extremely irritating lmao. Ain't got the damn shot done yet, but still made myself bleed. What a talent I am lol)

I have about half of the cjizzy smut fic written (and my god im. i just love writing smut for these two so much. They're so much fucking fun, bc they both always find rest and safety and stability with each other in these moments, in between the cutest lil silly things and jokes and. These two!!!! also. also. trans izzy for this one bc I can)

It's gonna be three AM soon. I should sleep once shot and fic are done.

HOwever. However. I just remembered the idea I had for a smut fic involving modern au Ed and Izzy, the application of T gel (Ed applying it for Izzy), and then the dorks purposefully taking the drying/waiting period post gel application to start teasing each other until they can fuck (technically it isn't a super long period, but I remember when I was using it it was like. pls do try and not get it on other stuff/ppl/let it dry if possible before covering that area w/clothes, and try not to sweat a whole lot right away if you can help it. So like, in this fic, they've specifically carved out this time to do the application like this so that they can do this little routine: apply, tease, maybe cockwarm a little, then finally fuck once gel is dry and they've given it some time to sit/Izzy should be able to sweat safely lol)

So what if I just keep staying up and write that also. I'm tired, but every time I try to stop, my brain throws Additional Thoughts About Everything at me and uhhhh. That will prevent me from sleeping so like. What if I just do this and sleep later.

[notebooknonbinary]

Byler Week, Day 1: Halloween

Happy Halloween to those who celebrate! (Happy s2 Byler to all) And happy first day of Bylerweek!

Today is Day 1: Halloween / AU / –gate. I chose to write a fic bc my drawing skills need serious brushing up skills and I can eventually stuff this fic into my other fic’s universe😌.

Edit: Also posted to Ao3:)

Halloween used to be Mike’s favorite holiday. He’s always loved dressing up as whatever his favorite character that year is. And he loves seeing what other people dress up as.

One year, before the Party started doing group costumes, he and Will had gone as Kirk and Spock. He’d even made the ultimate sacrifice and let Will be Kirk.

Tiny little seven-year-old Will had made an adorable Starship Captain (equally tiny Mike had thought he looked super cool). Mike’s fake ears had itched, but he’d liked the cool blue color of his shirt. And everyone that gave them candy that night had known they were a pair, which had thrilled them both to pieces.

The first year that the Party did group costumes, Mike and Dustin had convinced the other two to go as DC superheroes (Lucas and Will have always preferred Marvel). Lucas had been Green Arrow, and Dustin had picked the Flash (his favorite). Everyone had expected Mike to go as Superman, who was his all-time favorite. Except he’d gone as Batman instead and asked Will to be Superman. Everyone’s costumes had turned out great, but Mike’s favorite had absolutely been Will’s—handmade by Mrs. Byers as always.

(It seems obvious in retrospect, that Mike had already begun to get a crush on Will—which is why he’d wanted him to be Superman.)

(And then, of course, the Halloween—only a few days before Will would be taken by Vecna, the Party had dressed up as Star Wars characters. This time it’d been easy to convince everyone that Will as Luke was just the obvious, correct choice, and not because Luke was obviously the best character.)

But Eighth grade had been the last time any of them had dressed up (“Who you gonna call?”) —and it hadn’t exactly ended well.

(Well, technically that Halloween had ended with Mike and Will hanging out alone in the basement, watching a lighthearted movie and sitting close together to feel safer—so that part…)

Freshman year, Mike had been in the middle of being miserable and missing Will and El too much to even think about a costume—and last year, they’d been in the middle of recovering from an apocalypse (neither Will, nor Max, had even been awake yet).

So now there are multiple anniversaries right around Halloween that seem much more prevalent than going around getting candy (which they’re pretty much too old for anyway, in Mike’s unhappy opinion), or going to a Halloween party—with too many people they’re not friends with, and alcohol, which none of the Party even likes.

So yeah, Mike doesn’t really intend to broach the subject of costumes this year.

Instead it’s Will who brings it up. “If all I have to focus on this year are the shitty memories and handing out candy, I’m going to scream.” Then he grins, a little mischievous. “Plus this is the first Halloween that we’re dating. I’ll be able to tell you this time that I think you look handsome in your costume, instead of pretending that you, as Han Solo, didn't fluster me half to death.”

Mike, they’ve both learned, is much easier to tease out of the two of them—Will makes a game sometimes, out of all the easy ways he can make Mike blush. Like right now.

“You’re mean,” he grumbles, hiding his suddenly warm face in his hands. It only gets warmer at Will’s delighted laugh. “You wanna do a group costume with the Party, or a pair like we used to?”

“The Party’s a lot bigger than it was back then—it’d be too hard to coordinate on short notice. But…” Will trails off. Mike risks a look at Will, who is suddenly much closer, smile softened but eyes still bright with mirth. “I think, Michael, that in this context, it’d be a couple’s costume, not just a pair.”

Mike resists the urge to hide his face again.

“Everyone always thinks I’m the mean one of the two of us,” he grumbles, but accepts the embrace Will is silently, cheerfully, offering—nosing into the other boy’s shoulder. “I’m gonna tell your mom you were bullying me. She loves me, you’ll get in trouble.”

“Tattletale,” Will singsongs. “I’ll stop bullying you if you let me pick our costumes this year.”

Mike, who doesn’t actually want Will to ever stop bullying (aggressively flirting with) him, cocks his head. “Alright Byers, deal.” He pauses. “And you just have to lay off flustering me in front of our friends—they already think I’d let you get away with anything.”

Will snickers. “You know what? Deal. But, for the record, I think you would let me get away with anything. Which is why, one day, you’ll go with me and El to Vegas so we can use our powers to scam the slot—”

Mike interrupts this long-running (hopefully a) joke to kiss Will. Will leans into it briefly, reaching up to weave a hand into Mike’s hair. After a moment, though, he pulls back, looking thoughtful.

“Now we have to figure out what we’re doing for Halloween.”

…

The Halloween of Mike and Will’s Junior year of high school, the Extended Party (minus Jonathan and Nancy, away at their colleges) convene on the Byers-Hopper house, dressed to the nines in their Halloween costumes. The plan is to watch minorly scary movies, eat far too much junk, and take turns answering the door for Trick-or-Treaters.

