#i actually really like this serial its just the feet thing is hard to ignore

[socialistexan]

[penguinkyun]

chapter 161 review

cw for attempted suicide in this chapter

honestly i was actually so relieved on getting the full context for the scenes because oh thank god aqua stabbing himself wasn't played for shock value

official confirmation that yeah hikaru was behind the deaths in the series but what i cared about most was whether or not he was implicit in ai's death and what this chapter basically says is No He Was Not and i'm totally fine with that!

the general read before we got the the whole cascade of reveals was that hikaru spiralled after ai's death anyway (although im also happy yura isn't retconned kasfjdks justice for her) + it felt kinda weird to pull the He Was Totally Innocent of Everything when we have chapter 109

ignoring whatever 160 tries to imply with 15yo hikaru manipulating nino and ryousuke though lmao thats incredibly stupid. hes not responsible for their actions especially not when he didn't even do anything? he was heartbroken what is he just supposed to do. not wallow? im just taking that as nino trying to push responsibility onto hikaru to take the heat off her actions just like she blames ai in 158

honestly the whole mystery reveal and timeline is so fucked its genuinely difficult trying to make sense of any of it in a way that doesn't damage the themes of hikarus character purely because both are just so inconsistent

in the same vein it feels very ehhh to have hikaru disparaged like this and barely receive any sort of sympathy (even in 160 which. no really how was ai's death his fault) especially when hes a csa victim

this also makes 153 and 154 kind of lose a lot of impact? like hikaru trying to kill ruby doesn't really make sense especially when you factor in the phone call in 158 where he's actually trying to turn himself in. the way i've been reading this whole scenario is that aqua finds out about rubys attempted murder sometime between the concert starting in the evening and the whole knifeproof vest debacle happening in the morning and spiralled in a combination of hoping his revenge was over and having it ripped away from him + his guilt that since he'd let kamiki go this happened (because he knows about yura) and came to his own conclusions and that he's heavily projecting onto hikaru

unfortunately crow girls dialogue puts a wrench in things. we'll see how this goes

anyways. the back half of this chapter was so good i actually almost forgot my complaints about the hikaru + mystery inconsistencies. my earliest predictions for aqua's revenge had actually been that he'd attempt suicide in order to frame kamiki because there was no actual "evidence" for any of his other crimes so. imagine my surprise when this chapter came out LOL

also i do have to get this one out of the way but making sure rubys reputation stays clean would be hard to do when it comes out about who kamiki being a serial killer as is implied by the movie??? (incl. killing ai but like. when did this happen. in the movie. did aqua add a post credit scene or smth?? offscreen no ko) but maybe it would work if the lie is sold about kamiki being responsible for ais death??? im reaching here

i was so worried when the initial leaks came out that aquas murder-suicide attempt was for pure shock value because in conjuction with earlier chapters it didn't really feel like aqua's character was at a point where he'd do this, even if it would be in character for movie aqua

but no! the prior sequence with aqua acknowledging every relationship in his life with tenderness and love and the soft, rueful smile on his face (god he looks just like ai im shaking) as he says he'd abandon it all. in tears. come on.

this was honestly so good to read with how ruby focused his speech was in 160. because. aqua has so much love and care for every person in his life that he spends at least half the manga screaming crying throwing up from how much he just cares.

god. that whole sequence has me kicking my feet. crying. shaking in my boots.

so happy for taiki mention!! aqua considering him as part of his family!! the mini arc of taiki and aqua going from "yeah don't call me brother though" to beach trips is. ough. now let ruby have some bonding with taiki too cmon

i had to take a minute to scream into my pillow when aqua said he wanted to call miyako "mom". aaaaaa he sees her as his mother!! its such a good callback to 155 when miyako called him her son to his face. he wanted to say it back and tell her he saw her as a mother too. wailing. man. miyako lamenting about not being able to be as close to the twins as she wished and being upset about it because she wasnt their actual mother but here aqua reciprocates that love!! shes his mother!!!

it would have hit a lot harder if we saw miyako more in movie arc though but thats been a complaint for a while now askfdjsdks

now all thats left is for aqua to call ai mama too. come on. you can do it.

god it is so so good to see aqua wanting to make it up to akane and start over as friends with her. their mutual respect and care doesn't diminish just because they're no longer dating and aqua specifically acknowledging that he messed up and wanting to get back on equal grounds with her because she is very important to him, with and without the romance! she was the first person he ever fully admitted his revenge to! i'm just happy to see that akane doesn't fade out of importance to aqua just because he's romantically interested in kana. he still wants to have a good relationship with her. augh.

aqua is romantically in love with kana and while that already confirmed in 150 it sure is great to see it double confirmed in this chapter by aqua himself. and its those dreams along with wanting to be a doctor and supporting his family that just makes it really heartbreaking when he abandons them

god the artwork in this chapter is so damn good mengo is on fire like usual. aqua's rueful smile as he explains what he's about to do, and the way the smile stays on his face, a version of one of ai's horrible smiles that she has during her death and its. augh. yelling crying i want to wrap him in blankets

he looked so much like ai i physically flinched

i said it before but like everything about aquas sequence in this chapter his dreams, his rueful resigned smiles, his love for everyone in his life combined with the absolute loathing he has for himself, the self hatred and guilt that makes it near impossible for him to see himself as truly valued by the people he loves to the point he'd give up everything for them...this is truly aqua and thats what makes it really utterly heartbreaking when he does finally use the knife

guess his answer to goro in 150 is this huh

i don't want to make any predictions for what's going to happen in the next chapters but i will say that i don't really want either hikaru or aqua to die. not only is it unnecessarily traumatizing for aqua if he survives and hikaru dies, but its also just a cop out if hikaru does tbh. it would feel cheap and not meaningful in any way and also reflects really badly on hikarus arc as a whole. hikaru should make good on his promise for making it up to ai, but i dont think he should die doing so

anyway. that was certainly a chapter whew

NO BREAK NEXT WEEK IVE DREAMED OF DAYS LIKE THIS

[spencers-renaissance]

I turn and reach for you

Summary: Three months after Hankel, Spencer starts getting terrible nightmares that keep him up at night. He tries desperately to keep his secret until one day when it's all too much to bear anymore. Luckily, Derek Morgan is there to hold him together as he falls apart.

Tags: nightmares, hurt/comfort, ptsd, angst with a happy ending, fluff, literal sleeping together, getting together, post-revelations TW: past non-con drug use mentioned once in passing

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 2.1k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Bad Things Happen Bingo

This feels the "Nightmares" square on my Bad Things Happen bingo card, and was written for this prompt by @i-write-whump. Title from a poem by Devon Strang.

After Spencer is kidnapped by Tobias Hankel, he stays with Derek. Nobody on the team wants him to be alone, and he’s always felt the most comfortable with him, so it makes sense. Besides, he’s got the space.

Spencer sometimes wonders whether the team pushed so hard for it because they genuinely believed that, logistically, Derek was the best option, or because they could also see the slow-burning romance simmering under the surface of their relationship. They’ve always had a special friendship, but Spencer can feel the growing tension: the deep and intense looks they share mid-case, the lingering touches on backs and arms, the affection leaking into each ‘pretty boy’ and every ‘Der’.

Perhaps if Hankel never came into the picture they’d already be together — it really had felt like they were on the precipice of something special — but it’s three months later and Spencer’s still sleeping in the spare room; there’s still just as much will they, won’t they lingering in the air between them.

He tries not to mind too much. After all, he’s never had so much free access to the man he’s pined after for years now, and they’re living in each other’s pockets. Almost every waking hour is spent in one another’s company: they cook together, eat together, watch films together, and neither of them are showing any sign of getting sick of it. But every time they’re cooking pasta and Derek says something ridiculous, Spencer wishes he was allowed to lean in and kiss the tip of his nose; every time they sit down to watch something together, he wishes he could burrow into his side and rest his head in the crook of his neck.

(Sometimes, Spencer wishes he could rewind to the weeks immediately after the Hankel incident when Derek would carry him around the flat to keep him off his broken feet; when he could press his face into his shoulder and inhale the scent of complete and utter safety.)

It’s almost torturous, being so close yet so far.

He isn’t quite sure why the nightmares start so late. The nights during the first couple of months are blissfully dreamless, so exhausted from the physical and emotional trauma that sleep was a tantalising escape, but once he’s back in the field, once normal life resumes, everything changes.

The first time he wakes up sweating and panting, heart pounding as he tries to convince himself that he’s no longer in Hankel’s clutches but is safe and sound in Derek’s apartment, he dismisses it as a one-off. He hasn’t had nightmares yet, so why should they start now? He doesn’t go back to sleep that night, too shaken to relax back into the comforting embrace of sleep, too afraid of deception: that he wouldn’t sleep dreamlessly but that the nightmare would be waiting for him once again.

The second time worries him. He gets up this time and gets a glass of water as quietly as possible, leaning with his back against the kitchen counter as he ponders what this could mean for him. The thing is, they’re so incredibly vivid. It really feels like he’s back at the mercy of a three-in-one torturer armed with drugs and belts and guns, genuinely unsure of whether he’ll ever see his family again. He doesn’t go back to sleep this time, either, instead pacing around the living room until Derek wakes up. He lies that he’s only been up for half an hour, and Derek believes him.

The third time solidifies for Spencer the fact that this is a problem. Three is a pattern, everybody knows that, and Spencer spends the rest of the night scouring the internet for studies conducted around delayed trauma responses and discovers the prevalence of delayed-onset PTSD. He’s tempted to contact a professor he met during his third PhD who specialised in the psychology of trauma, but he thinks better of it. Admitting these nightmares would be admitting defeat.

This is something he has to deal with alone.

(He ignores the truth that it’s more fear than anything else that keeps him from telling anyone: fear of being seen as weak, fear of nothing changing, fear of voicing his trauma out loud. It’s easier to pretend it’s about independent agency.)

It doesn’t affect him too much at first. Sure, he’s scared to go to sleep and he sweats so profusely that it soaks through his bedsheets almost every night, but he’s managing. He’s okay. He contributes just as much to their profiles and takes down unsubs without flinching. He dances around Derek like they have done for over a year, and he sits through Dr Who marathons with Penelope just fine. So what if he’s a bit tired? He’s stared down some of America’s Most Wanted and interviewed famous serial killers, he can cope with a little fatigue.

It doesn’t stay that easy for long.

Soon everybody’s asking about the bags under his eyes, his slower reaction times when they visit the gun range, his twitchiness around the team.

“Are you sleeping okay, Spencer?” Penelope asks him one day, brushing a curly lock of hair behind his ears as they sit side by side on the sofa next to a conked out Derek.

He can’t nod his head quick enough. “Yeah! Yes, uh. Yes, Penelope, I’m sleeping fine, I promise,” he says as convincingly as he can, flashing her a smile. He hates lying to her, but he can’t let anyone find out, he just can’t.

Slowly, he begins losing his grip on reality. He’s almost delusional from the sleep deprivation, and he starts seeing Hankel everywhere he goes. He’s stood behind the fridge door, in the foyer of the FBI Headquarters, in the toilets of a local police station, stood right behind the unsub they’re currently trying to talk down, goddamnit.

He’s beyond exhausted, but some nights he still refuses to sleep, too afraid of what awaits him in his dreams, too afraid of the fear he knows he’ll carry into the next day, too afraid of feeling weak again. Helpless. Completely and utterly without agency.

He sits up with his back against the headboard, the main light off but the lamp switched on, scrolling through as many scholarly articles as he can read in a night, drinking cup after cup of steaming black coffee. Most nights he makes it through till morning without sleeping a wink, but sometimes he can’t stop himself from drifting off The nightmares on those nights are the worst.

He isn’t okay and people are starting to notice. Everyone’s walking on eggshells around him right now, but he knows it won’t be long before Penelope organises an intervention that Hotch hosts and Derek directs. The worst part about it is that he feels like a trainwreck waiting to happen. He’s headed straight for complete and utter collapse, and the only possible way to stop the train in its tracks is to reach out and get help, the one thing he can’t get himself to do.

And he isn’t even really sure why.

It all comes to a head on a warm night in July. He’d fallen into bed that night deliberately, actually intending to sleep for once. The bone-deep tiredness had finally caught up to him and he didn’t even care that he was walking straight into the arms of Tobias Hankel, if it meant he got even an iota of refreshing sleep, then it would be worth it.

But he isn’t quite of the same mind when he wakes up at two in the morning like he does almost every night: soaked in sweat with his heart going a million beats per minute, with only one difference. Tonight, he’s crying.

Maybe it’s the emotional turmoil of the last few months catching up to him, or maybe it’s just the severity of this particular dream, but whatever it is, he can’t seem to stop even once he’s awake. Sobs wrack his shoulders as he cries miserably into the pillow, finally letting out the emotions he’s kept bottled up so tightly, and he’s almost wailing after a couple of minutes of anguish.

All he can think as he cries helplessly is how badly he wants Derek. He wants to be wrapped up in his strong and safe embrace, he wants to feel the movement of his soft goatee against his cheek, he wants to inhale the comforting scent of his sleep t-shirts, he wants the warmth and solace that only Derek Morgan can give him, and in that moment, emotionally distraught and so incredibly sleep-deprived, he decides to get it.

He stumbles out of his bedroom and down the hall, stopping once he reaches Derek’s door. He hesitates for only a second before he pushes it open slowly, allowing the light from the lamp they keep switched on in the hallway to gently illuminate the shadows of his bedroom.

“Spencer?” Derek asks groggily, immediately sitting up and wiping his eyes. “What’s wrong? Are you crying?”

At the acknowledgement of his tears, Spencer starts to cry harder, and as embarrassed as he feels, he can’t slow the steady stream of tears rolling down his face as he stands in the doorway like a child in their parents’ room.

“Spence,” Derek says again, gentle and sympathetic, “come here.” He lifts the duvet up and scooches over slightly as if to make room for him in his already spacious king-size bed.

He doesn’t need to be told twice, though, and he stumbles forward, collapsing into bed and wrapping himself around Derek instantly. His arms come up to circle Spencer’s waist, caressing him gently as he holds him close to his body, shushing him quietly.

“It’s okay, Spence,” he murmurs. “I’m here now, alright? We’re gonna fix whatever it is, I promise you. We’ll get through this. You’ll get through this.”

He lets himself cry and cry and cry until his tears are dried up and he’s hiccupping from the force of his sobs. He would feel terrible about the damp spot left on Derek’s t-shirt, but he simply doesn’t have the energy. Instead, he continues to lie there on Derek’s chest, listening to his softly spoken assurances and losing himself in the sensation of Derek’s fingertips caressing the skin of his waist.

After a couple of minutes of silence, interrupted only by the odd hiccup from Spencer’s tired lungs, Derek finally asks the question. “What was that all about, pretty boy?” he asks with a tenderness Spencer isn’t sure he’s ever heard before. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Been having nightmares,” Spencer whispers, keeping his eyes closed against Derek’s imploring gaze.

He feels Derek tense beneath him, his fingers briefly pausing before resuming their comforting patterns on his waist, and a heavy breath escapes his lips. “For how long?”

“Last couple of months,” he mumbles, and somehow another tear manages to escape Spencer’s screwed up eyes.

“Well,” Derek sighs, “I suppose that explains a lot. We’ve been so worried about you, Spencer. We had no idea what was going on but we could all see you withdrawing, and it wasn’t exactly a secret how exhausted you were.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Derek says sadly. “I should’ve pushed harder to figure out what was going on with you. I’m so sorry you’ve had to deal with this all alone.”

“I didn’t know how to tell anyone,” Spencer says, suddenly desperate to explain as he shifts slightly to look Derek in the eye. “I was so scared and I didn’t want anyone to think that I was weak or I couldn’t do my job anymore, and I just didn’t know what to do.”

“I know, Spence,” Derek says soothingly, “but you’ve told me now, haven’t you? And I’m going to do everything I can to get you some help. We’ll fix this, baby. I promise you, I’m going to make sure you’re happy and healthy again if it’s the last thing I do, okay?”

Spencer sniffs a little, wiping tiredly at his eyes as he blinks up at the sincerity on Derek’s face. For the first time in far too long he manages a smile. “Okay.”

Derek runs a hand through his hair before dropping a kiss to the top of his head. “Do you want to sleep here tonight?”

Spencer’s smile widens and he buries his face in Derek’s chest again as his cheeks flush red. “Please.”

Months later, they’ll realise they never officially asked one another to be in an actual, exclusive relationship. Months later, they’ll know instinctively and with absolute certainty that this night was the night that changed everything for them, and exactly one year later, they’ll celebrate their first anniversary on that date.

Tonight, though, they sleep curled up next to one another in Derek’s bed, and although Spencer doesn’t fall into the same dreamless sleep he grew used to immediately after Hankel, for once he isn’t haunted by nightmares, but dreams inflected with hope for what the future holds for them, and he’ll take that over dreamlessness any day.

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @lesbiantodds @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @livrere-blue @hotchseyebrows @enbyspencer @reidology @transhanniballecter @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @ @marsjareau @garcias-bitch @oliverbrnch @im-autistic @anxious-enby @kuolonsyoja @reidreids @ropoto @thosecriminalminds (add yourself to my taglist)

[waitimcomingtoo]

In Case You Don’t Live Forever

~chapter five rewritten~

Pairing: Peter Parker x Venom!reader

Synopsis: you are Peters greatest love and Spider-Man’s greatest enemy

Series Masterlist

“Why are you in such a mood?” Ned asked his best friend as they walked to their college campus. Peter had been grumpy all morning and Ned was quick to notice. He usually showed up at Ned’s door exhausted but eager to share the adventures from the night before, but he seemed defeated today.

“I got my ass beat last night.” Peter grumbled as he shouldered his backpack.

“By who?” Ned wondered.

“I don’t even know.” Peter sighed. “I think it was some kind of alien.”

“What’d it look like?” Ned asked. It wasn’t uncommon for Ned to ask a million questions after being told something Spider-Man related. After all, he was the guy in the chair.

“Like nothing I’ve ever seen before.” Peter said swallowed and tried to push the previous night from his mind. He’d rather focus on this morning, and the moment he had shared with you. Peter felt such a strong connection to you, and he would’ve stayed on that rooftop all day if he could.

“Describe it to me.” Ned pleaded, tearing Peter from his thoughts.

“I don’t know. It was like eight feet tall, black, and bald. And it was super veiny.” Peter grimaced while Ned’s eyes widened.

“Oh my God. You fought Shaquille O’Neal?” Ned gasped.

“Keep your voice down. I did not fight Shaquille O’Neal.” Peter whispered harshly. Ned always seemed one step away from blowing Peters cover. Peter gave bashful smiles to the passing students who gave him weird looks upon hearing Ned’s words.

“Terry Crews?” Ned continued. Peter rolled his eyes at his best friend and starting walking to class.

“No. This is serious.” Peter said, his voice heavy with annoyance.

“I know it’s serious. You got beat up by The Rock.” Ned remarked. Peter fidgeted with the strings on his backpack, still bothered knowing he was beaten so easily by Venom.

“The Rock is Samoan, not black.” Peter corrected.

“I know. But I heard “bald” and I just automatically envisioned The Rock.” Ned defended.

“There’s another thing. It had this huge, gaping mouth with rows and rows of teeth. I keep thinking about it.” Peter shivered. “It came so close to me. And its tongue was super long. It was like a cracked out frog.”

“So a ninja turtle? You got beat up by a ninja turtle?” Ned gawked.

“It wasn’t a ninja turtle.” Peter snapped. “ It was black, remember?”

“So an emo ninja turtle.” Ned deadpanned.

“It kept saying “we”. “ Peter remembered.

“What do you mean?”

“There was only one of them, but they only referred to themself as “we” as if there were multiple of them.” Peter explained.

“Do you think there could be more? Like an alien army or something?” Ned asked incredulously. Peter hadn’t even thought about that.

“Maybe. I remember something else, it’s name was Venom.” Peter recalled. He distinctly remembered those words coming out of the creatures mouth.

“Venom?” Ned repeated, clearly finding it cool.

“Yeah. And I told it my name. I used my regular voice too.” Peter realized. He usually disguised his voice when speaking, but he had been so scared that he forgot to. It haunted him knowing the creature now knew who he was and he wondered if it knew both of his identities.

“Wow. This is so cool. Not cool for you, because you might die. But this is super cool for me.” Ned smiled as he envisioned what Venom might look like.

“Thanks, ned. Actually, wait.” Peter stopped in his tracks. “One more thing happened.”

“What?” Ned whispered as they approached their class.

“Venom was about to eat me but then it started talking to itself. It sounded maybe like it was having a conversation with someone? I’m not sure, I could only hear one side of it.” Peter explained. “It put me down, well it threw me down, and let me go. But before it left, it said something about a girl. I don’t really remember. I was too focused on catching my breath.”

“Catching your breath? Were you running?”

“No. It choked me.” Peter told him as he lightly touched his neck.

“Kinky.” Ned smirked as he took a seat next to Peter in their class.

“That’s gross.” Peter stifled a laugh. “Did I tell you about this morning with Y/N?”

“No. Tell me.” Ned said. He wasn’t disappointed in the change of topic. He was glad Peter had moved on on from Liz, finally. Peter recounted the discussion he had with you that morning, barely getting through it without blushing and laughing at certain parts.

“I really like her, Ned. More than I’ve ever liked anyone. She’s so amazing. I barely know her, but I can tell already. I want to know everything about her. I want to hear her full story. And most of all, I want to be a part of that story.” Peter declared but frowned suddenly.

“What’s wrong?” Ned asked.

“After our talk, we just kinda sat there staring at each other for a while.” Peter began. “She kinda leaned in, and I did too, but then this seagull flew by and scared us half to death. We laughed about it but the moment was gone.”

“So you almost kissed her?” Ned smiled. “Why is that upsetting you?”

“Because what if that was our chance and I blew it?” Peter feared. “What if that seagull was a sign from above that I was in way over my head? Like God was asking me who I was to think I could just kiss the most perfect girl in the world? She’s so cool, Ned. Way too cool for me. She’s already had a boyfriend and I’ve never even kissed anyone.”

“If it’s meant to happen, it will happen.” Ned assured him.

“Or, the same thing that happened with Liz will happen.” Peter argued. “I won’t tell her how I feel and then she’ll be gone forever.”

“Then don’t let that happen.” Ned reasoned. “Tell Y/N how you feel. Do it tonight, before you go on patrol. And if she doesn’t feel the same, then at least you’ll know. Isn’t it better to know?”

“When did you become such a love expert?” Peter teased as the professor walked into the room.

“Since I started dating Betty. She’s opened my eyes to what love really is.” Ned shrugged. “Tell her tonight. Then tell me how it goes. I’m here for you either way.”

Peter nodded and gave Ned a thankful smile before turning his attention to the professor.

On his walk home from campus, Peter spotted you walking down the sideways. Ned’s words of encouragement rang in his ears and he made a brash decision.

“Hey, Y/N, wait up!” Peter called after you, making you turn around.

“Hey Parker. How was kindergarten?” You teased him.

“Alright alright. Majoring in chemical engineering is hardly kindergarten. And I’m only one year younger than you.” Peter reminded you. “I don’t want you to have a heart attack on me, grandma.”

“Watch it, sonny.” You kept with the joke. “I’ll hit you with my purse and then say something mildly racist.”

“Just like my grandma.” Peter laughed in amusement. “We’re gross. And not funny.”

“We really are.” You scrunched your nose. “Couple of gross ass orphans.”

Peter laughed again, feeling comfortable enough with you to joke about a tragic situation.

“Look, Y/N, I really enjoyed our talk this morning. I really enjoyed all our talks so far actually. I guess I just like talking to you. ” Peter began. He looked nervous all the sudden, like he lost his stamina. You raised your eyebrows hopefully, as there were only so many ways this conversation could go.

“I like talking to you too, Peter.” You said honestly, hoping he’d continue. Hoping he’d ask that question. Your answer seemed to give Peter the confidence he needed to go on.

“Really? Um, that’s great cause I really like talking to you too. I already said that. Oh god. I’m crashing. I-“ he began to flail and you calmed him down by taking a few steps closer. You were almost touching at that point. He stopped talking immediately and looked at you with wide eyes.

“Is there someone you wanted to ask me, Peter?” You asked slowly as you looked at him through your eyelashes.

Damn. He was tall too.

“Yes, actually. I, um, will you…would you maybe want to-“

“Hiya kids!” A gravely voice came from the front stairs of your apartment, completely cutting Peter off. Peter looked up and angrily rolled his eyes.

“Don’t look now. It’s Henry.” Peter grumbled. Henry was the creepy neighbor with the foot fetish.

“Oh Dear God.” Peter said in a low voice.

“What?” You panicked when you saw Peters expression change.

“You’re wearing flip flops.” He pointed at your black painted toes and you felt the color drain from your face.

“Run!” He whispered harshly. You bolted into your apartment and Peter ran into his. Once inside, Peter blew out an angry breath. He had been interrupted twice in one day when trying to talk to you, and he worried that it was a sign.

Back at the apartment, you sat on your bed with headphones in. You were prepping for your interview with Cletus Kasady by writing down some questions you wanted to ask him. It was hard figuring out what to ask a serial killer. You looked at your notepad and sighed. All you had written down was “but why tho?” in sloppy handwriting. You tore out the page, crumbled it up, and threw it at the trash can. When you went to write something else down, you noticed the paper ball still stuck to your hand. You shook your hand but it still wouldn’t come off.

“What the hell?” You grumbled as you shook your hand.

“Oh. This might be our fault.” Venom said suddenly.

“What might be your fault?” You asked as you continued to shake the paper off your hand, but to no avail.

“We sort of went inside Spider-Man when we were talking to him yesterday.” Venom said timidly and the paper ball dropped from your hand.

“What?” You demanded and Venom went silent.

“Come out here.” You said, like an owner to a dog.

“We’d rather stay inside.” Venom said softly.

“Get out here now. You need to explain yourself young lady.” You said sternly. Venom slowly manifested and looked at you with sad eyes.

“I’m 600 million years old, by the way.” Venom added. “You can’t call me young lady.”

“What do you mean you went inside Spider-Man?” You ignored her comment.

“When we were choking him we put one of our tendrils inside him and swirled around.” Venom explained. “He didn’t even feel it. We did though. He’s very squishy on the inside.”

“You…what?” You didn’t even know where to start. “How does that explain the paper sticking to me?”

“We think we absorbed his powers.” Venom said. “We used to watch videos of him on YouTube after you went to bed. He can stick to walls and stuff. We think that’s why the paper ball stuck to you.”

“Since when can we absorb powers?” You wondered as you looked at your hands.

“We never had a host before. We don’t really know how it works.” Venom reminded you. “But back on Klyntar, our home planet, the Grandmaster used to tell us we could absorb the powers of superhuman beings. Judging by your newfound stickiness, we think it worked.”

“What else can Spider-Man do?” You asked. “Since you’re such a big fan.”

“He can shoot webs out of his wrists. And he can return lost dogs.” Venom answered, sounding a little annoyed.

“Do you have something against Spider-Man?” You chuckled a little at her tone.

“We hate what he did last night. He thought we were the bad guy, and he let the real bad guy get away. He judged us before he had the full story. We’re not a bad guy.” Venom defended. You were surprised to hear how passionate she was about this and gave her a soft smile.

“Let’s not worry about Spider-Man right now. I want to test out our new abilities. Let’s rock and roll, baby.” You cheered, complete with rock and roll hands. The second you touched your middle finger and ring finger to your palm, a black, web-like tendril shot out from your wrist and stuck to the ceiling. You stared at the web with a gaping mouth, weakly shaking your wrist to see if it would stay attached.

It did.

“Maybe that’s one of our new abilities.” Venom said. You looked back and forth between her and the gooey web coming out of your wrist.

“Oh my God! What’s happening?” You screamed. You took your fingers off your palm and the web retracted back into your wrist. Looking at your wrist incredulously, you made the rock and roll hand again and the same web shot out from your wrist. This time, it grabbed the ceiling fan.

“V-Venom?” You asked. You didn’t know what to say.

“Try to aim it at something.” She suggested. You aimed your wrist and the lamp across the room and touched your fingers to your palm. The black web shot across the room and grabbed onto the lamp. You quickly yanked your arm back to pull the lamp towards yourself. The lamp flew across the room, smashed you in the face, and left you with a bloody nose.

“Ow.” You cried, gingerly touching your nose.

“We see this as a absolutely win.” Venom cheered. You shot her a look and went to get cleaned up.

After about a week of practice, and very little work on your questions for Cletus, you had a better handle on your webbing ability. Of course, the week also consisted of long talks with Peter on the roof, late patrols of New York, the occasional run in with a criminal, late night FaceTime calls with Peter, and beating the shit out of Spider-Man, twice. Venom eventually grew bored of using the new powers around the house, so it was time for the final test.

You stood at the rooftop ledge and looked down, talking a deep breath to calm your nerves.

“It’s a long way down.” You commented.

“Yep.” Venom replied in your head.

“We could die.” You added.

“Yep.”

“Ready?”

“We’re ready.” Venom grinned as you transformed. You stepped off the ledge and fell freely for a while, screaming the whole way down.

“Stop being a little bitch! Shoot a web!” Venom yelled. You aimed a web at a building and began to swing. You were too close to the ground and ended up knocking over a bunch of tables at an outdoor restaurant. People ran away in fear while others took out their cameras and recorded.

“We’re not here to hurt you! Peace and love!” Venom shouted as you continued to swing through the steers of New York. People began to cheer upon hearing your words.

“Do you hear that, Y/N? People are cheering. They love us.” Venom said happily.

“I love us too.��� You replied. You were even happier than she was. You knew how much it hurt Venom to be seen as a monster, it was why she hated being called a parasite. You also knew it was why she hated Spider-Man. He was praised for stopping bad guys while Venom was seen as one of the bad guys he needed to stop.

“Hey, what is that thing?” A man called from the street. Venom stopped swinging and landed on the street. You proudly turned to the crowd of people, a massive grin on your face. There it was, our favorite question.

“We…are Venom.” Venom growled. People took pictures and videos of you from a distance.

“You can come closer. We won’t hurt you.” Venom assured the crowd.

“Are you like the anti Spider-Man?” Someone asked.

“Spider-Man is a joke. He can’t protect this city like we can. We are no Spider-Man. We are Venom.” Venom roared. A few people took a step back and you began to feel uneasy.

“Hey, King Kong. I want a word with you.” A sassy voice quipped from the crowd. A man in yellow sunglasses and a suit stepped forward, and you bet your ass you recognized him.

