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abibliophobiaa · 1 year

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Beyond — s.h. x f!reader

Chapter Two: I Think I Wanna Marry You

a/n: here’s chapter two of my purely self-indulgent fun, which shouldn’t be taken very seriously, if at all fic. haha. wanted to play around with one of my favorite tropes, so here we are with modern day!rich!fake husband!steve harrington x afab!reader.

warnings/tags: hugely unedited; mentions of alcohol; parent loss, both parties; r has a sister and father; smut in later chapters, so 18+, minors dni; additional tags to be added.

masterlist

The move itself brings a second dose of reality you never fully thought through.

Seeing Steve there, with his dark BMW, sunglasses on his face. He’s popped the trunk already and it’s with that sudden clarity you’re reminded that it’s happening.

That this is real and not some dream you’ve imagined in your mind.

You’re marrying him. In four weeks. Thirty days, exactly. A countdown to the next three years of your life. The other half of your “paperwork” you’re going to sign when you scribble your name along that certification of your marriage.

You work in comfortable silence. Robin and Nancy come along too for assistance, and with the combination of efforts, Steve’s car is packed in less than two hours. You’re shocked he’s even bothered to do it himself, and not order some sort of moving company. But when you point that out to him, he only shrugs and says he wanted to help.

Apparently it’s the least he can do for getting a wife at the end of all of this.

That and countless zeros on a check that he doesn’t even need or want.

Once your things are all settled in the trunk and backseat, Robin wanders over to where you both stand on the sidewalk, arms looping tight around your frame. She steps back and moves to tousle Steve’s hair, earning a sharp jerk of his body out of contact and an utterance of complaint from the taller man.

With a snort, she says, “You love me, don’t deny it.”

And he does. You know that much. He’s been closer with Robin for a year or so now. A direct result of her relationship with Nancy. Nancy’s job as a journalist, often documenting his life or the accolades of his family, has established a bond between the three. You try to tamper that slight jealousy.

The fact is that both Robin and Eddie have more insight into the man you’re marrying than you do.

You were always too busy, after all. Working or deep in your own studies and missing out on the many evenings Steve invited them all to join him in his outings. You suppose you’ll rectify that soon. There’s a lot two people can learn in three years—if he’s open to it, that is.

That awareness of truly not knowing him settles in as you clamber into the passenger seat, thumb sliding awkwardly over the band of your engagement ring to fiddle idly. He turns the dial on the music, something pop and current, and you lean back against your seat, letting the quiet of the morning wash over you.

You wake some time later to the sound of Steve’s voice in your ear, announcing, “Hey. We made it.”

Sleep lingers in your eyes as you shift in your seat to take him in. Dark eyes greet yours, sunglasses tucked into the neckline of his shirt. Your gaze then slides to the imposing building on a side of the city you’ve never really ventured outside of your coffee date with him some days prior.

It stands proud, tall and looming, with workers at the ready, prepped with carts for your things.

“They’ll take care of bringing everything up, and I thought maybe we could grab a coffee,” he suggests, moving to open his door. He tosses the valet his key and waltzes over to your side, opening the door for you. “How does that sound?”

You’re suddenly aware of the state of your clothes. Nothing more than a pair of baggy mom jeans and a striped tee shirt. Some white tennis shoes that are veering on brown in some areas from overuse.

Then there’s Steve, in dark wash jeans and a shirt you know likely still cost him a small fortune. Effortlessly handsome as always with a Chanel watch strapped around the wrist extended toward you.

You take his palm, nearl tripping over the bump of the curb as you go, your side thumping against his. He curls you there instead of letting you go, an arm around your shoulder, waving to the workers as they shift and swirl around you.

Keeping up appearances already, you suppose.

One pauses to dip their head your way, beaming brightly, asking, “It’s the girl from Instagram. Congratulations, Miss. Or rather, soon to be Mrs. Harrington.”

The name drops something akin to cool dread in your stomach. But you smile all the same. “You know what they say. When you know—” You tip your head up to look at him, gripping him by the jaw and giving him a soft wiggle. “You know.”

In your palm, Steve forces a grin. A little wild, a little smushed and silly, but the worker smiles all the same and wishes you both a good morning. Leaves you standing beside your soon to be husband on the side of an unfamiliar street, in an unfamiliar new town, ready to walk into your unfamiliar home.

“Coffee sounds good, actually,” you decide, wanting to be anywhere other than stuck in the awkward silence of the moment, and follow him down the sidewalk.

By the time you return, Steve’s been alerted that all your things have been brought up to the penthouse. Coffee in hand, you walk through the swirling doors, standing as close to Steve as humanly possible without truly touching him. There are people there to greet him, realizations in the back of your mind that he must be well-known. Amicable and kind, they offer warm welcomes to both you and your future husband as you’re led to an elevator that brings you all the way up to the top floor.

It’s from there, you’re brought into the place you’ll be spending the next few years. But what greets you is far greater than you even imagined. Endless floor to ceiling windows that overlook the cityscape. High, vaulted ceilings, impossibly white walls. Dark furniture throughout the living area, the kitchen. Against the living room wall rests the largest television you’ve seen, presently off, though Steve turns it on to allow some music to play and break the awkward silence as he walks you around.

He’s already told you the general layout of his space: two bathrooms, multiple bedrooms, a fully decked out personal gym, movie area, dining area, outdoor patio, a study that also poses as his office, a library. It seems impossible to have this much space, and yet the further into the suite you walk, the more real it becomes.

“Seems not lived in, though,” you comment out loud, taking in the impressively clean place. Especially knowing Steve doesn’t spend much time at all here. “Like there’s all this space and nothing to fill it with.”

He huffs out a laugh, not disagreeing. “You can spruce it up if you want. I’ll give you my card. Whatever you like to make it feel like yours. Because, well, it is yours.”

“Yours, mine, and ours, right?” You awkwardly laugh, walking over to look out the windows and take in the bustling city below. “It’s amazing.”

“It’s…yeah, you know, I guess it is.” He sidles up next to you, peering out where you are. He frowns, contemplative. “I guess I don’t think about it often. I wake up to it every day.”

Another stark reminder of just how different your lives are.

“How was wedding planning with my mom?” he asks, drawing you attention to his face. His fingers card through his hair, his feet carrying him over to the kitchen to pull out a glass. He adds a second, asking, “Anything to drink?”

“Water is fine,” you say, hands clasped behind your back as you join him. “We went over color schemes. I ended up with pale pinks, lavenders and a tiny pop of gold. More so the accents. We will be looking for a dress tomorrow. Kind of shitting myself over that one.”

“I can come—if you want?” He suggests, holding your glass in front of him.

“Isn’t that bad luck?” you tease, taking a sip.

“Pretty sure that’s only at the wedding.”

“Right.” The wedding. In thirty days. “I mean, if you wanted to come…”

“I’ll be there,” he promises, opening his phone and showing you the calendar app. “What time?”

“Your mother got us a private appointment at twelve. I told her she didn’t have to do that but—”

“She’s excited. She’s getting a daughter out of this. Sometimes I think she wishes I’d been a girl,” he laughs, though there’s a hint of bitterness there you don’t miss. “Here—let me show you your room.”

You trail after him in silence, eyes taking in everything you pass. Boring, empty walls. No pops of color. No personal photos. Nothing indicative of life. Not even a shred of memorabilia from his childhood, or something of sentimental value from his boyhood. It seems odd, though you don’t press him on it. Instead you allow him to bring you through the tour, before stopping in front of a closed door.

“This,” he says, tapping on the exterior, “is my room. In case you ever need me. And here…”

You walk further down the way and stop in front of another door. “Will be your room. All your things will have already been moved in. You just have to unpack and make it yours. I do have some work I need to get to now, but I’m around if you need me.”

“It’s the weekend…” you point out, fingers around the door handle.

“Yeah,” he agrees, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “But with all that’s going on, I want to make sure everything is taken care of before the wedding and our honeymoon.”

Honeymoon.

Right.

To that private island in the Maldives.

A honeymoon for two people who are most definitely not intimate and, therefore, should not be spending money like this is anything more than a mere sham.

Still, your flights are booked, accommodations made, and itinerary is set. It was the first thing his mother had done other than figuring out what color palette you preferred.

“So, uh, I’ll talk to you…later then,” you say, shifting awkwardly on the balls of your feet.

“Yeah, later.” He nods.

And suddenly, you’re Cinderella once more.

Standing there in that doorway, in her too-big home, with that pumpkin instead of a carriage.

Though you’ve never spent much time fantasizing about shopping for your wedding dress, it never quite looks like what you see around you now.

For starters, you imagined your mother would be there. Kind, bright and smiling. There to tell you how beautiful you look, to coax you through your nerves, to remind you that this is the most special day of your life coming up and to just enjoy the moment.

But it’s not. And you’re left standing on a pedestal in front of Mrs. Harrington, your father, sister, Eddie and Robin. Further off in the distance is Steve, phone against his face as it has been since you woke that morning.

Steve’s always busy, you soon realize. In the private car to take you to the boutique? He had a work conference call. In the kitchen while you ate your breakfast? Another phone call. Now here, while a bridal attendant works with his mother to find you some options to try on? He’s got some major meltdown to help sort out.

You understand, and yet there’s a slight sting there you’re not expecting. The idea that he said he would be there for your try-on session, but he’s not really there. Not emotionally, at least.

“Still can’t believe you got Eddie to come,” Caroline laughs, elbowing the man in question as he snatches her up and shakes her vigorously. “Stop it, asshole—”

“Caroline!” your father snaps, leaning back into the couch cushion as another attendant passes out glasses of champagne for all present.

They even manage to find some juice for your sister, so she feels involved with the process.

“So, we picked a few beautiful pieces. A lot of these are brand new, so you won’t have to worry about someone else wearing the same dress—”

“Oh I’m not concerned about—”

Mrs. Harrington clears her throat, waving her champagne flute in the air. “Only the best for my future daughter in law.”

You shoot a weak grin Robin’s way.

Eddie gives you a reassuring thumbs up, arm still around Caroline’s neck despite her protesting.

The next few hours are a whirlwind of trying on dress after dress. Fancy beading, endless lace, plunging backs, dramatic trains, striking silhouettes.

You’re decked in beading from head to toe, diamond encrusted gowns, gowns that look like they’re better suited for royalty than on the girl who grew up in Hawkins. Who worked at her little hole in the wall restaurant and had a normal, unglamorous upbringing.

It hits you as you’re standing there, with a veil that looks to be studded with expensive jewels, staring at your own reflection that this isn’t you. None of these are. And even if you’re marrying someone to help them fulfill a will and to secure a debt for your own self, there’s a part of you that wants to do things your way.

If you’re going to get married to Steve Harrington, you want to feel like yourself while doing it. “Do you have something more…simple? Classic. Understated, maybe?”

The bridal attendant looks to your future mother-in-law like you have grown five dozen heads, and the look your mother-in-law then gives you tells you she is agreeing with the same sentiment.

Her gaze wavers, shifting over to where her son is pacing in the background, before she shifts back to where you stand on a podium.

The girl in a fancy ball gown that feels like a costume more than anything else.

“What are you thinking, sweetheart?” she asks, and you blow out a heavy breath.

Your guests shift on the couch awkwardly as you hop off the podium and peruse the dozens of racks. You point out the ones that seem more comfortable, more like something you would have picked up on your own even before all of this. Simpler designs, classical silhouettes, subtle beading.

All in all, you end up in a stunning a-line princess, v-neck wedding gown with thin straps and a pretty lace detailing along the low back.

A minimalistic veil is placed at the back of your head and draped around you like a billowing halo, trailing down the pedestal and onto the cream carpeting below.

Behind you, Eddie whistles.

Caroline snaps photos on her phone.

Robin’s shouting, “Holy shit, babe.”

And when you turn around to your father and future mother-in-law, you know you’ve made the right decision in trusting your gut. Both have snatched tissues from a nearby tissue box and dab ceaselessly at their eyes, sniffling audibly.

“You look beautiful, honey,” your father says around a sob.

Bottom lip wobbling, you whisper, “Thank you.”

Mrs. Harrington waves in her son’s direction, calling over her shoulder, “Steve, look at your bride. Stop being rude.”

When he turns around, there’s a moment. A brief one, you think, where he pauses. Maybe it’s a realization he’s making a huge mistake, the understanding that he’s going to have a wife in a few short weeks, the idea that he’s giving up his future for three years. But there’s a thought, however fleeting, where his eyes widen and you wonder if it’s actually none of those at all.

Without a name to place that emotion to, you simply swallow and mutter softly, “Well, what do you think?”

Eddie leans against the couch, fingers draping over the plush back as he asks out loud, “Yeah, Stevie, what do you think?”

It’s a threat.

Veiled.

There’s no danger, not really, but Steve swallows all the same.

Wavers a bit as he looks to Eddie, then back to you.

He swallows again, and says, “You’re beautiful, honey.”

Disappointment sinks like an anchor of dread, because you wonder if he even means it.

Cake testing a week later fares no better. You’re still getting used to your new routine. Waking up early to an empty home in an empty room that hardly feels like yours. Steve’s usually off to sort out something with the business, while you’re left to your own devices.

Which means phone calls with the wedding planner, pictures sent back and forth between Steve and your future mother-in-law about decisions made, which Steve always just sends and thumbs up emoji back to, and trying to make sense of a wedding that only one half of the couple has been privy to.

Sure, he’d been there when you picked out your dress. But he hadn’t been for the floral arrangements, for figuring out what the bridesmaids will wear as well as the groomsmen. And he’s definitely not there when you’re presented with options for musical entertainment.

So it comes as a shock when he does end up coming for the cake testing. And since he’s free to do so, his mother stays home, suggesting it’ll be an intimate moment for you two. Something about how the cake is important.

You hold back your biting remarks about how it’s just a cake, and instead thank her.

Whine a bit on the phone to really sell the fact that you ‘miss Stevie’—in case she doubts the validity of your engagement. She’s not really shown any indications of such, but you’re growing more mindful of the importance of appearances.

Because it’s in that first week your name pops up in the popular pages of instagram and other social media platforms. There’s even a TikTok of you walking on a busy city street with Steve and Eddie, where people bring to question if you and Steve are already fighting based on your body language.

Though, you do suppose there’s some weight to their remarks. In said video, you’re standing closer to Eddie than Steve, and Steve’s phone is in the hand nearest to you. The one they suggest he should really be holding if he’s as in love as he is. It sounds ridiculous, but it does make sense.

In their eyes, you’re more likely to be dating the famous rockstar based on body language alone than your fiancé.

Wedding planning should be butterflies in your belly, heart eyes for days, wrapped up in one another sort of affection. Steve and you, on the other hand, are two people walking side by side and yet not together.

You understand you need to change that. So as you walk down the street that evening on your way to the bakery, you mutter out, “Hold my hand.”

“What?” He’s typing on his phone, as always. The sound of keyboard clicking meets your ears, before he locks the screen and slides it into his pocket.

“Hold,” you say. There’s a little extra bite this time, “my hand.”

He exhales. “Why?”

“Because you’re in love with me and we’re getting married in less than twenty days,” you remind him.

Less than three weeks. Just under that, really. A thought that immediately has your skin prickling with nervousness and anticipation. Three weeks until you have a new name, a new husband.

“And we’re on our way to our cake testing,” you add, lacing your fingers through his. “People have been talking about us on social media.”

“Saying what?” He leads you down a side street, and then another.

“That we look uncomfortable with one another. That it seems like we must be fighting, because you don’t show me any affection in public—”

“I’ve been—”

“Busy, I know. But they don’t know that, so they’ll fill in the blanks when applicable,” you explain, giving his palm a light squeeze. “So I think we should get used to the public displays of affection, don’t you? I mean, we’re going to have to kiss at the altar, for one. And then there’s the dancing at the reception. Photos. Events.”

“I guess you’re right,” he agrees.

“I know I’m right,” you joke, allowing him to open the door for you to the building.

“Cake testing can be intimate. This is one of your first meals as a couple, so it needs to be representative of your relationship. The two of you. The love you share,” the cake maker explains, her hands waving to and fro in the air like she’s painting a picture.

You glance over at Steve. He offers a shrug, likely just as uncertain as to what the hell this lady is getting at. “Pardon?”

“You want a cake that is representative of your love. A symbol—if you will.”

“It’s just a c—” Steve begins, but the older woman narrows her gaze darkly and he clears his throat. Uncomfortable. “Honey, why don’t you handle this one?”

“Oh, but darling, you’re the cake connoisseur.” You pat the hand holding yours affectionately atop the table, forcing a megawatt grin on your lips.

“Is that so?” Madeleine asks, cat eye glasses sliding lower down the bridge of her nose. “In that case, did you have any ideas for what you imagined the cake at your wedding to look like?”

Steve’s hand nervously grows tighter around yours. You hiss at the throbbing pain that develops there when your knuckles smash together. The grasp immediately loosens, a thumb coming to slide gently over the sore areas.

You choose to ignore the rush of heat that swoops low in your belly, though.

“Well—I pictured…a cake,” he expresses lamely.

“What my dear fiancé means to say is…we’ve been so caught up with the rush of wedding planning we haven’t given it much thought,” you giggly airily, faux coyness filling your tone. “You know how it is. We’re just so excited to spend the rest of our lives together. So we were hoping maybe you’d be able to suggest some options for us.”

Because you’re also not sure how to tell them your cake needs to be representative of a mix of high levels of shame and “I was drowning in debt and Steve offered assistance, so long as I become his wife.”

Madeleine huffs and gets to work.

Later, the two of you stumble back onto the street with a cake picked out and designed to Madeleine’s liking. A red velvet center with some endless swirling flowers along the exterior in the color scheme of your wedding.

“A cake reflective of our relationship,” he mutters, shaking his head as he reaches for your palm once more. “And what was that? Sacrificing me to her?”

You bat your eyelashes prettily, shrugging. “My idea of a cake is a boxed Pillsbury one. I figured you were the closest to an expert we would get. Also—you nearly broke my hand there.”

“I was stressed,” he argues, though there’s a hint of a smile curling his lips. His thumb does another one of those low sweeps that has you pausing in your footsteps. “But that was a little ridiculous, wasn’t it?”

You bark out a laugh, following him down the still unfamiliar streets leading home. “A little? I don’t know where your mother and the wedding planner found her. It’s a cake. It’s literally a cake we’re going to have one bite of before the caterers feed it to the rest of our guests.” A shudder ripples down your spine at that. “Our guests. Weird to think, huh?”

“Less than three weeks,” he muses, the two of you crossing at a streetlight. “Still feeling okay with the whole thing?”

“Okay? That's still to be determined.” He waves to someone in passing. Likely a neighbor, you assume. “Backing out? Absolutely not.”

One thing you definitely didn’t consider in this whole…fake marriage plot with Steve, is the concept of bachelor and bachelorette parties. You are obviously well aware of the typical fanfare, have been in numerous weddings as it is, but there are no parameters or guidelines in place for a wedding that has been planned in thirty days in an effort to rush to the altar.

So, you leave that part of the wedding planning up to your friends.

And somehow the end result is a joint party.

What could possibly go wrong?

“Holy shit, Steve.” Robin’s head falls back as she enters your bedroom, mouth dropping open, taking it all in. It’s the size of both your rooms combined back at your old place. “At least you got a nice place out of all this.”

You shrug, dropping down onto your bed. Fingers splay across the sheets, soft and cool beneath. Against your closet rests the white jumpsuit you’ve decided on for your party. A sleeveless number that cinches at the waist and a sweetheart neckline that cups your breasts sumptuously.

Pretty.

But there’s the dawning realization that tonight all the attention will be solely on you and Steve.

So what do you do?

“This is a terrible idea,” Steve groans, wincing as his shot goes down.

“Actually, it’s probably one of the best I’ve had,” Eddie exclaims, clapping you both on the back.

The sting of tequila burns in your nose. The flowing sash across your chest that says Mrs. Harrington rumples when your arm reaches over to place the glass back down on the countertop. Robin’s there to adjust it, grinning despite your sour expression.

“Wow, look at you two,” she coos, pulling out her phone to snap a photo. “For your story. They’ll eat it up. Plus, better to get all the cute pictures now, instead of when you’re both drunk later.”

Steve pulls you closer to take a photo, grumbling. “We are not getting drunk.”

“Steeeeve.”

You’re drunk.

“Yeah, honey bunny.”

Aaaaand so is he.

“F—” You hiccup. He laughs, leaning bodily into your shoulder. “—uck. I’m gonna kill Eddie.”

Even though Eddie’s only responsible for your first drink. Not the second, or the third, fourth…you’re not sure where you’re at now.

There’s at least an awareness that it’s enough; enough to have the room spinning when you sit down, and Steve beside you like an anchor in a shaky sea.

