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pinkrelish · 9 months

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐞𝐬" 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐲 | 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚

singledad!mechanic!eddie x fem!reader

✶A deleted scene from chapter twelve where receptionist!reader acts like a bimbo in front of Eddie just to rile him up. Written very tongue-in-cheek at the beginning.✶

NSFW — sexual themes, handjob, unresolved sexual tension, 18+

↳ start the story here to catch up!

[wc: 2.1k]

Heeding your checklist of chores, you idled at the workbench against the far corner of the wall. There were a few of the usual things you organized: placing nuts and bolts in drawers, facing products with their labels out, tidying small boxes, folding the end of the paper towel roll so it didn’t unfurl itself in the turbulent path of the oscillating fan. You bent over to toss cellophane wrappers into the waste paper bin, and took your time musing if the liner should be changed despite the little amount of balled up paper weighing down the bottom. Standing, you swept off the unsanded tabletop with your hands, and worked a crusty rag over an oil streak, making a mental note to call the laundry service to swing by a day early.

As you stepped away, you knocked a pencil to the floor. Its bright yellow body was impossible to miss, along with its excruciatingly long hexagonal roll carried by your elbow to the very edge, but you managed. You knelt to your hands and knees to retrieve the writing utensil, inspecting its broken tip. The graphite was missing completely, leaving behind an empty hole where it once was. An unfortunate accident. You rotated it a few times looking for other flaws—an honorable way to spend your time.

“You doin’ this on purpose?” gruffed out an annoyed voice behind you.

No need to check, you heard the amused twist at the corner of his lips. His left canine was probably on show, too. Not in a hurry to confirm, you gripped the pencil in your fist, and leaned forward, stretching in search of the missing lead before it was stomped into dust and potentially transferred from someone’s boot sole into a wealthy client’s car. You were thinking of them, really.

The floor was a rewarding oasis in the noonday sun baking through the warehouse windows. Your flat splayed hands and knuckles worked over the grit of dirt to inch your pursuit closer to the wall, drinking in the chill of the epoxy coated concrete cooling you down better than a 50 cent clear plastic cup of Kool Aid at a kid’s misspelled lemonaide stand. Though, the unforgiving flooring bit into your joints, and indented your knees with the netting of your pantyhose. But Eddie’s study did not sway to your shoe slipping off your heel. No, he was a gentleman. And as a gentleman, he praised the wealth of curves you put on display.

He used the heels of his heavy boots to drag himself from under a Mustang, thumping up beside you, wheels on the creeper rolling along the slick floor.

The lower you dipped your chest, the higher your skirt hem tickled the back of your thighs. In total innocence—truly giving your best effort to find the missing pencil tip—you tilted your hips to unimaginable degrees, presenting your ass to the point even your lower back side-eyed your act.

Smooth backs of fingers lifted the hem more. Eddie curled his index under your skirt, and assisted it to the crease of your cheek, following the change in nylon with his rough thumbprint as it wove denser around your thighs to hold you in. Tummy Control, it was advertised as. To a man who had seldom encounters with women, this meant very little to him, as did the change in texture. Though, curiously, he rubbed at it with interest.

“You’re something else, you know that?” But his voice was too playful to shame you, hardly traipsing through his throat to chastise. “I’m out here working my ass off, and you’re struttin’ around the garage in this lil’ piece.” The little piece in question was your corporate approved pencil skirt from a long forgotten temp job when your apartment lost two roommates in a breakup, and rent was past due.

Pandering to your audience of one, you shuffled two of the tiniest inches backwards, and steadied your hand on his outstretched leg. You bent at the hips, filling his large palm with a handful of your ass, and he admired you in a brush of fingertips near the innermost valley of your thigh, licking a divine chill up your spine. Playing along, you pretended to just notice him, assuming a sinless gasp, and following it with many airheaded inflections, “Oh! Didn’t see you there, handsome. Am I distracting you?”

The standing fan swung its head in your direction, sweeping Eddie’s bangs off his forehead in a brief burst.

You’d been on hundreds of dates, and not once had you been so deeply complimented by someone’s gaze.

Eddie dwelled in the distraction. He stroked his thumb over the fat, and traced his pinky along the hypersensitive crease before the swell which had your muscles tightening in a squirm. He was so close to the middle seam of the pantyhose. Perhaps he knew this as well, but didn’t care—he was just happy to be touching you. Laid out in the neon orange creeper, sun glancing off the packed garage, casting a glow across his puffy face. Sleepy eyes, messy hair, unbearably adorable grin—the type of candid expression showing how honored he was to look at you, so forthcoming and open. A trap, if there ever was one, luring you into picturing him twisted amongst your bedding on a late morning.

As he tracked his gaze over your backside, an aching reminder moseyed its way into his consciousness. Setting into a glare, he forced his way through any pleasantness lingering in his chest to tell you plainly, “Sweetheart, you’re fucking torturing me here.” You giggled, and he broke, falling victim to the squinch at his crow’s feet.

“You think I’m not torturing myself, too?”

“Dunno.” He craned his head back to check underneath the car for where each pair of boots were moving, and you peeped through the driver’s side window to keep tabs on the seated customers in the lobby. Once you both ensured there was no danger of being caught, he turned his attention to you fully. “You’re not wearing my favorite pair, so I couldn’t tell.” In case you weren’t sure, he wrung his hand around your leg, and drummed his fingers where there should be an easily accessible hole in your tights, where he could drag his fingers through your slick truth. His sorry features were tainted with remorse when your plush thighs weren't spilling out from the nylon; however, he drew his eyebrows in mock sympathy, and traced the area. “Could make these my new favorite pair, though.”

You about melted into a puddle of dumbstruck glee at his first foray into initiating dirty talk. “Yeah?” you stressed the word like he would—big smile and all. You raised the placement of your grip on his leg up, further, still going until the inside of your thumb threatened to assist what laid fat and heavy towards his hip. Car exhaust, pungent motor oil, and fumes swam in your head. Mind dizzy, you skimmed your nails over his heavy sack pressed tight against the seam of his coveralls. An implied line was drawn along your heat by his featherlight touch. You leaned over him, real close, chest over chest, knees spread because his hand encouraged you to do so. Mouth to mouth, considering kissing the dirt from his lips. “Wanna rip ‘em, and have me on top while you’re on this thing?”

Eddie moaned, and it wasn’t shy in the loud garage. “Want it so fucking bad, baby.”

A single ding from the bell atop your desk drew your attention.

Bodies paused, you both existed in the indecision of what to do. Eddie’s forehead wrinkled from his high brows driving his attention backwards, peering under the car again. The other employees of David’s Auto Repair shuffled around a Studebaker. There was no one inside to help the customer. What a shame.

Eddie lowered his chin in long clockticks, seeking you behind his heavy lashes and heavier gaze. His nose met the side of yours in an unrefined graze, dragging his chapped lips wherever he felt your smile. He kissed you hungry. Needy, desperate to fit the magnitude of his palm at the back of your head, and dirty your mouth with noses mashed together. He wanted you messy, he wanted you catching your balance on the creeper for the same reason his held sigh became your next breath, taking a pinch of your pantyhose over your pussy and twisting it around his fist to demonstrate his annoyance, as if the dull ache of your bottom lip against his teeth wasn’t illustrative enough. The peak of your whine and his approving hum tethered the snap of your tights and the squeeze he left on your thigh. Filthy warmth blanketed the top of your hand. Stifling hot, calluses running rough over your knuckles as he cupped your palm over his hard length, and curled your fingers around himself, kicking his hips up to really stretch the limits of your grip. Together, he guided you in a few teasing pumps along the base, ego growing at the pretty sound hitched in your throat.

“Hey, Ed!” Mr. Moore’s yell burst the bubble you two surrounded yourselves in. “C’mere, ‘nd look at this.”

It wasn’t an emergency. It could wait. There were enough mechanics on duty, they could figure out what they were gawking at, or admiring, or whatever it was they were doing. That was the justification behind your shared look with Eddie, and the tension holding you two apart faded within seconds. If anything it spurred you on. You raked your fingers through his hair, mussing the roots at the crown of his head, covering the side of his body with yours, stroking his cock. The consequences didn’t matter. He increased the pressure and showed you how he liked it when you looped your thumb and index around the edge of his fat tip and pumped him faster—

Ding, ding, ding.

The kiss slowed from the distraction, but you tried to keep going, staying in the moment with Eddie’s praise burning your cheeks. He was eager, he was close. He was whispering, “Feels fucking good when you—yeah—like that,” when you added the twist of your wrist to the end of motion.

“Ed!” Mr. Moore’s voice ruined the moment. “Where’d he… And wasn’t she at her desk a second ago?”

Ding, ding ding!

Your foreheads crashed together in a defeated groan.

Eddie sagged completely limp on the creeper. “Why do you do this to me?” He dropped his arms in a big shrug, kicking his legs out flat, throbbing hard in your palm. You curbed the urge to keep going and dragged your fingers away.

“Hey, you’re the one who started this,” you sniffed, sitting back to fan your face in effort to make yourself presentable while he considered rolling under the car for the next eternity to hide his blazing red cheeks.

“I was a good worker before you came along,” he argued, pointing at you with a nail outlined in grime. He did it with such vigor his shoulders curled off the creeper, sitting up to give you a real good talkin’ to. “I never did this sorta shit with anyone before you showed up. You’re bad for me. You drive me crazy.” Not an ounce of anger dared enter his tone, not even having strength to control his smile from going lopsided, dimpling, nose scrunching in a badly contained laugh. Never would he want you to think he was mad at you, even as a joke. He was soft like that.

Eddie broke first, and that’s all you needed to kiss him against the black Mustang door, thud on the metal deadened by his nervous hand coming up to brush his curls flat.

“You drive me crazy too,” you promised against his lips. “Now, try not to cum your pants when I bend over to get this trash, and have fun explaining to the guys why you can’t stand up for the next few minutes.” You cocked your head, and smacked your tongue in a hard, “‘Kay?”

He glared at your smugness. Glared at your backside, too. Scowled at his grip formed around the swollen length rising so obvious no matter how he fixed his legs, and surrendered to the humiliation of laying back on the creeper, summoning enough dignity to roll himself to the other side where a gaggle of boots scuffed the ground in search for him, and give some excuse that he was very busy fixing something and wouldn’t be available for the foreseeable future.

originally thursday's section in chapter twelve was split into three separate scenes. i was almost finished writing the first two when i took the section in a different direction and mashed all the important elements into the scene in the breakroom which did make the cut. truthfully i had only written to eddie's line of "wanting it so badly" and they would've gotten interrupted at that point (before any touching), but since this isn't exactly canon, i went ahead and had fun and made it a little spicier.

you might also recognize some imagery, lines of prose, or descriptions i salvaged from this piece and put into the final one!

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie munson smut #mechanic!eddie #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #the yes policy

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luveline · 2 years

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https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRmjSQCe/

i saw this and thought of eddie and roan and roan hiding the readers stuff so she can't leave

okay i thought it would be so sweet if the first time you eddie asks you to spend the night is totally roan's fault but of course you're down cos it's mechanic girl dad!eddie o.O (fem!reader)

"Eddie?" you call, mildly perplexed. "You didn't move my shoes, did you?"

"Huh?"

You raise your voice so he can hear you over the sound of the washing machine and the running faucet. "My shoes, handsome! Have you seen them?"

Eddie throws the hand towel over his shoulder looking every bit as attractive as your pet name implies, work shirt still tucked into his form-fitting pants, hair pulled away from his face in a wild, low-lying pony tail. "They're right-" He stops at your side, his hand sliding around your back. You try not to melt into his touch. You're supposed to be leaving. "Here," he says, dumbfounded. "They were right here. Um..."

"Maybe I took them off by the couch?" you murmur, more to yourself than him. Eddie rubs a line up and down your hip, the issue more curious than urgent.

"Maybe," he agrees, dark brows pinching together. "Huh."

You peel away from him reluctantly and slip around the couch. There's no shoes in sight, only a very primly sitting Roan in the middle where you left her.

"Hey, baby," you say distractedly, lifting her blanket to check the floor underneath. You search the carpet like they might be hiding in plain view and find nothing. When you pull your head back up she's looking at you strangely. "I've lost my shoes. Have you seen them?"

"No."

You narrow your eyes at her tone, theatrically suspicious. "Are you lying to me, little miss?"

"No," she says again.

Her no's are nervous like she's holding in a laugh. You scrutinise the way she's sitting, the way her back's not quite touching the couch cushions.

"Hmm, okay. Would you help me look, please?"

Roan seems like she might stand and then drops back down. "No."

"No?" You pout at her dramatically, doing your best to look upset. "Okay, I guess I'll look by myself."

Eddie returns from his own searching and shrugs at you. "Babe, I don't know where they are. Seriously, s'like they've disappeared."

You dip your head as inconspicuously as you can toward his daughter, eyes flitting between them both suggestively. His face fills with clarity.

"Roan, you haven't seem them, have you?" Eddie asks, smirking at you.

"No," she lies, obvious and endearing simultaneously. She can't look at him as she does.

"Roan Munson," he says.

She looks up, deer-in-the-headlights. "Daddy?"

"You gonna sit there on your butt or are you gonna help us look?" he asks.

She shrinks with relief for a second before panic flits across her face. Finally, she flops back like she's going to have a sulk and says, "I'm tired, daddy," while giving Eddie the biggest, sweetest doe eyes ever.

He laughs. You glare at him reproachfully and lean down to kiss the top of her head. You can see the rubber toe of one shoe sticking out behind her.

"Roan," you say patiently, squatting down in front of her with her face cradled in your hands. "I need my shoes, baby."

She crumples like wet paper, the kind of quick tears that come with childhood panic. It shocks you into reassuring her, clumsy and nowhere as elegant as Eddie would be.

You move onto your knees. "Roan. You're not in trouble or anything, it's okay."

Fear hits you in the chest like a flat palm. Fat tears roll down her cheeks and pool at the apple of her tiny chin. You throw your gaze to Eddie for help.

He comes to kneel beside you and steal one of her hands, unfurling the tight fist she's made. "You're okay, you can calm down," he says, sympathetic but firm. "Nobody's mad."

"I don't want her to go home," she cries.

You rub your lips together. "You'll see my again on Friday, princess."

"I want to see you again now." Her voice cracks in two different places. You offer your open palm and take her other hand, side-eyeing Eddie for some assistance.

"She can't stay tonight," he tells her regretfully.

"But why?" she demands.

"I have things I need to do. I have to feed my fish, and wash my clothes for work, I have to have a shower. All my things are at my house." You try to explain as Eddie does, calm and careful.

"You can have my clothes."

Eddie chokes back his laughter and runs the flat of his palm up her arm soothingly. "How about... on Friday, if it's okay with Y/N, she can stay and have a sleepover with us?" He looks at you to make sure his offer is okay.

You jump in. "Oh my god, yes! I'll feed my fish lots and lots and bring my pajamas and I'll stay for two days."

"Really?" Roan asks hopefully.

"Really really. I'll be here all night."

She takes a deep breath. Eddie rubs her arm in encouragement for the long, slow minutes it takes her to calm down. You can tell he's pleased at how well she's accepting the compromise.

"Okay," she says, sad but nowhere near as upset as she had been.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"You have to go?" she asks again.

You smile at her and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I have to. You'll be fine when I do, you'll see. And you can't tell me your poor back isn't hurting from my shoes, princess."

She leans forward. Eddie grabs your shoes.

"Thank you," you say. "Doesn't your back feel better?"

"No," she whines.

You frown at her. She takes her hands back and before you have the time to worry she's reaching for your shoulders.

You pull her up into your arms for a hug obligingly. One hand behind her head of dark hair, the other at her back, you rake your fingers through the silken softeness of her curls and smile like a fool. She's small, impossibly heavy, a heat against your chest that feels right.

When you look up you find Eddie staring and give him a sheepish smile. You're not sure how much you're allowed to love her — how could you not? — and you feel a tad embarrassed when he catches you like this.

"Is that cool?" he says under his breath.

You nod voraciously, pat-pat-patting Roan's back. You'd love to spend the night. The thought of sharing a bed with him gives you butterflies.

He turns his head to the side and leans in for a kiss. It's a short peck like he's trying to make it quick, but then he laughs softly and gives you another.

"Thank you," he says.

You clear your throat. "Of course. Can't wait."

more eddie and roan

#eddie munson x reader fluff #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader blurb #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #stranger things #eddie and roan #stranger things 4 #dad!eddie munson #eddie munson x fem!reader #fem!reader

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prettyprettypaci2 · 2 months

Text

Drool - Part 3

💊 Part 1 💊 Part 2 💊

"Oh no, Jess! It looks like our newest patient had a visit from the Potty Monster."

Your brain feels like it's melting. You're desperate to tic, but every muscle in your body is too sluggish and heavy to do more than slosh around in the sinking pool that has become your mattress. The enormous pacifier strapped in your mouth bubbles and squeaks as your lolling tongue pushes creamy drool through the pink shield. But that familiar wetness has been joined by a new one: a puddle of bitter-smelling urine that has periodically expanded and reheated over the last hour, your lower body paralyzed by Nurse Molly's muscle relaxers.

"Mmmmnnnnnnnnggggggggggghhhhhhhhhh," you moan into the thick shaft of the pacifier, dripping pathetically onto the tight cloth bib. The weight of your accumulating drool has now pasted the bib to your chest, and you can feel your saliva seeping through the thin pink paper of your hospital gown.

"You never mentioned any bladder troubles on your application, honey. It's okay, but it's a very important detail for the doctor to know about before your treatment can start!"

Your face gets so hot you can practically feel it crackle. You DON'T have bladder troubles! Nurse Molly obviously gave you too many muscle relaxers! You want to stammer out in protest, but with the leather strap securing the pacifier to your lips, you're completely unable to contradict your nurse's assumptions.

"Jess, I'm going to go fetch some protection. Can you do what you can with the waterworks?"

You become aware of a new presence as Nurse Molly leaves the room: a young woman in a white uniform with shoulder-length hair dyed in an eye-popping pink. You're humiliated to be seen by a stranger while you're writhing stupidly in a lake of your own pee and drool, nursing a fat pacifier and barely able to lift your worthless, mittened hands. You turn your head away as she approaches.

"Hmph. Just what we needed...another bedwetter," she says, her voice oozing with a mix of amusement and genuine frustration. "I'm Nurse Jessica; I'm usually on the night shift. I looked at your file. You're a twitchy one, aren't you? You've got a lot of work ahead of you, especially if we have to start dealing with soaked mattresses."

Nurse Jessica reaches behind your head to untie your cloth bib and peels the saturated square of fabric off of your chest. She tosses it to the floor with a wet plop before folding down the pink-and-white fiberglass guardrails of your bed. You desperately want to explain that you're not actually a bedwetter...but as the pink-haired nurse rolls you onto your side and begins laying down piles of dry towels, all you can do is suckle, sniffle, and moan.

Still unable to move under your own power, you try to focus on the television that has been playing non-stop since you were brought to the room. The bunny cartoon has been replaced with a show where some lady in a princess costume is interacting with puppets. The dialogue and plot are deliriously simple, but it's still preferable to acknowledging Nurse Jessica as she tears off your damp paper hospital gown and begins scrubbing your naked bottom. Once again, lacking any outlet for your instinct to tic, you try to concentrate your nervous energy on the rubbery bulb of the pacifier in your mouth.

"How's our super soaker?"

You hear the familiar voice of Nurse Molly as she pulls back the privacy curtain of your room. At first, it looks like she's brought some extra towels for mopping up your accident, but then you realize...

"Thick, thirsty diapers for our shy little lamb! Don't worry, honey, it's not uncommon for people with motor control issues to have some bladder problems. You didn't have to be embarrassed!"

"Nnnnnnnnnnhhhhhhhhhhh!" You cry out in a panic as Nurse Molly unfurls the massive diaper, holding its hourglass shape aloft like a white flag of surrender for your dignity. The plastic backing crinkles and pops, and you begin to writhe in your bed as she approaches with the mass of soft, heavy padding.