“My name is Tony Stark. Heard of me? Of course you have. Would you mind coming back to my tower with me?” He asked, but it felt more like a demand. The people in the crowd slowly dispersed and soon, you stood there alone with Tony.

“Be nice. Say yes.” You told Venom.

“Who is this guy?” She asked out loud.

“I just said my name.” Tony said, slightly annoyed.

“He’s a really famous inventor. I’ll explain later. Just follow him please.” You begged. Venom gave Tony a once over and followed him to a limo.

“Yea, you’re gonna ride up top big guy.” Tony said, patting the roof of the car.

“Girl.” Venom growled. Tony looked surprised.

“My apologies ma’am.” He raised surprised eyebrows. You rode on top of his car all the way to his tower, wondering what he could possibly want with you.

The inside of his tower was huge. Tony lead you to a lab that was bigger than yours and Peters apartments combined.

“I’ve seen videos of you on YouTube. Seems like you and Spider-Man aren’t the best of friends.” Tony remarked as he pulled out an iPad.

“We will crush his bones and snort them like cocaine.” Venom growled. Tony was just as surprised to hear that as you were.

“Now that’s a visual.” Tony smirked. “I’ll have you know, Spider-Man is a friend of mine. He’s not your biggest fan either but from what I’ve seen, you’ve done this city some good since you’ve been here. How long has that been?”

“Two weeks.” Venom answered.

“I thought so. I’d never seen you before then. And since your arrival, petty crime has dropped significantly in Queens. Criminals are too scared of getting eaten to do anything. Don’t get me wrong, I love Spider-Man and I’ll kill you if you tell him that, but no one fears him. He gets the job done, but there’s always another job to do. With you, on the other hand, your mere presence is preventing crime before it even happens.” Tony smiled to himself, like he was just given a new toy. “You’re scary, is what I’m trying to say. But you’re a good guy. It’s rare. I want it to stay that way. I want you on my team.”

“Team?”

“We’re called the Avengers. We had a bit of a falling out but the name still stands.” Tony waved his hand. “We fight bad guys together. Really, really bad guys. I think you could us some good. Plus, you’ll be taken care of for life and we’ll only call you in for serious threats. But I need a few things from you first.”

“Like what?”

“Your story.” He pointed a finger at you. “How does a giant, anthropomorphic alien wind up in New York City?”

“It’s a long story.” Venom answered.

“We can trust this man, Venom.” You told her telepathically. “I’m gonna come out okay?” Venom hesitated and Tony looked impatient to know more.

“Are you sure?” She asked you. Tony looked confused.

“Am I sure?” He pointed to himself.

“Not you.” She said. Tony looked around for who else Venom could be talking to and found no one.

“I’m sure.” You decided. “This guy is one of the good guys. We can trust him. I promise. I’m coming out.”

You slowly transformed back into yourself in front of Tonys wide eyes. Venom stayed in her snake-like form and rested on your neck.

“Hello, Mr. Stark. My name is Y/N L/N.” You shyly introduced yourself. “This is Venom. We want to help.”

Tony’s face shifted from shocked to impressed as he looked you over.

“I gotta say, I did not except someone like you to be inside that scary monster.” Tony chuckled.

“We’re not a monster, Mr. Stark. We want to help people.” You reminded him.

“I can see that.” Tony nodded. “That’s why I’ve been developing you a suit.”

“When did you do that?” You wondered. “We just met.”

“Oh, I know. I’ve been designing it while you talked. I want you to have it incase you and Venom get separated. That way, you’ll be protected until you’re back together.” Tony explained as he showed you his ipad. Sure enough, it had a drawing of a suit on it.

“I’ll get started right away. I just need a little piece of Venom. If I make the suit using her skin, you’ll have the total protection you need.” You looked at Venom for consent, who nodded and extended a tendril towards Tony. He quickly snipped a piece off and put it in a container.

“When will the suit be ready? A few months?” You asked as Tony tapped the container. Tony stopped looking at the container and laughed.

“Y/N, I’m a genius inventor. Go get lunch. It’ll be ready when you’re done.” He said.

And he wasn’t kidding. An hour and a half later, Tony presented you with a suit. You ran my fingers over it slowly, not wanted to disturb a single thing. You looked at it in awe, completely speechless at what he had created.

“Go on, try it on.” He shrugged casually. You grinned from ear to ear before rushing to the bathroom to put it on. You came out soon enough with tears in you eyes.

“You like it?” Tony asked. You looked at your covered hands in amazement. The suit was jet black, like Venom was, and hugged your body like a second skin. There was a big white spider symbol on the front, the complete opposite of Spider-Mans small black one. You figured it was a nod to being called the anti Spider-Man and it was perfect.

“Well?” Tony was still waiting for an answer. You looked up at him just as a few tears fell down you cheeks.

“We didn’t celebrate my birthday growing up because it was the anniversary of my moms death. I used to be so upset every year.” You blurted. Tony looked like he didn’t know what to say and you couldn’t blame him. That was something deeply personal and you had only just met him.

“What I’m trying to say is, I get it now.” You explained. “All those missed birthdays were for a reason. I didn’t get gifts those days because I’m getting the ultimate gift right now. This is the most amazing thing I could’ve asked for. I cannot thank you enough Mr. Stark. I’ll never take it off.”

“You can’t take it off anyway.” Tony told you. “When you don’t want to wear it, it absorbs back into your skin like Venom does. And it’s equipped with Venoms essential abilities. It’s bullet proof, knife proof, taser proof, spork proof and so on. And you can still shoot your webby things. You just won’t have super strength, super speed, or that Venus flytrap mouth of yours.”

You tested it out and shot a web towards his desk. You grabbed a pen and caught it with ease, then looked at Tony for approval.

“That’s the best I could do. It’s no Iron Man suit but it’ll suffice.” Tony said casually. You couldn’t take it anymore and rushed towards him to hug him tightly.

“Thank you.” You said into his chest. Tony patted your back awkwardly and you let go.

“It’s nothing. You can thank me by not eating Spider-Man. I know he’s annoying but he doesn’t mean any harm. Now go forth and do good.” Tony requested.

You swung back to the apartment and landed on the roof. You turned back into yourself and made your way down the steps to your floor. After this mornings conversation with Peter and the incredible suit from Mr. Stark, you were having a great day. For the first time in years, you couldn’t wait for tomorrow.

[platypanthewriter]

Hook Possum 1/4

Art by @monsdasarah​ for Harringrove Big Bang!

Steve had told the manager of Camp Butternut Springs every year of his life that the mildewed, papier-mache-masked, six-foot-tall opossum mascot was terrifying.  The mask was chipped and patched, fixed with different colors of gray over the mangy glued-on fur.  Its long, stained rat tail had drug through the red camp dirt for decades, and by the summer of 85, the dirty thing looked like it had been dyed with blood.

Hook Possum looked more like a zombie than a possum, with its mesh eyes staring in their ragged, uneven sockets, its lovingly molded teeth half broken off and stained with grime.  Inexplicably—but later, retroactively, mythologized by a ton of camp folklore—it had a hook hand off a pirate costume, gleaming in the sun.

Every goddamn year the goddamn manager had the goddamn Hook Possum outfit on some poor camp counsellor, out greeting campers—the goddamn moron—and every fucking goddamn year one of the already-homesick and worried new campers burst into sobs at first sight of the horrifying thing.  Steve wondered whether the manager was actually in the huge, blank-eyed Hook Possum costume this year, like a prick, because it was even bigger than usual—as tall as Steve, with its ripped ratty ears, and broad-shouldered in a way Steve suspected wasn’t padding.

The hook hand didn’t exactly help.

Steve grabbed the first wailing child he saw around the waist, then two more, and stomped over to the damn possum.  “Here, look, Hook Possum’s not scary,” he said, and they all screamed, because it was so clearly a lie.  

Hook Possum, somewhat to his credit, dropped to a crouch, his shoulders hunched, and Steve thought maybe it wasn’t the manager, just some poor camp counsellor that got roped in, because the manager probably would have roared like a lion—just for fun—and the kids would have wet themselves all over Steve’s lap.  

“Hook Possum just lives here!” Steve told the screaming infants he was holding.  “If you get scared at night,” Steve shouted over their desperate wailing and struggles, “—away from home?  Hook Possum is here to keep you safe.  Right?”

Whoever was playing Hook Possum flinched, and its creepy head jerked around to look at him.

“HELP!” shrieked the kid under his arm, his voice nasal, because he was holding his nose against Hook Possum’s fug of mildew and B.O.

“Nobody has ever yet been murdered by Hook Possum,” Steve gritted out.  “Right?!” he prompted the moron in the mascot suit again, nudging a fur-suited leg with his shoe.  “Hook Possum is like a...camp guardian!  Right?”

Hook Possum stared at his face, which was chilling—after Steve’s first visit to Camp Butternut Springs, Hook Possum had featured in every one of Steve’s childhood nightmares, and the costume was even worse after nearly two decades of wear—but Steve was as tall as the thing now, and he set his jaw.  

“Hook Possum is friendly, right,” he growled, and Hook Possum gave a jerky nod, making a weird choking noise, like maybe it had already eaten a couple of kids.

“Y-ye-ahssss,” the thing hissed, and Steve was tempted to push the whole mess, including the person inside, under a bus.  “Safe as houses,” said the possum, just as strangled-sounding, but it was better than staring silently, so Steve grinned ruefully at the kids, who were quieting as they realized they weren’t murdered—not yet, anyway.  

“You’ll get used to Hook Possum,” he said cheerfully.  “We all do.  Eventually.” 

It had occurred to Steve one night when he was fourteen, and firmly over his terror of Hook Possum, that the perfect cover for an actual serial killer would be a terrifying full-body costume everyone was trying to ignore.  He and Tommy had followed the costume around every time it had someone in it, looking for suspicious behavior.  Years later, he’d donned it himself, and for the first time in his life didn’t fear getting murdered by Hook Possum.  He only worried he might die of heatstroke in padded fur boots, gloves, and a bodysuit in July in Indiana, except for a few startling glimpses of himself in the mirror over the sinks.  

His suggestion every week in the suggestion box was still ‘burn the Hook Possum costume and bury the ashes under a rock’, though, because he was a rational human being who understood what needed to be done.

When he’d talked Robin into applying with him at the camp instead of the video store, he’d snuck the costume on and leaned into her cabin.  She’d screamed satisfyingly, and nearly killed him with an oar.  She’d argued for burying the ashes of Hook Possum in seven different locations around the US, lest it rise again, and they’d put that in the suggestion box, to no response whatsoever.

 It was pretty obvious the current Hook Possum wasn’t used to the cheerful voice necessary to offset its...everything, so Steve did his best.  “Are you guys telling me you’re afraid of possums?” he teased, and the littlest kid, a girl, reached out and lightly batted its nose.  The smell of cigarettes wafted up.  

“I’m afraid,” said the boy, thickly, and Steve nodded slowly, feeling nothing but respect for a smart child.

“Hook Possum protects you guys,” he told them, sitting them on their feet.  “From whatever, you know, else.”

“What could be out there,” the scared boy whispered, his eyes widening, “—that’s worse than—”

“...yeah,” said Hook Possum, in a weird squeaky voice like a Disney mouse.  “Yeah, that’s what I’m here for, I’m here to protect you guys from...nightmares?” he suggested, glancing at Steve, who shrugged, nodding, because it was a pretty good idea.

“You’re soft,” said the littlest kid, grabbing one of the other snifflers by the wrist, and shoving it into Hook Possum’s fur.

“You stink,” said the boy, and Steve elbowed him.

“I’m a possum,” hissed Hook Possum, and the kid nodded.  

“That makes sense.”

Steve muffled his laughter, but he was pretty sure the possum heard, because his crooked, whiskery mask jerked up, and his terrifying mesh eyes stared into Steve’s soul.  He smelled like long winters in a damp shed, and cigarettes, and B.O.— because it was worn every year in the summer in Indiana—but the smallest kids were gathering around and asking questions about possums, and Steve had to call upon his knowledge from years past, and explain things like how possums were too awesome to get ticks.  

Hook Possum listened intently—or maybe just glared at him, smoke drifting from its eye mesh—until Steve was a little annoyed, and mentioned that mother possums carried babies around on their backs.  That was probably way too mean, because the whole horde of children grabbed hold of Hook Possum’s every appendage, and he flailed his hook only once before vanishing in the giggling pile.  

“Here, here, no—” Steve yelped, unable to watch a human being consumed by piranha, and he reached into the laughing, yelping pile and hauled Hook Possum up by the arm, dusting him off.  Two small children dangled from his other arm, and one had him around the neck.  “You have to be nice to Hook Possum!” Steve told them.  “Who’s he gonna stay up protecting, huh?  The kids who’re nice to him, or the little, uh, cusses that knee him in the...shins?”

“...the nice ones,” came a small, grumbly voice from one of the criers, and “Probably the nice ones,” from a little girl who sighed heavily, and another kid just said, “Fine.”  The dude in the possum suit just panted against Steve’s shoulder for a second, and Steve let him, familiar with getting dogpiled by small children with weaponized knees.  

“...jesus,” came a faint whisper from in the possum suit, and Steve pinched him, even though he was grimacing with sympathy.  He lifted the kids off Hook Possum—once the littlest ones had decided he was safe, they tried to drag him around and show everyone how brave they were—and the human in the suit tried to wipe his face, or something, and smacked his hook-hand into the head of his costume.  He sighed, and Steve squeezed his shoulder, and patted his back, ushering the kids away.

“What are you doing here,” Hook Possum wheezed, as Steve pushed him back to sit on one of the picnic table benches.  “What are you doing here,” he repeated, sounding bewildered.

“My dad owns the place,” Steve said in a low voice, as the littlest boy ran back to the buses, screaming about how he’d met Hook Possum, and Robin and Nancy looked over, resigned.  “That’s why it pays so well.  We went to him and told him he could have a staff that would work hard, or he could have three underpaid girls who want it on their resume for becoming teachers, and the second week they’d all have nervous breakdowns.  Why, do...do I know you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at the blank mesh eyes, and trying to place the weird squeaky voice.

Hook Possum nodded slowly, but Steve was pretty sure he was still staring.  Maybe it was just the mesh eyes.  “...oh,” he said quietly.  “Your...dad.  Owns...it.”

“Yep,” Steve said, shrugging.  “I mean, he owns the company that owns a bunch of camps, you know, but—anyway, you’ve never been a counselor before, right?  I can show you around, if you want.  What’s your name?  How d’you know me?”

Hook Possum stared at him some more, and then said, even higher, like Mickey Mouse, “He’s, like, the owner’s boss?” he asked weakly.  “...name’s Hook Possum.”

“What the fuck,” Steve muttered, staring back into the mesh eyes, but then he saw Robin’s arm fly up as she was consumed in a wave of children, and he clapped Hook Possum on the shoulder and ran off.  

 He saw the guy later, too, still in the costume, even though it was July in Indiana.  He was talking to Max Mayfield, so Steve wandered over.  “You need some help getting out of that?” he offered, because nobody would stay in a horrible hot stinking furry sweat bag by choice.

“No,” said Hook Possum, too quickly, and Max groaned into her hands.  

“Uh,” said Steve, who was starting to wonder if they’d found some possum-obsessed weirdo for a counselor.  “You must...really like possums.”

Max burst into giggles, laughing harder than Steve had ever seen her, and Hook Possum’s long face swung to look at her, then at Steve, then back at her, and then he stomped away.  Because the costume had big, dirty, saggy fur paw-booties, he had to lift his feet high, like a cartoon, and Steve started snickering too.

Hook Possum hunched his shoulders, and scuttled around the edge of one of the cabins, out of sight.  

“Oh my god,” Max cackled.  “He’s finally found his true identity!  Trash rat.”

“Is...is that...Billy,” Steve asked, the thought of Billy Hargrove, camp counselor, hauling off and punching kids, or murdering them, suddenly much less funny.  “What—isn’t he back in Hawkins?!  How’d he get here?!”

“Uh, no!  No, no,” Max said quickly, grimacing and waving her hands.  “Definitely, um, not, no.  It’s, ah, he lives on my street.  He’s, um, saving money to move out.”

“Oh,” Steve said, relieved.  

“The pay’s really good here,” Max explained, too fast.  “—and, uh, mmmm...hiiiis dad’s kinda shitty, so he needs money to get out of his house.”

“Well, he should be able to,” Steve told her, giving her two thumbs-up so she’d make a face.  “We’re practically all seniors, that’s what a lot of us are doing, that or paying for college.”

“...yeah,” Max sighed.  “He can...move away.  Finally.”

“Sounds like you’ll miss him,” Steve said, grinning at her, “—he the brother you never had?”

“...yeah, he um.  He sort of is,” she said, swallowing, and Steve patted her shoulder gingerly.  

“Uh,” he said cautiously, “Um, you...you know you can always give me a call, right?”

“Thought you had kind of a problem with my family,” she sighed, and he shook his head.  

“I’ve got no problem with you.”

“...yeah, that’s what we thought,” Max muttered, maybe, and Steve frowned at her.  “Go away,” she told him, sighing, “It’s fine.”

 They got everybody sorted into cabins, and Steve saw Hook Possum ducking into a bunk in the counselor’s cabin.  He stared for a long moment, watching the enormous possum negotiate its tail and its creepy, vacant-eyed mask and lie down on the lower bunk.

“It’s hot as Satan’s asshole in here,” he groaned.

“...what are you doing,” Steve hissed.  “They cannot be paying you enough to stay in that thing.  There is not enough money in the world to stay in that thing for more than a couple hours.”

“Ah, fuck,” said Hook Possum, sitting up and smacking his head on the upper bunk.  “Shit fuck,” he groaned, “—I can’t see in this thing—”

“Then take it off,” Steve told him, sitting next to him on the bunk and reaching in to feel for the ties behind the guy’s neck, but Hook Possum grabbed Steve’s hand, scrambling back.  

“No!  No, uh,” he stopped, then tried again.  “I need the money,” he said softly.  “I need it—”

“Okay, okay, did you agree to some—some massive bonus bullshit to keep this damn costume on?  Because you’re gonna die of heatstroke in there,” Steve told him.  “I don’t care how much he offered you, you can’t wear that thing all summer—”

“No, I did, I agreed to—to bonus bullshit to keep the damn costume on,” Hook Possum whispered, the fingers in his paw-glove squeezing Steve’s arm, hard.  “I can’t take it off.  He’s—he’s giving me a huge bonus.”

“Fuck,” Steve breathed.  “You’re gonna die in there, I’m not kidding.  You can stay in the shade, or—and we can bring you ice, lots of ice, you could try an ice pack on your neck—”

“I need this job,” the guy said, and Steve nodded, letting him go.

“Okay, okay.  We’ll figure this out, but if the manager comes out, I’m kneeing him in the balls, because—”

“No!  I need the money,” Hook Possum hissed, the weird cartoony voice even odder in a serious conversation.  

“Jesus,” Steve said, sighing.  “Okay.  I’m gonna check in with you, alright?  If you start to keel over, I’m taking it off, we’ll figure out something to tell the manager.”

“Don’t take it off,” said Hook Possum, like he was the last soldier holding the line, and Steve got caught up in it, like a moron.  

“I’m not leaving you in there,” he said, like the trenches were getting shelled.  “I’m not letting anyone die in a possum costume,” he said, to remind himself they weren’t at D-Day.  Hook Possum sighed, his shoulders slumping as he growled.  “And you can’t sleep in that thing, jesus,” Steve said,  “At least change at night.”

“You’d—somebody’d see me,” Hook Possum said, and Steve shook him, a little.  

“We aren’t possum spies, nobody’s gonna tell.”

“How do I know you’re not possum spies,” Hook Possum hissed back, and Steve started snickering.

“Okay, okay, um, curtain?  What about a curtain, we’ll just staple it up here and nobody’ll see your, uh, late night transformation.”

“Oh,” said Hook Possum, snickering a little, like he did realize how ridiculous it all was, and looking around.  “That...might work.”

“Gonna transform out of your outfit like a shitty Cinderella,” Steve sighed, and Hook Possum laughed harder.  “You’re gonna have to shower in the dead of night,” Steve told him.  “I’ll let everybody know it’s just, y’know, just our resident possum.  Creeping around.”  He started laughing again, and Hook Possum elbowed him.  “How are you gonna eat?”

“Shouldn’t be feeding the wildlife in the cafeteria anyway,” Hook Possum pointed out.  “There are signs everywhere.”

“...you know you’re a human, right,” Steve told him, trying not to giggle.

Hook Possum shook with laughter against him.  “I’ll just climb into a trash can and knock it over at three am.  It’s the way of my people.”

“Oh my god,” Steve wheezed.  “I’m gonna get in trouble for feeding the wildlife and letting a possum nest in here, aren’t I?  I’ll sneak you burgers, I promise.”

“Why,” Hook Possum laughed, edging away.  “It’s not your problem, Harrington—”

“Hey, Max likes you, you’re part of the weirdo family we got going on,” Steve said, clapping the guy’s shoulder, and the possum mask swung towards him again.

“...does she?” he asked, snorting softly.

“She does,” Steve confirmed.  “She said.”  Hook Possum stared like a creepy puppet, and Steve was unable to resist reaching up and patting the dusty, greasy fur between the costume ears.  “You’re one of us, now.”

“...once you feed wildlife, it can create a dependency,” Hook Possum said, batting Steve’s hand away, but he was laughing audibly now.  “I read that in a flyer.”

“I can’t believe they handed a possum a flyer about possums,” Steve said, and Hook Possum snorted.

“Right?  Like who the fuck deals with wildlife by handing them flyers, what a moron.”

“I didn’t know possums could read,” Steve said, and Hook Possum kicked at him, completely missing.  “What a smart possum you are.”

“Fuck you, if I could see in this thing—” 

“Oooo, you gonna murder me with your little—your plastic pirate hook hand?” Steve asked, and Hook Possum laughed harder, letting himself fall sideways to curl up on the bunk.  

“Fuck you,” he mumbled again, wheezing with laughter.

Steve wondered who he was—whether he’d defended Max from Billy, or just showed her some skateboard tricks.  Whether he was younger, maybe—Steve didn’t know most of the freshmen—and what he’d look like in about ten minutes when he gave up on the incredibly stupid idea of living in a possum suit for the whole damn summer.

 Steve got hauled into setting up the welcome dinner, sitting the tables out, and putting cleanish rocks on the stacks of napkins to keep them from blowing away.  Hook Possum was useless at it—he nearly dropped the plates, and then bumped into a table because he couldn’t see, almost overturning it, and finally Steve put both hands on his furry possum shoulders and walked him over to a group of smaller kids who were milling around, bored by the orientation speech.

As he wandered by later, he heard Hook Possum telling them “Possum Facts.”

“Possums are gonna be the next police dogs,” he was saying, as Steve stared over.  “They’re gonna yell ‘Fly, my pretties!’ and the perp will be overwhelmed by possums.”

“That’s good,” said one solemn little kid, softly.  “I’m afraid of dogs.”

“Hook Possum is here to protect us,” said another one.  “You can find him if you’re scared of dogs.”

The first kid nodded, wide-eyed, and Hook Possum stared at one, then the other.  “...uh, yeeeah,” he said, slowly.  “Sure.”

“He’ll fight the dogs, Robin said,” said the first kid, and Hook Possum’s mask jerked towards her.  

“Wait, what?!” he hissed, and Steve ducked away, smothering snickers.

 Dinner was uneventful, as usual, in that there was so much chaos Steve was deadened to it, automatically reaching in to stop Dustin from using his spoon to catapult peas at Erica Sinclair and starting WWIII.   

He snuck off when he saw Hook Possum tiptoeing away like a stealthy cartoon.  “D’you need me to feed the wildlife?” he asked, and Hook Possum yelped, spinning around, so his tail whipped Steve in the legs.  

“Holy shit,” he panted, in his weird squeaky voice.

“Sorry, forgot you were a possum on the edge, man,” Steve told him, clapping a hand to his shoulder, and Hook Possum started laughing again, cigarette smoke trailing out of the eyeholes of his mask.  Steve watched it.  “...you have no idea how fucking creepy that looks,” he said.  “It’s eerie.”

“Creepier than my big blank eyes?” Hook Possum asked, and Steve wished he could see the expression of the person in the suit—whether it was resigned, or entertained, or what.  

“D’you want me to get you some food?” Steve asked.  “I can’t see you using the tongs, or like...seeing the buffet very well.”

“Also, I’m filthy,” Hook Possum said, raising a dusty paw.  

“That too,” Steve agreed.

“...I can get something later,” Hook Possum said, laughing a little.  

“You still have to eat, man,” Steve told him.  “And drink some water, at least.”

“What’s going on back here,” came Max’s voice, and they both swiveled.  She had a tray in her hands, and her eyes narrowed.

“Harrington was offering to feed the wildlife,” said Hook Possum, and she snorted.

“You’re a camp counselor, set a good example,” she hissed, waving Steve away.  “Didn’t you see the flyers, Steve?  You can’t feed possums.”

“Everyone saw the flyers, they even gave them to him,” Steve said, pointing.  “Possums probably can’t even read.”

“I barely can, in this,” Hook Possum admitted.  “I had to hold it up over my eyeholes.”

“Hrm,” said Max.  “Okay, Steve, go away, Nancy said to tell you you’re on dishes.”

Steve sighed, and left them to it.

 When he was done, he found an old tatty camp flag in the storage shed, half faded and ripped—he remembered somebody getting in trouble, in years past, for leaving it up all winter—and nailed it up over Hook Possum’s bunk with pruny fingers from the suds in the cooking tent.  He put a hook where the grommet could lift it away, in case Hook Possum’s struggles with his mask caught on the fabric, and then stepped back to look at his handiwork just as Robin wandered in.  

“That’s...really something,” she said, raising his eyebrows.  “We all get one of those?”

“No, it’s for the possum guy,” Steve told her, hooking the flag’s bottom corner up to show that the bunk was slightly easier to climb into.  “He’s like...contracted to wear the damn thing 24/7.  He gets a bonus or something.”

“That’s bullshit.  He’s gonna die of heatstroke,” Robin said, and Steve nodded, shrugging.

“That’s what I said.  Anyway, I told him I’d hide the bunk so he didn’t have to, like, lie there in the costume all night.”

“Playing possum,” she snorted, and Steve grinned, imagining the dude in full possum array, sprawled on his back like roadkill.  

“Sexy,” he snorted, and she waggled her eyebrows.

PART ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR

[purple-goo-writes]

The Shadows Watching Gotham

Or Watcher as most knows them,is a popular YouTuber and Podcaster and is the outside world's only reliable source of information about the on goings of the Mask Community within the crime ridden city known as Gotham. Aka the No Man's Land and the Crime Capital of the World.

Rumor has it that Watcher is the only way an outsider can contact the Bats. If this is true or not, Superman is about the find out.

Chapter 1: A rattle of bones

The Justice League of America and their younger counterparts watched the monitor in their meeting hall with rapt attention. On it, Barry had pulled up the channel of a popular youtuber, The Shadows Watching Gotham, hoping to get some more intel on the situation on Gotham and the vigilantes that the JLA wished to recruit. Though while the older members were listening with only half an ear, the younger ones were entranced with the hypnotizing and haunting narrative as Watcher spoke. His soft, raspy voice wrapping around them like an intoxicating perfume leaving the Young Justice Members wanting to hear more. Perhaps it was the strange ambient music playing in the background that added to the mystery surrounding Watcher that had them so entranced.

"...Just a friendly reminder for all my Gothamites listening in, Dr. Crane, otherwise known as The Scarecrow, escaped Arkham during last months breakout. Please do not forget your gas masks at home as he is still at large."

Watcher sat at an old and cluttered desk, the only light from an offscreen lamp, possibly a gaslamp, which bathed the teen and his surroundings in a soft golden glow. Though the JL couldn't see anything behind the teen except for pitch blackness, possibly the result of a backdrop. They couldn't see much of the Watcher as his face was blocked by the arm, the pop filter and mic of the studio microphone the teen was using. The teen was wearing a white long sleeved shirt which was rolled up to his elbows, showing off wiry, yet muscular arms covered in an odd variety of scars most Gothamites had littering parts of them, and a pressed red vest with black embroidery swirling across it, a gold tie could be seen just below the arm of the mic. Over all, the Watcher was just as mysterious and cryptic as the vigilantes he talked about.

"Now as the sun rises upon the decrepit bones of our fair city, I must bid you all a fair the well and a hopefully Good Morning. This is Watcher signing off."

And with that the screen went dark, snapping many out of the trance they had fallen into whilst listening to the Watcher speak.

Superman cleared his throat, before standing, "As I was saying. In order to hopefully meet with these vigilantes, I have managed to establish contact with The Watcher, as he is so far our only reliable source on the vigilantes that are not simply rumors spread by the Gotham Gazette or hearsay spread about through the villain network."

Hal frowned, leaning back in his chair rocking it back on two legs, "Yet isn't he just as hard to get a hold of?"

"Which is why I am going to meet him as Clark Kent with Kon acting as my back up in the form of my son shadowing me at work," the man of steel replied, ignoring how his clone/son rolled his eyes and muttered, "Isn't that what I normally fucking do?"

Their relationship was still rocky at time, but Ma Kent was determined to get Clark to do right by the boy. After all they were only on good terms due to Ma Kent. But, Kon was going through what Ma called his rebellious stage and trying to break out of his father's shadow as most teenage sons do. Which lead to snippy comments during meetings and Clark wondering just how Kon managed to get another new piercing, personally he blamed Lex for those because of course the man would figure out how to give a Kryptonian piercings just to piss Superman off.

Clark simply sighed and went back to addressing the others, “The Watcher agreed to meet with us tomorrow evening after I explained that I was writing an article about Gotham and it’s rumored vigilantes and found that he was the only reliable source I could find with recent information. And that I learned about him thanks to my son, Conner.”

“Meaning, I have to watch over fifty videos on Youtube so not to sound stupid when I talk to the dude,” Kon muttered to his best friend, Bart, who giggled softly into his hands. Both ignoring the looks their mentors gave them, though Barry’s was more fond then reprimanding like Clark’s.

“Exactly how will you know if it is this Watcher that you are meeting?” Wonder Woman inquired, a frown settling on her face in contemplation, “After all we do not know what this mysterious Watcher looks like…”

“We will be meeting him at the abandoned opera house within Central Gotham. He said he would know it is him by the red feathers he wears,” Clark sounded confused at this but only shrugged, “It’s the best I could get, he wouldn’t agree to meet outside of Gotham. Due to Gotham being declared No Man’s Land still by the President, even with the major rebuilding done by the Waynes… Most Gothamites don’t leave now.”