So when he moves to stand, your fingers curl around his wrist and drag him back down again. “No. Don’t go. We’re…to death do us part.”

“Till,” he corrects, snorting playfully. “You’re gonna see me everyday for…three years.”

“But there’s so many people here. Soooo many. And most of them are your friends,” you whine, clasping your hand in his as he leads you back out further into the people spread out along the private rooftop. “You have soooo many friends. Did you know that?”

He simply laughs, just as Eddie’s voice breaks over the noise all around you. A loud shout of, “The soon to be newlyweds should do the next round of karaoke!”

“Edward Munson, you little s—” Another hiccup. Shit, you think, we’re giggly drunk tonight. “shit. I’m gonna beat your ass like I did when we were kids.”

“It’s like something out of a fuckin’ romcom,” Steve later whines as you’re both pushed onto the stage by a bunch of cheering friends. “And they picked our song already.”

“Oh no, which one?” You slur a bit on your words, one ankle rolling like a baby deer.

Steve grasps your bicep to steady you. “Marry You by Bruno Mars.”

“Nooo,” you moan, hiding your face in his collar bone. Shit, you think, I’m a flirty drunk tonight too. “Think we can escape our own party?”

One glance out to your awaiting guests tells you that’s not at all a possibility. Steve’s there, overly affectionate now that you’ve got a crowd, with a hand on your lower back, pulling you close.

To anyone else, you’re a couple celebrating their nuptials in the next few days.

To you, you know he’s laying it on thick.

Making sure there is absolutely no question as to the validity of your marriage.

Especially with potential co workers around, with those who can easily talk rumors in the halls, who might wonder why the speedy engagement and rush down the aisle in the first place.

“One song,” you shout over the crowd, over Steve’s shoulder.

And then, in a puff of breath against his ear you whisper, “Make it count, hubby.”

“It’s a beautiful night. We’re looking for something dumb to do. Heyy babyyyy! I think I wanna marry you!” You sing.

If you can consider it that.

To Eddie it’s screeching or a shrill wail, a high pitched thing that makes everyone around you wince.

There’s interference with the mic that has Eddie’s eyes slamming shut against the sharp pang against his eardrums.

“Think we should stop them?” Robin asks out loud, watching Steve awkwardly bob and sway beside you, never really sure of what to do with his body when it comes to music.

“No,” Eddie chuckles darkly, leaning back on his chair. “Those idiots are involving us in a literal crime, so we’re going to have our fun with it.”

“Is it the look in your eyes or is it this dancing juice? Who cares, baby, I think I wanna marry you,” Steve continues, and it’s clearly not up to your standard, because you grab his arm and wiggle it frantically.

“I am marrying him!” You giggle over the microphone, extending your ring to the crowd. “Can you believe it? Mrs. Harrington.”

“Oh no,” Robin mutters, gripping Nancy’s hand beside her. “She’s giggly now.”

“She’s fucked up. She’s going to kill us in the morning,” Eddie grumbles.

Robin’s eyes widen as Nancy says, “I really feel like you two should stop them. Because Steve just grabbed her and now they’re, uh, making out on the stage—”

Robin jumps to her feet. “Oh fuck.”

You wake in the morning to a bunch of tiny needles stabbing your skull. Like someone took a jackhammer to your brain and pushed an on switch.

Brain practically groaning in your head, you lift yourself slowly into a sitting position and moan at the throb that rolls down the nape of your neck and down your spine.

Wincing, you kick your legs over the side of the bed and insert your feet into the slippers on the floor down below, sighing at the immediate comfort.

The penthouse is full of chatter. Voices mill from the kitchen, soft despite the clanging cymbals you’re convinced are in your brain. And there, at the kitchen island, stands none other than your two (ex) best friends and your soon to be husband, cups of coffee held against their temples, shame ebbing from their forms.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Robin coos, turning around to gauge your expression.

You don’t miss the shock of brows curling high on her forehead, nor do you miss the tick in Eddie’s cheek as he fights a smile.

“I must look like shit,” you grumble, sliding into the kitchen between the group, uncaring as your shoulder brushes Steve’s. There’s already an iced coffee for you on the countertop. Steve must have ordered, you assume, fighting the flutter in your chest at the thought. “I feel like shit. Very unsexy shit. People keep talking about my bridal beauty, but I feel very much like a bridal beast right now.”

Robin shakes her head, hand on your shoulder. “No, you look fine, you look—”

“Like you’ve had better nights,” Eddie says nonchalantly, earning a cough from Steve to his left.

“I’m sorry, it seems like your invitation to my wedding was rescinded. So weird,” you say brightly, leaning against Robin’s shoulder, pinching your eyes against the bright kitchen lightning. “You’re no longer my best friend. Maybe you’ll fare better with Steve here.”

Why did Steve get a building with white walls as far as the eye can see? You also decide your first purchase will be curtains to block out the natural light coming through the large windows covering the entirety of your living room exterior.

“Tell me you guys didn’t have fun,” Eddie says with a roll of his eyes. “Unless you don’t remember much of it. But it looked like you were having fun.”

The thing is, you remembered every moment.

Every interaction with your guests, every brush of shoulders from your soon to be husband.

Every fleeting glance.

Every look over the top of your glass.

The way your heart danced in your chest as he led you onto that stage.

How his fingers had curled around your own as you sang that ridiculous karaoke song.

How his lips had felt when he dropped a hand to the small of your back and tugged you flush against his form.

The way his heart thundered against yours where your sternums pressed together.

The warmth of his palm.

The heat of his breath as you breathed one another in.

The fullness of his mouth against yours, gentle brushes at first that soon grew passionate.

Heated.

It had been scalding.

A burn that simmered.

A burn you relished, wanted to fan into flame, wanted to foster in the moment.

Just a silly, stupid, alcohol-fueled moment.

It means nothing.

Nothing.

“I don’t really remember much after we left here,” Steve says.

He stares at you. Eyes locked on your face. Imploring.

Eddie and Robin shift your way, too.

Curiosity brims, and your heart aches.

You open your mouth. “I don’t really remember much either.”

Seven days.

You’ll be a wife in seven days.

Don’t get it twisted now, you remind yourself.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x reader fanfic #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader fluff #modern!steve harrington #fake husband!steve harrington #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x female reader #steve harrington modern au

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peterman-spideyparker · 8 months

Text

Caught (Matt Murdock x fem!Reader, Foggy Nelson x friend!fem!Reader)

Author’s Note: Hey everyone! I've been feeling very unmotivated and uninspired the last month, which lead to no motivation to post and even less motivation to write. But, with my period making me very mood swing-y, I went down a rabbit hole of very personal emotions and wrote this. It's more of a Reader x Foggy Nelson fic, but, I like it. I hope you all enjoy! :)

Summary: When Foggy catches you and Matt in the office during the workday, it leads to you letting Foggy in on a well-kept secret.

Warnings: Smut (p in v unprotected sex, semi-public), one lil swear, angst (talk of infertility, heavy feelings attached to topics of infertility, negative self-image/low self-esteem) fluffy/hopeful ending

Other Characters: Foggy Nelson, Marci Stahl (mentioned)

Word Count: 2,007

You press a kiss to Matt’s lips as he continues to rut into you, his large hands a firm and tender reminder for what you’re doing and why you’re doing it in his office.

“Matt,” you breathe, your breath hitching at the end of his name.

“You’re doing so good, angel,” he murmurs into your neck, pressing a soft kiss on your pulse point. “Just a little more f’me, okay?”

You whimper and nod, leaning forward and kissing him again as you hold onto his shoulders for support. He keens into your touch, your foreheads resting together as his nose nuzzles against yours.

“Matty, I’m gonna cum,” you moan softly.

“Good girl. Hold on a little more, sweetheart. Just a little—.”

“Hey, Matt—Oh for fuck’s sake!” Foggy says as he enters the office, immediately turning around and leaving. You practically fall off of the desk when he enters, Matt losing his grip on your body as well, slipping out of you as your impending orgasms slip from your grasps. You both call after him, but when you hear the door to the main lobby close, you both know he’s getting out of the building as fast as possible.

“I gotta go after him,” Matt pants, fumbling around.

“No, I’ll do it,” you tell him, grabbing your panties and sliding them up your legs, giving Matt a quick kiss as you adjust the skirt of your dress and rush to follow Foggy.

“Wait!” you call as you burst onto the sidewalk and catch his blond hair shining in the summer sun. “Foggy, wait!”

“(Y/N), you didn’t need to follow me. I’m flattered cuz it feels like I’m in a rom com, but totally unnecessary.”

“Foggy, please,” you ask softly.

“No, you don’t need to explain—you’re married. But in the office? There’s—.”

“Matt and I have been trying to get pregnant,” you explain.

Foggy demeanor immediately changes. “Oh my God, that’s fantastic! Go back up there! I’ll give you both another half hour.”

“I don’t know that ‘fantastic’ is the right word,” you breathe. “It’s not . . . We’ve been trying for two years and nothing has happened.” You watch as Foggy’s posture drops. “Can we sit and talk about this? Maybe at the park a few blocks over?”

Foggy nods, looping his arm in yours as you walk in silence until he finds an empty park bench.

“What’s going on?” Foggy asks softly.

“We didn’t expect to get pregnant right away,” you start. “I mean, I guess I might have expected it to take six months or a year. In all honesty, I half expected to get pregnant before Matt and I were married, but that’s beside the point. I mentioned to my doctor a bit back that Matt and I were trying and that it hadn’t happened . . . She suggested we both do some fertility tests. Matt’s results were fine, but mine . . .”

Foggy wraps his arm around your shoulders as you wipe away some tears. “(Y/N), I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“I know my worth isn’t tied to having kids,” you sniffle. “But I’ve wanted to be a mom so bad, Foggy. Especially since I met Matt. And then I see him with Sammy and I just know that he’d be such a wonderful father, even if he is scared by the idea of it. And it’s because of me that he’s not.”

“Matt . . . He’s never mentioned any of this. I mean, I wasn’t expecting him to, but, we’re like brothers. We tell each other everyth—.” He stops talking as if something clicks as he’s speaking. “I told him right away after Marci told me she was pregnant with Sammy.”

“I know. I was with him and he had the call on speaker. After he hung up, I got another negative pregnancy test. I think I cried harder than I ever had before that night.” Foggy deserves to know the whole story behind it, but you feel ashamed continuing. “I love you and Marci and your sweet little baby boy, but . . . You guys weren’t even trying and it happened by accident. You guys didn’t even know if you wanted to keep him when you found out, and I mean . . . People seem to get pregnant all the time, and I can’t. It’s like there’s something wrong with me.”

“(Y/N), it’s not your fault.”

“Everyone tells me that, and it’s getting harder and harder to believe. If it’s not my fault, then why haven’t I gotten pregnant?”

“It’s . . . Timing. It sounds lame, but it is. I was excited when I found out, but panic and fear outweighed everything. I didn't think Marci and I were ready. I told my mom, and she sat me down and looked me straight in the eye and said: ‘Franklin, you can handle this. Kids come into your life when you need them most, not because they’re planned.’ I was scared shitless beyond belief, but . . . My mom was right. It might not be great advice, but, none of it is your fault. It will happen. It’s like . . . It’s almost like my relationship with Marci. We couldn’t make it work on all of the other times we were together, and then one day, something just clicked for us. We were in the right spot for a good, healthy relationship. Of course I wanted it to all stick the first, second, fifth time we got back together, and it sucked that it took as long as it did, but, it finally happened. And I’m so grateful that it did.”

You turn into Foggy, not strong enough to keep the tears in. He instantly wraps you in a big hug, letting you cry into his shoulder. He doesn’t say a single thing, just letting you cry until you get it all out of your system.

“It’ll happen,” he reassures softly as you lean back and wipe away stray tears.

“I just . . .” you start, but stop.

“This is a safe space, (Y/N). If you want to, you can tell me.”

“I can’t shake the fact that Matt is only doing this for me. He’s told me he never thought of having kids, and when we first brought it up when we were dating, he didn’t sound too sure that he wanted them. But he knew I did. And I can’t shake the feeling that he is only sticking to this absurd diet and schedule and treatments for me, and that’s not what I want, you know? I love him, and it makes me feel so loved that he’s willing to do this, but . . . I can tell it’s taking a toll on him. H-He probably knows before I take the tests that I’m not pregnant, but he just keeps going along with it and pushing through the heartbreak because he knows that I want a baby.”

“Have you told him any of this?”

“No,” you admit. “I just don’t know how to tell him. And I’m afraid I’ll hurt him if I do.”

“You can’t carry that burden alone, (Y/N).”

“And Matt doesn’t need another burden.”

“You’re not a burden, (Y/N), and neither are your worries.” He places his hand over yours. “Matt would give you the breath from his lungs if it meant that you were happy and okay. And you know just as well as I do that no one can force Matt Murdock to do anything. He wants a family with you.” Foggy takes your face in his hands and wipes the tears off of your cheeks. “Do you know what he told me after your first date?” You just blink and look at him. “He told me that he just had a date with the most wonderful woman ever, and that one day, he’d marry you. A year later before he proposed to you, he spent forever imagining what your kids would be like. How many you would have, how many would be boys or girls, whose personality they’d be closer to . . . Someone who doesn’t want kids doesn't talk for three hours about what his future family would be like. He wants kids just as badly as you do. Knowing Matt, he’s bottling everything up because he knows how much harder it is on you to be going through this over and over. Neither of you are alone in this, okay?”

You nod, pulling Foggy in for another tight hug.

“I love you both so much,” he breathes. “I’m so sorry about this. But whatever you need, I'm here for you.”

“Thank you, Foggy,” you breathe. “I love you, too.”

“Wanna go back? Or do you need a few more minutes?”

You let out a breath and straighten up. “We should probably go back. I don’t want Matt worrying. Well, anymore then he probably already is.”

Foggy nods before you both stand. He loops his arm in yours like he did earlier as you slowly walk back down a few blocks and up the stairs to the lobby of Nelson and Murdock.

“Matt?” Foggy calls out. “Matt, we’re back.”

Matt walks out of his office, looking more put together than he did when you left him. You move from Foggy’s side, reaching your hands up to fix his hair. “There you go,” you hum. “All better.”

“Foggy, it’s not what—,” Matt starts, but Foggy puts up a hand to stop him before he starts speaking.

“You don’t need to explain,” Foggy says softly. “(Y/N) filled me in on some things.”

“She . . . She did?”

“Yeah, she did. It’s okay. Whatever you need, I’m here for you guys.”

You can tell that behind his red glasses, Matt is misty eyed as he goes in to embrace his best friend in a tight hug.

“How about you take the rest of the day off?” Foggy suggests. “I’ve got things here.”

“Fog—.”

“I mean it. Spend some time with your wife.” You give Foggy one more tight hug, and he gladly hugs you back with the same enthusiasm, kissing the crown of your head. “Now, go, you crazy kids!”

You and Matt laugh before Matt goes to grab his briefcase as you grab his cane and coat. As your husband makes his way back toward you, he gives Foggy one more final hug before slipping his hand into yours as you walk down to the street.

“You told him?” he asks softly.

“I did,” you nod. “It . . . It shouldn’t be something we’re hiding from the people we love. I mean, I wish it wasn’t taking so long to happen, but . . . it shouldn’t be something we carry alone. We have good, supportive friends.”

“We sure do.” Matt leans over and kisses your temple. “Do you want to go back home? I can tell you’re still ovulating.”

“Maybe we grab lunch instead?” you say with a squeeze to his hand. “We don’t have to sit and eat out, but we could at least grab some takeout and talk at home?”

“Talk?”

“I can only imagine this is as hard on you as it is me. I want to know how we can make it a little easier on the both of us.”

“Our children—no matter when we have them, if we adopt—our children . . . you will be the best mother. And I am so fortunate that I’m your husband, and that you're my friend.”

You take his face in your hands, pulling him in for a long kiss, holding him close. “I have the things at home for lasagna. It was going to be dinner tonight, but, I could put it together for a late lunch?”

“That sounds absolutely delicious.”

“I’m glad you think so,” you hum as you both start walking again. “And, you know, I’ll probably still be ovulating after we eat. Besides, wine makes everything so much more fun.”

You know Matt is grinning like a cheshire cat as he snakes his hand around your waist and moves to kiss your neck, his scruff making you giggle uncontrollably as you make your way into the lobby of your building.

Permanent Taglist: @majesticavenger @steampowerednightvaler @themusingsofmany @just-the-hiddles @toozmanykids @dangertoozmanykids101 @clints-worldavengers @theburningbookshop @itwasthereaminuteago @peter1ismybrother@hellskitchens-whore @dpaccione @catnip987

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mysticalsoot · 10 months

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hi Connor! can i request a hurt/comfort cc!Wilbur x reader in which reader's going through a rough path of mental health? to be more specific, a lot happened and they're overwhelmed, their mind is all over the place and they need someone to assure them that they're human and not some sort of flickering ghost like they thought. it'd be nice if there's no pronoun in the writing and Wilbur holding reader hands, squeeze it to remind them that they're human :)

don't lock yourself away (request)

A/N; this took me too many months to get to you and for that, I am sorry- but here it is!! I'm trying to work more and more on my requests so hopefully this is the start of many more request posts!!

summary; reader goes through a rough patch mentally and sort of disappears and wilbur gets fed up, taking matters into his own hands and reminding reader that they aren't all what their brain says they are :)

tw// swearing, $uicidal ideation a bit, negative thoughts, depression, dissociation (some), uhh I think that's all?

words; 1.5k

pairings; cc!wilbur x gn!reader

pronouns; none, at least one use of y/n tho!!

masterlist

---------------------------------------------------------

Like most other people, your mental health wasn't always the most steady. You'd come and go between happy, good days and depressing, bad days. Most of the time, your depressive episodes didn't even have much of a cause. Your mental health was simply a precariously stacked pile of things with one last feather on the top, and when it would touch the tower of reasons, it'd cause it to fall over.

You weren't sure what your reason was this time. But nonetheless, whatever it was; threw you over the pier into the ocean of despair. It's been a week since you left your flat, and you stopped answering calls and texts five days ago, and now you felt as though you were rotting—but in the comfort of your sheets and pillows.

Rotting away in comfort sounded like a good way to go, your eyes slipping shut to never open again—you stopped yourself every time you thought that. It was easy to succumb to the negative and end all thoughts but you managed to stop yourself—at least this time you did.

Your phone was most definitely dead and Wilbur knew that. Every call he sent through would go straight to voicemail and every text went unanswered. He understood if you were busy, but it had been so many days since anybody heard you from. And yeah, he was on tour for half of your isolation from the world—but he still cared. He really really cared, but he didn't know what to do. What was he supposed to do?

He’d called and texted and even went to your apartment with his spare key--but it didn’t fit. And you weren’t answering your door either.

Maybe he had an old key or maybe your apartment building changed the locks while he was gone and you didn't get the chance to tell him—hypotheticals aside, he had no real idea of what had happened or what was going on. And that scared him. It terrified him, actually.

It was a fear that went deep in his bones, that maybe something had happened and no one noticed or told him and he'd never find out why. Your door wasn't working, you weren't answering his calls and texts, what else was he meant to think? He tried knocking, truly he did, but there was still no response or sounds

He tried everything but it wouldn't budge, so he resorted to resting against the door as he sat on the carpeted hall. He'd wait here as long as he needed to. And so he messaged Tommy that he wouldn't be able to do a vlog with him tomorrow and he settled in to figure out what to do. He wasn't sure if he cared about being polite, maybe he should find a way to break in, just so he can make sure you're okay—but that would probably scare you and he can't risk that, can he?

At this point, he might as well. He brings himself back to his feet and grabs a safety pin he left in his wallet—mostly just to pick the lock at his office when he locked himself in, because whatever genius engineer decided the lock of his office's doors should be on the outside also made it very difficult to keep unlocked. It was like the doors had minds of their own. It was a few moments before he heard a click and he muttered a phrase of excitement before he jingled the door open and closed it behind him when he stepped a foot into your apartment.

He gazes around for any sign of you or life in general and not much was found. Surprisingly, things were decently tidy, there weren't any dishes or chores undone—which was unusual for what he assumed to be a depressive episode but he shrugged it off and beelined for your bedroom after dropping his keys in the bowl next to the door. He's quick to shuffle the door open and his eyes almost immediately land on your curled form.

You're laying under the covers, curled up into yourself and you're silent. Wilbur steps closer to the bed and he calls out for you, "Love?" He steps closer again, "Darling?"

You mumble something incoherent and he's taken aback by how out of it you are-- how unlike yourself you are. He finds his spot next to you and lays a hand on your hip, “Y/N?”

