#nondescript mention of vomiting

[kinglazrus]

The Cracks in the Mask

Sequel to The Moment it Breaks. Written for @invisobang 2023!

AO3 | FFN

Rating: T

Words: 9156

Warnings: mild panic attack, nondescript mention of vomiting, temporary dismemberment, graphic description injury

Description: Danny has been struggling for months. Balancing ghost hunting, school, and keeping his powers a secret has drained him both physically and mentally. And it all comes crumbling down when an identity is exposed—but not Danny's. Tucker Foley, his best, is a ghost hunter. And not just any ghost hunter, but the Tech Hunter. The same hunter who, just three days ago, pressed a cannon to Phantom's chest and fired without mercy.

This is fine, right? Everything is fine.

Check out the amazing art made for this fic by @popjeckdoom!

Cover | first scene | second scene

—

Danny can still feel Tucker's hands on him. Not in some aching, metaphysical way like when they bump shoulders, and the warmth of that contact lingers for hours afterwards. This isn’t warmth, but heat. Tucker’s fingertips had only brushed the hollow of Danny’s throat during that final grab, yet the spot burns now.

He stops in the middle of the sidewalk, turning toward a storefront window as he checks his reflection, pulling the collar of his hoodie down. Splotches the colour of old bruises litter his throat, tinged green around the edges and dotted with red. The rash and micro-cuts left by Tech’s nanobots are unmistakable. Had Tucker noticed how the nanobots coated his fingers as he reached for Danny, seen how they wounded him?

Of course, he didn’t. There is so much Tucker never notices.

The hoodie isn’t damaged, but that doesn’t surprise Danny. Tech’s touch has always hurt, and it was always designed to hurt ghosts.

It never destroys anything man-made.

Never harms anything human.

Danny clenches his fists to stop his hands from shaking. It’s getting harder and harder to lift his feet with each step. The wobble of his left knee, the stabbing in his chest every time he breathes, the itch of his throat. It all weighs him down. And atop that, something far heavier bears down upon him, a bone-deep dread that twists his stomach into knots. He has felt the press of that unseen force from the moment Tucker stepped into Lancer’s office.

Danny sways under a bout of dizziness, nearly stumbling into the street when he tries to catch his footing. Unable to breathe deeply, he compensates with quick, shallow breaths.

And the itch on his throat persists, like bugs creeping under his skin, gnawing on his insides. They skitter from his throat to his chest, spreading from his ribs to his heart, his lungs, burrowing deep.

Danny doesn’t notice his hand roaming under his hoodie until a nail slips between the bandages on his chest and pricks the open wound. A passing woman glares at him when he yelps, muttering something about delinquents under her breath. Danny ignores her.

At least he isn’t thinking about the itching now. He presses the heel of his palm into the bandages, grimacing through the lingering sting, waiting for it to dull into the ever-present throb. To be safe, he clasps his hands in his pocket, so he won’t scratch again as he continues down the street.

Despite how bright the sun shines, the air is cold. Or, it had been when he left for school that morning. He remembers looking out the window—seconds before realizing he was three hours late for class—seeing how crisp and clear everything looked, how the snow sparkled in the sunlight, and knowing it would be cold. But he's not cold now. He almost feels too hot, and the temptation to rip his hoodie off grows along with his weariness.

A red-hot coil burns in his chest, hissing as it brands the inside of his ribs. He exhales the steam in shallow puffs and wipes sweat from his forehead.

Something yellow glints at the edge of his vision, causing Danny's heart to leap into his throat. He throws himself to the side, slipping in the snow as he tries to get out of Tech's reach.

But Tech's not here. Tech is at school.

The taxi that caught Danny’s eye passes harmlessly by.

He leans against the nearest wall as he tries to catch his breath, which is hard when the bandages around his chest are so tight that his ribs creak. He reaches under his sweater again and probes the bandages, finding the loose loop his scratching had created. His fingers come away damp, but that could be blood or sweat. He doesn’t want to know which, wiping his hand on the inside of the hoodie.

It's too damn hot out here. His skin crawls. There's so much yellow everywhere, every flash cranking Danny’s nerves up. It all becomes too much, and he crashes to his knees as his stomach revolts.