He sighed at the confused looks he was getting from the other members, “That was how Watcher explained it to me after I asked.”

The next evening…

Gotham was just as gloomy and foreboding as it was described in all the forums Kon had schemed the night before. What they had failed to mention was the literal stench of despair and fear that hung in the air. Or how Kon felt like the shadows were closing in slowly around him and his sorta-dad/Genetic donor as they hung outside the desolate opera house. Really the building was something out of a horror movie, and that was saying something considering this was Fucking Gotham and most places were probably used as references for horror movie scenery. It was huge and probably had been grand looking back in its prime with its gothic architecture and scale...though now the huge dome of the building was crumbling, slowly caving into itself and the once bright walls of it’s outer shell were now grey and covered in graffiti with most of the stained panels of it’s windows busted out from various villain attacks, bullet holes littered the siding and the once bright letters announcing the next play were broken and mostly missing. Honestly, Kon expected either a ghastly apparition from Hamlet to start monologuing or a serial killer to leap from the crawling shadows of the building looming over them.

He was not expecting someone to fucking sneak up on them out of the shadows and nearly scare Kon into fucking space!

“For an investigative reporter, you aren’t very observant, Mr. Kent,” came a soft, yet raspy voice like smoke behind them, causing both Kents to nearly break cover and leap on top of the building they were standing in front of. A smoky chuckle greeted them as both Kents whirled around just shy of inhuman speeds, “Really, I’ve been standing here watching you two nervously pace for about an hour now.”

An hour?

But how did they not hear him?

Kon was distracted from his thoughts as he took in just who was standing before them. The other teen, as their voice sounded young and didn’t yet have the full changes that signaled adulthood, only came up to Kon’s chin making him around five foot something compared to Kon’s near six feet. (He was so glad they fixed the aging and growing thing. He did not want to be stuck at the height of a thirteen year old forever.) They looked possibly male, but Kon wasn’t going to assign pronouns until they properly introduced themselves it was only polite according to Ma. Kon was still surprised that they managed to sneak up on the two Kents. They were wiry, yet muscular, built mainly for running from what Kon could tell, it was hard to tell with them still somehow blending in with the shadows despite how they were dressed. A white button down, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, with a bright red vest with black embroidery, a golden tie tucked into the vest, black dress slacks and slightly scuffed yet still shiny red loafers. A black trench coat was slung over one shoulder as the person watched them with amused blue eyes, the only part of their face they could see thanks to the bulky, yet futuristic looking, black gas mask with red lights. Kon could only see the person’s eyes thanks to the clear face shield protecting their eyes from foreign objects. Shaggy and long black hair framed the person’s face, the inky blackness of their hair almost blending into the Gotham night if it wasn’t for the bright red feathers tied throughout the inky mass.

Bright red feathers…

Feathers!

“Oh you’re Watcher!” Kon exclaimed being the first to recover, causing the podcaster to chuckle, “Oooh? I see you actually did remember. I was beginning to think that staring was just what Metropolians did.”

[staywritten]

Roommates│Han Jisung (M)

Synopsis: Jisung is a selfish, rude and loud roommate but he’s also really cute and you can’t help but develop a crush or ignore the unspeakable tension.  Roommate!Au

Genre: A tiny bit of angst, Smut

Word Count: 3k

When you responded to an ad for a roommate online, you figured the worst thing that could happen to you was that you’d be killed by some stranger in your sleep. Especially because the ad was far too good to be true. The apartment was beautiful, an in-unit washing machine, walking distance to campus, and work, and its rent was a steal. Especially in Seoul. Unfortunately your roommate wasn’t some creepy serial killer who dwelled in a basement and rarely interacted with you. No, he was a young attractive inconsiderate asshole testing your patience.

Admittedly you were a bit flustered with you first met him. His gummy smile was your weakness, his cheeks so squishy it took everything in you not to poke them, and when he worked out around the apartment, wearing that cut off tank you loved so much, you couldn’t help but squeeze your thighs together to relieve the pressure.

And as smitten as you were with his appearance you wanted to fight him about 80% of the time.

From how he always took too long in the shower on days he knew you had class, how he always ate your food. Knowing damn well he wasn’t the one who bought it. How his dates would always use your shampoo the morning after, how his stupidly attractive friends were always over without warning. And the worst offense of them all. His damn music.

It was the middle of the night, you had stupidly agreed to cover your coworkers 8am shift on what was normally your day off and Jisung had his friends over. Again. You knew what you were getting yourself into when you agreed to live with a music major. But not just a music major, a music major that was an underground rapper, with lots of friends who frequented your apartment. 

Especially in the middle of the night after a show.

You tried to keep your outburst to a minimum. Sharing a space was about compromise. And you tried your damnedest to compromise. You bought noise-canceling headphones, you stuffed a towel under the bottom of your door to try and buffer the music, you tried having an asmr video of thunderstorms playing. You even attempted banging on the wall to get his attention to lower the volume.  Anything and everything to drown him out. But by 3am, you could not only hear the beats booming against the shared wall but the laughter of his friends.

“Oh my god. I can’t” you groaned, throwing the blanket off and storming over the whole five feet it took to get to his door. “Yah! Han Jisung!” you knocked on his door vigorously, to ensure he heard you. You knocking not letting up until he opened up.

He swung open the door, a scowl on his face at the interruption.

Originally you were planning on politely asking him to turn down the music. And that cordial thought went straight out the window the moment you saw him. It was like all you could see was red. Here you were frustrated in the middle of the night and he had the nerve to look that attractive. His snapback pushing back his hair, displaying his forehead. Honestly it made him look like a fuck boy and it was a weakness. “Do you ever sleep?! It’s 3am!”

His mood immediately went on the defensive when you started yelling. “I live here too, and the last time I checked I don’t have a bedtime!”

“You are such an asshole! Turn the music down!” you hated that your immediate response was to stomp your foot like a child. But he was being childish too!

“You can’t tell me what to do” he scoffed rolling his eyes. “If I wanna play music until 6am I can!”

“You are so inconsiderate!”

“Me? What about you!? You always act like I’m the problem. I don’t complain when you’re being a pig! I clean everything” he rolled his eyes “You’re not perfect I just don’t whine about it”

Your eyes widdened at the sudden attack “If my mess bothers you then just clean it up or tell me about it! Don’t try and throw it in my face in a conversation about something else!”

“You’re the one that came over here to pick a fight with me! I have guests and you barley even wear clothes! You’re the one being inconsiderate” He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth and he saw how immediately you looked uncomfortable. 

But there was no backing down now.

You immediately folded your arms over your chest, feeling far more exposed than you had realized. But it was the middle of the night. You were in your sleep clothes. Which tonight consisted of a pair of comfy short shorts, and a thin t-shirt. You were flustered and caught off guard with his attack. Suddenly you could feel the gaze of his friends, looking at you and you just felt so exposed.

He wanted to apologize the moment he saw your eyes glaze over. The frustrated embarrassed look becoming more noticeable. “I-”

“Do what you want” you mumbled before hurrying back to your room, slamming your door hard.

He groaned before slamming his door as well. He continues playing music throughout the night, even after his friends left. He knew he was doing it out of pettiness. But he hated that you came and yelled at him, and then he ended up feeling guilty.

It was always like that. 

It was like everything he did pissed you off and he couldn’t help that you were sensitive to everything. You nagged him all the time. And if he wanted to be nagged he could have continued living with his mother. You even managed to guilt him after his one night stands left. It was uncomfortable. Why should he have to live like this? He did his best to make sure you lived comfortably. He knew living with a guy could be kinda uncomfortable so he never hit on you, made sure his friends never made a pass at you and you always make it hard for him.

He knew you were attractive and everything you wore was gonna be sexy but you could try harder to be ugly. He didn’t want to fight with you but he opened the door and the first thing he noticed was just how stunning you looked in such a simple outfit, one that he never really saw. You usually wore hoodies, or a robe when you walked around the common areas. And just as quickly as he took in the exposed skin, you yelled at him. Your hair was messy, your clothes disheveled, the neck of your v-neck falling off your shoulder. You just looked so kissable-so fuckable. And he couldn’t, so he threw a tantrum.

He’d figure out how to make it up to you tomorrow, he knew it was your day off so he figured he’d make breakfast as an apology.

He rolled out of bed bright and early to get started on your favorite breakfast but frowned seeing you drinking coffee and eating some bread. You were already dressed and ready for the day. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes, you rolling your neck stiffly. He looked at his phone checking the time. “Why are you awake?”

You rolled your eyes, and downed your coffee. “I have to go to work” you placed your cup in the sink, making sure to wash it and put it away before grabbing your bag. “Sorry if my exposed legs offend you, I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

“Today’s your day off.” he ignored your little stab at him, he felt bad enough.

“I had to cover someone's shift.” you spat, shooting him a glare.

“Why didn’t you tell me last night...I would have-”

“You wouldn’t have care. I asked you to turn the music down…” you sighed heavily and walked over to the door, slipping your shoes on. “You never care.”

“Why didn’t you tell me...I would have never had the guys over if-” he jumped as you walked out slamming the door shut.

But that’s how things were between you two. 

There was an undeniable tension, but after a few days it’d slowly die down. He’d ask you what you wanted for breakfast and things went back to normal. He never apologized for being inconsiderate, you never apologized for throwing a temper tantrum. It may not have been the healthiest but it worked.

Being roommates was about compromise right?

It’d been about two weeks since your last argument with Jisung and for all intents and purposes things were going well. He’d been more mindful of having people over only on the weekends, and keeping the music to a minimum on days you had early shifts. And you had been more mindful to clean and stay in your room when he had his friends over.

You yawned walking out of your bedroom, padding over to get a glass of water. Jisung was cozy on the couch with a blanket, flipping through movies to watch. “You enjoy your nap? It’s like midnight”

You nodded and grinned, downing your water. “It was the best four hour nap I’ve ever had. And the best part is I’m off tomorrow so I can sleep in.” You cleaned your cup before walking to him. “What are you doing back so early? Didn’t you have a date?”

He sighed before rubbing his temples “I did.” his tone curt and short.

“That bad huh?” you sat beside him, hugging your legs to your chest. “Wanna talk about it?”

“I picked her up, we had dinner…” he hesitated looking back to you, trying to read your expression. “And…”

You smirked, raising your eyebrow. “Had sex?” you laughed “I’m a big girl Jisung. I know what sex is.”

“I know- we just never talk about it or dating in general and stuff...I didn’t know if that was weird…” he fiddled with his sweater uncomfortably. “Like you don’t bring guys back…”

“Jisung no offence but, I don’t bring guys back when you’re home. It’s kinda uncomfortable too, and I don’t like scaring guys off with the My roommates is a guy, talk on first dates.”

“Woah- wait you brought guys back here after the first date?”

“Sometimes” you grinned, eyeing him “Han Jisung… You seem so surprised” your tone light and teasing. “Is it so hard to imagine that even I have sex?”

“No it’s just… “

“I’ll have you know I’m actually quite charming.”

“Oh I know” he looked a little embarrassed at how quickly it slipped out. “Like I know you’re hot and charming and… I dunno I just feel a little in the dark...I didn’t even know you were dating and yet I-”

“Bring your dates back home all the time.” you gave him a smug smile “Trust me, I know” you pointed to the walls. “They’re thin, remember? Oh and your dates always use my shampoo and body wash”

“I’m sorry…. That’s kinda rude isn’t it?”

You shook your head “Live comfortably”

“But you don’t…”

“Jisung, I don’t bring guys home when you’re here because I don’t want you to have to hear us.” you cheeks warmed as you chewed on your lower lip. “I’m kinda loud, I’m a little self conscious.”

“I wanna hear…” he turned toward you, his voice barely above a whisper. Part of him was hoping you didn’t hear him over the Netflix trailers, the other part of him prayed you heard him so he couldn’t chicken out.

“Do you?” your eyes darkened as you stared at him, slowly moving closer to him. He took in a sharp breath before pulling you into his lap. You grinned, straddling him, your lips inching closer to his before pulling away. Just ghosting the slightest bit, loving how he chased you. “Tell me bout your date and I’ll do whatever you want”

“Isn’t that kinda weird?” he tried to read your expression, but his wary look turned into one of intrigued as your smile grew. “Wait… Could you hear us earlier…?” He felt himself getting turned on more, as he noticed how warm you were, how flushed you got thinking about it. “I thought you were asleep…’

“You guys woke me up” you licked your lips, your hips moving against his just slightly. He stifled a groan before steadying your hips.

“It turns you on doesn’t it...? Hearing us?” Seeing your coy smile, he grabbed your jaw before pulling you into a deep kiss. His lips moved quickly against yours, as he nipped and chewed on your bottom lip. “Mmm…” He pulled your hoodie over the top of your head and groaned seeing your bare chest. “No shirt or bra?” he traced your soft, smooth skin, running his fingers up your sides.

“I never wear a bra at home” he smirked against your skin, kissing down your neck.

“You never answered my other question…” his teeth grazed your skin, reaching your nipples “Mmm such a pretty color Baby…” he whispered, his eyes peeking up at you as he peppered kisses before taking the bud into his mouth, sucking softly. His free hand palming your other one, gently tweaking your nipples. He loved how it made your squirm. You hips, desperate for friction. Almost angered by how much both your sweatpants got in the way. “Do you get turned on when you hear me have sex…? Did you wish it was you? Do you touch yourself…?” he chuckled, kissing your nipples, his teeth tracing them. Your head rolled back as you whined bucking your hips more. “Pay attention baby...answer me.”

“I get turned turned on…” your pout deepened before you cupped his squishy cheeks. “I wished it was me...and I always touch myself…” you leaned down closer to his ear, your lips brushing against the shell of his. “And I always cum…”

He gripped your hips tighter, digging into your skin. “Fuck….I…” he gripped your bottom, moving you closer to his crotch. “How many times did I make you cum tonight…?” his voice dropping an octave as he teased you. His fingers found their way into your sweatpants, teasing you from the outside of your panties. “Mmm and since when do you wear sweatpants?”

“I thought you said I didn’t wear enough clothes”

“Yeah when my friends are over and I’m trying to not fantasize about fucking you over every surface” he chuckled, rubbing a bit harder feeling your panties moistened. “Answer me Sweet girl….How many times did you cum?”

“Nnnn...how do you know I’m sweet?” you shivered as his finger rubbed against your slit. “You’ve never tasted me” you moaned softly.

“Stop trying to distract me, if you’re a good girl and answer me and I will.”

“T-twice…”

“I’m gonna double that” he whispered before tossing you on your back on the couch, making quick work of your sweatpants and panties.

You grinned as he settled himself between your legs. His mouth covered your core, as his tongue made its way inside you. Your thigh hooked around his shoulder as he deepened his teasing. “A-Ahh Jisung… you’re no fair” you panted “You never told me about your date”

“You minx” he grinned, pulling back just slightly pushing his index finger inside of you, curling it and watching you squirm. “You heard us, you know exactly why my date went badly.”

You shivered, gripping the arm of the couch. “But I want you to say it.” you licked your lips. “Please...I wanna hear it-Ah!”

He teased, shoving another finger inside of you, pumping it in and out. “Did it make you cum when you heard me call out your name instead?” his voice low and husky.

You nodded, squirming more from his teasing. “You sounded so sexy when you moaned my name” you reached down pulling at his shirt, pulling it over the top of his head. “I know you didn’t get to finish” you grinned. “Should I be nice and let you finish in me?”

“Please…” You ran your hand down his toned chest, the efforts of his workouts paying off so beautifully. He pressed his mouth over your center again, relentlessly, teasing and fingering you until you were a moaning mess. Your fingers tangled in his hair as you pressed him into you, desperate to cum, you were so close. But more than his tongue, more than his fingers, the thing that brought you closer to the edge was his intense eye contact. It was both shy and dominating. He just never looked away and for the rare moments he did, the way his gaze flashed up at you made you feel so flustered. “J-Jisung” you moaned out, your stomach tightening as you shivered. He helped you ride out your high, his fingers relentlessly moving until you came against him.

“Such a pretty girl…” he licked the slick off his lips before meeting your lips again. “You were so good for me..”

“I can be better” you reached for the growing tent in his pants, rubbing him. “Let me..” you crawled closer to him, wanting to return the favor.

“No baby.. I don’t need it. Right now all I need is you.”

“But-”

“I’ve literally been thinking about you all night, I promise if you put your lips on me, I’m not gonna last.” he gave you a sheepish look, almost embarrassed from his confession. 

“Fine” you pouted pulling his sweatpants and boxers down his thighs.

“Don’t pout” he chuckled, kissing your jaw. “Next time Baby”

He was fully erect, pre-cum leaking from his swollen head. You smiled, wrapping your fingers around him and rubbing him firmly. “I need you…”

His head rolled back as he closed his eyes. The feeling of your fingers around him was like a dream. “Mmm Baby, I need to get a condom”

You shook your head and grinned, your grip tightening a little. “No~I want you now…” 

“You serious?”

“I wanna feel you Jisung~ Can’t I? Will you let me?” your voice so soft as you coaxed him into a deep kiss. Your tongue rolling against his “Please?”

“You beg for me so well..Fuck-yes Baby” you rubbed himself against your wet entrance, slowly pushing himself inside. There it was again, that beautiful eye contact, that little furrow in his brow when he concentrated, his soft lips pulling into a pout as he moved against you. Your arms wrapped around his neck, playing with the hair on the nape of his neck.

“It’s ok, you can go harder.” you encouraged him.

And that was all he needed before he began to pound into you more vigorously. His hands moving down your body, cupping your breast and rubbing against your side. Like he was just desperate to touch everywhere. His lips occasionally finding yours to tease. “C’mere…”

He pulled you onto his lap again, his back against the couch as he let you ride him. He hit deeper at the new angle, and you loved every second of it. You arched your back, gripping the couch as you moved your hips faster, in a circular motion to stimulate yourself. 

His lips sucking the soft skin of your neck, leaving a mark as you moved. His strong hands on your hips guiding you back and forth on him. “Faster baby” he whispered huskily. Your moans music to his ears, his, your desperate cries of his name, encouraging him more. “I’m almost there, are you close?”

“Not quite but don’t worry about me I-” you moaned out louder, feeling him tease and squeeze your clit. “Ah-Jisung!”

He kept rubbing your clit harder, desperate thrusting into you, his free hand moving your hips harder. “Cum for me Baby…” he whispered sweet nothings against your skin, taking your bottom lip between his teeth. 

He could feel you pick up the pace, your body shivering as your second climax inched closer. “That’s my girl…” he slammed into you, gripping so tight as he released, he kept moving until he felt you cum following not far behind him, just long enough before the over stimulation became too much to handle.

“Jisung” you whined, holding his shoulders to steady him, your face collapsing in his chest as you calmed yourself, and steadied your breathing. You could feel him start to soften inside you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

“Mmm… you’re right you are pretty loud, it’s so sexy” he chuckled running his hand up and down your back.

You pulled back to look at him and pecked his nose softly. “I’m really glad your date ended badly tonight”

“Hell, me too” he laughed “I’ve had a crush on your since you moved in, but kinda figured I shouldn’t try and hit on my roommate” he playfully spanked your behind for you to get up. He grabbed a towel from the bathroom and got you both cleaned off before he tugged back on his sweats, you only bothered to put on a new pair of panties and a t-shirt. He cleaned up your clothes to put near the laundry while shyly looking at you, like he was trying to find the courage to speak.

“What is it?” you leaned against your door frame, watching him fidget with everything in his path from the washing machine to your door.

“I-Um...Do you wanna go on a date tomorrow?” he asked shyly, standing in front of your door. “I know the order is kinda backwards but, I really am interested in you and I was kinda hoping this wasn’t just a one night thing. I mean-If it was that’s cool with me too, like no pressure but”

“You’re rambling” you grinned “I’d love to go out tomorrow.”

“Really?!” he smiled so brightly, his beautiful brown eyes disappearing in a crescent shape as that gorgeous gummy smile graced his face.

“Really” you giggled, subtly touching his hand. “You weren’t the only one with a crush Jisung”

“Can I kiss you goodnigh-” you interrupted his silly question, pressing your lips against his before pulling him into your bedroom.

End.

( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ  Hey Friends I hope you liked that one shot, it was my first smut for stray kids, i know it was kinda long. But it seemed silly to split it up into parts so I hope you didn’t mind >///< If you liked it let me know~

-D❍MI

[i-like-writing-stuff]

four months; part 2 [five hargreeves x reader]

a/n: thank you all so so much for your support and feedback! i literally could not believe that the first part has over 200 notes and yall want a continuation like omagash??? im soft, thank you guys <3

here is the long awaited part two, but before we dive into that, i felt the need to ask yall if you want five to be aged up?? in most x reader i’ve read on this site, five is aged up, but I felt like, in my case, i didn’t really needed to mention that because i am only like two months older than the actor, and its not like im gonna write smut with him- gross. point is, idk. should i age him up tho??? idk what to do, so here are both aidan and timothee to soothe ur heart for this second part!! <3

(the gifs do not belong to me, lemme know if u know who made them so i can give credits- they’re real cute mah gawsh!!!)

alsoo if you want more five imagines or literally any other hargreeves sibling or fictional character ousside tua, feel free to leave a request in my inbox! kisses <3

summary: after a long family meeting and more booze, you decide to make a bold move and profess your buried feelings.

part 1

“Men are stupid shitheads.” You concluded, setting your flask on the counter, looking at the new bangs Allison had just cut for you.

Even in her drunken state, they seemed to be very nicely done. You were quite surprised by the way they turned out, but pleased nonetheless. It was a spontaneous decision, getting bangs. You had been sitting in the hair salon she was working at with her, Klaus and Vanya after a not so great family meeting.

Hugs were shared, true, but then arguments started and before you even knew it, Luther stormed out, Diego followed him, Five went missing for whatever business he had, and Klaus claimed that Ben was not even there- apparently, ghosts can’t time travel.

So, it was just the four of you, drunk in a hair salon, with too much alcohol and way too many scissors around you, complaining about how shitty your love lives could be.

“Amen.” Klaus raised his drink in the air, “I’ll drink to that.”

“Right?” Allison nodded, combing her second client, Klaus, “The nerve of Ray! I mean, one thing goes wrong and he’s on a warpath!” She vented, holding the bottle of liquor in her free hand, “I mean, doesn’t know who I am?! No, no! No, Ray- you know exactly who I am, you just can’t handle it!”

You watched with a raised brow as Vanya was out of zone, pretending to be shooting the long line of empty bottles gathered in front of her, as Allison kept on continuing her rant. Her husband had just seen her use her powers on the night they started the protest, and was now having a real hard time comprehending what was going on. You didn’t see him at home either, so you figured he may have been upset with you as well for maybe hiding the secret. Or maybe he thought you were like her, who knows?

“Hey, wouldn’t it be weird if Five grew up all hot?” Klaus suddenly asked, taking a drag out of his cigarette, as he got up from his seat to walk around the hair salon, “Wouldn’t that be weird?”

“Why would you even think of your brother like that?” You asked riddled, narrowing your eyes at the man as his sisters almost gagged at the thought.

“Oh, please, you’ve been thinking that, haven’t you?” Klaus asked, pointing at you as you took another swig from your nearly empty flask.

“I... I mean- he’s... Five... uh... no comment!” You suddenly declared, at loss of words, as you got up from your seat, trying to maintain your balance as you made your way towards the bottle of liquor to fill your flask again.

“When are you two gonna confess your feelings?” Allison asked with a groan, letting her head fall backwards as she sat on the chair, “It’s getting really tiring!”

“We have an apocalypse going on!” You argued, “There’s no time for feelings!”

“This is the perfect time for feelings!” Klaus chimed in, taking another drag out of his cigarette, “These might be your last six days on Earth! Do you want to die regretting that you never told Five how you felt about him?”

“I’m not having this conversation anymore.” You declared, out of arguments, as you poured liquor in your flask, “Why don’t we talk about Allison’s crush on Luther instead?”

“We have never even kissed!” Allison defended herself, causing Vanya to spin on her chair confused, looking between the three of you.

“Yeah, but you guys were making little sick moon-dog eyes at each other all through puberty and breakfasts and... all that.” Klaus waved her off, sipping from his own flask.

“Aren’t we all brothers and sisters, or...?” Vanya wondered confused, as you and Klaus snorted amused at her innocence.

“Well... technically...” Allison tried to find an excuse or explanation, but she was having a hard time putting her thoughts in place.

“Technically?” Klaus raised a brow, “If you....” He stammered, trying to regain his train of thought, “If you have to use the word technically, you’re already in trouble.”

“Okay, can we go back to Five and Y/N?” Allison tried to change the subject, “Or maybe at least help me save my marriage?”

“That’s like...” Klaus stumbled on his own feet, filling his flask again, as you leaned against Vanya’s chair curiously, “That’s like asking a nun how to hump someone’s leg! I mean, who in this room knows shit about relationships? This one?” He asked, pointing at Vanya, “In secret love with some farm Frau!”

“Her name’s Sissy.” Vanya informed him.

“Which is an improvement on her previous love interest.” He said, looking at you and Allison, as you shook your heads to slightly tell him to shut up, “...the serial killer.”

“What?!” Vanya yelled, looking between you and Allison for an explanation, but you just softly waved her off, promising to remind her later.

“And look at this one!” Klaus ignored the three of you, pointing at... well, you, “A fifty year old assassin, who got the chance to be a teen again, but she is too afraid to admit her feelings for the... wait, is Five a boy or a man?”

“Both?” You raised a brow, unsure of the answer.

“Meanwhile, I’m carrying a torch for a soldier I haven’t technically met yet, and Luther is in love with his sister.” Klaus waved you off, trying to keep his balance again on his feet.

“Okay, again- we are not biological!” Allison tried to defend herself once more, but Klaus simply ignored her.

“Face it, the healthiest long-term relationship in this family was when Five was banging that mannequin.” He said, making all of you nod in agreement, as you couldn’t help but confess, taking another chug out of your flask;

“I can’t believe I got to the point where I was jealous of Dolores.”

Okay, maybe ‘banging’ and ‘jealous’ were strong words, but you had to admit you were not that pleased when one of the first things that Five did when he got back to 2019, was go to some store to get back his plastic girlfriend who kept him company in the four decades he spent all by himself in the apocalypse.

You understood his mind, though. You would have gone insane as well if you had to be all alone after the end of the world, without another soul on the planet. Nonetheless, you still were maybe a tad too happy when he decided to return her to the store.

Leaving you the only woman he had eyes for, unbeknownst to you.

“I’m gonna tell Sissy that I love her.” Vanya suddenly declared, straightening her position confidently.

“You go, girl!” You cheered, clapping for your friend.

“I don’t want any secrets.” She said, making you and the other two nod in agreement, contemplating about your own lives.

“Yeah!” Allison said, getting up with the bottle of alcohol tightly clutched in her hand, “Yeah, yeah- you’re right! Yes, ‘cause, you know- if this all goes tits-up, the least I can do is be honest with my husband!

“Oh, does that mean I have to face my cult?” Klaus sighed, “I just hate group break-ups, it’s why I stopped dating twins!”

You pondered about it for a moment, in your state that was definitely not the most sober. You had a lot of alcohol coursing through your veins, but you felt like maybe it was better. You could think with your heart more than you could think with your brain, and your heart was telling you that your friends were right.

They all are getting themselves ready to take big risks in their lives, why shouldn’t you? They had a valid point; the world was gonna end in six days if you guys couldn’t find a way to solve this. Last time you didn’t have the brightest plan, so why should this time be a success? Reality hit you; there was a real big chance that you might die.

So why not just be honest with Five? What was the worst that could happen? You manage to save the world and Five rejects you? Big deal!

Well, it actually was a big deal.

“What if he rejects me?” You asked all of a sudden, causing the three siblings to turn to you, “What if I tell Five how I feel about him and he rejects me? I know maybe at my age I shouldn’t be this anxious about a man, but... it’s not like I’m going anywhere, I’m glued to the Hargreeves clan.”

And it was true. After the events of the 2019 apocalypse, right before you and the others got separated, you shared an adorable moment in which you confessed to each other how happy you were to have met and be taken into their family as one of their own.

“Normally, I’d say to not ponder on that for too... long.” Klaus slurred, “But given that it’s Five, you don’t even have to worry about that.”

“He’s right.” Allison shrugged, “That won’t be a problem.

“I have no memory of any of you, but from the hug I’ve seen you two share earlier- you’re not just friends.” Vanya spoke up, making you stare into nothingness for a moment.

I mean, it’s Five we are talking about. If he were to have any feelings, it’s not like he’d be honest with them or act, right? It would be up to you to make the first move.

You let out a long sigh, rubbing your hands on your upper arms, reminding yourself of the hug. It may have been the first time you and Five actually hugged, in all the years you’ve known each other. The way he held you close and nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, taking in your scent, feeling you in his arms, even if for him it had been only four days. You had to live with the thought that he may be dead for months.

And you hated that, you knew you wanted him alongside you. You wanted that little rude, at times obnoxious dipshit, with a soft heart- as much as he hated to admit it. You loved how much he cared about his family, about saving the world. Five is a great person; he is caring and has a big heart, as much as he tried to hide it behind his trashmouth.

“Fine!” You groaned, letting your head fall backwards, “I’ll tell Five I fucking love him and his dipshit face!”

“Yes!” Klaus clapped, as Allison and Vanya cheered proudly, “Come here!”

You and Vanya walked towards him, as Allison wrapped an arm around his waist, waiting for the two of you to skip towards them, pulling you into a group hug, as “Twistin’ the night away” by Sam Cooke blasted on the radio, causing the four of you to start a small dance party, letting for the first time in a long while your problems just go away.

For the sake of the song.

After a couple more hours of drinking, gossiping and dancing, the four of you decided to finally part ways and attend your promised business. Klaus went to deal with his cult, as Allison decided to be completely honest with her husband at home and Vanya was going to confess to Sissy.

As for you?

You were going to tell Five Hargreeves you were in love with him.

“Hey, dipshit!” You confidently yelled, running up the stairs of the store, trying to find Five.

“Y/N?” Five frowned, walking out of the kitchen with a coffee mug in his hands and a confused look on his face, “Are you... even more drunk? And did you get bangs- what the...?”