The Original Members of the Party (including Max) show up early to help set up.

Dustin is in a full suit and tie, a gun holster (with two full water guns in it), and a fedora. The entire setup is impressive, but none of his friends can guess who he’s supposed to be. The only one who understands who his character is immediately, is—oddly—Hopper.

“Elliot Ness.”

“Yes! Thank you!!”

It turns out that, having recently seen the Untouchables, Dustin had gone on a research spree about the Real-life man, and been fascinated. Thus, his choice of costume.

Lucas and Max have decided against couple costumes. Instead, Max wanted to go as Wonder Woman, so she has (and she looks every bit the Amazon warrior, sitting in her wheelchair like it’s a throne).

Lucas, on the other hand, has finally been able to be a Marvel superhero. After long deliberation between all of his favorites, he’d finally settled on Falcon—partly because he enjoyed the recent comics miniseries, but also because if he’d gone as Spider-Man (his other big choice), he’d have to keep removing the mask to eat.

“Falcon is just cool enough to date Wonder Woman,” Max tells him, mock-loftily.

He laughs, leaning across her lap to give her a kiss. “Well, Wonder Woman is more than cool enough to date Falcon.”

This being one of El’s first actual Halloweens’, she chose to go as the ghost she’d wanted to go as on her first Halloween—though the simple sheet had been switched for a white dress, pale makeup, and fake blood (with the occasional appearance of actual blood when she used her powers to get another soda, or pop Mike across the head with a pillow).

Steve and his group seem to have collectively decided to go as the Breakfast Club (or perhaps Steve is in regular clothes, it’s hard to tell). Robin, dressed as the outcast girl, is lounging across Vickie’s (dressed as Molly Ringwald’s character) lap, attempting to toss popcorn into Steve’s mouth. She’s largely just making a mess, but neither of them seem to care.

The (actual) adults of the bunch settle in the kitchen. Joyce convinced Hopper to do a couple’s costume with her (they’ve gone as Frankenstein and the Bride of Frankenstein), but Murray shows up wielding a bottle of something very strong for them to drink and wearing just a dollar store cape over his regular clothes.

(Erica, out with her other friends for one last candy-haul before high school next year, will come at eight-thirty. She’s dressed up as her DnD character, Lady Applejack. She has no plans whatsoever to share her candy—even though she knows she probably will end up doing so.)

Joyce had been overjoyed to see what costumes Mike and Will picked this year.

She hadn’t been the only one.

When Will told Mike what costumes he wanted, Mike almost cried. He is (not so) secretly a sap, and Will knows it (though Will isn’t much better on that front, honestly).

“Shall we, Mr. Spock?”

“Indeed we shall, Captain Kirk.”

It’s the best Halloween yet, in their opinions.

[flyingspicerack]

Okaaaay daydreaming time then sleeby nienie eveyone!!

[zjofierose]

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[violetsareblue-selfships]

good morning!! <33

[scionshtola]

it is 11:32pm. i am in bed. i am not going to stay up til 1:00am reading posts in r/summerhousebravo

[whoslaurapalmer]

returning to the computer plot wall bc i figured out (well like 90% of the way) what i needed to of the pre-fic plot that i put on the physical wall and now it's just mapping out the fic beats in relation to the maltese falcon beats which i don't need the wall for (that is what i need a chart for) but........i miss you physical wall :(

[relevant-url-incoming]

sentences from what i'm working on writing right now that make me feel totally normal and not at all like a guy with big Sibling Issues:

“Caibos is seventeen,” the Sith hissed. “Eighteen, actually,” Caibos said. He knew what Callie would want. She’d want to hear that Vyme had come back for them. Caibos knew better than to believe it. “Do you remember begging me not to go?" “Thirteen years and you’ve hated me all this time?” “Jedi don’t hate,” Caibos said automatically. “Ah,” Vyme said. “Then it must be the Sith blood in you.” Come with me, he wasn’t brave enough to say.

[queers-gambit]

Curiosity Killed The Cat

prompt: after rescuing you from kidnappers, you overhear your boyfriend-turned-savior complain about how clingy you've become.

pairing: Mafia!Bucky Barnes x female!reader

fandom masterlist: Marvel

collection masterlist: Clingy Baby

word count: 5.1k+

note: author wants things out of her drafts! also don't take this fic too seriously, it's not much at all - just me writing for the fuck of it until i'm ready to focus on my bigger projects.

warnings: modern AU, Mafia AU, obvious cursing, small hurt and comfort, brief depiction of physical violence and self-destruction in the form of: loss of appetite, lack of sleep, other symptoms of depression. NOT edited! author is ashamed because she knows she can give you something better but oh well.

Your feet planted, jarring you to a halt the moment you heard your name in a conversation you were not apart of.

You heard the hammering of your heart, echoing beats of your blood pumping with harrowing desperation. Hands turned cold and clammy, sweat breaking out on your brow and then freezing, feeling as if your throat had swollen to a new restriction and you were anchored in you in place.

Rooted.

But for now, all you could identify was the paralyzing anxiety that anchored you to your spot and made your heartbeat thunder in your ears. You stood outside the lounge, unable to comprehend relevant thought; still listening to low, docile tones continue their conversation, but you couldn't hear real words.

You were stunned. Panicked, confused, hurt - so very hurt. That seemed to register, too; you were really, really hurt.

This was perhaps why curiosity killed the cat.

You reprimanded yourself for listening in - transporting back to childhood during all the times your parents would scold you for eavesdropping. You knew it was wrong, you knew this was a private conversation meant to be shared between trusting confidants, but you couldn't help it - you heard your name and stopped. It was natural, right? To feel curious regarding a conversation seemingly about you that you, yourself, was not apart of?

Curiosity, indeed.

Blinking rapidly, you remembered the only other time you felt such mounting, pressurized fear, and while it might be dramatic, the only other time you could remember this level of anxiety was from about two months ago...

"Yes, baby, I got the bacon."