"Nnngh! Nnngh! Nnnnnnnnnngh!" Gurgling uselessly into the rubbery nipple that fills your mouth, the lingering effects of the muscle relaxers join forces with the puffy, constraining mittens to leave you completely at the mercy of these two beautiful nurses. Unable to communicate, you stare up at Nurse Jessica with pleading, desperate eyes as Nurse Molly snaps on a fresh pair of latex gloves and squeezes a liberal amount of white cream into her palm.

"Oh...do you need to tic? Get the wiggles out?" Nurse Jessica sneers, ignoring your obvious panic at the prospect of being taped into the massive diaper. She retreats over to the white-and-pink dresser, which you're surprised to realize is stocked not with the clothes and personal items you brought to the clinic, but with a menagerie of animal plushies, toys, and strange-looking clothes.

"Here, cuddle with Honey Horn. That should calm you down." Nurse Jessica dangles a giant stuffed unicorn above you, nuzzling it against your naked chest in a bid for you to grasp on.

You gasp slurpily as you feel the cold cream in Nurse Molly's gloved hand against the sensitive skin of your bottom. Instinctively, you wrap your bare arms around Honey Horn and pull her against your shivering body, aching for warmth and stimulation. All you can do is suckle, wimper, and squeeze the plushie unicorn as Nurse Molly lifts your legs so they form a right angle with the ceiling.

Nurse Jessica holds your ankles, and you feel the cold, damp towels replaced by a velvety, dry cloud. You wiggle against the odd sensation of your cream-slathered skin on the cottony lining of the soft diaper. You've regained enough feeling in your legs to feel the tightness of the leg guards hugging your thighs as Nurse Molly folds the popping plastic up to your belly button. The ripping tapes are like thunder in your ears, and when the nurses' hands finally let go, the new bulk around your hips stays. You summon the strength to shift Honey Horn to the side, just so you can behold what you already know: you've been snugly and securely diapered.

"Now we need to change out this mattress, honey, so we'll need you to get out of bed. It looks like you still have jelly legs from your medicine, so it's probably safest if you hang out with Honey Horn on the floor."

The nurses work together to lift you up and slide a purple cotton t-shirt over your torso before tying a fresh cotton bib around your neck. By the time Nurse Molly helps you plop down onto the pink blanket that Nurse Jessica spread out on the linoleum, your bib is already catching droplets of warm drool that ooze through the shield of your ever-present pacifier. You have no choice but to cling to Honey Horn, unable to do anything else with your mittened hands as you try to summon feeling back into your legs with weak kicks of your pink jelly sandals. And as you lie on your back, squirming and moaning through helpless suckling, your ears ring with the crinkles and pops of your fluffy white diaper, bulging like a balloon, overwhelming your senses with its tightness, its bulk, and its crackling song...

Crinkle, pop, squish, suck. Crinkle, pop, squish, suck.

💊 Part 4 💊

#diaper pee #diaper training #ab dl lifestyle #diaper sissy #ab dl diaper #diaper gal #diapered247 #ab dl mommy #diaper dependent

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keilemlucent · 4 years

Text

boneless wings

(T!)

word count: ~1.6k

You’re feeling shitty and Keigo is more than willing to help you out.

just a short little thing. just tooth rotting fluff, soft keigo, very sweet, nice. nesting fic with avian hawks. enjoy a soft, feel good piece.

enjoy a feel good piece y’all ;^)

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Sometimes, you just have shitty days. It’s just a fact of living and breathing, somedays just fucking suck and it’s just how it is. You knew this. You were well aware.

And, you were having one.

The weird, gluey feeling in your chest didn’t go away, no matter what you did. You tried the kitschy self-care that those online magazines recommended. Yoga, face masks, drinking fucking water—

None of it worked, so you gave up, opting to nest in your living room. You padded it with pillows, blankets, and a few plushies. You didn’t much feel like eating, mouth dry despite the extra water you had chugged in desperation.

You resigned yourself to riding out your nastiness, ambiently watching TV with half-lidded eyes. The constant pattering of drizzling rain relaxed you, but the gray sky it brought with it was hardly welcome.

Your phone rang in the early evening, pulling you from your stupor.

You answered without checking the caller ID, “Hello?”

“Angel!” Keigo’s voice was like sunshine through the phone. “Have you eaten? I found a great street vendor that I want to take you to. You down?”

You sighed into the receiving, nestling in your blankets. You weren’t up for much moving.

“I’m sorry, Kei’,” You hated how weak your voice sounded. “I’m not feeling so hot. I think I’m staying in for the day.”

You could hear his frown through the phone, “Aww, babe! Why didn’t you tell me? I’ll bring you some soup! Maybe dumplings, if you’re feeling that.”

“No, love, it’s not that kind of sick,” You rubbed at your eyes.

Keigo had made it very clear early in your relationship that for all of the hoops and secrecy you had to jump through for him, he wanted to be more than there for you. He was insanely nice and supportive if you let him.

Especially on your shitty days, you struggled to tell him how rotten you were feeling.

“Dove,” His voice was so sweet from the phone, worming its way through your depressive haze. “You want me to come over? Snuggle you a little, order in some food you like? You know I’m here for you, (Y/N).”

You swallowed, rubbing at the wetness around your waterline, “I don’t wanna trouble you, ‘Kei, you know that.”

“Now I gotta come over, Dove. You’re never trouble. Guess I gotta show you.”

“Keigo—”

He hung up before you could argue.

Though, you did receive a text shortly after.

[heart eyes chicken wing]: i’ll be over in 30, okay?

[heart eyes chicken wing]: i’m gonna kiss u so much

[heart eyes chicken wing]: you want me to stay over? i’m the big spoon 4 u ALL NIGHT!!

[heart eyes chicken wing]: i love u so much dove!!!

You swallowed, rubbing at your tears. Sure, Keigo was a bit overbearing. He was actually pretty new to the whole ‘dating’ thing, but he really tried. And on your shitty days, it did feel better to have someone close.

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Keigo arrived a half an hour later, knocking on your balcony door.

You hauled yourself from your nest, quickly dodging to the bathroom to grab him a towel for his wings.

Padding to the door, you unlocked and slid it open, stepping aside for Keigo and only looking at the ground. You handed the towel to which he thanked you promptly. There was a bag in his hand that was dropped to the ground, a bit damp from the mist outside.

Standing next to him, you felt a little pathetic, to say the least. Standing in front of him in nothing but sweats and an oversized sweater, eyes scratchy with old tears, and a mess of unattended hair.

“Oh, baby,” Keigo’s voice was so empathetically sad, it made your own chest ache.

You finally looked up, just as Keigo cupped your face, leaning down the slightest bit to pepper your face with kisses.

“H-hey, stop that,” You stuttered, unable to stop the fluttery feeling cracking in your chest, a little ray of warmth through the rot. “You’re too nice.”

“Nope,” Keigo dropped a kiss on the tip of your nose, pulling him into you by your waist to hug you as tightly as he could. “I’m not nice enough. You deserve the world, you know.”

“So you tell me,” You mumble against his chest, locking your arms around his neck and settling against his neck for a moment.

Keigo let you rest against him, a birdlike cooing vibrating cutely from the back of his throat as he rubbed your lower back with his thumbs.

“Thanks for coming by, Kei’. I love you,” It was in a small voice, but it was something.

“I love you too.” Keigo nuzzled into the side of your head, pressing a wet kiss to your temple. “And, of course. Anytime. Also, I brought you a little treat.”

You pulled away a little, just to eye the bag he’d dropped when he’d arrived, “Dinner?”

“Hmmm, no, but we’ll get that too,” Keigo left the embrace, but slipped your palms together. “I thought it might be nice for your bad days. It’s kind of heavy, though.”

You cocked your head to the side as he passed you the bag, topped with pastel tissue paper. Pulling it away, your eyebrows rose.

Inside, was a blanket, heavy in the bag.

“It’s a weighted blanket! Rumi was talking about how helpful they are for Fuyumi when she gets anxious, and I figured it might help you too,” Keigo beamed at you as you looked in the bag.

You were very fragile that day, and small kindnesses hit a little harder than you wanted to admit.

Your arms wrapped around his neck again, blanket dropped to the ground as you hid your damp face in Keigo’s neck.

“Thank you,” You pressed into his neck as he rubbed at your sides. “A lot.”

He squeezed you, smothering your messy hair with kiss after kiss, “Of course, dove. Anything to help you out. Now, dinner? Anything. You name it.”

...

Keigo ordered in your favorite comfort food, more than happy to make the phone call to the place for delivery.

The moment he hung up, he was eyeing your ‘nest’ on the floor.

“Uh, babe, what’s all that?” He jerked his head towards the mass on the floor.

The embarrassment in your gut stung, “It’s... I guess a nest... It’s kind of dumb, I’m sorry.”

“Hey, silly,” Keigo was on you in an instant, kissing your forehead and dragging you into him. “Don’t apologize. One, it looks comfy as hell. Two, I’m bird adjacent, and the idea of you making a nest that I can now snuggle with you in makes me like, cuddle horny.”

You snorted a laugh out, the filthy feeling your gut dulling, “Nesting turns you on?”

“Like, in a cute way,” Keigo smiled down with his honeyed eyes. He dragged you over to the nest, falling into the piles of blankets and pillows. “Like, I want to wrap you up in my wings and kiss you until you fall asleep, kind of horny.”

“Ohhh, I see,” You smirk down as he cutely adjusted the softness around his feathers, a cluster of the downy ones from the base of his wings falling around the nest. “What are those doing?”

“Gotta claim it, bird stuff,” He huffed while papping his hands on a pillow. “Get down here, dove. This nest isn’t complete without you in it, you know.”

It was a little silly, Keigo’s avian doings, but it was also very endearing to see him like this. Both he and you were being particularly vulnerable, and though you felt pretty raw, it also felt nice. Very nice.

“Oh, wait!” Keigo piped up as you fell to your knees on a soft comforter.

One of his feathers shot off, then three more, bringing the new, weighted blanket over to you and Keigo’s nest. It fell into your lap.

You carefully unfurled it as Keigo idly told you about his day, knowing all too well how it was harder for you to talk when you weren’t feeling well. You appreciated the gesture, a bit of tension rolling from your shoulders as you fully unwrapped the blanket.

As you did, Keigo plopped into the perfect nest he made, wings perfectly poised behind him.

You followed his movement, scooted closer to him. Keigo wasted no time urging your back to his chest, wrapping you the two of you up in one of his wings. The warm scent of the oil he rubbed on them instantly lulled you, eye going half-lidded. Keigo giggled, watching your sleepy reaction. He knew how to get you boneless without a single touch (in more ways than one).

He stretched for the new blanket, pulling it over the two of you, sighing at its weight, “Oh, I get it now.”

The blanket weighed down on your body, thoroughly pleasantly. The pressure lulled you even more, Keigo’s heat and steady breath only adding to your increasingly lax state.

“Like it, dove?” Keigo asked, lightly laughing as he swept a bit hair from your face. He adjusted a pillow under your head, the arm thrown over your waist drifting chastely to under your sweater to rub circles on your hips.

“Mhm, it’s really nice,” You let your eyes shut. “I’m getting a little sleepy already.”

Keigo hummed, kissing the crown of your head, a happy chirp echoing his chest, “Good, I’m glad. Very glad. You rest if you need to, angel.”

You felt your eyes well with tears at his unabashed kindness. It was so earnest with him sometimes, it was overwhelming.

Turning, you pressed your front to him, nestling yourself against his neck, softening as light coos rolled from Keigo’s throat, just up against your ear.

You fell into a light, but calm sleep, happily. Keigo with his avian quirks, worn hands, and sweetest nothings, helped bear the burden of your bad day, happy to fall with you into your new nest.

(Keigo would have to convince you to make a permanent one, but with how easily you unwound and settled in this one, he didn’t think it would take much.)

|||||||||||||||

taglist: @sinclairsamess

#salem writes #drabble #ish??#u know i have the ll chapter to edit and its almost 4 am but enjoy some fluff #hawks x reader #hawks x y/n #takami keigo x reader #takami keigo x y/n #mha x reader #hawks fluff #takami keigo fluff #takami x reader #hawks x you

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shaynawrites23 · 3 years

Text

For Family Or For Love

Pairing: adult!Remus Lupin x reader

Word count: 2492

Prompts: “Are you scared of me?” “No. Never.”

“It doesn’t matter what they think. I love you, and that’s what matters.”

Written for @johnmurphyisbisexual’s writing challenge!

Special thanks to @the-moon-and-the-book for both beta reading and coming up with the title!

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

The heavy door to your private chambers creaked open to reveal the room’s other occupant; your husband, Remus Lupin. He carried an enormous stack of tests to grade in one hand, two cups of coffee in the other, and he held a newspaper clenched between his teeth. He shut the door the same way he opened it; with his foot.

You leapt forward to help him, taking some of the items from where they balanced precariously in his hold, constantly on the verge of falling. He breathed a sigh of thanks, pressing a kiss to your temple as you made your way to the bed.

Upon closer inspection, you realized half the papers he had brought in were actually yours. You taught Herbology and had recently assigned an essay. You hummed in gratitude when Remus handed you a pastry and a couple of colored muggle pens. You knew the older members of the faculty preferred quill and ink, but you chose pens. They were easier to use and much less tedious to maintain.

He smiled softly, humming in acknowledgement as you both sat down to mark papers. The room lapsed into silence, the only sound being the clicking of pens and the occasional mutters of disapproval when either of you saw something you didn’t particularly like.

A tapping on the window broke you out of your concentration. You spun around, eyes searching for the source of the sound when you spotted a small brown owl perched on the windowsill, rapping its beak against the glass.

A messenger owl.

You jumped up, hurrying over to fling open the window and welcome the creature inside. The poor thing was soaked through; it was pouring outside.

“Rem, will you get me a towel for the owl?”

“Sure thing, love.” He disappeared into the adjoining bathroom and emerged moments later with a navy blue towel.

You gently wrapped the owl up in the cloth, hoping it would help the animal get warm and dry.

There was a small cylindrical vessel strapped to the owl’s back, colored a deep red, like the darkest red visible during a sunset. You undid the clasps holding it in place, popping off the cap and peering inside. The case held a sheet of paper, rolled up tightly in order to make it fit.

“Who’s it from?” Remus’s gentle voice inquired.

You didn’t reply immediately, unfurling the note and letting your eyes fly over the words first.

“My parents,” you finally answered. “They want to have us over for dinner tomorrow evening.”

“That’ll be a welcome distraction from marking papers,” he remarked.

Remus was on relatively good terms with your family. They were somewhat sceptical of his background at first, but decided they would be happy as long as you were. Your father gave a very nervous and jittery Remus his blessing shortly before he proposed, and you had been happily married ever since.

You laughed. “Definitely.”

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

When you awoke the next morning, your hand searched the bed for Remus, for his warmth. You found nothing. Only when your fingers reached the edge of the bed, the precipice between the sheets and the floor, did you open your eyes.

You blinked blearily, letting your eyes get accustomed to the light entering through the small gap between the curtains. Remus was nowhere to be seen.

Throwing on your robes, you shuffled over to the bathroom and peered inside. Where was he? He was indeed a morning person, but there was no reason for him to be up this early in the weekend.

Your incessant internal questions were soon answered when you heard the telltale creak of the heavy wooden door. Remus entered; you could tell from his hunched shoulders he was deep in thought. The dark circles under his eyes told you he had probably not slept much the past few hours.

“Rem? Remus, is everything all right?” You placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

He wouldn’t meet your eyes, simply holding up a newspaper and muttering, “See for yourself.”

So you took the paper from him, sitting on the bed as you turned the pages in an attempt to find out what exactly was troubling him so. The sound of the paper crackling under your fingers which usually held so much satisfaction for you, gave you no pleasure this time.

“Oh no.”

You now knew what it was, you knew what had upset him. The fifth page of the paper held a picture of him; it depicted him perfectly, there was no chance of anyone not recognize him. And on the off chance someone didn’t connect the dots, his name was printed right below it. The article revealed his true nature, his lycanthropy, informing everyone who didn’t yet know that Hogwarts’s Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was a werewolf.

You glanced up. Remus stood at the open window, both hands leaning on the windowsill as he looked out over the school grounds. You could tell from his posture he was incredibly worried, and he had every right to be. No one would hire a werewolf, much less send their child to a school which had one employed as a teacher.

“Remus?”

“How could this happen?” His voice cracked and you knew he was trying his very best to keep control of his emotions. “We were so careful, how is this possible?”

“I don’t know,” you murmured. “But we’ll handle this the way we always do; together.”

“There’s nothing left to handle.”

“Remus, my love, don’t give up hope. There’s always something. Perhaps my family can help; they have a well-respected name.”

He didn’t reply immediately, instead gazing out over the field where students were playing, studying, or just hanging out.

“They don’t know yet, do they?” It was not a question, more like a statement, as you both knew it to be true.

“They don’t- they didn’t,” you sighed. “But my family knows you. We’re married, for Merlin’s sake. They’re not going to shun you.”

“We shall see about that,” he muttered, straightening up nevertheless. “In the meantime, I should probably have a talk with Minnie. I’ll see you later for lunch?”

You nodded. “As always.”

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

Fastening your hairpin, you gave yourself a final once over in the mirror. You were dressed to the nines, and yet you wouldn’t classify your attire as too fancy for the occasion. Satisfied with your appearance, you exited the bathroom adjoining your shared bedroom to go look for Remus.

“Rem?” you called. “You ready to go?

You opened the door separating your bedroom from the hallway with its incredibly high ceilings, as could be expected from any old building. Your husband stood outside, leaning against the wall as he waited.

He hummed in confirmation, a soft smile spreading over his face at the sight of you. He reached for your hand, entwining his fingers with yours as he twirled you around slowly, admiration plain in his eyes. Pulling you close, he pressed his lips to yours, gingerly, as though you were the most precious treasure one could possibly imagine.

“Rem!” you laughed, “We have to go! You know my mother hates when we’re late!”

“As my lady wishes.”

With that, he waved his wand and you disapparated, reapparating right outside your parents’ large house. Walking up the cold stone steps, you felt Remus stiffen slightly, and you squeezed his hand. A comforting gesture, one he immediately returned.

The doorbell sounded loudly, chiming once, twice, three times before falling silent. You waited as quick, light footsteps approached, flinging open the door.

“Auntie (y/n)!” the young girl cried, jumping up and down in excitement. It was your young niece Ada, dressed in a pretty pink skirt and with her hair coiffed in cute, bouncy curls. “It’s auntie (y/n)!”

Another set of footsteps approached, slower and calmer than Ada’s. Your mother appeared in the doorway, smiling and greeting you and Remus as she ushered you inside.

“Dinner’s not ready yet,” she remarked casually as she returned to the kitchen, presumably to continue preparing the meal.

Little Ada remained by your side, dragging you by your hand to come look at her latest drawing. Remus still stood in the hall, but the young girl kept you so occupied you could do little more than glance at him every few minutes.

Your father and your brother soon entered, laughing loudly at what must have been an incredibly funny joke.

“Ah, (y/n)!” your father exclaimed when he spotted you sitting in a corner with Ada on your lap and a children’s book in your hand. “I see Ada’s gotten to you already.”

“Yes, she has. I didn’t remember her having this much energy the last time,” you joked, but Ada tugged on your arm to remind you you were supposed to be reading her fairytales.

“Ah, and Remus.” You couldn’t help but notice how much less enthusiastic your father’s greeting was when it was addressed to your husband.

“How’s Edward doing?” your brother cut in. “Not causing too much trouble, I hope?”

Edward was your brother’s eldest child, older than Ava by six years. He started his first year at Hogwarts that year, and your brother was rather anxious about his progress.

“He’s doing very well in his classes,” Remus replied. “Naturally, he’s pulled a couple of pranks here and there, but that is to be expected from such an energetic young lad like him.”

“I see. And no issues with… supernatural creatures?”

Your head snapped up at that. Ada whined for you to continue reading, but you simply told her to wait a moment. You were certain there was a venomous serpent hiding somewhere in your brother’s words, and when it would jump out to ambush you, someone was sure to get hurt.

Remus remained perfectly calm. “None that I am aware of. The boy’s a very talented wizard; he has proven himself very capable of defeating any creature we presented him with.”