“Shut up.” You waved him off, walking towards him to grab the mug out of his hand to sober yourself up, “Why in the hell are you even drinking coffee at this hour?”

“I’m... trying to calm myself...” He frowned, watching as you chugged his freshly poured coffee.

“Normally I’d ask.” You said, setting the mug on the counter, shaking your head, “But right now what I have to say is more important.”

“Is that so?” Five raised a brow curiously, as you slowly slapped your cheeks, trying to get the room to stop moving, “Why don’t you go to bed?” He asked, gently pushing you towards the couch, “And we talk in the morning? I don’t really have time for this.”

“No!” You yelled, stopping in your tracks to poke his chest, “We don’t have to talk! I talk and you- you listen!” You said, poking his chest again, “You never have time for anything, all you can think of is your stupid apocalypse!”

“Oh yes, isn’t that a trivial thing to be thinking of?” He asked with a sarcastic smile, crossing his arms.

“I don’t need your sarcasm!” You yelled, poking his chest a third time, feeling him get more tense.

“I swear to God, Y/N, if you do that one more time-...” Five took in a deep breath, as he could feel as he was slowly losing his patience.

“Shut up!” You groaned, watching as his brows knitted in confusion, “I’m trying to confess my feelings for you, you moron!”

“W...What?” He asked, as his face suddenly softened, unfolding his arms.

“I’m in love with you!” You sighed, rubbing your face, “Okay? I-I am in love with you and I am trying to sober myself up, but I think I may have had too much to drink.”

“You think?” Five scoffed, slowly leading you towards the couch, “Are you sure you’re not saying this just because you have a ton of alcohol coursing through you?”

“Well... kinda, ‘cause if I were sober there was no way in hell I would have confessed.” You puffed, complying, as you let yourself guided by him, “Allison, Klaus and Vanya all convinced me that I should tell you, that we only have six days left on Earth and in case we don’t save it... I shouldn’t be going down with regrets.”

Five listened to your every word carefully, as you continuing venting about how his siblings spent the whole day trying to convince you to tell him about your feelings, as he slowly held your hands, as you took a seat on the couch. He nodded at your words to let you know that he was listening, as he took two pillows off the armchairs beside, placing them at one end, softly pushing you down.

“...and then Klaus said that he hates group breakups.” You said, not even noticing what was going on, feeling your lids get heavier once your head met the pillow.

“Not a surprise there...” Five muttered, grabbing the blanket that was rested on top of the couch, placing it over you.

“Are you trying to dismiss me?” You wondered, but still making yourself more comfortable, as you sat on your side, with your head facing Five, who knelt in front of you tired.

He bit back a smile, watching as you slowly closed your eyes. He knew you were extremely drunk, he could see that in the way exhaust took over you. Not only you had a lot of alcohol in your system, but you’ve also had some long couple of days, and some longer ones were ahead of you until you knew for a fact the world was safe once more.

“I don’t know how it is, that you’re the one person who actually makes me feel... soft.” He confessed, watching your lips curve into a smile at his words, “You... drunken idiot.”

“I regret nothing.” You said proudly, as Five couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, softly stroking your hair to help you fall asleep sooner.

“We’ll see about that in the morning.” He smirked amused, watching as you pouted.

“You never gave me an answer, you know.” You pointed out, letting his soft touch calm you down, as you felt sleep slowly take over you.

“You never gave me a question.” He retorted, knowing for sure that if your eyes were opened, you would roll them at him.

“I think you like to hear me say that I am in love with you, it’s the third time I have to say it.” You said, slowly placing your hands under your pillow, making yourself more comfortable.

“I am happy to see that you still know how to count.” Five said, placing some wild strands of hair behind your ear.

“Screw you.” You said, making him grin, as he went back to stroking your hair.

“In this whole... shitty situation I managed to get myself into, you, Y/N, might as well be the only thing keeping me sane... surprisingly.” Five frowned at the last bit, watching as you opened your eyes, shifting your head to watch him, “I love you too, moron.”

“I never said I love you.” You smirked, teasing him as he rolled his eyes.

“You little chipmunk...” Five sighed, shaking his head in disbelief amused, as you leaned into his touch more, closing your eyes, pleased with yourself.

“Yeah, but you still love me.” You said, not once dropping that smirk on your lips.

“You’re impossible, did you know that?” He wondered, resting his forearm on the couch beside you, as he knelt on the floor, trying to make himself more comfortable, noticing the way you were enjoying the scalp massage... for free.

“A little bit.” You slowly shrugged, wrapping your arms around his, once you felt it beside you.

Five watched with a soft smile as you pulled his arms closer to your face, nuzzling into it with a satisfied smile, happy that you listened to your friends.

And deep down, so was Five thanking his siblings.

[unsaidmar]

One, The meeting.

Plot: Both Spencer and Olivia mourn their losses. Maybe doing it together works best.

WC: 2k, I get carried away.

CW: Brief mentions of death.

A/N: Hi y’all! I’m very excited to share this. I submitted it for a creative writing assignment last week and I thought I would share it here too. This is the first time I post what I write and I kinda want to make this a series.

Olivia knew pain was lighter on the shoulders when carried with someone else, she was completely aware of the fact that pushing her friends and loved ones away was the last thing you’d want to do when grieving. Didn’t stop her, though. Opening up was a conscious effort she had to make.  

Lia had been gone exactly 467 days. Each one harder, longer and duller than the last.  Her mom had told her that pain didn’t have an expiration date, that she shouldn’t worry about getting over Lia’s death sooner than she was ready to, but nothing could help the feeling in the back of her mind, the little voice that reminded her that the world did not stop spinning when she left. Even if she felt like it did.

Mornings were almost automatic at this point. Get up, make an effort to look better, grab an excuse for breakfast, promise mamá you’ll get something else on the way to work, drive mindlessly to the place you knew like the back of your hand. The Grey Roots was special, it seemed to transform people’s perspective as soon as they walked in, it was full of memories and knowledge. That much was true for Spencer Reid.

Maeve had been gone exactly 278 days. Each one harder, longer and duller than the last. The team did their best to navigate around Spencer’s grief, always taking hints the he dropped. A fake smile that meant “we can ignore my loss today”, a shrug accompanied with the ghost of a smile that meant “today I’m feeling better, but I’m not expecting it to last”, and the words “I’m fine, I promise”, that roughly translated to “this is manageable today, so don’t ask me about it”.

The love and sense of protection the BAU had over Spencer was instinctual, which was hard when he seemed to be a thousand miles away while standing right there. Morgan had said that if isolation was what he needed right now, isolation he was going to get, but always with the promise of his friends running straight to him if he needed the comfort.

On his days off, he tried coming to terms with the loss. Loss was a tricky thing, Spencer thought. By definition, it was the state or feeling of grief when deprived of someone or something of value, so if it meant the absence of something, why did it feel like loss went with him everywhere?

The Grey Roots was a landmark in the man’s life. Maeve had recommended he visit the museum while they were corresponding, which he was more than happy to do, always trying to find a way to feel closer to her than he could actually be. Now his visits changed in nature, he was there to reminisce. To try and get the optimistic feeling of loving her to come back.

The stranger that usually walked around the museum with files in her hands went unnoticed for a while, but to her, Spencer had never gone unnoticed. She had been watching him his last four visits, visits that were a lot closer together than the usual visitors liked, which naturally, sparked her interest. She was drawn to him, always turning her head to check if he was there and her eyes lingering for a beat too long to try and come up with an excuse to start a conversation.

Olivia cared very little about dating and would usually turn down people’s advances, but as he sat there, earbuds in and basking in the sunlight the botanical garden side of the museum had to offer, she couldn’t help but hope he was one of those ballsy men that usually approached her. Apparently, the gods felt bad for Ollie, because as Spencer stood up to go, a book slipped out of his bag onto the floor. Oblivious to it, he kept walking.

“Thank the fucking gods” Ollie whispered to herself as she made a beeline for the book. Trying to reach the tall guy, she elbowed her way through the people walking in front of her and tapped him on the shoulder. Play it cool, dork.

“Hey” she said trying to get her breath back. “You dropped this back there” She tried not to fixate on the way his curls looked with the sun shining directly on them, or on the way his eyes took in her presence.

“Oh, thank you so much” He rushed out, grateful that he didn’t have to lose the last thing that connected him to Maeve and cursing himself for being so careless.

Make conversation, now. Say something. Anything. “I take it that’s important, you look relieved” she giggled to try and appear chill. Failing miserably, of course.

“Um, yeah. It was.” Beat of silence. “It is. It was a gift” He answered looking down at his feet, holding on to the book like it might disappear if he doesn’t.

Now, genuinely relieved she could spare him the disappointment, Ollie looked up at him. “Then I’m really glad you didn’t have to lose it” She replied, mirroring Spence’s thoughts, which made him smile.

To the doctor, looking at her felt almost offensive to Maeve’s memory, like she could see him staring curiously at this kind stranger whose eyes were enticing enough to make him forget how to talk. His best friend JJ was the best at reading his expressions and figuring out what he was thinking, she was smart enough to know Reid felt guilty for wanting to move on and leave the pain behind, so she made sure he knew that no one expected him to act like a widower forever, not even Maeve. After all, no one tells you how long you’re expected to mourn a loss, there’s no unspoken rule of appropriate sulking time. 278 days later still felt like too soon and just about enough at the same time. Strangely enough, he wanted to keep talking to this girl, and it would have to start with an introduction.

“I’m Spencer”

“I’m Olivia, but please call me Ollie” or call me anything you want.

“Ollie, good” he let out a giggle that was uncharacteristic of him to say the least. Mainly because he had never made it this far into a conversation with someone as pretty as Ollie. “You work here” It wasn’t a question, he noticed the plaque pinned to her shirt that read Dr. Olivia Vega, Conservator.

“Yes, I’m one of the conservators here. I know I might not look like it, but I promise I know my stuff” This observation prompted Spencer to give her a once over and he smiled at how right she was. She was wearing black cargo pants and a simple lavender t-shirt she seemed to have cropped herself, her arms were covered with little tattoos and her dark hair had streaks of purple in it. She was a sight to see, and hadn’t she been so kind and smiley, Spencer would’ve been intimidated by her. “My mom always says I look like I dropped out of high school to form my own punk band” She added, interrupting his train of thought. “I kind of agree with her now that I think about it, but I have a doctorate in history and that’s not very punk”

“Well, I’m a federal agent but I look like my grandpa, so I’m right there with you”

You do not look like a grandpa. “A federal agent, huh? The wall-climbing, gun-shooting, vest-wearing kind?”

“Sometimes, yes. But I work for the Behavioral Analysis Unit so the work I do revolves around profiling people, we try to narrow down the suspect pool by studying the way the crime was committed and making educated guesses about what kind of person would do that and the possible motives behind it. I also have doctorates, but not in history” He said, glad he could sound cool in front of what appeared to be the coolest human ever. Maeve doesn’t mind you moving on, he repeated to himself.

“Judging by the fact that you didn’t introduce yourself as ‘Doctor so and so, but you can call me Spencer’ I think you’re nice and not full of yourself” Ollie joked. “I would have been super intimidated if you’d lead with that”

Is she a witch or am I thinking out loud? “You should see the people I work with. I look like a 12-year-old boy compared to them” She erupted in laughter, causing Spencer to blush. “I’m not kidding, they call me ‘kid’ and ‘pretty boy’”

They got that right, you are pretty. “No way, my older co-workers call me ‘kid’ too! And I’m their boss. The least they could do is call me Doctor Kid.” She pretended to pout.

A mom with a stroller trying to walk past them made the two realize they were still standing in the middle of the path, so entirely entertained with each other that they didn’t notice the third-grade class that had just passed them. As if the realization had struck them both at the same time, they looked back at each other, both of them trying to stretch the interaction as long as they could.

“Do you, maybe, want to have this conversation somewhere else? Perhaps not in the middle of the crowd?” She asked hopefully.

Taken aback by the offer, Spencer agreed and followed her back to her office, that looked exactly like he would expect it to. A bunch of framed pictures with friends and family covered the wall to his left, she had a jean jacket full of pins hanging behind the door and a bunch of miscellaneous books on a bookshelf right behind her desk, all of them with post its sticking out and what he assumed were her bookmarks.

After offering him coffee, they talked about all the things they had in common and relished on the things they didn’t. It was refreshing to get out of their heads and talk about something other than what stage of grief they were in. Spencer was glad that Ollie had approached him first, otherwise he wouldn’t have met her or even know she existed. A text from Penelope brought him back to reality and he sighed at his phone when he read it.

“I have to go, we got a case” He said, annoyed.

Ollie tried to mask her disappointment with an airy laugh, “Oh those fucking serial killers, so rude of them to interrupt our conversation”

Come on, Spencer. Say you want to see her again. Maeve doesn’t mind. Faster than he could process, the words came tumbling out of his mouth. “I want to see you again” He declared; eyes wide, afraid he came on too intense.

“Well, what a coincidence. I want that too.” She smirked, thanking the gods for all the love they seemed to be showing her today. She took a bright pink sharpie from her drawer and scribbled her number on Spencer’s palm. “Please, don’t wash your hand before you save the number”  She hoped she hadn’t blown her cover as the chilliest most relaxed person ever with that one sentence that sounded like she was begging him to call her. He took out a little white card from his bad and handed it to her.

‘SSA Dr. Spencer Reid. Behavioral Analysis Unit’. Two phone numbers were displayed along with the FBI logo. Which made Ollie look up to question it.

“Bottom one is my personal line; top one is the work phone” He anticipated the question.  

The shit eating grin he was wearing did not go unnoticed by her friends back at the BAU, but he brushed them and their raised eyebrows right off. This whole thing with Ollie was his to keep. At least for the moment.

That night, even though spent in a dingy motel a few minutes out of Redding, Pennsylvania, Spencer slept better than he had in 278 days. He wasn’t an outgoing person at all, he didn’t ask for numbers, he didn’t agree to have coffee in some stranger’s office, he didn’t text bright pink numbers sloppily written on his hand. But maybe the way they met was a sign that he should, maybe, no matter the outcome, he wanted to see where this led. Not even sure what this was.

Here goes nothing.

“Hey, this is Spencer. I didn’t wash my hand” sent at 2:13 am.

“I mean, I did. Just not until I texted you” sent at 2:13 am.

Back at her own apartment, Ollie made a mental note to go visit Lia so she could hear all about the handsome man she had met. Following the advice her therapist had given her, she took out the notepad she had devoted to the letters she wrote her and started writing what she would give anything to be able to say to her face.

[kiara-carrera]

“actually i’m…i’m really not okay.” + Leah for the comfort starters?

convinced you can somehow read my mind across the internet because you're always picking the best prompts for them like this allowed me to write a hc that's been living in my head since may anyways. i also wanna fight myself bc this is like 3 fucking thousand words and its super fucking sad idk why i did this to myself. 

content warning for parental abuse and a mention of alcoholism.

In the middle of the night, something brushed against her face. 

She was asleep on her side, some of her hair falling into her eyes, but it was swept aside, the feeling tickling her skin and it caused her to stir briefly. But her eyes stayed shut and she merely burrowed deeper into her pillow.

Leah had never been much of a light sleeper, but the feeling of her bed dipping next to her seemed to rouse her enough. 

It took her a moment to settle into waking, eyes fluttering and lips smacking together tiredly to combat the dryness of her mouth. A tiny yawn escaped her, her eyes doing their best to adjust to the darkness of her room, the only source of light being the sparse moonlight that trickled in through her window.

It was enough to make out the shape beside her.

Her heart nearly stopped at the sight of them sitting on her bed, arm pulling back towards itself. It felt like something out of a horror movie or perhaps the evening news with the headline of a teenager being stolen from their bedroom. Fear gripped at her with icy hands, eyes widening at the realization that someone was in her room with her.

Lips parted, she was a mere second away for screaming out for her father and brother before a shred of moonlight at just the right second highlighted the unruly blond hair of the intruder.

Pushing up on one shaky hand, she asked, “JJ?”

Leah’s sleep addled voice cut through the silence, a harsh and hurried whisper into the dark. If it truly was JJ sitting on her bed, the volume would need to be kept near silent — she wouldn’t put it past Jack Thompson to treat JJ like an actual intruder.

The voice that replied was unmistakably that of her boyfriend’s, a little tired and a little sheepish. “Hey baby.”

Relief flooded her body and she allowed herself to slump back down into her pillow, a quiet groan escaping her lips. “Jesus fucking Christ, JJ, I thought you were a serial killer. What the hell?”

She couldn’t really see the expression on his face, but she saw him look down at his hands. “Wanted to see you.”

“You wanted to see me at —” She paused, turning to squint at the alarm clock beside her bed, neon numbers vibrant in the dark. “Two am? How the hell did you even get in?”

“Window.” He jutted a thumb behind him in its direction as if to make his point. In an attempt at lighthearted conversation, he jokingly added, “You know, you should really lock that thing.”

Leah pulled a face, disbelief coating her features. Sleep was still mulling in her brain and she couldn’t for the life of her make sense of this situation. It wasn’t the first time JJ had ever snuck into her room. Even before they were dating, he’d mastered slipping in through her window often enough that he even knew which floorboards would creak loudly under his boots.

But the difference between then and now was that this was the first time he’d done it without warning. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d come unannounced like this. It had to have been months ago, when he’d shown up after —

Fuck.

Leah pushed herself back up on her elbow, a sense of unease washing over her as she squinted at her boyfriend in the dark. The last time he’d shown up unannounced in the middle of the night, it hadn’t been for a midnight make out session or because he’d randomly wanted to spend the night — he’d had a bruised cheek and a busted lip, compliments of his father.

He’d dripped blood on her floor by accident and she’d nearly woken up her brother while getting the first aid kit from the bathroom. She’d gotten a mini one from the dollar store the next day to keep in her dresser just in case.

Except, she didn’t want there to be a just in case. Didn’t want there to be a next time. She’d cleaned JJ up from multiple fights in her time as his best friend and now girlfriend, but nothing left her with a pit in her stomach like cleaning him up after his dad was through with him.

“You didn’t come here from the Chateau, did you?”

It was phrased as a question, but it was more of a statement. JJ shifted awkwardly in his spot beside her. Even if she could make out his expression in the dark, he wouldn’t look at her anyways.

“Lee ...” He trailed off, almost as if he wanted to ask her to drop it.

But he knew her and he knew she wouldn’t. “J, did you go back to your place tonight?”

A small noise of discontent escaped him, but he nodded his head.

“Got into it with my dad,” he finally admitted, letting out a chuckle. It was meant to play off the situation, but there wasn’t a single trace of humor in the bitter sound.

Despite how tired she felt, eyelids heavy enough to drag her back under, that single sentence seemed to wake her up just enough. She squinted at him in the dark, heart thumping a little quicker in her chest as she blindly reached for the lamp on her bedside table.

It switched on, bathing the room in a soft glow as Leah pushed herself up into a sitting position. She blinked a few times, letting the now lit room to come in to focus, a hand reaching up to try and rub the rest of the sleep from her eyes. 

Her gaze eventually landed on her boyfriend, looking uncomfortable as ever under her gaze. His hat was in his lap, hands wrung into it, while his hair looked like he’d raked his fingers through it anxiously a number of times on the way over. And his eyes, normally cheery and mischievous, looked almost hollow, a glossy sheen to the redness that surrounded the blue of his irises. 

He looked ... broken and Leah’s heart stuttered a bit at the dejected expression he wore.

She’d never considered herself violent or capable of truly hurting anyone, but it was moments like these where she swore she could put Luke Maybank six feet under if she put her mind to it.

Unless he drunk himself to death first.

JJ watched on quietly as she let her eyes trail across his face intently, no doubt scanning for new scrapes or bruises or split lips. A twinge of guilt flickered in his eyes, one that Leah ignored. She didn’t care if he felt like he was burdening her or that he felt bad knowing she was expecting him to be dripping blood on her floor like he had one too many times before.

She didn’t care about that, because all she wanted was to make sure he was okay.

Leah hated when he went home. She knew that JJ was too proud to spend every night at the Chateau and knew he thought he could handle himself on the off chance that he ran into his dad. Rarely, though, did that seem to be the case.

“It wasn’t like that,” JJ supplied, noticing the way her eyes strayed to his shirt, more than likely wondering if there were bruises littering the skin it covered. “He was too drunk to start anything physical. Probably would’ve tripped over himself before he got two feet.”

Leah nodded, though his admission didn’t do much to quell her nerves. She didn’t know much about Luke Maybank to start with, but something told her his words were probably as painful as his hits.

After a moment, once she decided that his face looked the way it had when she’d seen him yesterday, save for the frown and his bloodshot eyes, some of the tension in her shoulders relaxed. Not all of it, though, because her mind had already started jumping to the next possible idea of what exactly had happened in the Maybank home earlier that night.

“Do you ... do you wanna talk about it?” she asked gently, tucking her legs under her.

Getting JJ to open up was ... tricky. Leah had been around him long enough that she could clock his bad moods at the drop of a hat, could read most emotions swirling in his eyes like second nature.

Noticing something was wrong, that something was eating away at him, was easy. Getting him to verbalize it and let her in fully was the hard part. Even around the Pogues, around Leah, JJ held a certain level of walls up. Thoughts and secrets and the level of abuse at the hand of his father that he kept guarded for one reason or another. There were things that they knew, things that they found out on accident or because he’d hit his breaking point, but Leah wouldn’t be surprised if there was a whole slew of things she didn’t know.

Her heart clenched painfully at the thought, but it didn’t surprise her when JJ waved off her question.

“Nah, it's not a big deal,” JJ replied easily, brushing it off as he adjusted his position on her bed.

He forced another smile on his lips as he regarded her. It was one that almost looked genuine. Almost. It might have fooled someone who didn’t know him well into thinking that he was fine, someone who wouldn’t pick up on the way he was fidgeting with his rings or how he seemed incapable of looking her in the eye for more than a brief moment before glancing away. But Leah wasn’t just someone and she could pick up on his unease just as easily as she was taking her breaths.

Because Leah knew when JJ wasn’t okay. She always knew.

Treading lightly, like she was dealing with a deer who might spook, she said, “Well, it must have been if you came all this way here.”

Annoyance wrinkled his expression. Tossing his hat to the side, he asked, “Can’t a guy just stop by to see his girlfriend?”

“JJ, it’s two in the morning,” she told him seriously.

His frown deepened. She could see his jaw clench and he nodded his head a few times. “Yeah, okay, you know what, this was fucking stupid. I’ll just leave then if you’re gonna keep looking at me like that.”

She knew the that in question was the pity he was probably reading across her face. But the problem was that she didn’t pity him, she was worried for him, but JJ never seemed to know the difference between the two.

The sight of him getting up and turning to head back towards her window had Leah lurching forward, hand circling around his wrist. “Hey, hey,” she whispered, giving his arm a tug. “No, J, don’t leave, please, c’mon.”

At her pleading tone, he halted, a sigh escaping him. It took another moment before he was sitting back down, a frown still etched on his face.

Leah’s hand slipped from his wrist and she longed to twine their fingers together but she didn’t in favor of scooting a little closer to him on her bed. She tilted her head a bit, trying her best to get eye contact with him.

He finally sighed and looked up at her, another sigh slipping past his lips. “Lee ...”

“Look, I’m not trying to push it, okay?” She bit her lip, thinking over her next words carefully. She didn’t know how many times she could successfully talk him out of leaving tonight. “I just ... I get worried. If you really don’t wanna talk, we don’t have to. We can just go to sleep and leave it, but I need you to know that I will listen if you wanna talk. You came all this way here and it’s so late and I know —”

“I just wanted to see you,” he repeated, cutting her off. There was no edge to his voice. Instead it was softer, a tone that suggested there was more to it. Unconvincingly, he added, “I’m fine, Lee.”

A shaky breath left Leah’s lips, tears beginning to sting at the back of her eyes. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Her words sat in the air for a few moments. Or maybe it was minutes. JJ was watching her intensely and Leah could almost see the legions of thoughts bouncing around his head at her statement. His eyes were glassier than ever, tears brimming along the edges. He chewed on his lip anxiously and Leah could do nothing but wait for him to make the next move. 

When he did, she was certain her heart broke.

“Actually I’m ...” JJ’s voice was thick with emotion and his breath hitched in his throat as his bravado began cracking under her thoughtful gaze. He couldn’t meet her eyes again when he choked out, “I’m really not okay.”

The first tear betrayed him, dripping down his cheek and disappearing somewhere on his shirt.

“Oh, JJ,” Leah whispered, her soft voice, laced with unmeasurable concern, nailing the coffin shut.

Within seconds, tears began streaming down his face as the dam finally broke.

Leah was quick to shuffle across her bed, the last bits of sleepiness washing off her like someone had dumped a bucket of cold water over her head. Her arms were curling around him tightly, pulling him into her as the first sob racked through his body. His face was pressed into her neck, the collar of her shirt dampening with his tears.

He was mumbling into her, words muffled by her skin and her shirt, fragmented by the sobs that snuck through. She could only make out pieces, the words hate it and hate him and sorry repeating more times than she could count.

“I’ve got you,” she mumbled into his hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I’ve got you.”

His arms snaked around her waist, pulling her even closer, impossibly close, like he didn’t think she’d stay with him.

But there was nowhere else she’d ever dream of being, not when he was like this.

This wasn’t the first time Leah had seen JJ cry. While he always tried to hold up a devil may care attitude, the wild Pogue image, the view of a kid from the Cut with no worries besides keggers and weed, there were times where he’d hit his breaking point in the past. She’d seen it before, seen the facade shatter like glass against the floor. There was only so long he could go on being strong, feelings bottled up inside him like a ticking time bomb, before he’d burst.

Another sob wracked through him, a quiet and painful noise buried into her neck.

“I just want it to stop,” he told her between hurried gulps of air. “I’m so fucking sick of it.”

Leah’s eyes squeezed shut and she ran a comforting hand through his hair. She told him, “I know, J, I know,” because what else was there for her to say? What else was there for her to do in moments like these?

Anger burned in Leah’s chest, a sudden hot feeling, akin to a pot left to boil over on the stove. It was seeping into her veins as she listened to his cries, 

Anger at the world, because it took people like JJ and put them through hell. He was sixteen. Sixteen fucking years old and this was the shit that he had to deal with. This was his reality. It was two in the goddamn morning and instead of being asleep in his own bed, safe and loved by his own fucking father, he was here in pieces because of him.

Anger at his father, for being such a useless sack of shit. Who did this to their child? Who could look at a kid like JJ and do nothing but tear them down until they started believing the lies being fed to them? Leah hated him, she’d decided that long ago. Hated him more than she’d ever hated anyone in her life and the feeling of JJ shuddering under her hands only seemed to make it run deeper.

And then there was the anger at herself, because she knew there wasn’t enough that she could do. She could patch up his wounds and hold him tight, could let him cry in her arms until he had nothing left to give, and it would never be enough. She couldn’t fix the world for him and there weren’t enough words in the world to describe how important he was, how special, how loved. His father’s words would always exist somewhere in the back of his mind and she wasn’t sure she knew how to combat them with ones of her own.

It pained her to think he’d believe any of it. To think he was worthless or going nowhere or a waste of space. She wasn’t sure exactly what Luke had said to him tonight, could only guess, but she knew without a shadow of a doubt, with every fiber of her goddamn being that they were lies. 

Leah knew JJ. She knew every reason that she loved him was because he was unapologetically him. He could be brash and impulsive and crude and he didn’t always say or do the right thing. But she also knew that when it came down to it, he was loyal and brave and selfless and better than anyone on this goddamn island. He deserved the goddamn world. He deserved a mansion on the Eight with a koi pond and a ridiculous marble statue or Yucatán and lobsters and surfing all day and whatever else he wanted and it was because he was better than the world gave him credit for.

Tears of her own were pooling in her eyes, steadily dripping down her face as she rested her chin against the top of his head. She knew in that moment that this, being here with him right now, letting him deal with this pain in whatever way he needed to, was all she could offer him. She knew it didn’t come close to what he needed, but she’d hold him as long as he wanted.

As he clutched at her like a lifeline, Leah held him a little bit tighter.

[cultureisdarkbeer]

Road to All Things: Chapter 10 Irrevocable

Road to All Things 

Tagging:  @season4mulder​ @today-in-fic​

Bacon sizzling. Her apartment filled with the smell and had Scully salivating. She opened her eyes and realized she had actually drooled on her pillow. The sheets on the other side were crumpled, but the bed was empty. Mulder was cooking. Scully tried not to smile, but she really couldn’t help herself. It almost felt like a dream,-too real to be real- but as she stepped in the shower and the hot water cascaded down her body, her sore muscles ached out the markings of Mulder’s path. It had been quite a night and very little of it was spent sleeping.

Dressed, Scully came into the kitchen and snagged a piece of the bacon. Salty and crisp, cooked to perfection. Mulder turned with the pan of scrambled eggs and scooped them up to carefully lay an equal amount in each dish. 

“You got up too early.” He looked up at her and smiled sheepishly. “I was going to make you breakfast in bed.”

Scully poured herself some coffee and sat down, taking an approving sip. She raised an eyebrow. “You want me to go back to bed?”

The corner of his mouth raised. “Well, yeah, but not for bacon and eggs.”

Scully ignored him, although his words resonated sharply in her chest,  and concentrated on eating her breakfast. Who knew Mulder knew how to cook breakfast? He surprised her every day. Mulder sat down beside her and started eating. The air between them was thick and alive. Every time their eyes met she felt their connection, only now it was concentrated into electrified intense explosions in her chest.

“You have plans today?” Mulder asked, grabbing the last piece of toast and using it to sop up his remaining eggs.

“I’m having lunch with my mother,” Scully replied solemnly, fidgeting in the chair and sending a fiery lock behind her ear. “I have to tell her. She knew I went through the procedures. It’s not a conversation I’m looking forward to.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“Mulder, I’m capable of telling her.”

“I know that.” He looked at his watch. “What time am I picking you up?”

 *

 Scully’s heels clicked loudly against the uneven pavement approaching her mother’s house. It was a cool day, yet Mulder had perspiration beading along his hairline.  “Are you nervous?” she asked. 

Mulder released a humored breath and pressed in the button to ring the bell. “Your mother and I are friends, what would I be nervous about?”

Not to anyone’s surprise, Maggie’s face glowed and her smile grew extra wide at the sight of Mulder. “Fox, how good of you to come,” she spurted merrily.