"And the jalapeños?"

"Uh-huh, the biggest they had."

"Cream cheese?"

"Do you know who you're talking to?" You laughed into the phone. "I'm a professional housewife by now, you can relax. I got all you needed for your fancy little dinner experiment."

Bucky laughed down the phone, "Oh, please, like I didn't see you salivating when we watched the segment on Top Chef."

"Hush," you laughed, too. "I'm leaving the store now," you told him, pushing out of the heavy glass doors, "and should be home in, like, 10 minutes?"

"Lemme pick you up."

"I have legs to walk with, so, no thank you."

He sighed, "Well, I'll open the wine to let it breathe. Red's still good?"

"Let's do a white tonight, please."

"Good deal," he mused softly. "Hey, I was thinking earlier - "

"Hang on," you pleaded.

"What's wrong?"

"No, nothing. There's just a van slowing down, I don't want to get hit," you chuckled some, looking up and down the street before crossing. "Sorry, so, what were you thinking?"

"We haven't been to Paris in months."

You smirked, "I'm sure our plants in the apartment are dead by now."

Bucky laughed, "Oh, I am, too. But, look, how 'bout it, Peach? You, me, all the croissants we can consume this weekend. I'll take Monday and Tuesday off, we can leave tomorrow night."

"Oh, that sounds nice," you moaned. "Paris in the spring? Baby, that's so dreamy!"

"So, is that a yes?"

"It's a hell yes," you grinned. "Do you know the weather?"

"Supposed to be nice and sunny, not too warm or cold. Figured this would be ideal," he chuckled. "But does the weather matter if we're in bed the whole time?"

"No, we're not wasting our time!" You laughed. "We're gonna go do shit, okay? Stereotypical tourist-couple shit."

"I'll bring the camera."

"And I was hoping we could have dinner at that little place we love?"

"I wouldn't take you anywhere else," he mused.

"I think it's - FUCK!" Bucky froze when he heard the screeching of tires; a van coming up to a skidding halt, flurry of voices all yelling but he heard yours clearly. "No, no, no, hey, hey, what the hell's happening? Hey! What's this - hey, hey! Don't touch me! Ow, shit! No! Hey! Fuck's sake - oh, my God! Ow! Hey!"

"Baby!? Peach! Hey! The fuck's going on!?"

There was a thudding over the phone, and Bucky listened to more struggling - more fidgeting and fighting - and then the slamming of a car door. Still calling your name, Bucky heard a scrape over the line before a different voice answered your phone, "James Barnes. On behalf of HYDRA, you're overdue on your payment and we warned you there would be consequences. Deliver the full amount of 17 million - "

"It's 15," he growled.

"Two million more for the inconvenience of stalking your woman."

"If you even so much as touch her, I swear to God - "

"17 million at midnight, at the pier, or every minute you're late, she'll receive the brunt end of our frustration."

"Don't hurt her - "

"Midnight, Mr. Barnes, at the pier - you know where. Don't be late, she looks like she won't last long."

The line went dead after he heard your screech of pain, confusion, and fear. The moment the line cut, he dropped his phone and slowly lowered himself to sit on the kitchen floor, shock coloring his system. It wasn't that he didn't have the money, quite the opposite - but he and his men had a plan in motion to take out HYDRA, their org's competition, and this was totally against all they anticipated. After a minute to sit in his own worry, Bucky jumped to his feet, grabbed his phone, keys, wallet, and two handguns; holstering them both before shrugging his suit jacket on.

He made every phone call he could, gathering the men he trusted most to (one of) his warehouse(s).

For hours, you were strung up by your wrists in a joint-pulling position while the Brooklyn Mafia formulated a plan of attack. It was the most pain you've ever known, but then the abuse started and you were blinded by this new pain. You had bruises most places, cuts that wept blood; scars that would never heal, wounds that wouldn't ever close. You were delirious, miserable, confused, just dazed and confused; praying to a God who didn't listen.

"Oh, look at that," your captor mocked, holding a thick-bladed hunting knife in hand, "it's one minute til midnight, and I don't see your loverboy anywhere."

You sniffled, unable to respond.

He stared out the lone window, tisking and narrating, "Nope, I see not a soul - and with how protective he is over you, you'd think he'd want to ensure your safety. Not leave it to chance, huh?"

You whimpered as the clock struck midnight, your heart hammering in heavy-hung worry. You had tears in your eyes, heart nearly beating out of your chest, feeling incredibly nauseous. The desire to scream never lessened, just fearing what was to come; the men in the room making you fear for the state of your life, their knuckles cracking. You only begged, "Please. Don't."

The main captor laughed, "You can do better than that! C'mon, give me the satisfaction of tellin' ol' James you begged for mercy - but it wasn't enough to sway me. I'll lie, for sure, and say it happened but it will be so much sweeter if you actually do it."

"Please," you shook your head, avoiding eye contact. "Just don't do this, please."

"Oh, honey," he mocked, "it's not our fault he's late. Lads! Have at her, but leave her face for now - she's still real pretty."

You listened as he gave commands in Russian, understanding after the years at Bucky's side; whimpering when the first blow landed to your gut and knocked the wind out of you. The minutes drug by and you felt your resolve crumbling, heart still hammering to a never-before-felt speed that made it feel as if it were jumping out of your very body at every single pulse point. You struggled in your restraints, but it was futile by how tight you were bound; unable to protect yourself.

At 12:03 am, the doors blew open in a resounding blast; concrete crumbling and sprinkling the floor. You cried out as the smoke choked you, coughing through the haze; only barely able to make out certain figures to know Bucky had brought his best men. However, despite the sting to your eyes from the swirling dust and smoke, you saw a lone man stalk through the blasted wall, through the fray, and straight up to you.

"Bu-Bucky!" You choked in relief as he reached to untie your feet first. You dangled for only a moment as his metal prosthetic ripped off whatever held your wrists to the torture contraption. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God, Bucky, holy shit, baby, please, please, please," you rambled as he freed you and instantly caught you on his broad shoulders.

