#tiny bit angsty

[trash-inu]

something something angsty/gentle moicy doodling ❤

[multicolour-ink]

🤒 with Mario being sick and Luigi taking care of him?

🤒 Needing to be looked after

writing prompts

- - -

"C'mon", Luigi chuckled. "Drink it."

Mario groaned and sank lower under the covers.

It wasn't often that Mario got ill. Hardly ever. But when he did...well it was certainly an event.

"You know that you gotta get better, otherwise you can't be a hero.", Luigi coaxed.

The younger plumber sat on the edge of the bed. His fingers gently rubbed Mario's head crown, trying to ease the older plumber out from the cocoon that was currently his bed covers. His other hand held a bottle of bitter-smelling medicine.

"Heroes", Mario groaned, "Can fight through anything."

Luigi raised an eyebrow.

"Heroes often need someone to help them."

He was smirking as he said this. But he didn't miss the look in Mario's eyes as he peeked out from the covers. It was watery and a little desperate.

"Don't leave me."

"Besides", said Luigi. "I guess I could ask Peach to come over and help you take this."

That made Mario sit up at once. With a sudden burst of energy, he untangled himself from the cocoon and grabbed the medicine, chugging it down in a tremendous gulp.

"Yeah...", thought Luigi. "You're gonna be fine..."

[voylitscope]

CA: TWS 10th Anniversary Ficlets (Day 5)

Daily ficlets for the CA: TWS 10th Anniversary Event @catws-anniversary. With Huge thanks to @sparkagrace and @cable-knit-sweater for running this wonderful event! 💞

Five | March 30th | Theme: TWS Cast | Prompt: Stunts | Words: 350 | Mature | No Warnings | RPF, Chris Evan/Sebastian Stan, very light/implied sexual content (but throwing this one under a cut just in case), sexual thoughts/tension, intentionally unspecified POV

It's a perfectly normal and unremarkable sort of thing. It's not anything he should spend time thinking about. Because it's meaningless, and he knows that it is. Bodies simply have reactions sometimes, and there's nothing more to it, or behind it.

After all, adrenaline is a hormone that can lead to many responses in a person.  And when adrenaline is combined with very, very physical fight choreography — with bodies so close, with so much contact, well — well, of course, these things can happen.

Physical responses shouldn't be a surprise at all. 

Sometimes, all that adrenaline is just energy that helps perfect the choreography. Sometimes, it buzzes over bone-deep exhaustion and helps him make it through to the end of the day. 

And then, sometimes, when he's coursing with adrenalin, his body reacts to being pressed into someone else's body — to moving with and against someone else's body. But, as an adult and a professional, he doesn't need to even notice that. There's no reason he should notice that. 

Not about himself or about the body that's tangled with his, so often, these days.

It's nothing worth giving a second of attention to. Not in the moment, and certainly not — 

Certainly not later and when he's alone.

Certainly not later, alone, and picturing that other body pressed against his in a less professional context. Certainly not later, alone, picturing that body pressed against his in a less professional context, and thinking about what it might like if that familiar deep voice was whispering into his neck. 

Certainly not later, alone, picturing their bodies moving — grinding — together, that voice whispering to him, and imagining their hands traveling — as his own hand travels a similar path on his own body, as he bites his lip and — 

No. Because there's nothing to inspire any of that. 

It's nothing but adrenaline and normal responses to so much physical contact. 

And, if the way that, a few moments later, he's swallowing down a shout and his heart is pounding loudly in his ears, seems to contradict that conclusion? 

Well. 

Those things are just normal physical reactions, too.

Nothing to think about. 

🎆Four | March 29th | Theme: Natasha Romanoff | Prompt: Trust Issues | Words: 350 | Canon compliant | Not Rated | No Warnings | Gen, Natasha and Steve friendship

🎆Three | March 28th | Theme: SHIELD | Prompt: Surprise Visitor | Words: 300 | Canon compliant | Not Rated | No Warnings | But: very brief Steve/OC (sort of), and, I guess, privacy invasion via audio recording? I don’t know how to tag that. It’s canon that Steve’s DC apartment was bugged. So?

🎆Two | March 27th | Theme: Steve Rogers | Prompt: Guilt | Words: 300 | Canon compliant | Not Rated | No Warnings

🎆 One | March 26th | Theme: On your left | Prompt: The Smithsonian | Words: 250 | Canon compliant | No warnings | Not Rated |

(Ficlets Tumblr-exclusive until all are complete.)

[sableeira]

Mr. Perfect Crime

[azrielgreen]

TOUCHED - Chapter Six Opener (be warned for heavy angst)

April 24th 1986

He’s marked for death.

Has it inside him.

He’s carrying it as far from the others as he can.

And it makes him heavy, like he’s got all the water of the world in the hollow of his bones; staggering beneath the weight, he has to wrap his arms around his middle and do everything he can to stay upright because once he goes down, he’s not getting back up again.

It’s dark and it’s late but the moon above is full, she’s rounded and bright and she alone shows him the way because it’s been a very long time since he came here.

The path is treacherous, every step causes pain and the death inside is slowly eating him from the inside out, determined to get free.

He won’t let it.

Eddie Munson is going to save the world.

Save everybody he loves.

He’s going to save Steve.

The incline looms and he wants to cry because it’s too steep, it’s massive and dangerous. On a good day, when he wasn’t riddled with death come calling, he’d scale it easily. He’s the Alpha, after all.

The strong one.

The protector.

But right now, the pain is such that it shortens his breath, lungs not daring to fully expand, skin tight, muscles locked. He can’t think straight, he can’t do anything but go where his instincts tell him, with only the moon and his natural sense of direction to guide him.

The first time he slips, he falls hard. Rolls all the way back down where he started and tears his fingertips trying to hold on. He can’t do it like this, he fucking can’t.

Oh god.

Eddie grits his teeth, blinks hot tears from his eyes and swallows the urge to scream as he slowly unwraps his arms from around his middle.

The fucking thing inside him leaps at the opportunity, clawing for freedom from the inside. Scratching and biting, Eddie fails to contain the symphony of his agony and screams as loud as he can, screams so hard he’d be hoarse for days if only he was going to live to see another sunrise, which he won’t.

There’s no way, either way.

He climbs as quickly as he can, legs trembling, muscles searing into his bones like they’re welded there. Every exertion feels like single use, final use. The last time he’ll climb, the last time he’ll jump, the last time he’ll land so hard he gets winded.

Experiences he took for granted.

Oh god, he took so much for granted.

The pain of landing from the small jump to level ground has him on his knees, nausea rolling through him as the thing claws and bites and tries to eat its way free.

Eddie wraps his arms around his middle again, eyes tight shut. The trees above are thick, incredibly dense and even though the moon is bright, so lovely and full tonight, there’s barely any of her light here in this place.

He looks up, blinks hard to see.

The lightning tree.

He’s here, he made it.

The place where all things come to die.

And Eddie doesn’t really know why he chose this place. He knows and he doesn’t. His Alpha knows it. The wild wolf inside him wants to be alone when they die, to spare their love the pain of simultaneous loss, to prevent their mate from taking this evil and sacrificing himself.

Eddie knows that’s exactly what Steve would do.