Your brother’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and as if struck by a lightning bolt of insight, you know this was heading downhill. It was only a matter of moments before he’d attack Remus about his lycanthropy.

You were right.

“Lupin, you’re a danger to the children! It’s not safe for them to be around you.”

“He is not!” you burst out. You stood up and stalked over to them, the fairytale long forgotten.

“He’s a werewolf.” Your brother spoke in the same tone you’d heard him use when explaining things to Ada; things that one would expect to be obvious.

“He’s also a professor, and has been for years. Nothing’s happened.”

“Maybe not yet, but that doesn’t mean it won’t happen.”

Your mother emerged from the kitchen, clearly wondering what on earth was going on. Rather than engage herself in the argument, she stood in the doorway, arms crossed and leaning against the doorframe.

Remus’s hand searched for yours, entwining his fingers with yours as soon as he found it. You noticed your brother’s gaze fly towards the gesture, as if he feared a more nefarious action. But Remus was simply holding your hand, squeezing gently as if to say, ‘calm down, love.’

“(y/n), get away from him.” Your brother’s order hung in the air like a sword dangling above both your heads, waiting to see who would give in first. Your parents seemed to want to intervene, but you could tell they didn’t know what to do.

“No.”

“Excuse me?!”

“No, I won’t.” You felt like a defiant child arguing with a parent, but that didn’t matter to you. “He’s my husband and I love him. Werewolf or not.”

“It’s okay, darling,” Remus whispered to you, tone low enough that no one else could catch his words.

“What, are you threatening her now?” Your brother was clearly beyond seeing reason, too angry to think logically.

Remus was caught off guard by that accusation, and unfortunately for him, his split second’s hesitation was plain to see. “I merely told her it was okay, that she doesn’t need to fight for my honor.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I am not in the habit of lying. I am an honest man and am telling the truth.” There was a stark contrast between your brother’s wild accusations and Remus’s calm demeanor. You only hoped it would not simply pour more oil onto the fire.

“You’re a monster,” he finally spat, as if the words themselves were pure poison. “How do we know it’s not only a matter of time before you hurt (y/n)?”

That was a low blow and you all knew it. Your mother gasped, hand flying to her mouth in shock.

“I would never hurt her.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t, but what about the wolf?”

Neither of you could answer that, both fully aware he didn’t have that much control over his other half.

“Please excuse me,” Remus muttered, glancing at your parents before grabbing his coat and leaving the building.

“There. Look what you’ve done. That was low and we all know it,” you seethed.

“(y/n), he’s dangerous! He could kill you!”

“So what? So could any other wizard. So could you, or mom. So could Ada, if she were determined enough.” You crossed your arms as you reached deep inside yourself, attempting to maintain your composure.

“But you can trust we won’t.”

“What? I can trust the same of him. He wouldn’t hurt me, I trust him.”

“So you would trust a wolf not to attack?” Your brother took two steps forward, as if his subconscious wanted to intimidate you into losing the argument. Nice try. You weren’t easily intimidated.

“He’s not a wolf! He’s Remus. My husband.”

You saw the surprise on his face when you emphasized your relationship with Remus, and you took that opportunity to continue.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to.” With that, you stalked out as well, waiting until you disappeared behind the hedge outside to run after Remus.

He probably heard you coming, because you found him standing around the corner, as if he were waiting. The look in his eyes told you he had probably fought with himself to decide whether or not to wait for you to catch up.

“Rem, please ignore what he said. I know it’s hard, but he’s spewing nonsense.”

“Love, are you scared of me?”

“No. Never.” He had barely gotten his words out before you replied, without a moment’s hesitation.

“Your family seems to think you should be.”

“Remus, it doesn’t matter what they think. I love you, and that’s what matters.”

His eyes glistened with unshed tears. He stepped closer to you, cradling your cheek gently, as if he were afraid you’d shatter like glass if he was just slightly too rough with you.

Leaning in slowly, he captured your lips with his in a sweet kiss. And that alone conveyed all he needed to say.

“I love you too.”

taglist: @the-moon-and-the-book @decalcomanei @emcchi

#ryswritingchallenge #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x you #remus x reader #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin angst #remus lupin oneshot #remus lupin fic #adult!remus lupin x reader #professor lupin x reader

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whump-cravings · 3 years

Text

Bird in a Ditch

saw a prompt about someone being dumped on the side of the road and an idea started to form. I’ve also wanted to try a BBU type thing, so here it iiiiiis

Content Warnings: BBU, pet whump, winged whump, nonhuman whump, fantastic racism referenced, extreme disassociation, past torture implied, tbh this piece is pretty mild

Lemon shook xir head to try and clear fatigue, keeping xir eyes on the road as xe leaned forward to manually roll the window down. Cool air blasted xim in the face and behind xir neck, sending refreshing shivers down xir spine.

Something glowed gold on the road and xe jerked the wheel, sliding into the other lane. "Feathers?" xe said, throwing xir gaze to catch another glimpse of the obstacle, already pulling over.

A downed barn owl? xe wondered, flicking the hazards on. Getting xir phone out, xe searched the cabin for a blanket or something to wrap the little dude in. If it wasn't dead, anyways. I better hurry. Another car could come by at any time.

"Probably already dead but just in case—" Lemon muttered to xirself, trying to forestall disappointment before it began. Xe surfaced with a canvas tarp and hustled out into the night, boots hitting asphalt. Xe was a little ways away from the bird...

As the phone's flashlight caught feathers again, Lemon frowned. That looked a lot bigger than an owl. Maybe an eagle, or—

Maybe a whole goddamn person? Xe stopped at the side of the ditch, looking down in shock at the humanoid body connected to the wings. Xe'd never seen any birdfolk up close. They were rare in this part of the world, where everybody was pretty damn racist.

That was neither here or there. Lemon shook xir head, dropping the canvas and propping the phone and its light up before carefully finding the top of the person’s outstretched wing and trying to gently-gently-gently fold it towards their body.

How did I mistake them for an owl? These are huge! Xe felt soft clicking underneath hands through the feathers and bone. Now up close, the feathers didn't seem to shine with the golden luster Lemon had seen before, but were instead dull and dirty.

"Sorry, sorry," Lemon murmured, though the person hadn't stirred. Concern buzzed in the back of xir head as xe stepped around to the face-down body.

Lemon crouched, slipping a hand down the side of neck and searched for a pulse. Still warm—there. Xe let out a sigh of relief at the rhythm beneath xir fingers. "Didn't want to have to report a dead body tonight," xe chuckled.

Xe moved xir hand to the bird person's shoulder, gently shaking. No reaction. "Of course, you wouldn't be lying in a ditch if you could wake up," Lemon muttered, straightening. Xir gaze traveled down, and xe picked up the phone to get a better look.

The bird person was wearing only boxers, so there was a lot to see. Mostly, they were dirty. And the wings looked terrible. Whole patches of feathers were missing, and the ones that remained—Lemon suspected those weren't supposed to look so bedraggled. Xe shook xir head, sympathy turning in xir gut. Poor thing. Had they been mugged and then dumped, or maybe crash landed here?

The situation presented a problem. It’s one thing to bring home an animal, xe thought to xirself. This is a whole person. If they were awake, Lemon would have given them a ride to wherever they needed to go and the little cash xe had on xirself.

Xir mother's voice rattled in the back of xir head. It wasn’t as dangerous for Lemon to pick up people off the side of the road as for xir sister, but their mother always had some new story about somebody being shot and having their car stolen when they mentioned picking somebody up.

Xe waffled. I could wait until they wake up... Assuming they didn’t die of exposure, and assuming xe didn’t want any sleep tonight. Xe glanced around at the dark road, then back down at the stranger. If they were unconscious like this and didn’t smell of alcohol, they probably weren’t that dangerous. And somebody who felt less neutral about birdfolk might come along to finish them off.

Lemon sighed, already knowing xe couldn’t leave them here and trying to figure out how to get them over and into to the truck. Maybe xe could carry them there, but the wings would probably drag. Xe tried imagining walking backwards while carrying them from the front. Could xe lift them high enough? Probably not.

"Tch." That wouldn't do. After a moment's consideration, xe looked back at the canvas.

It took some pulling and maneuvering, but soon Lemon was pulling the bird person across the road on top of the canvas. Xir sweatshirt was tucked underneath their head, keeping them safe from rocks.

"Expected you to be a lot heavier, honestly," Lemon said. Maybe the weight was normal for adult birdfolk.

It would have been way more comfortable for them, Lemon was sure, to be in the cabin, but xe wasn’t sure xe could manage that without damaging their wings further. So, xe carefully lifted them by the front and laid them face down in the truck bed. It was not graceful and xe was a little relieved they weren’t awake for it. Xe tucked the sweatshirt back under the person's head.

"Home is just a few minutes away," xe promised as xe tried folding up their wings, worried about the wind catching them or about hypothermia setting in. Xe unfurled the canvas with a shake, then draped it over the bird person's body and wings to block the wind, securing the cloth at the corners with bungee cords.

Looks like I'm trying to hide a dead body, Lemon thought when xe put the tailgate up. "Hang in there, buddy."

Lemon would have liked to speed home, but the bed's occupant had xem driving far more carefully than normal, particularly around corners. When xe got to the apartment, xe pulled into xir spot in reverse. It was a much shorter distance to carry somebody from the truck bed to the door, so Lemon did—xe wasn’t entirely sure xe could get them through the door otherwise. It was already a hassle to get them past one door, the next, and then settle them on the floor of the small bathroom against the wall.

Xe closed and locked the front door, then flicked lights on. As xe stepped back into the bathroom, careful to avoid any errant limbs, xe started.

The bird person's eyes were open.

"Hey, you're awake," Lemon exclaimed.

But the person didn't seem to hear Lemon--they hardly seemed aware of their surroundings at all, staring straight forward. Shit, had they been awake the entire time and Lemon just hadn’t noticed? How awkward that would be! And...

Xir realized their face was covered in scars. Unable to help xirself, xir eyes were drawn down. Mottled bruising covered their ribs, long-healed scars past that and the dirt. Same with their legs. What had happened to them? Was this just the result of being birdfolk here?

Xe took a steadying breath, crouching down. "Hey, can you hear me? Can you look at me?"

Finally, the tiniest response. Topaz eyes slid fractionally towards Lemon's center of mass, but nothing else. Their expression and muscles remained listless.

"Good, that's—no no no, come on, don't do that," Lemon cajoled in gentle frustration as the bird person closed their eyes. What am I supposed to do with this? Xe scrubbed xir tired face with one hand. What were the symptoms of a concussion?

"Let me get you something to drink," xe said. "And maybe eat?"

No response. The only sign they were still alive was the gentle rise and fall of their chest.

Lemon wearily got back to xir feet, ambling into the kitchen for a glass of water and some—did bird people eat normal food? They looked plenty human. But what if they were allergic to stuff? Xe grabbed a small variety of snacks—string cheese and pepperoni from the fridge and a little baggy of trail mix. Bundling the food into a paper towel in one hand and holding the glass of water in the other, xe returned to the bathroom.

"Here we go," Lemon said as xe returned, kneeling at arm's length to set down the array of food. Xe set the cup of water closer still. "Little bit of food, little bit of water."

Their eyes were open again, looking down at Lemon's offerings. Maybe. It was hard to tell for sure, since they seemed unfocused. They made no movement to accept.

"Does your head hurt?" Lemon tried. "If you have a concussion, we should..." Xe trailed off. I don't have money for an emergency doctor visit. "Have you lie down, probably."

It's like talking to a rock. "I'll give you some space."

Getting back to xir feet, Lemon went back into the kitchen and washed xir hands. Xe probably should have done that earlier, but if they haven’t died of dirt already, they probably won't from a little on their pepperoni.

"Might as well prep a meal," xe mumbled, since xe couldn’t sleep until xir guest was settled. Xe took a moment to draw up some videos online about birdfolk and birds in general, then got to work with the food.

About twenty minutes later, everything was assembled in the pressure cooker. Lemon hadn't heard anything from the direction of the bathroom. Anxious, xe checked on xir guest.

I'm going to have someone die on my floor of starvation and atrophy, Lemon thought. The bird person was in the same exact position xe’d left them. Their tourmaline-brown gaze still rested on the food and water.

Lemon chided xirself. They could be a paraplegic for all xe knew. Maybe their eyes were all they were able to move. It would explain their weight.

This thought in mind, xe crouched a little closer to them. "Hey," xe said. "Can you blink twice if you understand me?"

Their eyes slowly rolled back up to Lemon's chest. Noticeably, they didn't blink.

Lemon laced xir fingers together and pulled them apart, repeating the motion a few times while they thought. Could be he was a paraplegic foreigner? Hells.

Reaching out slowly, Lemon tapped their hand, before picking it up and turning it over. Xe froze.

On their wrist was a black barcode.

After staring for far too long, Lemon let out a shaky, "O-oh."

I'm going to have someone's slave die on my floor. Xir anger towards the Box Boy industry stirred—a regular feeling. The legalized trafficking wasn’t something xe could do much about, other small donations here and there to liberation and activist groups.

Who had dumped this poor bird on the side of the road? Where was the owner? Lemon's eyes went to their patchy wings.

"Can't be sure they didn't do this to you," xe said softly, jaw clenching at the idea of it. They could have very well escaped and ended up in that ditch on their own, just to get away from the abuse written on their body. It matched up with the stories Lemon had heard and read about how owners fucked their slaves over.

Fuck, and it wasn't even like this man was nondescript. Birdfolk were rare enough, a Pet bird was sure to be noticed in a crowd. Stealing a Pet was grand larceny, and Lemon didn’t want to think about how much an exotic specimen might go for.

Calm down. So far all you've done is provide aid. That's not theft.

But Lemon's hands shook as xe held onto the bird person's, because xe knew xe couldn't—

That's a problem for Future Lemon, xe decided, taking calming breaths. There were groups xe could contact, but not tonight. Tonight, this poor bird needed a safe and calm place to recuperate. Lemon could provide that.

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shimmeringclouds · 3 years

Text

Chapter 2

'Another day wasted.'

It was the first thought to come to your mind when you had awoken the next day, the sun already high above the horizon and glaring through your windows.

You didn't feel well rested, despite having slept for hours on end. Your mind was tired, your heart still ached, you didn't feel as if you had the strength to open your eyes. You just lay there on your bed, unmoving and unbothered.

You would have stayed there all day, had it not been for your hunger. Clutching at your stomach in pain, you remembered how you had barely eaten anything the previous day, too busy wallowing in self pity to even think about eating.

With a groan, you slowly sat up on the edge of your mattress, blinking away the sudden head rush that came with the movement. The floorboards felt cold beneath your feet, sending shivers up your spine as you placed them flat on the wooden flooring. You rubbed at your eyes as you stood up, stumbling out of your bedroom to go and wash up.

It was unbearably hot in your living room, prompting you to open up the patio doors to allow some air inside, the humidity increasing as a new wave of warm air wafted into the room. The echoing sounds of cicadas that rested on tree trunks beyond your fencing filled the air, buzzing and buzzing until that white noise in your mind was finally cancelled out.

You chewed slowly on your food, maybe to waste more time so that the sun would go down and you could go back to sleep. But it was barely noon and the sun was still hovering high in the sky, scorning you with its intense rays as if to punish you for wishing it to leave. It was going to be a long summer's day, and you were already sick of it.

Sick.

You suddenly placed your half-eaten plate of food down with a clatter as you scrambled to your feet, slapping a hand desperately over your mouth as you felt it rise and boil in your throat, barely making it to the bathroom as your stomach spewed out bile into the sink.

It was happening again, you realised as you continued to gag, fumbling to turn the tap on to wash away the disgusting sight before you, prompting you to choke again. It was all going so well, and now it's happening again. Tears welled in your eyes as you squeezed them shut. Just make it stop. Please make it stop.

Your legs finally collapsed from beneath you and you tumbled to the tiled floor, hands still clutched to the edge of the basin as you crouched down, head low and breaths heavy. A cold sweat had broken out over your skin, leaving you shivering and abnormally feverish.

It wasn't fair, you thought miserably. Nothing had happened. Nothing had gone wrong. But apparently something did go wrong. Things always go wrong. You can never seem to be at peace, no matter what you try. The sudden waves of anxiety that hit you when you least expected it wasn't your fault. And yet it was entirely your fault. Nothing made sense. Nothing ever made sense. You were too stupid to understand. You could never understand.

'If only I didn't go outside yesterday.'

But it still would have happened. This would still have happened. You didn't know why, but it would have. Because that's just how it works. It's not supposed to work that way. But for you, it does. You didn't need to understand. You just needed to let it happen. Even if you didn't want it to. You have no power, no control. Just fall to your knees and cry, as you always do. That's how it always works.

You stood up shakily, hesitantly staring back at the face in the mirror. She looked better than you did. Smiling, happy, glad she was behind the glass and wasn't there with you.

You blinked, and the image changed. That was you. You, with the messy hair and the dark, tired eyes, the sickly skin and pinched cheeks, frail and weak, gaze sullen and dazed. Lost and confused. Sad and pitiful. That was who you were.

Unable to look any longer, you twisted the faucet back on, cupping handfuls of cold water and splashing it over your face multiple times, scrubbing harshly at your eyes and mouth, rinsing it out to get rid of the sickening taste of bile. You didn't dare look back into the mirror as you grabbed your towel, rubbing it over your face and tossing it aside before exiting the bathroom.

Breakfast didn't sound appetising anymore, and you regretfully threw the rest of the food away. You stood in the middle of your living room, glancing around from the couch to the TV, to the console next to it, to the small bookshelf stuffed with a few books you had decided to keep for whatever reason, your fingers furling and unfurling against your palms.

They finally landed on a slim, black, hard-cover book shoved lopsidedly into the bottom shelf, it's ringed binder hanging out over the edge of the dark wood.

You reached for it, gingerly pulling it out of the shelf with the tips of your fingers, holding it at arms length as if it were some kind of wild animal. The first few pages were frayed and withered, but the rest were crisp and clean, untouched and unused.

You stared and stared at the tough cover, running your gaze over the blank darkness, as if you were searching for something. But you knew everything you were searching for was inside the book. The courage to look was dwindling away as time tricked by.

You suddenly grasped the corner of the cover, flipping it open with force and coming to a halt at the sight of the first page. All you saw was coloured blotches, streaking across the otherwise empty paper in messy lines. The blues and greens merged together in a disgusting mesh of hues, the watery disarray of paint unable to form any real structure.

After staring at it for a long while, face stoic, you flipped over to the next page. The paper was stiff and wrinkled, less like paper and more like cardboard, crackling with the slightest amount of pressure applied to it.

It was just the same as the previous one, if not, worse. You couldn't look at it for longer than a couple of minutes before moving on, and that time hastily shortened down to a few seconds until you finally reached a blank page.

With a shaky breath, you grabbed a pencil from one of the pots on your shelf and silently seated yourself down at the low table behind you. You hovered the lead over the white canvas, carefully moving it along with your hand, the sound of the pencil scratching against the paper filling your ears.

Your arm made jerky movements, wrist flicking left and right as you attempted to make an outline of something you had seen before, with the lead eroding away ever so slowly with each stroke. You watched your hand wander to every corner of the paper, pausing with a flinch every now and then when it moved just a little too far off the intended path.

The clock ticked on and on, seconds to minutes to hours, with you sat at the low table in the bright light of the sun in your living room, scratch, scratch, scratching away, even as your pencil became blunt, forcing it to mark out the lines of a seemingly misshapen landscape, thin and delicate lines becoming thick and crooked veins.

It wasn't until the pencil began stabbing the paper with its splintered tip that you finally stopped, moving your hand off the page to look down at the horrible mess you had made. It was the same picture as the others, only much, much more awful, with less colour and less sense of mind.

That same stoic face stared down at the page. Your grip on your pencil was now limp, your hand dropping to the floor by your side and the tool now slipping from your fingers, rolling over the floor and out of your reach.

You can't do anything right, can you?

The sting of tears in your eyes was going to drive you mad. You stood back up, ignoring the needle-like numbness in your lower limbs as you staggered to your bedroom, the urge to get out of the deathly silent house growing stronger.