"I got you, Peach, I'm here, I've got you," he promised in your ear, hoisting your legs around his waist so they latched and then wrapping his arms around you securely. "Don't let go and don't look up, okay? Hear me, Peach?"

You nodded into his neck, only able to cry.

Bucky jolted and jerked slightly as he moved through the fight again, but not a minute later, you were stepping outside into the sobering, brisk spring air. This was the moment you understood how dangerous and fleeting life with Bucky could be, making a promise to yourself that if he says take the car, you'll take the fucking car.

And now, here you were, outside the high-rise apartment's lounge (which was just a converted bedroom), listening to your boyfriend complain about you some 2 months after the whole fiasco. HYDRA had been all but wiped out, and in the weeks since, Bucky's men had gone on smaller missions to eradicate the HYDRA members they heard rumor of being local. Yet you didn't feel safe, yet.

You didn't feel safe if you weren't around Bucky.

Everything made you jump: the beep of the done-dryer, that spritz of the automatic fragrance mister in the bathroom, the "duh-dunnn" of a loaded-up Netflix. Keys jingling, car horns, the barking of the dog in the apartment a floor below you... Everything.

Being around Bucky was just like holding a safety blanket. He would always protect you, and for about a week after your rescue, he laid in bed and around the home with you; being lazy; time off work to simply hold you and assure you were safe. Safe in his arms. Safe in his embrace, his presence.

So now... To hear this... You were devastated.

You didn't mean to eavesdrop, it just sort of happened. It was still earlier in the morning, but Bucky hadn't been in bed beside you and based on the feel of the sheets, his body hadn't been there in a while. So, you made some coffee and then ventured around the home in search of your lover; coming upon the lounge and hearing voices from within.

You knew it was common for Steve Rogers and / or Sam Wilson to stay late or visit early, so, you weren't shocked by that, but did falter in announcing yourself when you heard Sam ask how you were doing since the kidnapping. He used your name specifically, making Bucky sigh, and for your curiosity to peak.

"She's different, man."

"How so?" Sam wondered.

"She doesn't like being without me now," he chuckled without humor. "I'm serious, she won't go to the gym until I do, waits to have meals together, won't leave the house if I'm out, and," he scoffed to himself, "you can forget going to the grocery store or anything - she's even stopped going to work - "

"You told her to stop working, like, two years ago when y'all first moved-in together," Sam deadpanned.

"I know," Bucky shrugged, "but it feels tenfold now that she's so reclusive."

"It's normal," Steve sighed gently.

"Yeah? Is it normal that I can't even go take a shit without promising her I'll be right back?" Bucky snapped in exasperation. "It's that bad, she's that fucking clingy, man. I go in the kitchen to make dinner, she's in there 30 seconds later to 'help' me. I take a shower, she finds a reason to linger in the bedroom, but that was better than before, when she wouldn't even shower by herself. It's just a lot, she's everywhere I look. I'm starting to find new reasons not to come home, man, she's always fucking here - and when I walk in the door, she's on me. I need to fucking breathe, but I can't tell her to stop, she'll get her feelings hurt and then I'm the bad guy."

"Man," Steve laughed, "you can't be the bad guy if you go to her in a calm and collected manner, but it's only been two months. She's still recovering."

"Exactly why if I say anything, no matter how calm and collected, I'm the bad guy. I get she's hurting and tryna recover, but Goddamn, does she have to be in every room I'm in? Do everything with me? How do I tell my traumatized girlfriend to back off? Let me breathe?"

Sam laughed, "You don't! You just said it - she's traumatized! Cut the girl some slack, she's got a lot to fuckin' deal with!"

"I'm not negating from that fact," Bucky argued, "I'm just trying to say, the way she's clinging onto me like she can't function without me is just grating at my nerves. I just need to breathe and recharge, but I can't tell her that - fuck's sake."

"Buck," Steve smirked, "you're worried Peach isn't gonna listen, but that's her literal superpower. Just communicate, she can't read your mind, but you need to remember how traumatic all of that was for her to experience - she's scarred from that kidnapping, man. So, sure, you need to recharge, but she needs the support."

"Is it wrong to ask for a day here and there to do that? To recharge?" Bucky asked quietly.

"If you communicate, it's perfectly reasonable to ask for," Sam assured softly. "And whatever you do, don't tell her you think she's clingy. Chicks hate that, that word is, just, like, taboo or something. Real heavy, negative connotations."

"But she is," Bucky growled quietly, "'s like she's afraid to let go 'cause I'll disappear or something."

"Oh, noooo," Sam mocked, "I'm Bucky and my girlfriend loves me too much and trusts me too much and actually feels safe and dependent on me too much - ohhh noooo!"

There was a thump, Sam's cried, "Ow!", and Bucky telling him to shut up. You slowly backed away from the door, trying to settle your breathing as you made your escape down the hall. When back in the kitchen, you whimpered and let the first tears fall... The first of many you shed in the hour it took you to prepare breakfast for everyone; doing your best to eat as you cooked so you didn't have to linger around the men. You took Bucky's words to heart, and maybe you were too sensitive, maybe you should venture outside again.

So, when the lads came out, you set the table without making eye contact with any of them. "Here," you directed, setting the pancakes down, "I made breakfast, come eat, it's still hot."

"Wow," Sam smiled brightly, "thanks, Peach!"

You hummed, still avoiding their eyes as you just set the abundance of food to the table. "You... Cooked without me?" Bucky asked you with skepticism.

"Mhm," you hummed, setting the coffee pot down to a hot pad, "and I'm going out shopping with Nat, so, eat up, lads, I'll do the dishes when I get home. Love you, boys, bye," you waved them off, snatching your keys and then moving to the door to stuff your feet into your sneakers.

"Woah, woah, woah," Bucky left the table, approaching you urgently, "hey, what do you mean? You're goin' out?"

"Yep, figured I've stayed in too long, might as well get out and remember life doesn't stop just 'cause I'm sad."

"Peach - "

"I'll see you when I get home, Buck, okay?" You mumbled, slinging your purse on your shoulder.

"Well, here, here, hey, wait, hang on," he pulled his wallet out, handing you over a wad of big bills. "Spend it all, okay? Have fun, call or text if you need me, yeah?"