He’d take it, trap it and kill it by killing himself.

And there’s no fucking way he’s letting that happen.

Eddie crawls over the earth, one arm around his middle, feels like he’s being slowly cut in half. His heel presses into the ground; mulch, leaves and dirt. He thinks of Steve that night in the snow, how he’d buried his hand, unconsciously seeking the source.

Eddie sobs weakly, presses the heel of his palm there now and utters, ‘Look after him for me,’ to the mother.

The dead tree looms.

Even now he remembers the angry bumblebee sound that struck joy in his heart. So many years ago and he never saw another snake like that in Indiana.

The death almost has him.

It’s gnawing, ripping, devouring him to get out.

Free from the meat and bone cage.

Probably the dumbest fucking thing he ever did.

Maybe the bravest, too.

He reaches the tree, panting and gasping, spit running from his parted lips in a thick line. He’s juddering, not trembling and the agony now has surpassed his ability to process it. He remembers reading about animals in the jaws of a predator, how their body shut down, how their nervous system released dopamine so they wouldn’t be afraid. So they would accept it.

Eddie can accept death if it means saving his pack, his mate, his love.

He can be the fucking hero for once.

Back against the tree, he reaches into his jacket for what he stowed there hours before, what he stole from Nancy.

It’s a revolver, six bullets.

And it’s small, but it feels heavy.

Eddie tries not to think of how it’ll be for Steve to find him. For anyone to find him, but especially Steve and it will be Steve who finds him, he knows.

Cruellest of fucking ironies.

But he can’t let this loose.

And it’s still tied to him, to his life force.

Umbilical cord of grotesque violation, he’ll use it against the fucking thing. If I’m going down, you’re going down with me.

Eddie looks up at the sky.

The moon is so lovely.

It’s a Pink Moon, Chrissy had told them yesterday.

Steve is obsessed with the moon. It makes Eddie smile, even now, to think of all the nights they spent outside together, wrapped up warm, cuddling on the porch swing, just watching her.

Nights in the woods, following her light.

‘You watch over him for me,’ Eddie tells her, draws back the hammer on the gun. He hopes it’s quick, he hopes it doesn’t hurt. He hopes Steve forgives him one day. ‘Tell him I n-never loved anything the way I love him.’

There’s a thud, then a crash co-mingled with a punched out exhalation of voice and Eddie goes still, instincts flaring to life. The thing inside blinks, feeling around, daring to touch the bond it seeks to corrupt.

Eddie stares ahead. ‘No. No.’

Steve Harrington rubs his grazed hand on his knee, catches his breath and then looks at Eddie.

Suddenly the trees don’t seem so thick anymore, the moon’s brighter than ever and all the dark of the night cannot obscure the man Eddie loves in blinding, beautiful detail.

Steve is sweaty, he’s breathless and ruddy cheeked. Hair all fucked up, it’s got leaves and shit in it and he absolutely fell a few times, Eddie can just sense it.

With the vile thing inside gone still, contemplating, the bond is almost functioning normally again.

They can feel each other.

Sense, scent, taste, see, seek.

Nowhere on earth I wouldn’t find you.

Always and everywhere.

Eddie should have known.

‘No,’ he says again, doesn’t want to believe it.

Steve’s eyes flare bright gold. It’s the most gorgeous shade of warm, melted metal combined with the final moments of a summer day. Eddie never gets to see Steve’s colour the way he sees everyone else. The faint halo of empathic shade around each human and even some animals, but they do not scent and perceive one another the same way. As Steve cannot scent himself through Eddie (more’s the pity) so Eddie cannot see Steve’s light, though he already knows it would be that colour.

That colour he sees the barest flash of in their dark places, where the bond meets and he can melt into Steve.

‘You motherfucker,’ Steve hisses, voice trembling, hand over his heart. Eddie’s senses let him feel every inch of his failure to keep his mate away. Steve is too fast, too smart and they are too closely intertwined. ‘Give me that right now!’

Eddie shakes his head, swallows bile and puts the gun to his temple, finger on the trigger.

‘Get the fuck out of here, I’m not gonna warn you twice.’

‘Give it to me.’

‘Steve.’

‘Eddie, I’m not fucking around. Give me that gun, you’re out of your mind and you’re not thinking clearly, OK? Give me the gun. GIVE ME THE FUCKING GUN!’

Despite himself, Eddie flinches.

There is no command Steve could make to override his autonomy, bodily or otherwise, but it goes against the very grain of who he is to deny Steve anything.

He rasps, ‘No,’ with what little breath his body can spare. Even sitting is exhausting. The sly death inside grins wide, vicious. It senses the better vessel to emerge from.

The superior body.

‘Fine, walk me through it then,’ Steve says, would-be calm, approaching slowly. ‘You’re gonna kill yourself in front of me rather than let us help?’

Eddie’s vision is faltering. ‘M gonna save the world.’

‘Fuck the world. Put the gun down, I can help, you know I can.’

‘That’s why you can’t get near it, baby,’ Eddie wheezes, lungs tighter than ever. ‘You’re too powerful. It wants you. Wants…’ He screws his eyes tight shut, won’t think about it, won’t even let himself contemplate it. ‘Please go.’

Steve shakes his head and Eddie smells the salt, knows his boy is crying.

‘Where the fuck else would I go? You’re here, so I’m here. Give me the gun. Trust me, please.’

‘If it gets inside you, there’ll be no stopping it.’

‘I won’t let it in.’

‘You won’t even know it’s happening. Stay back,’ Eddie warns, going rigid with anticipation as the thing within grins and hungers. ‘Steve, stay back, I’m not kidding.’ Steve doesn’t listen though, he’s edging closer with every passing second. Eddie’s panic is like a livewire, it’s giving him strength in the moment at a cost he won’t be around to pay for later. ‘Stay back!’

It’s the Alpha baritone.

It’s sound from a place created for the sole purpose of control and it’s the first time Eddie has ever used it without Steve’s express consent.

The command strikes the air, strangles the bond and forces submission into the Omega, who stills instantly.

Steve’s mouth falls open, astonished at the betrayal. ‘You…’

‘I’m sorry,’ Eddie tells him, tries to swallow but his mouth is too thick, it’s all fucked up. ‘Baby, I’m so sorry, but you gotta stay back. Please. This thing wants you more than it wants me, it’ll get inside and eat you alive.’

Both of you.

Steve tries to move forward but he can’t, he can’t.

Like a glass wall has been erected between them, the Alpha did one last good deed, however much the loss of autonomy hurts their Omega.

Eddie’s wolf is bleeding to death, drowning in sorrow for all that they will miss. Mistake after mistake and now, here they are again.

The place where all things come to die.

‘Take it back,’ Steve utters, stricken.

‘I can’t.’ Eddie grunts, sobs thickly when his lungs contract hard enough that he thinks his insides are breaking. ‘You shouldn’t have come here, Little Fox.’

[museumgiftshoperaser]

Robin was her first kiss. If you want to get technical about it.

But they were thirteen and they were under the covers of Robin’s bed and they ate so much sugar they were shaky with it. That’s the thing about sleepovers, right? They’re like secrets. They’re little bubbles of time and space that exists completely outside of the rest of world.

So it didn’t really count.