You changed out of your clothes into an oversized beige hoodie and shorts, thinking that it wouldn't draw attention to yourself, only to realise that it would draw attention because what kind of idiot would wear a hoodie in the middle of summer? So you tossed it aside and pulled on a white vest and a grey dress-shirt on top instead, thankful that the loose fitting clothing would at least cover your curves.

You slipped on the first pair of sneakers you saw and left the house, your keys, purse and phone stuffed into your back pockets. You stood in front of your door for a moment, unsure of where to go, then ultimately decided that it really didn't matter, and you turned left and started walking.

You kept your head low, hands awkwardly swaying by your sides, unsure of where to put them because you had no other pockets. The sun was lower in the sky now, gently stretching your shadow behind you as you walked further and further down the street, following it wherever it took you because who cares where you would end up?

As always, there was no one outside besides you. The gentle patter of your footsteps against the cobbled pathway was the only sound you could hear besides the familiar twitter of birds above you. It was moments like these when you began to miss the sounds of the city, with its constant bustling streets and roads filling that emptiness in the air and somewhat reassuring you that you weren't completely alone in this world.

But here, you were. You were entirely alone.

You always thought you would be okay with that, and yet you were now hating it more than anything. How pathetic.

Glancing upwards, you noticed with a blink that the houses in the village were now far behind you. You paused, turning to look over your shoulder to see the shrunken structures in the distance, and your surroundings were instead replaced with rolling green fields of tall grass, mutely swaying in the breeze. How long had it been since you had started walking?

Despite your confusion, you turned back around and continued onward. You shouldn't think about it too much. You didn't want to think at all anymore.

And so, you walked. You walked and walked and walked. You had no idea where the road was headed towards, you had no idea if you were even in the Akashika District at that point, but that was fine. The unknown was welcomed with open arms. Anything to keep your mind quiet.

Unfortunately for you, though, all good things must come to an end. That end came far too quickly when your legs and feet began to ache. Your body was becoming tired — most likely due to you not having any food in your system — and your shortness of breath under the brutal summer heat was making your head spin. You needed to stop soon, unless you wanted to faint.

With great reluctance, you steered yourself to the side of the road, kneeling down with your knees tucked into your chest and your forearms hanging over them. You pushed your hair away from your face, disliking the sweat accumulating on your temple. Whilst you caught your breath, you looked back again down the road you had walked up, and the town was now a lot smaller than it was before.

You would have to walk back there eventually, you reminded yourself, and you outwardly groaned. You didn't want to do that. But you guessed it was your own fault, anyway. You deserved this. It's the consequence of your actions, isn't it? You acted irrationally, and now you had to suffer further.

The sound of a car horn startled you from your thoughts. You whipped your head over to your right with wide eyes, watching as a white car rolled to a stop a few feet ahead of you, its tires crunching against the dirt. The engine died down into silence as you heard the clutch being pulled into place with a squeak, catching a brief glimpse of a shadowy silhouette through the windscreen as it shuffled to get out of the car.

You were frozen in place as you watched a man step out of the vehicle, brushing his dark hair out of his eyes as he regarded you with a curious look, raising a brow as he stepped closer. His rounded face looked so familiar, as well as those large, half-lidded eyes, but you couldn't quite put your finger on it. He wore a white shirt complete with a deep blue tie, which hung loosely under his unbuttoned collar. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his black slacks, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbow, exposing his forearms.

"Are you okay there?" He asked, sauntering to a stop as he stood over you. You stared up at him, breath caught in your throat, unsure of what to say. No, you were not okay, but you couldn't just tell people that, could you? You had to be okay, you had to be normal.

"Yes, I'm fine, thank you." You attempted to smile, the strain of forcibly stretching your lips across your cheeks paining you greatly, and you would have kept it up if the man hadn't frowned at you. The smile that was more akin to a grimace slowly slipped off of your face, replaced by a nervous pinch to your lower lip instead.

"You don't look 'fine' to me," he stated bluntly, leaning down a little so that his head was mere inches away from your own. "What are you doing all the way out here on the ground?"

You inched yourself back slightly, wobbling under the uneven balance on your limbs. Excuses, you had to come up with excuses, but that was becoming an increasingly difficult task when the man interrogating you seemed to know that you were lying before you even spoke.

Just as you were about to lose your balance in your crouched position, he grabbed onto your upper arm to steady you. The warmth radiating from his palm seeped through your sleeve, your already boiling skin heating up further from the touch. You felt your cheeks heat up, too, the unfamiliar touch of this (admittedly attractive) man leaving you in a slight daze.

"I-I was just out for a walk, and I got tired, that's all," you quickly stammered, unable to look him in the eyes lest you burst into flames. His scrutinising look didn't falter, instead increasing as he squinted at you harshly.

"You look like you're gonna faint. I think you're a little more than tired, lady."

Your heart pounded painfully in your chest at his words. You were fine, totally fine, why couldn't he just accept that?

You gasped as you suddenly felt yourself being lifted off the ground, your arms pulled forward as he forced you to follow behind him. He was leading you to his car, his grip on you firm as if to say that you didn't have a choice.

"Where are you taking me?" You couldn't exactly trust a man you had just met so easily. He stopped in his tracks, turning to look back at you with a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Ah, sorry! I'm gonna look weird if I just start dragging you over here, huh?" He released your arms to bow mockingly, peering up at you through one eye as the other closed in a wink.

"The name's Akashika Ozo. Taxi driver, at your service." He grinned widely, seemingly proud of himself for the little skit he had pulled. Ozo straightened back up, taking a hold of your forearm tenderly this time and gesturing towards his car. "I was just planning on giving you a lift to wherever it is you're going. If you want one, that is."

#osomatsu san #osomatsu x reader #karamatsu x reader #choromatsu x reader #ichimatsu x reader #jyushimatsu x reader #todomatsu x reader #matsuno sextuplets x reader #denkimystery #romantic mystery au #alt names #akashika ozo #depressive thoughts #anxious thoughts #please read with caution

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ashyblondwaves · 3 years

Note

2 & 13 <3

Thank you! This combo calls for some good ol’ fashion fun and fluff, I’d say!

Situation: Stuck indoors on a rainy day

Sentence: “Tell me what you’re thinking right now.”

Warning: All kinds of sweetness over here.

***

“Ready or not! Here I come!”

Wanda tiptoed with purpose through the living room on her way to the kitchen. She was moving toward the sound of little feet running across the linoleum flooring. A sign the boys either hadn’t yet hid or got bored and left their spot.

“Boys!” Vision’s voice rang out and Wanda laughed to herself. He was terrible at whispering. “Boys, come back so mommy doesn’t find you! No! Put that down!”

At that, Wanda heard the sound of two distinct giggles as she pushed open the kitchen door. That’s where she saw her two boys running through the kitchen. Billy chased Tommy who had a roll of paper towels in his hands, letting it unravel throughout the kitchen. It was everywhere.

Two toddlers? Check.

Paper towel eruption? Check.

Vision? Not found.

Of course he was still hiding. That’s when Wanda saw his shoe sticking out from under the kitchen table. There weren’t many places for a 6 foot 3 inch synthezoid to hide. While the boys much preferred to hide in the cupboards, Vision’s go-to spot was usually under the table.

Vision? Check.

Wanda bend over just enough to see under the table. Sure enough, there was Vision with his knees pulled up to his chest sitting under the table even though the boys had long abandoned the family game. She smiled.

“Hi,” she said with a wave. “Found ya.”

“Yes you have,” Vision replied sheepishly.

“Mind if I join you?” Wanda asked, looking at the boys now sitting in a section of the unraveled paper towels.

“I’d never forgive you if you didn’t.”

Wanda scrambled under the table, curling her knees up to her chest to mimic Vision’s position.

“Why do we always think Hide ‘N Seek will work?” she mumbled to herself.

They’d been trying to get the boys down for a nap for the last hour, but neither was interested. Not before -- and certainly not after -- the loud clap of thunder that ripped through the skies after Wanda and Vision had just gotten the boys settled into their beds. It’d been raining for days. For a family that usually spent their days out in the yard, they were all beginning to wear down.

They thought maybe if they played a game, got the boys running a little, it’d tire them out. But it was hard to tire a pair of three year olds out when you’re stuck inside. There’s only so many places to run and for Wanda and Vision, not nearly enough places to hide. They were tired.

Wanda watched her husband as he peered out at the boys from under the table. Every so often you’d see his mouth quirk up into a half smile when Billy or Tommy said something funny. His eyes seemed far away, like he was thinking on overdrive and processing too much at once.

“Tell me what you’re thinking right now,” Wanda asked, pulling Vision from his thoughts. “You just looked like you were about a million miles away.”

“I was just thinking,” Vision started, pausing for just a second. “that I’m very lucky. I’ve got you and the boys and I find myself thinking all the time how this happened. How could I be nothing but a voice one day to now having this beautiful life with you and Billy and Tommy? What makes me deserving of this?”

Wanda caught herself tearing up. “Vis...” she choked out. “You think that? You know why you deserve this? Because you’re kind and patient. You were there for me when almost nobody else was. You love our boys fiercely. You have qualities that far exceed when many men out there have. You deserve every bit of this. Every bit.”

“It feels like a lot sometimes,” Vision explained. “Everything I have, I mean. Sometimes it makes me feel so good I can hardly process it fast enough. Then I just end up wondering how I could be so lucky. Even on the hardest days, I feel like I’ve won.”

Wanda smiled, a tear slipping down her cheek. There was so much she could say, so much she could do to prove to Vision that it wasn’t luck that got him here, it was him. In the end, she went with the simplest route.

“I love you,” she said.

“And I love you,” Vision returned, reaching out to stroke Wanda’s cheek.

As the comfortable silence fell over the kitchen, Wanda felt a jolt of unease. If it was so quiet, where were the boys?

“Oh no,” Wanda said, worried about what they could be up to. She scrambled out from under the table, and scanned the kitchen, laughing under her breath when she saw it. “Vision, come look at this.”

In an instant, Vision had unfurled himself from under the table.

“What is it?” he asked “What’s wrong?

Wanda pointed to the middle of the kitchen where a pile of paper towels lay completely unrolled.

Vision scanned the sea of white, looking for what Wanda could have possibly been referred to. Then he saw it, right in the center of the paper towel mountain.

Two little boys fast asleep.

#wandavision fic #wandavision #scarletvision fic #scarletvision #fanfiction #wanda maximoff #vision #wanda x vision #drabbles #Anonymous #scarletvision drabbles

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missroserose · 3 years

Text

if you want it, got to bleed for it, baby

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

or read on AO3

groove to the playlist

ngl, tax season is eating my face. but I couldn't go much longer without writing a little more smutty angst for these two. hope y'all enjoy.

Have I mentioned how amazing @anarchist-billy is? Thanks for betaing, love. <3

“Stay with me.” Billy’s voice is low, urgent, a lifeline. “Keep the pressure on.”

Steve is there, in the passenger seat of the car, holding a wad of paper towels to the gash in his belly—and Steve is the car, too—he feels the warm gold-red glow of the bonfire, demodog corpses and dead vines disappearing into invisible smoke, fading all too quickly from the rear view mirror. The bass note of the BMW’s V8 thrums deep in his chest, hurtling towards Hawkins at near-lethal speed. The cool night air roars in his ears as Billy redlines it—he can feel Billy, too, the atavistic satisfaction of driving this amazing machine, of pressing it to its limits—

The fire disappears, and the outside world is nothing but a dark blur. No streetlights, no trees, nothing to indicate it even exists. Even their movement fades into a queer sense of unmotion, a bubble of existence floating in the endless void. The glow of the dashboard lights on Billy’s expression, drawn and set. The rumble of the car, rearing to meet the challenge. The just-warm air blasting from the heater. Van Halen on the radio, staticky signal fading in and out over the road and wind noise. I been to the edge, and there I stood and looked down—

“We’re nearly there. Harrington. Hold on a little longer.”

Billy’s lying through his teeth. Steve knows he’s lying; he’s driven this road any number of times since he got his license. Floored the gas, the same way Billy’s doing now, felt his car eat up the thirty-eight miles of two-lane blacktop, straightaway snaking between forest and farmland. Rolled down the windows and whooped, Tommy in the passenger seat, Carol and whatever girl Steve was seeing that week in the back, all of them chasing the horizon at breakneck speeds. Not for jubilation, or anger, or any reason in particular; just...because they were bored. Because they could—because they were young and free and would live forever, would be friends forever—

“What’s the rush?” Steve has to almost issue a conscious order to make himself smile, like he’s giving his face instructions over a long-distance phone call. “I’m the King. They’ll wait for me.”

Billy doesn’t look at him—can’t, at the speeds he’s driving—but his shoulders seem to loosen a fraction. “Guess that depends,” he says, threadbare bravado thin at the edges. “You don’t make it, there’s only one king left. Makes my life awful easy.”

Beer spilled down a bare chest. Red punch on a white blouse. Bullshit. Tea roses and spunk and sweat and blue eyes on his in the bathroom mirror. “Maybe it does,” Steve says, trying not to let his words run together the way his thoughts are doing. “But that’s not what you want.”

There’s a gap opening up, a space between the two of them; it takes Steve a moment to notice the knuckles, tense on the steering wheel. Billy opens his mouth, says something; a moment later, the words unfurl in Steve’s consciousness, time-delayed. “Like anyone gives a shit about what I want.”

Steve laughs a little, at that. “That’s the first lesson of being king, Hargrove.” He swallows, with some difficulty; his throat feels thick. “You’re not there for you. Every fool who wants a favor, every damsel in distress, every asshole determined to get a piece of King Billy…” He trails off, seeing a crown amidst those golden curls in a bathroom mirror, set over heated blue eyes, lips parting in a look of mingled awe and desire—

“Hey. Hey! Harrington!” Billy’s slapping at his face, one hand flapping ineffectually against his skin, just hard enough to force his consciousness to surface. Steve doesn’t particularly want to surface; there’s something looming there, not terror, but a shadow of it, a formless dread. Like the first time his parents had gone out of town, and he hadn’t been smart enough to put the breakables away before he threw the obligatory kegger. He’d spent three days waiting for his mother to return and discover one of her Hummel figurines missing, only to have her so preoccupied with his father’s latest fling that she’d left before noticing—

“Don’t you dare.” Billy’s voice is a growl, but there’s something beneath it that catches Steve’s unmoored attention. “Steve. Don’t you fucking dare die on me now. You ruined my night, you pulled me out here to chase down God knows what those rabid alien dog-things were, you’re going to pull through this and you’re going to give me a fucking explanation—”

Steve gives a small laugh, even though it hurts like a bitch. “I’m really fucked, aren’t I?”

Billy bites off his rant like a piece of taffy. “What?”

Steve issues the order to smile again, feels his face sort-of obey. “You called me Steve. It must be bad.”

“Not that bad,” Billy says, almost believable, as if he can change the state of the world through sheer stubborn insistence. “You’re gonna pull through this. You’ve got to. When the school hears about how I saved your ass? It’s gonna be a riot, Harrington.”

Steve could almost laugh again, but it hurts too much. With an effort, he diverts his reaction, reaches for bitterness instead, bile like he’s swallowing down in the back of his throat. The school. Graduation. The future. A dark unknown, filled with people whose eyes slide away from his, in respect or in contempt—“You’ve already had my ass. What do you care about the rest?” The gap between them is opening up again. Steve has a mental image for a moment of trying to leap that gap, of hanging in the air over it for a beautiful moment—wonders if people would see him then, shining golden before the inevitable plummet to the nothingness below—

But Billy’s voice is stubborn, penetrating. “Did you hit your head when that alien tackled you? Of course I want the rest. The way you swung that bat? Waded into that fight without a damn hitch?” Billy’s voice cracks a little, in disbelief, or in awe. “That’s King Steve. Not that namby-pamby asshole who haunts the hallways at school.”

And something in that voice pulls Steve towards the looming terror, away from the peaceful dark. He presses the paper towels harder to his gut, ignores the sharp pain this elicits. “Didn’t think you were looking for a king, Hargrove.”

A pause, brief and endless. Steve slips a little, tossed about in stormy waves, uncertain which way to the shore, uncertain which way is up—

Then Billy’s voice comes in, low and smoky, a beam from a lighthouse parting the dark. “I jerk off at night thinking about your lips on me.” Steve’s suddenly aware of his lips as they part slightly, but Billy’s continuing, words gushing from him like water from a burst pipe. “I haven’t bent you over your kitchen counter yet. Haven’t felt your cock twitch between my lips as you come down my throat—”

The words are gathering somewhere deep in Steve’s hips, insistent warmth, flickering but stubborn in the face of the terror. The words fall into his mind, and he drops them without thought, uncaring, because who even cares at this point? “I want to fuck you in my bed.”

A breath sucked between teeth. A glance, briefly risked, at Steve’s face, as if gauging his seriousness. “You want it in a bed, pretty boy?”

“I want you. In my bed.” The paper towels are growing wet between his fingers. “Empty house. Nobody to hear us slam the headboard against the wall.” He presses a little harder; the lance of pain stabs through him, but the image in his mind is bright as he gives a half-wrecked gasp.

Billy seems to shudder at that gasp. “Hell yes,” he says, seeming to almost relax for a moment. “Gonna hear you good and proper as you come—”

“Gonna feel you under me when I do,” Steve says, words tumbling forward heedless, headlong. “Billy. You’re gonna feel me inside you as you shake apart. Gonna walk around the next day still feeling it, and I’m gonna watch you—”

“Fuck—” Billy’s grip is white against the steering wheel now, fingers torqued tight. “Steve,” he says, his voice rough. “Promise me something.”

“Sure.” The words are fading, growing further away, but Steve struggles, holds his head up. Tries to read Billy’s expression, the hesitation in his voice. “If I can.”

“Next time we see each other, it’s just you.” Billy licks his lips. “Just you and me. No kids, no party, no—nothing. We’ll tear the phone out of the wall if we have to. Just...just us.”

Steve reaches for a careless smile. Ignores the sudden empty fluttering in his chest. Isn’t certain if he manages either. “Gotta settle up who’s king for good and all, huh?”

“Yeah.” Billy settles back into the seat, though tension still thrums through his body with the engine. Overhead, the first of the streetlights flashes by, briefly illuminating his face, determined, desperate. “Yeah, something like that.”

#harringrove #my writing #billy hargrove #steve harrington #stranger things #too young to fall in love #lemon

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universe-on-her-shoulders · 3 years

Note

For the prompt, could you do Owen & Gwen friendship, number 8?

8. “How many times do I have to tell you? Non-toxic does not mean edible!”

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Owen sighed, sticking an empty bucket on Gwen’s desk alongside a glass of water and a roll of industrial-strength blue paper towel. “Non-toxic does not mean edible. It just means you won’t die if you eat it. Not that it won’t make you sick, not that it won’t make you shit rainbows and glitter, just that you won’t die.”

“Do you think I’m an actual idiot, Owen?” Gwen snapped, then looked up and caught the expression on his face. Flipping him off, she grabbed the bowl from her desk and moved it into her lap as a precautionary measure, although she didn’t actually feel sick; still, better safe than sorry, and she was sure Ianto would have something to say about it if he had to mop up her sick. “Don’t answer that.”

“Well, since you ask...”

“Don’t be a wanker all your life, Owen Harper.”

“That’s Doctor Owen Harper, and why not? I’m good at it,” he took a seat at his own desk and smirked. “And I’m going to counter it with: don’t eat soap, Gwen Cooper.”

“Look, firstly,” Gwen muttered sourly, shuddering at the memory of her teeth sinking into the colourful block. “I didn’t realise it was soap.”

“It was rainbow-coloured and had glitter stars in, what did you think it was? Pride Month Cheese?”

“I don’t know,” she groaned, her cheeks flushing at the memory. “I just didn’t realise...”

“Then there was the smell...”

“You know what I just said about being a wanker? That, again.”

“What was your second point?”

“What?”

“You said ‘firstly’, which sort of implies the existence of a ‘secondly’, so what’s your second point?” Owen asked smugly. “Was it, ‘oh thank you Doctor Harper for bringing me a lovely bowl to be sick in, what a lovely and kind man you are’?”

“Fuck off,” Gwen shot back, chucking the roll of paper towel at him, and it unfurled in mid-air, falling to the floor like a colour-shifted red carpet between the two of them.