No one pauses at the sight of a kid gagging on the sidewalk. Danny wonders what they think of him but decides he doesn't care as he retches again. Nothing but bile comes up. When was the last time he ate or drank anything besides ectoplasm? When did he even have that last? He has a foggy memory of opening the box he keeps his supply in and downing the last three vials at once, but he can't say when that was. As for actual food, that must have been on Friday, before the fight. That was three days ago, and he hasn’t had a bite to eat since.

Danny's head spins.

He should go home. Lancer told him to go home. Actually, no. He said he would send Danny home. With a parent, probably. Parents who already hadn't been answering the secretary's calls, which would have left Jazz as the remaining option. Danny won’t be surprised if she had put herself down as one of his emergency contacts the second she turned eighteen last month. But going home with her would either mean waiting at school all day for classes to end or pulling her out of class so that she could take him home.

Danny's stomach churns again. No. He wouldn't have let that happen. Even if he hadn’t stormed off, he still would have left.

He slumps against the wall behind him. During the fight on Friday, he landed poorly, and his left knee has been smarting ever since. It protests a bit more loudly now, especially after getting jostled around by Tucker. A few seconds to rest and stretch it out will do him some good.

Snow soaks into his jeans, but he doesn't care. Taking a handful of snow, he shoves it in his mouth, swishing it around until it melts, trying to get rid of the bile taste. He doesn't have anything else to wash it down with. He doesn’t even have his backpack, for that matter. Maybe it's still at home, sitting by the front door. Or he left it in the school office. He can't remember.

He doesn't remember much of anything since Friday. Just the pain, and the blood, and the cracking of his heart as he glimpsed those familiar green eyes underneath the visor.

A few snowflakes fall onto Danny's lashes. His eyelids flutter.

Why is it so hot?

After checking that people still aren't paying attention to him—they aren't—he closes his eyes and tugs on his core. Cold floods his veins as his ice powers activate. It soothes the bruises that spread across his back and stomach. He focuses on the palm against his chest, concentrating on his worst injury.

The cold is a balm. It pushes back against the heat in his cheeks and helps him forget about the burn of Tucker's hand.

Danny doesn't know how much time has passed before he hears a vehicle pulling up. The cold bites at his nose and ears, but his cheeks are still far too warm. He still hasn’t caught his breath.

He hears tires rolling over broken concrete. This must have been where he fought Johnny a couple of weeks ago. The city is usually pretty good at cleaning up Danny's messes, but sometimes the smaller debris gets missed. Most people have learned to ignore it by now, but Danny always notices.

A window rolls down.

Danny squeezes his eyes tighter, hoping he hasn't been mistaken for a vagrant. A scrawny kid with no backpack, huddled on the street during school hours in winter, wearing nothing but a hoodie. He pulls his knees up to make himself smaller. Bending his left knee hurts a bit more than it should, more than it ever has with bad landings in the past, but he ignores it.

“Danny, do you need a ride?”

It takes Danny a second to recognize the voice and the truck. Mr. Foley leans over the passenger seat and peers at him through the open window.

It takes another second for Danny to remember his ice powers and cut them off. He misses the cold as soon as it's gone. He always feels better when the cold comes from within, numbing his body from the bones outward. But he can't have Mr. Foley noticing the glow in his eyes. Despite the delay, Mr. Foley doesn't react.

“Where's your jacket? I almost didn't recognize you and had to turn back around,” Mr. Foley says.

“I don't need a jacket.”

“Everyone needs a jacket. You're going to freeze.”

Danny brushes the snowflakes off his lashes and stares hard. “Where's Tucker?”

“At the school. We got him set up with that student tutor program, and he's working on that for the rest of the afternoon. He has to catch up on all the work he missed from ghost hunting.”

“Oh.” Isn't that nice?

Danny almost says no. He has known the Foleys his whole life, considers them family, and would go so far as to call them his honorary aunt and uncle. There had once been a time when, if he couldn't go to his parents for something, he would go to the Foleys. But he almost says no.

Mr. Foley must notice his hesitation because he rolls his eyes and says, “Just get in the damn truck.”

Danny gets in the damn truck. Hot air blasts into his face once he's inside.

Mr. Foley waits until Danny, who first closes the vents on his side of the truck, has buckled himself in before speaking again. “I'm disappointed in you.”

How diabolical of him to wait until Danny can't easily escape.