Chrissy had been panicking about high school again, wrapped in Robin’s quilt with a pillow pressed hard against her stomach. And sure, it was still months and months away, but it was coming at them like a freight train. Too fast, with an unstoppable momentum as Chrissy was tied to the tracks.

Robin had long since made a little game out of it.

What if nobody likes me?

Then I will personally start your fan club.

Her solutions were rarely practical and Chrissy’s fears hardly ever made sense. Catastrophe after catastrophe drawn to their most dramatic conclusion. She knew she was being silly. But the game did help. It was good to know that in every single nightmare, no matter how strange, no matter how extraordinarily disastrous, Robin would be there. What if I trip and fall right in the middle of the cafeteria? Then I will trip right along with you. Right at the start of summer, with just three more months until high school, Chrissy was starting to run out of anxieties. But she wasn’t quite done with their game yet. It was too comforting. Playing along had become its own kind of security blanket. Robin tossed a magazine onto the floor of her bedroom and moved a little closer, pressed up against the headboard right alongside Chrissy. Their shoulders bumped, side by side like twin captains of a tiny ship. The magazine landed right side up next to Chrissy’s half of the bed. A pretty girl blew at kiss back at her from the glossy paper cover. Ten Summer Trends You Can’t Miss! Bold pink letters screamed at her. How to Get Perfect Curls at Home! But also… How to Nail Your First Kiss! It gave Chrissy pause. She pursed her lips together as her brain tested out the question. A whole new frontier, an unexplored ocean stretching out in front of them. What if I’m the only person who hasn’t kissed anyone yet? Robin turned to her and frowned, just a couple inches between their noses, with bumping knees and eyes so close Chrissy could see the green flecks in her eyes. What are you talking about? She said, completely ignoring the rules of the game. I haven’t kissed anyone either. Chrissy hadn’t actually been worried before. Her question was just a line in a game they had been playing for weeks, but confronted with Robin’s wide eyes something gnawed at the well in her stomach. That’s not how the game works, Chrissy said. You’re supposed to say… Her voice trailed off in the lamplight of the bedroom. She wasn’t sure what Robin was supposed to say, actually. The antidote wasn’t clear, but then again, to Chrissy is rarely was. What? Robin grinned. I’m not sure I’ve got an answer to this one. You could. So Robin leaned in, meeting in the middle, leaving Chrissy to close the gap. It wasn’t really what she meant, but as Robin looked at her, gentle and reassuring, she completely forgot what she had meant in the first place. So Chrissy kissed her. Just like that. Her lips sweet like buttery popcorn as she locked into place and let her eyes flutter shut. She didn’t really know what she was doing, neither of them did, but certain parts of them just fit together like pieces of a puzzle. Kissing was warmer than she expected. Softer.

Robin smiled against her mouth. Now Chrissy hadn’t actually read the article in the magazine, but she was pretty sure smiling wasn’t mentioned. Kissing was a serious affair, not setup and punchline, joke and a giggle.

But it was nice. Tender and sweet like the only true antidote to all of Chrissy’s fears. (What if no one likes me? Then you’ll still always have me.) They didn’t talk about it then. So it didn’t really count. Chrissy went on to kiss a boy from her math class at the acceptable culmination of their third date. His lips were dry and his hands hovered awkwardly, several inches away from her shoulders. It became the topic of several sleepovers, long past the expiration date of her childlike attempt at a freshman relationship. Robin kissed a boy from band during a game of spin the bottle at their first coed slumber party and made such a disgusted face afterwards that the boy locked himself in the bathroom. They laughed about that for years after the fact, mimicking the way Robin’s lips curled up like the aftertaste of a particularly sour lemon. Their kiss, the one between the two of them, wasn’t mentioned ever again. Not after Robin came out, not when people asked for first kiss anecdotes during games of truth or dare. Not even after that first night in Robin’s bed, months into college, with tangled limbs and pounding hearts. With hands under bed sheets and fingers curled around the hem of her nightgown. With a soft kiss pressed against the back of shoulder. Even then they didn’t talk about it. So it didn’t really count.

I think this works nicely as a little standalone, but it's also a little snippet from the upcomming chapter of Dandelions and Other Weeds (AO3), my childhood best friends to college roommates lesbian disaster fic <3

[adamprrishcycle]

I wrote a silly little pynch fic set after they get engaged and it stars ronan lynch’s anxiety and abandonment issues (I couldn’t just let them live ok)

Adam sat at the table looking down at his left hand, his eyes seemingly drawn to the thick, gold band on his third finger.

Ronan watched him quietly from the doorway, leaning on the doorframe, not wanting to break the spell of Adam alone and left to his own devices.

Adam’s shoulders rose slowly and fell as he sighed heavily and lifted his head, looking over at the window. Ronan couldn’t decipher the sigh but he didn’t move or speak or make himself known. Not yet. He just watched for a few moments longer, savouring the way the morning light fell across Adam’s messy hair that Ronan had run his fingers through countless times last night, and the knowledge that he could now call Adam his fiancé.

“Hey,” he said finally and Adam turned to look at him, his serious face instantly breaking into a small smile. It wasn’t the grin that lit up his whole face, but it was the quiet kind of smile that he usually reserved for Ronan. The small, maddening smirk that he couldn’t fully control.

“Hey,” he replied and Ronan smiled back easily, his smile being something unchained and wild in recent months.

“How long have you been up?” He asked.

Adam got to his feet and approached Ronan, taking his wrist and kissing him once on the lips. As he pulled back, Ronan followed, kissing him again and bringing his free hand up to hold the back of Adam’s head, urging him closer. Ronan’s heart raced eagerly like every time he kissed Adam and when they broke apart, their faces lingering close together, Ronan noticed, vision slightly out of focus from such close proximity, the way Adam’s face fell fractionally.

It was nothing.

Ronan craned his neck backwards to get a better view of Adam’s whole face and in those few milliseconds that had passed, so had Adam’s expression and he was smiling once more.

It was nothing. It had been nothing. But Ronan found himself thinking on it for the rest of the day.

Later, as evening drew on, Adam was working on his laptop, sitting on the rug in front of the coffee table in the living room. The air still smelt of fried onions from dinner and Adam had lit the fire in the grate. His fingers tapped over the keys swiftly and Ronan rolled his aching shoulders as he removed his jacket in the doorway having shut the cows in for the night. Sometimes Adam helped, sometimes he didn’t but tonight it bothered Ronan that he hadn’t.

Despite this, he sat on the couch behind Adam heavily and he leaned forward, his hands snaking over Adam’s shoulders and massaging gently, thumbs digging into muscle.

“Your hands are freezing,” Adam commented without turning around and Ronan leaned forwards, his hands falling to Adam’s upper arms then into his lap and he rested his chin on his left shoulder, looking at the laptop screen.

“This shit is classified,” Adam told him and he lifted his left hand from the keyboard to pull the laptop screen downwards to avert it from Ronan’s gaze.

That’s when Ronan noticed his bare finger. He sat back. “Where’s your ring?”

All of a sudden the thoughts that had been on his mind all day didn’t seem so far-fetched and something inside him sunk.

