#somewhere to rest and recuperate

[patchwork-crow-writes]

Half-expected to receive a secret egg upon talking to the tree.

Seriously, I wouldn't be surprised to discover that Deltarune took the inspiration for its "secret tree areas" from this point in the game here.

There's even a cryptic fox-person behind the tree who disappears after interacting with them once.

I mean there are other solitary trees in games but come on let me have this ok

[swordgrace]

𝐨𝐡, 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬. (𝐈𝐈)

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after being pulled back from one of the latest missions to recuperate, you take advantage of the time alone with your boyfriend.

can be read as a standalone fic. read part one here.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: robert reynolds (sentry) / fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 8.2K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: light smut (mdni), mild angst, talk of insecurities, mentions of past abuse/addiction, lots of fluff, heavy petting, heavy kissing, sub!bob, praise kink, male whimpering, dry humping, body worship, extremely soft/gentle smut, fingering (fem!rec), mutual orgasm, aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: thank you guys so much for the love & support on the first bob fic! he is so fun to write for and I just adore him! If you all are interested in more bob content, let me know! thank you all for your love and support and I hope you enjoy! 🫶

When the rest of the team inevitably discovers your relationship with Bob, there isn’t a single surprised face in the room.

Instead, you’re met with plenty of understanding, snide remarks regarding how it was bound to happen, and mild shock that it hadn’t happened sooner. You’re grateful that it doesn’t become tense or awkward — everyone’s accepting.

There is always an element of danger, forming a bond with someone who’s life is constantly on the line — yours and his. This additional layer complicates things, but you’re learning, navigating it all, and so is he.

An incessant fear still gnaws at the recesses of your mind, the fear of losing him somehow, leaving your heart ragged. Bob is afraid of it too, much more than you — when you leave for a mission, it’s perilous, dark whispers nipping at his heels.

However, things are progressing — it’s a sluggish beast, recovering from immeasurable trauma, but he’s putting in the work. Even after so many months, there’s a stagnation he feels, as if he’s slammed into a brick wall, a plateau.

It’s to be expected, his therapist warns, and Bob doesn’t enjoy the feeling of little to no progress. Nevertheless, he swallows the discomfort and only lets it loose when most appropriate, long-winded conversation during his sessions.

He has you, though — his biggest supporter, a cheerleader encouraging him every step of the way without wavering. Sometimes, he feels unnecessarily clumsy, like a child, and he knows that he isn’t. However, you’re always the first to assure him that he’s doing well.

When doubt begins to fester, you extinguish it as best as you can, but it doesn’t always work out the way you intend. The Void is a patient creature, skulking about within the darkest parts of him, a predator preparing to strike.

Low days, high days; the low days eat him alive.

Bob wonders why you continue to stick around even after what you’ve witnessed; a blackness so encompassing that it nearly takes you, too. Though he's gotten better at managing it, it doesn’t lessen the burden, doesn’t take the sting away.

He’s taken to calling the “in-between” days even days, where he’s caught somewhere in the mix of it all, of despair and joy, of grandeur and melancholy. It starts when there’s word of a mission, he knows that you’ll go — he gets scared.

The nightmares still haunt him, lingering when he’s most vulnerable, but they become less frequent. More often than not, you sleep in his bed every night, limbs entangled, anchored to one another to make the pain lessen.

There’s something to brighten his days — your budding relationship, soft and effortless, a bond he cannot recall having with someone else. Yelena is protective, cautionary; he assures her that you treat him well, that you’re perfect.

Today is an even day, made lighter by the revelation that you aren’t going on this newest mission.

Admittedly, you’re desperate for a break, to savor time away from constant missions, publicity events held by Valentina for funding, fighting; you’re tired. As the opportunity arose to skip out, you seized it, and that meant spending more time with Bob.

Once the team is gone, the tower is blanketed by an unusual hush, save for the dismal sound of running water. He’s doing the dishes again, you realize, watching as the jet departs from the landing, soaring through the skies above New York City.

An impressive palette of hues paint the atmosphere, shades of violet intermingled with the glow of a waning sun, settling into a gentle twilight. When you wander back inside, you can hear him humming; tranquil, placating.

Slivers of sunset fall across Bob, turning his brunette tresses to a warm caramel, sleeves haphazardly tugged up toward the crooks of his elbows. It makes your heart lurch within your chest, skipping a beat, mesmerized by him; dazzled, really.

“Hey,” Greeting him with a smile, you inch closer, leaning against the edge of the granite countertop. “Do you want some help with those?” You gesture toward the pile of dirty porcelain.

Tension unfurls from within him as soon as your voice inhabits the space between, head craning over his shoulder to peer at you. He nods, stepping to one side, making room for you at the sink. “Sure.” He hums, passing off plates for you to hand-dry.

Busying yourself with such menial labor, Bob is preoccupied with you, stealing glances every few seconds, lashes fluttering. He notices the shirt you’re wearing, because it’s his, grey material sagging on your shoulders.

A warm scarlet invades his visage, creeping along his jaw, stretching against his throat. Having you here with him is incredibly soothing, and he’s happy to spend more time with you. Truthfully, if he could steal you away, he would’ve.

He’s discovering what he enjoys again, buried beneath the ruin of his trauma; and you make things so much easier. “What do you want to do tonight?” Breaking the bout of silence, you wipe off flecks of orange from a plate.

Bob gawks, uncertain of what to say. You don’t really have to do much of anything, as long as he’s with you. With a nonchalant shrug, the stack grows increasingly smaller, until there’s only a handful of crockery left.

“I’m not sure,” He admits, cerulean hues flickering over you again, flustered by the sight of you in his shirt. It was unexpected, but he wasn’t adverse to it, not in the slightest. “Is that my shirt?” Bob inquires, head canting to one side.

Caught, a familiar heat rakes over the nape of your neck, tendrils creeping towards your face. “It is,” Embarrassed, you chew at the inside of your cheek, knowing you should’ve asked beforehand. “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked you if it was okay.”

Instantaneously, Bob is refuting your apology, afraid that he’s upset you. “No, no,” With a shake of his head, he smiles, an awkward chuckle slipping from his mouth. “I—I like it, I don’t mind.” He assures, and you feel relieved, lips twitching into a bright beam.

“Good. I like it, too.” Delighted, you fail to stifle your laughter, helping to clean the last of the dishes before you take the time to put them all away. Bob assists when you can’t reach something, hovering over you with a relaxed expression.

Slouched lounge pants complement his shirt, grey material swallowing you whole, still carrying the scent of him. Staying in the Tower often relaxed your dress code; Bob always thought you looked pretty in anything and everything.

When you weren’t looking, he was; azure hues never strayed far from you, his sun, emanating with a radiant warmth, chasing away the darkness. His gaze was one of longing, thinly-veiled affection, a security that he finds in you, you in him.

Fading sunlight turns grayed windowpanes to masterpieces, catching refractions of light, splaying out over the dark tile. Everything is bright, splendidly so; you’re bright too, beam glittering over your pearlescent teeth.

“I was thinking about watching a movie, maybe ordering something to eat,” It’s something idle to pass the time, but you’ve found that Bob finds enjoyment in it. “Does pizza sound good?” Your stomach snarls at the mere thought.

Bob barely registers your suggestion, too busy ogling you with doe-like hues and a countenance bristling with affection. He realizes how strange it might’ve been for you, his constant staring, murmuring an apology before he answers.

“Hm? Oh,” His throat stirs. “Yeah, pizza’s good.” Lips split into a smile that melts your insides, butterflies swarming within the pit of your belly, marrow turning molten.

“Hey,” You reach for him, hand gentle against his forearm. “Are you okay?” It’s something you’ve grown used to asking, practiced; it’s a habit, born of concern for him. Bob nods, visibly reassuring, the sincerity reaching his eyes.

“I like watching you,” There’s a peculiar softness in his admission, but he fumbles, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “Not — Not like that.” He sighs, but you understand what he means, flattered that he’s drawn to you; it’s endearing.

“I know what you mean, Bob.” With a wrinkled nose, you step closer, hesitant to invade his space without permission. He savors the physicality of it all, growing accustomed to your touch — it’s always gentle, always accommodating.

Allowing you to thin the distance, Bob exhales when your arms curl around his midsection, musculature firm beneath your palms, through the material of his sky-blue sweater.

He always tries to hide his blushing, hands coming to cradle your face, foreheads dipping to ghost over one another. Every facet of your countenance is committed to memory — it’s a face he knows he won’t forget.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” It’s almost breathless, the way he says it, steeped in such reverence. He’s gotten better with the compliments, better at being a partner, a boyfriend. He’s warm to the touch, a kiss of fire to your flesh.

Flustered, you fail to dismiss his sweet praise, content to stand here in the kitchen like this; together. A shiver cascades down his spine, able to feel your fingertips draw patterns over his back, the sensation unbelievably soothing.

His lips caress against your crown, allowing it to linger, moments stretching into some blissful infinity. It’s his heartbeat you listen to, a melody that climbs in rhythm, quickening when his head lowers, dipping against yours.

“So are you.” Without pause, it earns you a small chuckle from Bob, whose heart gallops, sings to you when your mouth ghosts over his. Everything slows to a crawl, deliberation exuding from you, sluggishness intentional, meant to savor.

Just as his heartbeat begins to race, so does yours, ringing deep within your ears as you let the kiss continue, disarmingly gentle. He’s careful with you, cautious even when he doesn’t have to be, thumbs stroking along your cheekbones.

Absentmindedly, you find yourself smiling into the kiss, palpable, and he feels it too, unable to stifle the blush that flourishes within his features. Bob exhales, flesh beginning to sting with excitement, and he gingerly withdraws, visibly smitten.

Reaching for your tresses, he toys with your hair, satiny between his fingers. Wordlessly, he kisses your cheek, lips drifting over the bridge of your nose, over the corner of your mouth.

“That’s nice,” You hum, lulled into a state of serenity, delighted to be doted upon, showered in peppered affection. Bob knows that you’re just as starved for contact as he is, the pad of his thumb sweeping over your brow. “I’m going to order that pizza now.”

He’s nearly forgotten about it, hunger lurching within his stomach, growling at the thought. Before you untangle yourself from him, you rock up upon your toes, planting a chaste kiss against his mouth before reaching for your smartphone.

Bob never strays very far away when you’re together, the closeness comforting to him; and you don’t mind whatsoever. He lingers beside you when you’re on the phone, fingers idly messing with his sleeves, waiting for you to finish.

“It’s your turn to pick a movie.” He reminds you, curious to see what you choose. You have a unique taste — you like everything, and he tends to find something good in each film you’ve watched together.

Indecisive, you hum, wandering toward the lounge, couches forming an oval, centered around a massive screen. It’s typically used for analysis and surveillance, but you don’t mind hijacking it from time to time for entertainment purposes.

With a soft huff, you unceremoniously fall into the plush, crimson cushions, one leg folded beneath you as Bob sits beside you. “How would you feel about watching a drama? Something historical, maybe?” You muse, and he shrugs.

“I don’t mind.” Bob feels you reach for his hand, digits twining together. The consistent touch is something he’s grown used to, something he adores. He feels seen, wanted; his thumb traces across your knuckles.

Contemplative, you recline, partially slumped against his shoulder as you wrack your brain for something to watch. When you come up empty-handed, you clear your throat. “Would you rather listen to music?”

That suggestion is met with some enthusiasm as Bob nods, seemingly embarrassed. “I figured out how to make a playlist,” He wasn’t incredibly skilled with a smartphone, and watching him try to navigate it was amusing sometimes. “I made one for you.”

Incredulous, you sit up enough to tilt your head, flattered by the innocuous gesture. It’s unexpectedly charming, endearing — he’s a little flustered, but he doesn’t shy away from wanting you to browse the songs he’s chosen for it.

“You made me a playlist?” Others might’ve scoffed at the gesture, found it meaningless or juvenile — not you. Music was something that you often shared with Bob, a method of connection, of furthering your relationship.

Flickers of anxiety tick across his features, coupled with that of boyish abashment. A stifled hum escapes him as he nods, dark hues meeting yours, lips wobbling into a half-smile. “Yeah,” He clears his throat. “It’s just songs that make me think of you.”

“Do you mind if we listen to some of it together?” Unsure if he wanted this to be something private, you ensure to ask, and he’s willing to share. After he tells you he’s agreeable to it, your belly pools with a pang of heat.

Bob shuffles from the couch, finding the nook he’s crafted beside the window. There’s a variety of books haphazardly stacked atop one another, a side-table where his phone sits.

“It’s still a, ah — A work in-progress,” He clarifies, wandering back towards you, eyebrows scrunched together as he navigates through his phone. Rejoining you, he sits down, feeling your hand nudge against his ribs. “There.”

Connected to the Tower’s mainframe and subsequent speakers, he hits ‘play’, starting the playlist from the beginning. A softer folk song reverberates throughout the room, the melody reminiscent of a lullaby.

Songs that make me think of you; it means more to you than he fully realizes, the thought that each song was chosen with meaning, with intent. A hush fell between, a comfortable silence as you listened to the music, feeling his arm curl around you.

Tucking your head between his collar and jaw, you listen to the thrum of his heart, to the idle humming that occasionally slips from his lips. Draping an arm around his midsection, space becomes nonexistent, bodies flush together, basking in the moment.

Bob’s eyes flutter, pleasantly half-lidded, drinking in the physicality that you provide. Gooseflesh ices his spine as your knuckles graze in circles over his ribcage, cheek resting comfortably atop the crown of your head.

“This is the sweetest thing someone’s done for me,” A low utterance leaves you, cadence bristling with a kindly warmth, one that weaves around him. Each song had meaning — things he remembered about you, or the melody simply resonated with him, as you did. “Thank you, Bob.”

Flushed, he nodded, throat bobbing as he swallowed the growing lump forming, stuffing down his nervousness. There was no reason to be anxious around you, he knew this — it was his own thoughts that made him flustered.

“You mean everything to me,” Despite the twinge of shrewdness within his tone, he’s sincere, palm mimicking your action of tracing over his ribs. With a brief exhale, he gets closer, if that were even possible; you’re nearly in his lap. “I should be thanking you.”

A mirthful scoff huffs from your mouth, as if the idea of him thanking you is a preposterous notion. “No, you shouldn’t,” You murmur, head tilting just enough to plant a chaste kiss against his jaw. “I really like being with you.”

It’s a raw reminder of how incomparable you are in his eyes — glittering, radiant, perfect. Bob’s smile is small, but it grows in your presence, proximity having something to do with it. Digits idly sweep aside his hair, lingering behind his ear.

Somewhere in the darker recesses of his mind, scrambled memories float about; he recalls feeling like a burden, feeling unwanted. Bob winces, pain unfurling from his chest, scratched raw, but it subsides when he glances toward you.

Several of the music choices are merely classical compositions, sound strung together to create enchanting harmonies. You wonder how they remind him of you, what goes on inside of his head, how he sees you from his perspective.

“I hope you like it,” Some small sliver of him worries that it’s all too much — he’s being too much, but you seem elated. “I wanted to make it special.” His cadence softens to a lower timbre, one that he doesn’t use often.

Gooseflesh ices your spine, a twinge of want stirring within your chest. It feels detestable to desire him, as if you’re some pervasive force invading his space, but you can’t help it. With a smile, you shift against his side, distracting your thoughts with something else.

“I love it,” As the music crawls to a heartfelt ballad, you decide to stand, slowly untangling yourself from Bob’s embrace. He seems a little disappointed, but it’s fleeting when you extend your hand towards him. “Do you want to dance?”

He laughs as if the idea is silly, but he’s more embarrassed than anything else. “I—I’m not going to be very good at it,” Bob trips over his words, gaining footing toward the end. “If that’s alright.”

With a wrinkled nose, you reach for him, hands twining, digits threading together, two pieces of a puzzle. It’s a seamless fit as you coax him forward and off of the cushions. “I’m not any good, either. We can just sway.”

“Sway,” Bob chuckles, still clinging to timidity even as he moves off of the couch and into your arms. Hands find their place against your waist, a touch shy as your arms loosely dangle around his neck. “What now?”

“We move,” A grin splits your lips, and he’s still laughing, a soft sound that jostles his shoulders. He’s a little uncoordinated, but he’s adaptable, mimicking your movements as you slowly turn about the lounge. “See? You’re a natural.”

“I don’t feel like it,” Blushing, Bob nearly hides beneath his lashes, posture hunched, as if he’s attempting to suppress his own height. Though, he does like being closer to you, too. “It’s nice.” He murmurs, digits curling into your shirt.

“Yeah?” A sigh of a whisper fans across his jaw, your breath a sweet plume. He begins to relax, less rigid, beginning to sink into one another. “Spin me around?” Playful, you take one hand, starting to twirl, albeit a little graceless, as he lets you turn.

Bob’s smile is the widest it’s been in a long time, and he’s careful with you, so delicate for someone with his inhuman strength. He eases you back in, hands joined together at one side, and he spins you again, caged to his chest.

You’re giggling, he’s chuckling, too; it’s pure bliss.

There’s a constant hint of shyness that permeates his visage, as if he’s stupefied by you. He knows that sentiment won’t change anytime soon; you’re beautiful, and you’re home.

“I’m happy,” Bob blurts, lips parting to make way for a trembling exhale. It almost feels strange, as if his life isn’t meant to be this way — he’s not meant to be happy, not meant to feel worthwhile. “Almost forgot what it felt like.”

Steps cease, swaying coming to a crawl as you stop to muster up a response. It’s devastatingly poignant, his statement — and yet, there’s something saccharine about it, too. “Bob …” Brows knit together, lips twitching into an empathetic smile.

“I—I know you don’t want my gratitude, but you make me happy,” It’s as if the earth shifts beneath your feet, something monumental; you feel just as undeserving as he does, sometimes. “You do, and I want you to know that.”

Tears sting the corners of your eyes, vision growing bleary, a haze of emotion as you swiftly try and blink them away. “You make me happy, too — so much,” You murmur, forcing a laugh to dispel any potential sobs. “I’m proud of you.”

Proud of you; Bob wants to dismiss it all, tell you that there isn’t anything to be proud of, but the words fade to ash upon his tongue. He’s still learning, still healing, a heart and mind that haven’t completely mended.

He knows that you don’t care, you take him as he is — Bob, the Void, Robert. Even the darkest parts of him are ones that you care deeply for.

It was his turn to become blubbery, head dipping as he stifled the tears, a smile still tugging at either corner of his mouth. Wordlessly, Bob’s lips press against your crown, the kiss firm, lingering; it’s his way of thanking you without saying it.

Violet-bruised skies subside, falling subservient to an inky black, chasing away the last wisps of an orange sunset. The room darkens, save for the glow of the monitor’s massive screen and the pallid lights that shimmer near the floor.

Before your lips can search for his, there’s a buzz that hums throughout the room — the bottom floor. There’s a monotonous voice that alerts you to movement downstairs, and you realize that the pizza is here.

“Oh,” Bob hums, mouth agape as another chuckle escapes him. “The pizza.” Admittedly, he had forgotten all about the food, forgotten about the vicious snarl emanating from his stomach.

“The pizza,” Conceding, you click your tongue, peering up at Bob with a tender smile. He’s flushed, using his sleeve to rid himself of any stray tears, pearlescent teeth glittering through the dim light. “You okay?” You ask, and he nods fervently.

“Yeah,” His smile grows when you kiss his neck, unable to reach his jaw this time. Fire follows in the wake of such an innocuous gesture, and he gapes, wanting to feel it again. “I’m fine — I’m hungry, too.”

“Perfect,” Clearing your throat, you move towards the elevator, pressing the communication button beside it. “Have him put it on the elevator, Tower.”

There’s some strange intelligence unit that helps power the Watchtower — you’ve taken to calling it ‘Tower’. Bob is somewhat unnerved by it, but it’s helpful to have an additional layer of security. Though, the elevator is notoriously slow.

“Now we wait.”

Remnants of a pepperoni pizza lay scattered atop the granite counter in the kitchen, scent of melted cheese and marinara heavy in the air. Bob is licking the grease from his fingertips while you’re cleaning up, tossing the box into the trash.

He’s grown fond of junk food; when in the throes of active addiction, he rarely ate, wasting away whilst searching for drugs. Bob fills the cravings with everything he can, with a penchant for burgers and milkshakes, too.

“That was good,” He remarks, having eaten a majority of the extra-large pizza you’d ordered. You were content to let him, noticing the streak of red sauce that’s still on his chin. “Thank you.”

“You’ve got something,” Gently, you reach forward, rocking up upon your toes as the pad of your thumb wipes away any stray marinara. “There.” You’re smiling and he’s smitten again, a bemused huff escaping him as the kitchen turns sparkling again.

The two of you go to your room this time, as opposed to his. Bob prompts the change of scenery, curiously admiring some of your decor, a reflection of your personality. There’s a picture of the two of you that Alexei took, secretly, both of you two deer in the headlights.

As the door slides shut, you move to turn on the nightlight over your headboard. You never had much of a use for it until Bob started sleeping in your bed — you don’t mind it.

“You kept this,” Bob murmurs, gingerly handling the photograph with a shy smile. “I—I didn’t think you wanted your picture taken.” It’s a small detail he’s picked up about you, incredibly adverse to flash photography.

“I didn’t, but it’s of us,” With a beam, you begin to fix up your comforter, making sure the pillows are there, sheets corrected. “I talked Alexei into developing it for me.” You muse, sitting down along the corner of your bed.

He examines the picture, finding you to be flawless in all senses of the word. You look startled, and even still, it doesn’t detract from your beauty. “Do you think I could have one?” He asks, glancing from the photo to you.

A peculiar warmth snakes over the back of your neck, heating your skin as you nod. “Absolutely, and we can take a new one together, too.” You wonder if it’s more than just sentimental reasons; so he’ll remember you, if something happens.

“I’d like that.” Bob hums, gaze fluttering about your room again. He’s been in it a handful of times, but things are constantly shifting around. You’re often inclined to go to his room when it comes to this.

Fingertips trace over the picture once more before he places it back on your vanity, hands retracting to toy with the hem of his sweater. Bob glances toward you again, his shirt pooling around your frame, exposing a glimpse of your collarbone.

A sliver of flesh, and he’s reeling, mind beginning to drift off, wondering what you might’ve looked like without his shirt. It makes his flesh burn with a feverish pitch, as if he’s been swallowed by fire.

He’s been thinking about it more often — intimacy.

Everything seems murky, clouded still as he wades through the tides of his past, searching for memories fragmented after he consumed the serum. He knows that he’s had a past fling, but none of it held a candle to what he shared with you.

He knows that he yearns for you, a feeling so intense that it’s overwhelming at times, something he tries to bury; and that’s wrong. Bob doesn’t want to scare you off, and he doesn’t want to make anything awkward.

Sluggishly, he moves to sit beside you, feeling your fingertips lightly trace over his spine. The sensation is something he welcomes, attempting to relax; you can hear his heartbeat. It’s somewhat erratic, an uneven rhythm that pounds within your ears.

Quiet, Bob dips lower, nose grazing yours, able to hear the subtle hitch within your throat. The kiss is devastatingly gentle, as always; there’s something inviting about his mouth, sweet and cautious, usually a touch shy.

As lips linger and still, he draws away, gazing down at you as if he’s awestruck, the ghost of a smile haunting his features. Wordlessly, you ask for more, tilting in again until his head briefly jostles in a nod, a sharp inhale puncturing his lungs.

There’s a subdued fervor behind this kiss, as if the both of you are actively skirting around the elephant in the room, avoiding startling the other. Absentmindedly, your hands gently perch against his abdomen, muscles firm and marblesque beneath your palms.

Bob feels himself burning with affection, but it’s heavier, heady; he feels your hands, steady atop his midsection, and it’s enough to make his head spin. Your lips are saccharine, each kiss one of a prevailing tenderness, a softness that he savors.

Kisses intensify, born of ardor as you tilt your head, deepening your entanglement. A soft, keening groan reverberates within his throat, a noise that makes you writhe in delight.

Finding some sliver of courage, his own hands snake toward your waist, hesitant, caging you in against his chest. Your hands are all over him, lavishing him in sweet caresses, and he begins to squirm beneath you.

One palm splays over the small of your back, digits ghosting over bare flesh, beginning to glide beneath your shirt. He feels your mouth stutter during the kiss, breath sharp and punctuated, likely out of shock.

“Sorry,” Bob apologizes, fearing that he might’ve taken it a step too far, but you’re there to soothe him, visibly content within his hold. “I—I should’ve asked, before …” His heart threatens to beat right out of his sternum.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Reassuring, you wonder what he’s thinking about, teeth chewing at the inside of your cheek. “I wanted you to.” Admitting your growing feelings, you notice the gears turning within his head, darker hues sparkling through the faint illumination.

“You do?” Incredulous, Bob doesn’t pull his hands away, doe-eyed as you attempt to broach the subject of physicality. You wouldn’t do it if you didn’t love him, that much you know. “If we … Would it be okay if we kept going?”

The thought entices you, heart pounding away beneath your sternum, as if it might rip a hole through your chest. You want to tell him just how much you want to, but it’s better to approach this gently, slower steps, easing into it.

“Yeah,” Swallowing the nervous lump within your throat, you ensure that you’re both on the same page about this. “We don’t have to do anything that you aren’t comfortable with. Even then, I want to take things slow.”

Bob isn’t exactly discomforted by the thought of exploring the physical aspect with you, but he’s terrified of disappointing you, or not being good enough. It’s maimed him, darker insecurities, but he knows how much you care.

There’s a distinct lack of raw lust, instead instilled by a burning tenderness, a mutual yearning, souls and bodies interconnected. That’s how you know that you’re willing to be vulnerable with him like this, in a way that you never were with others.

He nods, lips twitching into a tranquil smile as he holds you close, and you reach up to caress his brow as you’ve done many times before. “You’re so pretty.” Bob utters, wide-eyed and wanton, eyelids fluttering beneath your embrace.

Fingertips skirt along his brow, until your palm cups his jaw, thumb tracing circles over his cheek. He exhales, tension unfurling from his shoulders as he lets himself relax, lets himself become vulnerable. “You’re perfect.” You croon, beguiled.

It’s you who closes the gap this time, lips softly tangling with his own. Passion festers, a present spectator the more your mouths meld together, seamlessly molding to one another.

Bob shivers when your digits toy with the hem of his sweater, the feather-light dusting of your fingertips brushing over bare flesh. He’s not used to being touched like this, with kindness, reverence; a low groan stirs within his throat.

Shy, he begins to urge you closer still, but you’re halfway in his lap. “Is this okay?” Bob mumbles between sluggish kisses, and you’re quick to nod, adjusting yourself until your thighs are firm on either side of his hips.