“There's a jacket in my locker,” Danny mutters.

“Not because of that. Although, yes. You're going to get sick if you aren't already. Do you remember when you boys were little? Whenever you and Tucker played in the snow, you always took your jacket off. We couldn't leave you alone outside, or you'd come in three hours later with the worst cold we'd ever seen.” Mr. Foley shakes his head with a smile, although it fades quickly.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you and Tucker, but it’s not like you to lash out,” he continues. “It’s obvious you’re going through something, and I’m here if you need to talk. But what you did in there wasn’t okay.

Danny watches the sidewalk as they pull into traffic, staring at the indent he left behind. He hadn’t noticed how much it was snowing when he was sitting, but a pile nearly three inches tall marks where he had been.

“I can’t say I’m not mad, but… I’m just disappointed.”

Danny wants to say he didn't mean to hurt Tucker, but he can't. Tucker is his best friend, but Tech? Thinking of Tucker's alter ego makes Danny's heart pound, and not in a good way. Not the way he's used to. Thinking of Tucker as Tech? He wants to throw up again.

Every bruise, every burn, every little cut Danny has gathered this past month throbs at the thought of that golden armour. He checks over his shoulder, but no one is there.

Tucker's at school. Tucker's at school. Tech is at school.

“You don't have anything to say?” Mr. Foley asks.

Danny shrugs.

“Tucker's okay, by the way. You didn't hurt him any more than he already was.” Mr. Foley pauses, giving Danny space to respond, but he doesn't. “This is an upsetting situation. Tucker is hurt and has been getting hurt for some time. Going out and hunting ghosts—” Mr. Foley shakes his head. “It's funny how much a mask can trick you. Tucker made me follow all the 'official' Tech Hunter accounts. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen everything there is to see of Tech online. It seems obvious now that I know. I always thought he was just a fan.”

Mr. Foley's grip on the steering wheel tightens. “But some of those videos…”

Danny doesn’t need to hear it. He has seen them, too. Clips of Tech zooming through the city, using gadgets and gizmos to take down ghosts with ease. They started fun. Even Danny enjoyed the videos at first. He felt a kinship with this new hunter, who didn't seem much older than him. But then the tech got bigger, the fights more brutal, the targets more… familiar. Danny stopped watching the videos a while ago, after he became the ghost in them.

“These last few weeks alone… I swear he was hunting down Phantom every day. I was starting to feel sorry for Phantom until—well. Until.”

Danny rubs his knee. Despite having time to rest, it still hurts. Touching it is like pressing on a fresh bruise.

“I'm sorry,” Mr. Foley says. “It's been a stressful few days, but it's not appropriate for me to dump this all on you. You need to worry about school, not ghosts. I just always thought Phantom was a good one. It doesn't seem right that all ghosts could be bad.”

“Well, you were wrong. Everyone knows ghosts are bad.”

“Danny, your parents—”

“Were right all along. We all should have listened to them. Ghosts aren't good.” Danny squeezes his knee. “They can't be good. They're monsters, right? Because only a monster would hurt Tucker like that. Wouldn't see the person behind the mask. It—Phantom—Tucker was there the whole time, and Phantom couldn't see that. He just kept hurting him. He should have known!”

The soft voice of the radio fills the cab. And then Mr. Foley turns it off, and there's only silence. Danny can't look. He lets go of his knee, flexing his fingers. They're numb from how tightly he clenched his hand.

He wants to make himself small, curl up and disappear into nothing. He doesn’t want to be seen or heard or perceived. If only a portal would open up beneath him and take him to an endless void—there must be one somewhere in the Infinite Realms—where he can stop existing for a while.

“Danny,” Mr. Foley says.

Stop it.

“Danny, I'm worried about you.”

Stop looking at me.

“Your parents are good people, but I don't like it when you start saying these things. And you've been different lately.”

No, no, no!

The heat of the cab bears down on him. His bandages are damp, and he is cold and hot and too many things all at once. Mr. Foley keeps talking, but his words don't reach Danny. The pounding of his heart drowns them out. The truck turns a corner, making Danny's view spin, but when the vehicle straightens out, the world does not.

“I—” a voice says. “Please. I need—”

“Are you okay?” Something hot touches Danny's forehead. “You're burning up.”