You don’t respond, keeping to yourself, trying to still your breaths--make yourself disappear into the mattress. Maybe he won’t ask questions then, maybe he’ll go away if you don’t answer.

He pulls away his hand a whine nearly drawls itself from your throat, you liked that but you’d never admit it in this state.

“I know you're not going to answer me, so I’m going to tell you what I think and hope you're listening, okay?” He turns on his side to face you, your eyes are wide open now and he smiles a bit to himself, taking a deep breath before continuing, “I think you feel like a shell. You do this a lot, when you're upset or in a funk. I know you can’t help it, I know it's human nature to hide away within yourself and your safe spaces. I don’t blame you, my love. But I need some assurance I’m not going to lose you, okay? A simple nod now or a simple word texted to me later when you feel yourself spiraling. So I can be there for you, I want to be but you have to let me first.”

During his small speech, you found yourself curling into the fetal position, hiding your face in the covers and by your pillows. You closed your eyes and you felt that pang of guilt in your chest despite his reassuring words.

“You’re here, you’re real, and you’re loved, okay?” He nods softly to himself, lips forming a thin line as he crawls out of the bed, “I’ll be out in the living room if you need me, okay? Come talk to me when you feel like it.”

His words echoed in your mind as you heard him leave the door cracked behind him. You felt terrible for making him feel as scared as he must be, yet you still needed a minute and you hoped that was enough. You opened your eyes, carefully eyeing the crack of light through the door, feeling yourself getting heavier with sleep, your eyes drooping shut.

A few hours later and your eyes were opening and a yawn was let out as you stretched, reaching over at Wilbur’s side of the bed only to find it cold. You felt better now, for some odd reason, and as memories of a few hours prior seeped in, you knew why. Maybe isolating yourself only made you feel more alien and the thought of his words so kind and so careful was so beautifully overwhelming. It was something you weren’t sure you could ever have a full grasp upon. Someone loving you as deeply and as carefully as Wilbur does.

You didn’t take much thought as you tossed your legs over the side of the bed, pushing yourself up to stand, ignoring the ache in your muscles as you dragged yourself over to the door and being methodical with how slow you opened the door--avoiding any screeches of the hinges. And then you were careful again, taking soft steps towards the living room, and when there was no sight of Wilbur, you pattered over to the kitchen. Being fully sure you were quiet and slow as you walked up behind him, wrapping your arms around his stomach and pressing the side of your head against his back. You felt him relax under your touch, any tension or worry completely fizzling from his being.

“I feel transparent, Wil. Like a ghost wandering aimlessly through life. I don't feel real, y’know?” You hum softly against his back, pressing soft and careful kisses against his back. He turns in your grasp to face you, leaning against the counter as he uses his pointer finger to lift your chin up so your eyes meet his. Only a soft love is held in his eyes, almost a promise in the way they glisten. An unspoken promise of forever.

“You aren’t a ghost, you’re a star. Everyone looks up at your shining light and thinks of how beautiful and wonderful it is to exist at the same time as a sight like that,” He moved his hands behind his back to grasp yours. The hold was gentle as he met your eyes again, voice merely a whisper, “You’re real, you’re special, you’re important.”

He squeezed your hands with every word and you nodded gently, a playful smile forming, a gentle scoff following, “I feel compelled to believe you.”

“Well, you should,” He smiled wider, moving his hands to rest on your sides, pulling you flush against him, “Now, do me a favor and, don’t lock yourself away.”

You nod in agreement, “I won’t, I promise.”

taglist; @sleepyburs @ella-fella-bo-bella @lillylvjy

#wilbur soot #cc!wilbur #wilbur soot x reader #wilbur #cc!wilbur x reader #cc!wilbur soot x male reader #cc!wilbur soot #wilbur gold #wilbur soot imagine #wilbur soot x gn!reader #wilbur x reader #dsmp wilbur

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multific · 1 year

Text

A Promise

Aegon II Targaryen x Reader

Summary: The birth of your first child.

You had a bad feeling at the start, you knew you shouldn’t have come, being so close to your due date, it was a risk. But you also knew your cravings were insane as of late. So, when your husband mentioned a trip to a nearby country, one that you knew had that chocolate thing, you just had to go.

You ate so much chocolate, you nearly threw up.

Worth it.

On your way back though, everything went sideways and yours and your husband’s worry came true.

You were in labour and home was weeks away.

You knew better than to panic. You let out long breaths which Aegon noticed.

“I think we should stop for the night.” you said as you looked up at Aegon. “I think your child decided to finally come out.”

“NOW?!” he yelled.

“Yes, stop them. Let them build a tent and I’ll do it here.”

Aegon did as he was told.

Will you really give birth right here? Without a nurse or anyone? Wait, did that mean that he will have to help you?

The King hasn’t heard of anything like that before.

You groaned as Aegon just stood there. Of course, he would have no clue on what to do.

Thankfully, you asked way too many questions and the nurse was happy to answer. So, you had a general idea on what to expect and what to do.

"Ask them for hot water and cloths. Many cloths, I don't care if they have to cut up my dresses." Aegon nodded and soon you heard him bark orders at his men.

You took deep breaths as each wave of pain struck. Each one more and more powerful.

"I will need your help Aegon."

"Okay. What should I do?" he was panicking, shaking and unsure. But he knew he needed to help.

"Remind me to breathe, to push when I need to.” You nodded as he moved over, closer to you. "And please, no matter what happens, do not let go of my hand. And you will have to cut the… thing… I forgot the name but once the baby’s out there will be a… thing to their belly. You will have to tie it off and cut it, you have your knife right?” he nodded once more. ”Okay.” it was your turn to nod as you groaned once. “I’ll be fine, the baby will be fine, you will be fine.” you told him and he made a face.

“I’m supposed to calm you not the other way around.”

“It helps me calm down if I calm you down.”

“Okay.” there was a knock on the carriage as Aegon went and grabbed the water and the cloths.

Everyone just stood outside some of them getting your tent ready so you can sleep after.

You let out a long breath before moving to a crouching position, hands groping the seat while Aegon moved with you like water.

You looked into his eyes.

“You have to promise me you won’t look. Many women told me that men are not allowed to because if they saw… they will never touch their wife again.”

“That’s silly. I love you.” he was just glad at that point that you didn’t mention the worst case scenario. As if you were reading his mind, you spoke up.

“I’m not dying in a carriage while giving birth. You can bet on that Aegon.” he smiled

You laughed a little but then, pain hit and soon, it was time.

“Okay, I’ll start pushing, it will take a while but, you will have to check for me if I’m doing okay.” he kept on nodding. “Remind me to breathe and if I break your hand, I’m sorry.” Aegon nodded once more.

You would be lying if you said you weren’t scared. Aegon knew he should have brought nurses along but now it was too late to think about that. He had to prioritize you and the baby.

“Breathe, Love.”

You moved a bit forward, forehead against Aegon’s shoulder as you pushed.

Your groans and moans of pain could be heard outside, the knights looked at one another. Hoping their Queen was okay. They loved their Queen.

“Love, you have to move a little, I can’t reach.” said Aegon as your hand came to the place between his neck and shoulder. You moved back a little letting Aegon reach down. “Feels… weird but I’m sure you are doing great.”

“How would you know?” you asked as another wave came. “Stupid fucking men, you only know the pleasures while we have to suffer.”

“Whoa, Love.”

“Shut up, please. Just this once.”

“That’s no way of talking to your King.” Aegon joked but then your eyes locked with his and he felt a shiver run down his spine. He never felt this scared before.

“My King can suck his own dick then.”

“Breathe, Love, you are doing well.” Aegon decided to ignore your words. Knowing it was only due to the pain. This was the least he can endure.

“It really hurts.”

“I know. But you are doing really well. Our daughter will be here soon.”

“What if we have a son? Would you be disappointed?”

“Of course not. You could never disappoint me, My Love.” you wanted to laugh but you needed to push once more. “I’m never doing this again. You get one child, take it or leave it Aegon, I will not do this again.” he only smiled. One would be enough for him.

“Breathe, Love.” suddenly you grabbed him by the neck of his shirt, and pulled his face close to yours.

“I know I said to remind me but Aegon, you tell me to breathe one more time and I will kill you.”

“Okay, Love, just br- focus on the baby.” your hand moved back to his shoulder before giving one last big push.

You almost fainted. All pain disappeared all at once. You let out a sigh as you couldn’t focus.

Every noise disappeared as you felt beyond tired. Your legs were shaking, no actually your whole body was shaking.

Then suddenly all noise and light came back to you as you sat down on the floor, you saw the blood but you couldn’t care because then, you saw Aegon trying his best to wash the small child as they cried.

“He is loud.” you said and Aegon looked at you.

“He?” Aegon was so focused on getting the child washed and bundled up he failed to realize he was holding his own son.

“He has great lungs.” you concluded. “He looks healthy too.” you noted as Aegon put the child into the cloths you received.

“Let us move to the tent, they will clean the carriage.” Aegon said as he stood up and opened the door.

“Congratulation, Your Highness.” said the many knights.

“My wife and I will be in our tent, clean the carriage so we can continue tomorrow.” Aegon stood out of the carriage, he failed to notice that you didn’t follow.

A knight came into his view from inside, holding you, or rather helping you.

“My Queen, slow steps.”

Once inside the tent, you were finally able to lie down.

“I want to hold him.” you said as Aegon put the child into your arms. “Thought of a name?”

“We only discussed Lady names.”

“We will not name him after your terrible father.” you said as you looked at Aegon who needed no convincing on the matter.

“What should we name him then?”

“Aegon, third of his name?” You said as a joke and Aegon made a face. “I like the name Aeden.”

“Aeden Targaryen?”

“Son of Aegon the second. I quite like that name.”

“You made that name up.”

“Isn’t all names made up?”

“You have a point, My Love. But you do need to sleep now.” you nodded as Aegon took Aeden and the baby stirred up a little from his sleep.

“Wake me if he cries. I’ll feed him.”

“Great, now I have another man to fight over for your tits. I thought those were only for me?”

“Once they were. But now I have a babe to feed.” you said as you nodded off to sleep.

Aegon watched as you slept, his son in his arms and he did not want to let go of him. Smiling down at the child as he slept.

Aegon admired you, you not only gave birth on the road, but also had the strength to calm him and survive. Aegon was scared he would lose you but you were strong.

Aegon looked down to his son, only to find him looking right up at him.

Aegon felt a tear escape his eyes as he looked down at him. He moved to kiss the baby on his forehead and he giggled, causing Aegon to smile.

“You will be loved, so so loved, I promise you Aeden. I already love you more than anything.”

And this was a promise Aegon will keep until his last breath.

Taglist: imreadinggoaway @fleursirvart @v-2bucky ehsebastiancrunch-time-sports @pxstelrainbow ablogbypeteparker liamssmilersmexylemony @greenarrowhead feelingsareharddd @thisismysecrethappyplace @sincerelyfan @theoneanna @aestheticsandmarvel @rororo06 @castellandiangelo @avengers-r-us @destynelseclipsa @spilledinkindumpster celebsimagine @capsiclesdoll snoopy3000 @firstangeldragonranch @puknow @crazzyter @alwayshave-faith @soleil-dor @alex12948 scream-kiwi79 @lxdyred @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @liveforkarljacobs @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek @paola-carter @stunkbiggu

~Masterlist~

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DO NOT REPOST OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS

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cuephrase · 1 month

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i didn't realize this needed to be said, but jason doesn't die at the end of UTRH?? not in the comics, or in the movie. and on top of him not dying, bruce does not kill him??

like, this is most obvious in the movie. jason isn't suffering from any potentially life threatening injuries when the building blows up, bruce grabs (or attempts to grab) him, and then they get separated in the explosion. bruce digs through the rubble looking for him and doesn't find him. ambiguous, yes. and there is no sequel to the movie to like definitely prove that he's alive in that universe, but bruce doesn't find his body which is superhero logic 101 for 'this character isn't dead'.

moving on to the comics.

now, this is...not a great look. i'm not a medical professional, okay, and it's not the clearest shot, so i can't sit here and claim with 100% confidence that jason's carotid artery did not get cut in some way. but i can reasonably assume it wasn't, because, well, look:

do you see how deep inside the artery is? and again, not the clearest shot, but it looks like if the batarang was to hit anything, it would probably be the jugular vein.

the jugular vein being cut would bleed a LOT. but, and just to remind you, i am not a medical professional, it would almost definitely not be fatal. while it bleeds a lot, it doesn't bleed enough fast enough. (but that's so much blood!!! yeah ik. it's a comic book. they like drama.) and, if the victim is able to put pressure on the wound, that reduces the bloodflow a lot and the blood is able to clot better, etc. we see jason do exactly that. the amount of blood on the floor doesn't appear to increase a whole lot from the initial gush either. he'd still need medical attention, don't get me wrong, but he's not dying from that.

we can't even assume that he's dead when he drops to the floor because if you pay attention to the panels, jason's moving. his back is initially facing the joker and then by the last panel his back is facing bruce.

anyways, joker blows the building, and we see no bodies. just bruce's silhoutte in the wreckage in one panel, and the narration is cryptic and foreboding. ambiguous, certainly leaves room for fans to come in and what if?

but dc answers the question about whether or not jason is alive almost immediately. i say almost because infinite crisis takes over immediately after batman 650. because of this, there is no neat follow through directly after the events of utrh, because instead we get One Year Later. (they just went big event!! no resolution!! gap year!! perfection!! pure brilliance.) so does jason pop up in batman's first issue OYL? no, but he does in nightwing's. dick seems somewhat surprised to see him, but i honestly think it has more to do with dick being surprised that the person running around nyc killing people in a nightwing costume is jason than him being surprised jason is alive.

so we know he lives. big whoop. how the hell do i know that he didn't just get dragged into another Lazarus Pit for a refresh while infinite crisis was happening? i don't. i mean, if i remember correctly, all the pits were destroyed by bruce and bane, except one, and at the time i don't think the location is known? point is, would've been hard to get to one.

but the biggest reason, aside from everything else, the way i know jason did not die temporarily again in the comics, is that it requires assuming one of three equally improbable outcomes.

outcome 1: jason doesn't survive the explosion, because he's incapacitated and bruce tries to save him, but fails. why is this improbable? because literally what is the point in telling that story again if you're just going to have jason pop up alive again basically as soon as he can. bruce certainly feels like he's lost jason post-UTRH, but not in a my-son-is-dead way, in a my-son's-lost-his-way way.

outcome 2: jason doesn't survive the explosion, because he's incapacitated and bruce chooses not to save him in that moment. bruce, who has only gotten himself into that situation to begin with because he was trying to save his son, decides to let him die at the last moment. bruce, who has been haunted by finding jason's body in the smoldering remains of a warehouse for years, allows history to repeat itself when he's right there and he can save him this time. bruce, who will always try to save someone, even the joker, even if it means risking his life.

outcome 3: the batarang sliced jason's carotid artery and he bled out and died...at the hand's of batman. batman, who does not kill. batman, who has never killed. batman, who refuses to take life, decides to break his one rule in the spur of the moment to kill his son and save the joker? oh, but, maybe it was an accident. maybe he didn't mean to cut jason that deeply with the batarang. maybe, for the first time in batman's many years of precise batarang throwing, he messes up and whoopsie, kills someone.

maybe, let's set the batarang down for a sec and pick up occam's razor- we know that jason is alive post-utrh. there is a crap ton of hoops to be jumped through and rules broken to explain how jason might've died, and then you've got to figure out how he's alive again. it's a much simpler path of logic to follow that jason was injured, survived the explosion, and that is how he is still alive post-UTRH.

look. you can dislike how bruce chose to handle jason's ultimatum. you can explore the what-if-it-had-happened-this-way in fanfic or posts. but you cannot claim that jason canonically died at the end of Under the Red Hood. it's just not true. and claiming it's true directly contradicts immutable canon foundations. there is a lot you can say about bruce wayne, about batman, that are canonically true, but he is not a murderer.

plus, i mean, c'mon, if jason had died at bruce's hands, do you really think he'd never bring that up? you really think his petty, dramatic ass would keep his mouth shut about his father killing him to save the joker? you think the hero community would find out that batman killed his son and just be casual about it?

from here (Green Arrow #70), we at least know that ollie knows about their fight, which if he knows the whole justice league probably knows. (there might be a comic out there were bruce discusses it with them, idk.) it seems like ollie was under the impression that jason was dead again, or maybe not in good enough shape to be running around in a costume. interpret as you want. ollie being under the impression that jason is dead would fall under outcome 1 imo, maybe 2 if you want to imagine that bruce fudged some details when he filled in the other heroes, if you're assuming he decided to do that. i haven't read a whole lot of comics where bruce is interacting with non-gotham heroes, but it is my understanding that bruce is not exceptionally forthcoming with info. personally, i think ollie asking for clarification comes more from a place of green arrow writers not assuming that green arrow readers know what's up with batfam comics, but that they might've heard about UTRH and so they're just going, yep there was an explosion, no jason isn't dead. bottomline- there's no way ollie will be working with bruce, especially with mia, if he thinks bruce is a killer.

look. you can dislike how bruce chose to handle jason's ultimatum. you can explore the what-if-it-had-happened-this-way in fanfic or posts. but you cannot claim that jason canonically died at the end of UTRH. it's just not true. and claiming it's true directly contradicts immutable canon foundations. there is a lot you can say about bruce wayne, about batman, that are canonically true, but you cannot say he is a murderer.

#jason todd #red hood #bruce wayne #batman #under the red hood #dc comics #engage with canon as much or as little as you please #headcanon what you want #but if you're going to make claims about canon please don't spread outright lies #there's plenty of canon angst and trauma in jason and bruce's relationship #i promise #bruce doesn't need to kill him #for things to be rocky

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fishwithtitz · 3 months

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The Five Times I Hooked Up with Mary Goore (and the One Time I Couldn’t) - Chapter 4

stunning artwork of a scene from chapter 1 by @dominaarts that I've been dying to share!

Summary: A miscommunication between Thomas and Des results in a night of Dahlia and Mary dog sitting together. When a record breaking storm rolls in, Dahlia's faced with the decision on exactly how much vulnerability she wants to reveal. Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI Mary Goore x OFC / 15.4k words Warnings: language, thigh-riding, p in v sex, mentions of recreational drug use, alcohol, storms, thunder, slight angst

A/N: Thank you for your patience and support as I've taken the time to write this. This was a difficult chapter to write as it starts building the foundation for the turning point of the story and I wanted to get it just right. Leave a comment if you'd like to be added to the taglist 🥰 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5

ao3 link

Hook-up #4: Thomas’ Room

Codependency was something I tried really, really hard to avoid. I’d long prided myself on my

feral independent streak and would be damned if anyone, man or woman, made me reliant.

But I had to admit, I really missed Des.

This was the shitty part of relationships. It seemed that when the people you love found someone that they wanted to devote themselves to, their time seemed to be sucked along with it. I understood where she was coming from. The novelty of a budding relationship is a unique and addictive feeling. I don’t blame her for chasing the high.

While she tended the fire that she and Thomas were building, she was opting for spurts of lighter fluid rather than bits of soul-sourced kindling. And now her fire was growing and spreading, sometimes out of control, and it seemed like all of her time and resources were devoted to managing it. Which meant that some of her other relationships had to be put on the backburner until the flames could be brought to a dull roar.

As if a sign from the universe, the stars finally aligned (or perhaps just our schedules), and Des and I were able to spend the afternoon together. It was exactly what I needed: some time with my best friend.

After grabbing a couple of iced coffees from the boutique coffee shop downtown (at her insistence, of course, because the higher price was reflected in the quality of the roast, or something like that), we walked to one of our favorite thrift stores to pillage through the inventory. I felt a certain warmth creep through my chest as we entered the store. The smell was a bit musty, perfume-like, a permeating oxymoron of both dirt and cleanliness. It reminded me of our friendship: unlikely, brutally opposite at times, but unique and complimentary.

The shop worker greeted us with a nod and a smile from the front counter and went back to browsing through her magazine as she sat on her high-rise stool, painted fingertips skimming over something about interior design. Des and I beelined to the back racks in the furthest room from the front of the shop. We knew that this was usually where they kept the good stuff.

Thrifting was an exercise of equal parts skill and patience. It was best to go in with zero expectations of both finding anything or looking for a specific piece. My most successful trips had been ones where I’d happened upon things I didn’t even know I’d wanted (or like, for that matter). In fact, I’d long ago learned not to become discouraged when a trip turned out to be a bust. Busts were to be expected. The goldmines, however, outweighed the insolvencies.

“It feels like forever since we’ve gotten to do this,” Des said as she stopped in front of a circular rack of short-sleeve knit shirts. She began sliding the hangers across the scraped metal, pausing to glance over each shirt as she did so.