This all feels like some distant fantasy, one that might slip through his grasp at any moment. He’s blushing, features permanently stained with scarlet as he adapts to the new position, his hands still politely gripping your waist.

He doesn’t know where to start, but he has inklings of ideas, awkwardly fumbling with the hem of your shirt, his shirt, blanketing your frame. You’re patient, preferring to explore, drinking him in for the hundredth time.

Tilting forward, your lips meet in another kiss, deliberate, and you can hear his heartbeat climb with a peculiar intensity. Bob caresses your waist, fingers flexing against the cotton material of your shirt, feeling your hand nudge beneath his sweater.

As mouths clawed for one another, a gnawing ache began to fester within your stomach, manifesting as arousal that coalesced between your legs. There is little space between you, replaced with a heated friction that seeps into your bones.

Your palm is cold against his abdomen, his flesh running hot, a shiver coursing through him at the contact. The sensation is somewhat foreign, but he enjoys it, reciprocating the kiss with a sudden blaze of passion.

His hands are like hot brands as they trace your bare flesh, gathering the confidence to push beneath your shirt. You shudder, delighting in the lingering kisses you give one another, never devolving to anything rough.

Slowly recoiling from his lips, your hands find the hem of your shirt, beginning to peel it from your body. Admittedly, you’re just as shy as he is about it, and the process of undressing feels like some sacred ritual.

Bob swallows, countenance one of pure amazement and elation as you toss the garment toward the foot of your bed. “You’re so beautiful.” He whispers. There’s scars on your body, past experimentation, but he finds favor in every single one.

A simple, black-cotton brassiere conceals your chest, nothing extravagantly fancy. His hands smooth over your waist, one arm curling around you, drawing you closer. Quiet, he presses a kiss to your shoulder, over a small scar.

One of your hands shifts, coming to perch against the nape of his neck, digits idly carding through brunette tresses. Bob exhales, the sensation pleasant to him as he feels your lips pepper his jaw, each kiss one of pure ardor.

A hoarse, low whimper escapes him when you gently kiss his throat, feeling his hands caress over your body. “Is this okay?” You mumble into his flesh, feeling his head jostle in an eager nod.

Poised to continue, you lavish him in feather-light, sweet kisses, chest flush to his, other palm still firm atop his abdomen. His noises are endearing, eyes nearly closed, preening beneath the attention you give him, kissing your way along his neck.

Thrumming in your ear, his heart sings a melody, calls your name, feeling your hand peruse through his hair. Flushed, Bob wants to reciprocate and more, heat bleeding from his skin, like warmth oozing from a crackling flame.

Lavishing him in the affection he deserves, your mouth continues to explore his neck, dipping against the hollow between throat and shoulder. Every kiss is fire, and he is naught but ash, a string of groans leaving him.

Joined hands meet at the trim of his sweater, following after you as he rids himself of the garment, running abnormally hot. As the blue material crests over his head, you marvel at the sight of him, as if he’s carved from stone.

He’s indestructible, muscles taut and nothing short of impressive, prompting you to swallow the lump within your throat. He’s so handsome, endlessly shy, his visage smitten as your gaze meets his.

Bob smiles, scarlet-faced as he moves to cradle your face. He’s more relaxed than he thought he’d be, stomach still coiled into an excitable, anxious knot, flesh bristling as he kisses you again.

Bodies twine together, and you’re slotted in his lap, hips occasionally urging against his own. There’s friction present, hot and unfamiliar; he’s infatuated by the sensation. He feels your hand drag from his torso to chest, hovering over his heart.

It’s soothing, your presence; a sanctuary that he feels uninhibited within, where his confidence begins to take root. It’s faint, but he can feel his courage flourish when his mouth begins to descend towards your jaw.

Bewildered, you feel yourself gasp; a subtle, surprised noise that becomes lost in the entangled barrage of sighs. He’s agonizingly slow in the best possible way, gaze occasionally shifting to make sure that he isn’t hurting you somehow.

Bob simply mimics your actions from before, and it has a rather powerful effect, ripping a low moan straight from your diaphragm. The sound is pretty, gives him some encouragement to know that he isn’t completely hopeless.

“S’good?” He murmurs, and you can feel the little quirk of his mouth against your throat. You nod, urging him to continue, and he’s more than eager to do so, kissing a trail toward your collarbone.

His hands remain stagnant, one occasionally caressing along your spine, the other content to rest against your hip. You don’t mind it, reveling in the affection he provides you, deliciously gentle, in the way that you desire most.

A shiver passes through him, your digits idly carding over his scalp, threading within his tresses, the sensation pleasant. Cupping the nape of his neck, you exhale, a shaky noise wrought with exhilaration as he kisses toward your sternum.

He’s blushing again, heat radiating from his skin, hesitant to continue further. Every scar on your body is tended-to by his sweet kiss, as if he’s worshiping your flesh, something you feel marrow-deep.

“Do you mind if I …” A tremulous sigh escapes him, and he reminds himself that there’s nothing to be nervous about; it’s just you, he loves you. “I want to see you — more of you, if that’s alright.” Bob inquires, his timbre low, a touch skittish.

A molten warmth curls over you, festering throughout your entire body, as if you’ve been struck by a fever. His constant desire for consent is endearing, and you nod, crawling off of his lap in order to sit beside him, instead.

It’s been so long; he knows what to do, he thinks, but it’s overshadowed by this unforeseen pressure, impressing you. Bob knows it’s going to take some time for him to work himself up for the entire act, but he knows just how patient you are.

Shimmying out of your thin, pajama bottoms, you nudge the material aside, letting it pool on the floor below, left in your undergarments. His eyes are wide again, silently appreciating you, drinking in your beauty — he’s not subtle about it.

His hand flexes into the edge of the mattress, nearly ripping it apart, if he wanted to. Bob watches, mesmerized as you tilt forward, capturing his mouth in another kiss, one hand poised against his thigh.

He tenses, a soft groan pulled from his throat as each kiss seems to burn with a growing intensity. It feels incredible, to be wanted — to be desired by you, in all ways imaginable. As your other hand settles against his abdomen, his lips come to a crawl.

“Still okay?” Ensuring that he’s still wanting to explore, he nods, though there’s a bit of hesitancy present. “What’s wrong?” You ask, cadence soft and assuring, wanting him to know that his well-being comes before any physicality.

“I don’t want to disappoint you,” The weight of his confession is somewhat relinquished, vocalizing his nervousness out in the open. You’re nearly slotted in his lap again, chest ghosting over his, caressing across firm muscles. “It all feels new; but I know it’s not.”

Through furrowed brows, you shake your head, fingers sweeping to stroke through his tresses. “You’re not disappointing me,” You murmur, lips curling into a warm smile. “It’s okay if it feels new. I don’t have any expectations — I just want to be with you.” With that in-mind, he begins to relax.

Bob nods, visibly flustered as he shifts beneath you, attempting to hide the evidence of rousing feelings. “I want to keep going,” He gushes, hands settling against your hips. “Just a little more.” The enthusiasm in his voice is charming.

“Define ‘a little more’,” You utter, gaze glittering with curiosity as you caress his jaw, thumb tracing circles into his skin. “This is new for me, too, but it feels comfortable with you.” Those words strike a chord within him; he’s safe for you, too.

A twinge of embarrassment settles onto his countenance, marked by furrowed brows and a halfhearted, anxious smile. “I want to touch you,” He decides it’s best to be forthcoming. “If that’s alright.” Bob murmurs, watching your lips part in surprise.

Touch holds a certain meaning — you know what he wants, and when it comes from his mouth, it makes your skin scream with heat. Even then, he appears a little shy, as if the admission of it somehow tarnishes him.

“Okay.” Conceding, you watch as he sits back just enough, politely adjusting you to ensure that you’re in his lap again. Your hands settle against his shoulders, taut and broad beneath your palms, flesh an open furnace.

Bob beseeches you for another kiss, something to distract himself with, one hand fumbling over your thigh. He wants to come across as confident, self-assured, but it’s harder than he thought it would be. He starts to relax when your digits idly massage into his shoulders.

Lower, lower still; you shiver when his hand ghosts over the inside of your thigh, touch incendiary, a brand etched into your skin. Each kiss makes your head spin, a dizzying feeling.

Between loving, sluggish kisses, he finds the confidence to skirt past the material of your panties, digits finding the warmth between your legs. A sharp gasp splits your lungs, and he almost thought he might’ve burned you.

If it weren’t for his arm keeping you aloft, you might’ve collapsed beneath his touch, melting away into wisps of ash. Each sigh was rapturous, wanton moans inhabiting the space between bodies, a feverish warmth crawling over your spine.

“Bob,” Stifling a whine, you kiss his face, mouth snaking over his jaw as he begins to touch you. His ministrations are slow to start, sheepish, trying to find his footing with the act itself. “Keep going.”

The sound of his name rolling from your tongue with such ardor makes his heart catch fire, a low groan stirring when you plant kisses below his jaw. Nimble digits find the apex of your thighs, gliding through your folds as he touches you.

The sensation clouds your vision with a haze, drowning in desire as his fingers idly stroke along your cunt, rhythm somewhat erratic. He’s trying to discern where you enjoy it the most, but it’s difficult, especially when you’re kissing his throat.

A low, husky groan fluttered from his mouth, a noise that turned your stomach to molten heat. “G—Good?” The words barely escape between his hand and your mouth, and you nod, forehead drifting to press against his.

Pleasure coils your stomach into knots, letting him touch you, explore as much as he wants. He treats you with such care, visage flushed, chest-to-chest, his heartbeat slow compared to yours.

Scarlet blooms against his features, perspiration building along the nape of his neck, in spite of the friction. Your body continues to urge against his, sending tremors of delight through him, the closeness nothing short of perfection.

Arousal seeps into his bones, visceral and raw as he urged his digits against your cunt, easing them backward in rhythmic strokes. His pace was jumbled, each touch wanton, exploratory.

As his fingers deftly caress your core, you lurch forward when they graze your clit, countenance contorted into an expression of desperation. “There,” You moan, feeling the little spike in his confidence. “Right there, Bob.”

Bob exhales, head jostling in a brief nod, faces flush together, allowing him to steal a kiss from you. He whimpers into your joined lips, coupled with the sensation of your hand caressing his tresses, hips grinding against his.

Listening to your encouragement, his digits seek the spot that made you shudder, and when he finds it fully, you’re sighing his name. It’s beside his ear, hot, fervent; he’s enamored, completely and utterly devoted to you in all senses of the word.

As his fingers carefully circle around your clit, you find it difficult to sit still, squirming atop him, which only furthers the existing friction. Bob steels himself, flushed and exhilarated, gaze wide and doe-like as your eyes momentarily find one another.

You’re everything to him — his world, center of gravity, light in the darkness. There’s a semblance of awe in his eyes, coupled with adoration, a budding desire.

With a soft whine, your hands relocate, back to caressing over his chest, abdomen, ribs; anywhere within reach. Lurching forward, you desperately seek whatever scrap of friction he provides, feeling the coil in your stomach begin to unfurl.

“You — You’re so pretty,” Bob sighs, and it makes your limbs crawl with heat. “Like this.” He’s stumbling over his words, but it doesn’t stop you from soaring, completely enamored with him. He feels strange, saying something like that, but it’s the truth.

“Doing so well, Bob,” You huff, “Don’t stop.” It emerges as a breathless plea, and he reels at the thought of you embracing him like that. The room is shrouded by tangled sighs, groans, whimpering; the temperature feels rather tepid.

Preening beneath your praise, Bob holds you close, delighted to know that he’s been the source of your ecstasy. Lips collide once more, the kiss bruising, devastatingly tender even through the constant flurry of passion.

Consumed by want, by the adoration you feel for him, your hips continue to urge into his hands, chasing after any lick of heat. Bob is more than eager to give it to you, grinding haplessly against the pearl of your cunt.

Close; you can feel it, your body screaming for a release that you haven’t had in what felt like forever. Unbeknownst to you, Bob is there too, pushed to the brink by the constant drag of your hips against his.

The touching doesn’t stop, trembling digits steadying as he circles your clit, rhythm somewhat erratic, but you don’t care. You’re nearly there, each kiss raw, eliciting amorous sounds from the both of you, tangled within one another.

He groans your name and it’s your ruin, toppling over the edge at that sound. Bob sputters, foreheads nestled together, your chest flush to his, fingers drawing circles into his abdomen. Muscles tense, clench beneath your palms, his head canting just slightly.

As his fingers still toy with your cunt even through your orgasm, you reach for his wrist, a gentle reminder for him to slow down. A gentle ‘sorry’ slips from his lips, hand ceasing as he withdraws, caressing your body, instead.

Attempting to catch your breath, you notice his flurry of embarrassment, visibly sheepish as your gaze drops toward his groin. “That was perfect,” You whisper, and he’s crimson. Tracing your fingers over his brow, you make sure he’s alright. “You okay?”

More than okay, he realizes, sticky with an amalgamation of perspiration and his own spent, watching with mild dismay as you crawl off of him. However, it gives him an opportunity to retreat to your bathroom for a few minutes.

When he returns, hunched and flustered, you’re laying in bed, wearing his shirt, no pants; his heart nearly bursts from his chest. Bob basks in the afterglow, crawling into bed with you as he curls inward, his larger frame engulfing you.

“I’m fine,” Bob assures, pressing a kiss behind your ear, arm looped over your middle. He feels you writhe within his grasp, only to turn and face him, smiling as if the world is right again. “Was that alright?” He murmurs, hoping for your approval.

“It was amazing,” Admittedly, you weren’t expecting his enthusiasm, but it all seemed to work in your favor, and his. “I want to touch you too, next time — maybe a little more.” It’s an absentminded remark, but it makes him blush.

“I—I liked that,” Bob sighs, feeling you perch atop his chest, lying beneath you as your fingers caress over his torso. “I liked touching you.” His confession is sickly-sweet, wrought with a tenderness that makes you melt into him.

Loved it, really; his arms cage you in against him, holding you, even if it’s you halfway on top of him. There’s a semblance of contentment he feels, closer to normalcy, closer to himself.

Smiling to yourself, you hear his chest expand with a yawn, rising and falling underneath your head. “You’re good at it.” Praising him with saccharine words, you watch as his visage brightens with mild glee.

He’s less timid; he’s still nervous, but it isn’t as outwardly prevalent. Bob turns just enough to kiss your forehead, nestling against you, his breath pluming over your features. A hush falls between, and he’s content to hold you.

Beneath your palm, his heart hums, the rhythm even, placating. You press a kiss to his collarbone, bare skin still fuming with heat, his warm breath tickling your cheek. “Are you tired?”

With a nod, Bob melts into you, chin tucked atop your head, arms tangled around one another. “Yeah,” He hums, gaze half-lidded. He wishes that he could stay up longer and talk to you, but he’s beginning to feel groggy. “I can stay up, if you need me to.” He offers.

“No, no,” You soothe, peering up just enough to fully glance at him, pressing a kiss against his jaw. “We should get some rest.” Typically, you’re always the one falling asleep first — it was reassuring that it was the other way around this time.

“I can hold you,” Bob murmured, knowing that it was often you holding him; he wanted you to feel just as loved as you made him feel, too. With a smile, you turned over, back snug to his chest, his arms caging in around you. “You’re cold.”

“You’re really warm,” With a cheeky grin, you feel his head nestle within the hollow between your neck and shoulder, perfectly slotted there. Reaching for his hand, you interlace your fingers together, resting together over your abdomen. “Bob?”

His eyes are closed, legs tangled within one another, as if he’s wrapped you up in the heat of his body, all coiled around you. “Mm?” On the cusp of sleep, he’s almost out, so comforted by your presence that it’s lulled him to slumber.

You want to say it — the monumental confession, the three words that change everything; it hangs upon the tip of your tongue, dangling there until you swallow it whole. You’re anxious that it might be too soon, or that it might scare him.

“Goodnight.” You whisper, and your response is a soft kiss, buried into the column of your throat.

[sheepispink]

‘Rest and Recuperation’

supersoldier!reader x lt!ghost (part 5)

part one Series Masterlist

cw: psychological distress,mentions of reader unintentionally harming themselves (as a result of distress), mentions of vomiting(non-graphic), mentions of pulling hair out, HEAVY angst on this one, but comfort too dw

ever wondered what a super soldier crashing out would look like? well, here you go

WC: 5.2k

prev

————————————————-

Ghost sees it everywhere, starting from the day he received the request from you. He had stood at that sink for almost fifteen minutes, scrubbing the copper smell off his hands until the skin felt raw. When he finally left the bathroom, only after the mirror had steamed up to obscure any attempt at viewing, he saw it again; the star on the calendar. Then, Friday night, he had shrugged off his gear by the door, reaching into his wardrobe for a fresh towel, the red mark glimmering in the corner of his eye. He ignored it until Saturday morning, crossing off the prior day only to realise that the marked date was all the more prominent now— it was today.

He knew, somewhere in his chest, that what he was doing was wrong— similar to the countless times he’s been far too ruthless with his kills. His gut knew as he walked past you in the corridor, or when he left the base with his team. His heart knew when Soap and Gaz questioned him about it and yet his brain ignored their concern, because Ghost didn’t feel guilt, no—just like Reaper wouldn't end up upset over a missed birthday.

Reapers didn’t have feelings, they did what they were told.

Still, his instincts screamed at him when he had been carrying those drinks, the first when the two sergeants were concerned over you and the second being the soldier who had offered to help him— the one he now knows was actually you. He wonders if he really had known, somewhere in the back of his head, all that you were going through but had just chosen to ignore it. This whole time, his eyes moved past when he saw shredded carrots tangled in your hair, the red marks on your wrists when he picked you up your separate evac vehicle or even the hazed look in your eyes when he finally commanded you to stop. It was a decision that he made— to ignore all the signs— and now he’d have to handle the consequences.

————-

It wasn’t a difficult deployment, quite the opposite, but for the first time he was angry at that. Whilst his teammates snickered odd army jokes between each other or whispered before they were supposed to catch some sleep, his mind was like a treadmill; the thoughts wouldn't leave, repeating over and over and the same questions as to why he even let this happen and all he could’ve done to stop it. However, the one thing that plagued his mind the most was how he’d rectify this mistake. If he was forced to be honest, you were the best asset to every team the military had and with the highest success rates known. It’d be stupid to lose such a valuable player in the grand scheme of these events, that meant apologising, but not only that-fixing the problem at its root else it’d sprout once more like a pesky weed.

He’d expected that Price would’ve sorted that out by now, giving you sweet apologies then interrogating the information out of you even when you didn’t want to give it up. But now it seemed like everyone was stepping around you like you left glass in your wake, a danger for anyone who stepped to close.

“I’ve been gone for two weeks– how are they not stable by now?” He had to force down the anger as he looked between his three other teammates, the two sergeants looking especially conflicted. Still, they only gave false promises of how they’d get the information, somehow drawing it out of you with soft words and caring touches. Even Price, who had been the one to oversee you entering this base and still allowed it through. He knew there was nothing humane about the super soldier program and still accepted you in.

Price had never felt a touch of worry about you even when looking at the gruesome pictures attached to the medical files, now that Ghost considers it. Though, it’s not like he hadn’t flicked through the pages like it was a mere magazine either.

The point is you’re running out of time, and they have to act fast to prove your worth to the program before you’re pulled back to be a full-time guinea pig again. That is something all their future missions cannot afford.

—---------

Naturally, Missions was his solution to this problem. What would be the point in attempting to prove your worth any other way?

It wasn't the wrong option either; you obliged easily and got geared up as per usual, arm still wrapped with a bandage, and as soon as he gave the order, you were back on your killing spree. It was ruthless, somehow more than you usually were, like everything bullet shot was an intentional thought, something your heart carved the path for. And so, for the next two weeks you were deep in field combat, if not all the time. Ghost saw it as an easy distraction from everything that happened, especially as how each kill was as simple as a flick of the wrist for you, even if it meant you had to dodge all the more bullets.

As expected, the results did not disappoint and with another five hostages safely tucked into a truck to be taken to a safe location, another job was left completed. Though, he had avoided your gaze as you were tucked into your evac truck, sat in the helicopter himself—he already knew what the look on your face would be, he knew he’d be the monster again. He’d submit the report tonight and the general would approve your stay, future missions wouldn’t be compromised and he and Price would go back to not having to break a sweat because you’d do that for them. Then maybe later the others could try to ease it out of you again, with nice words and kind faces—the way it should’ve been done. Nor would he feel this strange feeling akin to regret in his stomach— he’d fix this, things didn't have to change.

The helicopter lands, quelling any last thoughts in his head as he steps down onto the asphalt and heads into base as per usual. That is until he’s stopped in his tracks by an unfamiliar sight, that being your evac truck parked and the doors open. It usually arrived a bit later than the helicopter, but it wouldn't have turned his head if not for the fact a soldier was dragging you out the back with your arms in a tight lock behind you.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Instantly, he forgets about any previous resignation and storms forward, but despite the authority echoing off of him the soldier only gives him a strange look. “Escorting Reaper out? Why?” None of this looked as casual as the soldier made it out to be, especially the tightening grip on your arms as your eyes were in a haze, almost like you were drugged up or something like that. “Escorting? You’re dragging them.”

“This is.. normal procedure, sir? Reaper is always restrained after being on field.” Ghost narrows his eyes at the man’s last words, suddenly noticing properly now the red marks littering your wrists from pulling so hard on your restraints. Even your face is red marked, scratched at but not enough to leave a permanent dent in the skin.

“And why is that?” This idiot must be lying to him, just like those other pricks who decided to pick on you even with him knowing; he’s positive he’s lying straight to his face.

“We’ve sent reports to you and the Captain before, Lt. This is why the Captain ordered for them to travel separately in the first place—post field makes them freak out.” The soldier gives him a shrug, and a grin that’s nothing short of mocking. It makes his blood boil, the way the fool acts as if you’re some kind of freakish turn of nature, something only to be mocked and has no defence of its own—doesn't he know you could snap his neck in two with just a word? Ghost grits his teeth as the soldier pushes you forward, your eyes starting to blink now but still not very awake. He can't even say anything to the fool; Ghost had laughed about you the exact same way not too long ago.

The moment he enters his room, his hands are desperately searching the cluttered expanse of his desk, searching for any sign of said reports through the stacks of files stamped with the big red letters of ‘TOP SECRET’.

‘Behaviour Reports—Super soldier, Subject: Reaper’

His gloved fingers graze over the letters as he picks the file up, flicking open to the first page, only to find that at least fifteen different reports had been noted in this file— all on different missions. Something uneasy settles in his gut this time, a warning, or perhaps it’s that knowing feeling again that he’s tried to ignore before—the one that had him churning with unease on lonely nights and battlefields quiet enough that you’d meet death before you’d even hear a sound.

‘Subject 56 didn’t like being locked in the back of the truck. They continued to keep asking questions on why there was no light until they fell quiet. Doesn’t seem to be a cause for concern’.

‘There are many indents in the walls of our trucks due to Subject 56’s outbursts. They grow erratic every time they’re placed inside, but never seem to attack any soldiers who touch them. Banging and scratching is all we can hear for the better half of the journey, after that they fall quiet. No signs of harm done to their hands.’

‘A change has occurred in Subject 56’s– well, Reaper’s—usual behaviour post field work. The subject is in a haze when leaving the truck, and occasionally a sound similar to gasping for air is heard. We checked on Reaper, however no source of harm seemed to be done to them, and so we continued the journey. They couldn’t leave the truck by themselves, so I had to restrain them and lead them to the base myself.’

‘The haze is a side effect of recent tests that the scientists have run, nothing to be concerned about. It’s been tested and proven to wear off quickly.’—Captain John Price

Ghost’s eyes widen over the last three entries, all of which have only lasted over the event of one month. He hadn’t known that you were going through this, at least he hadn’t read these files before— not that he hadn’t seen them sitting on the edge of his desk for weeks. What he didn’t understand is how the scientists' altercations with you had led to such drastic changes. Sure, he had noticed the significant upgrade in your abilities around that time, but this was insane, you were barely awake when you left battle, and he hadn’t even known this entire time. You were only just functioning, and he had treated you as if you were just some kind of machine that could turn on and off at will. His hands flick over the following reports, landing on the most recent one accompanied by pictures.

’Reaper is dead silent when entering and leaving the vehicle now. They can hold themself up to some degree but still don't seem to be ‘mentally there’, almost like they’re on autopilot. The retaliation has returned, though it seems to be a physical and non-verbal thing— like they’re fighting against something and not the restraints itself. There are red marks on their hands from the handcuffs, despite them being relatively loose, and only there for the purpose of keeping them from grabbing at their hair again. No recurrences of vomiting or passing in a month—a good sign, I hope.’

Ghost had been on many missions with you, since you were better in certain situations than longer field deployments. There were other reasons of course, the main one being to test the use of your abilities in countless situations; as the first of your kind, you were bound to be tested at the every turn.

But he didn't know this.

He should’ve questioned why you were placed into a separate evac truck in the first place, not blindly giving into the excuse of you potentially ‘freaking out’. No, he had all the materials available to him; he shouldn’t have been such an idiot and just opened his damn eyes, seen the facts in front of him and understood what he’s done. Ghost can’t imagine the days you’ve come out of a mission feeling like the world would topple over just for him to tell you to shove a sock in it and push you into something else. Again and again, another training session, again, another mission, again, another killing spree—-again you’d suffer in the back of that pitch black truck, not even sane enough at the moment to guess if you’d be lucky this time and get out with a mere scratch.

For once in his life, he leaves you hanging at your usual time in the gym, stuck in his room hunched over his desk as he mourns all the changes he could’ve made— the littlest of things he could’ve done. This was more than losing an important asset, he knew that, and that’s what scared him the most; this was losing someone in their very self, a humanity so far gone they become nothing but a mindless tool for the higher ups to puppeteer. It’s such a cruel fate, it almost has him going back to memories that were supposed to be buried after years of experience.

When he first saw you, all he could think about was how young you looked, how his eyes were like that one day until they were snuffed out. He scoffed at the thought before, but that’s the only thing you had left, the naivety in your appearance, and even that was used as a tool to increase your performance. Built to deceive and for people to undermine you, only for you to deal the final blow before they realise the grave mistake they had made. He had unintentionally fallen for that too, and now he was experiencing that exact blow right now, striking through his heart.

—— ——

The information is shared with the rest of the team, and you're pulled out of missions for the time being, no notice given to you other than being told to take the opportunity to 'rest and recuperate’. You didn't have a choice, really; there was no way Soap and Gaz would let you do more than some simple exercises a day nor would they let you skip a meal either. They were good at taking care of you, similar in a way a big brother had that protective instinct— he’s been tempted one or two times to tell them off for spoiling you sometimes. But things were getting better, much better; even when Gaz and Soap got sent on deployments, you showed no resentment towards Ghost taking you to the mess hall to eat with him and Price— not that he spoke much either way and not that you showed much emotion on the regular anyway.