Adam released the laptop and briefly balled his hand into a fist before opening it again as he turned to face Ronan, crossing his legs where he sat on the rug looking up at him. He was almost as tall as Ronan, but he looked small as he sat there looking up with big, serious eyes.

“I was washing the dishes,” Adam explained, “and I just forgot to put it back on.” He smiled and put his ringless hand on Ronan’s knee. “I’m not used to it yet.”

Ronan watched this happen, then stood up causing Adam’s hand to fall away and he went back into the kitchen and there was the ring on the windowsill above the sink. He took it, studying the fine gold in his hand as he walked back into the living room.

Adam was sitting on the couch where Ronan had sat and the laptop was closed. He extended his hand for the ring and Ronan gave it to him.

He put it back on. “What is it?” He asked seriously.

“If you don’t want it then don’t—“

“Of course I want it,” Adam interrupted, frowning. “If I didn’t want it, I wouldn’t have taken it from you in the first place.”

The fire crackled and Ronan stared at Adam’s hands instead of at his face. His hands were beautiful. Long, tan fingers, prominent knuckles, rough palms. And now a part of Ronan, something that had once belonged to his father, encircled one of Adam’s elegant digits. It made Ronan’s heart clench and he had only dared himself to think it a handful of times, but it signified that Adam was his.

Ronan felt restless on his feet as he remembered the feeling of Adam’s breath against his ear as he whispered I’m yours, over and over again last night. It felt daring to think it for himself but here he was, feeling some kind of claim over Adam because of a piece of jewelry and he felt guilty about it.

“I want it,” Adam repeated firmly, holding his left hand with his right, covering the ring as though Ronan was about to wrestle it from him. “I want you,” he added, lowering his voice.

“But there’s something,” Ronan said, trying not to sound like a sulking child, trying to stand himself even though he was being completely fucking pathetic.

Adam stood up and approached Ronan. “It’s gonna take some time to get used to. I mean, it’s been a day.”

“But I— you know how I feel about you,” Ronan said impatiently, running an anxious hand over his shaved head.

Adam sighed. “Let’s not fight over this.”

“We’re not fighting, Parrish. I gave you a fucking ring.”

Adam smiled but it wasn’t the easy smirk, it had a harsh edge to it. “A fucking ring,” he repeated. “Nice, Lynch.” He slumped back down onto the couch. He didn’t look at the ring now, he just sat there, staring at the fireplace, his face reflecting orange from the firelight.

Ronan stepped forward, pushing the laptop out of the way and sitting on the coffee table in front of Adam, blocking his view of the flames. His face fell into shadow and his eyebrows rose like he was asking Ronan a question.

“What?” Ronan asked back.

Adam smirked.

The feeling of unease that had arrived in mere moments instantly fled. He lifted one foot and rested it on the table beside Ronan and Ronan watched the motion, eyes sliding from Adam’s foot all the way up his leg, up his body and back to his face. Without words, Adam shifted, slumping further down where he sat and as he looked up at Ronan his eyes were deliberately restless.

“Asshole,” Ronan muttered but he was smiling too.

“Says you.”

[2-sleepy-for-this]

Something to remember pt.1

alrighty! Finally getting somewhere with my aus! This is one of my favorites and I can’t wait to write more for this, I’ve got a lot planned >:)

this is the first of hopefully many parts so feel free to ask questions! I love getting messages :)

Okokok here it is, the meeting

tw: memory loss, talk of injury, slight fear, confusion

word count ~ 1.7k

It felt like just yesterday when Ranboo went off to college, leaving his childhood home behind and starting a new life for himself. Now, this was what most people did, transitioning into adulthood, and something they also did was reminisce about their old memories. That was something Ranboo couldn’t do. 

Don’t get them wrong, reminiscing sounds great and all, but, well, he just couldn’t remember most of his childhood. The things from that time they remember are blurred and skewed, nothing like how they really happened.

This has been Ranboo’s mind for years and he’d gotten used to it by now. From what he can tell, they’d never had many friends or interesting stories to remember, just a plain life. 

Well, except for his little accident a few years back, that is. He’d had a bad accident that not only does he not remember, but apparently no one else was there to tell them what happened either. To this day, his parents say it was a miracle he was found before it was too late.

That mysterious day was the reason for their bad memory now and since that day, his life had been just as uneventful as before the injury. That’s what his parents tell them, anyway.

But now, his first year of college was over and he’s headed back to his parents' house to visit for a few weeks before their classes start back up.

That’s where he is now, taking a bus to the home they’ve lived in all their life. The bus ride itself wasn’t too bad, only a few hours, but he was still starting to get motion sickness by the end of it. He didn’t have to worry about that though. Once they stepped out onto the solid concrete, their nausea subsided.

Ranboo stared up at his old home. It was the exact way they remembered it, or maybe it wasn’t. He didn’t know.

He walked past the tree carved with years of bored summer days and stepped onto the shaded porch. Ringing the bell, he heard footsteps on the inside, followed by the door opening to reveal his parents. 

The two adults looked not much older than Ranboo themself, he was adopted at 14 by his parents, who were both around 20 at the time. His mom, a sweet lady with glasses and a love of baking, Niki, held her arms open for them. Ranboo took the silent invitation for the hug, although it looked a little awkward from the height difference. As he pulled away, his papa, another short woman with a fiery personality, puffy, gave them a pat on the back. 

“Welcome home ran,”

It had been a while since he last saw them. They still talked frequently, but he hadn’t actually come to visit since the school year began.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Come on in and put your bags in your room. We’ve got a lot of movie nights to catch up on. "

Ranboo made their way up to his old room, looking at the pictures hanging on the walls. They took a moment to stand in front of their door. The last time he was really here was while he was recovering from his injuries, right after he was confirmed healed by their doctor. They left for college, not wanting to fall behind in their education.

He opened the door and walked inside, closing it behind him. The inside of their room was relatively bland. They had a few posters and a desk that looked slightly dusty. Although for as long as he could remember, he’d always had a thing for collecting. Nothing too interesting, they just like shiny things, a few cool looking rocks, maybe some dried flowers and a few acorns. 

His collection sat on his desk and looked pretty impressive for something untouched for so long. But some items looked newer than others. Maybe his parents had added things for him? 

Movement caught in the corner of their eye, and they turned. Everything was still the exact same. He’d probably imagined it. Ranboo never really liked bugs being in his space, so hopefully leaving his room unattended for so long didn’t invite any pests.

They looked uneasily at the floor near his bed, debating on checking for any vermin. Before they could make up their mind he heard his name called by their mom.

Moving his bags a little farther back on the bed to hopefully keep anything from getting in them, he left back out the door and down the stairs to their living room. 

Their parents seemed to be waiting for them with fresh baked pastries and blankets.

“We thought since it’s been a while we could have a movie night tonight. I made your favorite desserts.”

His mom smiled at him, still as genuine as ever before his papa puffy spoke up.

“Pretty sure it was your turn to pick the movie anyway, so you're stuck here. Might as well tell us your demands, grab a pastry and get comfy. "

Ranboo laughed. They missed this so much.

“Alright, alright, gimme the remote. "

They sat down and caught the remote that was thrown with minimal fumbling. It took a long time to get the movie started. A mix of searching for a good film and commentary from both his parents made picking the first movie next to impossible. 