"Sure."

Bucky leaned in to kiss you but you just opened the door, ready to leave. He frowned, watching you, barely managing to call a quick, "Love you!"

You didn't return the sentiment, feeling hallow and all too silly to return the affection. In your purse was your laptop, headphones, chargers, and whatever else, so, instead of meeting your friend, Natasha - being just a ruse to avoid Bucky - you started small and just went to the local café. You used to frequent it back in the day, but times were changed, and yet, they were all the happier to serve you the same as before. Getting cozy in the corner, you set up camp and ordered your favorite coffee basically every other hour - letting the day waste away as you caught up on work emails.

Might've wasted time on Instagram and Facebook and Pinterest. Got shopping done on Amazon. Browsed through Target's online selection. Checked out the sale items at Kate Spade. Perused Fenty Lingerie because you could.

Before you knew it, a message was coming in over your MacBook from Bucky, asking where you were - why had you turned your location off?

You packed up and with a to-go cup, made the short trek back home. When you got back, Bucky was pacing in the living room; staring at his phone and typing, then deleting, retyping, groaning, glancing up, typing again, then doing a double take. "Where've you been, Peach? Huh!?" Bucky demanded. "You're late!"

"Out with Nat," you eased.

He huffed through his nose, nodding slowly, "You have a nice time?"

"It was okay," you answered. "I'm gonna go to bed after I shower."

His brows furrowed, "I have a meeting tonight."

"I know."

"O...kay?" He let you go, wanting to ask why you didn't ask him to join like you had so often in the past few weeks.

And it didn't stop there, in fact, it got worse. When Bucky got home from his meeting, he was actually shocked to see you nestled in the bed; teetering on the edge of the shared space while snuggling a weighted body pillow.

When he tried to give you a snuggle, you stirred to life and pushed him back, muttering, "Too hot."

The following morning, he was relatively surprised to see you up and about before him; barely getting a word in before you were slipping out the door to go on a morning jog. He was confused by how all of a sudden, where you were once everywhere he looked, now, you were disappeared and distant and gone. You worked out alone, cooked alone - but always left him a plate, but long gone were the cute little sticky notes you left for him. You once haunted the apartment by never wanting to leave, and now, ghosted in and out of it on a daily basis.

You never bothered to go far from home. You liked hanging at the coffee shop and luckily, your job let you work from home most days, and the rare time you were due back in the office, it was only about a 20 minute walk. You got better at lying, couldn't even remember the last time you and Bucky had sex, and even now, the last time you had a meal together. You didn't text him about your day; where you once might've told him about an adorable dog you saw on the street, now, you only ever texted him if he asked a direct question.

Food lost appeal, your appetite vanished.

Sleep evaded you, plaguing you with nightmares when you did rest.

Interest dulled, passions were snuffed, and only fearful, confused anger remained. It showed in the way weight seemed to shift around your body, thinning; the lack of sleep creating dark rings and bags under your bloodshot eyes.

After two weeks of this, Bucky grew irritated and short with everyone around him. It reflected in his work, the way he spoke to everyone; even Steve and Sam getting the brunt end of his anger. Without you to assure him, Bucky was off his rocker; losing his cool; his patience stretched far too thin. So much so, the two mates approached an outside associate, Natasha Romanoff, after a particularly snappy meeting to plead for her to talk to Bucky.

"James," Nat greeted as she strode into his office without knocking.

"I know you're my oldest friend, but you don't have that privilege yet," he mused, never looking up.

"What?"

"Not knocking. What is it, Nat?"

"Just came to check on you, you know, like friends do."

"Hm," he chuckled without humor, "and what did Peach say to you?"

"About...?"

"Me."

"Nothing, I haven't gotten ahold of her for weeks."

Bucky paused, slowly lifting his head in confusion; brows furrowed and mouth set in a firm, straight line. "What?" He grit.

"Huh?" Nat wondered.

"She's been telling me that she's hanging out with you for the past two weeks," he revealed.

"Nope, not since the incident with HYDRA."

Bucky's (right) flesh hand crushed the pen in his grip, taking a long breath. "All right," he sighed, "so, why come today?"

"What's really going on, Buck?" She worried softly. "Is it really whatever's going on with Peach? You're this pissed off? What'd she even do?"

"She just..." He cut himself off with a long sigh. "It's nothing."

"Bucky," Nat gave a pointed look.

"She's just avoiding me," he muttered. "It's like she's barely home, almost like a ghost."

"Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Yes, and no," Bucky snipped, rolling his neck out. "I'm just worried about her now, she's never not communicated before."

"Something's bothering her," Nat shrugged. "She probably needs you right now, Buck."

"I can't do it all," he whispered. "I can't be who she wants and run this organization at the same time."

"She doesn't need that, she just needs you to be her partner," Natasha spoke softly. "She needs to feel loved and supported, and surely, she maybe felt weird about whatever you were projecting. Instead of taking it out on your men," she smirked, "why don't you just talk to her? 'Cause I hear you're bein' a more-than-usual asshole lately. You need to ease up or get laid, 'cause you're taking it out on good, loyal men, and that's entirely unfair."

"They can take it."

"Sure, but they shouldn't have to," Nat rolled her eyes. "Look, since you won't answer me, I'm assuming the sour mood is in regard to whatever relationship issues you have right now?"

"Sure," he tossed the pen away, opened a skinny drawer to his right and select an identical one.

"Bucky," she growled.

He sighed, "She's lying to me, Nat. Saying she's with you when she's not... Is this an affair? She's gone all the time now."

"No way," Nat laughed. "Baby girl doesn't have the energy to entertain anyone - let alone two men. You're just the exception."

"Why lie, then?"

"Maybe she didn't want you questioning her..."

"No shit."

"Well, did you get into a fight?"

"No."

"Any reason she doesn't want to be home?"

He shook his head with a sigh, "Not that I know of."

"You had to do something."

"Honest, I haven't. She was being all clingy, but then one day, a switch flipped."

Nat frowned, "You think... Your girlfriend is being clingy... Because she was kidnapped and beaten up... Because of your fucking job... And is probably scared...out of...her mind...? I get that correct?"