In fact, right now he was supposed to be fetching you. Ghost places the weight down and lets out a small huff, shaking out the weight of guilt that’s settled on his chest each time he has a second to think. Things are fine now— he made the right choice, he fixed it. That’s right, everything would be back to normal soon enough, especially with the higher ups now off your back too. After rinsing off his sweat before he makes you pull that disgusted face Soap accidentally caused before, he zips up his jacket and heads through the corridors towards your room. “Oi, Reaper. Time for dinner, y’know the drill.” He raps his knuckles against the door, only to find it unlocked again with the door swinging open as he turns the handle. There’s no sign of any unsavoury presents this time, something he definitely got worried about for a second, but your pills have been left open again and the room is strangely.. Disorientated.

It’s weird, since it’s not trashed nor is it messy like some soldiers around this base. Books have been toppled onto the floor, clothes spilling out your closet onto the hardwood floor and even your bedsheets have been removed from your bed, spread around like they’re dominating the room. That wasn’t the odd thing though, no, it was the fact it looked like it had been ‘placed’ to be that way. Sure the uniform had been thrown out, but there wasn't a single wrinkle in the fabric, or the books looked like they had just been dropped in trail, barely having been pushed off. He had to roll his eyes really—is this what a super soldier tantrum really looked like? You were so perfect that you couldn’t even trash a room the right way, it was almost cute. At least, that’s what the others would say.

Ghost decides to check the track next, but it’s void of any presence of you, and even when he checks your other usual exercise spots you’re not there either. He even peeks into the mess hall, considering you might’ve gone there first, but it’s to no avail— there’s no sign of you anywhere. He swallows sharply, trying to keep his head from steering to any other crazy possibilities which didn't actually seem too farfetched anymore. That’s a lie, it won’t happen again. He fixed everything. Of course— that’s why he knows exactly where you are right now, and no, he’s not worried about your safety either.

He walks through the muddy forest floor, having only rained a day prior, but it makes your footsteps all the more prominent. Eventually he reaches their end, his hand nudging forward the wooden door just a smidgen to let his eyes peek through. It should’ve been obvious really—where you’d be right now. After all, it was the last day before the fox would be taken someplace safer. It was supposed to be earlier, but some complications arose, and hey, you looked a lot happier anyway.

You nearly always come by, sit before the fox and just watch it move around you, intrigue in your eyes. He sometimes watches, wondering if you’ll say anything to it, but you catch him staring anyway. Either way, you always looked content, sitting there with your hands in your lap as you just sat still and observed, eyes dropped and relaxed, tension lost in your shoulders and head likely empty from the usual thoughts he hopes.

That’d be the same today, except probably a little sadder if you had that emotion— the others told him you had cried, but he doubts that it was actually because you were sad but rather a byproduct of pain. He’d have to take you for dinner eventually, and hey maybe you’d even talk to Price properly, since he said you’ve been a lot quieter since Ghost returned. But then again—when did you ever speak much? When were you allowed to speak that much?

He pushes the door open, seeing you standing before the fox, who sits upon a rickety table, looking back at you. “Oi, time to eat. You can see him tomorrow mornin” He scoffs, rolling his eyes up at you when you stay motionless, not reacting to him in the slightest. “I’ll tell Price to come ‘ere and help me drag you back y’know.” His voice is gruff and echoes across each wall of the cabin, but it’s no use, you’re still as a mannequin.

But your palms are clenched. Your eyes are blank and hazed, and he only realises now that the fox plush he knows you own is torn on the floor between you and the actual fox, who can only whimper at you. Your nails dig into your palms, red marks on your arms from nettle stings and harsh shrubbery on the path up to this cabin—easily avoidable if you paid much attention on the walk-up, though not if you were in some kind of rush. Strangest of all is how your eyes are bloodshot red, not even blinking as you stare forward, like you're stuck in your own time and space. “Look, I know you’re upset but–”

—----------------

The floor is crumbling beneath you, cracks that sprouted a week ago spreading across the crappy wooden planks down to the hardened stone that makes up the ground which holds you upright. Your feet are unstable, teetering on the edge as it splinters beneath; you’re struggling to manage even more than usual, shifting the weight back and forth in a way that makes you all the more dizzy. That’s not important though, no, it’s the walls disintegrating all around, everything you know and love dissipating with it. The fox stares back at you, black eyes so glassy they may as well be the beads of a bracelet you’d wear if you were like any other person your age; it knows it’s leaving you too– the both of you have been hanging on this edge for the past week. You could handle any mission, any bullet, any punch thrown your way and that was the problem in itself. You couldn’t handle anything else. It was a ruse, a whispered lie, one they meticulously planned behind closed doors on those same meeting tables used to control your entire life.

Change–that’s what you said you wanted, even if you had to grapple at the chains on your neck and leave rope burns on your palms. You got exactly what you wanted.

Ghost had returned, reclaimed the control over you that had always belonged to him, and he pushed you into mission after mission. Retaliation, that was your choice. So when he used the command words on you that day, you fought and screamed and cried– except it only seemed to work in your head. As soon as he spoke, you lost any little control you held, but still. You persevered. Concentration, that was all– you just had to focus. It was your body, not Ghost’s, nor this damn military’s.

Though you should’ve known that the one who creates the puppet controls it, and you wish you had realised that sooner. Longer and longer the missions dragged on, each and every time you fought desperately: refusing to sleep in the evenings, so your body would be weaker in the mornings, denying food, so your fingers could barely keep when they clutched their weapons. Yet still, your body was stronger than your mind, continuing to perform each task it was ordered to complete in a flawless manner and when finally, it was returned to you, you were ruined. You slumped immediately after the battle, the rubble scraping against your throbbing shins as two soldiers dragged you into the evac truck. Drowned in shadows, you had failed to realise that you wouldn’t survive this ride because of your pathetic efforts. Your mind was too exhausted to fight off the visions that always haunted you, too clouded with the disappointment of failure for the voices to stay away this time.

You don't remember when you exited that truck, only that you woke up on the floor of your room, your face raw with scratches and your head sore, hair strands on the floor beneath you.

Still, again and again, the cycle repeated. Missions and retaliation-your mental state worsening by the day. Until it all stopped. An order was given, something was discovered, bad or good you weren't sure. “Rest and Recuperation”. They all dared to smile in your face as they announced it to you, a grin almost devilish the way your rotted brain decided. It had to be some kind of sick joke; who gives a super soldier ‘Rest and Recuperation’ if it was not the order itself?

‘You know which one.’ The voices whispered as you tossed and turned each night. Of course, it could only be one.

The one that would send you back to the labs to be slit open and reattached by scientists with morality worse than Frankenstein’s. Again.

Weakness, disappointment, and regret was all you could manage to cycle between as you were forced into the shameful lifestyle. No longer revered by your peers, you were now merely pitied, like some kind of broken hope.

Every day dragged on harsher than the last, worse than any needle or scalpel that had attacked you daily for years– no this was a new type of pain. You were powerless in your own body, your mind so run down that you couldn’t defy even the simplest things, like a mindless puppet as you agreed to whatever Soap and Gaz had in mind for your ‘Rest and Recuperation’. That was only surface level; none of them knew about the nightmares, the visions you saw each night that had you hurling into the bin in your room, nor the voices that bounced from each ear until you crumbled to the floor in distress. Each and every time you woke up it would repeat, not a second of relief nor silence in your own head. The bile lingered on your tongue, the skin on your face has been carved into by your own destructive hands and the haze grew stronger with each passing minute. You were in a losing battle against yourself– and you couldn't even fight against it because you knew all it’d do for you is get you back onto that operating table again.

Now you are here, the last thing tethering you to this Earth trying to leave you behind and there’s nothing you can do, barely able to feel your own fingertips. You can't step out of line, the higher ups, Ghost, your body won't let you.

—-------

You're grasping at your throat as the breaths come out ragged and Ghost almost stumbles forward if not for him quickly catching his footing. “What’s wrong? Can't you breathe?” You ignore him, nails digging so deep they draw blood out of your barely healing wounds that are always hidden by the tight buttons of uniform. His eyes narrow in confusion as he watches you struggle, swaying all the same. You’re acting up again–why are you always like this? Just like when you saw him in the infirmary.

“Answer me.” He demands, his hand reaching forward, but you push yourself away with so much force that you fall directly onto the sharp edge of the crappy workbench. The wood pierces into your skin, making it throb with pain, but it only serves for your vision to grow more hazed, your fingers losing less and less control as the seconds pass.

“Get off of me!” Your voice is scratchy as it vibrates against your throat, pain tingling down to your stomach and every cell that connects. Still, no action is aimed at him, only returning to yourself as you fail to connect with your own damn body— feeling like nothing but a ghost passing through. He doesn't notice though, consumed by a concern that swells into anger at the sight of you worsening. He’s fought so hard to give you everything you needed to improve so why won't you just take it?

“I told you, you just need to rest–”

“What kind of super soldier takes a break?!” You shout, more of a rhetorical question and something to just force the air out of your lungs. “You– you told me that when you met me.” Your hands slip into your hair, nails scratching harshly against your scalp. “I don't understand– I don't understand! All you do is say all of this ‘rest and recuperate' and–”

“Because that’s what you need, if you just sat down for a moment you’d understand-” He argues back, something in him panging when you stammer over your words, but he’s more annoyed at the fact you’ve repeated his own wrongs back to him. He knows he said things only a monster would say to someone–he knows what he did to you.

“You’re lying! All of you are always lying! Super soldiers don’t bloody rest! I’m supposed to fight!” Somehow your voice has actually got louder than his ever has, enough to make the fox whine and scramble away, dashing out of the door and only making the last of your will wane smaller. “You just want to send me back isn't it? That’s why you keep saying those stupid words, and all of this treatment. I’m not useful anymore, am I?”

Quiet. Silence rings out after your pained cries echo through the room, Ghost’s wide and once emotionless eyes staring at you with regret. This was his fault, not yours. You had been eating yourself alive, literally, because of his own harsh manner and need to validate his actions. Did he ever really think about your perspective? Had he ever really considered what you would want? No, this entire time he’s only looked at you with pity, when that’s the complete opposite of what you need. You knew you were good on missions, you knew that you were an excellent fighter. All you’ve needed this entire damn time is reassurance, confirmation that they won't let you be sent back to be tortured again. He should’ve known by the needle pricks on your arms, the nightmares the others told him about hell even the way you flinched every time a nurse was brought near you. The signs had screamed at him, even when you asked him if you had done a good job back when he first met you. But he was stubborn, he decided he wouldn't give in because you were a ‘monster’, someone synthetically produced. He thought that he decided to determine your worth.

Ghost hates to admit it, but it’s painfully obvious to him even now that he’s messed everything up.

You slide down, unable to hold yourself up much longer, and he lunges forward to catch you, sliding onto his knees as he grabs you firmly. Blood trickles from the wooden corner, leaking forward from a sharp scrape on your lower back as you slump forward, hands still trying to dig into your neck before he pushes them firmly down and instead wraps them around him, pressing your nails into the expanse of his back.

“Not once have you ever failed me Reaper, and yet…again and again all I've done is fail you.”

His own arms tighten like a vice around you, his head buried into his neck as he smells the coppery crimson staining your skin.

“I’m.. so sorry.”

———————-

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[softspiderling]

young lust, xo | r.c

──𖤐 summary:

“You done tracing your name on me?” Rafe asked with a low voice, and you peered up at him, your lips tugged into a grin.

“Why, you got somewhere else to be?”

OR; losing all your innocence in the backseat

──𖤐 pairing: rafe cameron x reader

──𖤐 warnings: 18+! MDNI, pwp, p in v, sex in a public space (parked car, duh), hints of sacreligious behavior

──𖤐 word count: 1.1k

──𖤐 author’s note: don't know what this is. don't ask me, as usual, I was inspired by a song (it's obviously Diet Pepsi), i (imo) am not the best smut writer, angst is much more my forté, but it had to be written idk, happy dirty reading 👀

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The car was warm, despite the windows being down. A gentle breeze brought fresh air in and a heavy, scent of sex out.

You were laid on the backseat on top of Rafe, your limbs entangled in a way you weren’t sure where he ended and you started. Both of you were starkly nude, with only a small blanket covering your ass, in case an innocent person walked by. Yes, Rafe left the windows down while he fucked you, encouraging you to be as loud as you wanted, but he drew the line at someone seeing you naked. That privilege was his alone.

His finger was drawing circles on your lower back, while you were tracing your name on his chest with your index finger, your nail occasionally clinking against his gold cross chain. It was reflecting your face back at you, with the way it was polished. You had wondered countless times why he wore that, Rafe was probably the least religious person you knew. He said it was because it looked cool, but deep down you knew he liked how it dangled over your face when he was on top. It was kinda sacrilegious, which made it so hot.

“You done tracing your name on me?” Rafe asked with a low voice, and you peered up at him, your lips tugged into a grin.

“Why, you got somewhere else to be?”

Rafe rolled his eyes as he dipped his fingers into the curve above your ass, dragging you up so he could kiss you. You moaned a little into his mouth, your still sensitive cunt rubbing against his already hardening cock. How he managed to recuperate so quickly never failed to surprise you. You learned to stop questioning it, it only made him cockier.

“You ready to go again, baby?” Rafe mumbled against your lips, as you had expected him to. With a small sigh, you pulled away from the kiss to sit up, the blanket on your back sliding down.

“You’re insatiable, you know that?”

The corner of Rafe’s mouth ticked up into a grin as he moved his hands up your body, cupping your breasts gently.

“Can you blame me?” he rumbled, his voice deep with lust. “I mean, look at you.”

You tutted at his compliment, grazing your nails over his chest, without applying any pressure, leaving a pink trail, that quickly faded again.

“Fine,” you sighed, as if you were doing him a favor, before pausing, tacking on a requirement. “Under one condition.”

“Anything.”

Your finger looped around the chain of his necklace. “I wanna wear your necklace.”

Rafe smirked at your request, turning the necklace to unclasp it, before putting it on you. The necklace felt heavy around your neck, the golden cross sitting snugly in the valley of your breasts, where Rafe’s eyes were zeroed in. A woman of your words, you reached behind you to grab his hardened cock, lifting your hips a little before sinking down on him with a small sigh, almost immediately full of him. You were still stretched out from the first time you had fucked, your cunt full of slick. Rafe let out a groan, his hands finding your waist to help you up and down his cock. Moaning, you leaned forward, resting your arms on his chest, your breasts bouncing in his face, the cross chain swinging between them.

“Jesus,” Rafe grunted and now it was your turn to smirk.

“No Jesus here, only me.”

Rafe rolled his eyes at you, his grip on your waist tightening as he snapped up his hips in quick thrusts, his cock driving into you in a brutal pace, surely bruising your cervix.

“Fuck,” you whined, your head bowed down, your body trembling with the pure pleasure of Rafe hiting your sweet spot over and over again.

The sounds coming out of the car were straight up obscene; your moans, mixed with a string of Rafe’s curses and consistent sound of skin slapping skin.

It wasn’t long until you felt the familiar tugging in your belly, your hands finding the rounded curves of Rafe’s shoulders, nails digging into his taut skin.

“You close, yeah?” Rafe groaned out, his rhythm staying constant and even, his brows drawn.

“Yeah, so close,” you whimpered, clenching your thighs, when your orgasm hit you, making your toes curl. Your head tipped back, as you let out a soft moan, the high stretching out with Rafe’s continuous thrusts.

“Fuck baby,” Rafe cursed, before he came, the familiar feeling of his come filling you. His hands held onto you tightly and if it weren’t for that, you’d just flop down on top of him. Instead, he carefully laid you down, his chest still heaving from after the high, the small cross chain stuck between your bodies.

“I can’t go another round,” you warned with a weak voice while you lifted your hips so his soft cock could slip out of you, his come dripping out of your cunt onto his thighs. Rafe only snickered, pushing your sweaty hair out of your face.

“Who said anything about a third round?”

You didn’t even have the energy the glare at him as he gently ran his fingers down your back in soothing patterns, which soon made you doze off. The two of you stayed entangled in each other until the stickiness became too unbearable and you untangled yourself to get dressed. The drive home was uncomfortable, despite the quick wipe down Rafe gave you with some wipes he still had in his car. A shower was much needed, where he was able to slip in a third round, because who were you to turn down lazy shower sex?

You hadn’t even noticed that you were still wearing his necklace, until a couple of days later. It was late in the morning when you woke up, blindly reaching for Rafe on his side of the bed, only to grasp air. Confused, you opened your eyes, looking around for him. It was odd for Rafe to leave the bed without waking you, but he was nowhere to be found.

It took you a second to see the small, velvet blue box on his pillow, a folded note next to it. Blinking the sleep out of your eyes, you reached for the note, unfolding it, Rafe’s familiar chicken scratch handwriting on the paper.

So I can have mine back.

His note raised more questions than it answered, so you picked up the small box, opening it just to see your very own gold cross chain sparkling back at you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

author's note: so... thoughts?

[wstviewvidal]

goodbye- w. maximoff

pairing: fwb!wanda x reader

summary: wanda tries to mend what was broken

a/n: here is the last installment of my first story, breakfast birthday goodbye! thank you all so much for the support you’ve shown the first two parts as well as the hc’s! it means the world to meeeeeee i love u guys soooo much!

minors do not interact

wanda never meant for everything to go down the way it did. scratch that, she never wanted any of this to happen. the ignored calls, the short texts, you avoiding her at your group’s weekly dinner.

she didn’t want that at all, and it was eating at her insides knowing that you are out there somewhere thinking that she wanted nothing to do with you, that she wasn’t serious about you.

it was the exact opposite, actually. you never leave her mind and she often finds herself texting you with random updates throughout her day just so she can end up calling you and hearing about whatever you have to say.

but now it’s been a week since the party and you’ve yet to actually have a full conversation with her. you don’t text her, only replying to her with a short and simple response when she sends you a message first.

she’s lost countless hours of sleep and finds it hard to make herself eat normal meals. the bags under her eyes have darkened and she’s become a hollow shell of herself, one she can’t even recognize in the mirror. everyone’s noticed it too, and it’s getting hard to ignore.

wanda prides herself on her incredible work ethic and her ability to do her job well beyond expectations, but for the past week even her team at work has noticed that she’s been off her a-game.

wanda hasn’t slept, and you could tell. she’s avoided every every attempt to rest or eat. only throwing herself into her work, which was futile because in the back of her mind was you. the ache of losing you and know you were out there hating her.

it’s gotten to the point where her boss has offered her to take the rest of the week off to recuperate over whatever happened that pushed her down. bad thing is, wanda said no and now she’s stuck thinking about you at her desk.

she turned down the offer, ignoring how badly her body is begging her to take the rest. work is the only thing keeping her mind off of you— or at least trying to.

she can’t get the look on your face out of her mind. the look at showed everything. the way your body looks exhausted, as if it had been fighting. worst of all, she saw every ounce of hurt in your eyes— it confirmed everything.

the look in your eyes, the hurt in your voice, the way you avoided her for the rest of the night at the party.

that’s how she knew you loved her back. and that was meant to be your final act of love— leaving her.

but wanda wouldn’t accept that.

wanda thinks of her future often. how she wants to open up her own firm, how she wants to have a decent sized house— no more than twenty minutes away from the city, the amount of kids she wants to have, you, you, you.

in every different imaginable scenario she’s imagined for herself, in every different future she’s envisioned, you’re always there. there’s no version of herself she can imagine without you.

which is why she’s suddenly found herself outside of your house in the middle of a thunderstorm at 8 at night.

she knew this was inappropriate and a setup for failure but she couldn’t go another hour not at least trying. she’s gone too many days with her anxiety eating away at her.

she knew that you loved her— hell, you basically confessed it to her the night you were drunk in her car. it’s been so long since then and she’s had to watch you date other people despite having confessed your true feelings.

so, logically, wanda had to force herself to ignore the confession and start to date other people as well.

but wanda knew they could never be you. no matter how hard she tried to make herself like the other girls, she always wished it was you she was holding at night— not them

as wanda stood outside your gate, she couldn’t help but recall when she went to go see you at work after you broke up with a fling.

and unfortunately for wanda, this was after you confessed. she had to sit there and console your crying eyes all while knowing the both of you had reciprocating feelings for the other.

wanda parked her car a few spots away from the main entrance and fixed her appearance before grabbing the takeout food she had brought for the two of you to share.

she sat in her car for a few minutes, trying to focus on her breathing and calming the nerves in her body. trying to rehearse things to say to say to you in front of her mirror, she looks over her appearance and fixes her makeup slightly.

i mean, what is she supposed to say to the girl she’s in love with who just broke up with someone she was dating? yay, now let’s get together? no. wanda had to be a supportive friend— no matter how badly she ached for more.

getting out of her car, she slowly walks up to the main entrance. as she walks in, she’s hit with the familiar smell of the air freshener the company uses and it gives her a small boost of confidence.

stopping to say hi to natasha before going into your office, she greets her.

“hey nat,” wanda says softly while peering into natasha’s office.

both wanda and natasha were familiar with each other through you and had no issue having conversations without your company, they were comfortable with each other.

natasha looks up from her work and up to wanda, a slight surprised smile on her face. she had a feeling wanda would show up for you, just unsure of when.

“hey,” she replies, “she’s in her office. she could really use the pick me up.”

wanda nods in understanding, “i know, she’s been down recently. brought her some food in case she needed it.”

natasha smirks softly and whispers lowly, “if you’re going to continue being a girlfriend to her, you need to make it official before somebody else does.”

wanda freezes. did natasha know about you two? surely you wouldn’t tell her anything, but why else would she say that?

wanda gives an awkward chuckle and walks off in the direction of your office, replaying natasha’s words and how she had a knowing look on her face as she said that.

slowly peering into your office, she knocks softly, “hey, pretty girl”

looking away from your desktop, you see wanda dressed in your college t-shirt and a pair of jeans while holding a takeout box from one of your favorite restaurants.

your heart swoons at the pet name, as well as the smile on her face. this isn’t the first time wanda’s shown up to your job unannounced. in fact, she does this at least a few times out of the month.

she insisted that it was her biggest priority to make sure you were taken care of.

she walks over to your desk and gives you a small kiss on the forehead and a rub on the back.

“you feeling okay?” wanda’s voice is laced with concern and love. it filled your stomach with butterflies.

truth is, you were actually feeling content after the break up. you constantly felt a weight on your chest while you were in that relationship. really, you could hardly call it a relationship. it lasted less than a month and you were happy it was over.

everytime you two went out, you always thought about how wanda would be acting if if was her you went out with instead. no matter what, you always had her in the back of your mind and you felt guilty for it.

shrugging softly, you lean into wanda’s side, enjoying how she’s giving you this soft attention. you really should be honest with her and tell her you’re fine but the fact that she’s being so sweet and attentive, it really makes you want to play into this facade just so she can continue being sweet to you. wanda tightened her hold on you and cooed softly.

wanda knew though. normally when you’re down and out of it, you hardly ever do your makeup. the way you speak is a bit more dragged out, the way you even look at her is different when you’re down.

wanda knew you were okay the second she got close to you, but how could she pass up an opportunity like this to hold you? she would take any excuse to touch you and make you feel happy. she knew she was in love with you, has known it for quite some time now. however, acting on it is a whole other story.

“i got you some food,” wanda runs her fingers through your hair softly, “i want to make sure you eat.”

wanda watches you as you nod softly and look up at her with a happy look on your face. yeah, she’s in love with you. no doubt about it.

you can’t help but immediately let out a soft giggle as you see how she looks at you. you two have known each other for years and she never fails to make you feel cared for.

what would it be like if you two stopped dancing around your feelings for each other?

wanda pulls out the food and you can’t help but swoon all over again. wanda knew your order, down to what you want put on the side instead of in the dish, even the sauces and other condiments. no one has ever known you like this.

the two of you ate for the next hour and a half. you asked her how work was going, her brother, what she’s doing for the holidays. the rest of the world ceased to exist for that hour and a half, and it didn’t feel like a lunch break. it felt like something you could get used to doing at home together.

the two of you existed in each others presence for that lunch break. maybe that was when you realized you truly were in love with her. or maybe it was an accumulation of things, but after that day you knew for a fact that wanda could be the one for you.

wanda walked slowly to your front door, her feet feeling heavy. she could hear her heartbeat, she could feel the blood moving around in her body. hell, she swears she can even feel her white blood cells. for the first time since she’s known you, she was terrified of speaking to you.

the rain soaked through her clothes and clung to her body. her usual soft brown hair was now black and matted with all of the rain water in it. she was freezing, but she didn’t care. each drop that fell onto her body only served as a reminder of all the things she’d never said to you.

every instinct in her was telling her to turn around and bolt, to run and not look back.

but the rational side of her told her that it was now or never. this was her last chance. if she ran, she’d never see you again.

she knew that the longer you two went without talking, the more likely it is that you’ll shut down and block out every memory with wanda from your mind. she knew that she needed to talk to you— and it had to be now.

before getting to your house, she stopped by a near by store to get you flowers. this wasn’t the first time she’d done so. in fact, the florist practically knew all about her love for you since it was all wanda could talk about when she went to go pick up your customized bouquet.

this time, however, it was terrifying knowing that there was a chance that this could be the last time she’d be giving you flowers. she knew you were stubborn and once you sat in your thoughts for too long, there was no way of getting you to turn back on it.

had wanda waited too long to speak to you? are you going to turn her away once she gets to your front door? is this going to be the last time she would see you again?

wanda stands in front of your door way, looking disheveled and drenched in rain. the roses she bought for you look worse for wear, but she couldn’t imagine coming to you empty handed. she needed to have something in her hand to help calm her nerves at least.

by the time she’d reached your door, she was shaking. but not out of cold, out of fear and desperation.

knocking on your door, wanda’s heartbeat quickens and for a split second she considers bolting and never coming back.

but the door opens.

and there you are, and somehow in the midst of all the chaos between you two, wanda thinks you look as beautiful as ever.

you look at wanda with an incredulous look, almost telling yourself you’re imagining her here at your doorstep.

you start, “wanda, i don’t think th-“

“no,” wanda says sharply, almost too firm and pushes past you and into your house. her breathing is shallow. it wasn’t from the rain though, it was from the years of unspoken truths, missed opportunities. she needed it out in the air.

wanda’s tone and demeanor momentarily stun you. she has always bent on anything you say and rarely interrupted you when you spoke.

after slowly closing the door behind her, you follow her further into your house. your heart is beating and you can’t help that worry she may get sick being drenched in all the rain.

wanda now is in the middle of your living pacing from one end of the room to the other, clutching drenched and withered red roses in her hands. she looks like she’s on the verge of passing out and you’re immediately worried that she very well could drop on your floor.