“Wow,” Owen looked down at it and snickered. “I know I’m a genius, but I don’t usually demand my own welcoming carpet. Unless it’s...”

The bucket missed him by a foot, but he shut up all the same.

Send me a Torchwood pairing (romantic or platonic) and a number and I’ll write you a drabble!

#gwen cooper #owen harper #torchwood #asks #anons #drabbles

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vickers-n-lickers · 3 years

Text

You May Have Survived But...

"He knew all along…" Jill uttered quietly. Defeat was mud and tar in her mouth.

Silence was the only reply she would get from the man bathed in black sitting in a chair across the room. Fire licked irises glowed eerily in the low light.

Outside, the sound of an ambulance, racing down the street interrupted the rainy night.

Tears staining her cheeks, the paper in her hand crumpled between digits marred by fleeing a city that was now up in smoke. "He knew. He knew what we were up to. All of us. None of us were safe. We all played into his hand." Her voice waivered and she sniffed sharply.

An inhale of air and Wesker nodded behind his folded hands.

"He makes people desperate and depend on him. He makes people crazy. My best friend killed my dad because she thought it was the only way to save her daughter. How the fuck does someone so evil become so…" It was all too much, burning her up from inside. Without warning the whole stack of papers on the desk were flung on the floor. All they had sacrificed for: down the drain. She screamed. She threw more things. She wanted to shout something. Something heroic. Swearing she would find him and put a bullet in his head for everything that had happened. Something, anything. She said nothing. No threat, no screaming, just Jill Valentine standing in the middle of the room shaking with fury as papers fluttered to the floor. A glossy photo of the first victim they had investigated stared up from near her foot.

Albert was locked in a thousand yard stare and his mind in another place as he blinked slowly. His stare flicked as she marched off toward the door.

The disaster left in her wake in the hallway glittered in shattered jewels. Anything stowed on a shelf or on a stand in her way was shoved, toppled, and left in shards on the floor. Wiping at her face repeatedly, there was no way to hold it all in. This little hideaway wouldn't survive her for a night like this.

Quiet filled the air for a time, then the sound of sobbing reverberated through the place. Sighing inwardly, Wesker left the mess behind as well. Glass crunched under Italian leather. Striding through the house, he ducked his head into the study. Empty. Another noise further down the hallway. More broken glass. He'd deal with it later. Hands at his sides, he found himself standing in the middle of the kitchen with Jill sitting against the refrigerator.

Wine bottle in her hands, her thumbs ran up and down the Umbrella symbol stenciled in gold on the front. She looked up at him. "Bastard had his stamp of stupid on everything from vaccines to wine, didn't he? I don't even want to drink. I'm afraid of…" Her words trailed. She wasn't ready to admit just what she was afraid of. Cornflower eyes surveyed him for a moment as the man sank to his knees in front of her.

The bottle was set on the granite countertop, far from her fingers with a tendency to fling. Albert's fingers curled around hers, easing off as soon as she flinched from the pressure. He was still learning his own strength.

He looked well, healthy, everything in its place aside from those bizarre irises.

It made her think of a hunter.

The idea of him hunting anything now was absolutely terrifying.

It had already been terrifying before.

Graying skin, dried blood flaking away clear up to his elbows, and shattered shades hung from their rims on his face. He had turned faster than some, mindlessly lashing out when they had found him with his kill that foggy morning. Pearly teeth stained in red and dirt. A gaping hole from the tyrant executing him. She and William had been lucky. They had been so lucky he'd gotten his fill before they tried to catch him. The empty eye socket of the dead cougar was a black pit she fell into often in her dreams.

William brought him back though, just like he had promised.

She jerked out of her thoughts and inhaled sharply when warm hands rested along the sides of her face.

"Jill?"

"You tried to eat me," she choked out.

Wesker's brow furrowed at that. Shame wasn't something he was comfortable dealing with. He knew it wasn't all his fault but hearing her say it made that little black heart sink. Bare thumbs pushed away more tears.

"Everyone is dead. You were dead," Fingers curling tightly with his, her knuckles went white. "You were gone and that thing was walking around in your body." No matter how she thrashed to free herself of the memories, they pulled her from the shore and under. "No, just leave me here." Her protesting was pointless, arms wrapping around his neck as he scooped her up off the tiled floor.

"Come on, there's no sense in sitting here sobbing by the fridge." Even he couldn't deny losing so many and losing to Spencer was burning right in his stomach. 'I am going to rip his eyes from their sockets and make him eat them…'

She went into the shower with a little coaxing. The water had ran cold, and the woman jumped, when a had reached behind the curtain to cut off the water. A towel tossed over the curtain rod, she tugged it down and began to dry off. Wet hair still hung like vines around her face as Jill padded back into the bedroom. A black jacket on the chair and Wesker was on the edge of the bed focused on the TV.

"What are they saying?"

"The propaganda machine is gassed and chugging along."

"…In the weeks leading up, radioactive waste had contaminated most of Raccoon City. Sources close to the President say…"

Seated next to Wesker, her head snapped to look up at him. "Who do they think is going to buy this story?"

The blonde shrugged lightly. "Didn't you pay attention in science class? Nuclear weapons are a great idea. It's why we blow up all of our radioactive waste dumps." He found himself sitting in the dark with a click of the remote.

"Smartass," Jill replied lowly. "Thousands dead and that's the story." The lamp near the bed was clicked on.

He winced away from the sudden glow.

She didn't seem to notice. Towel tossed off, Jill was rummaging through a few plastic bags on the floor. Tags popped off of a few things, the woman dressed in silence in front of the mirror. A pair of joggers went easily up to her hips.

Wesker openly watched her reflection, fingers laced over a knee. "Umbrella is finished. That's what matters. Soon, Spencer will have nowhere to run."

Jill stared at her own reflection for a moment. "When are you going to accept he beat you?"

Glowing eyes smoldered. "Never. Why?"

"Just curious…" She replied during her digging. Stopping short, she pulled a folded t-shirt out and let the bag drop. Unfurling it, Jill turned it over. "Why are you giving me this?"

The word 'Captain' was plain as day stenciled on the fabric, the S.T.A.R.S. emblem on the sleeve. He hadn't even known if she would want such a thing. After everything they both had been through, the memory of it might have been too much. Yet, all the same it was the last trace of...them. A click of his tongue and he began to undo his watch. "You wore it more than I ever did. Congratulations Jill, You're the captain now." Watch dropped on the night stand, he began working off boots.

Rolling her eyes, she slipped one arm into a sleeve. "That's not funny. The last time you made a joke about that you almost got blown up a second time."

"What can I say? I'm like a cat. Unfortunately I'm running out of lives."

Crawling onto the bed, Jill smiled to herself. "…Captain Whiskers," she whispered.

His head lifted with that whisper. "Absolutely not."

"Oh that would have been funny."

Last boot tossed off, he rose to strip off his shirt. "No. I was called that my entire childhood."

"You were a captain as a kid?" Her smile disappeared under the shirt thrown at her.

Undoing his belt, the black cargo pants were shucked. "You know, you're starting to sound like…" The easy smile on his face lost its pull.

Shirt pulled away, her smile was gone too.

The ghost of their old life couldn't hold shape for long.

Everything was different now. Nothing would ever be the same again.

Surgeon's fingers snaked for hers, lacing. "I won't let this end as a dream."

She wanted to believe him. So she chose to.

Against her better judgement, she chose to.

#resident evil #wesker x jill #my writing

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captainsassmanes · 4 years

Note

Prompt: After Alex finds out about Michael/ Maria he gives up on him and Michael ever being really together. He is convinced that he's the worst thing to happen to Michael. He tries to make Michael's life easier by avoiding him and helping with Project Shepherd. So when Michael breaks up with Maria because he realizes he's still in love with Alex, Alex doesn't understand why he wants to be with him and becomes super insecure in the relationship. So Michael has to show him they're still cosmic.

I took some liberties, anon. I hope that’s okay.

It had been the longest year of Alex’s life.

His seventeenth year living alone with his father had felt long. His first deployment felt long. The second even longer.

His first year being in Roswell with Michael but not being with Michael? The longest.

He’d been proud of himself when Michael and Maria sat him down, neither able to look him in the eye, on the back deck of the Pony, each of them looking across the empty field instead of at each other.

Alex had clamped down on his emotions, swallowed his protests and sadness, and smiled, as genuinely as his muscles would allow. He had nodded along as Maria did all the talking, explaining how Michael was always there to help her, there for her when her mom kept getting worse instead of better, made her feel safe and adored. He agreed when she said she deserved to be loved.

In the moment, he hadn’t been able to find the words. How could he express his happiness for his friend without breaking down with his own loss?

With a hug for Maria and a quick glance to a stoic Michael, Alex had left.

Sleep left him wanting that night. He moved from his bed to the shower to the porch to the bed to the couch, restless and uncomfortable. Without his permission, Alex kept imagining life from then on. There would be no way to avoid them and he knew, for his own sanity, those relationships had to be over. Maybe one day he’d rebuild with Maria though he couldn’t picture it now.

But Michael?

Alex sat with his third glass of whiskey, mindlessly petting a sleeping Buffy’s head, trying to slow his heart rate. It was done. He knew Michael was the one, his person, the one he wanted to spend his life with. He’d known it when he was surrounded by computers, orders being barked in his ears across the country. He’d known when his lungs were filled with hot, desert sand and his ears echoed with explosions. He’d known it as soon as Michael put a hand on him at the airstream, turning him around and stopping the world.

Michael was the one.

But he wasn’t his. And he never would be.

“May your happiness last forever,” he toasted with a slur to the darkness. With a swig, the dark liquid was gone and the glass landed on the floor with a loud clank. Clumsily, he took off his leg, fingers not moving the way his brain was commanding. Eventually he felt the sweet release of the last latch and tugged the sock off, tossing it onto the couch.

Somehow, he managed to get to the front porch, hopping and holding on to anything he could find, too unclear to remember where he last had his crutches. He landed with a groan on the rocking chair, holding his arms and rubbing to keep warm against the early morning chill. The sun was shining through the trees, casting large shadows next to pools of warmth on the ground.

As he watched the sunshine spread and claim its territory, Alex made his decision. He’d do the right thing by Michael. He’d get all the intel he could from Project Shepard and then shut that shit down for good, make sure Michael and the Evans were just another trio of nobodies from Roswell. And he’d do it all while staying away. Michael wanted easy, simple? Maria wasn’t the only one who could give him that. Alex could be a ghost, vanish into the background to give Michael a chance at the life he deserved.

Even if it wasn’t with him.

So, for a year, Alex was an enigma. He went to work during the day, boring data analysis he could do in his sleep. But at night, he used his clearance and the information he not so legally obtained to hack into old records, disbanded programs, anything that looked like it could possibly be associated with UFO investigations.

Kyle checked on him regularly, bringing him greasy bags of goodies from the Crashdown or his mom’s empanadas. He’d stay, sometimes, chatting about interesting cases at the hospital or quietly combing through new files, sometimes updating Alex about the latest town gossip.

Never about Michael, though.

The last month had been insane after he’d acquired the final pieces of the Shepard puzzle and handed them over to a newly risen Max with his five thousandth apology.

Max had squeezed the files in his hand, knuckles turning white and papers wrinkling, before pulling Alex into a surprise hug. Max had whispered an emotional, “thanks,” before letting him go and walking away. That moment felt final, like Alex could finally close the book on the disaster that was his family’s legacy. With his father in military prison for the foreseeable, Alex was finally free of obligation.

The next few nights after handing over the last of Shepard, Alex sat in the bunker, computers silent, only a few lights on, and breathed in the peace of it all. At first, he’d sit with a smile on his face, shoulders relaxed, and hands unfurled. He slept well for the first time in a long time. But on the third or fourth day, sitting in that bunker with no work to be done, no worries to be had, a new reality struck Alex.

He had no purpose. And no one.

His job was through. Responsibilities complete.

It was these thoughts running aimlessly through his mind that put him in his comfortable sweats with a glass of whiskey in his hand. As he decided a Scott Pilgrim rewatch sounded good, his phone rang, Kyle’s name popping up on the screen.

“Hi.”

“When were you gonna tell me, Manes?”

Alex stupidly looked around the cabin for the answer to Kyle’s question. “Tell you what, Valenti?”

A muffled scoff greeted Alex. “About you and Guerin? Liz just told me. I’m so happy for you, man!”

“Whoa, whoa,” Alex stood up from the couch too fast, spilling his drink a bit and trying to cover up the wet spot on the floor before Buffy came to get sloshed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“They split up, Alex.”

He froze, afraid that if he moved Kyle would say just kidding and his heart would shatter. He took a deep breath before mumbling, “I haven’t spoken to either of them in, like, a year.”

“Yeah I know that, you dumbass, but it doesn’t seem to matter.” Alex rolled his eyes at Kyle’s enthusiasm.

Grabbing some paper towels from the kitchen, Alex leaned over and cleaned up his mess, Buffy never moving from her prime location on the couch. “What doesn’t seem to matter, Kyle?”

“Ugh, oh my God you have to get out more! That he hasn’t seen you, Alex! He broke up with her for you! He still loves you!”

A wave of nerves moved through him but he was in strong denial. There was no way. They hadn’t seen each other, hadn’t spoken. Michael didn’t feel anything for him, at least nothing that wasn’t disgust and anger. Plus, Maria was perfect, they fit well together.

“This doesn’t make sense. If you’re fucking with me-“

“No chance in hell, dude. I would never mess with you over Guerin. Never.”

Alex dropped the towels and sat back on the couch, eyes staring at the black tv. “I’ve gotta go.” He hung up before Kyle could say another word and felt the phone fall out of his hand.

Hope.

He’d promised himself it was done, that he was done. Michael had made himself clear: loving Alex was the worst thing that ever happened to him. Alex had been determined the fix what he could to keep Michael and the people he loved safe. He did that. He did it while staying out of everyone’s way. He did exactly what he was supposed to, followed his plan to a T.

So why would they break up?

He grabbed a glass of water and downed it, gasping for air once it was gone. He refilled it and repeated one more time. Confused, scared and exhausted, Alex climbed into bed, a tolerant Buffy allowing him to hold her close. It took a few hours for sleep to come, so many scenarios and thoughts clouding his brain, keeping it too busy to shut down.

Eventually, he started counting Buffy’s soft snores and he fell into a restless sleep.

The sound of metal against metal woke Alex, hand instinctually reaching into his bedside table for his gun. But he paused when he noticed his room was filled with sunshine, Buffy was missing but not barking and his intruder was humming a Fall Out Boy tune he couldn’t find the name of.

He wiped his eyes and quietly slid his prosthetic on. Kyle must be in one of his moods. Maybe feeling guilty about the bullshit he called with the night before.

Turning the corner, kitchen in full view, Alex thought he might faint. Flipping pancakes in his cabin like he owned the place was Michael fucking Guerin.

The warm feeling that coursed through his chest couldn’t be denied. Michael looked perfect standing there, first thing in the morning, in his socks making breakfast. He was smiling, still humming the same song while Buffy sat wagging at his feet. Alex covered his mouth, physically restraining himself from speaking, afraid he’d beg Michael to never leave.

As he stood silently watching, that warmth turned to anger and bitterness. This was such an invasion of privacy. Alex knew he’d locked the door the night before. And, besides, they hadn’t spoken in months. Michael’s solution to that was to show up, uninvited? Play the domestic game?

“I don’t remember giving you a key,” Alex said when he found his voice and was confident he was in control again.

Michael jumped slightly but the smile never left his face. “You know me. Don’t need ‘em. Hope you’re hungry. Made your favorite.”

Moving a bit closer, Alex furrowed his brow, sure Michael had no clue what his favorite food was. Excitement flooded his veins as he watched Michael put the finishing touches on churro pancakes.

“Go on, sit down. I’ll grab you a coffee.”

Maybe it was the early hour or the shock of seeing Michael or some combination of both, but Alex moved in a daze to the small table and took a seat, wrapping his hands around the mug of perfectly made coffee Michael placed in front of him.

When the churro pancakes slid under his chin, Alex was pulled out of his shock.

“Michael, what the hell is this?”

He got a smirk in return, all straight, white teeth and plump, pink lips. “Just tryin’ to do something nice, Private.”

“Why now?”

With a mouthful of pancakes, Michael shrugged and asked, “why not now?”

Alex pushed his plate away, stomach churning with anxiety. “It’s been a year, Guerin. Your relationship had its run and now you don’t wanna be alone? So, where’s Alex? Bet he’s just sitting there, alone and pathetic, waiting.”

Michael shook his head and straightened his posture. “No, that’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” Alex stood and walked outside, needing space and more air than the cabin could offer. He gripped the wood railing, counting his breaths and listening to the birds chattering. The sun was pushing through the branches, tossing light here and there, a sliver of it landing on Alex’s hand, warming one up while the other stayed cool.

The door squeaked open and he heard Buffy’s paws on the decking before he felt Michael standing next to him, giving off a warmth he missed.

“I’m gonna make an assumption so I apologize in advance if I’m wrong.” Michael sounded hesitant, unsure. He waited for a response from Alex but must have decided he wouldn’t be getting one. “You’ve always hated Roswell.” Alex raised his eyebrows, his body naturally responding to the truth.

“I’m guessing you didn’t realize it was the only place that felt like home until you were overseas.”

Alex didn’t know what to say. The idea of agreeing with Michael didn’t sit right with him but he couldn’t deny that while he was spending nights in makeshift tents and praying the last bomb was the last bomb, he wasn’t dreaming of Roswell.

“So, you always hated me?”

Michael laughed and shook his head. “Jesus, we’re so good at this communication shit, huh?”

Alex laughed, too, and looked out over the property, watching a squirrel grab an acorn and run off with his treasure, holding it selfishly in its paw. “I guess so.”

“You left me. You helped me realize I was bi, you were so nice to me and then you were gone. I resented you for ten years.”

“Michael, I told you that I shouldn’t have-“

“Shut up. Just let me finish.” Alex pouted as Michael raised his hand. “When you came back, I hoped. I was an ass about it sometimes, I know, but I hoped we had a shot, that you still felt the same way about me. About us. But you didn’t want to be seen with me, didn’t want people to know about us, you pushed me away over and over again. So, after everything, with my mom…”

“You needed someone who’d stay close.”

Michael nodded and looked at his boots, kicking a twig onto the dirt. “I didn’t choose Maria to hurt you.”

Alex scoffed, “fucking felt like it, though.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

Alex shook his head, his bottle of empathy run dry. “I told you I loved you. That I wanted to start over again. I was ready.”

Michael nodded. “I didn’t believe you. And I shouldn’t have to work on your timeline.”

Alex tilted his head toward the cabin. “Okay. So why should I have to work on yours now?”

Michael bit his lip and looked toward the trees. “Fair enough.”

They stood in silence, listening to the sounds of undisturbed nature around them. Alex was still angry, filled with confusion and caution, but he’d be lying if he said simply being in Michael’s presence didn’t bring him comfort.

“I don’t get your analogy.”

Turning, Michael leaned against the banister and Alex had to look away. With his tight t-shirt and curls blowing in the breeze, Michael looked like a fucking dream.

“The war analogy?”

Alex nodded. “Yeah, that one.”

“It’s a bad one, but I convinced myself I didn’t love you. Then I was with someone else I know I loved and realized it’d never come close to how I feel about you.”

Blinking rapidly, Alex refused to cry. When he knew he had control of his voice, he asked, “are you gonna look away again?”

Michael slowly slid his hand into Alex’s and squeezed. “Never.”