Finally, they were able to start the night off with no further hitches and got comfortable, dessert in hand.

Movie after movie played on the screen, flowing much better than choosing the first film. The first family activity Ranboo was a part of in months was filled with conversation and laughter as well. When they first started watching, it was only around 3 in the afternoon, but by the time the last movie of the night ended, it was well into the night.

Ranboo stretched, joints cracking, and sat up from the laying position he took during the first movie. The food was long gone, and the remote was lost somewhere in the field of blankets on top of the small family.

He hadn’t felt this relaxed in a long time, always stressed for one reason or another. This visit though, was going to be just what they need, no stress, no work, just relaxation and family time.

Saying goodnight to their parents, they went back up the stairs and down the hall. Just like a few hours prior, they stopped at their door, took a breath, opened it, and walked in. 

Nothing seemed different. Their bags stayed untouched, sitting near the wall their bed was pushed against. Ranboo stayed put and looked around once more, not quite crossing the threshold of his doorway. 

It was so strange being back here after spending so much time away, like they were a guest staying in their own room, not sure what they were allowed to touch. But he knew he could do what he wanted. It was still their room, after all. Maybe within these next few weeks they could decorate a little more, make the room feel like theirs again.

Finally, Ranboo stepped inside and closed the door behind them. He was too tired to change or get unpacked, so he just moved the bags to their desk chair, turned off the light and laid down. They’d save the work for future Ranboo’s problem. It didn’t take very long to drift off to sleep. Within minutes, they were out and dreaming peacefully.

The sun was shining over the grassy field behind their house. There was familiar laugher in the air, but where was it coming from? The grass felt so soft under their hands as they sat looking at the flowers. So peaceful. 

“Ranboo!”

That voice. He remembers that voice, but he doesn’t know who’s it is. They start looking around, they can’t find anyone else around. 

“Look at this one, boss man!”

That one sounds familiar too, but nothing changed. Where are the voices coming from? He had to find them. He stood up, still looking around the empty field. 

He had to find them.

All at once, Ranboo was brought from the dreamlands field to their bedroom. His sudden awareness of the dream must have excited his mind enough to force him into consciousness. It wasn’t the first time this happened to them. They often had dreams like that, mostly in different settings, but those two voices always stayed the same.

He had to find them.

In his half-asleep state, he kept his eyes closed, determined not to lose any more sleep over odd dreams. The darkness of his room was quiet as they started slipping back into a now dreamless sleep.

“Get your ass back here, Tubbo!”

That voice. It was much quieter than it usually was in these dreams, nothing more than a whisper. If he wasn’t so good at picking up small noises, he would have missed it completely.

He had to find them.

Ranboo cracked his eyes open, looking around his darkened room from where he laid. Weird, usually their dreams settings weren’t in their room and they weren’t ever this dark. It was like he wasn’t asleep at all.

“Calm down, I know what I’m doing toms,”

He had to be asleep. The voices were here, just like they always were.

He had to find them.

Ranboo sat up quickly, looking around the space for the two phantoms from his dreams. He’d never actually gotten close to seeing them, but he had to try. 

There was a small squeak from his bedside table, not a sound a rodent would make, more of a startled person sound. Their eyes snapped to the table, locking onto the two small figures immediately.

He had to find them.

Without thinking, he lunged, grabbing the small things, one in each fist. They squirmed and hit at his hands, yelling all the while, but Ranboo couldn’t feel it. The only thing Ranboo was focused on was that he had done it. These two..things were what he heard every night in his dreams for years. 

Though, it’s strange they haven’t woken up yet. Come to think of it…did they remember falling back to sleep at all? It all seemed so real…

Wait. This felt too real. He wasn’t asleep. 

They looked down at the figures in their grip once more. He wasn’t asleep.

He had found them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

hope you enjoyed! The next part of this is already being worked on

no set time rn unfortunately but I’ll get it out asap :)

make sure to eat a snack, drink something and get good sleep 💙

[gatorlovebot]

writing laswell smut and yes i am projecting <3

[fruitsyrups]

Random yes but thank u for making that frusan art awhile ago it's adorable and i love seeing more art of this underappreciated ship :D!!!

ahhh thank you!!! frusan is so underrated FOR REAL, i guess it's probably because after Islands they all but disappeared (like i think they were only shown twice after that and that's including in Fionna & Cake (which i actually missed when i watched it bc its such a brief glimpse)) but like. still. I actually have a little idea for another frusan drawing (frieda and susan talking on a roof grown-up edition) but I have to break up the dialogue into parts & think of more Susan Reactions so it's not just Frieda monologuing at her lol

[emrys-rusts]

I have so many thoughts about pre-mechanised brian and I finally have time to draw again tehehehehe

[fangswbenefits]

Nearly done with this Miguel angst… and yeah… I think it might be too much

[fissions-chips]

Angsty Shit: Pt 3

Fairies don’t belong in the city or suburbs, do they?

Life is not easy when you’re two-to-three inches tall and resemble a little moth or butterfly. If the natural world already having it out for you, you mouse-sized little creature, wasn’t bad enough- you look like a bug. Humans hate bugs.

Jon, by all logic, shouldn’t be anywhere near humans- if he had his way, he’d be right back out in his nice little field, terrorizing the other fairies and hiding in his cozy little home. But, this year, the local farmer decided he wanted that field too, and Jon has now found himself evicted. Unintentionally, granted, but when they started spraying bug-killer, Jon the bug-adjacent fairy had to flee, quickly.

So now he’s fled to the human city, and so far it’s been… mixed. He’s safe from that awful shit they spray the air with, but now he has to contend with the humans themselves. Indirectly, they’re a threat- their huge feet could crush him before they even realized he was there, or he could get clipped by a car, or kicked as they walk. He could get slammed in a door. He could get trapped. The human world is so, so big.

But that’s indirectly- directly, they’re monsters. That’s all he can think, watching them frantically rush kill spider, beetle or bee whenever it treads to close to them (Jon doesn’t like spiders either, but come on). Mouse traps are absolutely terrifying- they could snap his arm or leg in an instant. The poison ones probably would have gotten him, whatever was inside it had smelled good, and he was hungry- but the mice got to it first and he watched them die from it, so now he knows better.

The sticky ones… the sticky ones are nightmares. He’s seen the bodies on them- in a morbid way, it makes them easier to avoid. Those, he understands and can spot early, simply going around them- he doesn’t want to know what would happen if his wings got caught in such a thing.

However, sometimes he isn’t really looking where he’s going- particularly when he’s being chased by a cat. Fucking cats. They’re terrifying, their claws like daggers, their teeth like swords- he’s dodged them before, but there’s so many here, and they cluster around the human dens looking for food and shelter too. Unfortunately for Jon, they think he’s a perfectly fine dinner- he managed to get out of the cat’s teeth, thankfully (he bit it right on the nose) but now it’s chasing him and he’s hurting and oh fuck- now they’re both caught. The cat squalls, caught by the paw, and Jon flails around to avoid it- but he’s smaller and lighter and he gets stuck. Really stuck

The cat’s wailing is what brings the humans, and when they see it caught they hurriedly shout and try to grab it- Jon is dragged right up with it as they frantically try to get it loose. He can tell by the collar it must be theirs, and maybe that’s why they’re so worried (some humans like cats, he’s learned, and keep them in their homes, he’s mocked them from outside the windows often enough- maybe this is karma).