“wanda, i think you need to sit down.. let be get you a towel,” you say softly while waking towards her slowly, like she was a cat that could run off at any second.

“no,” she says quickly, now stopping and facing you, “you don’t get to kick me out or walk away this time. you can’t shut me out, not after everything. i know i hurt you— us, but i can’t just walk away without telling you everything.”

wanda rushes her words out, but not faltering once in her firm presence. her voice is laced with desperation and you can literally see her hands shaking.

you can hear a small waver in her voice, one youre not used to. wanda’s body language screams terrified and anxious, but her eyes scream with something much louder: resolve.

you can’t help try to hold back a smile at how you can see the emotion in her eyes. wanda’s eyes speak so much louder than her voice could ever, and you have always loved it so much. it’s how you two could communicate with one another from across the room.

you stand silent and nod, unsure of what to do.

“i understand how it looked. at the party, i mean. the girl there wasn’t anyone i knew, or even want to get to know for that matter. it was just a way to help me pass the time at the party, no matter how nasty that sounds,” wanda begins rambling and you can slowly see the confidence wear off. she pinches the bridge of her nose. this was already off to a bad start.

she had practiced this so many times over the past three hours and none of it was coming out how she wanted it to.

“she wasn’t you,” her voice breaks softly and her words make you freeze.

your heart beat quickens. what does she mean? maybe she’s just trying to make nice and keep the agreement going, it can’t mean that you think it means.

you try to interrupt her, “wanda-“

“i said let me ta-“

you raise your voice and look at her pointedly, “you are in my home and i will speak if i choose.”

wanda feels like a child being scolded.

with a soft and gentle voice, you apologize, “that night, my birthday. seeing you with that girl made me realize we’ve had this whole friends with benefits thing go on too long. it’s gotten in the way of our personal lives and for the sake of our future partners, we need to cut it off.”

you force it out, not sounding confident at all. although you had put much thought into it, it pained you to say it aloud to her. to watch her face drop, to actually see how your words affected her.

tears well in wanda’s eyes, spilling over with a soft, heartbroken cry. this wasn’t what she came here for. she didn’t come here so you could shut her down before even trying to tell you she loved you.

shaking her head and clearing her throat, wanda walks closer to you.

“you don’t get to cut this off without at least having a proper conversation with me,” wanda chokes out through sobs, wiping her tears angrily, “you can’t just throw me away like that.. please”

the silence between the two of you causes the atmosphere in the room to thicken.

hearing her pleading voice, the way she’s gripping onto your shoulders tightly as it’s the last time she’ll touch or see you again— you can’t help but try to fight tears.

in fact, it very well may be the last.

you shake your head, you had thought this over and realized that if wanda didn’t reciprocate the same feelings for you— it’s best if you let her go.

it had become a never ending cycle of stringing you along with no end in sight.

but if it meant nothing to wanda, why would she be here begging and crying for you?

haphazardly, you throw caution to the wind and decide that if this is the last night you’ll see wanda, you may as well lay it all on the table.

you pull away from wanda, raising your voice slightly, “do you have any idea what it took for me to finally accept that this, us, would be a never ending cycle? that it’s only a game of almost? i can’t keep waiting for you, for someone who’s just going to treat me like a place holder for another girl who won’t even last a month and a half?!”

you swallow tears and try your best to sound as firm as possible, “i sat around for all this time just watching you be with other people. giving them the affection i so badly wish you would reserve only for me.”

wanda’s eyebrows furrow at your insinuation that she only every treated you like a pit stop.

anger builds inside and she can’t help but scoff, “are you fucking kidding me? i treated you like a place holder? there’s no way you’re being serious right now.”

her scoff and rough voice cause you to turn back on your heel, defensiveness and frustration seeping through your veins.

“yeah, a goddamn pit stop, wanda. you came around, got me fucking wrapped around your finger and made me fa-,” you almost said it, “you had me wrapped around your finger. i was always there when you called, like a damn fool!”

wanda couldn’t believe what she was hearing. you were acting like she was some kind of person who viewed you as a fool. she was helplessly in love with you, and this is what you saw her as.

running a hand through her hair in hopes of helping herself calm down, she exclaims, “do you really think this was one sided?! i had to watch you date other people too! i wasn’t the only one who dated! after that time you got drunk and i had to take care of you, i couldn’t stop thinking about you saying you wished we could be more! and then i had to carry on with my life like you hadn’t told me you wanted something more with me.”

wanda swallows hard before the words spill out—the night you told her you wanted more. she never wanted to tell you about that night, for fear of running you off.

it was now or never, she had to tell you.

you freeze, what night is she talking about? the weight of her words finally hit you, and it feels like the world has shifted. you search her face, like the answer you’re searching for is written on her forehead.

wanda sighs and rubs her face, “i’m sorry. you got drunk a while back and told me you wanted more. i never told you because i knew it would send you running off, and i couldn’t bare the thought of losing you. it was better to have you like this, no matter how much it hurt, than to not have you at all.”

the rain seemed to be the only sound in the house. the soft thuds of the branches outside hitting the side of the roof are all you two can hear. you stare at each other, for the first time with uncertainty as to what’s next for you two.

wanda walks slowly closer, stopping a few feet in front of you, “do you really think i wanted this to be one sided? i thought that by holding back and keeping my feelings to myself, it was the only way i’d still be able to have you in my life.”

you stare at her as you slowly understand what she’s trying to say. she loved you back.

“i never wanted you to feel that way,” barely above a whisper, “and i’m so sorry that i made you feel that way. it was never my intention to make you feel like you were anything other than my first priority. i only every wanted you, only you. i found myself looking for you in every person i met because i was afraid that if i told you i loved you, you’d run away. if having you meant keeping my feelings to myself, i would make that sacrifice because i couldn’t fathom the thought of you. no longer being in my life.”

you stay silent, her words echoing in your head. wanda loved you back? you can see her hands shaking and the insecurity in her eyes. her hands are shaking and the petals on the roses are falling off slowly with the weight of the water droplets on them.

following your eyes, wanda remembers she got you roses.

she speaks softly, almost afraid to speak to you, “i brought you these. i’m sorry they’re not that pretty, they got kind of messed up with the rain and me squeezing them so tight.”

wanda speaks nervously, shyly and you can’t help but frown at her demeanor. she’s no longer the confident person you know. right now she looks like an insecure woman who’s been rejected by someone she’s been in love with for years.

you gently reach out for the flowers, still shocked by the revelation wanda’s revealed to you in the matter of fifteen minutes.

you hardly register that she’s leaving your home with a new weight on her chest and an empty feeling in her heart.

wanda took your silence as the final answer she’d been dreading. rejection. wanda thinks you don’t love her back. the silence in the room weighed on her like a death sentence and she was forced to walk away— heartbroken and alone.

the sound of her car door being shut pulls you out of your stupor and you realize what this means— what wanda’s departure means.

this can’t be the end.

with adrenaline coursing through you, you throw the door open. you rush out of your house and just before she leaves your drive way, you call out for her.

wanda, as if hoping you’d chase her, drives her car back into your drive way and parks. wanda looks anywhere but you, as if afraid the next thing you’ll tell her is to never come back. her hands grip at her steering wheel tight enough to the point her knuckles turned white. she’s terrified.

stepping outside of her car, she walks up to you. her hands are shaking and you can see that her eyes are red rimmed from all the crying she’s done tonight.

your voice is hoarse from the yelling and crying as well, “i’m sorry. i’m sorry it took this long to tell you and im sorry for accusing you of treating me like nothing. wanda, i love you too— i always have. i was terrified of you not feeling the same way so i forced myself to ignore it. i was wrong, i was wrong about everything.”

wanda’s breath stops and her eyes well up with tears again, “please don’t lie to me just for the sake of my emotions.”

you shake your head insistently, “i’m being honest, i swear on everything i love. i love you, i have for a while. i was just scared and i didn’t know you felt the same way.”

“you love me?” wanda’s voice is shaking and she can’t tell if she’s dreaming or already getting sick from standing in the rain for too long.

nodding with a nervous smile, you don’t care about the rain soaking your clothes or the lighting in the sky. all that matters is that you tell wanda how you feel. before time runs out and you lose her for good.

wanda inhales sharply, a look of relief washing over and she lets out a soft laugh. a trembling hand cautiously reaches for your face as her eyes flooded with relief.

“i was scared,” she says through a wet laugh, “i thought that you would run if i told you i was in love with you.. but if you’ll let me, i swear i won’t ever make you feel like a second priority again. you’ve always been the most important thing in my life and i never want you to feel like anything else.”

her words hit you like a rush of warmth, contrasting against the cold rain surrounding you two. you smile widely, your heart overjoyed with the fact that wanda did love you as you did her.

you laugh— a genuine laugh, and before she can get another word out, you pull her into you. you couldn’t waste another second before connecting your lips.

when you two meet, it’s like everything clicked. all the chaos, all the flings, every person annoying you two about getting together, it meant nothing now that you two expressed what you’d been hiding.

you rest your forehead against wanda’s and whisper softly, “we’ve got a lot to figure out now, but this means we’ll do it together.”

wanda nods with a small smile as she looks at you, “yeah, together.”

as you two stand there, both laughing at the dramatics of it all, you can’t help but let out a sigh of relief, one you’ve held for years. wanda was finally yours and you knew then and there that all of the missed opportunities and lack of truths only led you to her.

ignoring the messiness and the lack of perfection, it was real.

[epicbuddieficrecs]

Weekly Recap | February 3rd-9th 2025

Less than a month until 9-1-1 is back on our screens babyyyyy! how's everyone doing after that kiss hug in the rain scene???

Complete

You And I Walk A Fragile Line (I Have Known It All This Time) by pinkpeachtea (Hug In The Rain Spec | 1,3K | Teen): "Eddie?" Buck asked, voice breaking on the name as he noticed the car door opening again, staying open– probably getting the entire interior wet. And it was hard to see- especially through the rain- but if Buck wasn't just hallucinating, it'd actually look like… He was walking right towards him. Careful at first, slowly, until his steps got quicker– jogging that turned into running. Buck could feel his feet again, though he had no control over them as he found himself walking towards Eddie, meeting him not quite halfway when he came to a halt and– "Why did you stop?"

lull of you by brewrosemilk/ @gayhoediaz (Getting Together | 1,7K | Teen): For as long as Buck can remember, Eddie’s ability to express himself has left him in awe—the way that, although it sometimes takes a minute for him to get there, whenever he’s ready, he’ll rip his heart out of his own chest and present it on a silver platter. With a thumb pressed to Buck’s pulse point—or both—and deep, warm, earnest eyes. Buck has never been like that—he goes all out before he’s even sure what he feels; he’s dramatic and emotional, and clingy, and his emotions often run his actions miles ahead of his brain. (Not that he hasn’t come to terms with that by now—he is who he is, and he’s learned to appreciate it.) The interesting thing is, though—despite his regular habit of rushing things to beat his tendency to overthink in a lap around the racetrack—for once, tonight, his brain feels… quiet. Calm.

& such by colonoscopys/ @colonoscopys (87K | Teen): prompts and spec fics and codas and all the works jumbled mumbled into one place.

22. reunions (Eddie back from Texas | 2K): Buck kind of—avoids Eddie when he gets back.  He knows he shouldn’t. The thing is, his heart still feels so bruised. It still feels like it’s lying there on the road, soaking up the gravel and the cement and the area just under Eddie’s tires, and he’s—tired. He’s tired. He just wants a second, to recuperate, before he goes back out there and pretends like everything is okay. 

No Take Backs by Maximoff_Wanda (Friends to Fiances | 2K | Not Rated): “Marry me,” he blurted out, causing the other man to freeze and turn to stare at him. “What?” Eddie slowly lowered himself down on one knee, keeping eye contact with Buck, his blue eyes widening as he watched Eddie sink to the ground. Somewhere in the background, he hears a woman squealing as she notices what’s happening. Eddie clears his throat, grabbing one of Buck’s hands as a crowd starts to form around them. “Buck... Evan. There is nothing more that I want than to spend the rest of my life getting pretzels with you at the zoo listening to your endless fun animal facts while you buy our son sugary confections that he doesn’t need just because it makes him happy... So will you please marry me?”

When I see you again by Maximoff_Wanda (Hug In The Rain Spec | 2K | General): Buck sighed as the sky opened up and a drizzle of rain began to pour over them as they walked out of the Diaz house toward Eddie’s truck. Of course, it had to rain the day the love of his life left for Texas. Now that he’s thinking about it, Buck realized it was always raining when Buck and Eddie lose each other.

i knew it when you looked my way (that i'd be begging you to stay) by teaspoonmoon/ @young-waverer (Hug In The Rain Spec | 2K | General): When Eddie pulls Buck in, Buck melts, wrapping one arm over his shoulder and the other under his arm, palms wide to cling to as much of Eddie as he can hold. Buck’s chin settles in the crook of Eddie’s neck and he breathes in deeply, trying to commit to memory the blurred together scent of Eddie’s deodorant and shampoo and the petrichor hanging in the air. “I miss you already,” Eddie says into Buck’s ear, stubble scraping against Buck’s cheek as his mouth moves. With one last squeeze Eddie pulls away, clapping Buck just a little too hard on the shoulder. “I should probably get on the road,” Eddie says, stepping away. “Drive safe,” Buck replies, stepping after him. Eddie slides into the driver’s seat and shuts the door, drops the bag of scones into the seat next to him. He resolutely doesn’t look into the rearview mirror as he adjusts it.

But What A Ghostly Scene by icewhisper (S4, Coma Dream | 3K | Teen): Eddie had always thought if he came close to death, it’d be Shannon or his abuelo he saw who pushed him to go home – to go back to Christopher – but when a sniper nearly killed him, it was a little boy he dreamed of instead. Nearly two years later, he realizes who that little boy was.

with a little water and a little bit of sunlight by teaspoonmoon/ @young-waverer (S8E8: Wannabes | 4K | Teen): “You flipped the tablet.” “Did I?” Lord only knows how he carried out an emotional affair as long as he did if this is how good he is at lying. Buck clearly has come to some—wrong—conclusion, given the way he smirks and cocks his head. “What're you looking at, Eddie?” His tone is a little flirty, a little suggestive, and if Eddie were any less close to a panic attack he'd probably think the gulf between what Buck assumes he'd been doing and what he was actually looking at was very funny. — The one where it's not Homes.com but it's also not porn on the iPad.

let's go get the shit kicked out of us by love by teaspoonmoon/ @young-waverer (Post-S8E8: Wannabes, Getting Together | 4K | Teen): “Are you Love Actuallying me?” Eddie looks about as surprised that those are the words coming out of his mouth as Buck is to hear them. “Oh my god, what?” “Love Actually. That freaky kid who’s like thirty now but still looks like a ten year old. Runs through an airport, gets himself put on a no-fly list for love? Are you Love Actuallying me?” “For fuck’s sake, has everyone seen that movie but me?” Buck has to laugh, it’s absurd. This whole thing is absurd. He wants to rip his hair out. He also, as of thirty minutes or maybe six years ago, wants to rip Eddie’s shirt off, but that’s not his main focus at the moment.

Will you still be with me (when the magic’s all run out?) by scarmaddiewrites (Witch Buck AU | 5K | Not Rated): Buck is a witch and in love with Eddie…that really it.

Cupid, Q-Words, and Cursed Shifts by JJK/ @trenchcoatsandtimetravel (Post-S8A, Valentine's Day | 5K | Teen): A slow shift at the firehouse gets derailed when someone accidentally says the Q-word, Eddie pines over Buck, and the new Probie panics about Valentine's Day.

I’ll tell them put me back in it (and I would do it again) by paleredheadinascifi (Getting Together | 5K | Teen): Eddiaz is listening to the slowburn friends to lovers playlist. Eddiaz listened to the POV you’re falling in love with your best friend playlist. Eddiaz listened to the sad gay yearning hours playlist. Eddiaz listened to the he was my best friend and that was the worst part playlist. Or, Eddie doesn't know how to make his listening history private. Buck doesn't know what to do with the words in front of his eyes. Chris cannot believe he has to deal with either of them.

Eddie Diaz's Emotional Support Group Chat by scarmaddiewrites (Chat fic, Post-S8E8: Wannabes | 6K | Teen): Eddie makes a group chat to help him with his plan to woo Buck… It goes about as well as you think it would.

promise what you will, something good for me by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Fake Relationship, Getting Together | 6K | Teen): Eddie forms a one-sided beef with a woman claiming to be psychic and ropes Buck into a fake dating scheme to try and prove all her predictions wrong.

your slightest look easily will unclose me by teaspoonmoon/ @young-waverer (S8E6: Confessions, PWP | 7K | Explicit): Eddie takes in a deep breath and reaches out and sets his hand on Buck’s knee, fingers wrapping around his lower thigh, pinky brushing his inseam. “Hey. If you were my first, you’d be my last.” The air is still between them and feels charged in a way it wasn’t a moment ago. Careful not to dislodge Eddie’s hand, Buck stretches his arm out to grab the tequila. Watching Eddie out of the corner of his eye, he knocks back another half shot. Eddie doesn’t retract his hand, and the heat of it is starting to seep through the denim of Buck’s jeans. “Sure.” Buck sounds weary. “That’s easy for you to say, when it’s—when it’s just hypothetical.” “What if…” Eddie’s grip on Buck tightens marginally. “What if it wasn’t a hypothetical?”

We're Overdue for a Revival by BespectacledBunny (Post-S8E8: Wannabes, Chris coming back from Texas, Marriage of Convenience | 60K | Mature): “If I had,” Chris lingers on the words, watching Eddie intently through the screen, “If I had conditions?” Eddie feels his stomach knot up. It’s the first time Chris has ever alluded to a willingness to come home. Usually he just shoots Eddie down with a flat “I know” before hurrying off the call. Eddie Diaz will be damned before he lets this chance slip through his hands. “Anything,” his voice rings with desperation in his own ears, “Whatever you need to feel ready to come home. If I can make it happen, I will.” Chris eyes him, young face serious as a judge presiding over trial. Finally, Chris opens his mouth and says something so earth shattering as to crack the foundations of his father’s mind. “Marry Buck,” Chris says firmly.

WIP

🔥 there is no roadby littleghost/ @ghostlandtoo (Post-S8A, Eddie moves to Texas | 5/6 | 77K | Explicit): Years ago, almost a full decade, Shannon had asked him to move and Eddie refused because he was trying to build a life for himself again. Eddie knows if he asks Buck, he’ll get that same refusal. Worse, Buck could say yes and Eddie would be uprooting Buck from the very life he built for himself. He doesn’t ask, and Buck doesn’t offer, and they pack up Eddie Diaz’s life in Los Angeles into cardboard boxes. Or: Eddie moves to Texas. Buck buys his house. There’s a love story somewhere in here.

🔥 how come everybody's dancing but you?by showedupatyourparty (Post-S7 Spec, Eddie Sexuality Crisis | 4/6 | 45K | Mature): Buck feels guilty. Everyone he loves is going through something painful, difficult, or unexpected right now. And Buck is just…bisexual. It’s great that he’s figured it out, and it’s great that everyone has been so supportive, and Tommy is—Tommy is fine. The sex is good, at least. Consistent. When Buck gets a call from Eddie’s phone late on a Tuesday night in June, it’s cause for concern. * Buck unpacks his own feelings about his recently-discovered bisexuality. Eddie gets adopted by drag queens. They're both just trying their best to be happy.

disappearing into the distance by bucksclipboard/ @endofthedaymp3 (Eddie Comes Back From Texas, Getting Together | 2/4 | 6K | Teen): Eddie wasn’t sure why he and Maddie weren’t close. It was strange, considering her little brother was the most important person in his life. Still, when the door opened, tight hugs were exchanged and cheerful welcome homes rang in his ears. “Does Bobby know? I gotta call Bobby!”, Chimney yelled. “Could you wait a minute?”, Eddie interjected. His eyes darted between them for a moment and landed on Chim, deciding he was his best bet. “Maybe first explain to me why I went to see Buck and his loft was empty. Am I missing something? Did he move?” or: eddie comes back from texas – only to find that buck has left los angeles

🔥 Gentle On My Mind by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon Divergent, Shannon Lives, Buck/Eddie/Shannon | 13/? | 81K | Explicit): In which Shannon lives, tells a lie, and sends hers, Eddie's, and Buck's lives down a very different path.

🔥 Doe & a Drop of Golden Sun by ohstars/ @oh-stars (Canon Divergent, Dad Buck | 12/? | 54K | Teen): Buck doesn't mean to keep secrets from everyone, but he also can't talk about the pain he experiences on a day to day basis. With his nine-year-old living across the country and his custody limited to one monthly visit, Buck doesn't know how to share this part of himself. How does he tell his team of six years that he's had a kid this whole time? How does he tell his sister? How does he tell his Edd-- best friend? It's fine. The universe isn't going to give him a choice in the matter when the worst thing imaginable becomes his reality.

Podfic

🔥 Cowboy With a One Track Mind by Daisies_and_Briars [Podfic] by Rhea314 (Rhea)/ @rhea314 // fic by @cal-daisies-and-briars (Alternate Universe, Different First Meeting | 2.5h-3h | Mature): Spin-off Sequel to Evan Buckley & the Coma-Verse of Madness - Chapter 7 (Land): Grieving and tortured, Evan Buckley has been living alone in Montana in a remote cabin for nearly a decade. After an incident that leaves him missing six months of his life, and suddenly in connection with a group of strangers from Los Angeles, Evan must decide whether to remain in his self-imposed exile, or take a chance at life again.

🔥 [podfic] braver than you believe (loved more than you know) by be_brave13/ @djemsowhat (S8E6: Confessions Spec | 20-30min | Teen): “There's things,” Eddie chokes out, getting the closest he can in a Catholic church to saying what he means to say, words that he’s never said before unable to make an appearance even now. “There's… people… feelings that I— I want to experience differently than I have before, or maybe even for the first time.” “Something… different than what you had with Anna and Marisol?” The priest hedges. “Something, even, different than what you and your wife had?” The words feel insinuating, but the tone stays light and unchallenging. The priest in Eddie’s mind has big hands and curious, soulful eyes and a chunky watch on his wrist, like he could be anyone. A blond man at a bar that Eddie’s eyes keep coming back to, for no reason at all. “Yeah,” Eddie confesses. “Yeah, I’m just starting to think that… maybe there’s more to it all than I thought. Maybe, I can ask for what I thought wasn’t allowed. And I can choose what I want instead of what everyone else thinks I should have.”

🔥[Podfic] Promising Light by cottagepodfics @cottagepodfics / fic by @cal-daisies-and-briars (Post-S8E8: Wannabes, Time Travel | 2-2.5h | Mature): Buck and Eddie fall asleep drunk and in separate rooms after the night of Buck and Tommy's breakup. They wake up seven years later, in an unfamiliar future, only to find out that they're married.

[milktrician]

For the wip game, "Your shadow beckons me" ?

This one covers two wips I have but they both center around Shen Yuan being a clone of Shen Jiu, being cloned while he was in Qiu Manor. I might write both of these ideas out someday? This first one covers the idea while in the Qing generation's disciple era:

Shen Yuan wakes to that same young man from before staring at his face. His handsome face is covered in tears, the skin under his eyes flushed and nose rubbed red.

“A-Apologies. Visiting hours are over but Mu-shidi allowed me to stay.” The guy states as he cleans his face with a handkerchief. He takes in a long deep breath before he is able to look at Shen Yuan once more, “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. This one is named Yue Qingyuan by his Shizun.”

“…I look like your friend. Don’t I? That’s why you’re here?”

Honestly he just wants this guy to not cry over him. Seriously, huh? Don’t grieve over him, grieve somewhere else man!

Yue Qingyuan lets out a defeated laugh,

“I suppose so.”

He sits up, noticing the book across his blankets he probably passed out reading.

“Don’t compare me. I don’t think that’s good for your head.”

Yue Qingyuan takes a sharp breath, “Sorry.”

He sighs, “I suppose I should be thanking you though. Aren’t you the one who led them to me?”

“Not to you directly. I was looking for someone else.” Yue Qingyuan seems to frown.

He shrugs at the phrasing, “Hey, you’re still the reason I’m here. You basically saved me, huh? I’d probably be rotting in that plant pod thing and maybe never developed some consciousness. I’m alive because you got to me in time.”

He smiles, because it feels like the right thing to do.

Yue Qingyuan only seems to stare at him, newly formed tears streaming down his cheeks. What the hell he thought he was doing a good thing! Dude, stop crying!

“Hey—don’t cry. Why are you crying?”

He grabs the discarded handkerchief and pushes Yue Qingyuan’s hands out of the way to wipe the man’s face like you would do for a young kid. The guy accepts his touch, visibly slumping in his seat. It takes a few minutes for him to calm down, before he stands and collects himself.

Yue Qingyuan opens the door, turning behind him and muttering, “Apologies for bothering you. I’ll leave you be.” 

“…Okay? Uh, see you later, I guess?”

Yue Qingyuan bites his lip, but leaves nonetheless.

Next snippet is from the other wip of this idea, probably a little bit before pre-canon:

Shen Qingqiu didn’t know what he was doing when he accepted a mission in this city. Perhaps it was the way Yue Qingyuan looked at him during the meeting. Or the way that brute taunted him, or the way Shang Qinghua tried to take the mission off him instead. Who knows why that coward would try his hand at investigating this mess.

But said mess had been dealt with by his senior disciples, and they had a night at the inn to recuperate before heading back to the sect in the morning.

And here he was. Only a short flight away from what used to be a sprawling manor outside the city.

Lazy bastards never even cleaned up the burnt mess, instead it seemed picked clean by animals and looters. The wood that’s left has rotted, and flora have taken the rest of the space for themselves to conquer.

The smell of ash still somehow permeates as he walks along the remains, leaving a mental note to clean all this off of his robes before daylight. What’s left of the structure of the rooms and hallways all seems so small now. Standing tall amongst its remains.

And then his boots press onto metal, a soft clang that alerts him to a hatch hidden under debris. A place possibly untouched after all these years.

He remembers a hatch like this. Briefly.

He was drugged, his vision going in and out as he was carried someplace else. He remembers it smelled musty. Like the earth after it rains. Afterwards all he could feel was a burning sensation in what he now knows is his spiritual veins.

In a fluid motion he clears the debris with qi and throws the hatch open, not caring for the way it dirties his robes as he climbs down. He finds more overgrowth, weeds and plants similar to those outside. They’re different from the local flora he realizes, and must have spread out of this man-made cave.