#roswell new mexico #malex #malex fic #angst #my fic #prompts #thank you #barely edited

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millie-ionaire05 · 4 years

Text

Saudade - Ot 7 | 09

Ot7 BTS

Genre: Psychological Thriller

Rating: M (Mature)

word count: 2,188

Trigger Warnings: Hospitalization (rehab, mental institute). Mental health issues (Text Reason to 741741 if you need to reach out for help). Insinuated M x M (if you squint hard enough). Substance abuse (alcohol, pills | call 1-800-662-4357 if you are dealing with this). Weapons (gun, knife). Smoking (cigarettes, weed). Mentions of suicide/attempted suicide (National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255). Violence (murder/attempted murder). Mentions of blood. Mentions of therapy sessions (these are not accurate representations, please leave it to proper professionals). Mentions of physical abuse (Call 1-800-799-7233 if you are dealing with domestic violence) WE DO NOT GLORIFY THESE WARNINGS/TRIGGERS; THIS IS A FICTIONAL STORY, AND DOES NOT RELATE TO ANY OF THE MEMBERS. IF YOU ARE DEALING WITH ANY OF THESE, PLEASE REACH OUT TO YOUR LOCAL AUTHORITIES FOR ASSISTANCE, OR THE NUMBERS LISTED ABOVE.

↤ Previous | 09 | Next ↦

January 14th, 2018 | 15:20

“I think he’s starting to remember.”

Yoongi’s words reverberate like a threat in his brain as he downs another bottle of soju, disregarding the shot glass he’d previously been using. The desire to quiet the voice overrides the need to take things slow. Namjoon stumbles, colliding softly with the wall. He shifts, his back sliding clumsily down until his ass hits the ground and he releases the bottle, hearing it roll across the floor a bit from him.

From his pocket he pulls out the drawing Yoongi had brought and his heart begins to thrum furiously beneath his ribs. A smudge of the graphite used tints his fingers as he unfurls the paper. Swallowing hard, he stares at the dark image, the strokes seemingly etched hurriedly on the page as if the artist felt the inspiration would disappear from his mind before he could finish it.

As he continues to stare, the raven becomes a blur, Namjoon’s eyes beginning to lose focus. Could things have been different if he had tried more? If he had intervened and forced them to talk it out, would things not have gone so far? Would they all not be so estranged from each other?

Letting his head fall back as despair washes over him, he turns to gaze over at the afternoon light streaming into his place from two square windows high above a small table and chair set against the container wall. In his peripheral vision, he makes out the tattooing needle, ink and supplies he has stored in that area and sits up, eyes widening slightly. He stumbles up onto his feet, sauntering over unsteadily before plopping down into the chair, his mind now locked on one thought only.

Tattoo the bird as tribute.

Even in his inebriated state, he doesn't worry about making a mistake. This was the one thing he was good at. His fingers are nimble, steady as he opens a new needle and attaches it to the nail gun along with the ink. An incessant buzzing soon fills the quiet space as his brows furrow in concentration.

He barely feels the pain of the needle as it rapidly punctures his flesh repeatedly, delivering the black ink to the space beneath his skin. At the faint sound of police sirens in the far distance, a memory from the prior year comes to the forefront as he focuses on each line and stroke. A memory of him and Taehyung as they’d been tagging a concrete hedge in the middle of the night. After a few drinks, the two had grown bored, looking for something to do. Taehyung had brought a few cans of spray paint and suggested they add a bit of art to the playground not too far from where they were. He hadn’t really been down for that, but Taehyung had insisted and he didn’t want him to go alone. It wasn’t long before they had reached the spot and Taehyung began spray painting the area.

They chuckled and teased each other as Tae colored the cement, both too busy enjoying themselves to notice the police car patrolling the area. Blue and red lights flashed across the wall, alerting Namjoon first. Straightening, eyes-wide, he tapped Taehyung’s arm, his chin jutting out to the area behind him, simultaneously snatching up his younger friend’s backpack. Taehyung turned, mouth and eyes turning into large O’s before the two began to run.

Though their feet pumped swiftly, eating up the pavement, they were no match for the police and were soon caught, the officers none too gentle as they slammed them against their vehicle. Namjoon couldn’t help but grin over at Taehyung as the cuffs clicked into place around his wrists. Taehyung returned the gesture with a boxy smile of his own, even as one of the officers opened his bag, the spray cans spilling out onto the asphalt below. His smile dissipates as the officer grows rougher with Namjoon, yanking him harshly, hurting his arm as they straighten him up. It was then that Namjoon noticed the shift in Taehyung’s eyes go from mirthful to worried.

He had been concerned with how the officer was treating Namjoon, but he had also come to realize that his parents would be notified of his arrest and were not going to take it well. Especially his father. Taehyung’s father was very strict and was known for physically showing his displeasure in the way of bruises and nicks that would decorate his skin.

Namjoon squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head as if to clear the images from his mind. Letting out a heavy breath, he stands, walking towards a tall floor mirror he has leaning against the opposite wall. He’d placed it there for his clients to check out the ink he’d apply to them. Namjoon turns his forearm towards the mirror, twisting his wrist left and right as he takes in the image he’d permanently etched there.

A lump forms in his throat, as he remembers receiving a frantic phone call from Jin just a few days after Taehyung and he had been arrested.

“Slow down, Jin-hyung. I can’t understand a word you’re saying,” Namjoon urged.

He could hear Jin take in a breath and let it out before he made another attempt to convey his message.

“It’s Taehyung,” he began again, his voice shaking terribly. “He...Jesus, he tried to kill himself, man.”

“What?!” Namjoon exclaimed, his heart falling with a thud into the pit of his stomach.

“Look, we’re nearby,” he’d informed him. “Can-can I just bring him over? I can’t do this on my own.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Just have a towel and some clothes ready...for both of us.”

“Wha…”

But Jin had hung up without elaborating and after a few seconds of staring at his phone, random scenarios accosting his mind, he’d sprang into action, grabbing towels and clothes for Jin and Taehyung. And he’d been right. It had not taken but about ten minutes for them to reach his place.

After Jin had pounded on his door, Namjoon opened up to the sight of Jin holding up their younger friend. Taehyung raised his head slowly, his cobalt blue hair plastered to his head and face. He moved as if his head weighed tons, his eyes meeting Namjoons almost reluctantly. The dark orbs swam with guilt and exhaustion. Snapping to, he reached forward to help Jin bring Taehyung in.

The two assisted Tae with undressing and drying up. There was a lavender tint to his lips, his face pallid and devoid of it’s usual tanned color. His skin was icy to the touch. Namjoon shivered fearfully. They dressed him quickly and Namjoon had to bite his tongue to keep from demanding what had happened. He led him to his sofa bed while Jin went into the bathroom to switch into dry clothes.

Taehyung didn’t speak as he crawled onto the pull out bed, his eyes already fluttering closed as his head touched down on the pillow. Namjoon tucked a thick blanket around him, squeezing his shoulder gently before straightening up. Jin was just stepping out of the bathroom, his dark brown hair slightly dishevelled.

“Can we talk outside?” Jin questioned, glancing over at Taehyung’s presumably sleeping form.

Namjoon nodded and grabbed coats for both of them. Zipping them up, they stepped outside, puffs of steam expelling from their mouths as they met the cool Spring evening.

As the door clicked behind him, Namjoon could no longer wait for the details, demanding, “What happened?” Jin ran both of his hands through his hair in exasperation, his usually plump lips pressed tightly together in a thin grave line.

“My being there was just pure chance, ya know?” he started, head shaking as he paced back and forth. “I keep trying not to think about how differently this night would have turned out had I not had the fucking sudden urge to go night fishing.”

“Jin-hyung,” Namjoon insisted. “Just tell me what happened.” He paused, staring at Najmoon, his eyes full of terror.

“Like I said, I went to the pier to go night fishing, fish bite good in this type of weather.” He closed his eyes, trying to get himself back on track. “Anyway, I had casted my line when I saw the moonlight gleam off of something in the water. At first, I just thought it was a dolphin, but it wasn’t moving. I turned my flashlight towards the object and realized it was a person. I didn’t even think twice. I took off my clothes and jumped in.”

“Jesus,” Namjoon swiped a hand down his face in surprise.

“I couldn’t really see their face, I just grabbed them and swam with them to the water's edge. Once on shore, and we were beneath a street lamp, the blood drained out of my body when I saw it was Taehyung. He was so pale, his lips blue. God, I panicked for a moment, but it was just a moment. I performed CPR on him and it worked, obviously,” his hand signaled towards the door.

“How did he end up in the water?!” Namjoon exclaimed.

“When he came to, he didn’t want to say, but he finally admitted he had climbed up the scaffolding and jumped in. Since he doesn’t know how to swim, he was hoping he would drown.”

“What? Why?”

Jin shook his head, “He said he didn’t want to be a disgrace to his family.”

“Shit,” Namjoon cursed, biting at his lower lip. “His father must have reamed him pretty badly for him to want to go to this extreme.”

“Yea,” Jin agreed, stuffing his hands into the pockets of the coat.

“Look, I’ll take care of him tonight,” Namjoon dropped a comforting hand on Jin’s shoulder. “Go home, get some rest. I’ll talk to him. He’s going to be ok.”

Jin nodded, “Ok. I’ll call in the morning to check up on you two.”

Jin had left then and when Namjoon re-entered his home, Taehyung’s eyes were open, staring out, unseeing.

“Tae?” Namjoon called softly, and his eyes refocused and landed on him. “You’re ok. You’re safe now.”

“He told you,” he whispered, despondently.

“Of course he did,” Namjoon sat down cross-legged before Taehyung. “We are all brothers after all and we don’t keep things from each other.”

“Yeah,” he sighed.

“You want to tell me what happened?” Namjoon probed. “I mean, what made you want to do this?”

Taehyung drew his body into the fetal position, his brows drawing down tightly.

“My...my dad didn’t take my arrest too well,” he admitted. “He beat me when I came home and told me I was a disgrace and had brought dishonor to our family. I figured killing myself would restore my family’s honor.”

Namjoon’s eyes glittered with unshed tears, as he tried to remain strong for his young friend.

“No. Killing yourself will not restore your family’s honor, Taehyungie,” he told him softly. “Living an honorable life will. Don’t do anything to get arrested again and work hard. That’s all you have to do. Can you promise me that?”

Taehyung sighed, but nodded. “I promise.”

“OK then. Let’s get some sleep.”

Putting down a comforter on the floor, Namjoon curled up underneath a blanket next to the sofa bed, and slept knowing Taehyung was alive and well next to him.

Namjoon picks up the soju bottle he’d released earlier and throws it angrily at the mirror. What had happened to their brotherhood and their promise to never keep things from each other? The glass shatters, falling in a glittering cascade at his feet. He looks down, his reflection a broken image across hundreds of shards. He catches sight of the white lily tattoo on his other forearm that he’d previously given himself.

“Namjoon, listen, it’s Jin,” his hyung sighs heavily into the phone. “I got a missed call from Taehyung earlier. He’s been arrested again. He asked me not to tell you, but you know what happened last time and I couldn’t…. You have to get him out. We can’t let his parent’s find out this time.”

Namjoon replays the voicemail left the previous night, cursing himself for drinking that night and not bothering to charge his phone.

Namjoon takes the picture of the bird and walks to his kitchen to grab another drink, whiskey this time, pouring it into a short glass. Pulling a lighter from his pocket, he brings the sheet towards it as he flicks it open. The paper instantly kindles, growing brighter as the flame licks up the dry surface. Namjoon’s eyes follow the chard edge as it swallows up the initials that had been scribbled on the back. When there is nothing but a corner left, he drops it into the amber liquid. As the hiss quiets, he brings the alcohol to his lips. The ash and whisky slide down past his lips to mingle in his gut with the beer and soju he had previously drunk. Jin's pale face flashes before his eyes just as he passes out in a heap on the floor.

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lastbluetardis · 5 years

Text

Family of Six (10/14)

After James and Rose bring their newborn twins home, they work to find a balance between all four of their children, and each other. Ten x Rose AU, Soulmates AU.

This chapter: Teen, 6700 words

Ages of the Tyler-McCrimmons at the start of the chapter: James: 39, Rose: 34, Ainsley: 9, Sianin: 6, Twins: 2.5 months

If you like reading my stories, consider leaving me a tip? Or leave a reply on this post to tell me what you thought? And as always, reblogs are very much appreciated so more people can see this.

Next update: October 22nd

AO3 | TSP | FF | Perfectly Matched Series

Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7 | Ch8 | Ch9 | Ch10 | Ch11 | Ch12 | Ch13 | Ch14

“My tummy hurts,” Sianin whined over breakfast one morning in mid-May. She pushed her fried egg around her plate with her fork, pulverizing it with the tines and resulting in a goopy yellow mess.

“Where does your tummy hurt?” James asked, reaching over to dip his toast into the broken yolk.

She circled her hand vaguely in front of her stomach. Very helpful, he thought with a sigh.

“Do you feel like you might throw up?” James asked. She shook her head. “Do you need to poo?”

Again, she shook her head. He pressed the backs of his fingers to her forehead. She wasn’t warm, but her lack of appetite indicated she wasn’t faking it.

“Do you think you can make it through school?” he asked, standing to take her plate.

“I guess,” Sianin said.

“If you’re really feeling poorly, go to the infirmary and we’ll pick you up.”

“Who’s feeling poorly?” Rose stepped into the kitchen, a twin in each crook of her arms. James stepped forward to take one from his wife, allowing Rose a free hand.

“My tummy hurts,” Sianin said.

“She doesn’t feel warm,” James said, absently bouncing the baby he was holding. “But she didn’t eat much of her breakfast.”

After a brief examination, Rose agreed with James’s conclusion for Sianin to attempt the school day. She and James hovered near their phones though, waiting for a call from the school telling them to come get Sianin. But no such call came. However, when James went to pick the kids up from school, it was clear that Sianin still wasn’t feeling well.

He found his daughters on a bench, Sianin half-bent over and hugging her middle while Ainsley rubbed her back.

“Tummy still hurting?” he asked, crouching in front of her. She nodded. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. Let’s go home; I’ll give you something to help your tummy.”

He watched Sianin carefully as she walked to the car; her steps were slow and shuffling, and there was a slight hunch to her shoulders, as though she couldn’t bring herself to stand up straight.

When he helped her into her car seat, she grabbed his hands and said, “Daddy, don’t strap me in too tight.”

“All right,” he said. He kept the buckles as loose as was safe. He kissed her forehead, testing her temperature and giving her comfort at the same time. Her skin felt a little warm. “Love you, Sian.”

Sianin was quiet for the drive home, not contributing to the conversation and only giving a brief account of her day. Her silence unnerved him, and his heart broke for his daughter.

When he got home, Rose ambushed Sianin at the front door, asking about how she was feeling and how her stomach was all day. She answered her mother’s questions succinctly, then went right over to the couch and laid down.

Ainsley followed her sister and crouched by her head, talking softly. A moment later, Ainsley patted Sianin’s cheek then went down the hall.

“I’m going to get paracetamol,” James announced to no one in particular.

Rose followed him to their room. “What do you think it is?”

“Not sure,” he admitted, hating the answer. He couldn’t help Sianin if he didn’t know what was ailing her. “I think she’s starting a slight fever though. Hopefully that will help burn off whatever bug she’s got.”

“Could it be constipation?” Rose asked.

“I don’t know.” He found the liquid paracetamol and went back to Sianin. She was standing beside the couch with her jeans off. Ainsley was handing her a pair of stretchy cotton trousers to slip on instead.

“I’ve got medicine for you, darling,” James said, shaking the bottle. “Take a bit of this, then you can lie down again.”

Sianin dutifully swallowed the dose James gave her, flushing it down with a glass of water Rose handed to her.

“Are you hungry?” Rose asked, brushing Sianin’s hair out of her eyes.

“No.”

“Did you eat any lunch?”

“A little.”

“Do you think you can try a bit of soup if Mummy makes some?”

Sianin shrugged.

“Well, it will take a little bit to make it,” Rose said. “We’ll see how you feel when it’s ready. Just rest, love.”

“Want Daddy to sit with you?” James asked. When she nodded, he slid onto the couch beside her. Instead of laying down, she curled up against him with her head on his chest and her knees pulled up. He absently stroked her hair, hating that she was sick. “Are you sure you don’t need a poo?”

“No, that hurts.”

“What do you mean, ‘that hurts’?” he asked, alarmed.

“When I try to push… it makes my tummy hurt worse.”

“Have you gone poo today?” he asked.

“A little bit,” she answered. “I don’t wanna talk anymore. I wanna sleep.”

“Okay, darling. You can sleep.”

The evening passed quietly, with Sianin dozing against James’s chest for most of it. She swallowed down a few bites of broth when it was done, but she eventually pushed it away, saying she didn’t want any more.

Her fever gradually built, and by the time James and Rose put her to bed, her face was burning up. They wanted to keep Sianin in bed with them, but she resolutely refused—the irony of her not wanting to share their bed after months of co-sleeping was not lost on them.

“I don’t wanna hear the babies all night,” Sianin said.

They couldn’t exactly argue with that. So they tucked her into her bed after giving her another dose of medicine, both to help her fever and to help her sleep.

“Please come to me and Mummy tonight if you need to. If you throw up or start feeling worse. Promise me, Sian.”

“I promise,” she mumbled, tugging her blankets up to her neck.

James didn’t sleep well that night. He awoke at the smallest of sounds, sure it was Sianin coming to get him and Rose. And any sleep he did manage to find was interrupted by dreams that he was awake and fretting over Sianin.

The twins woke up twice during the night, and after tending to their babies, James and Rose peeked into Sianin’s room to check on her. She was asleep each time they looked, but she was always in a different position.

“I think we’ll need to take her to the doctor,” Rose said when they curled up in bed together at nearly four in the morning. “She’s getting worse.”

“I know,” he said, rubbing his hand up and down her arm.

“I don’t know what it could possibly be,” Rose said, frustration straining her voice. “It’s not food-borne, ‘cos none of the rest of us are ill. And we haven’t gotten a notice that a stomach bug is going ‘round the school.”

“Unless she’s the start of it.” James pressed a kiss to the top of Rose’s head. “We’ll take her to hospital tomorrow morning, first thing.”

Rose remained in James’s arms for the rest of the night, and judging by her fidgeting and occasional sigh, she wasn’t sleeping either.

It was a relief when they heard Ainsley get into the shower a few hours later. At least they didn’t need to pretend to be sleeping any longer.

They went immediately to Sianin’s room, but she was dead asleep. Deciding to let her rest for as long as possible, they closed her bedroom door and got ready for the morning.

“Aren’t you going to get Sianin up?” Ainsley asked as she slurped down her yogurt and fruit.

“We’re keeping her home today,” James said.

Ainsley frowned. “She still doesn’t feel well? Are you taking her to the doctor?”

James nodded, then moved down the hall to wake Sianin. He and Rose had agreed he would take Sianin along when he dropped Ainsley off for school, then he would go with Sianin to the hospital.

Sianin was curled onto her side with her blankets twisted around her hips and her stuffed dragon hugged in a death grip. Her cheeks were flushed pink and her hair was a little damp with sweat. His heart squeezed.

“Rise and shine, darling,” he murmured, crouching beside her bed. He pressed the backs of his fingers to her forehead. She was burning up, worse than she was the night before. “Sianin, sweetheart.”

Sianin moaned and turned her head out of his touch. Her eyes fluttered open, then her entire face crumpled as she let out a sob.

“My belly hurts. It really, really hurts now!”

James’s heart began to race at his child’s distress. “Show me where. Let Daddy see.”

He brushed her hair away from her clammy forehead as she rolled to her back. She hovered her fingertips over top her belly button.

James pressed down where she indicated, and when he palpated the right side of her lower abdomen, she cried out and slapped his hand away.

“That hurts! Don’t touch!”

Dread unfurled through his gut as a niggling suspicion clawed at his mind.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” he said, forcing his voice to remain calm. “The doctor’s gonna make you feel better. Can you get up for Daddy?”

Sianin sat up, then her face went white and sweat popped across her forehead before she vomited all over the floor.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered, crying.

“It was an accident,” he said rubbing her back gently as she retched again. “Let’s go wee, then we’re gonna go to the doctor. Can you stand?”

Sianin slowly eased onto her feet. She looked wobbly, so James went with her to the loo. When she was finished, he guided her back to her bedroom.

“I’m gonna get Mummy. You wait here. I’ll be right back.”

James smoothed a hand down her hair and kissed the top of her head. Then he turned down the hall and to the kitchen. Rose was sitting at the table with Ainsley.

“Rose,” he said, interrupting whatever Ainsley was talking about. “Can I borrow you for a sec?”