“It has been,” I replied. It wasn’t said with malice; more so, my tone conveyed a neutral honesty that I knew we’d come to appreciate about each other. Despite this, I could tell I’d struck a cord at the slight fall of her facial features.

Des took a half-step back and turned to me with a sad smile. “I know I haven’t been around as much. I’m sorry.”

“I understand.” And I did. She knew I did. But the morose feeling was still etched into her features in soft hatched lines and so I quickly added, “Not everyone can be a hot musician with Heraculan biceps. I’ll take my spot in line.” I gave her a wink, which seemed to soften her expression.

I turned back to the rack and started thumbing through the medium-sized graphic tees. Quite a few were worn crewnecks of casinos or bars from around the state, though a couple school spirit shirts were peppered in. I nearly shuddered at the smiling beaver mascot that reminded me of puberty.

Des broke my focus. “What about this one?” She held up a small white t-shirt with an image of Strawberry Shortcake on it. “Your muse!”

“One time I tell you about my obsession with Strawberry Shortcake and the Big Apple City as a child…” I mumbled, rolling my eyes as I continued culling through the rack. Des laughed and set the shirt back.

“I don’t think your tits would fit in a small, anyway. Plus, it had a stain.” She pushed a couple more shirts to the side before turning her torso to me. “Speaking of cake, I heard you and Mary had a get together last week.”

A week had passed since I’d last seen Mary. I’d received another text a few days after our night of baking telling me that the cake was killer and his mom was impressed, but it’d been radio silence since. In any other situation with any other person, I’d probably feel irritation or some sort of anger; an inward creeping as to why this guy wasn’t at all interested in seeing me after a weirdly uncharacteristic close-knit evening. But this was Mary. He wasn’t known for punctuality or routine. On the contrary, Mary was a bit of an enigma, coming and going as he pleased, with zero rhyme or reason to his decision making. He seemed to do what felt right to him in the moment — whatever that may be. Or at least that’s how things appeared.

The hanger I was sliding across the rack stilted, the fabric of the shirt still pinched between my fingers. My eyes widened slightly, and I failed to control the blush that crept into my cheeks. I refused to meet her stare, but knowing Des, she was giving me an all-knowing look.

“You know, when I suggested that you make a cake for his mom’s birthday, I didn’t think that meant that you’d be doing it together,” she teased.

“Neither did I!” I said. Although I’d meant for it to come out nonchalantly, I’d sounded more defensive than intended. I tried to brush it off by swirling the iced coffee in my hand, ice cubes clinking and clashing as I brought the straw to my lips to take a sip.

“I didn’t know you and Mary were that close,” she speculated.

I choked on the watery coffee that had been midway down my throat and brought a hand up to wipe at my mouth, coughing a little into my palm.

Before I had a chance to respond, she cut me off, wide-eyed, a smile tugging at her mouth. “Wait, no. Doll, you didn’t!”

I looked over at her with a surprised defensiveness that completely gave away the truth. Shit. Time for damage control. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Des’ smile only widened. “Dahlia, did you sleep with him?”

I didn’t know how to answer. It wasn’t as if I was ashamed to admit it. Mary was attractive. Sure, his reputation was a bit strange and extreme, but to those in the metal scene, it wasn’t anything too out of the ordinary. But there was something that I liked about keeping Mary and I’s friendship hidden. Or were we friends with benefits? Was it even a friendship?

“You totally did!” Des said in response to my silent rabbit hole. I sighed and started to aimlessly shuffle through some sweaters on the next rack. Des began to laugh and looked at me coyly.

She walked over to the same rack that I was currently stationed at and rested her hand against the metal bar, leaning into it. “I swore I saw you two making out on the couch a while back at Thomas’, but he told me I was seeing shit,” she added, shaking her head in disbelief.

I hummed a noise in response, barely audible. My fingertips traced along a loose thread of a knit sweater and I rolled it between them, trying to focus on the scratchy acrylic yarn instead of the beet red burning in my face.

“That WAS you two! How long has this been going on?” I didn’t think it was possible for her eyes to get any bigger. They reminded me of saucers. Or satellite dishes. Maybe of the middle-aged woman at my work that thrived on office gossip and smelled like cat piss.

I rolled my eyes and pulled a sweater off the rack to pretend to check the tag. “Nothing is going on,” I said. 80% Polyester, 20% Cotton. “We’ve just hooked up a few times. That’s it.”

Des cocked a curious brow. “A few? Wow, add that to my list of shit I didn’t expect.” She brought her half-drank iced coffee to her pink lips and took a slurp of the drink. I couldn’t tell if I was more annoyed at the sound or at her.

“So, what’s he like?” She grabbed a cardigan from the small section and pulled it up to inspect it, holding it to her thin frame to gauge the fit. “I bet he’s into some spooky, dark shit, like bloodletting or autoerotic asphyxiation or something. Oh! Or a piss kink!”

The garment I was holding was slammed back into the rack with more force than I’d meant. “Des! What the fuck?” I whispered loudly, trying to make a point that this was not something I wanted to talk about in public. Sure, no one else was in the back of the store, but that was besides the point.

She held up a hand in defense. “Sorry! He looks like the kind of guy that’d be into that stuff.”

I brought the hand to my face that wasn’t holding the slippery, condensation-covered cup of coffee. With a sigh, I rubbed my left eye. “I am not having this conversation.”

Des brought her hands down and tilted her head with a look of disagreement. “Oh, come on! Why are you always so uptight about talking about this stuff?”

I took a step towards her and lowered my voice just slightly. “Unlike you, I don’t feel the need to advertise my sex life, thank you.”

“I don’t advertise it, I just…reflect on it. It’s what normal girlfriends do — talk about the guys they’re with.” She turned to the next rack that was uncomfortably close to the one we had been rifling through and pulled a pair of corduroys out to give them a look over. “Who else would I talk to about it?”

She had a point. I breathed out a sigh and set my cup on the display atop the circular rack. “I guess you’re right.”

I looked up at her to see her sporting her signature smirk. “I’m always right. Now tell me, what’s he got hiding in those tight jeans?” She waggled her eyebrows for emphasis and I let out a chuckle, shaking my head.

“You are the last person I need to explain the intricacies of the male anatomy to.”

“Come on, Doll. I need details!” She whined, tossing the corduroys back onto the rack.

“Curiosity killed the cat, you know.”

“Good thing cats have nine lives.” She stuck out her tongue at me and I reached over to make a swipe at grabbing it, earning me a chuckle and a shove.

I laughed too, and if I was honest, I felt a semblance of relief that the weight of my secret had been lifted from my shoulders, even if just minutely.

She took another annoyingly loud slurp of her iced coffee, the drink now edging the bottom line of the cup. Peering at me from above the lid, she broke contact with the straw.

“Now, spill.”

🜏🜏🜏

It was early evening on a Friday. I’d managed to get off of work a little earlier than expected — a relief given that I’d worked overtime these past few weeks to try to save up enough money for an unexpected car repair. The extra time turned out to be just what I needed to pack some last minute items in my backpack for the weekend.

Des had asked — practically begged — for me to “do her a solid” and pet sit for her for a couple days over the weekend. My confusion rang heavy in the air when I realized that one, she didn’t have any pets, and two, neither did Thomas.

“It’s his parents’ dog. He’s supposed to watch it this weekend, but he was able to book a couple last minute shows out of town that would be really good for the band,” she’d explained. Then, in almost overly characteristic Des-fashion, she gave me the eyes. The fucking Puss in Boots look.

And those damn Dreamworks eyes had me hesitantly agreeing to watch the pawned pooch at Thomas’ place.

It didn’t sit well with me. He was supposed to be watching his parents’ dog. But instead, he was having a friend of his girlfriend stay at his place to watch a dog she’d never met. I’d just hoped the dog was nice.

After walking my bike to the back porch to lean it against the siding hidden from view from the street, I rounded back to the front door and gave it a few cursory knocks. As if on cue, loud barks began to sound — distant at first, but louder as the seconds went on — and I could just make out the scuffle of feet and claws against the hard floor.

The door swung open and Des was restraining a black blur of tail and tongue and teeth. He wasn’t overly big, per se, but from what I could tell from his overexcited movements, he had to be at least forty or fifty pounds.

“Hey! Come in—” she strained, holding the excited dog back as it wagged and wiggled in her arms.

I slipped past the dog and kicked off my shoes on the hinged side of the door as she slammed it shut. “Brutus!” Des grunted as she tried to crouch over him and use her body weight as leverage.

I straightened up and watched with choked giggles as she tried, and nearly failed, to keep him from charging me. “He’s — umph — he loves people —” said grumbled as the dog, presumably named Brutus, broke from her grasp and hounded over to me with a tail so violently wagging that I was afraid his hips would fly right off. He knocked into me with surprising force for his size and I toppled over to the ground. A slimy, velvety tongue began to attack my face and neck and I shrieked out in laughter as we rolled around on the floor.

“Brutie! Brutus, off!” Des yelled. I could barely hear her over my screeches and giggles.

A couple of moments passed and the dog calmed, crawling comically into my lap before curling up and looking at me with a panting smile. I ran my hand along the top of its head, scratching behind his pointed black ears.

“Sorry, he really, really likes people. Not much of a watchdog,” Des said.

“It’s fine. He’s cute,” I replied, moving to scratch under his chin. “What breed is he?”

Des snorted. “Fuck if I know. Thomas says he’s a mutt. I think he’s a rescue.”

“Those are always the best ones,” I countered, earning a nuzzle into my hand from the furry canine nearly falling out of my lap.

After a while of chit chat and petting the mammoth-sized wannabe cat splayed in my lap, I peeled my backpack off and set it against the wall and stood up to follow Des into the kitchen. She explained Brutus’ feeding schedule (“He will try to convince you that he’s starving to death. Do not fall for it.”) and his typical routine, then showed me where Thomas’ parents had left the vet info in case of emergencies. It seemed pretty straightforward (easier than I’d expected, honestly), and I felt grateful that Thomas’ backyard was fenced off. A lost dog was the last thing I needed in life right now.

Just as Des was setting the written feeding instructions back down on the counter, the door leading to the garage opened from down the hallway, and a pair of heavy footsteps came thunking toward us.

Thomas came into view. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the locks a little as he glanced around the kitchen and dining area, turning a bit in his spot as if running through an imaginary list in his brain. By now, I’d seen Thomas in a variety of moods: ecstatic, embarrassed, exhausted, angry, piss drunk, and of course, the moments where he was absolutely enamored with Des, but I’d never seen him look so stressed before. His eyes looked tired yet his pupils were wide, countering the lines that were settling in around the corners of his eyelids. I’m not sure that he even noticed his shirt was inside out.

“We found the pedalboard at the guys’ apartment. Some asshole put it on top of the fridge,” he sighed and put his hands on his hips as he looked up at the ceiling as if he were trying to visualize what he needed to do next. After a beat, he looked back down and his eyes met Des’ quizzical look.

“Don’t ask. I don’t even fucking know.” He seemed to finally register that it wasn’t just his girlfriend in front of him and his demeanor changed a little. He straightened, almost toughened, and gave me a confused quirk of the eyebrows. “…Dahlia, what are you doing here?”

I mirrored his look. “Uh, Des said you needed me to house sit?”

Thomas looked between myself and Des, his face moving from a look of confusion to a look of what could be argued as annoyance. “Really?” he asked, taking another step closer to Des. “I thought I mentioned I’d figured all that out, babe.”

Desiree looked up at him with an innocent smile and rolled her lips between her teeth. “Whoops. Must have slipped my mind.”

He sized her reaction, clearly unconvinced. “Okay. Sure.” I was certain he was going to add something, but his potential dialogue with Des was cut off when the garage door opened again and the telltale sound of clunking boots against hard flooring cut through the air. I felt my heart simultaneously drop and expand in my chest. I had come to know that sound.

“Everything is tied and tarped. I feel like fucking Patrick Bateman sans nailgun and Huey Lewis and the News.”

I had really come to know that voice.

Mary rounded Thomas and Des and joined the impromptu party in the dining area. I shoved my hands into my pockets and rocked back and forth on my feet as I felt his stare bore into me from feet away. It was clear there had been a mix up, and although I couldn’t be certain that Des had something to do with it, I had a pretty good idea of what had happened.

“What’s going on?” Mary asked as he looked around the uneven circle of his friends. Brutus trotted over and began to sniff at his pant legs and Mary reached down to scratch the hound’s forehead. Mary’s long hair hung around him in strands, the ends clumped together in damp sections as it fell from around his shoulders and back.

“Why is your hair wet?” Des asked him. I was sure it was her way of breaking the awkwardness.

Mary looked at her with an air of obviousness. “Shower,” he replied.

“Oh…weird,” she said, and I had to stifle a giggle by turning it into a cough.

Thomas rolled his eyes. “He’s full of shit. It’s raining outside and he’s been helping me load and tarp equipment in the truck.” Thomas reached out and clasped a hand to Mary’s shoulder, which to be fair, was dotted with what appeared to be wet raindrop marks. “We all know you hate bathing,” he added.

Mary scoffed and shoved Thomas. “Fuck you guys.”

The air turned uncomfortable again, bordering sour, and it was Thomas who broke the silence.

“Well, it looks like there’s been a miscommunication on who’s looking after this asshole,” Thomas started, looking directly at Des as he spoke although it was clear he was referring to the dog. She continued flashing her innocent smile, eyes still large as if concurrently seeking forgiveness and feigning ignorance.

I felt compelled to speak up. I hated awkward silences, and I especially hated being the butt of one. “It’s not a big deal. I can head out if Mary’s got this,” I said with a shrug.

“—It’s pouring out there!” Des quickly countered, looking between Thomas and I.

Her defensive quip caused me to crinkle my eyebrows in response. “Bullshit, I was just outside and it was fine.”

I looked over at the sliding glass door to my left and sure as shit, the glass was coated in fine droplets sliding down to puddle at the deck below. The sky hadn’t been much more than overcast on my ride over, but it now swirled with tones of ash and charcoal. A storm was approaching.

I sighed and rubbed my eyes. “Shit, well…I rode my bike over here.”

I could tell that the cogs were turning in Des’ mind as she tried to decide if she’d respond with comfort and support of her best friend or her boyfriend: the ever present dilemma. I felt a pang of guilt plague my stomach.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out. You guys go,” I offered with a small smile. Forced, of course, because now I was stranded at someone else’s house with someone else’s dog and of course a particular…someone else.

“You sure?” she asked. I could see Thomas eyeing me from behind her, his own expression mirroring her words. It was clear this was just as much of a surprise to him as it was to Mary and I.

My gut told me to stay focused on the couple ahead of me, but my impulsiveness won over, and I glanced at Mary. He was watching with a look of amusement, arms crossed over his chest as his head batted to and fro between speakers. I swallowed lightly.

“Yeah, go. Go! It’s fine.” The voice was mine, but the words were clearly not my own.

A few uncomfortable and quick words were shared, and both Des and Thomas grabbed their overnight bags and popped them into the cab of the truck before driving off down the quiet residential street towards the gig a few towns over. And I was stuck in the ranch-style home with Mary Goore, an overexcited rescue dog, and an approaching storm.

🜏🜏🜏

After piling into the car and sloshing down the road en route to the gig a few cities over, Des and Thomas were mid conversation about the situation that had happened just moments before.

“Don’t tell me you’re doing what I think you’re doing.” Thomas started, fingertips tapping against the wheel as they sped down the interstate.

Des rolled her eyes. “They’ve been fucking!” Her voice was defensive. She quickly added, “Did you know that?”

Thomas kept his eyes on the road and drummed his fingers along to the song playing in the background. “No, and I don’t—” he sighed, removing one hand from the wheel to grasp at the back of his neck, “Jesus Christ, Desiree, you can’t play matchmaker on this one.”

Des crossed her arms over her chest. “Why not? Have you seen the way they look at each other?”

Thomas briefly turned his head and gave her a serious look, sternness that nearly reminded her of her father. “Don’t stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong,” he said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Des shot him a look that dripped in sass. Any other time it would have spurred a different set of emotions in him, but not this time. He held his ground.

“Just — fuck, baby, I’ve known Mary for a long time and he’s not really one to settle.”

Des scoffed. “You think getting with Dahlia would be settling?”

“No, not like that.” Thomas sighed again in frustration. “He’s not big into commitment. Doesn’t like to be tied down. Mary’s…not a relationship kind of guy.”

It was quiet for a few seconds as Des pondered his response. “Well, I’m not saying they need to get married or anything,” she reasoned, “I’m just giving them a little push, is all. A weekend together, alone, no one to barge in and no expectations. It’s the perfect recipe for them to realize what they have going on.”

Another silence filled the cab of the truck. The sound of steady rain pelted against the windshield, only for the squeaky wipers to flick it off rhythmically, creating its own song and dance that counteracted the punk tune on the stereo system.

After a moment, Thomas relented. “Don’t come crawling to me with those big, sad eyes when this ploy of yours blows up in your face.”

“What big eyes?!” Des craned her neck over and stared him down, though it was clear she couldn’t hide the smile bursting through her tough facade.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, babe.”

Des winked in his direction and the tension seemed to melt away. She reached over to grasp at his hand — the one that had fallen to his lap after drumming on the steering wheel — and laced their fingers together.

He let out a long breath and relaxed into the touch before grumbling, “They better not fuck on my bed.”

🜏🜏🜏

When Des and Thomas left, it was like they sucked what little comfort there had been straight out of the room. Sure, the house was occupied by two people and a dog (which some would even consider to be too crowded; three’s company and four’s a party and all that), but there was a timidness that I felt that seemed to have grown since my other outings with Mary. Maybe it was the unexpectedness of it all. Or perhaps it was my own lack of control in the situation. Regardless, I’d planned on staying a couple of days anyway — what was so bad about waiting out the storm to ride home?

I stood there, hands in my pockets as I continued to rock on my heels, before deciding to break the tension. “I should probably pick up my stuff,” I motioned to the general area my backpack was in and then quickly turned to retrieve my things.

Backpack in hand, I headed to the bathroom to unpack. I’d packed light (because in all honesty, who did I have to impress), but I was searching for any and all excuses to put some distance between myself and the awkward situation I’d been thrust into. I pulled a toothbrush and toothpaste out of a plastic bag I’d jammed into the front pocket of my rucksack, mirroring the action with my face wash, moisturizer, and small bag of makeup essentials. I futzed for too long with the placement of the items, moving them from sinkside to against the wall and back again, before I gave up and sat back against the wall opposite the vanity.

A few minutes went by and I felt a low growl erupt in my stomach. It was nearly six o’clock and I’d had yet to eat anything. I pulled out my phone, deciding to order takeout, and scrolled through the suggested nearby restaurants before settling on a well-rated Chinese place down the street.

I was ready to press send on my order, but I remembered the elephant in the room and groaned, heaving myself up and making my way out to the main area of the home. Mary was nowhere to be seen. I turned around and upon noticing the garage door was ajar, I walked the short distance down the hallway and slipped into the adjoining garage.

Mary was sitting in a camper chair in the empty space, lit cigarette between his fingers, with Brutus at his side. He was tossing a rope toy to the dog somewhat lazily, taking drags of the lit stick every so often. The garage was partially opened, just enough to let in the cool, damp air of the storm, and raindrops pittered in at the edge of the threshold.

As soon as I shut the door to the house, his eyes shot up to meet my own and he nodded in greeting before tossing the toy to the opposite end of the garage for Brutus.

“I’m ordering Chinese — you want anything?” I eventually spoke, body still against the steps connecting the sunken garage to the house.

Mary let out an exhale of smoke and tapped the cigarette into a coffee can on the ground. “Whatever’s fine. I’m easy to please.” His telltale smirk painted his lips and I could see the mischief swirling behind his eyes. “But you already know that,” he added.

I felt my eyes nearly roll out of my head and hopped down off the step, rounding him to sit in another nearby chair. As uncomfortable as his digs were supposed to be, they had the opposite effect. I didn’t do “awkward” with Mary that well. Sexual tension was another story.

I added a few more items to the order and typed in my card information from memory before submitting the order, quickly clicking my phone off and stashing it in my pocket. My focus was broken when Mary interrupted the silence.

“How’d you get roped into this?” he asked, head turning to glance at me.

I sighed and rubbed the side of my face, showing my slight annoyance. “Desiree.”

Mary laughed, a warm chuckle that I’d grown to appreciate, and he ashed the cigarette into the can below him. “You’d think they’d learn to communicate with how they fucking act around each other.”

I stretched out my legs, sinking back into the camper chair. “Oh, I’m sure it was communicated…” I remarked.

Mary looked at me quizzically, head turned towards me again to flash those phthalocyanine eyes that somehow looked brighter in the odd lighting of the garage. I brushed off his look, not wanting to get into the specifics of the conversation I had with Desiree or the fact that she knew about our history. “The dog seems to like you.”