He feels the massive pool of spiritual energy first before Xiu Ya glows to light the cavern. There, he sees its source. A large plant pod, bigger than any flower or fruit he has ever seen. It’s filled with a mass of spiritual energy, almost as if this plant has cultivated itself on its own. Its roots have spread all across the room and dug through the ground and stone to reach the surface to gather more nutrients.

He moves closer. The qi signature feels so familiar. He closes his eyes as he places a hand on the pod, and the qi begins entering and cleansing his system without resistance.

It feels like…

Him.

Focusing on cycling his qi back into the plant he almost freezes when it enters a system of spiritual veins. When he feels soft breathing through the pod. A heart beat.

His hands tear open the pod, fighting against the sticky substance that’s been holding it together for more than a decade. It spills out onto the floor, viscous, and all of a sudden his arms have encased the figure falling out of its prison.

There’s a young child in his arms, only slightly older than his youngest disciples. His hair only barely touches his back, limbs thin, and uncovered by cloth in this time are the ribs poking through his skin.

The same scars echo on this child's back.

The branding is clear as day.

This is him.

[sonnycampbellsmith]

Pairing: Bucky x Male Reader

Synopsis: Finding Bucky at the Wilson Family Home during the events of Falcon and The Winter Soldier

Warning(s): slight smut? allusion to smut. cursing. slight angst

*******

“Come on doll, you can’t be mad at me forever.” Bucky sighed.

You scoffed before turning away from him and walking off.

“Actually, James, I think I absolutely can.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows at that.

“James? Okay, now I know I definitely fucked up.”

Bucky takes a careful step towards you, your arms crossed as you look out at the beautiful lake that stretched across the Wilson family home.

You feel Bucky’s arms envelope you, his chin resting on your shoulder. The heat of his front covering your back, a familiar touch.

Yes, you’re mad at him but it doesn’t change the fact that he was comfortable to lean back on. You sighed in exhaustion as you rest the back of your head on his shoulder, exposing your neck.

Bucky took advantage of the position and started leaving kisses, a small apology for not telling you about what was happening.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky sighed into the exposed skin of your neck, making you shiver slightly.

“The mission was supposed to be simple but it went completely sideways and now we’re recuperating here.”

Bucky sighed and closed his eyes as he hears you scoff and pull away from him. The comforting warmth gone, a warmth that he’s craved for the past few days after leaving you to go start this mission with Sam.

“Doll, please.” He begged. “I knew if I told you, you would’ve come running down to help and you would’ve gotten hurt or worse.”

Bucky always did this.

After everything that happened during the “Civil War”, Thanos, the snap, coming back and then losing Steve, Bucky was broken.

He’d wake up every night, drenched in sweat from his nightmares as The Winter Soldier.

How he’s maimed and killed so many people under Hydra.

How he almost killed you in the streets when you tagged along with Steve, Sam and Natasha and you saving Nat when she tried to subdue him but failed when he threw her over his shoulder and letting her land on a nearby car.

He remembered flying a few feet away and landing hard on the road after you used your powers on him to help Nat.

He remembered pulling out his gun and shooting you in the side as you and Nat tried to run away, he was glad that Steve managed to save the both of you that day.

The guilt, the memories, were shrouding his thoughts again before he felt you grabbed his wrist and leaned the side of your face in the palm of his hand.

“I’m here. James, I’m here. Breathe with me.” You whispered to him, soothing him out of his thoughts. His shallow breaths calming down, his eyes finally meeting yours.

Realising where he was, he quickly grabbed you by the waist and pulled you in for a hug before looking down at your body, his eyes trained directly at the spot where he shot you all those years ago.

You grabbed his face and gently turned his head to look at you, his hands tight around your waist as if you were going to vanish at any second.

“Look at me, James. I’m here, I’m alive. Hydra hurt me, not you.” As Bucky tried to speak, you shushed him knowing that he was going to say that it was his fault. It was always the same.

When he finally makes eye contact with you, you smiled at him. As grumpy as he portrays himself to be, only you get to see the gentle soul he truly was.

“James, I love you so much-“

“Can we drop the James?”

“I’m not done baby, please let me finish.” You chuckled at his kicked puppy expression but he nods, so you continued. “I love you truly but I can take care of myself too. I mean, come on, my sonic scream can literally level buildings so what’s a bunch of wannabe super soldiers?”

When Bucky stayed silent, you continued.

“I’m not mad that you wanted to protect me. I’m mad that my boyfriend went dark for days with no updates until a little birdie named Torres mentioned it in passing. In passing, James! Do you know how worried I was? I thought you had died somewhere in some random ditch and that I had lost you, you can’t just-“

Bucky interrupts your rant by kissing you deeply, making you groan into the kiss. The couple of days of being separated finally fell apart around the both of you. The frustration and anxiety dissipated with each and every kiss exchanged.

You feel Bucky’s hands wander. The fleshed out hand grabbing your ass while the metal arm lifted your right leg to wrap around his waist, letting both of your crotches rub against each other.

You gasped feeling his hard-on pressed against yours and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue in your mouth, completely overpowering you as the both of you continue to basically dry hump each other.

Although it felt amazing, you used every single ounce of your willpower to gently push him away. The both of you breaking apart, breathing heavily from the heavy contact but your heads still touching.

“Why’d you stop, doll? I thought we were just getting into it.” Bucky panted heavily, his eyelids heavy as he stares at your mouth and wanting nothing more than to ravage you but knew to stop when you said so.

You shake your head and chuckled in disbelief. “James, not here. Not in front of someone else’s home.”

“But they’re not home right now and could you please drop the James, doll? I don’t like it when you’re mad at me.”

You feel his arms snake around your waist again while he buries his face in the side of your neck, breathing you in. His light. His perfect person. His home.

You giggled. “Baby, your beard’s tickling me and I’m still mad at you. So don’t think a little make-out session’s gonna save your ass mister.”

“Alright,” he lifts head up to face you, licking his lips knowing that you were gonna get distracted by this tiny action. “How about I do the thing with my tongue that you love so much, imagine me eating you out until you-“

You quickly covered his mouth, your eyes wide in shock. You blush furiously as you stared at his face. Though covered, you could tell he was smirking with the way his eyes were dancing mischievously.

“Okay! Okay! Bucky, you won. I’m not mad anymore, please don’t say all that out loud for anyone to walk by and possibly hear us.”

“You were pretty okay with giving them a show earlier on.”

“Stop it Bucky, it was just the heat of the moment.” You whimpered quietly at him, dropping your hand from his mouth, making him grin victoriously.

Bucky chuckled, his handsome face shining back at yours. “I love you so much. You’re my soulmate, doll. I never meant to hurt you. I’m so happy you’re here with me and one day, I’m hoping to make you Mr. Barnes.”

Your face turns bright red and you laughed nervously, taking a step back from his grip. The both of you haven’t discussed the possibility of marriage properly and you definitely were not gonna be discussing something like this after all that heavy petting.

You looked back at Bucky, and he was smiling gently at you. He knew when not to push but he just wanted to make sure you knew where you stood in his life.

Bucky stretches out his hand for you and you immediately took it, the both of you walking away from the lake.

“Where’s Sam?”

“Quite sure he’s at the docks with Sarah and the kids. Why?” Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Well, I’m gonna need flying lessons soon.” You stopped walking to show him your new pendant. It was a purple crystal, a new type of technology that was a gift from the Wakandans.

“Shuri, gave this to me. It was something about a run in with a guy named Ulyssess Klaue, that let her tinker around with sound waves. So, she made this device specifically for me.” Bucky examined the pendant closely and frowned as you kept explaining its uses about turning sound waves into actual physical constructs and you now being able to fly. Sure, you didn’t really get into the specifics like Shuri did but you’re not the scientist here.

You chuckled, noticing his frown get deeper. “What’s wrong baby? Mad that you’re not the only one that got an upgrade from Shuri?”

Bucky looks straight into your eyes, practically piercing you with his stare. You shuddered, not knowing what he was gonna say next especially when he does his cute little cheek bump with his tongue. An indication of his brewing thoughts.

“No, doll. Not jealous of your upgrade.” He reaches out to you and wraps his hands around your waist, pulling you in again. “It’s just Shuri, Torres and now Sam? I’m jealous that you’re not needing me anymore doll.”

“What?!” You exclaimed, your voice a little pitchy as you stared at Bucky who was pouting his lips. Not fair, he’s a grown ass man. He can’t be cute too.

You tried to pull back from him but your hips were firm in his hands, not letting you move away from his space and his accusatory stare.

You rolled your eyes at Bucky’s jealousness because of course he’d focus on that instead of the very cool upgrade to your powers. You forgot how much a giant teddy bear he is, and you love him so much more because of it.

He was yours and you were his.

You looked up at the sky and let out a sigh. You raised your arms to rest them on his shoulders, feeling him pulling you in again.

You looked at him and kissed him deeply, making the pout leave his face. As you both separated, he stared at your lips again, making you chuckle.

“Alright, how about this,” you say to him. “We go see Sam and his family. Enjoy our time here, let me train with Sam because god knows I need flight training with my new abilities and then we take a drive to the nearby hotel that I’m staying at so I can do the thing with my mouth that you love so much,” Bucky raised his eyebrows at that, “before you and Sam eventually leave and go to save the day.”

Bucky smiled sweetly at that, despite the both of you having extraordinary abilities, you knew not to overstep your boundaries with each other especially for missions.

He may have lost a whole life behind and lost his best friend but he found you, a light in the endless darkness he used to call a life.

You even convinced him to start therapy and it wasn’t easy but you were always on his mind, anchoring him to reality.

You were his songbird that sang the melody to his new life that he’ll follow till the end of time.

“I love you so much sweetheart.” He leans in to give you a peck on the cheek before whispering in your ear. “I can’t wait to bend you over and eat you out until you’re crying for me to fuck you.”

“Bucky!”

*****************

My first fic and I was craving for more Bucky x male reader

My favourite superpower in the whole goddamn fictional world is a sonic scream.

I laid out who I’d eventually be if I were in the MCU 👀

[shmaptainwrote]

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 [𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐒𝐎𝐍]

PAIRINGS — James Wilson x fem!Reader

SUMMARY — James has a huge crush on his labmate, the only question is how long will it take him to ask her out? (Answer: it's longer than you think)

WARNINGS — cancer mentions, patient death from cancer, drugs, alcohol (don't be mistaken this fic is tooth-rotting fluff)

NOTE — Okay this fic has come up from my compulsory need to elaborate on anything Canadian so if you ever wanted to see James at McGill, this fic is most definitely for you! Also I guess it's indirectly mentioned that reader was raised in Quebec, but obviously doesn't have to be "Quebecois" for this to work

Pronounciation — Jian = Chyehn

James chewed on the inside of his cheek as he walked up to the Stewart Biological Sciences Building on McGill campus. For some reason, it was so much more intimidating now that he was actually a student. During the tour he had his mother’s reassuring hand on his back, his father’s words of comfort that he would most definitely be accepted when he applied. 

Now that he had made it, he had to prove he belonged, but it could have been worse. His friends at Harvard and the University of Toronto had told him so. He was getting the best of both worlds, a prestigious school and, hopefully, not as much pressure as the rest of them. 

Without loitering any longer, he made his way inside and looked around to find the right lecture hall. It couldn’t possibly be that hard, could it?

After his first semester James had realized he’d made a few mistakes. One was living in a French speaking part of town without knowing a lick of the language, but that one was the easiest to deal with. The others were more in the realm of the amount of sleep he was getting and underestimating how much content the professors could shove down their throats in 14 weeks. 

He was more than happy to return to New Jersey for the holiday break to rest and recuperate before going back to the winter wonderland hell that was Montreal, but this time he was confident he would be more prepared. 

And for the most part, he was. He got enough sleep, partied responsibly (except Fridays, he partied hard then), always submitted his work on time and maintained his good GPA, making up for his poor fall semester. What he didn’t expect, however, was a distraction. 

When you walked into the room James watched you curiously, he thought maybe he’d seen you somewhere before, but he couldn’t quite place it. Besides, you were much more interesting than watching his sample boil for another five minutes. 

You came and took a seat next to him, taking out your safety goggles and lab notebook from your bag before shoving it under the table. 

“You’re sample’s boiling over,” you said, but James didn’t register you were talking to him at first, still looking at you in a slightly dazed manner before you physically pointed to the beaker, making his eyes go wide as he frantically turned down the heat and removed it. 

“It’s a wonder you passed the lab safely quiz,” you teased and James blushed. 

“Good thing I don’t want to be a chemist.” 

“Oh, and what do you want to be then?” you asked, preparing your own sample for boiling. 

“A doctor,” he shared with a little more confidence. 

“Any specialty in mind or just a doctor,” you said, doing air quotes over the word. 

“I’ve been shadowing some of the researchers in the Life Sciences Research Complex and I think oncology might be a good fit for me.” 

“Yeah, as long as you don’t have to boil cancer cells you should be fine,” you assured him. 

“What about you?” he rolled on the balls of his feet as he continued his experiment. “Or are you all talk?” 

“Pfft, you think I’d be here if I was all talk?” you asked. “No, I want to be a medical researcher.” 

“Maybe you should do some shadowing in the LSRC then.” 

“No thanks, I think I’ll stick to my job there.” 

“Your job?” James looked at your wish surprise. “Aren’t you like 18?” 

“Almost,” you smiled. 

“How did you manage to get a job there? They barely let undergraduates in the labs, let alone be responsible for anything.” 

“It’s nothing fancy,” you assured him. “I just do cataloguing for now, but it's a good experience.” 

“Still,” he raised his brows, “you must be like a prodigy or something.” 

“Again, no,” you shook your head. “Just someone who goes after what she wants.” 

There was a comfortable pause where you both took down your distillation set ups and began working on the filtration portion of the experiment. 

“So what’s your name, anyways?” you asked, looking over at him. “Hey, look, clamp it this way,” you demonstrated and he followed your lead, seeing how much more stable the glassware was afterwards. 

“Thanks,” he smiled. “I’m James.” 

You told him your name and continued your work again in silence.

Chemistry labs quickly became the favourite part of James’ week. 

Ever since that lab, James began to see you in all his classes. On more than a few occasions, he’d had to steal notes from his friends on account of forgetting to pay attention. It became an easy thing to tease him about, so his friends began calling him heart-eyes, because who was he kidding, he had a crush. 

“Get your head out of your ass, heart-eyes, I am not giving you my notes again,” his friend, Carlo, shoved his arm and whispered harshly as he could see him getting distracted. 

“Sorry,” James shook his head and began scribbling down what he had missed, his eyes darting back and forth from the board and back to you. 

“Why don’t you just ask her out?” Pierre asked him after class. “Don’t you talk all the time in the lab?” 

“More like I stare at her and she says stuff to make it not awkward,” he cringed at his own actions. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Every time I’m with her I can’t string together a sentence, and– Jesus Christ you should have seen my face last week! Full on red, like I can’t even be subtle about it!” 

“Yikes,” Jian grimaced. 

“It’s bad, I know,” James assured. 

“And this is why we call you heart-eyes,” Carlo patted James on the back. 

“Yeah, say it a little louder, maybe she’ll hear you,” James said sarcastically. 

“Who’ll hear you?” the group of boys heard a voice behind them and all their eyes went wide as they spun around and saw you. 

“No one!” Jian was quick to answer in the least nonchalant way possible, making the rest of the group, especially James, stare daggers at him. 

“It’s not no one,” Carlo attempted to save face. “Just… this girl back in uh New Jersey that James’ got the hots for,” he gained confidence with every word of the sentence before adorning a smug smile on his face and patting James yet again on the back. 

“You’re afraid a girl in New Jersey will hear you?” you looked curiously at James but he just stared blankly at you. “So you call him heart-eyes?” you instead turned your attention to his friends and they nodded. “That’s cute, maybe I’ll call you that too.” 

“Sure,” was all a red faced James could get out before you excused yourself to head over to work. 

Pierre was trying very hard to keep a straight face while you walked away and James slapped both Carlo and Jian upside the head. 

“What the hell was that! Could you not have been more obvious, Jian? And Carlo, a girl back in New Jersey? Now she thinks I’m pining for someone else!” 

“On the plus side, maybe she’ll think all your blushing around her is a circulation issue,” Pierre shrugged. 

“You guys are the worst,” James shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets, continuing to walk along the path to one of the libraries. 

“No, we just saved your ass,” Carlo caught up with him. “However terribly, but if we didn’t say anything you would have stared at her with your mouth open like a trout.” 

“Carlo does have a point,” Jian agreed, “At least we bought you a little time to get your act together.” 

James sighed, “You guys have too much faith in me.”

“You said that when I started to teach you French and you’ve come a long way with that,” Pierre said. 

“Yeah, sure I went from saying nothing to being able to say Je m'appelle James et je ne parle pas français.” 

“And what a handy sentence that is when you don’t speak French!” Pierre grinned and James couldn’t help but chuckle and shake his head. 

“Okay, I’ll try and get my act together and ask her out…and learn more French.” 

“That’s the spirit!” Carlo patted his back. “Now let’s go get a drink and relax.” 

“Maybe after we study for our physics midterm?” James nudged his friend and Jian nodded his head in agreement. 

“Fine, I guess if we have to,” Carlo sighed. 

“Not everyone is naturally good at kinematics, Carlo. Take pity on us mere mortals who have to study,” Pierre responded, eliciting a chuckle from his buddies. 

James was quiet as he thought to himself. If he could get a B on this physics test, maybe there was hope for him getting his act together after all.

—

Summer break rolled around faster than James had expected. While Jian went back to Richmond, Pierre over to Quebec City, and Carlo to Chicago, James was left alone in Montreal, working to help pay his tuition for the next year. Being an international student was no joke. 

He would have gone back to New Jersey, but the positions he applied to in Montreal paid more so it wasn’t a hard decision to make. 

His parents would come visit him for some time in July, but for the most part he was alone. 

On late nights, he’d make his way to the McDonald’s in the neighbourhood, not knowing enough French to go anywhere else nearby. At least there, most of them spoke enough English to take his order, and if not it was really easy to point to the menu. 

“It’s already done?” he asked. 

“Give us some credit, hein. We knew you were coming, we had it ready.” 

James chuckled and handed him the money for the order, exchanging it for the bag which he took to a table and sat down. 

As he was pulling out his fries from his bag he heard the chime of the door and looked up curiously to see who was coming at this time of night. 

He stopped what he was doing when he recognized you, watching as you dug through your purse and spoke to the cashier in French. You both laughed about something James couldn’t quite catch and a little while later, after you had paid they handed you a bag and an ice cream cone when James heard you say something about ‘deux cuillères’ taking the utensils they gave you and turing straight towards James’ table, pulling out the chair across from him and sitting down. 

“I thought you lived in New Jersey,” you said. 

James was still stunned that you had noticed him and couldn’t find the words to speak. 

“Hey, heart-eyes?” you waved your hand in front of his face. “You okay?” 

“Y-Yeah,” he nodded, distracting himself by pulling out his burger from his bag. 

“So why aren’t you in Jersey?” you asked. 

“Work. I got a job here, it paid better.” 

“Hmm,” you hummed thoughtfully while eating some of your fries. “And all your friends?” 

“Back with their families, unfortunately for me,” he nodded. “W-What about you?” 

“Oh, I live here,” you shrugged. “In this neighbourhood actually.” 

“You live here?” he asked. 

“That’s what I said,” you nodded. 

“And so that’s how you know French?” 

“Every kid in Quebec learns French, it’s kind of a non-negotiable,” you shared. “I gather that’s why you’re eating here.” 

“Yeah, Pierre didn’t manage to teach me enough before he left,” he sighed and started to eat his meal. 

“I could teach you if you want. I’m taking a little break this summer so I have some spare time,” you offered. 

“Oh, I don’t want to-,” 

“James, you’re gonna have a shitty summer if you don’t say yes.”

He couldn’t argue with that, it would be nice to communicate more with the people who lived around him. 

“Okay, sure, but I’m warning you, I’m a terrible student.” 

“I used to tutor one of my siblings, trust me it can’t be worse than that,” you laughed. 

You chatted a little more, finishing your meals but not before you handed James a spoon. 

“So this is cuillère then?” he asked. “I-I overheard you talking to Jean.” 

“Yeah, your pronunciation isn’t bad either,” you nodded. “Here.” 

You pushed the ice cream cone between you and began to eat it with the spoon. James had a bit of a sweet tooth and wouldn’t be one to refuse dessert so he began to share the ice cream cone with you. 

“So, are you missing your girl in New Jersey?” you asked and James cursed internally, trying to come up with a lie to tell you. 

“Um, no not really,” he shook his head. “I don’t think we would have worked out anyways.” 

“Oh, so are your friends still calling you heart-eyes?” 

He nodded his head, thinking it was better not to say anything in case he gave himself away. 

“It’s good that you recognized you wouldn’t work out before you asked her out,” you said, “Couple guys wanted to go on dates with me this year, but just didn’t seem like the right fit. Plus, I don’t really think I’m looking for anything like that right now.”

James nodded his head again, silently eating the ice cream. 

“Ever been in love, James?” you asked. 

“That’s a really loaded question to ask someone you cornered in a McDonald’s at 11 P.M.” 

You ignored his response and continued, 

“I haven’t, it seems like such a big thing, how would you even know if it was love?” 

James looked up at the ceiling, silently asking God to not let him say something stupid, 

“I think most of the time it comes on gradually, maybe you won’t even know it at first.” 

“So you have been in love,” you confirmed and he shrugged his shoulders. 

“I…I don’t know. Maybe I have.” 

“That’s not a very straightforward answer.” 

“Then maybe I haven’t. I feel like if it was love, you’d figure it out, eventually.” 

You pursed your lips and nodded your head. 

“I hope I get to fall in love,” you smiled softly to yourself. “Seems nice.” 

“Yeah,” James agreed. “It does.” 

—

A few years later… 

“So how did it go?” Jian asked, as they sat around James’ small living room. 

“It…could have been better,” James sucked in some air through his teeth, recalling a recent memory from earlier that afternoon. 

“What the fuck James! You scared the shit out of me! I could have broken the hemocytometer, do you know how much that shit costs?!” 

“Sorry!” James quickly apologized and dropped his books down on the nearest surface to help you clean up, making you look up again at him with disdain. 

“In the BSC? Really? Now we have to resterilize and all the specimens I have in there are as good as compromised.” 

“Shit,” James muttered under his breath, he was usually so much better in the lab, but the second he was with you he became a bumbling mess. “I-I’ll take care of the BSC, I’m so sorry.” 

You sighed and removed your gloves, pinching the bridge of your nose. 

“It’s not just boiling water we’re dealing with anymore, James,” you said a little more calmly than before. “You’ve gotta be more careful, okay? I’m not losing my job over this.” 

James nodded his head and went to grab the things to sterilize the biological safety cabinet and grab the new specimen from the fridge. So much for trying to get a job at LSRC to impress you. 

“I was not built to be a researcher,” James shook his head. 

“I mean, it’s not that big of a screw up, you fixed it eventually, didn’t you?” Pierre asked.

“Yeah, but not until after a thorough amount of embarrassment.” 

“I thought girls found clumsy guys endearing,” Carlo commented. 

“Not when the girl is determined to become the leading medical researcher on the continent,” James sighed. “Maybe taking this job was a bad idea. From what I can see she hasn’t even changed her opinion on dating, she hasn’t been with anyone these past three years.” 

“Do you hear that?” Carlo removed his feet from the coffee table and placed them on the ground. “You’ve been in love with her for three years and haven’t done anything about it.” 

“Who said I was in love with her? And sure, maybe I haven’t made a move, but I learnt French!” James tried to defend himself, pointing to Pierre. 

“That’s not as good of a comeback as you think it is,” Pierre shook his head. 

“I know,” James hung his head low and sat on the couch between Pierre and Jian. “We’re gonna graduate in a year and she’s not gonna know I’m in love with her.” 

“So you are in love with her?” Jian looked over at his friend sympathetically. 

James leaned back and used the heels of his palms to cover his eyes. 

“He’s gonna have a meltdown, don’t ask him that,” Pierre shook his head. 

“God, I do love her!” he exclaimed like he was just finding it out for the first time himself. 

“What did I say,” Pierre sighed. 

“Can I make it stop?” James looked over at his friends who all shrugged. “I am so screwed.” 

“This time, I think we agree with you,” Carlo took a sip of his drink. “Good luck, man.” 

James squeezed his eyes shut, he would definitely need it. 

—

The year passed to graduation and James was still sitting on his feelings. It was much too late now to say anything. You’d already been accepted to a graduate program through your work with the LSRC and James had passed his MCAT with flying colours and was on his way to medical school at Columbia. 

As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he was going to miss Montreal, the city had grown on him during his time there and a part of him wished he could stay. 

His friends were also ready for the next stages in their studies, all going to different places across the continent to get their other degrees, with, of course, the promise to stay in touch. 

James didn’t know what the next little bit of his life had in store for him, but he hoped regardless of where he ended up, maybe he’d be able to make up for his missed opportunities. 

The years of medical school, once started, passed faster than James expected them to, and by the end of it, much to his own surprise, he’d also gotten married. 

You were almost all but forgotten in the back of his mind, but time continued to play its games. 

Medical school turned into a specialization in oncology, and a divorce. Then residency and a marriage. Then a second divorce. Then another marriage and more recently a position at a hospital in his hometown, on the board and a well respected oncologist and a few new friends…and a third divorce. 

“House, I’m not asking you to let them all sleep in your apartment, it’s just a dinner for one night, we’ll be out and about for the rest of the time that they’re here,” James sighed. 

“Can’t you just cancel?” House asked. “Divorce seems like a pretty good reason to get out of a reunion.” 

“See, the thing is, I’d rather not be miserable and see my friends instead, and they bought their tickets months ago. Please, House, I’ll do the dishes for a week.” 

“A month,” House said. 

“Two weeks,” James negotiated and House nodded, so they shook on it. 

“Good, now that I’ve done you a favour, you can do me one,” House smiled, but the kind of smile that was conniving, like he had something up his sleeve all along. 

“I paid you in chores for my favour, who says I owe you anything?” 

“Unless you want me to call your friends and cancel for you, you’ll do it,” House continued to walk the hospital’s hallways hobbling with his cane. 

“What is it?” James sighed, catching up with him. 

“We have a patient and he doesn’t speak very good English, but he does speak French. You went to McGill didn’t you? Must have picked up some of the love language.” 

“Unfortunately for me in this case, I did,” he nodded. 

“Perfect, come with me now,” House motioned with his head to the patient’s room and James trailed behind him. 