Rose must’ve read the urgency in his face, because she jumped to her feet. James went to the sink and grabbed a roll of paper towels, then bent to the cupboard beneath and grabbed carpet cleaner.

“Did Sianin throw up?” Ainsley asked.

“‘Fraid so,” he answered. “Finish up your breakfast, then Mummy will take you to school.”

Rose frowned at him, but followed him down the hall.

“Something’s very wrong with Sianin,” he said once they were out of earshot of Ainsley. “She threw up, and her belly hurts to touch. God, I think it might be her appendix. That’s on the right side of the stomach, right?”

As they approached Sianin’s bedroom, they heard muffled sobbing coming from the bathroom instead. Their six-year-old was kneeling a few paces in front of the toilet beside a small puddle of vomit. Tissues and toilet paper were tossed on top of the mess, as though Sianin had attempted to clean it up.

“I didn’t make it,” she hiccupped, rubbing at her streaming nose.

“It’s all right, baby,” Rose cooed, dropping beside their daughter. “Daddy’s gonna get you some fresh clothes, then he’s gonna go with you to see a doctor so your tummy will feel better.”

“It hurts, Mummy!” Sianin wailed, tears and snot streaked on her face. “I don’t feel good!”

“I know,” Rose murmured, pulling Sianin into her arms. She met James’s eyes, then cocked her head to the door.

He turned on his heel and went to Sianin’s room. He quickly cleaned up the worst of the mess Sianin had made, hoping Rose wouldn’t mind cleaning more thoroughly later. He then went to her dresser and grabbed soft leggings, a loose shirt, socks, and comfy slip-on shoes.

When he returned, Sianin was sitting on the lip of the tub in only her pants as Rose gently touched her stomach. She was running her fingers along Sianin’s skin and inspecting it closely, as though she could physically peer inside of their daughter and find what was hurting her.

“Not there!” Sianin cried, catching Rose’s hand as it meandered to her lower abdomen. “Please, Mummy, don’t touch it.”

“I got clean clothes, darling,” he interrupted. “Let’s get you dressed and we’ll go.”

“I’ll help her,” Rose said. “You get dressed.”

He realized he was in his sleep clothes of boxers and a t-shirt. He turned away from his family and went to his and Rose’s room. He grabbed clean clothes from his closet, not even caring what they were. He dressed in record time and slipped on his shoes before going back to Rose and Sianin.

“Let’s go, darling,” he said, hefting her into his arms.

“Wait. Can I bring Elliot?”

“Of course,” James said.

“I’ll grab him,” Rose said.

As James moved to the front of the house, Ainsley appeared.

“Is Sianin okay?” she asked, her brow pinching when she saw her sister curled up in their father’s arms.

“Her tummy is just really hurting,” James assured her. “So I’m gonna take her to the doctor and get it all fixed.”

“I threw up,” Sianin croaked, turning her head to look at her sister.

Ainsley reached up and rubbed her hand up and down Sianin’s arm. A moment later, Rose breezed down the hall with Sianin’s stuffed dragon in her hands.

“Here we go,” Rose said, handing it to her daughter. “Feel better, my love.” She brushed a kiss to Sianin’s forehead. Then she kissed James’s cheek. When she rocked back onto her heels, her face was solemn. “Let me know when you know anything.”

“I will,” he said, bending down to peck a kiss to her lips.

Then he turned and went to the car. He buckled Sianin in as carefully as he could, then he drove them to the hospital.

He could have praised all of the gods that ever existed in the entirety of human history that there was hardly anybody waiting to be seen. He got his daughter checked in, then he sat with her in his lap in a hard-backed wooden chair.

As they waited, James pulled out his phone and they played Sianin’s favorite game: dots and boxes. Thankfully there were no more vomiting episodes, but it was clear his daughter felt miserable. Her entire body felt hot and soon he was sweating in the jumper he’d donned despite it being a warm spring day. Nevertheless, he kept his arms around his little girl, holding her close.

“Y’know, your mum and I used to play this when we were kids,” he said, trying to keep her distracted. “It was one of our favorites. But we didn’t have fancy schmancy phone apps. We had to continuously draw and wash the game board off our arms.”

That made Sianin smile a little. “Me, Elena, and Juliette do that with Pictionary. Daddy?”

“Yes darling?”

“My hair is annoying me.”

Indeed, her fringe kept falling into her eyes.

“Want me to braid it back?”

She nodded, and gingerly spun on his lap until her back was facing him. He fluffed her hair out away from her sweaty face and neck, then gathered tendrils of the fine strands between his fingers to weave into a simple French braid.

“You have such beautiful hair,” he murmured to her as he fastened the end of the braid with a hairband he found in his pocket.

“Thanks, Daddy,” she said, running her fingers overtop the braid to feel the ripples and bumps. “You should grow your hair out so I can braid it.”

“Grow my hair out?” he repeated incredulously. “I don’t think I’d look good with long hair, eh? But you can braid my fringe if you’d like.”

Sianin turned in his lap until her knees straddled his thighs. With her tongue poking out of the side of her mouth, she mussed his hair to get it to fall forward over his forehead. He ducked his head so she could reach more easily, then sat motionlessly while Sianin played with his fringe.

When four little braids were standing out of the top of his head, Sianin’s name was finally called. James stood with Sianin on his hip and walked her towards the nurse that had summoned them.

The nurse efficiently gathered Sianin’s height, weight, and temperature—she was running a fever of nearly 39C—and took detailed notes of her symptoms. Sianin remained folded up in James’s lap for as much of the process as she could.

When it came time for the physical examination, James could do nothing but watch as Sianin cried on the exam table while the physician poked and prodded her stomach.

“You’re doing great, Sian,” he encouraged, holding her hand. “Squeeze as hard as you need to. The doctor’s nearly finished. You’re doing so well.”

Next came a blood draw. James helped hold his daughter still as the nurse pricked her arm, and he forced Sianin to keep her eyes on him instead of the needle and vial of blood they were taking.

While the nurse left with Sianin’s blood sample, the doctor came back with an ultrasound machine.

“The doctor’s gonna use this to see inside your tummy,” James explained. “Do you remember the pictures of the twins that Mummy and I showed you while they were in Mummy’s belly? A machine just like this is what took those pictures.”

“It’s completely painless,” the doctor chimed in. “I’m gonna squirt a little bit of jelly onto your belly, then I’ll scan you with my magic wand.”

Sianin eventually reclined on the exam table and let the doctor scan her abdomen with the probe. The doctor was as gentle as possible throughout the scan, but James saw the discomfort on his child’s face.

Even though James already suspected the diagnosis, it didn’t make it any easier to hear it confirmed from the doctor’s lips.

“She has appendicitis. This means she has an infection that has inflamed her appendix.” The doctor rotated the ultrasound monitor towards James. She traced her finger across the screen as she talked about Sianin’s prognosis: her appendix was blocked and swollen and if they didn’t remove it soon, it could burst and cause infection to her entire abdominal cavity.

“When can she get in for surgery?” James asked faintly. “How serious is this?”

“I want to get her rehydrated and started on a course of antibiotics,” the doctor said, “but I would like to get her in for surgery today, if possible. The sooner the better with this kind of thing.”

“Daddy?”

James looked down at Sianin, who was pale-faced and close to tears. He forced his face to relax, then he smiled at her. He rested his hand atop one of hers and said, “Your pesky little appendix has a small injury. So the doctors are going to go inside of you to fix it right up. That will make you feel loads better.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “It’s nothing to be scared about, Sian. You’re going to be all right.”

Sianin didn’t look particularly convinced, but she didn’t make too much of a fuss when she was transferred to a different room and hooked up to an IV line to replenish her fluids.

“We’ve got her on antibiotics and pain medicine,” the nurse murmured to James. “And we’ve also given her a small dose of an anti-anxiety medication. It should help her to relax. We will let you know as soon as we can get a surgeon scheduled.”

“Thanks,” James said, scrubbing his palms across his face. When he pulled his hands away, he saw writing on his wrist.

How is she?

Has she seen a doctor yet?

Hello?

Are you still waiting?

James, what’s going on?

For god’s sake, answer your bloody phone or write me back!

“Bugger,” he mumbled.

When the nurse left the room, James pulled a pen from the nearby desk. He tugged his phone out of his pocket before sitting by Sianin’s bedside. There were several texts from Rose waiting for him, demanding an update. He set the phone on his thigh, electing to use their soulmark.

“She’s got appendicitis. Going to need surgery,” James wrote. “They’re giving her fluids to rehydrate her. Not sure when the surgery is yet. Possibly later today.”

Barely fifteen seconds later, his phone lit up with Rose’s name and a photograph of the two of them, but he ignored it. Instead, he wrote, “I will give you a call, I promise. But please make sure you’re calm. Sianin’s nervous enough as it is and I’m here in the room with her.”

The phone call ended. A moment later, Rose wrote back, You arse. Let me talk to my daughter.

“I will. But please, love—”

I am bloody calm, so answer my goddamn call!

He exhaled slowly, and the next time his phone lit up, he answered it.

“Don’t you ever ignore me again,” Rose growled the second he accepted the call. “Not when it’s about one of our kids. I’ve been worried sick, James!”

“Hello to you, too,” he said cheerfully.

“Is that Mummy?” Sianin whispered, shaking his arm to get his attention.

“Yep, wanna talk to her?” he asked, already putting his phone on speaker.

“Hi Mummy!”

“Hi baby,” Rose replied softly, all traces of her agitation with James gone. “Daddy tells me your appendix is what’s making your tummy hurt.”

“Yeah. It’s infected,” Sianin said, sighing gravely. “The doctor said I hafta have surgery to get it taken out.”

“Wow. How are you feeling?”

“My tummy hurts still,” she answered. “But not as much. It reeeeeally hurt when the doctor was pushing on it. I didn’t like that. But Daddy told me to squeeze his hand really really hard.”

“Nearly bruised my knuckles,” James interjected playfully just to hear Sianin giggle.

“Good,” Rose muttered, and he frowned at his phone.

“The doctor put a needle in my arm,” Sianin said, not having heard her mother’s jab at her father. “It feels weird and hurts when I touch it.”

“Don’t touch it,” Rose and James said at the same time.

“Do you want Mummy to come wait with you before your surgery?” Rose asked.

“Yeah, I’m so bored,” Sianin moaned. “They have TV here but no good channels.”

“I’ll bring along a game,” Rose promised.

“Can you also bring an overnight bag?” James asked. “Change of clothes for me and Sianin. Shampoo and things.”

“Er…?”

“They said she’ll probably be staying the night,” James said. “I’d rather not wear these manky old clothes tomorrow, too. Obviously I’m staying with her.”

“Obviously?” Rose repeated, her voice sharp.

James clenched his jaw.

“Me and Daddy are gonna have a sleepover in the hospital!”

“Sounds like fun,” Rose said. “Daddy and I need to have a private chat. I’ll talk to you later, sweetheart.”

“Okay Mummy. Don’t forget to bring a game,” Sianin said.

“I’ll remember. Love you.” Rose made a kissing noise through the phone, and Sianin echoed it.

James groaned internally as he switched the phone off of speaker mode. He pressed it into his chest and said, “I’m going to be right outside the door, Sian. Okay? I’ll be back in a minute.”

Sianin nodded, and he exited the room. He put his phone to his ear and said, “Right, where were we?”

“You were being a twat,” Rose snapped.

“Rose, come on. Be reasonable…”

“Why is it automatically assumed that you will stay with Sianin?” Rose asked.

“Well for starters, I’m already here,” James said.

“That’s bullshit,” Rose spat. “I can be at the hospital in twenty minutes.”

“Someone needs to stay with our other three children tonight,” James answered.

“You could come home after Sianin’s surgery,” Rose said.

James bit back a growl. God, she’s stubborn. “You’ve got to be there to nurse the twins, Rose.”

“Excuse me, the last I looked, you were more than capable of feeding our babies.”

“All right, fine! Come stay with Sianin. Pump in the hospital room every couple of hours. Be my guest. Oh, but good luck finding a place to keep the milk cold, unless you want to let it go to waste. And I guess I’ll be switching the twins over to formula when I’ve gone through the small supply of milk in our fridge!”

There was silence on the other end of the line, and James exhaled raggedly, his exasperation gone. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re right,” she said, her voice quiet. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m being unreasonable.”

“You’re worried about Sianin,” he said gently. “That’s understandable. But Rose…” He scrubbed his hand along the nape of his neck. “You’ve made me feel like you don’t trust me to be here with Sianin.”

“No, James, I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that. Of course I trust you with her. Of course I do. I just… I want to be there with her, too. My baby.”

“I know.”

“But you’re right,” she said. “It makes more sense for you to stay with her.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Come wait with us before the surgery. We’re just sitting in her room watching TV. Sian would love the company, and you promised her a game.”

“I’ll bring an overnight bag for you,” Rose said. “I’m going to drop the twins off with your dad, then I’ll be there.”

“Thanks.” He rubbed a finger into his tired eyes, then murmured, “I’m very sorry I didn’t give you updates like I said I would.”

Rose was quiet for a few seconds, long enough that James thought their connection cut out, when she finally said, “Two hours of silence from you, James. Two hours. Do you know how scared I was?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I was focusing on Sianin and, well…”

“Forgot about me?” Rose teased weakly.

“Maybe a little bit,” he admitted sheepishly. “Really, though. I’m so sorry, Rose.”

“I want to be furious with you,” she said, letting out a noise that he couldn’t distinguish between a laugh and a sob. “God, I want to be so furious with you. But how can I be when I know you were singly focused on our daughter?”

James didn’t know what to say, so he just said, “I’m sorry. I love you very much, Rose.”

“Love you, too,” she replied. “Right, I’m gonna get ready to go.”

“I’ll let Sianin know you’re…” James trailed off when he saw the doctor walking towards him. “Rose, I gotta go. Doctor’s here. I’ll call you back when I get a free moment. Love you. Bye.”

He disconnected the call and stuffed his phone into his pocket. “Has she been scheduled for surgery?”

“Yes, in a half hour,” the doctor said. “There was a sudden last-minute opening.”

“A half hour?” James repeated dumbly. “Is she ready for surgery that soon? Is the surgeon ready?”

“Has Sianin eaten this morning?” When James shook his head, the doctor said, “Then she’s fine. Shall we?”

James opened the door, guiding the doctor into Sianin’s room. She beamed at her father, but the expression slipped when she saw the doctor.

“Hiya, darling,” James said, walking up to sit on the edge of her bed. Sianin shuffled closer to him. “Looks like the doctors are ready to take care of that appendix for you.”

“In a few minutes, you and your dad are going to be moved to a new room, where we’ll give you something to help you fall asleep,” the doctor said gently, standing at the foot of Sianin’s bed. “And as soon as you’re asleep, we’re going to take you back and get that nasty little appendix out.”

“What if I wake up?” Sianin asked, clinging to James’s hand.

“The doctors are very good at their job,” James told her, rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand. “You won’t wake up during the surgery. You’ll be sleeping deeper than you’ve ever slept before.”

“Promise?” she asked solemnly.

“Cross my heart,” he said, making an ‘X’ over his chest, then hers.

“When we’ve finished getting your appendix out, we’re going to take you to a new room where your dad can join you again.”

“No, Daddy, I want you to stay,” Sianin pleaded, turning her big brown eyes on him. They were welling with tears, and his heart fractured. “The whole time. Please? Please can’t you stay with me?”

“I’m gonna be with you whilst they put you to sleep, and I promise—I promise—I’ll be there when you wake up,” he whispered, swiping his thumb across her fallen tears. “You’ll be so deeply asleep, you won’t even miss me.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Sianin hiccupped.

“I know, darling.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and tucked Sianin into his side. “I know.”

“I’ll be back in a couple minutes,” the doctor said, before she left the room.

“You’re being very brave, Sianin,” James said as he continued to hold his trembling child.

“I don’t feel brave,” she said, burying her face into his chest.

“Well, you are. Being brave isn’t not being scared. It’s okay to be scared. But you’re not letting the fear win out,” he said, leaning down to plant kisses across the top of her head.

They sat in relative silence for a while before the doctor came back, along with a team of nurses. James kissed the crown of Sianin’s head and slid off her bed.

“Daddy!” she cried, reaching for him. “No, you promised!”

“I’m right here,” he said soothingly. “But the doctors need to wheel you into a new room, and they don’t want to be pushing my weight around. I’m gonna walk.”

“You’re coming with me, right?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “No one on this planet could stop me.”

Sianin relaxed back into the mattress, and James followed the nurses as they pushed Sianin down a long corridor and into a sterile-smelling white room. The nurses left, and in walked a second physician.

“Hello, Sianin. I’m the anesthesiologist,” he announced.

“He’s the man who is gonna give you something to help you fall asleep,” James explained to his daughter.

“Hi,” she said meekly.

“We’ve got this cool mask for you to put on,” the doctor said, wheeling over a cart and showing her the gas mask.

Sianin’s glanced at it, then at James. He smiled reassuringly and stepped closer to her.

“When you put this on, a magic gas is gonna come out of it,” he said. “You’ll be asleep in no time.”

“You’ll stay ‘til I’m sleeping?” she verified to her father.

James nodded.

“And be here when I wake up?”

He nodded again. “Mummy will be here by then, too.”

“With a game?”

“With a game,” he said, even though he knew Sianin wouldn’t be up for a game after coming out of surgery.

Sianin looked up at the doctor.

“Ready?” he asked.

When she nodded, the doctor slipped the mask over Sianin’s nose and mouth. James smiled at her reassuringly when he saw panic rising in her eyes.

“Can you tell me about your friend there?” the anesthesiologist said, gesturing to her stuffed dragon.

Sianin clenched her fist around its neck and said, “He’s a dragon. His name’s Elliot. My gran got him for me when she and I went to…”

Her voice suddenly died off and her eyes rolled back slightly before her eyelids slipped shut.

James exhaled raggedly, and he pressed a kiss to Sianin’s forehead.

“We will get you the moment she’s out of surgery,” the doctor promised, then with that, they handed Elliot to him and wheeled his baby out of the room.

“If you come with me, I’ll show you where you can wait.”

He turned mechanically towards the voice, and saw a nurse standing at the doorway. He followed her to a room with a bunch of chairs, where he was then given a pager. He took the pager and walked outside into the warm spring day to call Rose.

He ran his fingers through his hair and hissed when they snagged in the row of short braids Sianin had made at his fringe. They’d loosened over the course of the morning, and were now a row of snarled tangles. He teased them free as the phone rang at his ear.

“Hey, everything okay?” she asked. “It’s been a while. I just dropped the twins off and am on my way to the hospital. How is she?”

“They’ve taken her back for surgery,” he said, absently running his thumb across Elliot’s sequined wings.

“They’ve what? Already? But… but I thought they didn’t have a time for her yet.”

“Something opened up,” he answered. “They just took her back. Our baby… our baby’s getting surgery.”

Rose was quiet for a few long seconds. “She’ll be fine, James. It’s a routine procedure.”

“She’s having one of her internal organs taken out!”

“At least it’s not an important one,” Rose joked weakly. James managed a small snort. “I’ll be at the hospital as soon as I can. I’ve got a bag packed for you.”

“Thanks. A game too? Sianin made me double check. I don’t think she’ll be well enough to play anything, but I promised her I’d ask you.”

“A game too. I love you. I’ll be there soon.”

“Love you.” He disconnected the call, then strolled back into the hospital to wait.

Nearly a half hour after Sianin was taken into surgery, he heard his name being called out. Rose was walking straight towards him. He stood on stiff legs and opened his arms for her. They held each other tightly for a long minute, then they sat down on the uncomfortable chairs to wait.

“How long did they say it’d be?” Rose asked, chewing her thumb cuticle.

“Hour and a half, thereabouts,” James replied, pulling her hand away from her mouth and twining their fingers together instead.

“And how long’s it been?”

“Twenty-eight minutes.”

Rose sighed and rested her head on his shoulder, keeping silent vigil.

Another half hour passed. Then an hour. An hour and fifteen minutes…

Finally, just as James was about to go to reception and ask for any available updates on their daughter, his pager blinked. He and Rose strode to the front desk, where a doctor was waiting for them.