“Brutus and I go way back,” he said.

“Really?” I said with raised brows.

Mary laughed out again in response, that ever-present balmy giggle that pulled at the corners of his lips sending a wave of warmth through my body. “No, I’m just fucking with you. I’m good with animals,” he paused and his lips curled into a grin, ”when I’m not microwaving them, of course.”

My mind raced back to our first encounter together. The streetlights on the walk towards the abandoned warehouse. Paper bags with shaved ice and forties. Shitty gas station snacks. And our conversation about reputation. Namely, his reputation. “Oh, of course.” My tone was one of mock seriousness, and I couldn’t help but giggle at the memory.

I watched as he took another drag from the dwindling cigarette and then turned to look out at the half-closed garage door. The raindrops pelting against the shingled roof and cracked concrete driveway were the only audio that suffused the space, with the occasional exhale of pillowy smoke from the musician next to me.

It was Mary that broke the silence again. He always seemed to be the one to do that. “Thanks again,” he started, hand waving around aimlessly as he spoke, “y’know, for the cake and shit.”

“Yeah, of course. I’m glad your mom liked it.” I spoke earnestly and my expression was one of sincerity. It felt foreign.

“She fucking loved it. She was surprised I had anything to do with making it,” he laughed and tapped his cigarette into the can.

“Oh come on, you can’t be that bad of a cook,” I replied.

He raised an eyebrow at me as he turned to face me. “I’ve burned water.”

My jaw dropped just enough that I was sure it looked like I’d catch flies. “I…didn’t think that was possible.”

He shrugged and turned back to face forward, the cigarette now a stubby, crinkled nub between his middle and pointer fingers. “You should know by now that I’m full of impossible surprises.”

I leaned forward, turning my torso to point towards him while I pulled my legs criss-cross into the camper chair. “How on earth do you woo a woman if you can’t even cook fucking Kraft Mac n’ Cheese?”

“Women aren’t typically after my cooking skills. Or lack thereof,” he flicked the remaining ash of the cigarette down and it missed the can. He didn’t notice. “I’ve got other talents,” he paused, “Wooing isn’t really my style.”

I let his admission ring in the dampened air. It wasn’t surprising. From what I’d heard, he’d never had trouble landing women — particularly after gigs. “The life of a musician…” I trailed off.

Another silence built as the rain colored the absence of our conversation. I could hear Brutus’ slight snores as he lay curled at Mary’s feet, seemingly tired from their earlier game of fetch. A breeze broke through the cracked garage door and swirled around us, bringing a chill into the otherwise comfortable space. I pulled my hoodie a little closer, feeling the cool air dance across my cheeks and the skin peeking through the jacket.

“I think I’m gonna head in. I’ll let you know when the food is here.”

Mary didn’t say anything in response — merely nodding and taking out another cigarette from the worn Marlboro carton — and I made my way back inside with a heavier mind than I’d come out with.

🜏🜏🜏

I’d puttered around the house for what had seemed like ages, but in reality was likely only a handful of minutes. As familiar as I was with some of the rooms at Thomas’, I had to admit that there were areas I’d never been to, namely his room or the basement. As rude as it might have been, I’d given myself a self-directed tour of the place, noting the half-completed projects he seemed to be working on to fix up the house. I wasn’t sure if that was a sign of Des domesticating him or if the house really was a secret pride-and-joy.

Eventually, I found myself in the den, sinking into the worn plaid couch that already held too many memories. I pushed them down and reached for the remote to the TV, opting just to hold it as my thoughts zoomed. I could probably put on a movie to kill some time until dinner arrived. It wouldn’t be long and it would serve as a nice distraction.

I got up and thumbed through the impressive number of DVDs stacked next to the TV. Most of them were action or horror (no surprise there), and I settled on a film I’d never seen before: The Amityville Horror. I told myself that the fact that a young Ryan Reynolds was on the cover had absolutely nothing to do with the choice.

After some cajoling, I figured out how Thomas’ TV and DVD player were set up and popped in the disc, pressing play on the machine before sinking back into the couch. The blue screen transformed to darkness as the credits played and I waited to be taken to the home screen.

Mere seconds into the film, I heard a knock at the door and I paused the movie to jog up and out of the sunken den to the front door. I was met with an absolutely drenched delivery driver holding out a large brown bag in one hand and a soaked receipt and pen in the other. I shot him a look of apology and took the receipt, signing and adding on a much more generous tip than I’d originally intended, before trading him for the food. His eyes lit up when he saw the receipt and he dashed back to his clunker parked out front.

I ended up parking the heavy bag of Chinese on the kitchen table. My thoughts were broken when I heard Mary coming in from the garage, heavy footsteps once again thunking down the hallway. A pitter of claws trotted behind him.

“Food’s here,” I said, already opening the bag to take out the various containers.

We grabbed our respective containers and utensils and made our way to the den, me sitting on the couch while Mary sat on the floor, his back against the edge of the couch with his legs spread out wide. I opened up my container of sweet and sour pork and doused it in sweet and sour sauce, mixing it up with the cheap excuse for chopsticks that they provided before settling into the back corner of the couch and pressing play.

“You’re watching this trash?” Mary said, words muffled by a mouthful of Beijing beef.

I rolled my eyes, though he couldn’t see it from his position on the floor. “I’ve never seen it.”

“It’s a shit remake.”

I grabbed a piece of pork between my chopsticks and lathered it in sauce before popping it into my mouth. “Well,” I said while chewing, “no one’s making you watch it.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said with a hint of facetiousness.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” he all but grumbled, reaching in the container to grab a piece of beef with his fingers.“You knew what I meant.”

I shuddered as I watched him pop the piece of meat into his mouth with his fingers. “Are you…eating that with your bare hands?” I asked with a surprised chuckle.

He shrugged his shoulders again. “Chopsticks are frustrating. Why use those when I have built in chopsticks right here?” He pinched his fingers in the air, just high enough that I could see them from my spot on the sofa.

I paused, reaching into the takeout container to fish around for some sort of accompanying vegetable. “I…don’t know how I feel about that, to be honest.”

“You didn’t seem to mind my fingers the last time you were on that couch,” he retorted, tone dripping with cheekiness that I knew was accompanied by a smirk I couldn’t see from my vantage point.

I sighed, trying to pay no mind to his constant coquettishness. “Well, they weren’t covered in Chinese food when that happened.”

“They could have been.”

I reached over and grabbed one of Thomas’ throw pillows from across the sofa and tossed it down directly at his head. Mary yowled and grabbed at the back of his head.

“Hey, ow- fuck, you almost made me spill!”

I waved my chopstick dismissively. “Shh, I’m missing what’s happening.”

“Not missing much…” he grumbled, grabbing another piece of beef with his fingers. I looked down and dug into my food again, picking at some snow peas, and took a bite to keep me from my desire to respond with something sarcastic.

I watched the screen as the beginning of the movie continued to unfold with the dreary undertone of music and darkened filter plastered over shots of the house and rainfall outside.

I knew that in fiction, rain was often used to signal something darker, uncontrollable, and innately scary. While a gentle storm could symbolize rebirth or the washing away of something unclean to show a new beginning, a thunderstorm was different. Thunderstorms were brash, explosive, and undeniably cacophonous — a symbol of power, wrath, danger, and darkness. As the scene cut to a shot of the rainy setting, I couldn’t help but liken it to the rain pelting the windowpanes of the window behind the couch. They were both intense storms and I wondered what symbolism life could be trying to show me, if any at all.

We watched mostly in silence, with the occasional jolt from me during a poorly timed jumpscare or a shake of the head and grumble from Mary (which after the third shove of my foot into his shoulder, he got the message that he was being obnoxious).

Unbeknownst to me, the movie had a quick sex scene, which with anyone else would have been a non-issue watching. But with Mary, I felt oddly different. I found myself wondering what he was thinking as we watched the main characters move intimately against one another. Because, if my memory served me right, the last movie we watched together had something similar, and he had reacted in very specific—

My thoughts were interrupted by yet another jumpscare and I squeaked in surprise, nearly dropping my empty takeout container. Mary chuckled and turned around with a smug smile.

“Everything okay back there?” he asked.

“Just fine. ‘Surprised me…” I grumbled, pretending to dig around in the empty container for more food. I was sure he could see right through me. I was easy to spook.

Eventually, I set my empty container on the side table and reclined back into the couch again. It felt weirdly quiet, and I noticed that Mary had gotten up at some point and left.

“Seems he found something better to do with his time,” I thought. Not that it mattered, anyway. I hated the kind of people that talked constantly during movies, and I could tell Mary was doing his best not to criticize nearly every piece of dialogue and every scene.

“Here.” The voice snapped me from my thoughts and my eyes refocused to the space in front of me, noticing an uncapped beer just in my line of sight. I took it with a thank you, noticing Mary had one of his own as he decided to sit opposite to me on the edge of the couch instead of on the floor. I tried not to think anything of the change and cast my eyes towards the movie.

“Did….did she just put a whole ass bong into her purse?” I asked after watching the babysitter in the film try to hide her bong after smoking in the bathroom. I took a swig of the beer Mary gifted me and looked over at him.

He laughed. “I’m telling you — this movie is idiotic at best.”

“I hate that I’m invested enough that I want to see how it ends,” I replied after a minute, adjusting my position on the couch to spread out a leg, my foot barely missing the side of Mary’s thigh.

“I’m happy to tell you how it ends,” Mary countered, taking a pull from his own bottle.

I shook my head in reply. “Might as well finish it. In your words, we’ve ‘got nothing better to do,’” I grinned at him with a chuckle and set my eyes back on the screen.

After the movie finished, we both stretched out our limbs, and I stood to collect the empty containers.

“That’s 90 minutes of my life I’ll never get back,” Mary grunted with a sigh.

I rolled my eyes. With how things were going, I’d be surprised if they didn’t roll straight out of my head and onto the shitty shag carpet on the floor. “Oh come on,” I began, “It wasn’t THAT bad…”

“Well, it sure as shit wasn’t good,” he chuckled sarcastically.

I let out a defeated breath. “Okay, I’ll admit that it wasn’t the best movie I’ve seen.”

“Clear from it,” he postured, lounging back a little as he took a swig from his beer “The original does a much better job of staying true to the book and creating that building suspense th—”

His words were cut off by another loud crack of lightning. This one sounded close, and by the looks of the fulmination that painted the windows, it was.

I let out a shriek when the lightning and its ancillary crash cracked through the den and beyond. My hand flew to my mouth in surprise and I soon rubbed it over my eyes bashfully.

“Shit, I didn’t know you could make that noise,” Mary chuckled, eyebrows raised in an expression of slight surprise. I looked over and flashed him the middle finger, a scowl on my face, which only increased his laughter.

“How about we put on another movie,” he suggested, then added quickly “—but I pick.” I thought about it, pondering the many choices of movies that Mary could choose on a night like tonight, and shook my head.

“Maybe music is a better idea?” I replied. I walked to the edge of the den and started up the few stairs that connected it to the hallway. “I’ll toss these while you get it set up,” I called over my shoulder.

When I returned, Mary was finished messing with the stereo system and Sonic Youth’s Daydream Nation was playing softly through the speakers. I took a seat on the floor, copying Mary’s earlier posture with my back against the front of the plush furniture, and spread my legs out and crossed them at the ankles.

“Didn’t take you as a Sonic Youth fan,” I said as I settled into the space.

Mary smiled and turned his head towards me. “I told you I’m full of interesting surprises.”

I suppressed a giggle. “I was thinking of other types of surprises when you said that.”

“What kinds of things were you thinking of?” he asked, brow quirked.

I felt my cheeks flush at the coy look on his face and looked away, trying to figure out a way to change the conversation. Mary just laughed.

“Wow, doll face, I didn’t expect to take up that much real estate in your mind. I’m flattered.” He put a hand to his chest and stared over me with a broad smile.

“Stop it.”

He cast me a look of confusion. “Stop what?”

“That thing you do!” I began. My voice raised a little in volume and pitch. “The thing where you act all smug and ooze sex appeal!”

This seemed to intrigue him and he turned to face me from his spot in front of the entertainment system. I knew that if his shirt was off, I’d be able to see the flexion of the muscles in his abdomen. I mentally kicked myself for even thinking that.

“Sex appeal? I didn’t know you were so pious.”

I felt myself bristle and sat up a little straighter. “What? No, it’s not about piety.” I ran my hand through my hair in frustration. “You just don’t have to make everything an innuendo!”

At this, the crusty metalhead in front of me had the audacity to laugh. “Wow,” he chuckled, “way to act like a total prude.”

“I am not!” My eyes shot daggers at him and I’d hope they’d materialize and hit him straight in his smirking face.

“I’m surprised you made it through that sex scene…” he looked up at me from under a raised brow.

I huffed. “You of all people should know that sex doesn’t bother m—” I cut myself off as I felt fire heat my cheeks.

“You were saying?” he snickered.

“Oh, fuck off Goore.”

“Sure thing. Wanna watch?”

“I’ll leave that to Brutus.”

As soon as his name was said, Brutus’ ears perked up and he let out a whine. I realized it had probably been hours since he’d been outside.

“We should probably let the dog out,” I said. As soon as he heard the word ‘out,’ Brutus sprung up and began trotting to the sliding glass door in the kitchen. I got up with a slight groan, muscles stiff from sitting on the floor, and Mary followed.

“I can take the dog out by myself, y’know,”

“Yeah, but the view is so much better if I come with.”

I felt frustration pool in my chest at this and he seemed to sense it as well, adding, “Chill out, I was just grabbing a couple more beers.”

After coaxing Brutus outside with some choice words said in the nicest voice I could muster (and maybe a push on the bum), I waited at the sliding glass door for him to return from doing his business. A towel was thrown by slider and I grabbed it to wipe down the dog on his re-entry.

I watched through the window as the storm really began to rage. Fat water droplets ricocheted off the glass pane like rubber bullets and thunder rumbled a low death rattle. Mary came up behind me and put the two bottles on the kitchen table. He fished around in his pockets for his bottle opener on his key chain.

A loud, booming sound followed by a high pitched crack and a monstrous thud rattled the foundation of the house. I let out an embarrassingly loud scream and jumped back from the sliding door. My body collided with Mary’s more solid one behind me, and immediately his hands found my upper arms to steady the both of us. I leaned back into him, not caring enough about self-restraint as my head tipped back against his shoulder.

My chest heaved as my adrenaline dissipated, and I could feel Mary’s hands rubbing up and down the lengths of my arms. I swallowed thickly, then clenched my eyes tight. I felt his breath arm against my ear as he leaned in.

“You good, Doll?”

His voice was smooth, oddly soothing, and the reverberations that pulsed through my ear and into my chest were much different than the shaking of the foundation from the subsonic boom moments prior.

I nodded and looked out the window. A mature tree limb, one measuring at least 15 feet long, had fallen to the ground in the backyard from the force of the thunderstorm. My immediate thought went to Brutus and I feared for the worst, but as if on cue, his body came running towards the door like a bullet. His little black body began pawing at the door and yet, I felt frozen in my spot to Mary. His body stayed pressed against the back of mine, hands still rubbing little circles against my triceps. Neither of us moved to open the door.

Brutus’ bark seemed to jolt us both from the haze. I slid the door open and immediately wrapped the medium-sized dog in the towel to dry him off. The little black mutt followed me as I walked back into the wood-paneled den and I sunk down on the couch next to Mary with a sigh.

Mary handed me another beer and I graciously accepted. “You know,” he started after taking a sip of his own, “I’m not used to women screaming around me unless my name is involved somehow.”

“Is it usually preceded by ‘fuck off’ or ‘get the fuck away from me’?”

“I was thinking it comes after ‘harder’ or ‘fuck me,’ actually,” he said, pausing a beat before casting a look of cautious puzzlement. “Who pissed in your Cheerios?”

I chewed on my cheek as I picked at the label of the beer bottle. “I hate storms,” I admitted with a sigh.

“I hadn’t noticed.”

The squall of the storm caused the windows behind the weathered old sofa to vellicate. Stills from the movie of torrential downpour around the boathouse flashed into thought. I recalled the swirling blackened sky from the sliding glass door from moments before and found myself comparing the dread from the film to my stomach sinking the moment the tree limb fell heavy against the hard ground. What if it had fallen on the house, or the dog? What if it had been a consequence of a lightning strike and started a fire?

I shook myself from spiraling. “I’m not afraid of a lot of things,” I pointed out, “but storms...they freak me out. They have ever since I was little. Loud noises and all.”

Mary chuckled at this. “You listen to thrash metal,” he countered.

“That’s different!” I ran my hand through my hair, gripping at the back of my scalp in frustration. “Storms are destructive. One minute it’s a normal day and the next - bam - people lose their homes, their jobs, their communities…decades and centuries of history even. It’s chaotic and terrible and…unpredictable. It’s fucking armageddon.”

Mary had turned to face me from his spot on the couch, one leg semi-crossed over the other. “Big bad metal chick like you afraid of some thunder and lightning? Color me surprised, dollface.”

The asshole had the audacity to smirk at me. So, I reached out and smacked him in the shoulder.

“Ow! I was being serious!” His tone was playful as rubbed at the spot on his shoulder. “You’re not the kind of person to let a lot of emotion show.”

I felt myself bristle. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged. “I dunno…you just don’t seem afraid of anything. Kinda just ‘go with the flow’. It’s weird to see ya all panicked and shit.”

I scoffed and clicked my tongue. “You obviously don’t know me very well.”

“Oh, I know you inside and out, dollface,” he grinned.

My cheeks blushed garnet. “Only some of me,” I grumbled.

“Really? What else you got hiding?” he chided, sitting up a little straighter, a little closer. “Got any secret pockets in those pants?”

Now, it felt like my whole face was on fire. I remembered the cargo pants he made fun of me for on our first excursion, and the tongue-in-cheek wording was absolutely purposeful. I rolled my eyes.

Any other time I would have had a quick quip or nonverbal response lined up to banter with him, but another crackle of thunder roared through the sky, and instead, my body physically flung itself up an inch off the cushions in a reactive jolt. My hands gripped onto whatever was near me — which in this case, was the right arm of the couch and coincidentally, the right arm of Mary.

The sound of the thunder was replaced with the onslaught of water against the windows behind the sofa and I let out a breath I didn’t remember inhaling. I looked down at my hand gripping onto Mary’s forearm, fingers digging into the demon ink staring up at me across otherwise pale flesh, and I quickly retreated.

I cleared my throat. “S-sorry,” I choked, “Reflex.”

Mary didn’t seem phased at all. He turned towards me, his upper torso craning to meet mine perpendicularly, and a hand came to my knee. “What helps?” he asked plainly.

“I…what?”

“What helps?” he repeated, his tone still matter-of-fact.

“Oh. Um…” I swallowed and looked down at his hand resting on my left knee, right over the fabric of my pants. I wracked my brain in a feeble attempt to think of something that had aided my fear in the past.

But I couldn’t think. I couldn’t even breathe properly as the heat from his hand sunk through to my covered skin. I imagined that hand six inches higher, resting on my thigh as he spread them apart on the rooftop all those weeks ago—

“Distraction!” I blurted out. I hardly even recognize my voice as I did so. I finally looked over to meet the stare I’d felt carving into my irrationally fearful form and saw those fucking eyes, green and honey and framed with brows that were pursed in a way that conveyed allure. I finished letting out my caged breath. “Something to keep my mind off things and give me another sense to focus on. My parents used to, uh, read to me. Make up stories. When I was old enough, I’d hum songs or picture scenes from movies…”

Embarrassment flooded my bones. I felt childish, weakened, exposed like a raw nerve or a root scabbing from crisp air. We didn’t talk much about our pasts and he wasn’t somewhat I typically indulged with this kind of vulnerability. But as I searched his eyes for a crinkle of amusement or a flash of judgment, I found none. Instead, I found focused pupils and a heady stare.

He broke the pregnant pause. “Maybe I could distract you with something different.”

I rolled my lips in and stilted the air in my lungs. His hand weighed heavily on my leg.

“We’ve tried music. And movies,” he began, briefly casting his glance towards the middle of the living room where the TV sat against the wall and we’d sat and listened to Sonic Youth. “We drank shitty beer and ate shitty Chinese—”

“—I liked the Chinese—” I interrupted in a murmur, still watching as he soaked in the visual of my legs pressed together, his hand firm and steady.

“—so in my eyes, we’ve used sight, hearing, taste, and by association, scent. Which means, we’re missing one…”

Touch, I thought to myself. A shiver whispered down my spine. While his words trailed off, he mimicked the action with his hand. The firm hand that once sat solid on my knee began to travel up the expanse of my left leg. His fingertips ghosted my inner thigh with just enough pressure to make a point.