When he entered the room, House motioned for him to begin speaking. James hadn’t spoken a lot of French since his undergrad so he was definitely rusty, but he supposed it was better than nothing and began to explain that he would be helping with the translation.

“Erm, Bonjour, je suis Dr. Wilson, je vais aider Dr. House avec la traduction.” 

The man looked at James strangely before saying. 

“You’re an anglophone, but you speak French like you’re Quebecois.” 

“I um did my undergraduate in Montreal, I learnt how to speak there,” James responded back in French. 

“Hmm.” 

James could tell this wasn’t going to be fun. Some of the French held quite a bit of hate towards Quebec, who knew why, but his accent definitely wasn’t going to help him in this situation. 

House got James to ask some routine medical history questions and a few things about his symptoms all the while James had to filter out all the insults that were coming his way with regards to his “poor use of language” and “unintelligible accent”. 

When he could finally leave the room, James let out a string of French curses under his breath, still thinking in the other language. 

“House, why can’t you just get a proper translator?” he asked. “I’m terrible at this.” 

“Cuddy said something about making a big purchase recently and being currently unable to do so, especially since you put that you speak French in your resume. Bet you’re regretting that one now.” 

“Yeah,” James nodded his head. “Big time.” 

They began to walk towards the elevator to go to the cafeteria for lunch, when James decided to inquire more about Cuddy’s big purchase. 

“Oh, she said something about money this, medical research that,” House shook his head, “You know I stopped listening the second she wouldn’t give me what I wanted.” 

“She hired a medical researcher,” James said aloud, chewing on the words, “I wonder who she-,” 

His train of thought was cut off when he saw, near the elevator, a face he hadn’t seen since graduation day at McGill. 

Quickly, unable to think of anything else to do, he ran into the administrative area and hid crouched down behind a photocopier. 

House watched his friend curiously before walking over towards him and leaning against the copier asked him if he’d gone insane. 

“No, I just, um, remembered I needed to copy some patient files,” he lied. 

“You don’t have any with you,” House said. 

“I faxed them from my office,” he lied again. 

“I think I need to go get Foreman, clearly you’re having a neurological breakdown,” House said. 

“Can you just stop making it obvious I’m here?!” James exclaimed in a whisper. 

Unfortunately for him, as you were walking past, his harsh whisper made his location obvious, causing you to look down and see his familiar face. 

“Oh my God, heart-eyes, is that you?” you asked with a smile and James pressed his lips in a thin line and nodded. “What are you doing down there?” 

James became speechless and suddenly he was an eighteen-year-old back in his chemistry lab. 

“He’s checking to see if we need more toner,” House said, lying for his friend, but James knew that was all he would get out of him. “Well, that’s my cue to leave, you guys have fun.” 

You reached down and offered James a hand, helping him back into a standing position. 

“I haven’t seen you in so long,” you commented. “Like since we were-,” 

“22,” James filled in and you nodded. 

“Yeah,” you bit your lip before asking him how he had been. 

“Oh, you know,” he shrugged his shoulders. “I-I’m assuming you’re the medical researcher Cuddy hired?” 

“That would be correct,” you smiled. 

“Why did you choose to work here? I thought you were some big hotshot in Canada?” 

“I am a big hotshot, which is why I wanted to come to a teaching hospital. I thought maybe it would give more opportunities to teach other people what I know. It’s a win-win. I get to do what I want to and the hospital gets grant money from my research,” you explained. “It looks like you got where you wanted to be too, Mr. Oncologist.” 

“Actually it’s Dr. Oncologist,” he joked and you laughed, making his cheeks go red after hearing the sound.

“I missed having you around, James. We should catch up sometime,” you suggested. 

“Yeah sure,” he nodded. “I-I’d love that.” 

You excused yourself, needing to go introduce yourself to a class of medical students, waving goodbye to James, leaving him stuck in his tracks for a few moments before he could gather his senses again and head downstairs for lunch. 

—

“We could have rescheduled if this was too much, man,” Carlo watched James as he brought a large roast to the table for them to eat. 

“See? What did I tell you,” House rolled his eyes and James gave him a disapproving stare. 

“No, I wanted you guys to come, we’ve been planning this for months. I wasn’t going to let anything get in the way of it,” he assured his friends. “Plus, we know how hard it is to nail down Pierre, I swear you are always travelling. Every time we talk you’re in a different country.” 

“That’s the life of a parasitologist,” he shrugged and helped James by beginning to cut the roast. 

“And Jian, how’s the wife and kids?” 

“They’re good,” Jian smiled. “Mei started first grade in September. Becky and I are both up for promotions at the hospital, so I can’t really complain. Although I think Carlo can.” 

“Seriously it’s not that big of a deal,” Carlo groaned, “Sure yeah, pharmaceuticals are more flashy than biophysics, but that doesn’t mean that my research wasn’t better.” 

“Well if it was better why did William get the award?” James asked and Carlo just flipped him the bird. 

“Didn’t we go to school with him?” Pierre asked. 

“We did?” James raised a brow. 

“Yeah, for a year, from Toronto, huge stoner. Hated being there and did literally no work, but still managed to get honours,” Jian explained. 

“Sounds like my kinda guy,” House commented and James rolled his eyes. 

Just as they continued to dish out dinner, House’s pager went off and he sighed, excusing himself from the table while practically threatening James to leave him some food. 

When House left, James’ friends saw their opening and began their personal line of questioning. 

“Hey, James, are you really okay?” Jian asked. 

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” James asked in return. 

“You’re getting a divorce,” Pierre said. “Seems like a pretty good reason to not be okay.” 

James shook his head, 

“Yeah sure, it’s a shitty situation,” he admitted. “Did I imagine myself at this point in my life with three failed marriages? No, definitely not. Can I do anything to change it? Also no, and right now I really wouldn’t want to change it.” 

“Can we ask what happened?” Carlo queried. 

“She cheated on me, then left me,” James said simply. 

“Forgive me,” Pierre said. “But you seemed a lot more upset when we talked over the phone last week. What changed?” 

James looked down at his plate and cut into his roast, thinking about what Pierre had said. It was true, even earlier today he was sulking about, that was until he ran into you. 

“I swear,” James started, “if you guys make a big deal about this I will murder you all,” he used his knife to point at all of them and they nodded, swearing their silence. “I’ve got heart-eyes again.” 

“You met someone new?” Jian asked and Carlo shook his head. 

“No, he re-met someone old. Tell me, did your hospital recently hire a medical researcher?” 

James nodded his head and the table was about to erupt into a loud chorus of comments when James gave them a look and they all restrained themselves. 

“James, I’m being dead serious when I say this, but you should have married her,” Pierre insisted. “I never saw you look at anyone else the way you looked at her.” 

“Probably explains the three divorces then, doesn’t it? I was still in love with her the whole time,” James sighed. “It’s going to come up eventually, seems like a pretty big indicator that I’m not good at relationships.” 

“Who knows, maybe she won’t care,” Jian offered. 

“What was it like when you saw her again?” Carlo asked, looking for any opportunity to tease his friend. 

“How do you think it was? I could barely talk, I was a nervous wreck, and blushing like crazy,” he shook his head at the thought of it. “I could literally feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. I feel like a middle school girl every time I’m near her.”

“Who knows, maybe she still thinks you have circulation issues,” Jian shrugged and the table laughed. 

“What I would give to stay here and watch this play out,” Carlo sighed and leaned back in his seat. 

“Knowing James, you’d have to be here for ten years before he made a move on her,” Pierre raised a brow and James threw a piece of potato at him. 

“If you ever do get the guts to ask her out, call us. We’ve made bets on this,” Carlo added. 

“Real comforting, guys,” James ate a bite of the roast. “I thought this was supposed to be my pity party.” 

“Not anymore,” Jian shook his head. “You’ve got heart-eyes.” 

This time around, James thought maybe he didn’t mind the nickname as much as he used to. 

—

“I would think they’d get you your own office at this point,” James commented as he entered his office, seeing you sitting at his desk, eating a pre-packed lunch. 

“Beats me,” you shrugged and continued to eat. 

“So you’ve decided that invading my office is your next best bet?” 

“Oh hush,” you waved him off with your fork. 

“Well, excuse me for wanting to come to a safe place after being verbally assaulted by House’s patient,” he sat on the opposite side of the desk and leaned back in the chair. 

“Verbally assaulted?” you asked. “By a patient who isn’t even your own?” 

“He doesn’t like the way I speak French,” James rolled his eyes. “I’m translating while they’re treating him since the department used all its money hiring you.” 

“What can I say, hotshots cost a lot of money.” 

“You know, you could do the translation, probably much better than I can,” he noted. 

“I could, but you probably need the practice more than I do, chèri,” you scrunched your nose in a cute mocking way and James could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks yet again. “You still keeping up with that posse of yours?” you asked, changing the subject. 

“Yeah, they all flew in to visit a few days ago, we’re gonna go out tonight,” he said. “Do you…maybe want to join us?” he suggested. 

“I don’t have plans, as long as they’re okay with it I’d love to come,” you smiled. 

“Oh trust me, they will definitely be okay with it.” 

—

Later that night, James was drinking deeply from his glass while he watched his friends stare blankly ahead at you. If he looked anything like they did all those times his words were caught in his throat, then he hoped to spontaneously combust right then and there. 

“Heart-eyes, I thought you said they were okay with me coming?” you leaned over and whispered to him. 

James put down his glass and nodded his head. 

“They are okay with it, right?” 

Snapping out of their daze, the three men nodded their heads and finally began professing assurances that everything was fine. 

“It’s just… you said James invited you?” Jian asked with furrowed bows. 

“Yeah,” you nodded. “He mentioned you guys were in town and getting together tonight and asked me if I wanted to join.” 

James bit down on his tongue trying not to say anything, but also gave his friends a look to shut up before they gave anything away. He knew what was running through their minds, they were wondering how the hell he’d gotten the guts to ask you to come, but there was one fundamental difference between tonight and any other time he could have possibly asked you. This wasn’t a date, therefore, there was no pressure. 

“Maybe you could tell them what you’ve been up to since they last saw you?” James suggested. 

“Oh, um, well, I got my master’s degree and doctorate at McGill, both for research in cancer biology-,” 

“Cancer biology?” Pierre interrupted. “I don’t remember you mentioning you were interested in that.” 

“I-I wasn’t initially,” you admitted. “Just after spending more time in the LSRC and a few other irrelevant things I decided it was the best fit for me to focus on.” 

“You and heart-eyes make a pretty good pair then,” Carlo raised his eyebrows suggestively and took a sip of his drink. 

“I guess we do,” you chuckled. “As long as he leaves the research to me. We all know what he’s like in the lab.” 

“I resent that,” James protested only before saying, “but I do deserve it.” 

“It’s a miracle he hasn’t had a medical malpractice suit,” Pierre added. 

You asked the boys about where their various careers had taken them and how they were each doing. The conversation stayed pretty normal until the topic changed to relationships, starting with Jian’s wife and family back in Vancouver and Pierre’s husband who was currently in Australia doing research on some massive insect. 

“What about you Carlo?” you asked. “Anyone special in your life?” 

“Nah,” he waved his hand. 

“What about the mom of the kid who pet sits for you?” Jian asked. 

“That kid charges me per animal, per size. If I were to date his mom he’d probably charge me for dating her too, and I don’t think I can afford his price,” he shook his head and the table laughed. 

“James, you’ve been quiet,” you said. “Nothing to share?” 

James nervously took a sip of his drink and looked over at his friends for help. 

“James hasn’t had the best luck in love,” Pierre settled on. 

“Oh, haven’t found anybody, that’s not a big deal,” you assured him. “I haven’t either.” 

“Well,” Carlo said in a high-pitched voice. “It’s not exactly that he hasn’t found anybody.” 

“So there’s someone-?” 

“I’m divorced,” James blurted. “Three times. Or soon to be three anyway.” 

“Oh,” you paused and tried to think of the right thing to say, but for the moment settled on nothing while Pierre changed the subject. 

After the visit was over, James offered to walk you to your car and you accepted. The walk started off in silence, but you decided to break it. 

“You know, I hope you find the right person eventually,” you said. “It’s unfortunate things didn’t work out three times.” 

“Yeah,” James nodded in agreement. “I-um, do you ever think about that conversation we had, in the McDonald’s by my apartment?” 

“Sometimes I do,” you admitted. 

“Looking back on that, I wonder if we ever really loved each other. If we did this probably wouldn’t have happened. We would have fixed things, worked on ourselves instead of just…giving up.” 

“So I guess you still haven’t fallen in love yet?” you asked, but he stayed silent. “Whoever it is, I’m sure things will find a way to work out for you.”

“The moment may have passed on that,” he said with his hands shoved in his pockets and looking down at the ground. 

“You never know, James. Sometimes life has a funny way of surprising you.” 

—

James watched as his colleagues and a few of the students from the university left the lecture hall while he continued to sit in his seat, watching you walk up towards him. 

“Don’t you have patients or something?” you asked. “You’re at all of my lectures.” 

“Doesn’t it seem appropriate for an oncologist to attend a cancer biology lecture?” he asked as you sat down next to him. 

“I suppose so,” you sighed. “Doesn’t explain why you weren’t taking notes though.” 

James looked down at his empty hands and cursed a little internally. 

“It’s okay,” you assured him. “I don’t mind the staring, it reminds me of school.” 

“You noticed?” he asked. 

“You weren’t very subtle,” you chuckled. 

“Yeah, not one of my strong suits,” he blushed, embarrassed. 

“Do you wanna go grab lunch before your break is over?” you asked and James nodded, standing up and offering you a hand to get out of your seat. 

You went to the cafeteria, running into his friend House who managed to get his food paid for by James, yet again, before leaving to go back up to his office and work on another differential diagnosis with his employees. 

“Did all the guys get back home safe after their trip?” you asked, digging into your food. 

“Carlo and Jian are back home, Pierre went to go be with Ollie in Australia.”

“It must be hard not living near them.” 

James sighed and nodded his head. “It’s a balance. When they’re being annoying, it’s great that they don’t live here and when they’re not, it sucks.” 

“Spoken like a true friend,” you chuckled. 

“What about you? Do you still keep in touch with people from school? During any of your degrees?” 

“Not really,” you shook your head. “After my undergrad I became so laser focused on my school I didn’t pay attention to relationships that much outside of my family. Starting to regret it a bit now.” 

“Kind of hard to have a good conversation with cancer cells,” James said sarcastically and you shook your head. “Do you like it in New Jersey so far?” 

“Not as much as back home,” you admitted, “but it is nice to have a friend here.”

“Yeah, Jersey is…an acquired taste,” he settled on, making you laugh, but your laughter was cut off by the sound of his pager, and he looked down to see what the message was before quickly standing up. “Sorry, I have to-,” 

“Don’t worry,” you assured him. “I’ll pack up your food and bring it to your office.” 

“Thanks,” he nodded and you waved goodbye as he ran off out of the cafeteria and to the oncology floor to go help one of his patients. 

—

James didn’t find himself walking around the campus often, but when he did it was usually because he had to clear his head. With everything that was going on in his life, in addition to the circumstances of this case, he was taking it harder than normal. 

He had left his coat in his office as the hot New Jersey sun was already beating down, his hands shoved in his pockets and his eyes following his feet as he took his steps forward. 

He didn’t notice you sitting on a bench as he was passing by. Curious as to his state, you stood up and went to meet up with him. 

“Hey James, are you okay?” 

Your voice pulled him out of his thoughts almost instantly. He stopped to look up at you, seeing the concern reflecting in your eyes. 

He took his hands out of his pockets and motioned for you to walk with him. 

“I lost a patient today,” he explained. “He was 11.” 

“Oh, James, I’m so sorry,” you said softly. 

“In med school you learn pretty quickly if you don’t find a way to deal with what you face every day the result is never good,” he said and you noticed him chewing on the inside of his cheek, “but it was just too sunny outside. How could it be sunny on a day like this?” 

You didn’t say anything initially, only intertwining your hand with his and giving it a light squeeze which he returned. 

“You know, I think it’s probably okay, every once in a while, to let yourself mourn your patients. Just like everyone else. You have a uniquely difficult job, James, and no one would hold it against you if you need a minute to adjust.” 

James stopped walking and you followed his lead, only to have him let go of your hand and pull you into a tight hug. You easily wrapped your arms around his neck while his arms were around your waist. 

“You’re a good doctor, James,” you mumbled. “I know, even if you don’t quite believe it right now, you did everything you could to help that young boy and make him more comfortable.” 

You could feel him nod his head, clearly not trusting himself to say anything at the moment. 

Neither of you wanted to let go, but you knew that you both had work to get back to. James had other patients he was responsible for and you had some work to do in one of the hospital labs. 

So silently, hand in hand, you accompanied each other back to the hospital, grateful for each other’s company. 

—

“I swear, if I stay there any longer I’m going to go mad,” James whispered to you under his breath as you walked along the halls of the hospital with him to help him run some tests for a few patients. 

“What was it this time?” you asked, huddling in closer, waiting for him to spill the beans on why living with his best friend was becoming unbearable. 

“He keeps pranking me,” he began to explain and you could see how frustrated he was just by his hand movements. “Last night he thought of the genius idea to put my hand in warm water while I was sleeping and-,” James stopped himself, realizing he’d divulged too much, just as your eyes went wide. 

“Oh my God you didn’t wet the bed did you?” you asked in a chuckle and James quickly covered your mouth saying, 

“Shh! The whole hospital doesn’t need to hear you!” 

You couldn’t hold in your laugh, muffled by James’ hand over your mouth and his cheeks were a bright cherry red. 

Eventually you pulled his hand away and said, 

“You definitely need to get out of there. That’s criminal.” 

“Exactly what I’m saying,” James agreed. 

“Hey, why don’t you come over to my place tonight?” you suggested. “We can watch a movie or something together.” 

“That sounds like exactly what I need right now,” he nodded his head. “What time?” 

“Come over at eight, it’ll give me some time to get snacks and get ready.” 

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” he held out his hand and you took it shaking it firmly. 

Later that evening while James was getting ready, House watched him curiously. 

“I still don’t believe that you blowdry your hair,” he said loudly over the sound of the appliance. 

“Believe it or not, I do,” James responded. 

“It just seems so pointless, your hair is messy anyways,” he crossed his arms and James gave him a look. 

“My hair looks fine, yours on the other hand could use a trim and about a billion other things,” James retorted.

“So, is this a date?” House asked, changing the topic. 

“No, it’s not a date,” James shook his head. “It’s an opportunity for me to get away from your insanity.” 

“Are you sure it’s not a date?” he asked. 

“What makes you think it's a date?” he finally gave in and turned around to face his friend, turning off the blow dryer. 

“Well if you asked her if you could come over, probably not a date, but if she offered…” he shrugged his shoulders. 

James shook his head, he didn’t want to allow himself to believe it was true, because if it was, he’d probably overthink things and make a fool of himself. 

“It’s not a date,” he reiterated and House stopped pressing, seeing as his friend would not be reasoned with. 

James finished fixing his hair and grabbed his keys and a coat before stepping out of the door. 

It didn’t take him long to drive to your house and when he knocked at the door he heard shuffling inside before the lock clicked and you opened it. 

“Hey! You got the dress code memo,” you joked, pointing to his McGill sweater and then back at yours. 

“I thought you might like a blast from the past,” he smiled and you invited him inside. 

As he entered he noticed the array of pillows on the couch, blankets draped over arm chairs, and books piled on every surface possible. To top it off, the house was currently only lit by lamps allowing a warm orange hue to fall over the space. It made James’ shoulders relax and he could even feel his nervous heart rate slow. 

“Do you like it?” you asked. “I am by no means an interior decorator, but I tried to make it feel cozy so it’s nice to come back to after long days at work.” 

“I do like it,” James nodded. “A lot. It feels like a home.” 

“Perfect, that’s exactly what I was going for,” you smiled. “You’re the first guest I’ve had here, you know?” 

“Really? No fancy dinner parties with the hospital board?” 

“No, not yet,” you chuckled. “Unfortunately, this guy in the oncology department keeps taking up all my time.”

You grabbed his hand and dragged him over to the couch. 

“But don’t worry, I don’t mind.” 

After he took off his coat, you both sat down next to each other, James extending his hand along the back of the couch and you naturally sat right up next to him, leaning forward to grab the remote and turn on the movie. 

“What did you pick?” James asked. 

“Just some random horror movie,” you said. “I heard it’s really cheesy.” 

“We’ll see about that,” James raised his brows and grabbed the popcorn from the table, putting it in between you both. 

You pressed play once you were both settled and tossed the remote to the side of the couch, curling your legs up and waiting in anticipation for the movie to begin.

It didn’t take long for the horror plot to begin, jumping right into the satanic murders and supernatural deaths. Just as you had predicted, it was cheesy, but that didn’t stop you from being startled whenever something popped up unexpectedly on the screen. 

Both of you were lulled into a false sense of security during what seemed like a quiet part of the movie, then, all of a sudden, the killer jumped into the frame with a loud change in the soundtrack, causing you to shriek and move towards James, also feeling him jump slightly from being startled. 

You both looked up at each other and laughed at the ridiculousness of your collective fright. 

“You’re supposed to be the calm one,” you elbowed him. 

“I know it just-Jesus!” James found himself inadvertently closing his eyes and wrapping his arm around you as if it would give him some protection from what was on the screen. 

You laughed again and leaned closer into his side, patting his leg to assure him it was safe to open his eyes again. 

“You must enjoy torturing me, that’s the only explanation for this,” James looked over at you and you shook your head. 

“Come on, heart-eyes, you think that lowly of me?” 

James couldn’t stop the smile that creeped past his lips, “No, of course not.” 

“Good, that means I still have the upper hand,” you moved your head to look back at the TV, but not before James tickled you in retaliation for your words. 

It took a moment, but you eventually surrendered and moved your focus back to the movie, still feeling a little warm from your laughter. 

You grabbed some of the other candies and snacks from the table, holding a gummy bear up for James to try and he did without so much as a second thought. 

“Still have a sweet tooth I see,” you offered him a different candy which he ate again and nodded. 

“You don’t want to know how many cavities I’ve had.” 

“Here,” you handed him a wrapped treat. “This one’s special from home.” 

“Maple candies,” he smiled. “They don’t make ‘em like they do in Montreal.” 

“They were your favourite, right?” you asked. 

James looked over at you again curiously, “You remembered that?” 

“Of course I did,” you shrugged. “Oh wait, look,” you pointed to the TV before grimacing and covering your eyes, but still peeking through your fingers. “Ew!” 

James just smiled at you, finding it harder and harder to resist the urge to kiss you, the thought bringing a warm sensation to his stomach. 

He settled instead on doing what he’d been doing forever: staring at you with heart-eyes. 

—

James tried to fight a yawn as he grabbed one of the many books on the shelves in his office, taking it to his couch and sitting down next to you. 

“You don’t have to do this, James,” you told him. “You probably have to be back tomorrow morning, you should go home and rest.” 

“No, no, it’s fine,” he insisted. “You look in here for that article I was telling you about and I’ll start proofreading.” 

There were many papers and files strewn around the couch, you couldn’t remember when you first came in, but James never seemed to mind when you worked in his office instead of your own. 

“Are you sure?” you asked. “I feel like I brought a tornado in here.” 

James looked up from your paper and nodded his head. 

“Now hush and let me read.” 

“Sorry, sorry,” you chuckled, opening the medical journal he had handed you, flipping through the contents until you found the article title he had mentioned. 

James had a pen in his hand, scribbling down annotations on the side, correcting a few typos and grammatical errors. 

For the most part, he was able to follow along, but at one point, the words became so incoherent he tapped you to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. 

“What does this say here?” he asked. “I-I don’t know if my eyes just stopped working, but what does stirring in sugar and eggs have to do with this trial treatment?” 

“Oh my God,” you grabbed the paper and looked at it closer. “I must have accidentally copied some of my mom’s cookie recipe on here before changing documents. What in the world is going on with me?” 

Maybe it was the exhaustion settling in or some other things James couldn’t quite pinpoint, but he felt himself letting out a chuckle that grew a little longer, and longer until it was a full blown laugh. 

It was an honest mistake, and arguably not that funny, but you’d be hard pressed to convince him of that in that moment, and instead, seeing the silliness of the situation, you joined in.

Eventually, when the laughter died down, you and James both leaning far back against the couch, he turned to you and apologized. 

“I’m sorry, I should probably read this when I have a bit more sanity.” 

“Don’t be,” you patted his leg. “I can always use a good laugh.” 

With your heads still turned to face each other, you suggested to pause the work and resume it another time, to which James agreed. 

You both continued to sit there in silence, looking over at each other and James caught a glimmer of something in your eyes and had to blink a few times to make sure it was still there. It was a soft look, a little dazed, like you were happily daydreaming about something far off. It took him a moment to realize it, since he had been the one giving that look, he’d never really had a chance to see it for himself. 

You had heart-eyes. 

And more importantly, you had them while you were looking at James. 

With a sudden boost of courage, fuelled by lowered inhibitions, he started by asking, 

“Have I ever told you why my friends call me heart-eyes?” 

You tilted your head a little, following his lead and sitting up straight. 

“Wasn’t it because of that girl you had a crush on that was from here?” 

James opened his mouth and then shut it, shaking his head. 

“There was never a girl from Jersey,” he admitted. 

“Why would they say it was a girl from Jersey if there was…” as you said the sentence you slowed down, the realization dawning on you. 

“All the staring makes a bit more sense now?” he asked. 

You blinked a few times, “I just thought you were really awkward,” you said. 

“I was, but if the staring didn’t give it away the blushing really should have done it,” he chuckled. 

“I thought you had a circulation issue!” you exclaimed and James burst out laughing, of course you did. “God, James, why didn’t you say anything?” 

James shook his head, “I could barely string out a coherent sentence when I was around you. Makes it a little hard to say anything.” 

“Makes me wish I had said something,” you said, feeling your own cheeks heat up at the admission. 

“Y-You would’ve said something?” 

Now it was James’ turn to be surprised. 

“I think most of the time it comes on gradually, maybe you won’t even know it at first. That’s what you said to me, but that eventually, if it was love, I’d know it.” 

You reached out and held James’ hands in your own. 

“I should have said something. I could have said something. We could have had so much more-,” 

“James,” you whispered, interrupting him and he stopped. “Shut up and kiss me.” 

James wasn’t going to waste another second, removing his hands from your to instead gently hold your face, bringing you closer to him so he could finally do what he had been dreaming about since he was 18 years old. 

The dim light of his desk lamp, the papers crumpled beneath and around you, the way you moved closer and slid into his lap, his hands now on your hips and your fingers snaking through his hair, it all melted into one and if you let yourselves imagine, just a bit, the lamp became a light in the library; the papers became unfinished homework assignments and lab write-ups, and you hadn’t missed a second of the time you could have spent together. 