Somehow, they manage to get it loose, and the cat runs off limping with its fur bushed out, to hide- but then they spot him, frantically trying to tear himself loose, little wings beating, entirely stuck. And their tones change- ‘bug’, they call him. ‘Pest’. The insult of it makes him want to scream.

They freed the cat, but he doesn’t get the same treatment- perhaps because he is a ‘pest’, perhaps because a paw is one thing, and Jon, caught by the entirety of one side of his body, is another. Either way, they talk amongst themselves and Jon just has to sit there, trying to get loose and failing miserably.

They put him outside. Still stuck. On a pile of their human trash. The indignity- he’s not fucking trash!

The more he tries to get loose, the more it hurts- he’s tearing his skin, already wounded from the cat. He doesn’t even know how he’ll free his wings, because those will surely rip, and then he’ll be flightless in the human world, which is no doubt a death sentence. This whole trap might be a death sentence, actually, because he can’t get free and it’s cold outside and he’s hungry and he’s thirsty and-

Someone picks him up. Or, they pick up the trap, with him on it- Jon hisses, as best as he’s able. He can’t really turn his head to see them, but he hisses anyways, because what else can he do? He’s put in a box and put in a car. Some small part of him is a little awe-struck, actually, by that… he can’t help but be fascinated by their machines. Sure, he can’t really see it, but the purr of its engine sounds nice.

He’s taken home and put on a table and suddenly there is a very bright light being shone on him- he wants to hide so bad. All the rage has bled out of him and now all he wants to do is run away and die his miserable little death somewhere dark and warm.

The human pours something on him, something gross and oily, and starts messing with him, gloved fingers poking and prodding him, at the seam between his wings and limbs and the adhesive. Jon’s too tired to bite him, or do much- he chirps a little, but that’s about it.

And, gradually- he starts to come unstuck, little by little. The human holds him so he doesn’t slump right back into it, carefully freeing his wings, sore and damaged, but mostly whole. He didn’t break any bones, at least. The human lets out a sound when he sees Jon’s injuries, and the little, shivering fairy finds himself tucked up in a dish towel while the sink warms up.

He’s washed off- Jon at first thinks he’s being drowned, and struggles a bit. Then he tires out, and the human goes back to cleaning all the oil off of him, carefully scrubbing his wings and his hair to make sure he’s cleaned up. He’s dried off, and something is dabbed onto his wounds- Jon chirps, and tries to twist around to scrub it off, but they’re covered before he can manage it and he gives up the effort. It’s not too bad, really- Jon wonders why this human is being gentle, and what he’s doing.

The unpleasant bit is when he’s picked up, a syringe shoved towards his face. Jon snaps, hisses, and sinks his teeth into the human’s thumb. Then he finds himself caught by the jaw and he becomes frightened again, chirping with alarm. Whatever the first stuff he’s given is, it’s bitter, and he wants to spit it out but can’t quite manage it. The second, thankfully, is easily recognized- water. Water and sugar, and that, at least, he takes without a fight.

After that, he’s not really sure where he winds up, only that it is indeed dark and warm, set on a pile of soft things. Jon doesn’t have the energy to question it- instead, he just curls up to sleep, absolutely exhausted.

[normaltothemax]

@underude​​

“They know!!” 

No ‘hello’. No ‘hey Peter, how’s your day going’. No warning of his entrance whatsoever. The panicked shout was all the greeting the man was getting, today. And panicked it was. Miles, shaking and panting and sweating, was just about crawling out of his own skin, ready to bolt again at the slightest hint of a negative emotion. 

At first, he’d just been focused on the running and swinging, not thinking about where he was going, only that he had to get as far away from his own house as he possibly could, as fast as he could. Eventually, he managed to remember the goober on his wrist (looking like a high-tech wristwatch, gifted by Peni a while back to help them keep in touch across universes), made sure the settings were locked on Peter’s, and activated it, feeling the now-familiar sucking-squeezing-pulling sensation of travelling between universes. Then the high-speed swinging and running started all over again. By the time he made it to Peter’s place, he could barely breathe.

Ripping the mask off of his face, he gasped for air, flickering in and out of view. “Th-they...they know! P-Peter...they...” Tears welled up in his eyes and he scrunched them shut. He wasn’t a baby, he wasn’t going to cry. He was thirteen and his entire life was falling apart around him. Hands fisted in his hair and pulled as he grit his teeth and choked back a sob.

Deep, deep down, he knew they wouldn’t hate him. They were his parents. They loved him, would love him, no matter what. That was what parents did. But his dad had hated Spider-Man. Even if he didn’t necessarily hate the new one (i.e. Miles), he still didn’t like him! He was very vocal about that. And now they knew Miles had been keeping this huge secret from them for months! So it didn’t matter that part of him knew they wouldn’t hate him---they were totally going to hate him!

As the first tears began to fall, he looked desperately to his mentor, his friend, eyes begging for him to have all the answers. “What do I do?”

[fullsunstrawberry]

BERRY BSF IM NERVOUS THEY BEST BE BLACKOUT DRUNK I CANT HANDLE ANYTHING DEWINDLING THIS RELATIONSHIP RN OTHER THAN JISUNG😭 PLEASE SPARE ME SPARE MEEEEEE

hehehe 🙀

[nereidprinc3ss]

you know the killer doesn't understand

in which spencer is so terrified he's going to hurt you after he gets out of prison that he can barely touch you. an argument ensues.

angst (+ comfort) warnings/tags: established relationship, fem!reader, mentions of violent intrusive thoughts (non-specific), arguing, yelling, use of the word rape, nightmares, happyish ending, mention of showering together, it's a bad time but it's also a good time for us woo i love angsty angst a/n: i miss posting for real so bad i dug up this draft which was mostly finished and polished it up. i think i really like this one and it was based on a request but i lost it:( i hope u guys enjoy this, pls lmk<3

Spencer is by no means happy with his sudden fear of touching you—it makes everything in his life significantly harder and less convenient and he hates that he’s constantly afraid he’s going to break you. He hates watching you hold back from attacking him with a hug when he enters a room like you used to, and he feels terrible every time you ball up on the opposite side of the couch as he reads, waiting for an invitation into his lap but too scared to ask for one (he’ll always hold out his arm for you, though—he’s not cruel.)

You’re adorable in the way you stand at the foot of the bed in your pajamas, arms behind your back like it’s not your bed too, but it makes him feel terrible. This isn’t at all what he wanted for you, and in all honestly he’s thought about ending the relationship because he knows he’s being an absolutely awful partner—but he just can’t bring himself to. Instead, he gestures for you to get into bed, and you curl up under the covers close to him but not against him, and he’ll play with your hair and read for a while because he can’t sleep very well. Eventually he’ll assume the position of sleep, but some sick part of him doesn’t know what to do with the sounds of the city and the fan instead of the sounds of a hundred men rolling and sniffing and shuffling around their echoey cells. He doesn’t understand warmth anymore, or softness, or nice pajamas or fluffy pillows. He’s starting to think he doesn’t understand you. And that’s the worst thought of all. 