I gathered up the courage to look up at him again and this time, the verdant hue of his eyes was overtaken by wide pupils that bore into me like he was clawing his way to comfort.

I’m not exactly sure what happened next. The haze in my brain matched the low visibility from the storm outside. But before I knew it, I could feel the warmth of his proximity, the grip of his hand tightening on my leg as his other one gripped the nape of my neck, tugging and pulling me into him like a life preserver.

His kiss was exactly as I had remembered. Soft yet slightly chapped, starting as a fervent pressing of lips on lips that moved into tilted heads and the drag of a tongue against my own parted mouth. I reveled in the feeling and gripped onto his shirt with both hands, fisting it like he’d float away if I let go.

Had I been more cognizant, I’d have laughed at the fact that his action was much more than touch. It was scent (cheap cologne and leather and musk) and it was taste (cheap beer and filmy cigarette residue that I was surprised I could crave) and sight (technicolor behind my eyelids that erupted against dark) and it was sound (of the smacking of lips on lips and the occasional clang of teeth, the rustle of fabric and the springs of the couch as we shifted to accommodate one another).

And down we fell, my twisted torso mirroring his own as I lay plush against the flat seat of the couch. Mary moved to encapsulate my form with his own, knees brushing the worn plaid upholstery as I parted my legs to gift him space. My hands found the tops of his shoulders and as I gripped, his own hand moved from its entrapment on the nape of my neck to cup my jaw, thumb bruising against bone. I fought the urge to wrap my legs around his body and hold him in like he was to me. Touch. I didn’t care.

But before I could, he slotted one of his legs between my own, the other digging between my left thigh and the seam of the couch. I let out a groan as he pressed the meat of his thigh against my center and he smiled against my lips, nipping at the bottom one.

Touch. I craved that movement as heat built deep within my abdomen and pooled down past my navel. Shamelessly, I rocked my hips against his leg to chase the feeling of pressure, of grazed fabric on fabric. Testing the proverbial waters.

Again, a smirk against my lips. His free hand gripped squarely onto my hip. But instead of a teasing nip or squeeze, he pulled away just barely, breath ghosting against my face.

“That feel good, Doll?”

I couldn’t begin to think of how to respond. Instead, I canted my hips up again, slower this time, enjoying the friction of denim against my own clothed core. I suppose that was enough of an answer, because he held his leg firm and pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth.

He hummed. “You gonna use me to get yourself off, dollface?” he breathed in question. His voice was lust-dipped and low, barely above a whisper yet it rang so heavy in my chest that I could swear it was deeper than the thunder.

I let out a noise in response (something like a mix between a whimper and a hum) and again rocked up into the muscle of his leg as I pressed my forehead to his, eyes squeezing shut to focus on the sensation blooming between my thighs.

“Use your words,” Mary all but tutted, voice still low in timbre.

“Yes,” I sputtered. Fuck dignity.

He hummed in response and captured my lips with his again, pressing hard as he kissed me with purpose. His hand on my jaw moved to grab my other hip and he let his body fall into mine as he pulled my body up into his leg in time with my own movements. “Keep going,” he murmured against my mouth. Touch. Sound.

Unabashedly, I moved my hips into his thigh with the help of his strong grasp. The friction changed as I felt my own arousal begin to dampen the fabric of my panties and I groaned into the kiss at the feel of the cotton gliding over my clit with each quickening movement.

Mary’s mouth moved across my jaw and down to the crook of my neck and shoulder, and he began to work at the skin there, biting and sucking along the sensitive areas he’d been cataloging since our last time on this couch. My eyes fluttered open half-lidded in the darkness and I raked my hand through his long hair, gripping it against the scalp as I moved senselessly against him, chasing a release I knew he could provide me.

“Fuck, you’re so eager,” he growled out against my skin. I swear I could feel the pounding of his pulse through our mashed chests and his words only increased a need that I’d been suppressing since he’d fucked me breathless against my kitchen countertop.

Mary’s distinct scent clouded me, wet-straw colored hair hung in my peripherals, cigarettes and cheap beer and the taste of his kiss covered my lips and tongue, fabric rubbed against fabric and wet mouths primed heated skin, and every explosion of his body rocked and pulled and ground against mine into a sensory explosion. Smell. Sight. Taste. Sound. Touch.

No more storm. No more thunder. No more rain. We made our own natural disaster.

And I was distracted. Fully distracted in that I didn’t recognize it was my voice that let out a breathy ‘so good’. So successfully distracted that the beeping of the notification on my phone was easily discounted. In fact, the subsequent beeping that followed seconds later was also minimized. And the one after that. I could feel the fuzzy feeling building deep below my navel and I chased it with every movement of my body against Mary’s, and the feeling of his own hardness growing against my thigh made me that much more desperate. He was clearly getting something out of this, too.

“Take what you need,” Mary’s muffled voice sounded against my clavicle. “Take whatever —fuck— take whatever you want, babydoll.”

So, I did. I ground furiously against him and reached for the peak of my climb, oblivious to the buzzing and chiming of my phone on the coffee table beside us. Except, we’d forgotten we weren’t alone, and not everyone was able to ignore the phone’s noises.

Brutus’ deep, loud barking rang through the sunken den unexpectedly, causing both Mary and I to jump in surprise, Mary’s head knocking against the side of my jaw. He rose up on his forearms instantaneously and gripped his forehead with a loud ‘fuck’ and I matched his reaction as I cupped my jaw and let out a slew of expletives.

The light from my screen illuminated the once sleeping dog’s face and I groaned out as I haphazardly reached an arm towards the table to feel for my phone. I unlocked the device and was met with a litany of notifications from Des. I groaned and slammed my head back against the couch cushion. For working so hard to get Mary and I alone together, Desiree sure knew how to cock block.

I brought the phone up and with squinted eyes, I read over the text messages that had gathered over the last hour.

Des: how’s it going over there?

Des: i heard the storm is supposed to get even worse

Des: is brutie doing okay? He gets whiny with loud noises sometimes

Des: shit someone on instagram posted that the power is out for like 5,000 people. you still okay?

Des: wow. okay. don’t answer me. you guys must be really busy 😏

Des: there are condoms in the bedside drawer 😘 cum stains wash out best with cold water ❤

Des: you still never told me about his dick btw

By now, Mary had sat back on his haunches and the pressure of his thigh was completely gone from where I most wanted it to be. “Who is it?” he asked, rubbing at his forehead.

“Desiree,” I replied in a neutral tone.

Mary let out a sarcastic laugh. “What does she want?” He leaned down to try to get a peek at the phone screen and I snapped it to my chest tightly.

“Just checking in to see how we’re faring the storm!” I said a little too quickly. I cleared my throat to try to force down the nervous lump that was forming. “And wanted to see how Brutus is doing with the thunder.”

I expected Mary to eye me suspiciously, but if he had caught on to anything, he surely didn’t show it. I typed out a quick response to Des, explaining that yes, we were okay, and no, Brutus wasn’t being a handful, before adding a quick ‘fuck you’ and an eyeroll emoji to her later comments.

I set the phone down on the table and looked up at the man currently straddling my body. My heart began to speed up again as I took in my surroundings. It was dark in the room, but the light from the storm outside and the glow of the kitchen nearby illuminated him with chiaroscuro that any Renaissance painter would envy. Judging by the bulge in his jeans, the interruption wasn’t enough to sully his erection, and he looked down at me as if he was waiting for me to say the words to continue.

I felt my chest tighten and another crackle of lightning peppered the room in flushed white. What was I doing? This was Mary: resident bad boy, metal enthusiast, best friend of my best friend’s boyfriend, and come to think of it, a guy who never seemed to show up with the same girl at his side. I didn’t sleep around purely from the fact that it was impossible for me to avoid catching feelings. Blame it on the oxytocin release.

But nothing we had done was wrong and nothing had been the result of deeper feelings, right? We were two consenting adults, two friends that enjoyed each other’s company. Couldn’t that be enough? Sex didn’t have to equal commitment or a deeper connection. It could be loose, free, fun. It was what Des always encouraged me to explore, anyway. Right?

Despite my reasoning, I felt a weight pressing on my sternum and threatening to rise up my throat. His stare was piercing, and all I could smell was leather and cologne and cigarettes, and the taste of him on my bottom lip, and his weight on my legs, and my breath felt like it was going to rip my lungs open and—

“We should turn in for the night,” I blurted out.

I searched his face for any sort of reaction and was met with a split second of confusion before his demeanor went calm.

“Sure, if that’s what you want.”

Take what you want rang heavy in my ears from just moments before.

“Y-yeah, it’s getting late and I worked today, so…”

He stood up from his position over me and I sat up against the arm of the sofa. I chewed my lip, battling the decision I’d just made for the both of us.

“I’ll take the couch, you can have Tommy’s bed,” Mary said nonchalantly as he took a swig from the forgotten beer bottle on the coffee table. Oddly chivalrous.

I shook my head almost immediately. “No, I’ll take the couch.” Mary opened his mouth to protest, but I held firm. “I am not sleeping in Thomas’ bed. That sounds like the 7th circle of hell. My best friend is frequently naked in that bed and who knows when those sheets were last washed.”

Mary laughed at this. A deep chuckle and a shake of his head as he motioned towards me with the beer bottle between pointer finger and thumb.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve never seen her naked.”

Embarrassed, flustered, and wholly unsatisfied from practically humping the metalhead in front of me, I scoffed. “Not like that and not by choice.”

Mary grinned in enjoyment of my response. “Stay up late and play with each others’ tits after a pillow fight?”

A frustrated groan breached my lips. “You’ve been watching way too much porn, Goore,” I said. I reached for one of the long discarded throw pillows and lobbed it at him, feeling a hint of disappointment when he dodged it easily.

He held up both hands, one still holding the bottle. “Suit yourself,” he began, backing up while still facing me, then adding with a smirk, “don’t get too scared with the storm.”

I watched as he turned and made his way down the hallway, beer in hand as he ventured to Thomas’ room. Leaning back into the cushions of the couch, I sighed.

🜏🜏🜏

My fingers curled around the stiff microfiber blanket that I’d lazily thrown over myself as I’d sunk into Thomas’ well-worn plaid couch.

I tried to coat myself in the scratchy throw to avoid the feeling of the couch cushions on the exposed skin of my legs and arms. It was a touch-memory that brought me back to flying high in the same den, legs straddling the man that now slept peacefully down the hallway in the master bedroom.

As much as I didn’t want to reconcile with the feelings of fear, I was on edge. The movie set my panic into motion, but the worsening storm was what lit the engine. It had progressed from the percussive pelting drops against the windows and siding to roars of wind and sprays of harsh rain that sounded like fire hoses. Thunder boomed every so often and I heard its fallout whip through the trees with horrid whistles — true cries of the damned.

I let out a shaky breath and reached my hand down to pet the dog curled on the bed on the floor. Focus on the fur. Soft. Spindle it between your fingertips. Smooth. Warm. My heartbeat started to calm and my lizard brain crept back into its recesses.

My eyes relaxed in their shut state and I nuzzled a bit harder into the pillow. I felt my exhaustion begin to take hold. And just as I began to float into the downward spiral of sleep, a boisterous crack sliced through the sky. It reminded me of the jet planes that flew at the air shows when I was little - the ones that broke the sound barrier - and my shriek that followed rivaled in volume.

Bright white lightning strobed through the windows of the house. A quick succession of flashes flickered like a searchlight on the fritz. The house went dark again.

The dog's ears perked as he sat up and I followed suit, blanket bunched around my knees and clutched with firm fists to my chest. Just like after a blinding camera flash, my eyes were shot. I could just barely make out the shapes of the furniture and walls.

“You okay?” a voice asked mere feet away from me.

Startled, I let out another quick scream before slamming my palm tight against my mouth. My eyes continued to adjust and I noticed the figure turned from swirling black mass to humanoid to Mary within a split second.

“I’m fine,” I breathed out. I brought my hands down to grip onto the couch cushions. Mary stood before me in his boxers. Messy hair tousled around his shoulders and chest in waves a la 1980s glam rock (though I was certain that bedhead was a more likely culprit) and willed myself not to search through the inky black of the den to determine if he was wearing a shirt or not.

“Do you usually scream like a banshee when you’re fine?” he quipped as he crossed his arms over his chest.

No shirt I noted.

I rubbed my hands against my face, pressing my fingertips into the sockets of my eyes. “Just not a fan of storms.”

“Yeah, so you said.” A moment passed. The only sound in the air was the howling wind from outside until he broke the quiet. “You sure you’re good out here?”

“I’ve got Brutie.”

“Alright,” he sighed. After a moment, I could feel he’d left again, and I willed myself back into the couch cocoon I’d built myself.

I must have fallen asleep. Be it the adrenaline crash or the exhaustion, I wasn’t sure how I’d finally managed. It was in vain, however, when another loud burst of lightning and thunder rumbled through the house. The same strobe of light pulsated briefly, and in the distance, a booming crash. Before I knew it, I was on my feet.

Fuck this fuck this fuck this I whispered to myself as I sped through the house. My hands reached out in front of me as bumpers to the still unfamiliar landscape, and after padding down the hallway in bare feet, I reached around for the doorknob to Thomas’ room.

His room was better lit than the living room. The orange-y glow of the one working street lamp in the distance painted the walls with a near apocalyptic hue and illuminated Mary’s sleeping form on the bed. He was facing away from me, but I could tell he was out (shocking considering the resonance of the lightning and thunder).

I bit my lip and crossed my arms over my shoulders as I shifted my weight from foot to foot. I didn’t even know what I was doing here. I sure as hell didn’t want to sleep in Thomas’ bed, and the thought of sleeping next to Mary made me more anxious than anything. Well, except the storm. What was I thinking? I felt like a child standing at the foot of their parents’ bed after having a nightmare, waiting with fearful eyes and too-small pajamas for them to invite me in for the night.

Duller thunder hummed outside and I was reminded of the fear that had clenched my chest just minutes prior. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt having another person with me, could it? Clearly, the dog wasn’t enough.

I slowly sank onto the opposite edge of the bed, making myself featherlight, and lifted one leg up along the mattress as my other foot held firm against the floor. Mary didn’t move. I swung the other leg up onto the bed and pulled the covers down before sliding under, the shifting sheets whisper silent, and leaned back against the pillow.

I lay board stiff, hand on my chest, and watched as the tree branches dappled the streetlight in whooshing patterns across the ceiling. Like dark sparkles, it lulled me into a sense of calm, and I let my eyes fall shut again. The bed shifted and I felt Mary turn over, arm flopping out towards the middle of the bed to land hand first into my arm. His eyebrows crinkled in his sleep and his eyelids fluttered wearily at the feeling of his skin against my own.

“Doll?” he asked, eyes stained with sleep.

I turned my head to face him, hands still clasped against my chest. “Sorry, I—” I began, taking a moment to let out a shaky breath, “ — I freaked out.”

I braced for a chuckle, eyeroll, anything that was typical of Mary, but it never came. Instead, he lifted up the blankets as if to silently beckon me over. “C’mere,” he croaked, voice clearly still lethargic.

In any other situation, I’d take pause, but this wasn’t any situation. I scrambled over like a child. He tucked his arm around me and brought me to his bare chest. I could smell the fragrance

of the shampoo he used as I rested my head in the crook of his neck (I guess he’d been telling the truth about that shower), and my own arms came up to curl against his skin. An arm flopped around my middle, pulling me impossibly close, and our knees brushed under the blanket.

Surprisingly, I felt calmness wash over me. I likened it to the bear-like embrace, skin-on-skin, some sort of instinctual response to the comfort of another human. But his heartbeat pumped strongly beneath my fingertips and I could feel his steady breath floating across the top of my hair and down my neck, and in that moment, I wondered if it was a little more than just human instinct.

A beat percussed in time. I traced my fingertips along the skin of his arm, ghost-light, dipping down the valleys and peaks of muscle that I knew flexed taut when he strummed his Epiphone SG. Goosebumps appeared under my digits and he shifted under the sheet.

“Tickles,” he murmured atop my head.

“Sorry,” I whispered, bringing my hands back to rest against his torso. Sandwiching them between the cotton of my oversized tee and the smooth skin of his pecs would have to do.

It was quiet — so quiet that I assumed he had fallen asleep again. But his soft breaths were broken by his even softer voice. “You’re cute when you’re scared,” he said.

I let out a chuckle. “Gee, thanks.”

He hummed and although I couldn’t see it, I could hear his tongue wet his lips, jaw pressing against the top of my head from the movement. “It’s different from the typical Dahlia.”

My mind raced back to our earlier conversation, the one where he’d accused me of hiding my emotions. Is this what he meant? Was fear what he considered transparency? I looked up at him quizzically, breaking the connection of his chin using my crown as an actual headrest.

His eyes were open, and despite the foreglow of the streetlights and darkness, I could better feel his stare than see it. His hair was still a step down from a rat’s nest, tangled from sleep, and strands hung down around his angular face. His cheeks were beginning to stubble with five o’clock shadow. Breaths pushed past his lips steadily, even, but beneath the pads of my fingers, I could sense his heart pumping solidly in his chest. Only a hairline fracture separated our faces.

Outside, a whistle of strong wind thwipped against the siding of the house like a widow’s cry and my body instinctively tensed. His arm that had lethargically slung across my waist impulsively tightened and he pulled me even closer.

“Hey…” he soothed. His brows were drawn in concern, and his hand traveled from the c-bout of my waist and up, up, up my tricep. It was less of a greeting and more of a reminder to land back in the present, to focus on my senses (touch, taste, smell, sight, sound), to remember I was right here, right in this moment, and I wasn’t alone.

The mortar holding the bricks built around my heart began to disintegrate. Every block melded in a bond pattern to cage in my overcommitting self, to protect from obsession, from the inevitable swoon that I had felt with Brody and had ripped out from under me — they began to fall, piece by piece.

It was the both of us that drew our mouths to meet. The kiss was lazy, sleepy, languid at first, morphing into prolonged pecks that added a harmony to the pattering rain, gusts of wind, and bouts of thunder rumbling the outside earth. His hand continued to rub against my upper arm and beat by beat, the kiss heightened, and slowly, surely, lips met tongue, and then teeth, and I was angling my neck to the right to keep him from digging into the pillow.

Mary shifted. His fingers gripped my arm as he moved to lay halfway on top of me. Our legs tangled together, and as he slid his own against my calf, barely stilling, I was certain he’d just discovered that my nightwear consisted of only an oversized t-shirt and panties.

I could sense his erection pressing through the thin cotton of his boxers against my thigh. My brain zapped back to hours prior when he had boxed me in on the couch and let me take pleasure from his strong quads. A fire raged within me that rivaled my hair spilling across Thomas’ pillows like a red sea.

Mary’s hand moved to skim under the hem of my shirt, tracing against my hip bone before it, too, went up, up, up, hovering just over the curve of my breast before cupping it. His finger traced the outline of my nipple. Once again, surroundings faded. Nothing else existed at this moment, here, right now.

I exhaled shakily against him. Our lips were still passionately pendulating in a rhythm that the both of us had mastered by now. I took a leap of faith and pressed my thigh to his crotch, earning me a squeeze to my chest and his own shaky exhale.

Releasing my breast, Mary swept his hand to the waistband of my panties. His fingers, rough and calloused from frets and strings, dipped underneath. He sat up slightly and broke the kiss. The smooth cotton was seesawed down my legs in a series of yanks from the free hand, and he quickly repeated the action on his own boxers, tossing them aside before returning his hand back to my chest.

“Mary,” I breathed out.

“What?” he echoed. His eyes searched for something as he drank in my expression.

I swallowed lightly. “I-” I began, not knowing exactly what I was saying.

But he did. “I’ve got you,” he said. His other hand came up to brush a strand of hair from my eyes.

He kissed me again and fully framed my body with his own. I relaxed back into the pillow and he sat back to dip his hands underneath my shirt, pushing it up and off with a temporary break in our lips’ union. As he slotted himself between my legs, I looked up at him, body completely bare. I felt the anxiety creep into my chest and I was certain I looked visibly unsure — not at the prospect of what was to happen, no, but what would follow. How this would, or could, change things.

“So goddamn pretty when you’re spread out like this,” he murmured as his hands roamed up and down my torso. I took the moment to soak up the image in front of me. His lean torso was flexed as he ran his hands along my breasts and stomach, and his cock stood heavy against his pelvis, bobbing with every movement of his touch.

He gripped himself with a soft moan, stroking slowly, methodically, and his eyes raked over my form. This wasn’t our first encounter, no, but I felt truly naked for the first time.