Scully helped Maggie serve lunch while Mulder squirmed in his chair, slurping his tea and as Scully could see, trying his best not to break anything. On their second trip to the kitchen and Mulder happily munching on a sandwich, Maggie cornered Scully between the sink and the drain rack. “So what brings the two of you here? Might there be some news?”

“Mom,” Scully started, but then cracked, not able to hold back the disappointment, “It didn’t take. I’m not going to be a mother.” Her mother had looked so excited that it almost broke Scully to see the features in her face fall and her shoulders slump. 

“Honey,” Maggie said, bringing her into her arms, letting her cry.

The ice maker thumped from the fridge alerting them to its presence and Scully sniffled. “I’m all right. I’ll be okay.” 

“Dana,” she said, as Scully backed away from their embrace. “You’re allowed to not be okay. How is Fox handling this? I’m here if either of you ever want to talk. It wouldn’t hurt to talk with a priest. Even a counsellor. There’s couples counseling..”

“Mom, mom,” Scully hugged her again. “Thank you. I know. Mulder and I don’t have that kind of relationship. We are good friends.”

“Dana, don’t be naive. You asked him to be the father of your child. He was preparing for that and now he has to accept that the outcome has changed. He’s not going to let on because he cares for you, because he’ll want to be strong for you, but he’s mourning too.”

Scully felt the wrath of her decisions needling its way inside.  “I-I feel like I disappointed you. You’ll have no grandchildren from me.”

“Honey, I have grandchildren and it’s not to say that you will never have children. God will answer your prayers in ways you may not be able to imagine. Never give up on a miracle.”

Scully squinted and tilted her head slightly.  “That’s the same thing Mulder said to me.”

“He’s a wise man, Dana. You should listen.” Maggie lifted the tray of freshly baked cookies and headed out to the dining room. “Let’s go, we’re being rude.”

Maggie poured the coffee and Mulder snagged two cookies. “Mrs. Scully, this was incredible. I almost can’t eat another bite,” he said with his mouth full, the chocolate oozing from the corner of his lips. He wiped it with his pinky laughing at his eagerness, using a napkin to clean the rest off his face.

After dessert and idle conversation, they stood to leave, Scully hugged her mother and walked ahead to the car. Maggie pulled Mulder aside. “I know this is hard for you too. I know you wanted this baby.”

Mulder tightened his upper lip and his shoulders drooped giving the appearance of a bird nesting on a branch. “I want what’s best for Scully. Right now I’m just making sure she knows I’m here and I support her.”

“I know, Fox,” she said, rubbing his forearm, her warm touch providing solace. “You and Dana are very good at carrying your burdens, but no matter the arrangement, your heart was preparing for you to be a father.” 

His eyes burned. Looking into Maggie staring woefully at him everything seemed very real. The pain cutting through his heart and mind, demanding attention, stinging with every breath he took. 

If Scully couldn’t have a child, then neither could he. The onesies, the star mobile, and the soft yellow blanket would remain tucked in the back of his closet to gather layers of dust. Maggie held out her arms, he bent down to hug her and leaned his head on her shoulder. Her comforting hand stroked his hair and squeezed his back. Breathing in her Wind Song perfume he could almost hear the mediocre wedding band and feel the pain from pinched cheeks telling him how much he had grown. 

She pulled back with a reassuring smile. “Don’t let this get between the two of you, Fox. God is listening and he will provide.”

 Days Later..

 A few drops of crimson on cotton and Scully had to draw back tears. It should not have been a surprise. The natural result of her and Mulder’s attempts. The answer to a prayer. She knew it would arrive eventually, but even though she was expecting it, she wasn’t expecting its symbolism to hurt so much. She was at work, in a cold metal stall of the lady’s restroom. Her body trembled as she sucked in a breath and headed out. There was no reason to get  upset anymore. There was nothing to be done. No baby. A future of great uncertainty.  

When she returned to the office, Mulder lifted his head away from his computer screen. “I’ve been researching reports of a vampiric witch roaming Olympic National Park.”

“Fangs and all?” Scully asked, suddenly amused, and relieved to send her mind elsewhere. That was what she needed, to focus on the work. “Acts like an ordinary person, has no discernible creature features,” Mulder explained and she could hear that underlying excitement. “At night, however,” Mulder said, putting a little sing song for dramatic effect at the end of his voice that put a smile on Scully’s face, “it prowls the graveyards in search of entrails so it can create a libation that allows it to shapeshift. If it cannot get the entrails it needs it hunts the bedrooms of the local townspeople.”

“And local law enforcement? What’s there take on this?”

Mulder picked up a pencil to twiddle between his fingers and propped his feet up on the corner of the desk. “Their take is it’s your run of the mill serial killer that is looking to distract everyone by imitating the myth.”

“Even if a vampire witch did exist, why would it need to shapeshift?”

Mulder sat up in his chair and leaned forward. “Those that believe, think it does so to combat being enslaved… by aliens.” 

Scully stopped reviewing her lab results and lowered the page to get a good look at Mulder to make sure he wasn’t putting her on. 

“I understand your doubts… and if you’re open to it, we could take a trip to Bali,” he suggested and Scully could see the emerald glow in his hazel eyes. “You could bring your snorkel and we could learn the roots of the lore.” Mulder rose from his chair to face her. He cupped her cheek and locked their eyes, gently swiping at the stain from one of the twin tears that had trickled down her face. “We can step away from this case if you’re not ready,” he said in low tones, “There’s another case within driving distance.”

Scully slowly shook her head and took a half step back out of his reach, her eyes lowering from his gaze. She stiffened. It was the first time they had touched since their night together. The first inkling either of them gave that anything at all had transpired between them or about their loss. With nothing left to do or say they just pushed forward. 

“There’s no need to travel to Bali. We’ll do both cases.” She joined his eyes only for a moment, raising the file in her hand. “I need to get these to the lab. There are further tests I’d like them to conduct and while I’m down there they asked for my help. Can you arrange our airfare?”

“Sure,” Mulder murmured  with a concerned look on his face that almost made Scully sprint rather than walk out of the office. All she really needed right now was to work.

 Ten Days Later...

 “Will you be eating tonight?” Mulder asked,  skulking around the back area of the office, rummaging through the cabinets. It was all very curious. Was he looking for something or hiding it?

“What? Yes, of course,” Scully answered, his questions as peculiar as his behavior. She walked over to where he was hovering and placed her notes from the last meeting in her drawer. His stare unnerved her, she could feel the pressure of his question like an overinflated balloon pressing against a bed of nails.

“I was thinking of ordering a pizza and I was thinking that I’ll probably have a few slices left over,” he said, cooly.

“I’m sorry, tonight is not a good night for me.” 

“Okay.” Mulder said, his bottom lip poked out past his top. “Another night.” He walked back to his desk and shook his mouse, taking the screen out of safe mode. Great, he was hurt.

“I’ve decided to start making healthier food choices,” she offered as an alternative excuse. It happened to be true. That and avoiding being with him alone at the late hours of the evening.  

“I can stop at the pet store on my way home. Pick up some rabbit food.”

He wasn’t giving up. She walked around his desk to hand him his summary notes and Mulder minimized his screen. A branding iron couldn’t have made her hotter then what he had been looking at. “No need to hide it. I saw the screen. Research?” she asked, tapping her foot with her hands at her hips.

He rotated the chair so he could look her dead in the eye, crossing his arms. “What if I can track down more vials? What if there is viable ova out there?”

She had been incorrect. A steam engine was hotter, and she could almost feel that steam rising from her ears. “And today you decide to pick up this crusade? You were there through everything that had happened with Emily and you never said a word.”

He ran a hand through his hair and scratched the back of his head. “You’re right.”

“You took that chance away from me.” Red lightning filled her sclera, her irises burning hot blue flames. “Tell me Mulder, have you really asked yourself why you agreed to be my donor?”

Mulder bolted from the chair. His jaw rocked and he lurched forward as if to challenge, but then left the office with her standing there, alone, wrapped in a translucent blanket of uncomfortable silence. 

 

That Night..

Scully’s knuckles dropped three solid thuds against the hard wood. Against all judgement and possessed by what she didn’t know, Scully stood fidgeting, excuses at the ready. She reviewed her apology speech in her head hoping he would forgive her earlier cruelty. The heavy brass deadbolt clanked back into its shell and Mulder’s door rushed open. He initially looked surprised, but as their eyes met, the tension before was replaced with a new heat. Her heart ached from the distance she had created. She needed to feel their impenetrable bond every time their eyes met. He sent a hand through her hair and pulled her into the apartment, kicking the door closed with his foot. Her back slammed against it so hard she lost half her breath. The other half was taken by Mulder as he covered her mouth with his and sucked it away. His long thin muscled body hard against her. His tongue demanding the fire from her body. He tasted like midnight and shadows, mysterious and sublime. The smell of rain, thunder, gunpowder. The Darkness coated them, an old black and white played softly from the television, pulsing its hues around them. Their bodies so immediately intertwined and so caught up in passion the clothes on the lower half of her body peeled off almost by telepathy. The hasty sound of his zipper burned her with desire. With a swift thrust, he was inside her, her nails digging into the soft cotton fabric of his shirt, hoping to withstand the pleasure of his cock hard and heavy, reaching into the most salacious and esoteric parts of her. Mulder was so thick and long that when he pushed all the way into her, she could feel the tip brushing the end of her, demanding even more, while his hard pubic bone pounded against her clit sending shockwaves of its own. He grabbed the curve of her behind and drove steadily into her sleek, tight canal, undulating his hips with solid, rhythmic thrusts. Oh that luxurious wonderous cock. It stretched her wide, and she melded so tight around it. Like everything else on Mulder, lanky and strong-willed and needing of her attention. And what she needed was their raw, rough, passionate connection to take her away from the peril and torment that had quickly become her life. 

Scully strained, desperate to thrust against him, to match his pace, but he had her pinned to the door. Mulder controlled the motion, controlled her pleasure, and she willingly surrendered, loving the devoted look in his eyes, the way his body shook in her arms as he did. The heat of their breaths filling the gaps between them, wrapping them inside a steamy cocoon. They were forgiving the other, caring and desperate to heal. What they both failed to express with words, their bodies could perfectly articulate; making it clear just how badly they yearned for one another. 

Mulder groaned, his fingers gripping hard into the flesh of her ass, pistoning in and out in a quick barrage of strokes. Without warning she skyrocketed to a peak, her muscles clenching and releasing in quick succession as she came hard around him. The sensations kept going, lingering, building again and Scully moaned aloud, the pleasure so intense, almost too much to take. A desperate sound that was almost a growl rose deep in Mulder’s throat and he quickly joined her. How she relished that feeling of him coming, the throbbing contractions at his base, vibrating his shaft to fill her hot and fast. 

He kissed her slowly, gently, his swollen lips brushing over hers again and again, pushing against them so his tongue could caress hers. A smile grew at the corners of his mouth as his lips softly departed. “Did you miss me?” he asked, smug and rhetorically. He headed to the bathroom and called out, “You’re not going to come and go, are you?”

Unbeknownst to him, Scully had already picked up the crumpled clothes at her feet and dressed. She wanted to say something, but she had nothing to say. She didn’t want to discuss it, she just wanted to leave. So she left, Mulder calling her name from the bedroom. She knew she was running from something she had to soon face, but what was she to tell him? That depression filled her the moment it was over until she was drowning in it? That the ineffectual absurdity of the act plummeted down like a cement block tethered to her ankle, sending her deeper towards the bottom until she was unable to see any daylight? The button of the elevator lit as her manicured nail caused it to recede. The floors denoted their names with each illuminated number and Scully’s shoe began to tap as if it might move it along. Nervously, she felt for her keys. When she didn’t feel the cold metal or hear their familiar jingle she checked her other pockets, over and over. Digging and patting. Shit. They must have fallen out on the floor in Mulder’s apartment. The hallway felt as if it had stretched walking back to number 42, her heels rapping a foreboding echo. The loud churning above the groaning radiator pipes she soon realized was the nerves of her stomach. 

The door not yet locked by Mulder, she turned the knob hoping to sneak them out, but Mulder poked his head from the kitchen. “I’m heading to bed, suddenly I’m feeling very drained,” he said, his tongue bulging the side of his right cheek.

Not quite sure how to proceed she followed him into the kitchen and watched him pour himself a glass of water from the faucet. Even though years had passed since his episode of grand hallucinations, he still hesitated right before he let it slide down his throat. He took another glass from the cabinet. “Water?”

Scully shrugged and Mulder filled it. The glass cool in her hand. He left her in the kitchen and paused before opening his bedroom door, turning his head to lock their eyes and send an irresistible electric pulse to her heart. “Coming?”

*

Scully woke to the rising and falling of Mulder’s chest against her back, their breaths falling naturally in unison. They were clasped to each other, Mulder sharing his body heat as easy as he shared his heart. Yet she felt like poison ivy covered her skin, and an invisible belt cinched at her neck. Lately, her eyes fluttered open in the mornings to his embrace or thoughts of him, his work dominated her, every opinion, hypothesis and theory, challenged and cross referenced by his own beliefs, and at night her body craved him, and in her dreams her mind played in a future it dared not venture in the light. Mulder had leaked in every crack and crevice of her life. 

Like a wolverine or stealth fighter jet, Scully stealthily snuck out of Mulder’s apartment without him stirring. By the time she drove across town and showered, she was already late. She picked out another turtleneck sweater, they were both tearing through their collections given their propensities to play Dracula on each other’s neck. Luckily there was never any exsanguinating, just a few bursted capillaries between good friends. Last night she didn’t recall either of them doing an imitation of a Hoover, but she preferred not to take her chances. Shuffling into her coat at 8:50am meant Mulder would have to cover for her if Skinner decided to request their assistance. Before even stepping into the hallway, a newspaper caught her eye. One she did not subscribe, but what grabbed her attention was the photograph and the article about God’s healing power. Down the hallway she scanned, but she was the only one blessed with the paper and no paperboy to thank.

Hours later, Scully returned to the office having met the miracle boy and his family, and the cigarette smoking man looking for a light and salvation. Mulder hadn’t returned, and most likely, if she had to guess, had gotten caught up with The Lone Gunman trying to trace the email address it all had originated from. That probably took them into who knows how many directions and conspiracies. She didn’t pick up the phone to dial Mulder and tell him of the experience she had this morning. Something stopped her. Was it that she wanted to deal with this issue without his overbearing perspective, or that she feared the Smoking Man might hold true to his threat of dying with the technology, or perhaps she was rebelling, their relationship smothering her as she struggled to understand how to live the rest of her life knowing now she would not bear children. 

Not wanting to deal with any of those possibilities, she picked up the phone. Then hung it up. That might not be wise to call him directly if it was a setup. Instead, she traced the number to see for herself where evil resided. 

The Smoking Man had not lied to her about Samantha being dead. Not this time around anyway. She believed him that he was dying after seeing him a few times. Was it that far fetched that at his deathbed he decided to leave those that remained a cure for cancer? Was it that unbelievable that he trusted her with the science and not Mulder? Armed with a wire and a need for her own answers she dialed the phone and left a message on Mulder’s machine full of half truths. It was a family emergency after all. She just didn’t say specifically which side of the family.

Mulder’s voice rang true into her answering machine, beckoning her with throaty emotion. It felt like utter betrayal to leave him in the lurch and plan a weekend getaway with his arch nemesis. It was almost like something outside of her body was driving her.

*

“Hello.” Mrs. Scully answered her phone and Mulder felt the pangs of dread if she didn’t know where Scully really was. The last thing he wanted to do was have her worrying, but he had to know.

“Mrs. Scully,” Mulder replied, “It’s Mu-Fox. How are you?”

“I’m just fine Fox, is everything okay? And please, call me Maggie.”

“Scully had left a message on my answering machine about a family emergency?”

“She did? That’s odd. No. I spoke with her two days ago. I asked her about you, did she tell you?”

“Not yet, but thank you. So you haven’t seen or spoken with Scully yesterday or today?”

“No. Do you think she is in trouble?”

“She didn’t answer her cell phone when I called, but she left a message on my answering machine saying she would be gone for a few days.”

“That is strange. She didn’t tell me anything about it. If I hear from her you’ll be the first to know.”

“It’s just not like her to lie to me.”

“It’s not another man, if that’s what you’re concerned about. There’s only you Fox.”

Mulder chuckled. “Thanks. My mind is at ease.”

“Just give her a little time, she’ll come around.”

“Okay, Maggie. Thanks.”   

 

Two Days Later..

How could she be so naïve? Three whole days. No contact. To discover she willingly went with him . Spent the night. His fists clenched against the steering wheel, he was a time bomb about to explode. He took a breath to calm himself. “Scully, I know you had good intentions.” He sent his tongue hard into his cheek, then wet his lips, shook his head. “I know how convincing he can be.” He gritted his teeth and wrung the plastic at the steering wheel. “I know all about believing his lies. I just- I wish you would have come to me.”

“I already explained to you that I couldn’t.” She looked at him and he nodded, sending his tongue back tight into his cheek. “This was something I felt I had to pursue,” she added, then looked back out the passenger window at the darkening sky. They were only a couple miles from her apartment. A few more traffic lights and they’d be there.

Hm. He squirmed in his seat and fought to keep his cool. “I would imagine. It’s a doctor’s dream to be able to cure any patient.” He paused and stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “For you to have that kind of power. Perhaps he knows you better than I thought he did.”  Mulder breathed in sharply, and held it a few seconds, shaking his head, then spewed, “Then again, you two have been seeing a lot of each other lately.”

Scully sat quietly, crossing her legs so that her back was almost to him. Her eyes were daggers, but she kept them pointed at the window. He instantly regretted his words, but he also couldn’t help but think, what if something irreversible had happened? Dammit he always had to push it. “You said he had inflammation on the brain?” he asked, trying to change the subject. 

Scully’s face softened and she sent her eyes to her lap. “Yes, from the brain surgery. He said he only has months to live. Sounds like the surgery was less than successful.”

“Unless it was too successful,” Mulder added. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. They should change the subject. “I read the emails between yourself and Cobra. At least The Smoking Man and Cobra. Cobra had quite a crush on you.”

“What?” Now she turned to face him.

“Yes, and the correspondence made it sound as though you might reciprocate.”

“Mulder, I knew nothing..”

“I know.. but for a split second, I almost believed that you did.”

“That must have been difficult.”

Mulder said nothing. Deciding against mentioning that once The Lone Gunman proved her email had been hijacked, his next picture in his mind was her being held against her will. How wrong he had been.  

“Mulder,” Sculled said, laying her hand on top of his, softening his edges. “Why am I still alive?”

He sighed and squeezed her hand. “I really believe the plan was for you to be killed. I think he looked into your eyes and it was just as you said. He longed for something he could never have. You made him a better person.”  He took his eyes off the road to look into her own. “I know how you’re able to do that.” He sighed again and looked up at the sky to see the stars still shining, blurring as his eyes welled up. He wanted to hold her close and push her away simultaneously.

Read more here

[team-free-will-oneshots]

"Screw people.”

Title: “Screw People.” Requests:  Could you please do a shy hunter reader that’s a bookworm and doesn’t talk much with both him and the reader starting to get crushes on each other - @hford0311 and also; Dean request, if you want. In a bar/club, protecting the reader from jackasses, goes wrong when Dean gets kicked out, expects reader to go back into bar. Reader leaves with Dean? If you want to that is :) - @brokencasbutt67-writer Pairing: Dean x Reader Warnings: alcohol mentions, cursing, canon-typical violence, sexual harassment Word Count: 3.5k

note; i loved both of these requests and saw them fitting well together, hope u guys enjoy !! (also i was listening to this version of ‘iris’ by the goo goo dolls while writing the ending in the Impala, could be cool to listen to while reading if u want!)

alsoooo sorry this has taken so long to get up, thank you so much to the people who requested this for their patience!!!! xxxx

Masterlist

Finally, you were alone.

The mood was set, scented candles wafting lavender smoke into the air as you settled back onto the bed, a coy smile carving your expression as you turned down the fresh sheets. A blissful sigh fell through your parted lips as you stretched out your arm, fingers grasping and searching until finally, they found it - the object that had been at the back of your mind all day, tinging every thought, spurring every movement...

You pulled the hardcover edition of your favourite book into your lap, a grin splitting your face as you snuggled beneath your duvet and ardently threw open the novel to the page you had marked all-too-long ago. The tantalising rustling of pages paired with the familiar musk of a well-loved book served to eagerly drag you into the story’s depths, and suddenly you felt like a child again; tucked beneath your blankets well after bedtime, eyes straining in the dim light as you hungrily devoured a new story, pages flying as you frantically read, drinking in the fresh plot and bubbling with excitement over the adventures of the characters as you escaped into a fantasy world all your own, if only for a few hours.

The hunting life allowed little time for the simple pleasures of life - between the constantly switching monster of the week, paired with the looming threats that always overshadowed those associated with the Winchester brothers, you’d barely had a moment to yourself in weeks. And so, the moment the boys declared it was time for a break, you were snatching your favourite book from where it had been gathering dust on your shelf, bracing yourself to forget the outside world and the troubles it held, to escape into a world where a happy ending was guaranteed, where you weren’t destined to lose all those you cared for.

That was the beauty of books, you reasoned. You near always knew what to expect. Heroes meeting and facing adversaries, learning lessons about themselves and their relationships, and by the end of it all, finding some semblance of fulfilment or at the very least, closure. And of course, you weren’t one to complain about a touch of romance thrown in along the way.

Life had no such guidelines, especially the hunting life; no promises of happiness, of even making it past the next week. People were even less predictable; at least books were easy to read. Life’s characters were far less easy to understand. Perhaps that was why you insisted on avoiding them as vehemently as you did - books were your comfort, and all people had given you thus far was grief.

“Hey, Y/N, you busy?”

Well… maybe not all people.

You held up your book wordlessly, nose still buried beneath the pages as you ignored Dean Winchester’s query. He chuckled, leaning against the doorway.

“Whatcha reading?” he asked, peering at the cover as he sauntered into the room. You sighed, keeping your page with your thumb as you let the book fall shut around your fingers.

“Old favourite,” you explained. Dean nodded appreciatively.

“Cool. Well, just wanted to say hey - you did a great job on the hunt today, by the way,” he informed you, flashing you a proud smile that had you fighting to ignore the butterflies in your stomach, the slight acceleration of your heart. 

“O-oh. Thanks, but… I don’t think it was anything too spectacular,” you protested weakly, a nervous chuckle escaping you as you fiddled idly with the pages of your book. Dean shrugged.

“Hey, you got the job done - Sam and I woulda been toast without you,” he said. “You should give yourself some credit.”

You allowed a smile. “Thanks,” you tentatively replied, voice small. Dean held your gaze a moment longer, eyes heavy with an emotion you couldn’t quite place, before he cleared his throat and ducked his head.

“Look, uh- Sam and I are headed out tonight. Nothing fancy, just headed to the bar, some celebratory hey-we-killed-a-nest drinks, you know the drill. You can- you can come with us, if you want,” he invited. You laughed dryly.

“Thanks, but… I don’t think that’s really my scene,” you said. “Being surrounded by people? Not my thing.”

Dean shook his head in amusement. “I can’t believe how shy you are - you just took out those vamps like it’s nothing, Y/N. That’s pretty damn impressive,” he commended. “You have nothing to be shy about - you’re a total badass. If anyone has the right to be a cocky son-of-a-bitch, it’s you.”

You hid your smile as you glanced down to the book in your lap, fingertips nervously rubbing over the paper, curling it beneath your touch.

“I think you have enough cockiness for the both of us,” you said, sending him a shy grin. He snorted.

“Yeah, maybe. Well, offer still stands - Sam and I are leaving in fifteen,” he told you, straightening up and casting you once last, lingering glance as he headed towards the door. Your awaiting novel itched in your hands, eager to be read, but you paused as Dean hovered uncertainly for a moment by the doorway, as if locked in an internal debate.

“Hey, Dean?” you asked quietly, the words flying from your lips before you could halt them. That was the thing about Dean - talking to people wasn’t always easy for you, but something about the eldest Winchester set you at ease in a way no one else could ever hope to. He turned around immediately.

“Yeah?”

You tore your gaze from his jade eyes, though you felt the raise of goosebumps along your skin as he kept his soft stare trained on you. You flushed, tucking your hair behind your ear, cold fingers discordant against the heat of your cheeks.

“You ever think… sometimes monsters are easier to deal with than people?”

Dean frowned, ambling over to your bed and perching himself at its edge, only a few feet away from you. He shrugged. “Sometimes, sure - but people… people you can reason with. They have… morals, you know? A code. Means they can be scarier, sure, when they decide not to care - but when they do care, it’s…” Dean’s eyes flickered from yours to the ground, and he licked his lips as he chuckled breathlessly. “When you find someone to care about… I can’t imagine anything better,” he said, his eyes darting up to your own. You found yourself locked under the vice of his gaze, his expression softening with a flicker of vulnerability before he cleared his throat and broke the trance. “Why’d you ask?”

You released a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding. “I dunno. I guess, just- what you were saying earlier, about being a good hunter? It’s because monsters are easier. I get monsters - most of them don’t think too hard - all instinct, y’know? But people are… people are manipulative. They judge and they hate and they hurt, I just… with monsters, I know what I’m getting. People are a lot harder to trust,” you explained. Dean nodded slowly.

“Yeah. Yeah, I get that, but… ah, you’re probably right. Screw people,” he said with a cheeky grin. “But it’s not like you need to stay in contact with everyone you meet. Sometimes fun can just be… fun. Doesn’t need to be serious,” he told you, though there was a trepidatory edge to his playful tone. “You should come out tonight - let loose for once. You deserve it.”

An amused hum fell vibrated in your throat. “I dunno, I’m an all-in kinda person,” you mumbled, and you saw a small smile tilt the corner of Dean’s lips.

“Yeah. Me too.”

You scoffed. “You, really? Mr Different-Girl-Every-Night? You’re a serial flirt,” you teased, and he smiled, shaking his head.

“Yeah, but there’s a difference between a fling and actually getting to know someone - I dunno if you’ve noticed, but sometimes it feels like I care a little too much.” His smile died, and he quickly shook his head, throwing up another grinning facade. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your nerdiness.” He cast a pointed glare at your book. “Seeya later.”

Dean left, the bedsprings jumping back into place as he picked himself up from the seat, traipsing through the door and leaving you with sweaty palms and a stomach full of butterflies. You watched as he left, eyes lingering a moment too long on the empty doorway before you turned your attention back to the novel in your lap.

You wanted to read, you really did - but it seemed no matter how hard you tried, the words would blur into an incomprehensible mass that your eyes instinctively skimmed, only for you to reach the end of the page without having understood any of it at all. After a few failed attempts at reading the same few lines over, you sighed in defeat, setting the book aside as you leaned back against the headrest.

Maybe Dean was right - maybe you should give ‘people’ another chance. Maybe it was time to put your incessant shyness and distrust behind you, to ‘let loose’, as Dean had so aptly described it. 

Dean…

You thought of the warmth of his smile, the vibrant ringing of his laugh, the coy smiles he’d shoot you when no one else was looking… the idea of going out was sounding more and more appealing.

And so, you decisively marched to the library, where Dean was grabbing Baby’s keys as Sam shrugged on his jacket. The sound of your footsteps had both their eyes jumping towards you, and you could’ve sworn you saw a flicker of hope in Dean’s surprised expression.

“Hey, uh, I was thinking that I might take you up on that offer, Dean,” you said, extending a wry smile. “Mind if I come?”

Dean’s mouth opened and closed silently, before he finally nodded. “I-uh- yeah, of course!” he exclaimed, just as shocked at your decision to step out of your comfort zone as you were. “What changed your mind?”

You shrugged, looking down at your feet as you scuffed the floor with the toe of your boot. “Maybe I should give people a chance - you’re right, I should let loose every now and then,” you said, tone clouded with false certainty. Dean frowned, but let your uncertainty slide as his concerned expression was replaced with an encouraging smile.

“Great, finally a drinking partner who can keep up with me,” he quipped, shooting a glare at Sam, who rolled his eyes.

“Hey, someone has to drive you home when you’re plastered,” Sam countered. You laughed, the uneasy atmosphere dissipating as the three of you walked to the car. Dean shot you a wolfish grin, and the warm sensation that buzzed in your chest had you certain that you were making the right choice.

What was the worst that could happen?

---

Turned out, the ‘worst’ had a name - it was Brandon. You knew this only because he refused to let you forget it.

“Come on, sweet cheeks, let me buy you a drink,” he coaxed, words stumbling into one another as his hot breath rolled over your face, reeking of beer as he leaned in uncomfortably close on clumsy feet. 

“Uh, I’m good, thanks,” you replied, throwing him a distasteful, uncertain glance as you took a step back. Your eyes flitted over to the bar, where Sam was talking to a girl and Dean was grabbing drinks for the both of you. Catching your glance, his brow furrowed, eyes narrowing as he noticed your company.

‘You okay?’ he mouthed. You managed to give him a tight-lipped smile and a short nod before Brandon was dragging your attention back to him.

“Oh, come on, don’t be like that, baby,” he slurred, leaning forward so that his face was inches from yours. “It’s just one drink.”

You took another step back. “Like I said, I’m good,” you insisted, though your voice came out small and hesitant. You gritted your teeth as he snorted scornfully, and your hand balled into your fist at your side as he sauntered forwards once more. Though you weren’t necessarily one for confrontation, you had no qualms about putting this asshole in his place. Barely twenty-four hours ago you’d single-handedly taken on three vampires - you were pretty sure you could handle an overeager drunken bastard.

Before you had the chance to put him in his place, however, Brandon was being shoved away from you by a familiar pair of toned arms. 

“They’re not interested, jackass,” Dean growled, taking a protective stance over you that you comfortably settled into. The drunk stumbled back, mouth falling open in outrage.

“Who asked you, huh?” he challenged, and Dean chuckled, shaking his head as he ran his tongue along his teeth. You could see his hands curled into white-knuckled fists at his side.

“I think a better question is; why can’t you take no for an answer? They said they’re good, man. Give it a rest,” Dean spat through clenched teeth. Brandon snorted.

“Mind your own fucking business, dick,” he snarled. “You want ‘em all to yourself, huh? Selfish prick.”

Dean scoffed, shaking his head with a grim smile, and for a moment you thought he was going to turn away… until he slammed his fist into your harasser’s jaw with a hard crack that made even you wince.