Your kisses soon turned slow and repetitive and neither of you wanted to pull away, living in the moment like it was your last. 

“When…did you realize…you loved me?” you asked between kisses, moving away from his mouth, instead letting your lips find their way across his jaw and up to his temple. 

“Our last year of school,” he paused your kisses so he could kiss you properly again. “Carlo said something and-,” he shook his head and sighed. “I realized I was going to leave without you ever knowing how I felt and even though eventually I thought maybe I’d stopped loving you and started to love other people…I just kept trying to fill that space that only you fit in.” 

“First year of my master’s for me,” you rested your forehead against his. “Suddenly you weren’t there anymore and I really wished that wasn’t the case.” 

He tilted his head up to meet you in another kiss that was far too easy to melt into. Neither of you had any complaints and you knew you’d never get tired looking into his heart-eyes.

@cuntyvicodin

[blackbird5154]

Otium cum dignitate

Summary: This story is inspired by a video in which Papa says he's been on tour for 3 months, but he's still holding up great. It is dedicated to all those who are tired.

Characters: Papa Emeritus III x Original Female Character

Generes: Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Fluff

Acknowledgements: Thank you to @1blondeabreu-blog who was so kind to help me with the editing! <3

You're standing in front of a door with an office sign mounted to it with a simple four-letter sign that reads, “Papa”. And the same one below, with the words “Do Not Disturb,” suspended by a string. The first one had been there as long as you could remember, the second one had just appeared yesterday.

A ghoul recently disappeared behind a door to announce you. One of the new ones, a young affable fellow whose face is customarily obscured by a mask. You pick a hangnail on your finger. Will Papa accept a guest? The time is eleven o'clock in the morning. You came here as soon as you heard that he had returned from his tour.

Usually after such long absences he asks not to be disturbed for a couple of days - he locks himself in his room, sleeps and recuperates. This tour lasted over three months. You're not sure disturbing him at the start of his second day of vacation was a good idea. You're lucky you were able to talk a ghoul from his team into visiting.

The Nameless returns, slipping quietly out from behind the door.

“He's ready for you. Just not for long, he needs to rest.”

“Of course.”

The Ghoul is still lingering in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot.

“You're special if he doesn't mind your presence.”

“I guess I am.”

The Ghoul blinks favorably through the slits of his mask and gives way to you. You trickle into a space set up like a hotel room. It's small rather than spacious, equipped with simple Ikea furniture. The Clergy headquarters in Otrogothia has never been known for its opulence. No candelabras or canopies, contrary to popular rumors. No mystical aura. This semi-dark room is just a staging post between the tours Papa spends most of his time in.

You stop in the small hallway, carefully closing the door behind you.

“Just a second," you hear his confused voice from the other room. It seems like you didn't come at the right time after all. You're ready to scold yourself for so tactlessly intruding on his private resting time when Terzo finally appears in the doorway. He hurriedly fixes his disheveled hair, which still falls stubbornly over his face. He's wearing a robe that probably has nothing underneath but underwear. He looks caught off guard, looking up at you from under his eyebrows a little confused, but his lips are already forming into the familiar crooked smile. He leans over to your hand to squeeze your fingers in his warm palms, leaving a kiss on the back of them. Incorrigible.

“What a surprise," he says.

His skin looks really bad due to numerous applications and removals of makeup in the last few months. Sixty-plus shows one after the other. His eyelids are swollen from sleep, his eyes glimmering with tired flames from beneath them. Tiredness tangled somewhere among his furrowed brow, embedded in the wrinkles on his forehead.

“Oh, it’s so embarrassing, Papa…”

“Totally not," he nodded at the room. “I was just about to continue my sleep marathon. Care to join me?”

“If it'll allow me to be here with you longer. After all, I have a few hours break between two appointments.”

These small, simple signs of attention. Terzo gives you a brief look of affection before turning back toward the room.

As you walk after him, the first thing you notice is the wide bed with the linens on it that have just been slept on. This room is familiar to you, but you've never seen it in such disarray. A large travel suitcase stands against the wall with its maw open. Some of the bags lie on the floor, some have crawled over to the nearest chair. A box of records and a vinyl record player are piled with clothes. You notice with amusement a the little yellow kazoo peeking out from under the mesh of the suitcase. It's useless at the big concerts. Does Papa carry it around as a talisman?

The rays of the stingy northern sun come through the curtains. You sink to the edge of the bed, smoothing the sheet against your sides.

“Want some water?” Terzo steps in front of you with a glass and a carafe. You notice again the tiredness in his gaze under heavy eyelids that he tries to hide, the difficulty he has moving his tongue.

“No, thank you. I just had breakfast.” You're experiencing a sudden rush of anguish over a belated thought. “I'm sorry I didn't bring you anything!”

“Don't worry, I'm not hungry," he smirks. “The IVs are very nutritious. Just kidding," he adds, noticing your panicked look.

You always suspected that the Clergy used Papas as cash cows, squeezing all the juices out of them for short "reigns". The frontmen were easily replaceable, which is why no one worried about their condition when they left the stage. What made Terzo different was the fact that he pretended to be unflappable, as if he had boundless endurance, treating all difficulties with his usual humor. You know that he could perform in a sick state, exhausted, on the verge of fainting, and only joked and apologized if it was discovered.

“I'm still not sure that such long tours are good for you,” you try to tread carefully. “What does your manager say?”

Terzo fills his own glass and takes a few sips, looking away. Then he returns his gaze to you.

“The fine print in the contract said, ‘Warning: working as Papa Emeritus can cause health problems!’ but I didn't pay much attention to it.”

“They should have written it in large print and accompanied it with pictures of a diseased heart and worn-out knee joints.”

“As for my manager, I think she quite possibly wants to kill me.”

He runs his hand through his hair, finding another strand sticking out the wrong way. You hide a smile because you remember what his hair feels like, heavy and very thick.

“So what about the marathon?” you ask.

“A sleep marathon,” he pulls back from his work and raises his index finger admonishingly. “There are different kinds of marathons.”

You glance around the bed. It's more than clear that Terzo is determined to rest further, but he doesn't seem to mind you staying. How does he imagine it? Will you just lie next to each other while your break lasts?

“I'm in my clothes,” you remind him hesitantly.

“So take them off. But not all of them,” he smirks obliquely. “Otherwise, the sleep marathon might accidentally turn into a love marathon.”

You walk around the bed, take off your jacket and pants, and leave them on the back of the chair. Modern church dress code. Then you pull your black top over your head. When you finish, Terzo is already waiting for you in bed; he has thrown off his robe, staying in his pajama pants. Catching your gaze, he pats the mattress beside him invitingly.

You remove the grucifix on the chain and place it carefully on the bedside table. Leaving your underwear on, you sink down onto the bed, throwing your legs up and crawling closer to Terzo, who immediately covers you with the blanket he prepared.

“Come here,” he whispers warmly. You find yourself face to face with him, in a cosy blanket cocoon. You snuggle against him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, feeling his soft hands pull you closer. Had he been thinking about this moment all those three concert months? Did he imagine breathing in your scent and pulling you against him?

“Are you comfortable?”

“Very, very comfortable,” he coos, pressing his lips to your forehead.

“So how was the tour?”

“Hey, are we going to talk about work?” he frowns, still smiling.

You don't really need an answer. You already know he was at his best, giving the audience one hundred percent of himself, putting smiles on their faces and fire in their hearts. And even when things didn't go according to plan, he always managed to turn everything in his favor. He knew how to use every misstep, awkwardness or surprise to make them fall in love with him even more.

“I know perfectly well that you were incredible, as always. It couldn't be otherwise.”

“Really?” He finds your gaze, looking genuinely touched.

“Absolutely. I don't need to attend your concerts to know that you've won everyone over again. I'm sure of it.”

“Well, actually, I've come up with a couple of new tricks,” he takes offense. “Make sure you watch them on video.”

You just nod, and then suddenly you feel the urge to yawn. You barely manage to cover your mouth with the palm of your hand. Terzo hums softly.

"A marathon is supposed to be a competition,” his voice is soft again, lulling. "Who do you think will fall asleep the fastest?"

"I'm willing to give you the lead. Although I've had a rough week, too. I haven't had quality sleep in forever. Constant overnight rework, endless meetings."

"I understand."

He gently moves a strand of hair away from your face while continuing to look into your eyes. You've never seen it take so much effort for a man to keep his eyelids open. You yawn again and roll over onto your other side, turning your back to him. He wraps his arms around you from behind, pulling your legs up and enveloping you in his body. You feel his nose against your shoulder, tickling your skin. He leaves a lazy kiss on it.

“I'd like to-” he purrs with a hint of eroticism in his voice. The phrase is cut off halfway through. You wait for him to continue, but as you feel him breathing softly, his arms softening around you, you realize he's already asleep.

You close your eyes peacefully, hiding them from the morning light filtering through the curtains, and relax. Then you fumble for his palm so you can fall asleep with it in your hands. Those few hours in his arms will be healing for you, too.

Support on AO3

[forensicheart]

Unexpected Behaviours

Oscar Piastri x Reader

Summary: Oscar was seen as the innocent sweetheart of the drivers, until he shows you another side.

Warning/s: dark themes! kidnapping, drugging, physical restraints, toxic Oscar

A/N: Results are in and dark fic won! So here we have it, a dark vic and Oscars debut fic and thank you again for 100+ followers!!

You skin felt flushed, the sun beaming down on you as you stood in the paddock waiting for your best friend, Oscar, to finish his post race activities. You fanned yourself as you let out a long breath, your eyes drooping slightly.

“You alright?” An accented voice questioned from behind you as a hand landed on the small of your back. You turned your head to the side as Oscar moved to your side looking down at you with concern.

“Just a bit hot is all, but enough about me, you were amazing out there today Osc!” You looked at him with a bright smile that made his heart flutter.

“P6 isn’t amazing, could’ve been better but thank you love” The petnames from Oscar had become a norm in your friendship so you thought nothing of it but merely turned to hug Oscar in congratulations despite his words. As you hugged Oscar could feel the heat radiating off your body, feeling far hotter than you should be.

“Fuck Y/n, you’re really hot” Oscar exclaimed as he pulled away from you.

“Bold statement Oscar” You scoffed rolling your eyes to which Oscar recuperated instantly.

“You know what I mean, let me go get you some water” And away he went leaving you slightly off balanced as you waited. But it wasn’t for long as Oscar come rushing back with a glass of water. It was almost forced into your hands the moment Oscar was in front of you but as you held it you gently lifted it to your mouth, slowly allowing the cold liquid to cool your body. From the corner of your eye you could see an unfamiliar look clouding your friend’s eyes. Brushing it off as concern you finished the water off quickly not taking notice to its odd taste.

“How are you feeling now?” Oscar asked taking the glass back from you, placing the back of his hand on your forehead for a moment.

“I feel-“ You stumbled where you stood, grabbing Oscar’s shoulders to stabilise yourself. “I think I need to sit down” But before you could take a step towards a seat you had fallen completely into Oscar’s almost awaiting arms.

To any onlooker it would seem as if you had simply passed out from heat. There had been no malicious actions seen and from the feigned panic on Oscar’s face your fainting had been unforeseeable. But the smirk that adored Oscar’s face as he carried you to his car telling his team that he would take you to a hospital to get checked out told a completely different story.

-

You awoke with a groan, your head buzzing and vision blurry. You blinked your eyes trying to clear the blur but when you failed you went to rub your eyes instead. Your desired action was stopped very quickly though and you found yourself unable to move your arms.

“You’re awake” A familiar voice stated from somewhere near. You looked around frantically, squinting through blurry eyes to find where the voice came from, who the voice came from. A hand resting gently on your cheek made you jolt up from your laid back position.

“Oscar?” You questioned as your sight became clearer. “What’s going on?” Oscar simply shushed you as you learnt over to check where you wrists had tugged against the restraints.

“Are you here to help me?” You asked him quietly, thinking maybe there was someone behind the door of the room you were in. But Oscar simply laughed and shook his head.

“Oh love, I did help you, that’s why you’re here” Your head whipped to face Oscar to find him looking at you already, a smirk on his lips.

“What?” His hand once again found its way to your cheek.

“Don’t worry love, you’re going to be ok now, with me, forever” Years welled in your eyes as you felt your heart thump in your chest.

“No, no, no” you repeated in distress, tugging at the restraints once more, trying and failing to fight your way out of them.

“Shh, I’ve got you” Oscar attempted to calm you, wrapping his arms around your body causing you to thrash around now fearing his once comforting touch. Oscar’s grip only grew tighter though and a prick on the side of your neck made you stop suddenly.

“What did you just do? Oscar what is going on?” The panic was clear but fading as you quickly became more tired by the second.

“I’m going to take care of you Y/n, I love you, sleep well” And like it was timed perfectly as Oscar finished speaking your eyes shut and you were slipped into a deep sleep once more.

[receival]

warrior of darkness starters.

the following is a collection of sentence starters from shadowbringers, the third expansion of square enix's final fantasy 14. part 1.

sounds like tedious work. but not as tedious as waiting around, i suppose.

look how many people there are!

well, if it isn’t the hero of the hour.

stay with me. focus on my voice.

oh, do not look at me so.

we did everything right, everything that was asked of us, and still - still it came to this.

your time has not yet come.

something vague … yet urgent … calls me to action once more.

every face in this city i know. yours i do not.

pray forgive my less-than-cordial welcome.

come with me. i will answer whatever questions you have when we are somewhere more private.

do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused?

i can only beg your forgiveness - matters here forced my hand.

you don’t have that whiff of indolence about you like some folk i’ve met.

we can speak here without fear of being overheard.

what say you? have i earned your trust for the moment, at least?

are you there, my friend?

now, a full and frank discussion in the privacy of my study would seem to be in order …

i’m going to guess you’re new to our fair city?

i see you’re no stranger to honest labor.

should you find yourself confused by the local language or customs, i’ll be here to answer your questions.

i understand it was something of a chore, but ‘twas necessary that you grasp these things before we proceed.

… i am not familiar with that name. is there something i should know?

mayhap we can revisit that mystery another time.

considering the ... circumstances of our meeting, you would be forgiven for doubting my version of events.

i promise i will not rest until i have found a way to help you return home.

you came from beyond, didn’t you? you came from beyond the rift!

what a brave and reckless and marvelous thing you did.

after careful consideration, i have decided to grant you my assistance.

make a pact with me, and the fun can begin.

pray rest and recuperate, and we shall reconvene anon.

we are denied the comforting blanket of night, but may peaceful dreams attend you nonetheless.

i am a shade, cursed to do naught but drift.

this world is beyond saving - like those who try to save it.

do me a favor. be careful out there. this world has had its fill of heroes.

me? i was more worried about you.

i thought i’d lost you.

i may be a stranger to this world, but i will not stand idly by and let innocent people be slaughtered.

what say you, old friend? hungry for another adventure?

thank you again. you saved my life.

there’s naught to be had here but cobwebs and memories.

just look at it … can you imagine a more beautiful city?

disapprove ...? it frustrates me, certainly. that is only part of it, though. the whole situation makes me uneasy.

however unjust this system seems to me, if these people claim to be content with their lot, it is hardly my place to criticize their choices.

i am not so naive as to think there is some miraculous solution to all of this.

there has to be a better way.

'tis fortunate that you arrive when you did, (name).

… is there something i can do for you, friend?

someone must have been eavesdropping on our conversation.

no one here gives a damn about me.

i’m giving you a chance, nothing more. what comes of it is entirely up to you.

i do not regret my decision ... yet i will admit that a part of me wonders if it was for the best.

i thought for certain i was dead.

redemption is beyond us.

‘tis good to see you back. you were taking so long i began to worry something had happened.

what then is a man of mercy to do, but offer the sinner another way to show his contrition?

what in the blazes did you do? they have the entire city looking for you!

i am sorry, (name). there are more important matters to which i must attend.

pray press me no further. i am leaving.

the outrage i witnessed must not go unanswered.

thank you, my friend ... for staying at my side through this whole sordid endeavor.

… (name)? it feels like an age since i last saw you!

i had it under control!

i knew you’d turn up sooner or later, but i had been hoping for sooner.

they either perish … or are warped into mindless abominations.

that’s an exaggeration! and i don’t sound like that, either!

i’ve no doubts she deserves all the admiration she gets. just as you do.

what, and twiddle my thumbs while you work yourself to death?

sooner or later, every single one of them will turn.

i feel just as helpless as before. no matter how hard i fight, it's never enough.

you needn’t have gone through the trouble.

in a place like this, you learn to take what moments of happiness you can get.

it’s never easy, ending a life you’ve cared for.

without a body, we can’t even give her a proper burial.

you weren’t hurt at all, were you?

hurt? there wasn’t even a fight. i was too late. too slow …

you can’t blame yourself for things beyond your control.

forgive me, (name). i couldn’t stay there a moment longer.

(name)? you’ve gone pale …

… i’m fine. we should keep moving.

we were too slow to save them …

there are … things which we can ill afford to lose.

forgive me. i fear the events of the day may have taken their toll.

how quickly you have justified my faith in you.

would you be so kind as to conceal your involvement in this endeavor for the time being?

i expect to be told the whole truth of it one day.

please. i wish to be left alone for awhile.

i promise to find you later, when i feel myself again.

sleep well, (name). i hope untroubled dreams find you.

these are my "private" quarters …

it’s when you charge ahead trying to save someone else that you end up losing those you love.

not that you need telling. i’ll bet you've lost plenty. but i wonder ... what will it cost you this time?

i don't remember when it was that i learned regret wasn’t worth the bother.

you get numb to it all over the years. the lost comrades, the broken promises, the abandoned principles - just more nagging burdens to ignore.

stay your weapon. i am not your enemy.

they tracked me down, and conscripted me to their cause.

i have more questions, but now is not the time.

you are come at a good time. as you may have heard, we have something of a quandary on our hands.

‘twas inevitable they would come knocking. the only question was how soon.

the world is dead, and writhe as we might, like maggots in its rotting corse, it will not be reborn.

i waste my breath. you have made your stance clear.

am i imagining things, or did he just stare straight at us?

while i am grateful for your support, my lord - i cannot in good conscience put your people in harm’s way.

there is, however, much to say, and precious little time in which to say it.

might i trouble you for a word, (name)? outside?

(name)! what brings you here?

i do not wish to show our hand unless absolutely necessary.

so long as hope burns in our hearts, we will fight on regardless.

there may come a day when all hope seems lost. but even should the rest of the world give in to despair - we shall not.

trust you to spoil the moment!

yes? what do you require of me?

there you are, (name)! mayhap you could lend me a hand!

you certainly took your time.

let’s rejoin the others and quit this place.

all this trouble because of me … i’m so sorry …

save your apologies until after we’ve escaped.

it’s quiet. too quiet.

you will regret coming here.

it is for your own protection.

you are made of sterner stuff than the rest. but will it be enough?

as if i didn’t have enough on my hands already …

mayhap there is another way. one which does not require bloodshed.

we should be safe enough here.

it’s good to see you again, my friend. i don't know about you, but it feels like years since last we met.

this is not the sort of place one visits on a whim.

you really have outdone yourself this time.

i’m sorry. thank you for saving me.

why can’t i remember?

we are now, i am sorry to say, entirely at their mercy.

[fsnotes]

“If I skated for the sake of winning, I would do it differently”

On December 29th a morning radio programme Dome Square on Latvijas Radio 4 broadcasted an interview with Deniss (in Russian). They discussed figure skating in Latvia, plans for the future, ways to deal with tiredness and avoiding the burnout, and of course dived into personal and sports philosophy. There are also some New Year wishes to the listeners!

Full recording available here.

Translation into English below the cut.

In December Deniss Vasiljevs became a seven-time champion of Latvia. ‘If I skated for the sake of winning, I would do it differently’, says the athlete about his performances in an interview with my colleague Natalya Meshcheriakova for “Dome Square”. The talented athlete spoke about his rules of life, summarised the results of the past year, set goals for the future, and also shared how he prefers to recuperate.

DV: I really enjoy coming back to Latvia. When I see all the younger generations, it makes me very happy, and in its own way it motivates me to keep skating and to keep, in fact, skating for them too. And to come to Latvia… There are not so many competitions in December, and to skate at your home ice rink, to do a full competition and try new elements is always very, very nice and very important for figure skating in the country. And I have always been motivated to do something useful for society (Deniss used the English word here, then translated himself). So it is a great pleasure for me to be here.

NM: The languages are getting confused, aren't they? What's that about, is it because you spend most time outside of Latvia?

DV: I speak English practically all the time; also French, and I learnt Latvian, and I speak mostly Russian with my parents, so I have a little bit much [of the languages]. Even German manages to get in. Anyway, I'm still readjusting. I need a couple of days to fully come back and think in the language I speak.

NM: But you are in Latvia for a smaller part of the time. If you take a year, how much time do you spend here?

DV: This year, so far, I have only spent two days in Latvia.

NM: And where are you mostly based then?

DV: Now I'm in Switzerland, in Champéry, but I'm travelling a lot because of figure skating competitions, basically flying around the world. I've flown round the planet at least three times this year.

NM: Three times... Yes, I understand that there are competitions, there is a goal, motivation, but how do you fight fatigue? It probably requires a huge amount of, well, physical strength, and some special approach. How do you avoid the burn out?

DV: We have two opportunities to rest during a season; sometimes three. There are Christmas holidays, or New Year's Eve. These are very social ones. Then in the end of the season — somewhere in May — we get a real vacation, but usually it isn't longer than two weeks. And there's one just before the start of the season, two or three days, because the heavy summer preparation ends and seasonal work begins.

In a way, you get used to it. It's indeed very difficult when you can't sleep, when you have time zone changes all the time. Say, this year: I got a Grand Prix event in the US and another one in China. I went to China to compete for a week, came back for a week; went to America for a week, came back for a week to go somewhere else to compete again; spent a week again, and came back to China for a week; then came back to train for a week, and the next week I had to be [in Riga]. All this travelling, ice sessions, flying and training, it's hard enough. When it's not your first year like this, you adapt in your own way, but it's always very hard on the body. Just like now, when we're halfway through the season and you feel like you're already kind of a squeezed lemon.

NM: And how do you regain your strength? What helps you? What gives you that full-fledged rest, when you have it, yes, you said, in May, in December?

DV: Mostly I barricade myself in my room (laughs). Nothing but sleeping helps. So, my version of rest is mostly finding a quiet place and sleeping. Yet music is mostly used for work. I tend to relax, maybe, listening to classical music in the evening, or jazz, but…

NM: Probably with classical music you already imagine, like, how you would skate to this tune. It's a professional deformation already.

DV: Yeah, yeah, that's exactly what it is. At one point, especially a couple of years ago, everything I did was about figure skating. Completely. Listening to music, watching ballet, doesn't matter no matter. I was watching the body movements and imagining how it's all going to look like, which is a little bit…. It makes you go crazy. To me, studying helped a lot.

NM: What do you mean exactly?

DV: I completed my Masters this year. It really helped me to... get out of figure skating? To just study and then come back to train and work.

NM: Where did you study, and how?

DV: In Latvia, at Daugavpils Universitāte. I got a lot of help with timing there, so I was able to study relatively freely in general. It helped a lot to not go crazy with sports. But in general everyone survives in their own way. My option is to always be interested in what's going on around me; learning something, trying to do something. Drawing.

NM: In the context of the year, how do you evaluate yourself? We know about your achievements, successes. Were these the goals you set for yourself?

DV: I've been skating for quite a few years now, and I have my own opinion of the system which is perhaps different from how many people understand it. So I chose my aspiration a long time ago: to try to compete with myself only. If I skated to win, I would do it differently. I skate because I enjoy it and because I'm as supportive as my coach is of being... a little old school. It's all about charisma, beauty, performance. Sport is a culture in its own way, rather than just athletics on ice. That's why the attitude is different in many ways: how we create the program, how we do everything. We stick to certain foundations, you could say, a certain quality, and we are very proud that we do it with virtue (Deniss used the English word again, translating himself right after).

NM: Seems like this approach is justified. Your awards prove it's the right bet.

DV: Sport is so much more than any award. Sport is a way of life, it's a... path of excellence (the English phrase in original). You have to do it the right way. You have to be honest, you have to really live according to those views; they are not for the sake of results, they are much more than that. And they create a better society. You support society through actually living with these... I don't know, values (the English word again). It's a way of living, and in its own way it requires you to be a leader of your own self.

NM: Does your coach help you with that, or are you just that kind of person on your own?

DV: It's certainly cultivated at first. It's how we teach the kids. Current figure skating is too much like... you take a board, sand it down and make it into a stool ("taburetka" in original). That's not how sport was intended to be. Sport is when you plant a seed and you keep watering it, create sunny conditions, and it grows. That's why you create a greenhouse — so that the seed grows better.

The idea is that you develop yourself. You can be clumsy, you can be gawky, but you do it yourself. You create your own character from the way you understand and explore the world. It's not that you've been grown and made, it's that you've grown yourself. And the help was in telling you: there's a jungle over there, go cut through it. Not just telling you that there is a road over there, take it and follow it, and let everyone rush and stand in traffic. That's why sport is self-exploration, a kind of self-awareness. Freedom to develop yourself. A never-ending road. So being an athlete is more than just doing your sport. And to be a good athlete, you have to develop yourself in so many ways. Figure skating is one of the best options, because you have not only athletics, but also choreography, dancing, theatre art. You need to bring a whole idea of a program to life... And don't get me started on costumes!

NM: But not everyone can probably take it. Too many things at once.

DV: It takes a lot of discipline, which you choose yourself very early on. Someone has to give you a push, but the choice is your own. A lot of kids probably can't make their own choice: you have to know what discipline is, and then you also have to know what you want. I don't even know how to do it right, but so many get off the tracks right at this point.

So I've seen what, four shifts already? I've been to two Olympics. It's been eight... nine years in seniors, and that's quite a long road. But there's no perfect way; you find your own. I don't aim to rack up maximum points or run the maximum time or do the perfect technique. I look at it more generally [broader]. I must be magnetic in my own way; express the idea of striving for perfection, and honour the fact that one can't achieve perfection.

But you should always strive to do your best in whatever you do; it doesn't matter if it's sports, studies, whatever. You've got to build character. And it will epitomise what you do later on. In sports, on the ice, off the ice, everywhere.

NM: Based on that, what are your plans for next year? Are you setting any goals?

DV: For now, I'm just aiming to... Every day it's pretty hard for me to keep myself in control, especially when I'm tired, and I just want to qualify for the Olympics and give my best. I have plans that I don't want to announce yet because they still, well, need to be done, and there's definitely science (the English word followed by self-translation), scientific evidence as to why it shouldn't be done. At least I really want to qualify and go to the Olympics for the third time. To really showcase the Latvian culture of sport!