With oddly found confidence, I reached forward to grasp at the junction of his shoulder and neck. I pulled him towards me and his other hand shot out to brace himself against the squeaking mattress. His stroking continued and I jolted when his knuckles came in contact with the ache between my legs. Without any spoken words, he lined himself up and then embraced me, hand on my shoulder as we met chest to chest, covering me like a blanket.

His pause was obvious — an unspoken ask of consent to proceed which I answered with a soft kiss. I trusted him, and I assumed he trusted me. We both craved the connection, to complete the incomplete.

As Mary pushed in, I melted beneath him. His tip pushed past and he groaned and buried his face in the curve of my neck. My hands darted out to grip onto his back and pull him close. I wanted to feel him take up space in my ribs.

Inch by inch he sank before canting steadily. I could feel every bit of him as he rocked in and out, pulling and pushing as my heat gripped him, and for some reason it felt different. Not just raw, but whole. I took in every bit of him physically, but as we moved together in the nightglow, I also consumed the parts he’d been dressing up in leather and denim and metal and dissolved it into my flesh. I took him.

And through my euphoria of connection, I barely registered my small eruptions of noises that highlighted each stroke of his cock to my core. I focused on the sensation of sprinkled electricity spreading from my cunt outwards, and his hot breath on my neck that I drank in like I was oxygen-starved.

Mary’s hips began to stutter as he thrusted a little harder into my own and my legs moved to wrap instinctively around him. I keened out louder, and he lifted his head to look at me again.

The eye contact was searing. Hot. It charred my retinas, but this time, I didn’t care. He must have sensed the vulnerability because his hand cupped my jaw and he ran his thumb across my cheekbone before our foreheads met together.

“I’ve got you,” he repeated, “Fuck, I’ve got you.”

Like his own hail Mary. I believed him. He had me now — I was in his clutches, both literally and figuratively.

His pace increased to match my ever-racing pulse. It was still steadied, sleepily focused, and I dug my fingers into the flesh of his back as I clenched down against the movement of his length, nearly trembling at the pull at my navel as each drag of him spurred fire. It was building, and I let it. My breath began to stutter and I felt tears at my waterline. The sensory overload was rhapsody and the simple, obvious connection was juxtaposed by the chaotic climax lapping at my center. I was so close it almost hurt.

I moaned his name in a half-whimper and he must have felt my urgency and desperation and the increased slick coating our joined union because he crushed his lips to mine. His thumb dug into the side of my chin as he drove firmly into my aching need. But the jerking of his hips was almost too much and I could tell he wasn’t far behind me.

As my thighs began to tremble at his sides, he broke the kiss. I looked at him with desperate longing.

“Let it go, Doll,” he murmured to me.

And unlike every other situation in life where I found myself stubbornly resisting direction, I obeyed. I followed his demand and allowed the fuzzy heat of my release to unfurl around him. I cried out in rapture and he swallowed the sound with an opened mouth kiss at the moment of impact. I tensed around him and my pussy spasmed with every lunge of his hard cock.

“Good girl,” Mary praised as gripped hard onto my shoulder and pressed his head to mine, lips separated, and I was enveloped in a curtain of golden-brown tangled strands. He began to move faster against me and I knew my orgasm had spurred something deep within him as he moaned out, “So good for me, taking me so damn well.”

His thumb brushed the breadth of my lip and dipped into my mouth, pulling down just barely against my tongue and teeth. I looked up at him with full eyes, grey hues drowned by pupils swimming from release, and I inwardly begged him to complete me as aftershocks of a violent orgasm short circuited.

“So tight,” he grunted in response. “Fuck— feel so good around me, babydoll.” His hands moved to grip my hips and with a few more jolts of his hips, his cock twitched and he groaned, features melting as he spilled inside of me. His body jerked with each spurt and his fingers dug into the flesh covering my pelvic bone as he rode out his high.

Mary collapsed into me and I allowed my eyes to close as we savored the aftermath. I’m not sure how long it was, minutes, maybe more, but eventually he pulled his softened dick from me and I let out a long breath of satisfaction. My hand moved to rest against my chest as I digested the gnawing deep within me that questioned what this was.

Mary fell to his side and pressed a quick peck to my lips before rolling onto his back and mimicking my sigh. A brief silence filled the sweat-scented air, and I moved my hand to grasp at his, squeezing it, only to receive a slight squeeze back.

Our ragged breaths eventually calmed and I opened my eyes to the textured plaster of the ceiling.

“You good?” Mary asked after a minute. I rolled my lips inward as I thought about the weight of those two words.

“Yeah, I’m…I’m good— I’m great,” I replied. It was the truth.

He hummed in response and pulled the flat sheet over himself.

“Glad I could distract you,” He said as he nestled into the right side of the bed. Before turning, he added, “get some sleep.”

My eyes searched for patterns in the swirls of the painted gypsum of the ceiling as stillness settled in. Mary’s quiet breathing turned to soft snores. Despite the calm, serene relief from a shared orgasm, my chest was tight from the inward battle of how unbelievably intimate that experience was and how deeply I was freefalling into a mess of adoration for the man next to me.

I wondered how he could so easily turn to the side and fall asleep.

🜏🜏🜏

Despite the after effects of the record-breaking storm, Des and Thomas were able to make it home a couple of days after they’d left, right on schedule.

They greeted Mary with their normal affections (a pat on the back from Thomas and a warm wave from Des), and the conversation immediately turned from a Brutus report to a play-by-play of Thomas’ shows out of town.

Des noted there was no sign of her best friend, which wasn’t a surprise. She’d received my text the day before that I was heading home and that Mary was fine staying the additional time. And despite her prodding, I’d remained tightlipped.

Both she and Thomas were unaware of the telltale morning after where I’d woken up to sunbeams instead of lightning, choosing to pack up my belongings and head out early to check on my own pet at home.

They were also unaware of the brief goodbye between Mary and I as I readied to leave — him, acting cool, aloof, and casual, as if nothing had changed, while I tried my best to mirror his demeanor with little success. Because as much as I tried to build the bricks back up, I’d let him in the night before, and he’d taken root inside the boundaries of my chest.

I suppose that just like a day spent thrifting, I’d gone into every interaction with Mary with no expectations, and each time I’d come out with something I didn’t anticipate. The goldmines outweighed the insolvencies. I didn’t know if I wanted him to be aware of this.

Above all, I was happy for my momentary blissful unawareness (at least until later during a phone call with Des) of Thomas’ outburst upon entering his bedroom after Mary had left. His exclamation of “god damn it!” rang as loud as the thunder two nights previous, causing Des to dart in with a “what?” on her lips and the expectation of disaster.

Thomas sighed, stained top sheet in hand. “They fucked on my bed.”

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flowersandbigteeth · 1 year

Text

You try to run from your shadowbeast boyfriend

General Plot: You've had it up to here with Rafe and you decide to run away. Just a short little aside about the reader having a meltdown.

Word Count: 800

Shadowbeast (Rafe) x Reader

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven

Headcannon

W: a tiny bit of choking, manipulation, otherwise sfw monster fluff

You panted, peeking around the corner. The street was empty. Okay. Good. This is going to work. It has to work. You took a deep breath and tried to slow your breathing. You didn’t know what you were thinking. Why you tried to do this.

Maybe the pressure at work had gotten to much, maybe the way Rafe fucked you confused you to the point of madness. It could have been anything, but you’d decided to run.

You thought you’d learned a lot about Rafe. He was strong and smokey, but he couldn’t be everywhere at once. He’d gone hunting and you’d grabbed the hundred thousand dollars Rick had left behind, stuffed it under your shirt, and took off with nothing but your clothes and wallet. No phone to track. No credit cards.

You’d caught a cab to the next town and now you were hustling down the street, probably looking extremely suspicious, to a hotel shitty enough that they dealt in cash.

You finally made it to a run down building with metal gates over the windows and doors, but a fluorescent sign that said “VACANCY”. You would stay there for the night then buy a train ticket in the morning and go…anywhere else.

You’d start your life over, never touch a camera again, become a…bike delivery driver or something. Anything to save you from this constant madness you felt. You let him torture you, do things to you, you would never let any other man do and for some reason you loved it!

You were losing the person you once were and you felt like you needed to save her. You didn’t have a reason why, you were just scared. Terrified really, that he would break you down to nothing. He’d already made you his sex kitten. So easily. He could make you into anything.

You flopped down on the hard bed of the hotel room after you checked in. The ceiling was water stained and the TV broken, so you had nothing but your thoughts to listen to. Your heart still pounded.

What would he do if he found you? When he finds you, some small and very correct part of your brain reminded you. You ignored it. You had to try. Eventually you fell asleep on top of the sheets, too afraid to take off your clothes.

You woke unable to breath. It was pitch black and something was wrapped around your throat, choking you. You thrashed, but it was so strong, it was pinning your body down with its weight.

“It’s cute you thought you could run from me, darling,” the last voice you wanted to hear said. Rafe loosened his chokehold on your throat and you gasped for air, tears coming to your eyes.

“Rafe, I can't do this!” you tried to reason with him, “this is madness!”

His eerie chuckle perforated the darkness.

“You will do anything I tell you to do (Y/N), I would never tell you to do something I knew you couldn’t,” he said evenly, “which is why this is silly and a waste of time.”

A tear slid down your cheek.

“How did you find me?” you asked.

You at least wanted to know how you’d been caught.

“We’re bonded, I bonded with you the first time I took you. You're my mate. I can find you anywhere,” his voice lowered, “you can never escape me.”

You burst into wet, ugly tears, heaving. He brushed your cheek with the pad of his thumb and sighed.

“I know you’re scared, but there’s really nothing to be afraid of. I will never harm you. I love you.”

“But you’re killing people all of the time!” you sobbed, “I..the guilt is so heavy.”

He clucked, smoothing his large hand over your hair.

“I know,” he cooed, “but you’re so, so strong, my little mate, and you have to remember I’m killing the darkest souls. Murderers, rapists, people who destroy other people’s lives.”

He pulled you into his lap and leaned his back against the headboard, his big body curled over you as he brushed your tears away. He held you for a moment to his chest, listening to his heavy heartbeat. He had a heartbeat. He was real and holding you in his warmth.

You sniffled.

“Is it really okay?” you asked and he knew he’d won.

“Of course,” he assured you, “consider me balance in the universe. I’m doing the planet a service.”

“O-okay,” you stammered, “but…maybe we can stop playing CEO for a while. It’s wearing on me.”

You felt him shift against you in the dark as he nodded. It occurred to you that while you couldn't see him in the blackness, he could probably see you quite clearly.

Rafe looked down at your puffy eyes and tear streaked cheeks with nothing but affection. You were his, only you weren't used to the idea, yet.

“I told you the rigors of the workplace are too much for you,” he said.

The rigors of his workplace were too much for you.

“Maybe…” you said noncommittaly.

He cupped your face in his big hand and kissed you in the darkness. His lips were soft and gentle moving over yours. His kiss was familiar and had become comforting. It melted all the pain and uncertainty, smudging it out like wiping away chalk.

“I. Will. Always. Take. Care. Of. You.” he said, punctuating each word with a kiss somewhere new on your face and you giggled. You did adore these tender moments with Rafe. He could be so sweet, when he wasn’t tormenting you.

“Shall I take you home now or do you want to sit here and collect fleas in this bed?” he asked.

“Home,” you opted and he shifted to his human form to carry you to the limousine parked outside.

#sfw monster fluff #monster fluff #sfw fluff #romance #monster romance #my fic #my oc #monster x reader #monster x human #yandere headcanon #yandere fluff

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thornedrose44 · 5 months

Note

Thank you so much for sharing :)

I love all the layers you always manage to build into your stories and characters.

I fell myself drawn to so many of these, by especially by the idea of “The (Seemingly) Immortal Life of Lena Luthor”

(Okay this one seems to be the most popular from the asks. Basically, the plot is Kara has the long life span that comes with being a kryptonian. Kara and Lena get together and settle down post-canon, and Lena realises Kara is ultra depressed about being alone and outliving everyone so she invents time travel. She agrees this with Kara, but basically Lena time travels and jumps through Kara's lifetime to ensure that in a way Kara is never alone but Lena's jumps are random and she jumps around a lot. It's bittersweet because they go long spans without each other and Lena loses the nice parts of being based in a linear timeline which messes with her... but Kara gets company throughout her life and gets to grow old with her wife in a way.)

Anywho, here's the opening:

The (Seemingly) Immortal Life of Lena Luthor

“I thought you were going to wear the Vuitton?”

“The- which one?” Kara frowned, though it wasn’t overly noticeable considering her mouth was consistently only appearing as a thin line over the last couple of days.

“You know.” Lean replied, hands moving to her own chest and raising a prompting eyebrow.

“The boob dress?” Kara spluttered, frown forgotten for the first time to be replaced by a shocked grimace. “I can’t wear that.”

“Why not?” Lena pouted, shifting to the edge of the bed, feet planting on the floor.

“It’s a funeral!” Kara pointed out, whirling round to face the other woman.

“My funeral.” Lena reminded, “Therefore, I should get a say in what my widow wears, right?”

“I don’t think there’s really a protocol for this.”

“Exactly, I always did make my own rules.” Lena said, getting to her feet and moving closer, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Kara’s ear, “You should put that in my eulogy.”

Kara merely sighed, gently grabbing Lena’s hand as it started to retreat back, and pressed it tight against her cheek, savouring the warmth and comfort.

“I’m here.” Lena soothed, shuffling closer and pressing a kiss to Kara’s other cheek.

“But you’re also not.” Kara whispered, eyes falling closed as she tried to make sense of her emotions. “How do I grieve you? Should I even grieve you?”

“Those are some heavy questions, my love. And I’m sorry but I don’t have the answers.” Lena confessed. “Do you want me to go?”

“I…” Kara inhaled a shuddering breath. “I think… me and the girls need some space but… can you stay close, just not…”

“I understand.” Lena promised, leaning back as Kara slowly let go of Lena’s hand. “I already promised to watch the grandkids.”

“You always know what I need.” Kara swallowed thickly, it hurt to look at Lena in that moment.

“I try, but I’m aware enough to know I don’t always succeed.”

“Like making me attend your funeral?” Kara scoffed, immediately regretting the bitterness that leaked out - a twisted version of her sadness.

“The funeral isn’t for you. It’s for the girls.” Lena revealed. “I’ve confused their lives enough, I can give them a place to grieve and ensure you’re there to help them through it.”

“You’re a wonderful mother, Lena.” Kara insisted.

“I could have been better.” Lena smiled, eyes shining for a second before she blinked away the excess moisture.

“No, Lena-” Kara began, only for Lena to wave her away.

“I’ll go get the girls.” Lena said, moving towards the door. “And wear the boob dress, I want everyone to know how hot my wife is.”

#supercorp

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itsthewritergal · 1 year

Text

Broken foot and thin walls - B.Barnes x reader

This is short but adorable, lemme know if you wanna second part :) xx

TW: Swearing, mention of feet/broken bones, shouting, arguments, Fluffy Buck :)

Summary - Y/N and Bucky are neighbours with VERY thin walls!

Bucky wasn’t one for eavesdropping, but the moment he had heard his next door neighbour humming something through the paper thin walls he quickly realised that with his enhanced hearing and the thin wall he didn’t really have the luxury not to. Of course Bucky began finding himself looking forward to six pm when his neighbour would walk through her door, and he would hear her lock turning and then the humming would start. He of course tried to block it out but some how it always seemed to find it’s way to the forefront of his mind.

Bucky sat on his sofa with one of his old 40s records spinning on the turntable which Sam had bought him weeks ago, he looked at the clock it was 8pm and there was no humming to be heard anywhere. Bucky reminded himself that it wasn’t any of his business and judging by the ‘noises’ he had heard the other night he had assumed that his neighbour was not single. But he still felt his strange need to protect her, his therapist would almost definitely have a reason for it but he decided against thinking about it. Before he could let his mind run away with him he heard your door slam and then the shouting started, even without his enhanced hearing he was sure he’d still be able to hear it crystal clearly.

“You have no idea what you’re saying, you’re delusional” One shouted, he was sure that it was his mystery neighbour who he was yet to see the face of

“Me? Delusional? Come on, you’re the one talking about other guys in front of me” “Are you that insecure really?”

“You were practically cumming a the thought of him” “Oh get a fucking life, I was telling you about my research paper,”

“Research on a fucking criminal, yeah real classy Y/N” He shouted,

Bucky suddenly felt rather uncomfortable listening in so instead just turned up his record player until the sounds were halfway drowned out.

It had been hours, and Bucky’s eyes were begging to droop, the shouting was still going ahead, and he was half tempted to knock and interrupt just to check everything was ok but he reminded himself quickly that it wasn’t even close to being his place to say anything. It was close to 2am when he heard his neighbours door slam closed and her ‘guest’ stomped down the stairs in the apartment building. Bucky turned down his record player in hopes of hearing the humming but all he heard were soft sobs.

The morning couldn’t come quick enough for Bucky, he had started getting up earlier than usual to hear the humming in the morning before Y/N headed to work. This morning was no different as Bucky sat at his table sipping coffee and reading yesterdays newspaper whilst listening to Y/N’s soft song, that was until

“FUCK” Y/N shouted, followed by a large crash Bucky quickly grabbed his gun and paused, awaiting some kind of sign that Y/N was in desperate trouble, “You motherfucker, fuck, shit, fuck” She continued with her stream of curse words that only made Bucky more concerned. Deciding he’d rather piss off his neighbour than let her get killed he quickly ran out of his apartment and burst through Y/N’s door, knocking it off of it’s hinges.

“What the fuck are you doing?” She screamed at him,

Bucky paused with his gun at ready, and pointing at any potential threats but he quickly realised that there was nobody else in the apartment, other than him, Y/N and a dumbbell which was rolling across the floor,

“I heard a crash and thought you were hurt or being attacked” Bucky said gently taking an awkward step towards Y/N trying to figure out the reason for the crash,

“Hurt yet, being attacked no” Y/N explained as Bucky took in the tears in her eyes,

“Where are you hurt?” He said closing the gap between them,

“I dropped that stupid dumbbell on my foot” She huffed, Bucky noted how she had been standing on one leg since he had broken in,

“Let me take a look? I’m no doctor but I know my way around injuries”

“Yeah I can imagine” Y/N said as she let Bucky move her to one of her barstools, he sat next to her and placed her foot on his thigh so he could look at it properly.

“You know who I am?” Bucky asked

“I’m kinda a fan” Y/N admitted “Of the howling commandos, I had to a stupid project years ago when I was back in school and it got me invested in you mainly and Captain America too really”

“Me huh?” Bucky asked as he started prodding her foot earning himself a wince and a tight breath in from Y/N, “Sorry” He muttered

“Yeah, you. When you’re trial and pardon and everything was going through I kinda followed it. I’ve actually started writing a research paper on you and your pardon, actually cost me my boyfriend last night” She said, and it dawned on Bucky that the ‘guy’ that he heard Y/N arguing about was him, he let a small smirk grace his lips “I’m sorry you probably think I’m totally crazy”

“Not totally crazy, I uh can’t lie but I heard some of your fight” He said

“Thin walls huh?” She huffed “Which part did you hear, you know Mrs Jefferson in Apartment 6C heard the bit about me being a selfish bitch so if you timed it right you can fill each other in” She tried to joke, Bucky let out a small laugh,

“I heard the start” He watched as Y/N began to realise which part he had heard

“Oh my god, this is so embarrassing.” She groaned

“The broken foot or the thin walls?”

“Broken?!” She said looking at Bucky with a terrified look

“Broken toes I’m pretty sure” he said,

“Fuck” She said burying her face in her hands

“Look it’s ok, I’ll tape it up for you and you can come by mine every day so I can check on it? I’m no doctor but I’ll know if it isn’t getting better”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that”

“You didn’t ask” Bucky said, “I uh also may have broken your door”

“Great” Y/N said with an eye roll

“How uh, how about you stay at mine tonight. The door locks, and I’ll call a guy out today to come and fix yours, and then I can keep an eye on your foot? Just in case it gets worse”

“Well I can’t turn Bucky Barnes down now can I?” Y/N chuckled.

taglist

@whitewineandpizzapuffs @planet-naptune @thefandomplace @sebby-staan @witch-and-a-half @nojamsonmytoast @wanniiieeee @louweasleymalfoy @barnestatic @devilsbooksworld @lovesanimals0000 @navs-bhat @saayanaaa @cjand10 @canthebest1 @saranghaey @almosttoopizza

#bucky fanfic #Bucky angst #Buck #bucky #Bucky Barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x reader fluff #bucky x reader angst #bucky x you #bucky x #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x fluff #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you

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supercriminalbean · 1 year

Text

NO SECRETS WITHOUT LIES

A/N: Okay guys here it is, chapter one of my Aaron Hotchner x Reader series. Reader is gender neutral, uses they/them pronouns but is AFAB. This series is going to contain spoilers from season 6&7. This is going to be based around Emily death, and how Reader and Hotch become close due to her death and soon start a Dom/sub relationship. But what’s going to happen when Emily returns, how is Hotch and Reader going to get through it all.