So he essentially dozes for the first week, on and off, always exhausted in the mornings but what’s new. When he can’t sleep, he turns his head to watch you breathe—some beautiful, sweet creature dreaming in his bed, unwaveringly loyal to him even though he can hardly stand to touch you for fuck’s sake. You’re beautiful, and it makes him feel better to watch you, even if he can’t touch you. Not now that he knows what he is capable of doing to another person. What if he has some sort of PTSD—PTSS, thank you, Luke Alvez—induced dream and does something terrible to you in his sleep? It’s not like you’re tiny, but he’s stronger, he knows he is, and lately every time you get too close he remembers exactly what it feels like to exert the full force of that strength, and what it feels like when someone else unleashes their own onto him. 

They’re just intrusive thoughts, and in them he doesn’t hurt you intentionally, but he always feels a little bit sick now. He is so, so sick. A bull in a China shop. Spencer knows exactly how breakable humans are—it’s his job to know. If he left so much as one red mark on you by accident, he’s quite sure he’d drill down to a previously unknown rock bottom. And if he reaches that point, he doesn’t know if he’d ever deserve to come back. 

Every day it seems to become clearer that the only humane thing to do is break up with you. But for now he’ll watch you sleep—the delicate rising and falling of your chest, the way you curl in on yourself because you can’t curl into him. In sleep you look so peaceful and content. You never look that way awake, anymore. Not when he’s around, which is pretty much always. At least he can’t disappoint you while you’re asleep. 

Or so he’d like to think. 

Until one night, about a week and a half after he gets home; you whimper in your sleep. It’s so quiet he could’ve missed it, but he doesn’t, and then he watches your smooth brow furrow with worry and he knows you’re having a nightmare immediately. 

Spencer panics—before, he would have woken you up and held you and comforted you until you fell back asleep and it would have been so simple. Now he’s frozen, afraid to touch you but not sure if he can just lie there watching you so afraid and not do a thing about it. 

In the end, you choose for him—and it only takes a few moments. You’re close enough to him that it’s easy for you to close the few inches even in sleep, and maybe you’re slightly conscious but not enough to remember you’re not supposed to touch him. 

He stops breathing as you fold yourself against him, muttering worried nonsense—he catches his name, once—nestling against his chest, one searching arm gently draping over his waist. Every muscle in his body is rigid, and his thoughts—his mind goes… completely fucking blank. 

Suddenly, all he’s known, all he’s ever known, is the smell of your hair, the warmth of you seeping through layers of clothing, and the weight of your arm over him. Everything he ever was ceases to exist, and he’s just this, right now. The person you’d turned to unconsciously for comfort, so sure, so trusting that he would keep you safe. He can feel your breath for the first time in months. Slowly every tense muscle unspools. For the first time in a long time he doesn’t feel dangerous. He doesn’t feel like his entire body is spring loaded and ready to attack at the slightest provocation. Spencer allows himself to hold you, and part of it feels like betrayal because he knows how badly you need this from him while you’re awake but mostly he feels like he could cry. His thumb rubs circles into the middle of your back and your head tucks so perfectly under his chin while he studies the rumpled sheets where you’d been lying a moment ago. He almost feels like sticking his tongue out to gloat at your half of the mattress—haha, look who gets to hold her now—but instead he sighs, shakily, and squeezes his eyes shut. 

You don’t make another sound for hours. 

He’s reluctant to let you go when you begin to stir around six AM, but forcibly holding onto you is so far from what he wants to do that he manages. You roll back over to your own side of the bed, and he continues admiring you from afar until he falls asleep. It’s the best three hours of sleep he’s had in a very long time. 

Of course, you don’t remember it. When you wake up your sadness resumes, and so does the pretending like you’re not sad, but you’re a very good sport—and it helps that he’s feeling much better this morning than he has since he got back. 

“Good morning,” you whisper faintly, still blinking as you watch him longingly from your spot. 

Spencer pushes himself up onto an elbow, and you watch with big eyes as he leans over you, stroking your cheek with his free hand. 

“Good morning. You sleep okay?”

Your brow flickers, and he realizes it’s not a question he asks every morning, and you’re probably distracted by this overt display of affection, but you answer it obediently anyway. 

“I think so. I had weird dreams.”

He hums. 

“About what?”

It’s quiet for a moment as he takes in the exact spattering of microscopically fractured pigment over your irises. Your voice is small when you finally speak. 

“Do I have to tell you?”

That hurts. 

“No. But it might help.”

Coming from him? Ironic doesn’t even begin to cover it. 

You acknowledge him with a small hum of your own, studying him with soft, mistrustful eyes. 

He can’t help it anymore—Spencer leans down and gently kisses you, so tenderly, so chastely, it makes his own head spin. He hasn’t kissed you like that since you picked him up from Milburn. It’s long overdue. 

Which is why he’s not expecting you to start crying. He pulls back immediately, not far, just enough to assess your expression. 

“What’s this? What’s wrong, angel?” He frowns. Your lip quivers in a way that feels like a blow to the chest. 

“That’s not… you’re…”

“What? What is it?”

A fat tear finally traces a path down your cheek and when you speak your voice breaks in the most fragile, devastating way. 

“You’re not being fair.”

He has no neat question to summarize all the bafflement your accusation inspires in his lately cloudy head, but the wildly confused look on his face must be prompt enough.

“I’m trying really hard to respect your space and boundaries and not upset you but my feelings are hurt, Spencer, I don’t know how they couldn’t be. I feel like you don’t even like me anymore. I’m embarrassed around you because I feel like I care about you so much more than you care about me. And then you—and then you wake up one morning and you think it’s okay to act like you love me again but I can’t—I c—” you stop, obviously frustrated—now crying in earnest and lacking the words. “You can’t be mean to me. I know you’ve been through a lot and I’m sorry but you can’t treat me like that. I’m a person, too.”

His chest aches and he swallows down barbed wire.

“I’m not acting like I love you. I do love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything in my life. That’s not an act.”

It’s not an adequate response, but your words are still spinning in his head until he can’t keep up with them. He’s not used to this, anymore. The language you two had developed is so foreign now. 

Maybe he just doesn’t know how to talk to you. 

Resignation—a too-calm recognition softens the stormy look that has brewed on your face. As soon as it’s gone, and you’re looking at him placidly, he realizes he’s afraid. 

“Well, that’s not enough,” you whisper. 

Spencer feels like he’s been shot as you push the covers aside and slip out of bed. And he knows what that feels like. 

“Where are you going?” And then louder, when you don’t hear him because you’ve already left the room, “Where are you going?”

He follows you through the apartment as you march purposefully for the door, slipping shoes on and grabbing your keys and coat. 

You barely look over your shoulder as you leave, slamming the front door behind you. Things shake from the impact. A mini earthquake. 

Spencer is too stunned to follow you. 

It’s not until a few minutes later when he goes to call you that he realizes your phone is still sitting on your bedside table. He stares at it, tasting metal, because he has absolutely no way to reach you or guarantee your safety. There’s no way for you to call him, or anyone, if you get in trouble—and he fears that you’ll retaliate against him by doing something stupid and dangerous. 