Bucky paused for a long moment, muttering, "Oh, my God."

"Yeah, you asshole. Think of it that way! She's afraid!" Natasha snapped. "And probably picked up on your energy, so, she made herself scarce."

"I didn't mean - "

"I don't care, go home, apologize to that sweet angel - she doesn't deserve this."

Bucky paused, "What is 'this' exactly?"

"James. Focus on the present - your woman. Go make this right. We all know you're this big, bad dude - but it's okay to be a little sensitive towards the woman who loves you without condition!"

Bucky relented, figuring the redheaded Russian mobster was right.

The entire drive home, Bucky considered the ways you had changed in the few, short weeks since he vented to Sam and Steve about your clinginess. You didn't take meals with him, didn't cook, work-out, or do anything you used to do together. Sex? Forget it. Dates? Nope. Cuddling? No, you're always 'too hot'. And when he thought about it, he remembers seeing the wads of cash he'd leave for you stuffed in his sock drawer - surely trying to make him think it was just another emergency fund he had hidden. You never spent his money, feeling humiliated by his choice of words.

Clingy...

You didn't text or call him when he was gone, you hadn't even so much as kissed him in what felt like ages... Well, more like you hadn't initiated any kisses...

His heart weighed in his chest as he realized he hadn't even so much as hugged you in days. You were rarely in the apartment together, and when you were, you were just silent and busy with chores. It was as if you operated on the exact opposite schedule as he did, went to new extents to avoid him, and his heart clenched in his chest.

When he got home, you were caught cooking in the kitchen - being obvious that you weren't expecting him. The door slammed and his baritone voice snapped, "Peach!"

You gulped, holding the sauce-covered wooden spoon to your chest. When he rounded around the corner, he found you and slowed down, sighing in relief. "What's wrong?" You worried in a timid tone.

He panted lightly, relaying, "Needed to find you."

"I'm here."

"I know," he relented, charging up to you and engulfing you in a tight, heavy hug. "I needed to talk to you, Peach," he whispered.

"What's wrong?"

"You. You're what's wrong."

"What the fuck does that - "

"No, no," he pulled back to stare down at you fondly, "I don't mean it like that, just that... You're struggling. I can see that. But you're not alone, I'm here with you, and I got a little caught up in my head when I realized someone was so very dependent on me - it fucking scared me. But then... Then you just shut yourself off and hid away from me, and oh, my God, it's so much worse, baby. Don't do that," he breathed, "okay? Don't ever shut me out - don't stop loving me, don't stop talking to me, don't give up on us. I can't read your mind, you can't read mine, it's not an excuse - but we understand better when we trust each other enough to communicate what's required. I'm so sorry I got caught up in myself, I didn't know what you needed - but I'm here now, I'm here - I'm not leaving you."

You collapsed into his chest, taking a shuddering breath.

"Don't ever stop talking to me, Peach," Bucky whispered, kissing the top of your head; keeping you close. "I'm so sorry, baby, if I - "

"If?" You snapped, pulling back to glare at him through your tears. "I heard you, Bucky. I heard you talking to Sam and Steve, and about how clingy I am."

"I was wrong," he insisted. "I was overwhelmed and tired and just stretched thin, the easiest thing to do is attack those closest to me, and that's you. It's not right, it's the worst I could do to you after all you've been through, and I'm so sorry. I was wrong, you're not the person to take this out on - and I'm so sorry, Peach."

You sighed, "I don't mean to be... I don't mean to cling - "

"Nah," he chuckled, caressing your cheek, "you cling as much as you want. Cling as tight as you want, baby, don't let me go. I'm sorry for what I said and the way it made you feel, it was wrong - so fucking wrong of me, and I see that. When you pulled away from me, I just... I couldn't think. It felt so wrong, and I knew it was my fault." He took your face in both palms, promising, "I'm so sorry, Peach."

You shrugged meekly, "It's okay."

"It's not."

"No, but apologizing is a step in the right direction."

He nodded, "What else can I do?"

"Nothing - "

"Peach."

You paused to think, smiling shyly, "Movie night?"

"Whatever my pretty girl wants," he nodded.

"Hmm... Get a bath with me?"

"All right... Sure, okay..."

"And face masks."

He sighed, "Okay."

"And mani-pedis."

"Baby."

"You said you were making it up to me, right?"

He smirked, "That's right... All right, yeah, sure, fine, we can..." He sighed again, "We can do all that, Peach, whatever you want."

"I just want you," you told him softly. "I didn't mean to be so clingy. I was just afraid... I felt afraid everyday, just so very unsure in this life. You're the only thing that makes sense to me, Buck, and when I heard you, I just... I guess I realized how dependent I'd been and wanted to give you space. Last thing I want is to smother you, to drive you away from me."

"Not ever gonna happen," he promised softly. "I just didn't handle it like I should've. I'm sorry, Peach, but I'm here now - for whatever you need. Want me to take a few days off, just be together? I'll arrange it. Want to get away for a bit? We can go."

"I just need you," you whispered. "Only you and I should be okay - I can be okay if I have you, but feeling like I lost you? Even a fraction? Buck... James, it was such a harrowing feeling, I wasn't sure what to do to move forward. So, I think I just panicked, shut down; thought if I could just get back to normal, you'd love me again..."

"I never stopped loving you," he swore, "I just had a bad lapse in my own judgement. Nothing against you, baby. Nothing."

You nodded again, letting him tuck you into his chest; perfectly snug under his chin as he coiled his arms around you. He let out a long sigh, his guilt swelling to new heights, but for that present moment, everything seemed okay.

Felt okay.

Appeared okay.