“We’ve successfully removed Sianin’s appendix,” she announced with a comforting smile. “There were no other signs of trauma or infection. All in all, it was a very routine procedure.”

“Will this have any effects on the rest of her life?” James asked the doctor. “Like when someone has their gallbladder removed they can’t really eat greasy foods and such.”

“She didn’t get her gallbladder out, James,” Rose said tightly.

“I was just drawing a comparison,” he hissed back. “Excuse me for wanting information about my daughter’s health.”

“What, and I don’t?”

“There shouldn’t be any lasting effects,” the doctor interrupted, glancing between them warily. “Really, the appendix is one of the most vestigial organs in the body. She should make a full recovery and never once miss her appendix. I’ll give you some information packets to read. I can take you to her now; she’s in a recovery room and sleeping off the rest of the anesthesia.”

“Yes please,” they said in unison.

James threaded his fingers through Rose’s as they followed the surgeon through the long, endless corridors of the hospital. They eventually reached a room that had Sianin’s name scribbled on a whiteboard on the door.

It was eerie to see Sianin asleep in a hospital bed. It made her look too small. She was pale, and her head looked like it was propped at an awkward angle. Rose breezed past him to sit at Sianin’s head, where she gently adjusted the pillows.

James came up and stuck their daughter’s stuffed dragon at her side. He pulled up a chair next to Rose, and he reached for Sianin’s hand, which was lying limply on the bed.

“Her hair looks nice,” Rose murmured. “I assume that was you?”

He nodded.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you. I didn’t mean to make you feel silly about your questions. I’m glad you asked.”

“I’m sorry too,” he said softly. “We’ve both been out of sorts with each other today.”

“We should’ve been comforting each other today, not bickering.” Rose scooted her chair closer to his. She rested her free hand on his thigh and her cheek on his shoulder.

“This is a first for us. First time our child has needed any type of surgery, let alone emergency surgery. We’re stressed,” he said, kissing her temple.

“I know. But I’m still sorry.”

They both descended into silence as they waited for their baby to wake up.

It took Sianin about twenty minutes to wake up from the anesthesia, and when she did, she wasn’t entirely cognizant. She woke up for a minute, then drifted back to sleep for another five. This pattern went on for a while, frightening James and Rose even though they were assured by the nurses that this was a common reaction to anesthesia.

Finally, she opened her eyes and remained conscious for more than a few minutes.

“Mummy?” Sianin slurred, blinking slowly. She moved to rub at her eyes, but paused when she got a look at the back of her hand, where a needle was stuck. “There’s something in my hand.”

“It’s just there to give you medicine,” Rose soothed. “How are you feeling, baby?”

“Tired,” she said.

“Does your tummy hurt?” Rose asked.

Sianin shook her head, then furrowed her brows. “I can’t feel my tummy.” She tugged her blankets down and her hospital gown up to look at her stomach, as though to verify she still, in fact, had one. She poked it for good measure.

“The doctors gave you some medicine to numb you,” James explained. “Let us know if it starts to hurt again.”

Sianin nodded, her eyes fixed on the gauze covering the incision. She then looked at her mother with a sleepy smile on her face. “I got surgery, Mummy.”

Rose smiled. “I heard.”

“They took my appendix out,” she said.

“I heard that, too.”

“What did they do with it?”

“Chucked it into the rubbish bin out back,” James said with a quick wink. Sianin’s eyes widened, and he chuckled. “Nah, doctors have a special sort of rubbish bin that they put body parts into.”

“That’s neat,” Sianin said, yawning. “When can I go home?”

“Probably tomorrow,” James answered. “The doctors want to keep you overnight to make sure everything’s all right before they let you go.”

“You’ll stay, right Daddy? You promised.”

“I did,” he said, nodding. “And I will. I’ll stay with you for as long as the doctor wants to keep you here.”

Sianin looked at Rose. “Will you stay, Mummy?”

Rose pursed her lips. “I need to go home and take care of your sisters.”

Sianin bobbed her head in acceptance. When she next blinked, her eyes rolled back a little bit.

“Are you still sleepy?” Rose asked, stroking Sianin’s cheek.

Their daughter nearly purred and tilted her head into her mother’s touch. Rose continued her ministrations, and Sianin melted into the mattress. Five minutes later, she was asleep again.

Rose’s happy demeanor evaporated as her shoulders slumped.

“Hey,” James said, taking Rose’s free hand. “She’s fine.”

“I know. I just… I hate that she got so sick. We should’ve taken her to the doctor sooner.”

“We would’ve received the same diagnosis,” James said gently, even as his own guilt threatened to swallow him. He’d sent Sianin to school while she was suffering with an infected appendix. “She would’ve needed surgery regardless.”

Rose cracked a small smile, one that James returned. “Will you ever stop being logical?”

“Nope!” he said, beaming manically. “It’s one of the things you love best about me.”

Rose chuckled quietly and threaded their fingers together, lapsing back into silence as they watched over their sleeping child.

If you’ve read to the end, consider leaving a comment or reblogging? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

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stolethekey · 5 years

Text

come back and tell me why i’m feeling like i’ve missed you all this time

or: nat and steve go to ikea.

inspired by this tumblr post and set between avengers 1 and winter soldier.

read on ao3

Brooklyn is lovely during the spring.

It’s something Steve has rarely taken the time to appreciate, but as he walks down the street toward his apartment, he notices that the sun is shining pleasantly through a clear, blue sky. A slight breeze blows through the air, rustling the paper grocery bag in his arms, and he feels a rush of affection for his hometown as he pushes through the doors to his apartment building.

A faint smile graces his lips as he walks up the stairs, shifting the bag into the crook of his right elbow. His free hand reaches into his pocket for his keys, and the jingle they give as he pulls them out sounds positively cheerful.

There are times he thinks he should move; there are days the buildings seem too suffocating, days the city seems too overwhelmingly a mixture of foreign and familiar. But there are also days—days like today—when it feels welcoming, like this is where he belongs. Like it might be home.

Those days are becoming slightly more common.

Steve unlocks his door and steps over the threshold, humming mindlessly as he kicks his shoes off and sets the groceries on the kitchen table. He’s about to take the loaf of bread off the top when he hears someone clear their throat behind him.

He spins, fists already rising, to see a familiar redhead stretched lazily across his armchair.

“Hello, Captain,” Natasha almost purrs, a slight amusement flickering through her eyes. “At ease.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Relax,” she says, the corner of her mouth quirking up. “I’m not gonna fight you, so you can put those hands down.”

Steve lowers his fists slightly, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins does not slow down. “How did you get in?”

She shrugs. “You’d be hard-pressed to find an apartment I couldn’t break into,” she says nonchalantly. “Don’t take it personally. I’ve broken into many a government building—apartment windows are hardly a challenge.”

He takes a step forward, hands unfurling slightly at his sides. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I came to drop this off,” she says, gesturing at a box of assorted trinkets that Steve now notices is in the corner. “But then I got here and I realized that you have a problem.”

“I’m not the one who climbed through a window to drop a box off.”

“Touché.”

Steve rolls his eyes and leans against the wall, waiting for her next words. She merely looks at him, her face a mask of careful indifference.

He sighs. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the problem?”

“The problem,” Natasha says, with what Steve thinks is an unnecessarily dramatic flourish, “Is that you’re living like a college student. And you’re ninety-five years old.”

“I am not—’

“You are,” she insists, standing with a face full of determination. “I mean, look at this. You have one cup and two whole chairs. This is sad, Steve, no wonder you hate living here.”

“I don’t hate living here—”

She narrows her eyes. “Really? You never think that this maybe doesn’t feel like home anymore?”

He hesitates, and she smirks. “That’s what I thought. Luckily, it’s nothing a trip to IKEA won’t fix.”

“I—IKEA?”

“Yeah,” she says, turning to grab her jacket off the armchair. “It’s a Swedish store, sells everything from bedframes to meatballs—”

“I know what it is. I just wasn’t planning on going.”

She purses her lips but says nothing, and he sighs again.

“What are you trying to do?”

“I’m not trying to do anything.”

“You’re always trying to do something.”

There is a beat of silence before she answers. “I know what it’s like to be dragged out of a world you knew and dropped into one you’re supposed to know but can’t seem to,” she says with a shrug. “I just wanted to help you navigate that.”

She opens the window and slings a leg over the ledge, looking back at him as she does. “But if you want to live like a hermit, go ahead. Suit yourself.”

Something squirms in Steve’s stomach.

“Wait,” he says hurriedly, and she does, an expectant look on her face. “I’ll go.”

“Great,” she says, climbing back into the room and pushing past him. “Then let’s go, before I have to spend another second in this depressing apartment.”

“No one asked you to be here, you know.”

She turns back towards him, something similar to mirth in the corner of her eyes. “You’re a human disaster. This is an emergency. And I deal with emergencies.”

“I really don’t appreciate your tone,” Steve mutters, following her obediently down the staircase.

“Maybe I’ll change it when your apartment stops looking like it’s inhabited by a teenage guy who’s never seen a turkey baster in his entire life.”

“I—what’s a turkey baster?”

She laughs as she unlocks the car, gesturing at him to get in. “You’re about to find out.”

It is a testament to how much he has adapted, Steve thinks, that the interior of IKEA doesn’t send him into a massive I-grew-up-during-the-Great-Depression heart attack.

The second floor is big enough to house an entire army regiment and their families, and as Steve passes the display for a “cute, minimalist home!” that has more furniture than he grew up with he nearly has a stroke.

“Relax,” Natasha murmurs from his side, winding her arm through Steve’s. “You look like an amateur thief who’s trying to sneak a bag of chips out the door.”

“It’s just a lot,” he hisses as they stop next to a sofa. “I don’t know if I can—”

“Hi,” a woman wearing a blue vest says brightly, stepping towards them. “Can I help you find anything today?”

“Oh, no,” Natasha says, suddenly beaming. “My boyfriend and I are moving into a new apartment together, and we’re just looking for some furniture to liven up the place. We’ll be fine on our own. Thank you, though.”

The employee retreats, and Natasha pushes Steve farther into the store, a firm hand on his back.

“How do you do that?” He asks, once the employee is out of earshot.

“Do what?”

“Make your eyes—make them sparkle like that.”

She snorts. “Practice.”

They come to a stop near another sofa—really, how many couches can there possibly be in one room—and she forces him to sit in it.

“Look,” she says, arms crossed. “I know this is overwhelming. But it’s for your own good.”

“I know,” he mutters. “I know, it’s just—I spent so much of my life living off the bare minimum, and this just seems so—”

“Indulgent,” she says, nodding. “I know. You think I didn’t feel the same way when I got here? But having once lived in terrible conditions doesn’t mean that you should be afraid to live in good ones now. If anything, it means the exact opposite. We know how lucky we’ve gotten to be able to have a better life—shouldn’t we do the most we can to live it?”

He hesitates, and her eyes soften. “We both got another chance at life,” she says, almost gently. “We deserve to make the most of it. Trust me, it took me a long time to accept that too. But we’re going to live here, and now, no matter what. So we might as well make it as comfortable as we can.”

Steve takes a deep breath, his fingers kneading the fabric of the couch. “Okay,” he says, standing slowly. “Okay. But no more fake boyfriend stuff. That seems unnecessary.”

“On the contrary,” she says, a sly smile making its way across her face, “It’s very necessary. You’re a terrible liar, and you need practice going undercover.”

“I—um—”

She grins again, slapping him with a towel she has apparently summoned out of thin air. “I’m kidding,” she laughs. “Not about the fact that you’re a terrible liar. But we don’t have to do the fake-couple stuff. We can save that for next time.”

Natasha turns and heads back down the hallway and he follows, a faint smile toying at his lips.

He’s making progress, Steve thinks, as he lets her pick out a new couch and some new shelves. She asks him what kind of TV stand he wants and he actually gives her an opinion (wood), which makes something he thinks is pride flash briefly through her eyes.

They’ve made it onto the bottom floor, having placed an order for the most comfortable couch Steve has ever sat on, and are each pushing a cart through the looser items when he starts to think she’s stretching the limits again.

“I don’t need a forty-piece silverware set.”

She rolls her eyes as she takes the box off the shelf. “You don’t need that obnoxious suit that makes you look like a child’s doll, either, but you wear it anyway.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Sure,” she says, shrugging and walking toward the drinkware.

“I—wait,” he says, jogging slightly to catch up to her, “You don’t like the suit?”

She smirks as she tosses a six-pack of coasters into the cart. “It’s just…very loud.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s just—the colors, they’re kind of obnoxious—”

“Obnoxious?”

“No—no,” she says, laughing slightly. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just a lot brighter than what I would wear.”

“You literally only wear black.”

“Yeah, for stealth,” she says, putting so many wine glasses into the cart he thinks he can see rainbows, “It’s functional. The red, white, and blue are not. Do you know how hard it is to work with that?”

“Fine,” he says, forgoing a protest about the glasses for a more important conversation. “If it’s that important to you, I’ll get a stealth suit. But you don’t get to make fun of it.”

She gasps in mock shock, and insulted expression spreading across her face. “I would never.”

They roll the carts to checkout, and Steve realizes with a jolt that they are both somehow full. He pales slightly as the price for the first chair comes up on the screen—$25.99—and Natasha slaps a hand over his eyes.

“Turn around,” she says, almost carelessly.

“Why—“

“So you don’t see the prices.”

“But I have to pay for them—“

“No,” she says airily, “You don’t. It’s going on my SHIELD credit card.”

“Okay, well, I have a SHIELD credit card too—“

“Yeah, but it’s easier if I do it. They’ve learned the hard way not to ask questions about my purchases.”

“But—“

“America, like many other countries, has a terribly exploitative economy. SHIELD gets a lot of funding from a lot of very wealthy people that employ a lot of not-very-wealthy people. If anything, this little furniture expedition is just us taking advantage of a system that would not hesitate to take advantage of us.”

He hesitates, and some of his discomfort must show on his face, because her expression softens. “Turn around,” she says again, her hands rotating him gently. “We can talk about it in the car.”

She must notice that he is still uneasy by the time she’s paid what he is sure is an exorbitant amount of money, because she carries her share across the parking lot instead of making him carry all of it and doesn’t make a single quip (though he’s sure “what was the serum for, anyway?” is screaming in her head). They fill the trunk and the backseat with bags and boxes, and after Natasha pulls back onto the street she glances briefly at him.

“The world is full of shades of grey,” she says quietly. “If you’re going to live in the 21st century, you’ll need to accept that.”

“You don’t think I’m trying?”

“I know it’s hard when you’ve had such a…black-and-white view of right and wrong your entire life. But things are different now. The best we can do is try to be mostly good. And sometimes we have to compromise to do that.”

“In ways that make me not sleep so well.”

She sighs, but there is no exasperation in her voice when she speaks. “It’s better than not being able to sleep at all.”

He looks over at her to see her eyes trained on the road, her expression slightly wistful.

“I’m trying,” he says quietly. “I really am.”

She turns to meet his gaze, an uncharacteristic softness in her eyes. “I know.”

The tension has lifted slightly by the time Natasha pulls back into the apartment parking lot, and as they lug their purchases up the steps and into the living room, she starts delegating tasks with a comfortingly familiar authority.

“They’re moving the couch in tomorrow, and they’ll help you get rid of your old one, but we should probably do everything else tonight. I can do the TV stand, if you want to get started on the shelves.”

“You don’t have to—I mean, you’ve done enough, I don’t want to force you to do more work—”

“You’re not forcing me to do anything,” she says, smiling slightly. “This was my idea. Who would I be to leave you with all of this disassembled furniture?”

A curious sense of relief starts creeping into Steve’s shoulders. “I guess I could use the help,” he says, and she grins. “I’ll order us a pizza.”

“Oh, God, yes,” she says, already ripping open the TV stand box. “Please do.”

The next hour passes in relative silence, the two of them focused solely on the pieces of wood in their hands. They finish their respective pieces and move on to the next, the occasional pounding of a hammer or wrinkle of paper providing brief interruptions of a comfortable, quiet atmosphere.

It isn’t until Natasha lets out a slight growl that Steve looks up, noticing that a few strands of hair have escaped the ponytail she’d thrown up haphazardly at the start of the night. The pieces of what is potentially an office chair are spread out in front of her, and as she stares at the instruction manual with a hatred typically reserved for mass murderers he lets his screwdriver drop to the floor.

“What’s going on?”

She looks up, frustration in every inch of her gaze. “Did you know that I can speak fourteen languages?”

“Uh, no, but what does that—”

“I speak fourteen languages,” she hisses, slamming the manual down next to her, “and the instructions are in none of them.”

He laughs at that, and even though she initially looks offended her face softens slightly as he crawls across the floor toward her.

“Let me see,” he says, picking the manual back up. “I think your brain needs a break from this chair.”

“I was tortured and starved for decades, I think I can handle a chair—”

“Relax,” he says, shoving her towards the other end of the room. “Go build my shoe rack. We’ll trade.”

She picks her way across the hardwood, grumbling the entire time, and sits down next to the half-built rack with a huff. “Where the fuck is our pizza, anyway?”

“Maybe it’s waiting for you to finish that rack.”

She glares at him, wrinkling her nose when he shoots her an innocent grin, and then starts pounding a nail into the wood with a truly impressive force.

The doorbell rings just as Steve finally puts the last wheel on the chair and Natasha completes her third curtain replacement. She lets out a delighted yelp at the sound, and Steve scrambles past his newly-built shoe rack to open the door, an excessive amount of excitement rushing through his veins. He tips the delivery man far too much and kicks the door closed as he turns back around, raising his eyebrows at his companion.

“About time,” she says, beckoning at him to join her on the floor. “I’m going to die if I don’t eat that right this second.”

He sits next to her, their backs leaning against the wall, and cracks open the top box. She very nearly tackles him in her haste to grab a slice, and as she takes a bite out of it she lets out an animalistic moan.

“This is the best meal I’ve ever had. Like, in my entire life.”

Steve snorts. “How many Michelin-star restaurants have you eaten at, again?”

She shakes her head, chewing rapidly. “Doesn’t matter. This is better.”

He rolls his eyes, but as he bites into his own slice and the cheese hits his taste buds, he finds it very hard to argue.

They eat their way through two large pizzas, talking and laughing the entire time, and after the last slice is gone her shoulders slump.

They sit in silence for a while, both pondering the empty pizza boxes, before Natasha sighs. “Should we get back to work, then?”

Steve groans. “Probably.”

She crawls reluctantly back toward the middle of the room, half-heartedly picking up a screwdriver on the way. “Do you think we’ll finish tonight?”

“Yeah,” he says, trying to put as much gusto into his voice as he can. “I believe in us.”

They don’t, but they do manage to assemble everything that needs to be built before they find themselves sprawled out across the floor, lying on top of a brand-new rug.

“Nat,” Steve mumbles, exhaustion overtaking his brain so rapidly that he doesn’t realize this is the first time he’s using that nickname. “We hafta set the glasses and plates up. Make them pretty on the shelf.”

“Mmmrph.” Her eyes are closed as she curls up on the rug, her words slurring slightly. “We can do it tomorrow. I’ll help if you get more pizza.”

“Mkay. Deal.”

He heaves himself to his feet and shuffles over to the light switch, pausing to grab the two throw blankets peeking out of a shopping bag on his way. He turns the lights off, but the moonlight peeking through the window is bright enough for him to see Natasha’s silhouette on the floor. Her eyes stay closed as he makes his way back onto the rug and drapes a blanket over her, but he notices a soft smile on her face as he lowers himself onto the floor beside her.

The night is just warm enough to be comfortable, and as he burrows deeper into his blanket a gleam of moonlight catches Natasha’s hair, the silver light making the red shine.

It’s the last thing he sees before his eyes shut and sleep overtakes him, but as he lies on that IKEA rug, surrounded by a superspy, newly-built furniture, and loose cardboard, one thought rises unbidden to the top of his mind:

He’s home.

(for @romanogersweek)

#this was gonna be a quick one shot but it kinda got away from me #anyway #here come the tags #steve x natasha #steve rogers #steve rogers x natasha romanoff #romanogers #steve #captain america #black widow #capwidow #natasha romanoff #stevenat #fluff #my fics #marvel fanfiction #friendship fic #romanogersweek #romanogers week

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