When Brandon arose, he was nursing a red jaw and a bleeding nose, but the red fluid trickling across his lips and staining his chin did nothing to mask the pure hatred etched into his expression as he lunged at Dean. The eldest Winchester blocked him easily, grabbing his wrist and slamming his face into a nearby booth table. There was a flurry of movement and shouts as Dean landed another punch to the man’s cheek, pressing him into the table with his arms locked behind his back.

“Apologise,” Dean demanded, and Brandon gasped for air.

“I’m sorry, man, I’m sorry!” he exclaimed. Dean kneed him, and the man grunted in pain.

“Not to me, idiot. To them,” he hissed, nodding towards where you stood with wide eyes and brow half-cocked in appreciation at Dean’s strength as he held the bulky man down like he weighed nothing. 

“I’m sorry! Christ, let me go, please!” he said frantically. 

“Dean, what the hell!” Sam’s voice interjected from behind you, and suddenly a bouncer was peeling Dean from his bruised and bloody opponent.

“Time to go,” he said in a gruff voice. Sam stepped forward, and the bouncer shot him a look.

“He with you?”

“Look, we don’t want any trouble-” Sam began, but Dean made a sound of angered amusement.

“Speak for yourself, Sammy,” he muttered, still glaring daggers at Brandon. Dean caught your eye as the bouncer dragged him outside, and the last you saw of him before he was tossed outside was his cocky wink. You chuckled to yourself as Sam quirked an eyebrow.

“What the hell happened?”

You shook your head, walking to a window and watching as Dean paced before finally heading towards the parked Impala. 

“Guy was a dick - he deserved it,” you said, watching as Dean wiped his bloody knuckles on his jacket. “Look, I think I’m gonna head off with Dean,” you added, and Sam cast you a concerned expression.

“Do you want me to come?” he asked, though you could hear the reluctance in his tone as he glanced back at the girl he’d been talking with, who was still waiting for him by the bar. You smirked.

“Nah, I’m good - you go have some fun,” you teased, giving Sam a playful smile that he sheepishly returned.

“Alright. Seeya later, Y/N.”

Sam left, and you braved the cool night air as you walked to the Impala. The tail lights were on but the engine was off, the car sitting perfectly still in the parking lot. As you approached, the music from the bar echoed distantly behind you, captured by the walls and bouncing hollowly into the darkness, fading into nothing but a thumping bass and a vague suggestion of guitar and vocals.

You tried the passenger door. Locked. You tapped on the window, and watched as Dean leaned across the seat to unlatch it. The moment it swung open you slipped inside, the familiar scent of leather overruling the pollution and alcoholic odour the car park carried. The door fell shut with a heavy click, blocking any lingering traces of music from your ears. 

The two of you sat in silence for a moment, hearing only the haggard sounds of one another’s breathing and the light static of the radio. You glanced over at Dean.

“How’s your hand?” you asked. Dean laughed darkly.

“Fine,” he told you, but extended his hand towards you when you raised a quizzical brow. You tenderly took his palm against your own, turning over his fist to look at his knuckles - red and raw and tender, but nothing serious. Instead of releasing him from your grip, you gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and Dean tentatively raised his gaze to yours. 

“I could’ve handled that guy, y’know,” you told him sternly. Dean ducked his head guiltily.

“Yeah, I know, it was just… the way he was treating you…” He trailed off, a weighted sigh heaving from his lips as he shook his head to himself. “You didn’t deserve that. No one does, but… especially not you. I… got angry.”

You smiled wryly. “Bit of an understatement,” you said, and he laughed, genuinely this time.

“Yeah, maybe,” he allowed. “Look, I don’t think I’m welcome here tonight - I’m gonna head home. Just… give me a call when you wanna be picked up.”

“Nah, I’m ready to call it a night, too,” you said, leaning back into the seat. Dean looked at you in surprise.

“What? What happened to getting loose, giving people a chance, all that crap? Seriously, I don’t think you need to worry about that jackass - I doubt that dickhead will ever approach another person in his life,” he said seriously, and you laughed.

“Yeah, I doubt it - but I don’t think I’m really in the mood to let my hair down,” you replied, amused.

“Wait, what? But we were having such a good time!” he countered, and you met his eyes again, nodding.

“Yeah - we were. Screw other people, Dean. I thought I needed to act like someone I’m not to be happy - someone I thought I should be. But… partying? Being around a whole bunch of strangers? That’s not me, Dean. I… I don’t need to surround myself with people to be happy, it’s not in my nature. I just need… a few people I really care about,” you said, giving him a tiny smile and a pointed look.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he murmured. “Y/N… sweetheart, you never need to make yourself uncomfortable because you feel like that’s how you ‘should be.’ You… damn, Y/N, you might be shy, but it’s frickin’ adorable,” he said playfully, and you laughed, elbowing him gently as you ducked your head in embarrassment, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“I mean it, Y/N - you’re… you’re fucking amazing,” Dean breathed, and your laughter died as his eyes found yours again. He held your gaze, and you felt his eyes burning into your soul, piercing through your quiet front and seeing you for you in a way that no one else ever had.

And suddenly, he was kissing you.

His breath was warm as it blended with yours, and he tasted of whiskey and moonshine as his large hand found your cheek, cradling it as though you were something easily broken. His chapped lips bit into your own and your leg cramped up as you twisted to press closer to him, but none of that seemed to matter as you lost yourself in the bliss of kissing Dean Winchester.

You pulled away, catching your breath and taking a moment to soothe your racing heart as you ran your hand along his jaw, his stubble grazing your fingertips as he closed his eyes beneath your loving touch. 

“So… you’re sure you don’t wanna go back in?” he checked, and you giggled, shaking your head.

“Definitely not,” you breathed, your breath fanning over his lips as you leaned your forehead against his. Dean melted against you, his arms looping around your waist and bringing you close to his chest.

“Good,” he murmured, “because I don’t think I can let you go until I get another kiss…” he said, raising a cocky eyebrow. You grinned.

“I think that could be arranged…” you purred, sealing your mouth against his.

Screw people, you thought as you lost yourself once again in Dean’s reverent touch. You had all you needed right here.

__________

Forever tags: @babygirloreo​ @calaofnoldor​ @lmpala97​ @sebastianshoe​ @81mysteriouslyme​ @castieliswatchingoverme​ @kina666​ @liviaolivia​ @simplyxparker​ @helpmeluci​ @demonsofhunting​ @bee-happy-buzz-on​ @lilulo-12​ @amandatar-06​

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If you want to be added to any tag lists just shoot me a message!

[acavatica]

i-wakeupstrange said:

i’m not including this in my review of the elevator fic because it was becoming its own huge, ridiculous tangent, but in short: it’s now my headcanon that Marco is into anime (OF COURSE why didn’t I realize sooner) and in a roundabout way that’s Peter’s doing. (he’s a little old for NGE but, I think, about the right age to have gotten real into, say, Robotech. and decide to show his son these shows. because he’s a Cool Dad. or tried to be before... you know.)

Peter told himself that he was watching cartoons because of the baby, but also all the baby books he’d tried to force Eva to read had said that babies have about a foot of vision and see colors like a dog. Then he told himself that he was watching cartoons because the bright colors and laser sounds kept him awake. At least that wasn’t a complete lie. 

The full truth was that he thought Robotech was cool. It was serialized, which was more than he could say for any American TV shows. It wasn’t as if Peter could read Dune with a baby in his arms no matter how much he wanted to, even if he’d missed the last two books and another was coming out later that year. And it wasn’t as if Peter could read Dune anyway since he was off Ritalin again, but that was neither here nor there. TV shows would catch up to book series eventually.

The fact that it had a story he could follow was just a bonus. The real draw of Robotech was that it aired in marathons in the middle of the night. That was a lot less likely to wake up his ten-week-old than changing his Doctor Who tapes every four episodes. Plus, he’d had to pay someone on USENET to ship the tapes all the way from Brighton. If he wore them out, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to find the guy ripping VHS tapes on net.tv.drwho again.

Eva’s alarm went off, muffled by the bedroom door. Peter closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the couch cushion. 5:30 already. He’d been letting her get most of the sleep to reimburse her for the whole pregnancy thing, but now that she was going back to work, he wouldn’t even have a choice.

He listened to her shuffle around the kitchen. He heard every step of her putting on a pot of coffee. Eva never did anything quietly, but it hadn’t taken him long to get used to it. After all, there was nothing more comforting than knowing his ever-so-slightly evil partner would at least never be able to sneak up on him. 

He opened his eyes to catch her shaking out her still-rumpled hair and stretching out the crick in her back. He heard that too, from all the way across the room. Another thing Peter was repaying her for. She saw him watching and closed the distance between them. Eva draped her elbows over the back of the couch and touched her cheek to Peter’s head. Peter took a deep breath, and he smelled her shampoo and the coffee and their new baby. 

Putting his PhD on hold was worth it.

Eva cocked her head to the side, rolling her chin over Peter’s forehead. “Wow, look at her hair. Japan really has progressive ideas about the meaning of ‘spiral curls.’” She walked around to the front of the couch, plopped down, and held out her arms. “Hand him over.”

Marco started whining almost immediately. 

“I’m surprised you know it’s Japanimation.”

Eva rolled her eyes. “We had Japanese cartoons in Mexico. And actually, the acting was way better than this.”

“Yeah, but were there giant fighting robots?”

“I dunno, this shit is for nerds.” Marco was still fussing in her arms, but she was looking down at him like she understood where he was coming from. “You’re gonna make our kid a nerd, aren’t you?”

Peter smiled. “I don’t know what you expected when you decided to have a baby with me.”

“Feh, yeah, ‘decided.’” Eva stretched her leg out and gave Peter’s knee a good nudge.

She pulled her leg back, crossed her ankles, and cradled Marco with her whole body. All three of them fell quiet, and Minmay sang Marco back to sleep.

⁠—⁠—⁠— 

Marco was born whining, and after four years, he still only stopped when he was asleep.

“Why do I have to do daycare?”

“You asked to watch Voltron. It’s the fifth time we’ve watched Voltron. Please watch Voltron.”

Marco bobbed his head back and forth as he quoted the onscreen conversation between Queen Merla and King Zarkon: “The chamber is full of quarks. ⁠— Quirks? ⁠— No, quarks. You see, everything is made of atoms, and all atoms are made of quarks. ⁠— Hm, nice, but how does it work? ⁠— Well, there are six kinds of quarks: up, down, top, bottom, strange. And my favorite kind, charmed.”

“Well. At least we can be sure you’re my kid. And Eva’s. And of why I like this show.”

“If you like it, don’t complain.”

Peter ran his hand over his hair and tried to ignore how thin it was getting. “Definitely Eva’s kid…” 

Marco rolled over closer to Peter and looked up at him pleadingly. “Whyyy do I have to do daycare?”

“Because,” Peter said reluctantly. “I finally finished school, and it was really hard, but I got a cool job out of it.”

Marco’s eyes basically tripled in size, and he poked out his lower lip. Definitely, 100% for sure, Eva’s kid. “But I’ll miss you.”

Peter sighed. “I’ll miss you too. But you’re starting school in the fall anyway, so think of it like practice.”

Marco crossed his arms and turned his eyes back to the TV. He stayed quiet for maybe a minute, long enough for the pilots to form Voltron. Without taking his eyes off the TV, he said, “What if they don’t know how to microwave Spaghetti-Os?”

“If there’s any lesson you have to learn, it’s that sometimes you have to settle for Spaghetti-Os that aren’t made by Chef Boyardee Champion of the World, Your Dad.”

“Spaghetti-Os aren’t even Chef Boyardee,” Marco mumbled.

Peter reached his leg over and nudged Marco’s knee with his foot. “Don’t you want to be brave like Lance?”

Marco pushed Peter’s foot away, crossed his arms again, and sank into the couch. “No. I wanna be diablo-lolical like Prince Lotor.”

“Well, Prince Lotor doesn’t even need his dad.”

Marco glanced over at Peter, and Peter grinned. Marco sank even further into the couch until his feet almost touched the floor.

⁠—⁠—⁠— 

The bluish glow of the TV cast long shadows across the room. There wasn’t much contrast because it was a pretty dark movie, but Marco was still illuminated against the dull, colorless room. The volume was only one notch above mute, but he was sitting on his knees, so close to the TV that he could almost make out every word. It’s not like the sound would have bothered his dad, even if he turned it all the way up. Marco kept it low so he could still hear Peter breathing, and even acknowledging that feeling ate away his insides.

It had been a whole year, and for a while Marco had tried not to think about how he was the only thing keeping his dad alive, in more ways than one. It got harder the longer Peter didn’t get better. Marco didn’t even have cable to distract himself from his messed up life. He just had the same old VHS tapes, and they’d had to donate a bunch of them to Goodwill when they’d moved. 

The box was still there, still packed and next to the TV, labeled in Marco’s sloppy kid handwriting. Peter hadn’t helped with the move⁠—it had mostly been Jake’s family and his mom’s relatives he’d never met and would probably never see again. Marco could still see his hands pulling the tapes off the shelves, sorting them, reading the labels in Peter’s sloppy grownup handwriting, and not being able to bear to throw away the memories of sitting between his mom and dad with popcorn in his lap, even if he might never be able to watch those tapes again.

There were only a few tapes scattered around the plastic milk crate the TV sat on. The rest were still in the box. Marco had gone through them dozens of times, and he was still limited to the few tapes he didn’t associate with a time when he had a family. 

He’d never watched Ghost in the Shell with his dad. That was probably a good thing, because there was a lot of nudity, and that was always awkward. There was also some gore, which Peter knew gave Marco nightmares, even if he pretended not to be scared. Marco had played the movie in front of Peter dozens of times anyway, but his eyes didn’t track it, and he didn’t tell Marco that he should turn it off, he was too young to see all these nipples.

Marco turned around, blinded from sitting so close to the TV. He didn’t need to see his dad. He knew he was curled in on himself, his face buried in the place where the back of the couch met the seat and the arm. There was no way to know if he was asleep or awake, and Marco wasn’t even sure those words had meaning in Peter’s life anymore.

“Hey Dad,” Marco said, his voice creaky, either from disuse, disgust, or some other kind of emotion. “What do you think about the whole brains jacking into the internet thing? Realistic? It seems like the kind of thing you’d have worked on.”  Marco listened to Peter’s breathing. It never changed. Marco could say anything. “You know. When you worked.”

Marco turned away, back to the TV. He pressed Stop, and the tape clicked off, flooding the room with light so bright and blue, it hurt his eyes. He pressed rewind and the whir of the tape drowned out Peter’s breathing. It was crazy, but as the VCR started to grind to the end of the tape, Marco was suddenly, irrationally, completely sure that when the tape stopped rolling, the room would be totally silent. His body flashed hot and then cold and his pulse pounded painfully in his temples.

The tape clicked off. Marco held his breath.

Peter breathed in. Out. In. Out.

Marco pressed play, turned the volume up a few more notches, and got to his feet. As he passed, he shoved his dad’s leg with his foot. He stood over him, waiting like he expected some kind of reaction. The TV lit up his motionless body in green, gray, white. The cyborg pulled the cables out of her neck and stood.

“If only someone would ghost hack you.”

Marco went into his bedroom⁠—the only bedroom⁠—and slammed the door.  

⁠—⁠—⁠— 

Marco’s back was flat against the dirt floor of the scoop, his head resting on his folded arms. His right leg was draped over Ax’s back and he’d slowly tangled his left leg up in Ax’s tail. Ax didn’t like that, and he knew Ax didn’t like it, and that’s why he’d taken it slow. He’d started by sticking his leg under Ax’s tail. He’d waited a couple weeks, and then he’d surreptitiously make a loop over the course of an hour. Now, after like a month of acclimating him, Ax’s tail was wrapped around Marco’s leg like a boa constrictor, and maybe Ax didn’t even notice.

He definitely noticed. Marco had just pulled off an incredible feat of exposure therapy. Ax just wasn’t allergic to how annoying Marco was anymore. Too bad the allergy was familial, and it was harder to wallow a hawk into submission.

<You’re not even watching,> Tobias complained.

Marco lolled his head to the side and pointed his eyes at the TV. “Why are you making me read TV, Tobias? The point of TV is to not have to read.”

<Subtitles are more authentic,> Tobias said, his voice dripping with condescension.

“But what about Ax? Poor Ax can’t read at all.”

<I can read,> Ax said, his voice a mixture of defensive and arrogant. <And even if I couldn’t, my translator chip has no trouble processing Japanese.> Snobbiness ran in their family too. 

“I’m just saying, I’d be able to pay more attention if I could understand the words and look at the pictures at the same time. You know, how it’s intended to be consumed?”

<It’s intended to be consumed in Japanese.> 

Marco rolled his eyes and sighed. It was the obnoxious kind of sigh, the voiced kind that’s practically a groan. “It’s just robots, dude, it’s not that serious.”

<Neon Genesis Evangelion is art, Marco,> Tobias said, ratcheting the pretension up to eleven. <It’s an exploration of how humanity would develop, given exposure to advanced alien technology in the face of an oncoming alien threat. And the only thing protecting humanity from annihilation is some teenagers with special powers. It’s like, relatable.> 

“Wow,” Marco said sarcastically. “Never seen anything like that before.” That was basically the plot of Robotech mixed with Voltron, but boring.

<I mean, you must have never seen anime before, or you’d know how terrible the English dubs are.>

Marco sat up on his elbows and narrowed his eyes. Ax tightened his tail ever so slightly around Marco’s leg, like he was trying to hold him back. Marco pulled his leg free. “That’s pretty funny, since how could you even have watched so much subbed anime when no one cared enough about you to buy you decent clothes or new shoes or Clearasil? Let alone to go out of their way to buy you anime, subtitled specifically, the way it’s intended, of course.”

Tobias stared at him. Ax stared at him. Hell, Shinji Ikari stared at him.

Marco couldn’t take even a minute of it. “Say something.”

<I just wanted to share something I like with you.> 

Tobias opened his wings, fluttered to the edge of the scoop entrance, and flew away.

Ax was still looking at him with all four eyes. Marco squirmed, but he pressed his lips into a line and didn’t break eye contact.

<That was too far,> Ax said finally, his voice more gentle than Marco deserved. <Why did you react so forcefully?>

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Marco leaned around Ax, grabbed the remote, and changed the audio to English. “Let’s just watch this dumb robot show.”

[1zashreena1]

Emotional Spanking -8

18+, m/f, technically OCxDiego Jimenez [Power]

Summary: Princess has an emotional epiphany, a panic attack, a visitor, and a pleasant disciplinary action. In that order. 

WARNINGS: Ridiculous descriptions and ‘the code is more like guidelines’ outlook on grammar. Is it OOC if the character was given essentially zero development in canon???

SMUT. SPANKING. FEELS. the L word, previously completed kink negotiations, plus size woman+fit man, soft!Diego, immediately followed by hard!Diego, overwhelmed Princess, He Licks Everything, is a relationship happening??, literally no one knows, not even them

A/N:  Princess took on a life of her own and has essentially become an OC. There are infrequent mentions of her description (specifically as plus size) and her actual name in later pieces (its Bicki). She started as self-insert so she looks like me (plus size, white, short, blue eyes, curly hair). If that is not your thing, I totally understand. And do not feel obligated to read this, I will not be offended!

I’m not a fan of “plot” so be aware that most of this series is just meandering through their relationship, angst-fluff-smut whiplash style. But with dick jokes.

This piece is my baby.  My heart is in this one.  You have been warned.

TAGLIST: @chelsfic​​​ @symbiont13​​​ @nicke0115​​​ @bunnykjm​​​ @rosee-sensuelle​​​ @girlpornparadise​​​ @mandoplease​​​ @heresathreebee​​​ @xxsteph-enrixx​​​ @jetiikad​​​ @joalsglasses​​​ @mutantcookiesecrets​​​ @demoncatstone​​​ @squidlywiddly87​​​ @lockedoutofmyotherblog​​ @poeedamerons​

Whoever is banging on your door at 6:45 on a Monday morning is relentless. You know it's not your downstairs neighbors; the second floor apartment is still empty because your landlord is actually very sweet and doesn't just screen future tenants for ability to pay the rent, he tries to make sure they'll fit in with the current tenants too. And the little family on the first floor has that loud-ass two year old. There's no blabbery baby talk and the sound of the impact is damn near at the top of the door. So it's definitely Stranger Danger.

You're just going to wait it out. They have to give up at some point. And you've just spent three days ignoring literally everything in the universe, so really,  the odds are in your favor here.

Except… you live in a tiny little town. The population on the sign says 570, but they were being generous in counting all the farms within a 10 mile radius. No one comes to your door accidentally. People don't wander up three flights of exterior stairs on an old farmhouse in the middle of Pennsylvania Dutch Country while it's barely above freezing and still dark out. So there are two options:

Serial Killer.

Or, ugh, someone who knows you.

They're not stopping and it's starting to piss you off.

 "This better be a fucking murderer!" You mutter as you stomp to the door.  Impressive really, considering your pajama pants are over a foot too long and the apartment is carpeted. You reach the door and turn the deadbolt (banging still going on), unlock the doorknob (really, this is just excessive), and yank the door open with a war cry. 

"WHAT THE FUCK!"

Its Diego.

Its Diego looking... odd? You take a split second to catalogue his appearance, it's like a reflex at this point because you can't not ogle him every time his existence is within your range of sight. He's not wearing a belt?? His shirt is half untucked and his jacket extremely wrinkled. One side of his hair is completely flat, as if he slept on it, and his squinted eyes are very, very red. Like he just came off a three day bender. Or he's been crying, your traitorous brain oh so helpfully supplies.

Diego, frozen mid-bang, also takes this time to look you up and down. His eyebrows raise and his brow furrows, clearly not impressed. You're wearing the same pair of pajamas as the last three days. Mismatched socks (one is orange, the other neon green), the overly long drawstring punjammy pants with one cuff rolled up from your stomping, a shelf bra camisole that lost its ability to function as a bra sometime in the last decade, no make up, and your somehow greasy yet simultaneously frizzy floop of curls.

Softly, but with great feeling, he rasps, "What the fuck, Princess?"

Oh no, this is Not Good. This is so, very, incredibly, horrendously bad. Your right arm tenses in preparation to slam the door in his face. His left hand shoots out to land on the door, his arm taut to hold it motionless. He's keeping the door pinned to the wall so he can continue taking up all of the open space of the doorway with his massive body. You snarl silently at him but let go of the door because you know this is the one man who actually can physically overpower you. And you don't need a shattered door to match your shattered pride.

You aim for unbothered dismissive bitch when you ask, "What are you doing here?" 

You fail spectacularly when it comes out in a tremulous whisper. 

Instead of waiting for an answer you spin around and go left into the living/dining/kitchen largest-space-in-the-apartment all-purpose room. You collapse on your tiny sectional and tuck your feet up under you to sit cross legged. You can hear Diego slam the door and follow after you.  As he comes around the chaise of the sectional you reach behind yourself and grab the crocheted blanket your mom made off the back of the couch and desperately try to hide in it. All you want is to become invisible. Diego, of course, is not going to allow that. Asshole.

"What am I doing here? You have not answered anyone for three days! Not your normal phone, not the phone I gave you, not even a Facebook message from your mother! Your sister told Lisa that no one can reach you. Lisa called Julio! What have you been doing?? Clearly you have... gone nowhere…?"  His speech started off barking but had shrunk to down to a horrified whisper as he took in the state of your apartment.  Everything is everywhere.  There are dirty dishes on the breakfast bar. Hair bands scattered across every horizontal surface. A lone lip balm is abandoned on the floor among a sea of used tissues. 

--------

This is so not the woman he knows. There's no sarcastic snark of an answer. That woman would never leave something as important as a lip balm on the floor. Shit, she uses packing cubes for fuck's sake. As he kneels down to retrieve the tube of mint goop he hears it. The one sound that always makes him freeze up and opens a sinkhole in his belly: She's crying.

This unflappable woman who makes eye contact with all of his men, who never hesitates to lecture him on 'feminist theory', who gleefully stuffs an entire slice of pizza into her face while sitting in the VIP booth at the club with skinny models looking on in horror, and once called his bluff about putting on a show in the back of a limo by winking and telling Julio to watch them as she pushed him to his knees in front of her while simultaneously yanking up her miniskirt… is crying.

 And it's probably my fault. He's almost certain this is his fault. Who else could make her emotional like this? Is someone else important enough to be worth her tears? It had better be my fault. If it's someone else I will kill them.

He looks up to see she has wrapped herself entirely in that weird fuzzy blanket her mother somehow made. The whole blanket creation process had been a mystery to him despite listening to her mother explain it step by step. She even has it over her head like a hood. Which would be adorably hilarious if she weren't ugly crying. Ew, please stop.

It only takes two shuffling steps on his knees to reach her, the living room is so small. He wraps his hands entirely around her forearms and pulls her own hands from her face. How is she beautiful with snot running from her nose? Only for her to flinch backwards. Okay, ouch. 

"Look at me." He demands. She just scrunches her face harder. He tries a softer tone, "Please?"  That does it. Those bottomless eyes come up and they are so, so lagoon green rather than the normal deepest blue of the open sea. How does she do that?

"Tell me. Talk to me, Princess. Let me in." 

------------------

How does he do that? This large, intimidating, powerful, volatile man should not be able to make you feel safe of all things.  Blurting out your feelings to Lisa had been terrifying. Realizing what had just come out of your mouth had brought on a sense of fear so acute it was nauseating. But here you are, staring into that pleading chocolate gaze and wanting nothing more than to answer him. 

You can vividly remember the conversation that triggered this entire mess:

You came home from another insane weekend in New York and desperately needed to ruin your best friend's day with extremely detailed descriptions of your depravity. Lisa being Lisa, acted exaggeratedly horrified to hear that you demanded he fuck Franchesca in the bathroom so you could go down on her after to lick out his come while he then fingered you. Okay, maybe she wasn't  exaggerating… much. But she knows you. She was not surprised that you wanted to watch him rail Franchesca over a bathroom sink but he insisted on trying to choke you with his tongue while he did it. And she is not shocked that you licked Franchesca off in under two minutes-- or came for him just after. Lisa is still laughing about the finality of Diego's abrupt dismissal of Franchesca the second you come all over his hand when she tells you, "That asshole is a full on freak, girl. Perfect for you!" 

And the moment of your damnation, a soft sigh of an admission, "Yeah. I love him."

And you had removed yourself from all human contact for 3 days immediately following that. No social media, no phones, no internet. Nothing.

...so here you are.

His gigantic hands are wrapped around your forearms, fingers so long they overlap his thumbs. You're not afraid of those hands or their assumed capacity for violence. You should be; you know that, you're not stupid. Or maybe you are. After all, you trust this man who runs the most powerful fucking drug cartel in the western hemisphere and you've never even gotten a speeding ticket. While you've been lost in your musings, he released your forearms only to cup your face in those ridiculous hands. Those hands you love, you fucking dumbass. 

No other man has ever touched you like this. Never touched your face with reverence,  handled your body with an almost jealous possession, or ripped your heart open ever so gently with an earnest expression. He listens, enthralled, when you go off on a rant. He watches where you look while you're out and about. Like a hawk, he notices every shiny little thing you linger on, only for you to find it hidden in your luggage on the way home, wrapped neatly in a tiny box. You once told him that you don't like your elbows touched, it produces some weird overload sensation in your nervous system. And he never took your elbow in hand again, shifted to a hand on your lower back (or your ass, of course. Always a classic). He never seems to care what size is on the tag of the clothes he gets you, only that you like them and you like the way you look in them. He throws his head back with booming laughter when you scream obscenities at traffic. He always thanks you when you make food. Even if he does have to peel the cheese off… he just gives it back to you.

You may have gotten used to the private jet, the SUVs that cost more than your parent's house, the way every restaurant where he takes you has no prices, hell sometimes there isn't even a menu. You've even grown accustomed to the jarring dichotomy of coming home to an apartment the size of his penthouse bedroom while still dripping in precious stones and stuffing your new Louboutins in your purse for the three story climb.

But you're almost certain you will never be over the way your cardiovascular system seizes up when he captures you with a single look, or the functional failure of your lungs when his eyes crinkle with laugh lines, the complete implosion of your stomach when those damn dimples appear, or how your entire reproductive tract clenches with need when he licks his lips, and when your brain stutters to a halt because he lays those hands on your shoulders and swipes his thumbs up your jawline to stroke the pulse point under your ears while leaning his forehead on yours.

You realize you've just been staring at him like a moron for what must be for-fucking-ever. You can tell it's been a while because his eyebrows have lowered and he's starting to look a little defeated. You can feel the weight of his hands easing from your cheeks as he begins to pull back from you. Oh no you don't, you gorgeous fucking asshole.

You slap your hands down on his shoulders with entirely too much force and fling yourself off the couch directly into his lap with a level of violence usually reserved for people who won't put their phones away in a movie theater. He grunts with the sudden addition of your weight and teeters backwards for a second before smashing you into his body via the vise of his arms. You bury your face in his neck, where his stubbly beard catches on your stupid frizz, card your fingers through his amazingly soft hair, and start a whole new round of bawling. 

He's kissing the side of your neck, nuzzling into you like he wants to be inside your skin with you. His fingers are spread wide across your back, he's trying to touch as much of you as possible all at once. You can hear a soft, keening whine but you have no idea which one of you is making it. Does it even matter? 

The noise stops when you feel his teeth gently sink into the join of your neck and right shoulder. Oh. Guess it was him. His right hand dips low to palm your ass cheek and flatten you further against him. You automatically squeeze your legs around his hips in response.

You realize he's not hard. The shock of this revelation further delays you in understanding that someone is talking. And that someone is you. 

"Please please, I'm sorry, please." Hiccup. "Its never- I've never been. I'm scared. It's too much and I'm scared." Another sob. "You keep leaving and it's just. What i-i-i-if you don't come back?" A stuttering inhaled gasp. "Who am I w-w-w-without you? What do I do?" A coughing sob. "You m-m-m-make me weak like this and I fucking h-h-hate it!" And you dissolve into another round of wailing sobs. You know you're practically screaming but you can't seem to stop. Your left hand is clawed into his hair and your right is fisted in the collar of his jacket, ruining the Armani. You're fairly certain the mess of snot and drool leaking out of your face isn't doing any favors for his shirt either.

He's just… letting you. Just letting you ruin his stupid expensive clothes and have a meltdown all over him. Like this is okay. Like it's no big deal. His left hand is rubbing circles over your ribcage while you howl. He releases your neck to raise his chin and tuck you up underneath it. Rubbing his goatee over your hair, then kissing the top of your head so incredibly gently. That can't smell good, you think hysterically.