He only just manages to stop himself from calling the police and asking them to start looking for you. Only just recognizes it to be an overreaction. 

Besides, he’s not feeling particularly fond of the criminal justice institution these days. If it came down to it, he’d trust himself and his team over the cops any day.

The team. They’re always a resource. If worst comes to worst, he thinks, robotically making coffee as he tries to talk himself down, and she doesn’t come home before dark, I’ll call all of her closest friends. If she doesn’t come home before the morning—the thought makes him feel sick—I’ll deploy every fucking resource at my disposal. 

Maybe that’s an overreaction, too, but he has to find a way to self-soothe somehow. Planning makes him feel better. Being prepared for the things you never see coming makes him feel better. It’s impossible, of course—but the illusion of control is stubborn and so seductive. 

Thankfully, it doesn’t come to that. 

At around 2 PM, he receives a couple of texts from Garcia that are a massive relief. 

Penelope: She’s at my apartment

Penelope: BE NICER TO YOUR GIRLFRIEND!!!!!!!

The series of emojis that follow (including an octopus?), he doesn’t even try to decipher. He simply drops his phone and sighs deeply into his hands, releasing an extreme amount of paranoid tension that had been tying him into knots. Lately, he’s had this sense that everything is fleeting—that the things he takes for granted are painfully, violently impermanent. It doesn’t take anyone with a degree to figure out why he’s been feeling that way, but it’s so all-consuming he’s not sure how to cope with it. Just a few days ago, he’d been wondering how to break up with you. Now he’s asking himself how the fuck he thought he’d be able to do that when he’s barely functioning after a few hours without you.

It’s a question he still hasn’t answered by the time the front door opens at 10 PM. It’s clear by the deer-in-headlights look on your face that you hadn’t been expecting him like this—leaning over the counter, half-empty mug by his hand, staring at nothing in particular and waiting for you to come home. Neither of you have changed clothing since this morning—not that you could—but you look apprehensive as you close it behind you, never facing away from him. The whole thing is like a teenager being caught sneaking back in by a weary parent. 

For a moment the silent confrontation stretches into the horizon, a non-specific point as neither of you seem inclined to be the first to talk. You just watch him watching you—leaning against the door rigidly as if you can’t get far enough away. But he’s too tired for this. Too worn out. 

“How’d you get home?”

You swallow. 

“Penelope.”

Spencer nods slowly, rolling his bottom lip between teeth and finally looking away. 

“You really should have brought your phone.”

You scoff, peeling yourself from the door. 

“Of course that’s what you’re worried about.”

It’s the same situation as this morning, but in reverse—him following after you down the hall as you storm toward the bedroom. 

“Wh—should I not have been? You scared me—” he says your name, barely catching the door before it can slam in his face. “I was worried about you.”

“Why?” you face him, laughing bewilderedly as if the situation were at all funny. A kind of manic energy crackles from the surface of your skin and in your eyes that renders him unable to think of a reply. “Because you thought I would get raped and murdered and then you’d be sad?”

“Yes!” Spencer yells, eyes widening as he fails to contain his frustration any longer. “That is fucking exactly why I was scared!”

You step forward, getting in his space. It jars him, momentarily—he wants to get away from you. Being angry and so close to you is terrifying. What if he lashes out? What if he hurts you? He’s seen crimes of passion. His blood is freezing in his veins. 

“Of course you didn’t give one single fuck that I left you. You didn’t think for one fucking second that I might be tired of this. That wasn’t what you were scared of at all.” For every inch you near, he backs away. Another scorned, bitter laugh from you that feels like poison coursing through his entire circulatory system. You notice everything, eyeing him up and down as he cowers from you. “What is this, Spencer? If you hate being near me that much, just fucking break up with me.”

You’re close enough that he can see the tears welling in your eyes, but he’d know they were there even if he couldn’t observe them. He would hear it in your voice. He would feel it. But he can’t do anything about it. Right now, he’s paralyzed. 

“If the only thing holding you back is wanting to spare my feelings, just fucking do it. This isn’t better. I don’t give a fuck if it’s hard for you. It’s hard for me, too, but I’m not just going to ignore it anymore.”

There’s no more room. The wall is at is back. 

“Honey, please back up,” Spencer breathes. Last time his back was to a wall, he’d been gagged and beaten. Don’t lash out. She never hurt you. It wasn’t her. 

“Don’t tell me what to do!” you shout, as tears begin to spill over your cheeks. “Either break up with me or stop telling me to go away!”

At that moment, as you break down and your words become muddled with sobs, you raise your fist. 

Spencer watches it approach his shoulder as if in slow-motion. 

On instinct, he catches your wrist.

There’s a lull as he waits for something to explode, for something to go terribly, deeply wrong—

But it doesn’t. 

He realizes his grip is gentle. He realizes you’d never actually hurt him like that. He realizes how little resistance he’d found when he stopped what was sure to be nothing more than a petulant, petty bump against his shoulder—a maneuver that wouldn’t have hurt in the slightest. It was nothing more than a desolate, childlike display of feelings bigger than you know what to do with. 

In the second that it takes him to realize all of this, to realize he is not endangering you in the slightest, nor you him, you’ve begun to truly sob. Standing just inches from him, head angled down as he holds your wrist carefully, you are the picture of a girl who has been running on empty for a very long time and has nothing left to give. Spencer twines his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin and slowly rubbing your back like he’d never forgotten how to hold you. It stuns you, and the tears pause for just a second—before you’re wrapping desperate, weakened arms around him and sobbing even harder, albeit silently, into his shirt. 

“I don’t want to break up,” he whispers, his own voice shaky with understated emotion. “I’m sorry. Please don’t say that. I don’t want that.”

“What’s wrong with you?” You cry, a desperate plead caught between sobs that wrack your body against his against the wall. And he knows it’s not an accusation. It’s not an insult. It’s a question borne of confusion and fear. It’s what a child might ask a sick dog while tears stream down feverish cheeks. And it’s completely appropriate, considering he never tells you anything anymore and he’s only just realizing how scary that must be. Spencer is back from prison but you may as well still be living alone for all that you know about him. He tangles a hand in your hair and holds you against his chest, breathing you like nitrous oxide. 

“I don’t know,” he whispers. The room beyond blurs as he stares at nothing, focused only on the tingly euphoria of feeling you under his hands clashing with the ever-present and crushing shame that he couldn't do it sooner. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you—to be sorry.” Shuddering breaths and gasps still cleave your sentences in half, and Spencer listens so intently he thinks there might be harmonics hidden in the layers of your voice. He clings to every syllable like you’re wielding the word of god in a five-foot-something body. “I just miss you so m—much. I want you to—to love me.”

“I do,” he promises immediately, lips pressing to your ear. “I do love you. So much. So much.”

When you don’t respond, he’s not exactly surprised. He almost asks what he can do, what you need—but is quite sure that’s not the right move. Instead he doesn’t say a thing. Only holds you.

Later, you’ll pull back and he’ll swim in your teary gaze, and then kiss you. He’ll trace silent apologies into every inch of your skin under the torrent of the shower, and he’ll do whatever it takes to make you understand. But for now, for the first time in months, you’re holding each other, and that’s all either of you need.