Sport is much more than what we see on the ice during the four minutes of skating. It is, after all, the way training happens; the way we live; in general, everything we do epitomises a whole different world. In its own way. One illustration would be, for example, if you make coffee, you work on it so intensely that it ends up being some of the best coffee you'll ever drink. A lot of people probably don't question how you can make it better, better, better, better. But if you watch athletes who do strive for something greater, they usually can't separate an ordinary commitment from the sports one. Such aspiration for perfectionism is the lot of athletes.

NM: And your wishes, for the people of Latvia, for the listeners? The next year is about to come...

DV: It is possible to start life every day. Basically... this will probably sound silly, but one of the philosophies is that when you live, you need to die every morning. Every day is the last day. That's the only way you can make the most of it.

I guess my wishes are these: move and aspire every day. Aspire to do a little bit better, and to do a little bit easier, because easier is better! Aspire to live in motion; direct life towards something.

[marigold-hills]

The Black Wizard (Part 5)

a Wolfstar Howl’ Moving Castle AU

PART ONE | PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART

It could be complacency. Could be hope. Could be sheer idiocity, but Remus decides to stay another night.

The Wizard can’t take his heart if the Wizard isn’t there, he reasons. His bad hip is rather sore after walking across the Waste. He could use another day to recuperate.

The discovery of the Castle’s multiple locations gives him an idea. It’s not fully formed yet, nothing beyond what he already did in Hogsmead, but hiding in the crowds of the Capital should give him better opportunities than the town ever did.

The heavy, non-ceasing rain cements the decision.

So he eats his sandwich. (It’s wonderful - soft crusty bread and sweet honeyed ham). Chats with James, warming his achy bones by the heat of the fire. Spends the evening watching the dual views as they shift from day to dusk to night, how different it looks in the unyielding darkness of the Waste and the glittery streetlights of the Capital.

In the morning, there’s another sandwich and a different cake and the rain still pouring. “He’s out again,” James says, something like a roll of eyes in the shifting burning wood. “Must be some spell.”

And Remus… he should know better. He thought that he did know better. But there are books everywhere and he’s quite enjoying James’ strange presence, and there’s another pot of tea waiting for him, ready to drink with the perfect temperature.

So he stays. And stays. And he stays. 

Three days later, he’s having lunch of pie and mash, James telling him a silly story about how all of the Castle’s mug got broken, when the door handle twists once, twice, and in comes Sirius.

Remus almost forgot. Just how beautiful the Wizard is, how strangely commanding his presence, how full of flourish each movement. He freezes where he sits, body poised half to flee and half to fight, but instead of ripping Remus’ heart clean out of his chest, Sirius smiles.

Hands on hips. Hair a disarray of curls, like he’d been running through the wind. For a moment Remus thinks he sees a shadow of something strangely like fur down along Sirius’ hairline but it’s gone before he can figure it out.

Sirius walks like each step makes magic happen. Remus feels the crack king of it down his fingertips.

“Is there any left?” He gestures to Remus’ pie and sits himself at a less cluttered part of the table.

There is no voice for Remus to use. It had disappeared somewhere between Sirius’ appearance and their knees brushing as the Wizards sat down. He points to the kitchen counter where he left the rest of the food.

“Ta, love,” Sirius says and twists his hand in a strange, pointed way. The pie and the board it sits on spring into the air and levitate carefully across the room, followed along by bobbing cutlery.

Remus can’t help it, he snickers to himself at the view the food makes, at the sheer laziness Sirius is displaying, at the absurd stress of knowing he’s about to eat lunch with someone who could be Remus’ biggest threat. A strange approximation of the family dinners he used to have with his parents and with nobody else since.

NEXT PART

@tealeavesandtrash

@hoje--aqui

@cocoabutterandbooks

@onion-sliced-apples

@prancingpony42

@digital-kam

@remoonysiriusly

@sweetstarryskies

@a-sunset-outside-my-window

@procrastinatingstuff

@annaliza999

@wannabelilybriscoe

@quiethauntings

@veganbutterchicken

@moon-girl88

[whiskeyjuniper]

Happy Birthday @shallowseeker!! Have a snippet from me an' @handsliketruth !!!🎉🥳🎁

After hours, the bunker’s quiet takes on a life of its own.

The faint gurgle and rasp of the pipes in the walls, the enclosed ecosystem’s precision-calculated settings switching on and off, air hushing whispers through the vents— and the loudest sound, Castiel’s own footsteps, echoing as he walks the empty halls.

At nearly two am, Castiel has completed every task he thinks useful; he sets his path to the guest room, intent on retiring until morning before he hears another set of footsteps, just mismatched under his own. He stills to listen, but he already knows whose tread it is.

Dean.

He can feel the flash-fire of synapses that recognition inspires in his vessel, electric impulses easily translating his internal pleasure at Dean’s presence to external expression, smile lifting his lips— another minute, everyday wonder wrought from animated meat and bone.

“It’s late,” Castiel says in greeting.

“Can’t sleep,” Dean rasps. “Watch something with me.”

Dean’s unusually flushed, glassy around the edges. Castiel resists the urge to touch him, take his temperature, resolve his symptoms - Dean rarely appreciates the instinct. Perhaps Dean’s coming down with something. Their last hunt was long. More arduous than most. Coupled with Dean’s complete resistance to both the idea that his limits may not be what they once were as well as being advised to do anything he doesn’t want to do— well.

Rest and recuperation may be the better course of action, but Castiel merely inclines his head and lets Dean lead them down the winding halls, into his so-called ‘man cave’.

Of all the rooms in the bunker, Castiel’s spent the most time here. He doesn’t mind; often, it seems like the only place Dean allows himself to fully relax. Castiel prefers him like that. Lax-limbed, soft-faced. Restful. 

Castiel takes a seat in his designated recliner, watching as Dean sinks bonelessly into his. There is nothing restful to him, not tonight. Castiel only hopes the movie might help. The quiet company. Perhaps it’s arrogant, but Castiel likes to think that his company soothes the man in a way others do not.

Dean must be feeling unwell, however; usually he would already be talking, anything that crossed his mind crossing his mouth in tandem. The small hours with Castiel, here, in his own space, were filled with whatever Dean was thinking — what he’d dreamt of while he slept, what he wanted to watch now or plan for tomorrow— or, what Castiel would expect in moments such as these, complaining about how ill or aching or sour he felt.

Instead, more concerningly in Castiel’s view, Dean’s oddly quiet. He flips channels without a blink of interest, jabbing the remote as if offended by it personally.

Castiel studies him.

“...What’s on your mind, Dean?”

The remote clicks, television going mute as Dean’s head swivels toward him suddenly, body following after to give Castiel his full attention. He lets the remote fall somewhere in the recliner. His look is unblinking, intent; he wets his lips, that old habit, but it doesn’t seem nervous. His jaw works tight in a way it shouldn’t, not here, not this late. Not with just the two of them.

(Castiel is familiar with Dean’s tension. Dean’s anger. It’s reactive, bullish at times, and burns unsustainably hot— but it’s not mysterious. Not after so many years.)

“You really wanna know?” Dean says, clipped— and of course Castiel does.

Dean leans over the arm of his recliner, taking Castiel’s hand in his own. He’s warmer than he should be. Fever, Castiel thinks. It helps slot Dean’s strange behavior into a place Castiel can receive. Downgrades the alarm bells to concern.

Because in more than a decade at his side, Dean has never simply— held Castiel’s hand. 

Castiel remains very, very still.

After a moment, Dean lets go, letting Castiel’s hand fall back to the armrest. He hums. Discordant. Slides out of his chair— quicker than Castiel expects— to stand right in front of Castiel. His head bows a notch; Castiel can feel him looking him over. Intuition rings strange! in Castiel’s skull. Rings get up, rings regain ground— but not before Dean surges forward.

Castiel freezes as Dean’s leg slides over his thighs, settling him onto Castiel’s lap.

Dean’s warm. And fever, that’s one thing, but they’ve never been like this, pressed knee to temple in all the (right) wrong places as Dean slings his arms around Castiel’s shoulder, the line of Dean’s soft-stubbled jaw scraping Castiel’s as Castiel pulls back and this—

Castiel’s heart swans up in his throat and sticks. 

He clears it with care.

“Dean…?”

Castiel doesn’t smell liquor on him; nothing but sleep-rumpled sweat. This close, he would— he should sense, if there were anything… other. Magic, curses, witchery, demonic sulfur, the tarnished-silver tang of grace— but still…

“Shh,” Dean murmurs. His hands slide up. He cups Castiel’s face. For a long moment, Dean simply studies him as Castiel does the same.

There’s something darting to Dean’s bright green eyes, too white around the edges, too intent. And Dean’s no open book— on occasion he may as well be a closed book, in a language even Castiel can’t read— but this isn’t inscrutable, or hidden.

It’s wrong.

Castiel lifts his hands, gripping Dean’s wrists. They’re nearly nose to nose; Castiel finds his breath catching short in his lungs. His heart rabbits uselessly.

“You should hold me,” Dean declares suddenly. He hums, finally breaking that electric stare to nestle his forehead against Castiel’s shoulder. His breath drips down the junction of Castiel’s neck. His hand curls into Castiel’s hair. “Don’t you want to hold me? I want to be held.”

Castiel tries to lean away but only encounters the back of the recliner, thoroughly pinned by Dean’s solid weight. (And that’s a dream Castiel put away years ago— but that isn’t what’s wrong about this. )

“Dean,” Castiel says, unease a sharp pit in his stomach. Dean’s blunt nails curl, tenderly, against his scalp. Goosebumps spill down Castiel’s arms. “Tell me what’s wrong,” Castiel breathes.

Dean’s hand drops with a grimace. He takes Castiel’s hand instead, gently, thumb petting slowly over each knuckle; the feather-delicate touch blooms indelibly in Castiel’s subconscious.

“Who says anything’s wrong,” Dean rasps,  “What’s gotta be wrong, just— shh, shh, just… shut up, Castiel, shut it, all right? We’re… this is what you’d want, isn’t it?”

And Dean must be aware of Castiel’s feelings by now, not that they talk about it— but Castiel stopped listening when Castiel left Dean’s lips, so unlike him it’s jarring. Heat itches up Castiel’s neck anyway, breath skipping a beat and stiff as a snapped board under Dean’s weight.

“Oh, did I hit a nerve? A delicate, shameful little nerve?” There’s a harsh slide to Dean’s voice that doesn’t ring right— but it does ring familiar. 

Castiel can work with that. All he has to do is place it, and he’ll know where to start— but it’s hard to see past Dean’s body, and even harder to see past Dean smiling down at him, Dean lifting Castiel’s hand to his mouth to lick—

“You aren’t Dean,” Castiel states abruptly, as if telling them both. No reason to mince words; the imposter had already slithered under both the bunker and Castiel’s defenses. If their intent was to kill him, Castiel would be dead. “What do you want with me?”

“That’s the question isn’t it, Castiel? Roll around with that one for a bit.” They give up the last of the Dean charade, thankfully, expression twisting sharply in a way Castiel doesn’t recognize, wild-eyed gaze flicking over Castiel’s face. 

Dean’s fingertips slide oh so delicately along Castiel’s cheekbones before his hands come together quickly, cupping to press down over Castiel’s mouth— but only for a darting moment, too quick, too light to stay anywhere for long: caressing the line of Castiel’s jaw, his lower lip. Every frantic, flitting touch carelessly unearths another long-buried spark Castiel would rather leave undisturbed.

Castiel’s grip tightens sharply on Dean’s wrists as those fingers trace his mouth, the corners and curves of his lips— and simply slip inside. For a split second, Castiel can taste every intimate detail, every whorl of Dean’s fingertips imprinting brief and fiery on the flat of Castiel’s tongue; one finger first, then two. Three. Dean breathes out, so softly, as he sinks in.

Castiel bites down.

If it’s still Dean’s body, he can take it. And if it isn’t— 

But there’s no bright retort of coppery mortal blood bursting under his teeth. It’s— slimier. Tasteless, somehow. Primordial.

And that, Castiel recognizes immediately. He shoves at its chest, but the Empty is as immovable as stone. 

It drags Dean’s torn fingers free with a hum. Black oil seeps from Dean’s smile. Teeth-marked skin rubs against Castiel’s cheeks, wet, soaking into his pores.

Of course Castiel couldn’t sense it. You can’t read absence.

“What do you want? How?”

The bunker has no warding to activate— no artifacts in reach, nothing to weaponize, not that they had anything on the primordial scale. He can’t kill the Empty. He can’t even hurt it. However— since it hasn’t killed Castiel yet, there has to be something it wants. All Castiel has to do is divine it, whatever it wanted so much it would abandon that dark, vast, silent place. What brought it here (as Dean, Castiel’s mind adds in, a streak of fury flaring).

Dean’s smile lifts like Dean’s, but it’s not his: lips stretched a fraction too wide, lopsided. Its touch still skitters over Castiel’s face, over his skin, like it doesn’t want to fully break contact for even a second.

 “You,” the Empty says. That smile craters.

This close, Dean’s pupils are ink-black and pooling darker every second Castiel looks. When it leans closer abruptly Dean’s right pupil sloshes, like thick black oil hitting the side of wavepool. Castiel struggles not to jolt.

“Earth,” It continues, as if it never faltered. “Too bright, too crowded, too loud. But your want? Is louder. It is impossibly. Loud. All the veils between here and my there, and wouldn’t you know it, it pierces— right— through.” Dean’s rough midnight drawl notches tighter with every syllable, closer and closer until Dean’s forehead presses right up to Castiel’s hard enough to hurt. “What I want,” Dean’s nose grinds against his, “is for you to shut. up. all that want. That’s it,” Dean’s mouth rasps against Castiel’s, “just shut it up,” as it pushes and presses into a wet, slippery kiss. Oil drips down Castiel’s chin— but what catches him, for a fractional second, is the briefest taste of Dean, under all that slick nothing coating Castiel’s tongue. 

The revulsion takes a second to stutter through him.

Castiel breaks the kiss with a useless shove. He spits aside. Black stains the rug Dean dragged home from a hunt, one that he calls ugly and openly prizes. The oily substance is composed between interdimensional wavelengths, though, so the stain should disappear with the Empty.

Hopefully.

“So,” the Empty says brightly above him, mocking, voice suddenly all Dean as it lifts his head up a bare few inches. “Hold me, won’t you?”

Humiliated heat skims up Castiel’s back like ragged nails, hitching on every dip.

“That can’t be the only reason for this,” Castiel grits out.

“Oh, but it is. You see, I can’t sleep. I only hear— you. And all the things you won’t stop screaming about. Inside, outside with every simpering here let me and I’ll help, always coming when he calls—but mostly inside, inside, inside, ” He tap-tap-taps Castiel’s forehead in time with an irritated grimace. “So I’ll give you what you want. Right here. Right now.”

“You’re mistaken,” Castiel replies, carefully. The Empty doesn’t blink.

“I’ve been in your head, Castiel. Rifled all your drawers. Turned out all your deepest pockets. I know what you ache for.”

Castiel glances quickly to the door– closed. Sam’s asleep at this hour, and not even aware of this space. (Dean’s insistent on telling him when he’s got it just right, his and Castiel’s considerable hours in it what Dean just shrugs off as calibration, man instead of strangely reluctant to share even though it’s an urge Castiel can entirely understand.) Dean is either right here, or out of reach. No one is coming. 

And no one’s here to hear what Castiel says aloud next.

 He squares his jaw, focusing back on the Empty. Jet black pupils eat steadily away at familiar gold-flecked green.

“Then you should know,” Castiel says, careful note firming as he goes. “I have no want for some cheap facsimile. You’re not Dean. At most, you’re a handsome mask.” Castiel smiles slowly. “You aren’t capable of quieting an ounce of my wants.”

The soft line of the Empty’s mouth curdles. 

Its hands (Dean’s calluses) slide down to catch in Castiel’s tie. Loosen it. The buttons of Castiel’s shirt stump its fingers for a second, mouth pursing as if the annoyance of undoing a button was a previously impossible thought— but when one comes free, its stolen expression shifts to something close to fascination (Dean’s eyes, widening, lashes fluttering). Something shivers down Dean’s face, lips twitching up into a faint, parted smile; it presses just the tip of Dean’s finger, lightly, against the naked hollow of Castiel’s throat.

“Hm,” it murmurs, faintly.

Castiel studies him narrowly.

“My question is,” he says carefully. Presses a metaphorical thumb right into this strange softness, “why do you want this?”

Dean’s faint smile goes up in smoke, immediately replaced by a tight annoyance.

“I didn’t say that. This is yours. All I want is my sleep,” it snaps.

Castiel straightens up incrementally. Dean’s body doesn’t twitch back an inch. Castiel doesn’t know exactly what he’s prying away at yet, but it’s the only crack in this blank mile-high wall. He drives forward.

“You're here. Amenable to… mortal inclinations. That’s unusual, isn’t it? For you?” He pushes it further, testing, “One might think you wanted more than simple slumber.”

The Empty scoffs a short, sharp no, shaking its head. Dean’s hand closes around Castiel’s throat, weight leaning heavily against him as Dean’s body leans in close. Their noses bump. “I—” It pauses, mouth twitching as if searching for the right words. Castiel wonders if that’s difficult for the entity; analyzing its own consciousness, awake for so long— even leaving its nest, filtering itself down into such a compact vessel. Castiel knows how it feels; how that level of compression can bloom into something so small and singular. Physical. Individual.

“I shouldn’t have left my bed,” It says shortly, then shakes its head. “No. That’s not it. I regret allowing— no, that’s not it, that’s not it either,” it pins Castiel with a dark, intent look. “You,” it enunciates the word so sharply Castiel should be bleeding, “shouldn’t have left. My silence isn’t silent. It isn’t right, it’s stained through— infected with all your, your shrill little wants, all the time, your wants! You broke it and left me— you belong to me. You belong there,” it hisses.

“Not yet,” Castiel says shortly.

“Not yet?” It reels back slightly, “Not yet is too long. How am I supposed to sleep?”

The disorientating perception shift, the devastation of first awakening desire— Castiel is familiar. He doesn’t tell the Empty that, though.

He lifts a hand, placing it solidly on the Empty’s jaw (Dean’s stubble against his palm) and the Empty— stops. Stills, eyes endless and seeping pools on Castiel’s.

“You’re an immortal being—” Castiel starts.

“Immortality is for beings that time can touch,” it snaps.

“Then the rest of my time on Earth won’t matter to you,” Castiel retorts sharply. “You will wait.”

Its expression screws up, suddenly. “I can’t.” The plaintive tone has nothing Dean in it, but it still tries to soften something in Castiel. He refuses. 

“You’ll have to,” Castiel says shortly. He strokes a thumb over the too perfect facsimile of Dean’s jaw, just once. The Empty exhales, Dean’s eyes fluttering shut. “You cast me out. It’s not your place to take me back. You’re nothing. And that,” Castiel tells him “is all that I want from you.”

Its stare hardens, face twisting into something ugly, a cold and spreading meanness that has no business on Dean’s face. He lurches closer, towering, blocking out the flashing television light. 

And then its body (Dean’s body) collapses in on itself, shriveling into liquid black. It washes over Castiel like a sharp wet shiver until, suddenly, Castiel is alone. 

Castiel releases his deathgrip on the armrests, and finally exhales.

______

Castiel finds Dean in his bed: still and asleep, with no room for nothing in his ribs. 

He makes no sound to wake him, and only flees when Dean begins to stir.

______

Castiel doesn’t see the Empty again, not for a very long time. 

Not until Jack’s death— until that moment in Kelly’s soft-lit heaven, when Dumah turns that bright, manic stare on him. Dean’s prayer is warm in Castiel’s head, nesting around his spine, as unmistakable as the ache it summons up in Castiel’s chest.

He can’t let the Empty take Jack. Dean’s depending on him to bring Jack home. Castiel refuses to fail either of them.

The Empty can’t be fought, not one on one, not by him. He tries anyway. 

But there’s a moment: Dumah’s thumb, sliding down the bolt of Castiel’s jaw; he can hear its breath catch in her throat. 

Castiel had thought long and hard, after that night in the bunker.

He knows the feeling of wanting something you don’t know how to have. Humanity brings them all to their knees. Even cosmic entities can’t seem to escape that pull.

And Castiel can work with that.

He breathes out, and looks the Empty in Dumah’s dark, dark eyes. All he feels is calm.

“Take me, in his stead,” he says, simply. “Take me.”

[wittyvitale]

Everlasting Love and Protection (A Fluffy Castlevania Nocturne Fanfic)

Summary: After a difficult labor, Annette is on strict bedrest until she recovers. Richter dotes over Annette and their new daughter, wanting to his best by them. During a quiet moment, Richter and Annette talk about their family histories and agree on what is most important for their daughter’s future. Pure fluff-filled Richette fic with a lot of gentleness and cuddles

Author's Note: I've been writing fanfics for many years. I've always loved writing about babies and imagining how my favorite characters would fare as parents. So of course I wanted to try this with Richter and Annette.

I also did research as I was writing this. I wanted to ensure that Annette and her culture were treated with the care and respect they deserve. I hope you enjoy this soft fluffy fic.

CW for Postpartum Recovery

***

Annette was sitting up in bed, covered by several blankets. Only 5 days had passed since the birth of her first child. The labor was difficult, lasting a little over 48 hours. In order to ensure a full recovery, Cécile and the midwife had placed Annette on strict bedrest. Annette felt both exhausted and restless, but she knew that it was vital for both her body and soul to recuperate. She trusted the family around her to take care of her and the baby. Cécile and the midwife drew Annette sitz baths and made her tea every day.

And Richter… Annette’s beloved Richter. He had taken over most childcare duties since Annette had been placed on bedrest, only giving her the baby when it was time to feed. Richter was trying to do his best by his “goddess of a wife” and “beautiful little princess” as he affectionately called them. Annette closed her eyes and smiled as she thought about them, her Belmont and her new daughter.

Richter entered the room at that moment, holding the baby tightly against his chest.

“She finally pooped!” Richter announced in a singsong voice, a big grin on his face. Annette looked at his proud expression and snorted.

“You seem more pleased about that than she does.” Annette teased, eyes moving to the bundle Richter was holding. The baby yawned and blinked.

“Well, it’s been a few hours! I was getting worried,” Richter said playfully as he tapped the baby’s nose with his index finger. “I need to make sure our little Ileara is comfortable.”

Ileara Belmont. That was what Annette and Richter had decided to name their child. As soon as Ileara was born, she cried fiercely, announcing to the whole world that she had arrived. Richter commented that she had a healthy pair of lungs, and Annette remembered an ancestor by the name of Ileara. “The healthy child.” Annette thought the name suited her little girl.

Annette smiled softly as she looked at her husband and daughter. Richter was staring at Ileara with absolute adoration, completely mesmerized.

“Can I hold her?” Annette requested, holding her arms out. Richter looked up and suddenly remembered where he was.

“Oh! Yeah! Of course you can! I mean she’s your baby too after all. Maybe moreso yours than mine. Definitely moreso yours than mine. You carried her inside of you for 9 months. I couldn’t have done that. I mean I would have if it were possible, in order to help you out. I wonder if there’s a spell somewhere that could make me-“

“Richter.” Annette interrupted as she held her arms out even further. Richter looked sheepish.

“Right, sorry!” Richter carefully placed the little girl in her mother’s arms. Annette laid Ileara against her chest and gently rested her chin on the baby’s head.

“Hello, ti cheri,” Annette crooned. “Did you bond with your papa today?”

Richter walked to the other side of the bed and examined the blankets covering Annette. “Are you warm enough? Cécile and the midwife said it was really important for you and the baby to stay warm.”

Annette chuckled softly. Richter had constantly asked after her comfort since Ileara was born, very much like a mother hen. Annette found it endearing. “Yes, I’m warm. But I wouldn’t mind if a certain Belmont joined us in bed and made us warmer with his magic.”

Richter was only too happy to oblige. He crawled into bed next to Annette and wrapped his strong muscled arms around her in a tight embrace. Annette melted into his touch and hummed. Richter’s eyes went to his daughter once again. The baby had inherited her mother’s deep brown skin and her father’s big blue eyes.

“She’s amazing, Annette,” Richter said in awe. “She’s only 5 days old but she’s just so… amazing. I’ve never felt a love like this before.”

“Neither have I,” Annette agreed, also admiring her baby. “My sweet baby Ileara. This must be the love my mother felt when I was first born.”

“Mine too.” Richter replied, tightening his hug around Annette. He suddenly looked away, feeling a little downtrodden. Annette felt the shift in energy and turned to him.

“What is it?” she asked with concern.

Richter thought about his next words carefully. “It’s just… I don’t want Ileara to feel pressured. Being a Belmont is a heavy weight to bear. My entire life, I always felt like I had to prove myself worthy enough to carry the Belmont name. I want Ileara to be connected to her family history, but I don’t want her to feel like she needs to be something she isn’t. I want her to be herself. I just want her to be happy.”

Annette nodded, understanding completely. “I’ve thought about that too. I’m literally descended from gods. My ancestry is filled with healers and warriors, priestesses and spellcasters. So many amazing people came before Ileara, but it is a lot.”

“So much history in such a little girl…” Richter said thoughtfully.

“But Ileara won’t feel pressured because we won’t pressure her,” Annette said resolutely. “We will teach her about her ancestors. We’ll tell her everything she needs to know about their strengths and hardships, their successes and missteps. She will carry those who came before her in her heart, but first and foremost, she will be her own wonderful self. And we can guide her on that journey. Together.”

Annette looked down at Ileara and saw that she had fallen fast asleep. Annette could feel the baby’s slow and even breaths against her chest.

“Our ancestors are watching over her, always watching over her,” Annette continued as she stroked the baby’s head. “No matter what she decides to do with the gift of life, Ileara will always have the love and protection of her ancestors. And she’ll have ours too. That’s why I’m not too worried.”

Richter considered Annette’s words seriously. He eventually nodded and pressed a soft kiss to Annette’s temple. “How did I ever find a woman as brilliant as you?”

“You got lucky.” Annette answered with a sly smile. Richter laughed lightly as Annette yawned.

“Sleep,” Richter said softly, tightening his hug once again. “I know how tired you are. You and Ileara get some rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Annette already felt her eyes closing. She hugged Ileara closer and rested her head against Richter’s chest. Knowing that Richter would keep his word, she slipped into a deep, peaceful slumber.

Richter continued to stare at his wife and daughter, nothing but pure love reflected in his eyes. Annette was right; Richter was the luckiest man in the world.

“Sleep well, my loves.”