Your sobs are finally starting to ease but he hasn't made a move to let go yet. You start to wonder how long he's going to kneel here holding you. Can it be forever?

It finally registers that his breathing is rough, labored. His shoulders are shaking under you. Now you're legitimately frightened. 

"Diego?" You finally work up the nerve to speak. You hate the way your voice sounds like a small child. "...baby?"  He is slowly stiffening under you and not in the fun way. You start to pull your face back from his neck only for his left hand to shoot up into your hair and hold you in place. It's not painful but it's definitely not soft either. Your breathing is starting to speed up. You instinctively know something important is about to happen. And it terrifies you.

He is holding you so tight its bordering on painful when he finally speaks into your hair.

"Why. Tell me why you fear that I never return. You are not weak. And this is not hate." He uses the hand in your hair to pull your head back. You fight it at first, it's just your nature. Then you squeeze your eyes shut and let him move you like a ragdoll. With no vision you don't know what he's doing until you feel the press of his forehead against your own. He bumps his nose against yours then rubs his bristled cheek against your soft one. You realize he's rubbing you like a cat and it makes you smile ruefully. My Murder Panther.

With his lips pressed right to your ear, he rumbles ever so softly, "Tell Diego, Princess."

Your whole body seizes up with the sensation. Oh, you fucking bastard. You would say it aloud except the undercurrent of fear in his voice gives you pause. He's afraid. He's afraid of you. Of the possibility of your rejection. Just like in the kitchen when he blurted out that he wanted to keep you. The way he froze, paralyzed in fear, after he whispered that he loved you. It's the same soft, lost little boy voice, the slight tremble in tone, the uncertainty. 

And this time...this time, you can't take it. Tears slowly slip down your cheeks as you squeeze your eyes shut even tighter. You remember the night you met. His breathtaking smile when you turned the tables on him. Those damn dimples. When you felt the gun in the back of his pants. The moment you decided to do what you wanted and not what you should. Fuck it.

You press your own lips to his ear, his grip in your hair pliant enough to allow it. He's shaking under you. The fingers of his right hand are digging into your hip like claws, you find the pain grounding. Knowing that you're in control of this entire moment is both thrilling and terrifying. You could break him, right here and now. Fuck it.

And he would let you. This rich, powerful, enigmatic man who has already confessed his love to you. Fuck it.

"Diego.." You breathe into his cheek. He shudders under you and sighs out in a broken whimper. 

Fuck it.

"Diego… I love you."

-------------------------

There's a long moment that nothing happens. Everything is frozen in place. He doesn't even breathe for fear that he'll wake up from this, just like the dream from a few weeks ago.  When he does remember to inhale it's a raspy choke of a gasp. It hurts, he realizes. Is it supposed to hurt? 

His eyes are burning. Taking an immediate red eye flight from LA and then driving three hours to her place was probably not his best plan, but he had been terrified. He had needed to have her exactly where she is right now.

He loosens the grip in her hair and turns his face into hers to rub his wet lashes on her cheek. Her hands are coming forward to frame his jaw, hands so tiny and soft. He has refrained from saying it himself for fear of scaring her off. He knows its selfish and he doesn't care, he wants to hear it again. Over and over. Until it stops hurting.

"Diego?" Her voice is so soft, harsh from crying yet still so high. He opens his eyes to see that she still has hers closed. He slides his goatee over her skin until his lips hover over hers.

"Again." He murmurs, "Please, my princess. Tell me you will let me keep you."

‐-------------------------

This couldn't hurt more if he'd reached into your chest and snatched your heart with his bare hands. He sounds so small and hopeful, so vulnerable. Am I his first? The first person to love him?

You can't stand this man begging for your affection. You find yourself wanting to give him everything.  Your secret is already out; in for a penny in for a pound, right?

You take a deep breath and dive in head first because you're a fucking Scorpio, damnit.

"Diego, baby." You stroke his cheeks, petting down his stubble with the direction of the growth. Just like you would pet any other cat, you find yourself grinning. You open your eyes to see him so close its dizzying. His are shut but his expression is pure yearning, eyebrows drawn down and brow furrowed, jaw tensely solid, wet lashes stuck together in spiky pieces. "I love you." 

He chokes and his eyes snap open to meet yours. Now it's your turn to muck up the basic process of breathing. There's so much everything in his eyes you feel like you're drowning. Every fucking romance novel cliche was right.

"Again." He demands. In typical Diego fashion, he wants it and he wants it now. You can't help your smile growing wide. There's my Murder Panther.

"I love you." You maintain eye contact while leaning your forehead against his. "I love you." Its like you can't stop yourself. You brush your lips over his goatee, he chases you back to ghost a kiss on your lips. "I love you." Its just pouring out of you now.

"I-" Kiss.

"Love-" Kiss.

"You." Kiss. 

You expect him to keep kissing you. To slide that perfectly wicked tongue between your lips and drive you even further insane. But he doesn't. He pulls back to pant in your face, then closes his eyes and whimpers. You watch the play of emotions across his features, so quick you can't identify a single one. He finally gathers himself into some cohesive comprehensible thought and speaks:

"I dont. I have never. You have to, to do the...uhh… help?"

Or not.

You can hear so much in that soft rumble. Fear, relief, uncertainty, pleasure, hunger, but most of all, trust. He's trusting you. Trusting that you know what to do. Trusting that you can lead him on this new path. Trusting that you'll take care of him. This man who leads the largest criminal outfit on the continent and is intimidated by nothing, entrusts his being to you. It's like being stabbed in the heart, a searing pain that brings tears to your eyes and a painfully wide smile to your lips.

You slide the thumb of your right hand forward to swipe over his cheekbone. Your left hand goes back to stroke his hair. He nuzzles into your right hand, beard both soft and scratchy. Just like him, all contradictions.  You can see his lashes flutter and you open your mouth to speak but…

Wait a minute.

Seriously???

"Diego… Are you staring at my tits?"

He's not even remotely repentant. "They are just. Right There! And no bra!"

You throw your head back and laugh. You laugh so loud it hurts your throat and brings tears to your eyes. You laugh until you're gasping for air. When you finally open your eyes and look at him your heart tries to crawl up and out of you just to get to him. 

He's staring up at you, eyes wide with adoration and jaw hanging open in wonder. You bend forward to rest your forehead on his again. "You soft little Murder Panther." You don't even bother trying to hide your ridiculously pleased smirk.

His right hand slides up your hip to your lower back while the left lowers slowly from your hair to the back of your neck. His lips curl up at the corners. His gaze is still soft as he murmurs, "Only for you, my princess."

-------------------

She's so soft in his arms. Relaxed and loose, trusting that he'll take her weight without buckling and keep her safe from falling. It makes his chest ache and his eyes burn. He raises his chin, bringing his lips to her, only she dives down for him at the same moment, colliding together just this side of too much, too fast. Always so eager, the thought makes him groan deeply. She shivers in response and whines, so high pitched it makes his ears ring.

She's curling her fingers in his hair, using the leverage to tilt his head to the angle she wants while he kisses her. He's rubbing his lips over hers, making sure to apply enough pressure that her fair skin will show the beard burn later. When he feels her left arm begin to tense he goes to draw back to look at her… only for her to yank on his hair. He yelps, and she seizes the opportunity to delve her tongue into his mouth. Holy fuck, she is perfect.

And then she's abruptly pulling back. No no no no no no! 

-------------------------------

Like a slap upside the head, you suddenly remember that you haven't showered...for three days. Fuuuuuuuck.

"Wait, wait Diego, hold on-" In the time it takes you to whine those five words he's already moved on to your neck. His left hand is threaded back into your hair and holds tight close to your scalp to gently but steadily pull. Just how you like it.

"Uhhhhhhhhh wuhhh…" Oh yes, so eloquent. He's rubbing that fucking goatee everywhere and you're about fourteen seconds away from passing out. You put your hands on his shoulders and start to push him backwards. He growls in displeasure and you whimper. Okay, maybe a little more, your traitorous brain isn't even helping here. You try again, "Baby, baby. I haven't. Oh god, yes. Uhh huh. Wait, just, can you pause? Mmmmmm… Oh my god, Diego stop!" Apparently barking works.

He growls again but manages to disengage from tormenting your neck with one last long lick. Do not think about that tongue! 

"Fucking what?" He mutters, breathing hard. "I cannot have you? Now?" How very Diego. He's blinking at you in agitated confusion, pupils blown wide and flushed lips parted. His hand in your hair is shaking, the other has sunk back down to grip your ass very, very securely.

You can feel your face flushing with embarrassment. Your gaze darts off to the left, this is mortifying.  "I haven't showered in three days. I smell." When you finally manage to make eye contact again he's grinning. Oh no.

"Oh si, Princess. I can smell you." His tone is arrogant, but the thickening of his accent betrays just how aroused he really is. His left hand slides down to your butt, too. That grin is all teeth, Pure apex predator. 

"Yeah, that's what I me-yeeeeen!" He doesn't let you finish. Instead he slides both hands under you, where ass meets thigh, and picks you up to deposit you back onto the couch. You always squeal in delight when he picks you up, That is never gonna get old. The moment your weight is on the cushion he brings his hands forward and then around your inner thighs to spread your legs wide. Before you can even register what is happening he dives down into your lap, burying his face in your crotch and inhaling deeply. 

While your brain has stalled in shock (because Are you fucking serious?) your hips have decided this is a great idea and lurched forward to practically hump his face. His exhale is the longest, loudest, sexiest groan you have ever heard. Your hands fly to his hair, but instead of pushing away they are definitely holding him in place. He's rubbing his face against you, turning his head from side to side, moaning endlessly like he can't get enough. 

Your brain finally catches up and you abruptly cut off the whine that's been pouring out of you. You just have to open your mouth, "Are you fucking serious right now? You like that?!?" 

With one last hard rub of his face against you, (FUCK YES, rub that bearded chin on my clit) he pulls back to look up at you. And if you thought he looked aroused before, he is positively wrecked now. His eyes are slitted in pleasure, brows drawn together with need, jaw slack, mouth open and panting. He doesn't keep you waiting for an answer. "Well, not your normal sexy bakery scent. You smell like you but just, more. Damn delicious." He growls. 

Okay, two things: 

You file 'sexy bakery' away for later discussion because wtf, lol.

And. And he really means that. He's dead serious. He has a death grip on your inner thighs, his hands are like steel. As if he's afraid you'll try to push him away, to stop him. Fat fucking chance, babe.

You cup his face with both hands and smile softly down at him. In wondrous amazement you whisper, "Holy fuck, I love you." The transformation of his expression from blissfully needy to Horny Murder Panther is damn near instantaneous.

"Good. Now gimme this pussy!" He orders. 

You laugh, but your hands fly to the drawstring of your pants in obedience. He erupts into a flurry of actions, pulling his jacket off to dump it on the floor behind him. He only gets as far as unbuttoning the cuffs on his sleeves before giving up and just ripping the shirt up and over his head to join his jacket. The sight of solidly muscled chest rippling like that short circuits your brain. What were you even doing? Was it drooling? Its definitely drooling now. 

His hands come back to your thighs, fingers digging deep into your soft flesh. He yanks you forward until your ass is hanging off the couch. You snap back to awareness and start frantically pushing your pants down. He grabs the waistbands of both your pants and underwear and hauls the whole mess down your legs at what has to be record speed. Before you have a chance to do anything else he's burying his face into your pussy like a starving man. 

He uses his flattened tongue to give you a long, slow, torturous lick from the bottom of your entrance to your clit. Your back arches to mirror his movements while you sob in pleasure. Then he does it again. And again. Over and over in an endless loop of wet decadent friction. He grips the backs of your thighs, the heels of his palms brushing your ass while his thumbs are buried in the creases where leg becomes hip. He pushes your legs back more yet, widening you further and practically folding you in half. You can't even bring yourself to be worried about how your squishy stomach compresses into rolls. Diego certainly doesn't care.

He changes tactics to latch onto your clit. Sealing his lips around you, he alternates between hard suction and softly sliding his tongue up under your hood to drive you mad. The direct pressure is almost too much, you whimper and squirm after only a few rounds of this. He leaves off and you think you're catching a break to breathe. You are so, so wrong.

He goes lower to literally lick you from bottom to top.

With a shriek, both of your hands fly to his head. "Holy fuck. Oh my god, oh my god. Baby. You. Oh god. Baby, fuck yessss… " What started out as some kind of blasphemous incantation ends in you hissing with unadulterated sin. He moans against you in response but doesn't stop. The incessant long strokes of his tongue have you closer to orgasm faster than you can ever remember it happening before. Your legs are shaking and tears are pouring from your eyes. You reach your right hand down to touch his left where he's holding your thigh, needing something, anything, to ground you. And he laces his fingers with yours. 

Your heart clenches. "Diego…" you whisper for him, sobbing from the intensity of everything. With a choppy groan he refocuses on your clit, ferociously determined. Your entire abdomen is tense, you're wound too tight. He presses his flattened tongue against you even harder, shortening his strokes just to cover your clit. It feels infinite, you can't tell where one lick ends and the next begins. Just constant, unyielding pleasure. It's too much, holy fuck it's too much, never stop.

Everything clicks into clear focus. Your pussy compresses tight on nothing, and then you snap. Your whole body seizes up with your orgasm. For one long, terrifying moment your heart pauses and your breathing stops. It all comes crashing back together and you suck in a lungful of air with a choking sob. Waves of agonizing pleasure wash over you, your body shuddering with each one. He's still pressing that incredible, miraculous, entirely evil tongue to your clit. Holding fast and drawing your climax out as long as possible. Growling against you with heavenly vibration. As the rounds of your clenching cunt ease in both intensity and frequency he slowly slides up and off of you. 

He rests his sweaty forehead against the inside of your right thigh, panting so hard his breath is hitting you with almost physical force. You pry your right hand off your own thigh, keep your fingers laced together, and bring his hand up to your chest where you lay it over your heart.

You keep your eyes closed while you brokenly cry. "I love you, Diego."

-----------------

His right hand snakes up your body to slide around the back of your neck. He's pulling you forward, sitting you upright. His left hand slides back down to your hip where he grips you tightly and pulls toward him simultaneously. Your eyes pop open when you feel like you're going to fall off the couch. 

Diego scoops you back into his lap with your momentum and proceeds to just stand up. You yelp in surprise as your arms shoot around his neck to hold on. It takes a second to realize that you're essentially just sitting on his left forearm, his right hand is still gripping the back of your neck tightly. You moan in pure arousal, hiding your face against his shoulder. The fact that he just tosses you around like a ragdoll is so mind-meltingly hot. The sheer bulk and breadth of him never ceases to render you speechless. There's just so much Diego that he blocks out everything else. Its overwhelming in every sense. Let me just drown in Diego.

By the time you've contemplated your fate, bodice-ripper romance novel style, he's made it halfway down the hall to your bedroom. You tuck your legs tighter around his torso, the hallways in an old farmhouse aren't exactly spacious, and he purrs against you in response. Your body's physical reaction is so strong that you choke. Is there anything about this man that does not turn me on? 

He makes it to your bedroom without incident (a miracle, really, considering it looks like a bomb went off in your apartment) and deposits you on the bed. He's been so incredibly gentle with those huge hands that it takes you by surprise when he firmly grasps your jaw and growls at you. "Look at me."

You swallow, hard, and open your eyes. He's staring at you so intensely, his gaze unreadable. He uses his grip on you to slowly push you down onto your back. You don't even try to fight it. You're not sure what he's doing but it's very clear that he needs to do it. He squeezes your jaw with purpose and you blink up at him in confusion. He cocks his head and regards you like… well, like prey.

It's been a long time since he has made you nervous like this.

He finally releases your jaw to slide his hand down your throat and rest it over your pounding heart. He pulls the neckline of your camisole away from your body then allows it to softly snap back against you. "Take this off." His growl is quiet, but it still sets off alarm bells in some primal part of your brain. He sees the hesitation in your eyes and barks out, "Now!"

You whip the top off over your head before he loses any more patience and rips it off of you in shreds. His hand is back on your jaw, ensuring you look nowhere but at him. His breathing is harsh, you can see a muscle tic in his left cheek, and his eyes are wild. Feral, you shiver with the thought. "Stay, Princess." He orders softly and releases his hold on you. 

You don't dare move.

He straightens back upright and his hands go to his pants. You have a brief moment of hysteria, Have fun getting those impeccably tailored pants over that massive cock, but you manage to stifle the thought and keep your expression steady. He's toeing off his shoes while undoing the button, then pulling the zipper down. You watch his hands in fascination. It's an obsession you have no plans of shaking. He manages to get the pants over his hips with no problems, a complete lack of underwear always expedites the process. 

He moves to climb on the bed and you spread your legs for him like a reflex. This man has had a profound effect on you. Before you get too far he throws his left leg over both of yours, straddling you and effectively immobilizing you. You reach up for him as he plants his elbows just outside of yours and cups your face in those hands you so adore. Your own hands land on his shoulders and he allows it, for now. You try to urge him down on top of you, but he's not budging. You want to touch more, feel all of him, but he's just looming over you to block out the rest of existence.

His hands are like iron, caging you in to bend you to his will. His eyes search your face, you have no idea what he's seeking. Finally, he rumbles down at you, "Do you know what you did?"

The question is soft, dangerously so. You can feel yourself starting to shake. You have a sneaking suspicion that there is no right answer so you just shake your head in a 'no'. He cocks his head again and you find yourself blinking rapidly. His eye twitches when he finally answers, "You scared me."

You're shocked. Never in a million years would you have expected this man to straightforwardly admit fear. He leans in close to your face and your breathing hitches. "I'm sorry." You whimper. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I never meant to scare you." You don't even recognize your own voice. Its small, plaintive and timid. 

He moves back upright and kneels over you. His expression is only becoming more fierce. You start to draw your legs out from under him, curling up some, instinctively seeking to protect yourself. "You didn't mean to?" He rumbles incredulously. His eyebrows are rising and you can feel actual anger radiating off of him. 

He snaps, "You didn't mean for me to drop everything I was doing?" And faster than you can comprehend his right hand comes down on the outside of your left thigh. The sharp sound of the slap echoes in your tiny room. Your jaw drops in shock, then the pain blooms out from the point of impact. You look from his face to his hand, then back again. "Diego, I--"

"You didn't mean for me to cancel two drop receivements and a business meeting?" His hand comes down again, but you're already moving. You try to turn away, rolling your legs to the right. His hand lands on your left hip, fingers long enough to catch the outside of your cheek. You shriek and start trying to escape in earnest. His left hand shoots down and grabs both of your wrists, stopping you from pulling yourself away from him. "Diego! Wait, I don't--" 

He clamps his legs around yours and uses your momentum against you to turn your hips entirely to the side. He has both your wrists pinned down in a bruising grip. Your shoulders are flat on the bed, there's nowhere you can hide your face. "No! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause--"

"You didn't mean for me to take an immediate flight across the entire country?" This time the slap lands fully on your ass. And it hurts. You yelp as tears spill over your cheeks. "No! I'm sorry! Please--"

"You didn't mean for me to drive two hours from the airport after I've been awake for almost two days?" His volume has risen, he's practically yelling. His hand comes down again, lower this time to catch the bottom of your cheek, where it becomes the tender skin of thigh. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! No I didn't--"

"You didn't mean for me to find you here like this? Having some sort of tantrum like a child?" He roars. This time there are three slaps, one right after the next, all landing in the same spot. Your shrieks are coming out in stutters, interspersed with gasping inhalations. "No! No no no! I'm sorry! I'm sorry Diego! I'm sorry!" You're sobbing with it, choking on humiliation. You can't hide your face, there's nowhere to run from this.

"Or you didn't mean for me to find out that you cared? Huh? That you love me!" His voice cracks over the sound of his near constant strikes. You're wailing in tears, "Yes! Yes! Okay! Damnit Diego, I'm sorry! I was afraid! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry…" you dissolve into incoherence. 

He releases your wrists and grabs your face again. You try to push him away, but you're too weak. "Look at me! Look at me, Bicki!" he hisses. You shake your head no. "Mirame, Princesa! Please, please." His voice is hoarse, dripping with fear and desperation. You open your eyes to find him right in your face. His expression is twisted up with pain and desire. "You cannot do this! I have to know you are safe! Protected! Let me keep you!" 

It suddenly dawns on you what he means with 'keep'. He wants to protect you yes, but what he really means is 'have' you. Present in his life. At his side. Your heart in his keeping.

His hands are stroking you, over your hair, down your arms. He grips your hands tightly, bringing them up to his face. You hold onto him, your only constant in this. "Diego.." you hiccup. Then, with no warning and no conscious command on your part, you slap him. Hard. 

You're both frozen in place, equally shocked. Staring at each other in escalating tension. You sniffle and it launches him into action.

He grabs your left hip in a bruising grip, pushing your leg to your chest, pulling it out from under him so he can get between your thighs. You frantically claw at his shoulders, his biceps, anything to pull him closer. You need him. Right now. You need him so deep inside you that you don't know where he ends and you begin. 

He slides home in one powerful thrust. Your whole back arches and you grimace in excruciating ecstasy. The stretch of it burns, it hurts so perfectly. His left hand is wrapped around your left thigh, holding you open for him, his right on your left shoulder, keeping you steady and still for him to bottom out. He stays there, grinding his cock into you as far as possible. Still trying to push the last few inches into you. Your vision blacks out and you scream yourself hoarse with your orgasm. 

When you come back to awareness he's kissing all over your face, murmuring your name. You turn your face to his, seeking. He fits his lips over yours and you both moan. You pet over his shoulders, reach back up to tug on his hair.

He starts a steady rhythm of long, slow strokes. You can feel every damn inch of him and it's so incredibly, deliriously good. You open your mouth to him and he deepens the kiss, tongue moving to match his hips. He tastes like you. All you can smell is his cologne, underscored by pure lustful male. This is indescribable. Each and every one of your senses is nothing but Diego.

His right hand glides down to cup your breast, hefting the weight of it and rubbing his thumb over your nipple. You break off the kiss to throw your head back, whining in pleasure. His lips trail down your neck, beard leaving fire in his wake. He laves his tongue over your nipple before latching on and suckling. You can feel another orgasm approaching, and so can he.

"That's it, Princess. Come for me. Show Diego what a good girl you are." His hoarse voice and soft commands push you right over the edge. You're rippling down around him, sobbing and nodding. Yes, yes, your perfect little princess. 

He picks up the pace, the force of his thrusts rocking the bed into the wall with a steady banging. You can't seem to care. You're whining and pleading, "I'm sorry, please please. Yes baby, yesyesyesyesss…" 

"I know," he coos softly to you. "You are so very sorry, aren't you?" You're nodding desperately in agreement. "Will you do this again? Huh?" You shake your head 'no' so fast it makes you dizzy. His words would be condescending if his tone wasn't so very emotional. It's okay. You need him to vocalize what you can't. And he knows it. He knows you.

He pushes your left leg out to the side, sliding his right hand up your thigh to grip your hip. His left hand travels down your back between you and the bed. Through nothing but raw power he lifts your wide hips and rotates you so you're flat on your back and fully open to him. You keen at the show of strength, just like he knew you would. 

"Are you going to be a good little Princess for Diego?"  When you don't answer he pulls back and stops. Your eyes snap open and you whimper in desperation. He's watching you, waiting. His brows are drawn together in concentration and his jaw is set tight. Those beautiful brown eyes are nearly black with hunger. He digs his nails into your hips while he waits. 

You struggle with gathering enough oxygen before you can answer, "Yes, yes I'll be good. Be good for you, I promise!" You aren't sure who is in control of your mouth right now. You don't feel like you have any control. He rewards you by filling you up completely. Your eyes roll back into your head, taking all of him at once always steals your breath. 

He stays fully sheathed and leans over you. Bringing your knees up to your shoulders and his face to yours, he takes your lips under his. You sob into his mouth, you can feel the head of him pressing against your cervix. He nips your bottom lip then swipes his tongue over the sting. "Does my princess want this? Does she want Diego to keep her?" 

You cling to his shoulders. Closing your eyes in chagrin, you nod. He keeps his face pressed to yours. "Tell Diego. I need to hear it!" He hisses. 

"Yes. Want you to keep me. Please." you whisper, broken and needing.  He rears back and starts a frantic pace. His thrusts are short and brutal, stabbing directly into the core of you. You can do nothing but howl in pleasure and take it. Your spasms around him are nearly constant, one after another you come in rolling waves. You're begging, or cursing, hell, you have no idea what's coming out of your mouth at this point. 

He brings the weight of his torso down on you, crushing you into the bed. "Come! Come now! Come, my princess, come for your Diego!" His words are a command, but his voice is begging.

You're bawling again. "Yes, yesyesyes. Diego, Diego pleeeeease!" You have no idea if he can understand you. You're pretty sure only dogs could hear that. "Please Please please please please, baby. Please. Need you. I love you!"

He buries his face in your hair and drops your legs in favor of engulfing your shoulders in his embrace. You wrap your legs around his hips, you have to keep him as close to you as possible. Your arms snake around his torso, squeezing tight to bring your chest up against his. He's grunting, his thrusts becoming erratic. 

Then you hear him. His voice is quiet, words pleading, "Come. Let me keep you. Please, please. C-come. Princess, need you. Come home with me!" You nod tightly, sobbing silently as he freezes up in orgasm. He chokes out a groan, then collapses on top of you. You welcome the weight of him. He nuzzles into your neck, tickling you with beard and a big sigh. "Love you."

It hurts. It hurts deep in your chest. You hope it never stops hurting like this.

He retreats out of you, faster than you would like. You're pretty sure he forgets just how large he is. You feel wrung out, stretched out of shape and hollow. He pulls his right arm out from under you and rolls off to flop face-up on your right side. His left arm is still trapped under your back. Do you care that it's lumpy and uncomfortable? Nah. You unearth your right leg from under both of his and he makes a whiny huff about it.

----------------

He's struggling to catch his breath. He didn't mean for things to get so… out of hand. So to speak. She always does this to him. She withholds her more serious emotions and it drives him crazy. She never makes a fuss about his responses, never freaks out when he shows her affection, never gasps in shock when he gives her his ultimate deference. She acts like she has no deep feelings for him and it makes him want to beat it out of her. Apparently that is the correct method.

Her body is relaxed and casual on his arm. But he's greedy and doesn't want her to seal off all those delectably vulnerable emotions she just displayed. Soft, pliant, obedient, needy Princess is his new favorite.

He rolls her into his side with his trapped left hand while rumbling softly, "Come here." And she does. She snuggles into his side willingly and it makes him feel so soft that it's disgusting. Or maybe that's the guilt. She didn't agree to the spanking before hand. She didn't even know it was coming. Honestly, neither had he. His next thought feels like a stab to the lungs. What if she is afraid of me now? Did I hurt her? This is disgustingly emotional.

"Princess?" She sighs a soft 'Mmmm' in answer. She burrows into the coarse hair and soft skin of his underarm. Is, is she sniffing me?? He decides that ignoring her utterly adorable weirdness and addressing the ceiling is his safest option at this point. "Are… are you hurt? Did I hurt you?" 

Her left hand freezes on his chest. Her face slowly creeps into his field of vision from the bottom left corner. Her expression is… mystifying. He keeps his head still but moves his eyes to his peripheral vision to squint at her in concerned concentration.

Slowly, ever so slowly, her lips curve up in an absolutely evil grin. That damn left eyebrow arches imperiously and he is completely certain that she will be the death of him.

"Did you hear me use the safeword?"

[nikki-writes-stuff]

While You’re In the World - Part One

Summary: The year is 1980, and when you come home to find a man on your doorstep, beaten and bloody and on the brink of dying, you patch him up and let him stay with you while he heals. But there’s something strange about this stranger with the metal arm, and it will take a while before either of you know who he really is. 

Read Part Two Here! 

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

A/N: Hello! I hope you guys like this story! I suspect that there will be three parts to it, and I’m so excited about this story idea. Please please please let me know what you think!!! 

The pavement was slick, the lights of streetlamps, neon signs, and apartment windows creating a kaleidoscope of colors against the rain-wet concrete. The air was still humid from the heavy spring shower that had just subsided, and your footsteps pitter pattered as you made your way towards the rickety stairs that led to your apartment. As you walked further down the alleyway, the sounds of cars flying by on the street stated to fade into the background, slowly being replaced by a boombox sitting right by one of your neighbor’s open windows. The sweet strains of Brandy by Looking Glass floated down to you, and you started humming along as you searched through your purse for your keys.

“Brandy,” you sang under your breath, “you’re a fine girl, what a good-“

Your voice cut off abruptly just as you were about to start climbing the stairs; a dark form was directly at their base, one that you hadn’t even noticed in the dim, late-evening light. You froze when you saw it shift slightly, its chest rising and falling in slow, wheezing breaths.

“…U-um… Hello?” you asked cautiously, fingers closing around the pepper spray you kept with you at all times.

The figure’s head popped up, revealing pale, sweaty skin framed by dark, chin-length hair. You squinted, trying to make out their features, but they were unclear; you could only make out that they had stubble. So, it was a man. You gripped your pepper spray tighter.

“Excuse me, sir, but… I need to get past you.” You shifted on your feet when he remained sitting there, not showing any inclination towards moving. “Sir, please, I live here. I don’t want any-“

He groaned, his left hand shooting out to grip the stair’s railway. He was wearing leather gloves despite the warmth of the spring evening, and he let out another grunt as he staggered to his feet. As soon as he was standing, though, he sank right back down, his right arm coming up to clutch his abdomen.

“Sir…” You stepped forward, hesitantly reaching out a hand. “Are you okay…?”

You tried to touch his right hand, but you flinched away as soon as you felt the dark, warm liquid that was seeping out from between his fingers. Blood.

“Oh, my god,” you gasped, suddenly gripping his arm. You only got to notice how unnaturally hard it was before he was pulling away, trying to distance himself from you.

“Trebuie să raportez pentru misiunea mea,” he whispered, sounding desperate. You frowned, holding your hands out in a placating gesture.

“I don’t know what that means. Do you speak English?”

His breathing was picking up, and you could see his head moving as he looked all around you, as if searching for something.

“…Need… Need to get…back,” he eventually muttered, trying once more to pull himself to his feet. “Report…”

“Listen, you can’t go anywhere in this state,” you asserted. “If you let me past, I can go inside and call the hospital-“

“No!”