And you'd both do whatever it took to remain as okay as you possibly could.

requesting rules and masterlist

Marvel masterlist

Clingy Baby collection masterlist

[chuluoyi]

࿐ ࿔ 🕰️ 「 11:07 P.M 」

divorce scare apology fic🤞🏻 yes people, in the spirit of april 1, it’s gojo who is having dreams :)) and i promise you it’s straight up comfort fic~

a part of gojo's love entries

you’ve known something is bugging satoru as he hasn’t been teasing the heck out of you for these past three days.

and you were proven true when tonight, on your marital bed, he said—

“so… i’ve been thinking…” he started, seemingly deep in thought, playing with your hair. “oh, more like it’s because of this one bad dream…”

“what are you on about?” you raised an eyebrow. okay, you knew something was up with him, but him being a bit skittish made you a bit worried.

“umm, yeah. so, the other day i had this dream about us in tokyo district court—”

“district court—?”

“—getting a divorce, yeah.”

your eyes rounded, and satoru could feel himself almost regretting his words seeing your stunned expression, so he added a band-aid—

“no, it was just a dream! i’m not divorcing you, okay?!”

however, your expression had soured, as you looked down, visibly heartbroken. alarmed, satoru immediately pulled you to his chest.

“oh, ooh— there, there,” he soothed you, stroking your hair. “sweets, no. never. okay? i’m just telling you, just like what you did the other day.”

you had a dream of him cheating on you once, but this was wholly different.

“you’re the worst,” you accused, and despite yourself, you felt an ache in your chest. “how could such thought even cross your mind— that you dream about it?”

“if i can pick my dream… i’ll pick the memory from our honeymoon— precisely when i ripped your black and pink lingerie off and made you scream my name, you know that.”

you huffed, burying your face in his chest. “hmph. explain.”

satoru smiled, finding you so incredibly precious. silly wifey.

he proceeded as he pat your back. “nothing really, i’m still bitter too! no way in hell! but then i started thinking… what would you do in 0.001% chance of us being divorced?”

you pulled away, growling. “…so there’s still a chance—!”

“noooo! that’s statistically impossible! aren’t we having a late night talk? we’re always talking about imaginary scenarios at night, aren’t we?!”

what was the point of this? it was only upsetting you with each second.

“how could you ask me that?” you glared at him resentfully. “if we’re divorced, then—” you grabbed his hand and placed it on your belly. “what about baby? do you not want to see him anymore?”

and in that moment it seemed like he just realized it too as he sheepishly scratched his head, mouth gaping. “ah—”

his response caused your hormones to stir, and combined by your disbelief, you spitefully threw his hand away and turned to your side, refusing to face him.

“if you dare to divorce me, i’ll move out japan at a moment’s notice,” you spat out, crossing your arms. “i won’t let you see my baby— and i’ll put a restraining order on you too, just so you see.”

“whoa, wait—”

“or i can also jump from yasohachi bridge and then become a curse—i’ll haunt you to your dying days!”

“—?! you can’t do that!”

“oh, i can also remarry! i’ll marry ichiji so fast and by the time the baby is born, your kid will have his name instead!”

“ichi— hey! that’s insulting! i would’ve forgiven if it was nanami, but ichiji?!”

“shut up! you’re— you’re annoying!”

in hindsight, this wasn’t something you should get this much worked up for. satoru was obviously just being his dense self and you knew it, but somehow the thought of him suddenly not by your side anymore hurt you— and perhaps your unstable hormones played a part too.

. . . but then his strong arms wrapped around you in that instant, enveloping you in his warm and reassuring embrace from behind. “hey… sweets, don’t be mad…”

“…”

“if you do, baby will also be—”

“you are making us mad.”

“okay, okay.” satoru sighed, his right palm reaching out to caress your five-month baby bump, and his voice was tinted with slight regret as he replied, “sorry…”

you melted a bit, but still gave him the cold shoulder, showing how cross you were that he brought it up in the first place.

and both of you stayed that way for a while, and you started to get sleepy, until you heard him muttering—

“still… whatever you do,” his voice sounded strained, and it made you awake again. “even when i’m not here… you can’t get yourself hurt, alright?”

“what does that mean?” you finally turned towards him, your eyes shone with slight panic. “what do you mean with you not being here?”

“nothing, sweetheart.” satoru grinned, pinching your cheek. “just saying—since i’m away often, don’t do anything reckless, you can get hurt.”

“don’t put it as if you’re going to go some place far away.” you didn’t know what you were spouting now, but you were tired and just didn’t want to pursue this conversation any longer.

you bit your lip, not looking at him. “or… i’ll get sad.”

seeing you so vulnerable and open like this made satoru realize that as much as he needed you to stay sane, you also needed him. the clarity stirred something within him, causing warmth to rapidly spread in his chest.

and he felt soft. so soft for you. and he adored you, more than anyone else in this wretched world.

“aw, look at my baby girl.” your husband cradled you close to him with a wide grin, patting you soothingly, his heart fluttering. “how can i leave you be a single mother? i’m here, yeah? always.”

and you believed him. otherwise, you were willing to risk it all just to get him home, by your side.

you smushed your face into his chest, ignoring your burning face. “hmph, being a single mother isn’t that bad. i can still drain your wealth.”

“huh?! wait, you just said you’ll be sad without me!”

and you thought, being in his embrace is the most comforting place of all.

epilogue

“by the way, i just realized…” satoru fixed his frown on you accusingly in the next morning. “how is your taste in men so bad? why ichiji as your first pick?”

“uh,” you were at a loss of words, totally not expecting this discussion on a brand new morning. “because… he’s kind? he’s easiest to sway—”

“so you’re saying… you can seduce him easily?!”

“…sort of? but you’re right, i should go for nanami. he’s way good-looking. or his apprentice… what’s his name again? ino takuma—”

“nanami? ino?! wait a minute…! y-you’re my wife… but you’re also thinking about which man is easier to seduce and which is more attractive?!”

“uh— you’re the one asking first!”

“still! so you do think about them! about weaker, lesser men who are not me!”

“nanami is not—!”

“hoh?! so it’s nanami, huh!?”

“don’t you dare to start anything, gojo satoru,” you hissed. “you said my taste in men is bad. so that includes you too.”

“wha?!”

[notthestarwar]

I wanna crack on with this editing but ppl keep asking me to watch their children

[prythianpages]

But the Worms | Azriel

Azriel x Green Witch | Azriel is woken up by your daughter in the middle of the night to answer some of her questions.

warnings: fluff, dad Az

word count: 943

a/n: Just a short little fic that can be read as a stand alone. This was inspired by a scene from Bob's Burgers lol.