This is series is most likely going to be at least 15 chapters at this point. nothing happens between Aaron and reader until chapter 5 I believe. I will be posting one chapter ever 7 to 10 days, depending on how much works takes up my life and if I have time to edit and write a new chapter thank you.

Words: 4.5k

Warnings: Death. Depression. Death. Fake death. Drug addiction. Drugs. Crying. Emotions. Swearing. (If I have missing anything let me know)

Chapter one:

Grieving.

It's been four months. Four months without hearing her voice. Four months since you felt her touch. Four months now that she has left you, all alone in this world. Having to continue life all by yourself, without her holding your hand, anymore. Four months ago her body was lowered into the ground, and no one has been the same since.

~~~

Every Morning since Emily's death, you grab a cup of coffee and stop at her grave on the way to work. Making sure that even in death, you always have time for her, not wanting her to be all alone. For the first few weeks it helped you grieve, and then it just became a part of your routine. Her grave became a safe place to go, a place where you can just stop for some peace and quiet. An area to go so you can clear your mind, one that has no distractions within. Emily was your best friend for so many years, you had joined the team a couple months after her. She was so happy to no longer be the newbie, which also meant she understood exactly how you felt. She took you under her wing, showing you everything you needed to know about working in the Bau. You grew even closer with Emily when you two realised you lived in the same apartment building. Arriving to work together and some days you would even crash at each other's places, after having a bit too much to drink. Morgan used to joke that you two were actually dating. You two would always just laugh at him, but he was on the right track. Emily Prentiss is your platonic soulmate, and now you have no one.

~~~

The first 10 weeks after her death. When you went home from work, you would have possibly a couple hours to yourself. Before someone would text you asking for company, normally it would be Reid or Garcia. They needed someone to be there while they grieved for their best friend. It took Morgan awhile before he reached out to you for help, you always had to keep reminding him you were there if he needed to talk. You never told anyone it was because you liked to be distracted from your own pain, because they already knew that. Most nights when Reid texted you it was because he was terrified he would go out and buy Dilaudid. You would go over to his place and stay with him until the morning. Other nights you would get a phone call from Garcia or Morgan saying they were having a nightmare and needed someone. You would go over to see them whenever they needed you, it never matters what time or whatever the reason was.

~~~

On the weekend, if there was no case, you were normally helping Morgan with renovations for one of his houses. Other times you were having a movie marathon with Reid or Garcia, sometimes both. You hated the idea of them being alone for long times, knowing where their minds can go.

The last couple of weeks, no one seemed to be reaching out. They all seem to be healing without you, and now you’re left alone with nothing but your own thoughts. That's when you started realising a few things about Emily's death, that never seemed to make sense. You first noticed it at the hospital, after JJ had just broken the news to everyone. Hotch didn't seem surprised, he just looked, emptied. At first you thought it was his way of taking in the news. Reid was crying in JJ arms, but when she pulled away, you saw her and Hotch walking into a room alone. You never thought anything of it at first, your heart having just been crushed. Feeling as if the tears were never going to stop, like your heart could never be whole again. Rossi was holding you closely as you broke apart in his arms, you knew he was crying as well, but he was trying his hardest to be strong for you. There have now been a few times since then, that you have noticed looks between Hotch and JJ. Even catching them whispering together, it always seemed tense and sective. Feeling as if they are hiding something, especially JJ. She was only around for a week after Emily died and then she was away all the time. She tried to say it was for work, but the first time she left, it felt like she was hiding something. A couple weeks ago, during a case the unsub we were hunting had faked his death. When Reid had announced it to the team, Hotch only seemed to tenses up a lot. It took you a week after that to put it all together.

Emily Prentiss is alive, and JJ and Hotch knows.

~~~

The team has just gotten back from a difficult long case. Still down a profiler and Hotch and Garcia trying their best to cover the communications liaison position together. Once the team is finally able to go home. You manage to have a shower, before your phone starts ringing. Only picking it up after seeing its Reid.

“Hey Spence, is everything okay?” Answering the phone quickly.

“(Y/n)” Spencer's cry seeps through the phone. Panic suddenly floods through your body, knowing this isn't like him, something’s wrong.

“Reid, are you okay, where are you?” Gulping thickly as you fear for his answer.

“Home.. I bought, I bought Dilaudid” His voice cuts into your heart, hearing as he stutters through his tears.

“Have you taken it?” Jumping to your feet as you grab your keys.

“No.. but I want to please help me” His words are close to making you break, wishing you could just take away his pain.

“Okay I'm on my way I'll be there in 10 minutes alright, just hold on okay?” Begging him as you pull on your shoes.

“Okay” Is all you hear as the line goes dead. Running out the door fast, forgetting to even lock your apartment.

~~~

You manage to get to his place in under 5 minutes, breaking every road code there is. Running into his apartment building and climbing the stairs two at a time. Fiddling with the key he gave you a couple months ago, trying to unlock his door as quickly as you can. Rushing into his apartment, you could hear his heavy shaking breathing coming from the bathroom. You slow yourself down, taking a calm breath before approaching, not wanting to startle him.

“Spencer, I'm here” Calling out to him as you walk towards the bathroom. Spotting him on the ground leaning against the sink. A small bottle of dilaudid beside him, a package of needles thrown across the room. You reach him, getting down on your knees in front of him. His arms covering his face, his body shaking as he cries. The noises he makes pierce sharply into your heart. He doesn't deserve to be in this pain.

“Hey.. Spence I'm here, I'm right here” Your whisper is full of care and concern. Gently you move his arms out of his face, letting them rest down by his side. Now you're able to see his face, that's pale and stained with tears. Looking completely broken and lost, as he tries to look at you.

“Im sorry, Im so weak Im sorry” He cries out, you pull him into your arms, holding him firmly against you.

“It's okay, I got you spence, you're safe now, I'm here I got you” you whisper softly, as he cries on your shoulder. Rubbing his back comfortingly repeating those words as he calms down.

~~~

Reid slowly calms down, listening to your heart beat. His eyes closed, feeling safe in your arms. Gradually he pulls away, looking up at you, noticing the worry and concern in your eyes.

“I'm sorry (Y/n) I don't want you to see me like this” His voice breaking, sounding raw due to the crying.

“Spencer, I want you to reach out to me when you're like this okay, I’m here so I can help you okay? I'm never going to stop caring for you, okay?” Trying to keep your tone, calm and light, not needing to overwhelm him. You felt so terrified at that moment that he was going to take the drugs before you could get there. Scared that at any moment he could stop reaching out when he really needs you.

“I want to get better, I just don't know how” The hopelessness in his voice cuts straight to your heart. You wish you could tell him the truth about Emily, but you can’t, not yet. Not until you could get Hotch to confirm it. You can not risk getting his hopes up just to get crushed again.

“Let's get you some help, maybe it's time you go back to your AA meetings, I can come with you if you like”

“You're right, I'll start back next week” He sending you a weak, but meaningful smile. You stand up, offering out a hand to help pull him up to his feet.

“Why don't you clean yourself up, and I'll make us some dinner, then we can watch Doctor Who, yeah?” Smiling softly, watching him carefully as he nods walking out, towards his room. You grab the needles and the bottle of dilaudid, shoving them into the bottom of your handbag before heading to the kitchen.

~~~

Reid has a long shower, as you pull out a frozen pizza, placing it in the oven. You've been at his place a lot in the last few months and you know where everything is in his apartment. You're sitting on the couch, with the pizza, getting ready to push play for Doctor Who. As Reid walks out in his pyjamas, sitting down beside you looking more relaxed, more like himself. He takes a piece of pizza as he settles down, stealing the remote from you. Laughing as he puts his favourite episode on.

“Good pizza” He manages to get out, though his mouth is full.

“That's gross Spencer dont eat with your mouthful” Laughing, shaking your head, at his changes of moods. He turns around to face you chewing with his mouth open grinning, knowing it annoys you. Rolling your eyes at him smacking his arm playfully. He settles down as the episode starts playing. You manage to get two episodes in when you start falling asleep during the last part of the episode. When It ends he turns it off, bringing you a pillow and pulling a blanket over you. As you fall asleep,last thing you hear is

“Thank you (Y/N), I couldn't make it without you”

~~~

You could barely get any sleep that night, waking up every half an hour. Having decided to give up on the idea of more sleep, as you watch the sunrise. Your mind seems to be running with the idea of Emily still being alive and how today, you’re going to demand Hotch gives you the truth. After last night, you need to know the truth, then you will be able to tell Reid. The way he is going is terrifying and the idea of losing another friend is something you're not able to take anymore. Grabbing your bag quietly as you walk out, not wanting to disturb Spencer as he needs his rest. Getting into your car, with the intent to get coffee before going to visit the empty gravesite of Emily Prentist. Needing a safe place where you can think clearly about what you're going to do. You really want to just strom into Hotch’s apartment and scream at him. But you know you can't do that, needing to be calm and think logically, especially if Jack is there. As you're driving to the coffee shop, there's some road work, making you get redirected. Sighing frustratedly as you're forced to take the long way. Driving down the road when you notice you're about to drive past Hotch’s apartment building.

“For fuck sake!” Screaming loudly as you slam your foot on the brake, hand pressing hard on the horn. Due to the fact a car had just pulled out in front of you cutting you completely off. The anger in your body has just tripled, as you pull into that car park. Slamming the car door behind you as you storm your way up to Hotch's apartment. Feeling the anger flowing freely through your veins, trying to take deep breaths to control the anger. Surprisingly, it doesn’t do anything to help.

~~~

Your hand bangs loudly against his door, your mind thundering with anger as you wait for him to answer. You weren’t going to leave here without the truth, no matter what happens.

Standing there for a few moments tapping your foot hoping it will calm you down as you run out of patients. Lifting your hand about to knock again, only to have to lower it when you hear the door starting to unlock. Huffing angrily as Hotch finally opens the door, looking at you in surprise and concerned.

“(Y/L) it's 6:30 what are you doing here?” Hotch voice full of concern, stepping back to let you in.

“I am so angry, Hotch, I am so pissed off at you, you think you could do this to us?” You take a deep breath. Trying to keep your voice steady, but it raises with every word as you walk in. Hotch narrows his eyes, closing the door.

“What are you talking about (Y/L)”

“Seriously Hotch, you didn't think I would figure it out, the secret you and JJ have!” Snapping at him, your arms flying outwards. Hotch tenses up, his face hardens.

“Secret, we don't have any secrets (Y/N)”

The anger in your body is fighting hard to take over. Forcing yourself to take a deep breath to steady yourself.

“I am trying my hardest to keep calm right now Hotchner, only because Jack doesn't need to hear me screaming at you”

~~~

Your hand reaching up into your hair, running through it. Taking another deep breath, trying your best to control your temper.

“Jacks at Jessicas, but I would prefer you don't accuse me or JJ about anything” His tone coming out harsh, which earns a loud scoff from you.

“Bullshit, If you didn't have a secret you would want to know what the secret is, I'm a profiler Hotchner, and I'm a pretty fucking good one, so don't you dare try to say I'm wrong” Yelling at him, not meaning to allow your emotions to take over so soon. Hotch crosses his arms, glaring at you.

“I do not know why you're so upset, Yes we have a secret, but it's not that bad” His words fall effortlessly from his lips, making you laugh hysterically.

“Not that bad? Not that fucking bad?! How the hell is Emily alive not a big fucking deal!?” Screaming at him, your hands squeezing into fist. His face softens looking at you, his eyes filling with concern and worry and you feel like you can pick up a little guilt hidden away.

“(Y/N).. I didn't.. I didn’t realise that you were struggling this badly” His voice softened, his reaction throwing you off.

~~~

“Excuse me? I just told you I know you faked her death, you and JJ did, and you're going to try to tell me I'm struggling seriously?” Your voice lowering, looking at him in disbelief.

“I know it hard to move on but”

“Don't you dare try to turn this onto me Hotchner, I know the truth” Your confidence starting to waver, trying hard to keep the doubtful thoughts at bay.

“(Y/N), Emily's Dead” The way he says it, the pure worry and concern, the sadness filling his tone. Was almost enough to crush all the confidence you have left. Shaking your head trying to clear your thoughts.

~~~

“No no, she's alive. I know she is, otherwise what secret are you and JJ hiding, you did admit you have one” Your voice is loud, trying to stay feisty, but honestly you're just sounding broken.

“I'm trying to convince JJ to come back to the team as a profiler, we didn't want the team to know until it can happen” His tone is soft, his body language telling you that it's the truth.

“I've been trying to get her back since Emily's death. It's taken a lot of convincing, but it's looking like it could happen.”

Allowing that information to set in, your body starts shaking lightly, tears springing to your eyes.

“But what.. But at the hospital you and JJ went into another room to talk” Taking a deep breath, trying to watch his body language closely, through the tears.

“We were discussing how we would inform her family, JJ is better with families, but I am the unit chief, we decided we would do it together.” His words breaking all hope that you have left.

~~~

Tears rolling down your face, your legs shaking giving out underneath you, your body crumbling to the floor. Feeling arms grabbing you, helping to lower you to the ground, as you let out a painful sob. Hotch pulls you into his arms, holding you closely as you cry. He strokes your hair gently, as he whispers comforting words, letting you fall apart in his arms.

Guilt filling him as he had to lie to you once more, having to lie to his team everyday when he sees them struggling. He was wondering when you were going to break, he has been noticing that you haven't been allowing yourself to grieve. You have been distracting yourself with work, or with helping the team, asking for more paperwork to complete. Even offered him parenting advice, so you could lessen the stress on him and therefore on the team. He hated the way you had stopped caring for yourself, he barely saw you do any of your passions anymore. Normally you would have a different book with you every case, and most weeks you would bring in some baking, with new recipes you had discovered. You hadn't done any of that for over four months. Everyone had changed, and he hated watching his team in pain.

~~~

You laid in Hotch’s arms for a long time, even after the tears had dried. Feeling completely destroyed and numb. Having gotten your hopes up that it would be possible to see her again, that's all you want in life. Slowly pulling yourself away from his arms, taking a shaky breath.

“I'm sorry Aaron, you didn't need me to do that” Your voice croaky from the crying, your body still shaking faintly.

“It's okay, (Y/N) I told you I'm here when you need to talk” His tone is soft and judgement free. “Why don’t I make us some coffee, and we can talk?”

“No I’ve taken enough of your time, I should go” Standing slowly, Hotch does the same watching you, his hand staying softly on your arm.

“No, please stay, we need to talk about a few things” You can't meet his eyes, knowing as he's the team leader. He has to report when there could be an issue with someone. Giving him a small nod, he walks over to the kitchen, turning the coffee pot on. You head over to the bathroom to clean yourself up.

~~~

Walking back out after cleaning yourself up, you see Hotch sitting on the couch, cups of coffee on the table in front of him. Sitting down beside him picking up your cup, smiling weakly, avoiding his stare.

“Thanks Hotch” Taking a sip of coffee, relaxing into the softness of the couch.

“No problem, you know we need to talk about what you accuse me of right?” He smiles sadly, looking at you concern. He needs to know how you found out, how he can make sure no one else will be able to figure it out.

“Do we have to?” Letting out a tired sigh as you drink more.

“We do, (Y/n) I need to know why you thought Emily was alive, it's unhealthy to think that way” His tone stays calm and soft as he speaks. His voice has always been a comfort for you, not long after you joined the team. Hearing his voice seems to just melt the stress away. Closing your eyes as you try to think about how to answer that. The hope that you had about her being alive is now long gone, and inside all you feel is a big black hole.

“I know that, but it made sense, somethings just didn’t add up and so I guess my brain, put this idea in my brain to cope and I wanted it to be true so my brain made the rest up to help I guess” Sighing, putting the cup down.

“You need to take some time off, I don't want you coming back for a week, you need to grieve”

Your eyes widen, shooting up at him. “No way, Hotch I can't take time off, It will just make things worse please, I need to be working”

“No you don't, you need time to accept it, you know there's five stages of grief, you're still struggling with accepting what happened.” Hotch face harding back up. You always call that his work face, hiding his emotions, putting his professional face on.

“No Hotch, I know what happened, I just had a bad moment okay, I can not take time off, we are already short with profilers, and Reid needs me this week please, he is struggling.”

~~~

Hotch sighs, straightening up, looking back at you.

“(Y/n), you aren't any good to us, if you don't look after yourself, You are an important part of this team but, recently your skills haven’t been as good as they used to be. You need time” Hotch lies, you have been working greatly recently, your skills have been on point. But he needed something to get you to take some time off.

Your hand sliding up, playing with your hair as you start doing some slow breathing technique.

“I know I haven't been myself lately, but please, It's not wise for me to not be without the team.” Your eyes begged for him to let you stay. Hotch’s eyes narrow watching you closely, he raises an eyebrow slightly.

“Something happened with Reid last night, didn't it?”

“Don't profile me Aaron” Groaning slightly. “Yeah alright it did, but he's going to be fine, he just needs me this week Hotch and I need to be working please”

Aarons face filling with concern, his lips tightening into a thin line, the question he wants to ask, written across his face. Shaking your head lightly at his unasked question.

“He was close last night, he rung me for help, I can't leave him when he's too close to the edge”

“He has the whole team’s support, this isn't just on you” Tilting his head to the side slightly, he wanted to tell everyone the truth but he knew he couldn't.

“Your right, but last time, I was the one who pulled him out of the hole, I know you all wanted to help, but it risked your job, I was new I was able to help, I'm the only one he trust enough when it comes to this, and you know that Hotch”

He picks up his coffee looking away from you, thinking deeply about this situation.

~~~

“(Y/n), You are always there for the team, but who do you talk to when things get hard?” Hotch turns his body back to look at you, studying your body langues.

“I have the team” You answer him quickly, tensing up. You don’t open up easily, it's something you have always struggled with.

“Yes you do, but you don't open up to us”

“I do,” Crossing your arms, feeling exposed. “You're the one who doesnt open up Hotch” He scoffs lightly at your words, raising an eyebrow.

“I talk to Dave, don't try and turn this on me, you know that taticed doesn't work on me” He smirks softly, watching as you roll your eyes up at him.

“Fine Hotch, I don't open up to anyone, the last person I did is now dead, so I'm sorry if I got issues.” You huff at him, rolling your shoulders back feeling uncomfortable.

“I'll make you a deal (Y/L)” Smiling at you slightly, acting if he's already won this discussion.

“Oh and what's that?”

“I won't make you take time off, I won't report you which would make you go more often to therapy, but only If you agree to my terms”

Groaning quietly, knowing that, this is not going to be fun. “And what are your rules Hotchner”

“Everyweek, you spend one night talking to me about anything.” Rolling your eyes at his words, sipping on your coffee.

“Seriously, that's not fair” Huffing annoyed, placing your coffee down a little too hard.

“You also have to tell me when you have a bad day, and my rules start now, or you take two weeks off and start therapy on monday”

Staring at him angrily, knowing if you want to help Reid, you would have to agree to his stupid terms.

“Fine, you win.”

~~~

When Hotch gets up to get more coffee, your phone rings. That's when you notice it's now 10am, shocking you with how much time has gone by. Answer your phone when you see its Reid.

“Hey Spence” Forcing your voice to be filled with calm and fake happiness.

“Hey, where you go, you left early” Reid's voice fills the silence, sounding refreshed and relaxed.

“Oh yeah sorry, I was going to wait for you to wake up but I had a few things I wanted to deal with this morning” Explaining hastily, knowing that's not the full truth.

“Oh alright, well Morgan trying to organise drinks tonight, you in?” Smiling softly at the idea.

“I'm in, wait one second Reid, I'll ask Hotch” Pulling the phone from your ear, turning to Hotch who's already watching you. “Team drinks tonight, you in?”

“Not tonight, Jack will be home” He gives you a small smile. Nodding at him, understandingly bringing the phone back to your ear.

“I'm in, but Hotch is busy tonight.”

“Why are you with Hotch?” Reid asks, confused.

“Work stuff, had something I wanted to run by him” The lie comes out instantly, avoiding Hotch’s stare.

“Oh okay, well 8pm, want me to pick you up?”

“Would love that, thanks Reid” Smiling lightly, placing your phone down.

“Really, lying to him?” Hotch smirks lightly. As if his point from earlier was just proven, which just earns him another eye roll.

“You really like rolling those eyes at me huh?” His chuckle deepens, slightly .

“You're not special Hotch, a lot of guys can get me to roll my eyes.'' Smirking at him, cheekily.

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