All of a sudden, you felt his left hand clamp down on your wrist, and you let out a yelp at his bruising grip. You tried to yank your arm away, but that only added to your pain; you gave up your struggle quickly.

“No…” he said again, his breathing becoming more and more labored with each word. “No…hospital…”

You gulped, looking down at the hand on your wrist, and your eyes widened as you saw his sleeve ride up just enough for you to catch a glance of his forearm. Or, rather, the metal that it was made up of; shiny silver gleamed in the low light, its bands flexing and contracting with his movements. He must have noticed you staring, because just as suddenly as it had gotten there, his hand was drawn away, moving to rest against his bleeding stomach.

For a moment, you considered pushing past him, fleeing up your flight of stairs and locking yourself away until he left. He was a complete stranger – bigger than you, stronger than you, with what appeared to be a metal arm. And someone had either stabbed or shot him – who’s to say he didn’t deserve it?

But then he let out a soft moan of pain, falling back against your stairs weakly. He was still breathing, but you could see the amount of blood he was dripping onto the pavement; at this rate, he wouldn’t keep breathing for long.

With a sigh, you pushed aside your better judgement and reached down, ignoring his weak protests in that foreign language as you gripped his flesh arm with both hands. You dug your heels into the concrete and pulled with all your might, steadying him to the best of your ability once he was on his feet.

“C’mon,” you mumbled. “If you can climb the stairs, I have a first aid kit inside.”

At first, he didn’t move, and you were afraid that he was going to pass out. But then he lifted one shaky foot up, lowering it down onto the second step, and you breathed a sigh of relief. Slowly, deliberately, you led him up the stairs, guiding him up to the landing. You only pulled away to fit your key into the lock, but as soon as your door was open, you once more gripped him and led him inside.

“The kit if in the bathroom. If you can just follow me-“

The second you turned away, you heard a loud bang as he fell to his knees. He was still babbling words that you didn’t understand, English finding its way every now and then into his mutterings.

“Report…. mission….find…”

You let out a huff and knelt beside him, flipping him over onto his back. He was as solid as a brick house, and it took several seconds of huffing and puffing before you were able to move him over. Once he was positioned the way you wanted, you flicked on the lights and ran to retrieve the first aid kit.

As you once more knelt beside him, you shooed away your cat as it started walking towards the man, sniffing at his flesh hand cautiously.

“Not now, baby,” you sighed, shooing it away.

The man’s eyes were closed when your gaze drifted up to his face, but you had to do a double-take once you took his features in. Now that you could see him in the light, he was…hot. Weirdly hot. Like, more hot than actual people were supposed to be in real life. Strong jaw, long lashes, full lips… You nearly got carried away with just looking at him.

But the blood stain was growing ever larger on your hardwood, and with a curse you got back to work. It appeared that he was wearing some kind of body armor; you struggled with the various clasps and zippers before finally pulling it open. Underneath it was a long-sleeved gray shirt; or, rather, it had once been gray, but now most of it was stained red.

Using the tiny pair of scissors from the kit, you cut away the fabric, eyes going wide when you saw the scene beneath it. Several lacerations were scattered across his torso; his body armor had been thick, but despite its coverage someone had been able to stab him through it. You counted four knife wounds, but they didn’t seem to go too terribly deep. What worried you was the bullet holes; there were only two, but they were bleeding the most profusely.

You couldn’t remember if you were supposed to take bullets out of bullet wounds in emergency situations, but you figured that if he could survive having a metal arm, maybe he could survive with a few bullets knocking around inside of him. Besides, he had lost enough blood already without you digging through his torn flesh.

With shaky hands, you pulled out a surgical needle from the kit, thanking the heavens that it came pre-threaded. You held your breath as you moved to the first bullet hole, and despite the fact that the man’s face held no trace of pain, you still winced as you pierced his flesh. You’d never actually done this before; you had only ever seen people stitch up wounds in movies, and you’d read about how to do it in an encyclopedia once for your research. You tried to recall and emulate those motions now as you treated the man beneath you.

“Shoulda just left him sitting there,” you mumbled to yourself. “Shoulda just called the damn hospital when you had the chance; now you have a bloody floor and a potential serial killer sleeping in your apartment. How you gonna explain that to the landlord?”

You worked as quickly as possible, and when you were done stitching all six of his injuries, you sat back on your heels, admiring your work for one moment. All things considered, you thought you did pretty good.

After that, you used some rubbing alcohol to clean him up before taping layer after layer of gauze over his wounds. Your own eyes were starting to grow heavy as you finished up, but you knew that there was still work to be done.

You didn’t even try to lift or drag him from his spot on the floor; you were exhausted, and he was probably over 200 pounds of pure muscle. So you cleaned around him, sopping up most of the blood with an old towel before washing your hands and retrieving a pillow from your bed. You yawned as you lifted his head, sliding the cushion underneath his skull before going back to get him a blanket.

You felt foolish as you tucked him in, but you’d already gone so far as to dress his wounds; you figured you might as well make him as comfortable as possible. After making sure that he was still breathing, you shuffled over to your couch, limbs heavy and sore from being so tense. As soon as you let your head fall back, you started to feel sleep overtake you; you barely registered the weight of your cat curling up on your belly as you drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep despite the stranger laying six feet away.

_________

The grunting was what woke you up. Somewhere close by, you could hear the shuffling of fabric and barely-suppressed curses, and your eyes immediately flew open. You ignored the aching in your neck as you sat up, looking over to see the stranger from the night before trying (and failing) to sit up.

“Hey!”

His head snapped towards you, a pair of confused blue eyes glaring into yours.

“Where am I?” he whispered, voice still sluggish from sleep. “Who are you? How did I get here?”

“Woah, there. Calm down.” You stood up, taking a slow step towards him. “I’m not gonna hurt you; I found you on my stairs all bloody last night, and I-“

The man was glancing all around your apartment, his jaw clenching as he forced himself to stand up. You let out a huff, seeing a small red stain bloom over the white gauze still secured to his skin.

“Woah, stop!” you tried to protest. “You’re tearing your stitches. Just calm down-“

“I have,” he struggled, starting to sway on his feet, “a mission. I need-“

“Listen, I don’t care what this ‘mission’ is,” you huffed. “You won’t be able to do anything if you bleed out. Just… Would you just sit down for one moment? You’re not going to get very far if you leave like this.”

For a long moment, the man simply looked at you, weighing your words even as more blood leaked through his bandages. You arched an eyebrow at him, setting your hands on your hips. Eventually, after a pregnant pause, he looked down and nodded his head, doing a double-take when he saw the growing crimson stain on the gauze. You winced and stepped forward, ignoring the way his muscles tensed up as you approached.

“C’mon, you can lay down on the sofa.” You held out a hand, ready to support his weight like you had last night. But he silently turned, bypassing your outstretched arm as he walked over to the couch.

He sat down with a quiet sigh, leaning back against the throw pillows as he carefully peeled back the bandages.

“Be careful with those stitches,” you instructed him, bending over to scoop up the first-aid kit.

He didn’t seem to hear you as he started analyzing his wounds, eyes scanning them clinically with nothing more than a small frown on his lips. You rolled your eyes and sat on the coffee table across from him, your knees grazing his as you opened the kit once more.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” you scoffed. “You know, for saving your life?”

He arched an eyebrow, and his eyes darted up to look at you, but he still said nothing. All he did was reach forward and grab another surgical needle, biting his lip as he moved to start stitching himself up.

“Woah, hold on a second,” you exclaimed. You gripped his wrist and tried to pull his arm away, but he didn’t budge. “I can-“

“One of the stitches broke,” he finally mumbled. Your eyes flickered down to see that he had, indeed, pulled one of the stitches in his biggest knife wound.

“I can see that,” you said. “But you don’t have to, like… I mean, I can stitch it for you.”

“Why do you want to stitch me up?”

You paused at that question.

“…Because you’re bleeding?”

Now it was his turn to roll his eyes, and he shook your hand off of his wrist once more.

“Not what I meant.”

“Well, why don’t you want me to help you?” you countered, watching as he steadily pulled the needle through his skin.

“Because you did a shitty job with the rest of them.” He gestured to the rest of his injuries, causing your jaw to drop.

“Fucking… I didn’t have to help you, you know,” you groused. “And considering the situation you were in, I would think that you’d be grateful that I even-“

The man was, evidently, tuning you out as he dug around the kit for the medical scissors, and with a sigh you stopped talking and handed them to him. He grunted as he accepted them from you; maybe that was his way of saying thanks?

You watched as he continued to patch himself up, replacing the stitches he’d pulled that morning and redoing some of your more sloppy ones from before. At first, you watched him work in silence, but after a while you started to get antsy, a thousand questions running through your mind to ask him.

“So… What happened last night?” you finally asked. “Did you get into a fight?”

His face remained stone cold, and you realized he wasn’t going to answer you.

“Okay, then,” you muttered. “Um… Are you from here? I thought I heard you say something in another language last night.”

Again, nothing. You huffed and watched as he finished tying off the last stitch, clipping it neatly before rooting around for more gauze.

“Do you have a name?” you eventually said.

He paused at that question, his face tilting up to yours. He blinked a few times, as if confused by the question, before starting to bandage his wound once again. He mumbled something under his breath, and you leaned closer, frowning.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear-“

“I said I don’t know,” he murmured. You shook your head, puzzled.

“What do you mean? You must know what your name is.”

He didn’t say anything more as he kept taping gauze over his abdomen, and you stood up, planting your hands on your hips.

“If you don’t wanna tell me your name, you don’t have to,” you grumbled. “But you don’t have to make something up about not knowing it.”

He glanced at you one more time before standing up, and you stumbled back in surprise when he moved towards your front door.

“Hey, wait! Where are you going?”

“I need to report for my-“

“Yeah, yeah, your mission,” you interrupted. “You kept babbling about it last night. But listen, man, if you go anywhere right now, you’re just going to pull your stitches again; you’ll bleed out before you can report to whoever it is you’re trying to get back to. You need to just lay down for a little while and focus on healing, or you’ll be in the same situation you were in last night real fast.”

He turned back to you, his hand already resting on the doorknob, and you could see the confusion written all across his face. His eyes ran along your features, as if trying to figure you out, before he finally spoke.

“Why do you care what happens to me?”

You were taken aback by his question, but you found that, when you answered him, you meant every word you said.

“Why do I need a reason to? You’re a human being like me, and you needed help.”

His eyes widened, and for a second all he did was look at you. You forced yourself to stare right back at him, watching those blue eyes as they came to the realization that you were being honest. Slowly, hesitantly, he let his hand fall off of the doorknob, and you smiled.

“Thank you. Now come lay down, and try not to pull too much on your stitches.”

Mechanically, he did as you said, stiffly laying down on the sofa. He had to bend his legs to fit on it, but he seemed comfortable enough as he settled back into the cushions. You nodded and moved to put away the first aid kit, but his hand darted out, settling on your wrist. He didn’t grip it like he had last night, and you thought you saw him wince when he saw the bruises his metal hand had left behind on your flesh.

“I… really don’t think I have a name,” he spoke quietly. “But they’ve always called me Soldier.”

You frowned at that, immediately wanting to ask who “they” were, but you already knew that he wasn’t going to tell you. So you just nodded, letting your other hand rest over his for a short second before starting to clean up once more.

“Ok, Soldier,” you breathed, tucking the kit under your arm. “Well… I’m going to make breakfast for myself. You ok with oatmeal?”

He nodded distractedly, looking away, and you turned on your heel to go do that. As you were cooking, you couldn’t help but ponder over the enigma that was currently laying on your sofa. You didn’t even know his name, just that he was supposedly a Soldier. Did he have amnesia? Maybe he’d been hit on the head or something in whatever fight he’d gotten into.

Whatever the case was, you knew for sure that you were in some kind of trouble. You didn’t know what kind just yet, but you had a bad feeling about it.

___________

He was most quiet on that first day. After your meager breakfast, you’d sat in the corner and typed away at your typewriter, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye every now and then. For hours on end, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, looking to be deep in thought. The only times he moved were to get up and go to the bathroom, and he didn’t say a word until that afternoon.

At around 3 or so, your cat had jumped up onto the couch, rubbing against Soldier’s legs. He’d jolted at the sudden appearance of the feline, and his eyes were comically wide as he stared down at your pet. You laughed at the sight, causing him to glance over at you.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a cat before,” you’d chuckled.

“I’ve seen ‘em before, it’s just…” He’d watched as it started kneading at his thigh, his eyebrows deeply furrowed. “I don’t think I’ve ever been…touched by one before.”

You smiled as the cat settled down, laying in his lap and starting to purr.

“Well, Obi certainly seems to like you,” you’d remarked. “He loves it when people pet him.”

Cautiously, Soldier lifted his flesh arm and gently drew it over the cat’s back. Obi purred even harder and arched into the touch, closing his eyes as he leaned into the stranger’s hand. Soldier kept petting him, getting more sure in his movements, and you felt something warm bloom in your chest when you saw a tiny smile come over his lips.

“See? Looks like you’ve made a friend.”

That night, you’d slept in your bed, fully expecting to wake up the next morning in an empty house; you’d said goodnight to Soldier, telling him to wake you up if he needed anything, and he’d just nodded silently before turning his attention back to the ceiling. He’d seemed so dedicated to his mission that morning that, when you walked in the next day to see him snoring on the sofa, you’d been shocked.

Padding over to him quietly, you’d taken in his features while he slept; he looked so different when he was asleep. He didn’t have that perpetual frown on his face, and there were no worried lines on his forehead. You smiled a little, wondering why, indeed, you cared so much about his guy. Maybe it was because he was so clearly confused by every simple kindness you gave him; maybe it was how helpless he’d been when you first found him. But whatever the case was, you knew that you wanted to know more about the mysterious life he lived.

You’d sat your hand down on his shoulder, ready to ask him if he wanted any coffee, but his eyes had flown open at your touch. He’d flinched away, pressing his body into the sofa cushions as far as he could, swinging his left hand out towards your throat. With a yelp, you backed away before the metallic fingers could close around your flesh, but your heart was still beating a mile a minute.

For a second, he just stared at you, catching his breath, and you didn’t know what to say. Your brain was filled with things – you’re okay, it’s only me, I don’t want to hurt you. But you couldn’t articulate them as he watched you.

“I’m….sorry,” he eventually breathed. Slowly, he retracted his hand and let it fall into his lap, his head bowed as he looked down. One by one, he let his muscles relax, but you were still as tense as a bowstring.

After letting out a deep sigh, he turned to you, regret settling deep in his eyes.

“Did I…” He paused, as if trying to form the right words. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You shook your head shakily, but you still weren’t able to utter even a single word before you turned and fled to the kitchen. You turned on the sink and splashed water over your face, realizing two horrible truths at the same time.

The first one was that you still knew nothing about this man, except that he was dangerous. You’d known it from the beginning; you’d seen the scars littering his body when you’d dressed his wounds. He could kill you without any effort whatsoever, and he could probably get away with it, too.

But that fact wasn’t enough to overshadow the second truth. The second truth was what moved you to pour him a cup of black coffee and bring it to him with a bowl of cereal. The second truth was what made you offer to let him use your shower. The second truth is what motivated you to root through your dresser until you found a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that were big enough to fit him.

And that second truth was this: he had been hurt before. You’d seen it in his eyes, in his knee-jerk reaction to being touched. You’d been reading it in his confusion, in his suspicion. You were beginning to think that he really didn’t know what his name was, but you didn’t need to know his name to know that he was being abused by someone or something.

So when he came out of the bathroom in your shirt and sweatpants, his hair dripping as he slicked it back against his head, you smiled at him and helped him back onto your couch before settling back down at your typewriter.

_________

“What are you writing?”

He didn’t know what prompted him to ask you. He’d been content to spend the past three days staring at the wall, petting Obi whenever he jumped onto the sofa, demanding his attention. He knew that he should have already left; he healed quickly – abnormally quickly. But something was keeping him here even after his wounds closed, with the strange girl who’d helped him for some unknown, foreign reason. He couldn’t stop himself from studying you, watching as you went about your quiet routine.

You blinked now, looking up at him from behind a stray piece of hair that had fallen over your eye. You blew it away, shoving it behind your ear, and he was almost tempted to smile when, a few seconds later, it fell right back into place. Almost.

“Um… I’m working on a book,” you replied, seeming just as surprised as he was at his question. “I’m a writer. Not a great one, by any means. But it manages to pay the bills.”

“What is your book about?”

“Well… it’s complicated,” you smiled. You leaned back, setting your hands on the floor behind you as you spoke to him. “I guess it’s a love story, but it takes place during the 1940’s.”

Something in his mind flickered at that, something dangerously close to being a memory. He couldn’t remember very far back; the only solid memories he had were of cold, concrete buildings, of receiving orders to do things that he never questioned, no matter what they were. He remembered pain, searing pain, ripping through his skull when he didn’t do as he was commanded, but the pain was somehow still there even when he did. There was no name, no humanity inside of him, and until you’d reminded him that he was, despite it all, still a person, he’d never even wondered why.

But now, he could feel something digging at the back of his mind, scratching at him as you kept talking about your book.

“It’s about a nurse who falls in love with a soldier she’s treating in France,” you kept on. “The problem, though, is that the soldier is married. But there’s also a point in the story where she gets roped into going across enemy lines to go undercover in a German camp, and the married soldier has to pose as her husband for their assignment.”

He nodded, tuning you out as he tried to follow that thought deep within him. It was there, right there, but he just couldn’t-

“Anyways, I’m almost done with my first draft,” you continued on. “But I can’t remember what year World War II ended; was it 1945? Or-“

He jolted, pulling himself upright as it came flooding back to him.

He was…smiling, actually smiling. There was a man standing with him in a red, white, and blue uniform, and he was laughing at something Bucky had said. Bucky…. Bucky Barnes. Sergeant Barnes. James Buchanan…

“Whatever,” the man was saying, his blonde hair glinting in the candlelight. They were in a bar somewhere, and people all around them were drinking and singing. Some were even dancing. “I had him on the ropes.”

“What you had,” he teased, clapping the man on his shoulder, “was a serious lack of judgement. Which you still have, by the way. The only reason you still have a head on your shoulders is cuz o’ me, punk.”

“Jerk. Now c’mon; we gotta plan tomorrow’s attack.”

“C’mon, Stevie, what’s the point in winning a battle if you’re not gonna celebrate afterwards?”

When Bucky came out of the memory, you were standing over him, a hand on his shoulder as you looked over his face.

“Soldier? Are you ok? What just happened?”

He gasped, trying not to hyperventilate as the memory played over and over again in his head. He had a name. He had a name. He’d had a name all these years…

“Bucky,” he rasped. You frowned and shook your head, watching as he stood up and started to pace.

“What? Soldier, what are you-“

“Not Soldier,” he grunted, turning on his heel to face you. He gulped, looking down at his hands, clenching the one made of metal as he listened to its gears turn.

“Not Soldier,” he repeated. “Bucky. My name…my name is Bucky.”

_________

After that day, you never called him Soldier again. He didn’t tell you what had spurred on the sudden memory, but he seemed even more quiet than usual over the next day. Whatever he’d remembered, he seemed to be conflicted by it; you couldn’t even begin to imagine what he had to have been feeling.

You tried to give him space, though, electing to go out that afternoon. You’d thrown on a pair of red shorts with a white Nasa t-shirt tucked into them, pulling on your Chuck Taylors before walking back out to Sol- Bucky. He was still pacing, running his hands through his hair agitatedly, but he stopped when you cleared your throat.

“Bucky? I’m going to go out, ok? I’ll be back soon.”

He’d frowned, glancing you up and down.

“Where are you going?”

“Just to the thrift shop. And maybe the grocery store. I figured I would try and shop for more clothes for you; I don’t think you’ll fit into any of my other t-shirts.”

He’d nodded, seeming satisfied, but his voice made you stop once more as you moved to open the door.

“And you’re coming back?”

You’d turned around, surprised at how…nervous he’d sounded while asking you.

“Bucky… Of course, I’ll be back,” you assured him. He visibly relaxed at that, and you gave him one last smile before walking out.

When you eventually got back to your apartment, you were loaded down with several plastic bags, and Bucky immediately stood up from his seat on the couch as you entered.

“You’re back,” he said, but it sounded like he was assuring himself more than you. Your heart broke a little at that, but you just smiled and nodded, setting the bags down on the dining room table.

“Yeah, sorry it took so long,” you told him. “It took me a while to pick out clothes that I thought would fit you. But I think you’ll be happy with them. I got you some more sweatpants, a pair of jeans, a few t-shirts, a windbreaker… Oh, and some sunglasses just cuz.”

You smiled and handed him the bag, watching as he curiously started to sort through it. He wrinkled his nose a little at the windbreaker, making you laugh a bit. You’d thought it was fashionable; you’d read in an article recently that they were gonna be the next big thing.

“What’s this?”

You looked up from the groceries you were unpacking to see him holding a cassette tape, and you walked over to take it from him.

“It’s a tape,” you explained. “You know, like a music tape? You put it into a radio?” You knew from the blank look on his face that he had no idea what you were talking about. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

You’d gestured for him to follow you over to the boombox you had sitting by your sofa, and you popped it open to slide the cassette into.

“You put it in like this,” you started, “and then you close it again. Then you press play, and…”

Elton John’s voice filled the room, belting out the lyrics to Your Song, and the frown on Bucky’s face slowly melted away. You grinned, watching him as he listened to the lyrics. That same old tiny smile came over his face, and you felt as if you were going to melt at the sight.

“Pretty cool, right?”

Bucky nodded, finally glancing back over to you. He opened his mouth to speak, but then he turned away, seeming to think better of it.

“No, don’t do that,” you said gently. “What were you gonna say?”

He turned back to you and hesitated again, but finally he did as you said and spoke.

“I’m really… I don’t know what to think anymore,” he stammered, seeming to have trouble voicing the words. “But I do know that I’m grateful to you… For helping me, for letting me stay here. I… I don’t really know what to do, where I should go.” He looked down at his hands, blinking rapidly. “I don’t even know who I am.”

You bit your lip, reaching over to place your hand over his, its cold metal smooth against your fingertips.

“Whoever you were, Bucky… Whoever you’ve been, it doesn’t really matter. The memories will come back to you; we’ll make sure they do. But what really matters is who you’re gonna be. Who do you want to be?”

He looked up to you, his eyes growing watery.

“I…don’t know.”

“Then now is the time for you to figure it out. And while you do, you’re welcome to stay with me. I’ll try to do my best to help.”

He shook his head, turning your hand over in his.

“I still don’t understand why you’re doing all of this,” he murmured.

You smiled a little, ducking your head until he was meeting your eyes again.

“Because this is who I want to be,” you assured him. “Someone who helps.”

The two of you sat there until the song was over, its final words echoing in the space between you. I hope you don’t mind that I put down in words…how wonderful life is while you’re in the world…

[kitkatt0430]

So I’ve been kind of thinking about Cisco in the first half of season 6.  About his thoughts and feelings and motivations throughout the Bloodwork arc as the Crisis looms ever closer.

Cisco finds out one of his best friends is supposed to die before Christmas and... all things considered he actually takes the news really well.  I mean, yes, he steals alien medicine that only might be able to prevent death by antimatter and does so against Barry’s express wishes, but... considering this in context with the last six years of his life, it’s pretty understandable why he reacted like that.

The show began with Cisco carrying some pretty massive survivor’s guilt.  He blames himself for Ronnie’s death because he’s the one who closed the door to the pipeline, sealing Ronnie in with the explosion.  It’s in this state of mind that Cisco is introduced to the then comatose Barry Allen and Cisco maybe goes a little overboard trying to make STAR Labs into an environment that might entice Barry to wake up, even going so far as to check out Barry’s social media pages in order to play his favorite music. 

Because if Cisco focuses on Barry, he can ignore the ghost of Ronnie in the pipeline.  The specter in the hallways that Cisco half expects to see, but then he looks up and Ronnie isn’t there.  Because Cisco closed the door.  And he can’t talk about this with Caitlin because he’s more than half-convinced she’ll hate him.

And then Barry wakes up and he connects with Cisco pretty much instantly.  They’re both geeks and nerds and love the same fandoms and they click.  Suddenly Barry is Cisco’s new best friend.

The superhero thing is fun, but Barry keeps getting hurt.  He heals fast, which makes it feel less real sometimes.  But Barry nearly dies from inhaling a meta who turns into a toxin.  Bette shows up and Cisco gets a crush on her and she does die, her death a testament to the existence of people who would exploit metas - exploit Barry - if given even half a chance.  The device Cisco made in case Barry turned out to be too good to be true after all is stolen and used to commit murder, to hurt Barry.  And then the Reverse Flash shows up to prove all of Cisco’s fears about a speedster gone wrong were far from unfounded.

Cracks start showing up in the untouchable facade of Harrison Wells.  Hartley Rathaway forces them to acknowledge the truth that Wells was aware that the accelerator might (would) fail.  Cisco’s nightmares about Wells killing him.  The discovery of the real Wells’ body hidden on the highway to Starling city.

And Ronnie turns out to be alive and Cisco and Barry help save him.  But Ronnie never talks to Cisco about what happened when the accelerator overloaded.  They don’t talk about how, if not for the creation of FIRESTORM, Ronnie would have died.  Should have died.  Cisco never gets that conversation with him, never gets the absolution he needs to know Ronnie didn’t blame him or hate him for doing as asked and shutting the door.  And then Ronnie dies.  Again.  Permanently this time.

And both Barry and Caitlin shut Cisco out.

So he’s left grieving on his own again.  This time worse, because he’s grieving for the loss of Harrison Wells, a convoluted mess of feelings because how do you miss someone you never actually knew?  Was anything Eobard Thawne said to him real or was it all an act?  Can Cisco allow himself to grieve for a mentor who cared about him when that person was a murderer and a sham?

Cisco reconnects with Barry and Caitlin and latches on to Jay, because a friendly mentor is what they need and it fills a hole in Cisco’s life, which he also tries to fill with Harry.  And Cisco has to watch as his best friend is nearly murdered in front of him by Zoom.  Cisco is the one who shoots Zoom.  And so much about Cisco’s decision to become Vibe in season three comes from this moment.  Because when Cisco’s friends are hurting, he’s willing to do whatever it takes to protect them.  But he’s also shown, before he can even develop his powers, how monstrous those abilities could make him if he ever misused them.  

Jay dies.  Cisco mourns a friend’s death, again.  And, again, he has to use his powers to prove that friend was a fraud.

He starts reconnecting with his brother, only for Dante to die and its too much for him to take and he lashes out at his best friend.  Probably in part because Barry has lost so much too, so how can he get back up?  How does he keep going?  Keep putting on that suit Cisco made for him and keep getting hurt - keep losing people he loves - and not give up?  Flashpoint hurts as much because Barry did for himself what he wouldn’t do for Cisco as it does because it proves sometimes Barry can’t get back up.  Sometimes Barry does give up.  Cisco had to realize that Barry wasn’t a hero first and foremost and its a hard lesson to learn.

At the same time, here comes HR.  HR who isn’t the brilliant scientist he pretends to be and who, despite being badly betrayed by his dearest friend, still finds it in himself to be happy and cheerful and wants to spread that joyfulness to others.  And who, for reasons that make no sense to Cisco, wants to impress Cisco more than anyone else on their team.  And it’s hard for Cisco to have this dynamic reversed.  It takes him a while to adjust, to stop being upset by this weird change.  To see HR as his own person and not just another extension of the monolithic Harrison Wells across the multiverse.

And HR dies right as he’s finally starting to let Cisco see beyond the cheerful mask to the vulnerable person underneath, the person afraid that he’s never enough and that his contributions are worthless.  And Cisco is left feeling like he massively let HR down.

Caitlin doesn’t trust him with her fears about her powers.  He has to confront her at every turn, stage interventions, beg her to let him help.  And then she’s injured and dies and what comes back is Frost.  All their fears made real.  And he doesn’t know how to separate out his friend from this person wearing her body, but he does it.  He gives her the choice to become Caitlin again.  And Frost both does, and doesn’t take it.  Caitlin’s love outweighs Frost’s fear and Cisco’s trust gives them the starting point to eventually find common ground.  But she still leaves him behind.

Barry goes into the speed force.  He probably intended for Cisco to take over Team Flash even then.  But Cisco is too depressed for that and Iris needs to feel like there’s something she can control, so she takes the lead and Cisco throws himself into his research and being a super hero.  Being Vibe suddenly means having to live up to Barry’s legacy and even with Wally’s help and Iris running the comms, its hard.  He’s not getting the support he needs to make this work.

And then Cisco brings Barry back, only for Barry to be lost in his own head and it probably doesn’t feel like success.  It feels like he took too long and he let Barry down.  And then to learn he was manipulated into bringing his friend back to further the plans of a villain?

Caitlin comes back, but so does Frost.  Their dynamic is changed and trust has to be rebuilt between them all.  It’s not easy.  (It takes until the end of season five to get all three of them there, not just Cisco and Caitlin, and Frost is well aware of the significance of Cisco making her a suit.  And its tailored for Frost’s aesthetics, not Caitlin’s.)

Barry’s framed for murder and Cisco can’t save him.  He befriends Ralph against his better judgment and Ralph dies, his body stolen by DeVoe.  What good are his powers to him if he can’t save his friends?  His powers can’t even fix the strain of a long distance relationship with his girlfriend and he has to learn to accept that sometimes love isn’t enough to hold a relationship together. 

Ralph survives after all but DeVoe’s plan creates a serial killer even in his failure.  And Cisco is tired.  Tired of fighting.  Tired of taking hits and being knocked down and having to get back up.

When is it going to stop?  It isn’t.  The hits are going to just keep coming and there is too much on his plate.

So Cisco resolves to take one thing off his plate.  Being Vibe is that one thing that has to go.  He can handle his stress with that one gone, surely?

He becomes an uncle to a time traveler who hasn’t been born yet.  And she’s his best friend all over again, with her smiles and her cheerfulness and her penchant for bouncing back to her feet when life is so hard on her that her back literally breaks from the pressure.  She’s Barry’s kid in the worst ways, so self sacrificing that she runs straight towards her death, her own non-existence, because she feels its the right thing to do.

Cisco keeps losing people he cares about.  Over and over and over...  even when they come back, he loses them again.

So when Barry tells Cisco that all that time they thought they had to prepare for the events in the newspaper clipping that Gideon’s been holding over their head since season one is gone and that Barry isn’t going to fight to find another way to survive... its no wonder Cisco cares more about saving his best friend, then some person he barely knows.