Rain pattered against the window steadily, accompanied by the distant rumble of thunder. Every so often, the sky would flare with a jagged streak of lightning, briefly illuminating the room with a cold, blue light before plunging it back into shadow. The storm was a familiar, comforting backdrop to Azriel’s slumber.

But his shadows, ever vigilant, stirred with a whisper of unease.

Azriel’s eyes fluttered open, drawn by the shift in his shadows. That’s when he heard them. The faint, hurried sound of small footsteps. His shadows fluttered toward the door as they sensed the hesitant shuffle against the wooden floor.

He didn't need his shadows to tell him who was on the other side. Had it been his first born, he'd never hear the steps as she loved to sneak up on him,. The door would've been open abruptly with no hesitation whatsoever but it's been years since she last had a nightmare. A nightmare she didn't welcome, at least.

That was not the case tonight. It was his second-born. Sweet little Alora, who, true to her name, should be dreaming of unicorns and rainbows as she loved to recount to him every morning, rather than being awake.

His gaze flickered to you. While Azriel was a light sleeper, you were a heavy sleeper and truth be told, you were sound asleep, back turned toward him. A shadow tenderly caressed your back before he shifted his attention back to the door. He was already sitting up in the bed, blinking away the sleep or at least trying when the door opened quietly, muted with the help of his shadows.

Alora stood at the door. Her hair, the exact shade of yours, was disheveled, the bangs she cut herself last week splayed over her forehead awkwardly. A rite of passage, you had called it, reminding him that your first born had done the same.

Her eyes, the exact shade of his, were wide and glistening, and there was a pout on her face.

Azriel’s chest tightened at the sight, wanting nothing more than to soothe whatever troubled her, despite his fatigue. He extended his arms out, and Alora ran right into them, her small frame immediately enveloped by his.

Cradling her to his chest, he pushed her bangs back and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. “Did you have a nightmare?” He asked, voice still heavy with sleep.

“No. I haven’t slept at all,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.

Azriel frowned, glancing at the clock. It was well past midnight, and his eyes were begging for sleep, lulled by the rain falling outside. “Is it the storm?”

Alora placed her hands on his chest, pushing herself up slightly. She spared a glance to your sleeping form before leaning in closer to her father, careful not to wake you with her voice. Though, Azriel doubted you'd wake at all.

Her hazel eyes, so innocent and pure, stared into his own. “Do you think worms have dreams too?”

Azriel's heart softened further. Her worries were so small, so wonderfully trivial compared to the burdens he had carried as a child.

“I’m sure they dream,” he murmured, gently pulling his daughter's head back to his chest, wishing for her to always have such simple worries. He also hoped she’d be content with his answer and finally drift off to sleep herself.

“But what do they dream?”

“The same things you do.” He replied, trying to stifle a yawn. He snuck a glance at you, still oblivious to your daughter’s insatiable curiosity.

“Do they get nightmares too?” 

Azriel fought back his groan. He loved his daughters deeply and strongly. He would go through all ends of the world for them. Any other time, he would entertain this conversation fully, but it was late, and Alora should be fast asleep like her sister. 

“Mel says worms come out when it storms so that we don’t hear their cries.”

Speak of the little devil herself. Mel was sure to get an earful from him. Tomorrow morning, or rather, in a couple of hours. Azriel took a deep breath, trying to muster the energy to explain, his body aching for rest.

Azriel could hear the thoughts swirling through her mind as she continued. “Why would they cry? Is it because of the bad dreams?”

“Don’t listen to your sister,” he said gently, running a hand through Alora’s tousled hair.

“But you told me to listen to her yesterday morning.”

“I did,” Azriel replied with a slight grimace, regretting that decision immensely at this very moment. Granted, he had said that after Mel told Lor to stop riling up Sprinkles, her pet scorpion. “But that’s different.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll explain tomorrow,” he said, his voice a mix of patience and weariness.

“But the worms–”

“The worms don’t have nightmares and they come out during storms because they love the rain. Now, go to sleep. Please.”

Alora let out a small gasp, her hand losing its tension against his chest. “You promise?”

“Yes.” Azriel replied quickly, not certain what exactly he was promising. He'd deal with it later.

“Okay.”

When he finally felt her body relax in his arms, he let out a breath of relief. He held her tighter in his arms, shifting them to face in your direction before settling Alora between you both. He didn’t have the energy to take her back to her bed.

He gladly gave in to the heaviness of his eyelids, his eyes closing shut and ready to embrace sleep under the comfort of the rain once more--

"Daddy?"

He didn't bother opening his eyes. "Yes?"

"I love you."

His lips tugged up into a smile. "I love you too, my sweets."

Alora snuggled closer to him, tiny hands grasping onto his larger one and placing it over her face. She always found comfort in his touch, despite the scars that marred his hands. It was something that never failed to make his chest swell with warmth. Along with the way both his daughters always looked up to him, eyes full of affection and admiration.

His thumb caressed her cheek, soothing her as his shadows settled back into their corner of the room, curling into the bed Alora had gotten them for Solstice this year.

For centuries, his shadows had slept among other shadows, usually underneath the bed or in the corners of rooms. But Alora had felt bad for them one night, and when shopping for Solstice this year, she had asked you to take her to the pet store and picked out the softest bed for Azriel’s shadows.

Though his shadows had never complained or shown any interest in comfier sleeping habits, they had vibrated with excitement at the sight of the gift. Now, they slept there every night, happy and content, snuggling amongst one another and curling into a ball.

As his thoughts began to blur and drift, the world around him softened, the edges of his awareness becoming fuzzy and indistinct. Now that he knew your daughter was okay and her curiosity satiated, he could go back to sleep.

His breathing slowed, deep and even, matching the gentle rise and fall of your own breath. Just as he was about to give in to the sweet embrace of sleep–

“Daddy?”

He could barely manage a grunt in response.

“Would you still love me if I were a worm?”

Oh, this was definitely your daughter.

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