A hand reaches for the door. A monster's hand with pale, bony fingers and scabby knuckles. It pops the door open. The truck screeches as Mr. Foley slams on the brakes, but Danny is already out the door, part of him phasing through the metal when it can't open fast enough. He hits the ground running.

“Danny!” Mr. Foley shouts after him, but Danny is gone before the truck stops.

He doesn't know where he's going. Snow pelts his face, nearly blinding him. The wind has gone from nipping at his cheeks to slicing through him, whipping into a storm. In the distance, a haze of green and orange glows behind the snow. Danny veers away from it and pivots down the nearest street. As he turns, he skids on a patch of ice and loses his footing, careening into a mailbox. The corner drives into his chest, and his world goes white.

Danny comes to face down in the snow with ringing in his ears. He doesn’t know how long he was out, but it is long enough that the flood of adrenaline has ebbed. As the tide recedes, it uncovers all the aches he had ignored for the past few minutes.

Every breath drives a dagger through his chest. He doesn't know if he wants to cry, puke, or collapse. Or all three at once. Through the flurry of snow, he hears a shout.

“Danny!”

He has to keep going.

“Danny, where are you?!”

Leaning on the mailbox for support, he drags himself up, pivoting on his left leg.

He hears a pop. A crackling, like stepping on broken glass. Danny crumples with a scream as a searing pain tears through his knee. It’s here and gone in seconds, leaving his whole body trembling as he lays in the snow. He tries to rise, but his knee immediately gives out.

A hand touches his shoulder before he can try again.

“Daniel.”

He tries to clamber away from the hand, the voice, but his leg can’t bear the weight, even when sliding across the ground. His entire side spasms when he accidentally knocks his knee, and he lashes out at the hand reaching for him, stopping just sort of crushing those fingers in his grip.

He whimpers. “Leave me 'lone.”

“Don't be stupid. You're coming with me.”

Danny is scooped up before he can protest. He doesn't even have the energy to squirm. Anything that isn't snow is just a blur of colour. The face above him. The car ahead of them. As they approach, Danny’s shaking stops. Not because he adjusts to the pain, his body just stops. No breathing. No heartbeat. Nothing. All at once, everything has become very far away.

“Not so much fight in you today, little badger.”

He tenses as the car door opens, but inside is barely warmer than out in the snow. Danny lies in the backseat, cheek pressed to the chill leather. He tries to keep his eyes open, but staring at the seat ahead of him while the car moves turns his stomach. Again, nothing but bile comes up.

He closes his eyes, drifting into nothing as the darkness takes him.

—

A tether pulls Danny along. His body moves, and he moves with it, but he isn't moving it. “Danny” and “Danny's body” are not the same right now. His body feels the arms around his shoulders and under his knees. Danny does not. His body lifts its hand to stare at its scarred fingers. Danny does not.

Danny drifts behind, watching but not seeing, as the world moves around him. It is dull and flat and not quite real. It’s like possessing his Doomed avatar all over again.

That changes when he is set down on a cold table in front of a glowing expanse. The swirling green fog beckons him forward. He tries to rise, but those hands grab him again and sit him back down. This time, he feels the pressure on his shoulder as if through layers of thick cloth. One hand moves to his head, dragging through his hair. Danny doesn't try getting up again after that. He sits, content watching the ebb and flow, breathing in the sour air.

The one time Danny's friends had been in his parents' lab, they called the air acrid. Danny would have agreed with them before. Now, that smell comforts him. The same way people enjoy citrus, vanilla, or pine, Danny savours the scent—and taste—of ecto-rich air. The longer he sits there, the more “Danny” and “Danny's body” feel like one thing again. The table beneath him becomes solid, real. His breathing, although far from easy, evens out. The haze over his mind creeps away like fog in the sunlight.

The trembling starts immediately. Danny closes his eyes, taking as deep a breath as possible, ignoring how shaky it is. He wants to curl into a ball and wallow, but this isn’t the place for that. Not anymore. Instead, he gives himself ten seconds.

One.

Ten seconds to be miserable.

Two.

To wonder how badly he screwed up this time.

Three.

Four.

To wonder if he cracked a rib when he hit that mailbox.

Five.

Six.

Or what he might have torn in his knee.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

To pretend he’s just a normal kid having a shitty day.

Ten.

Danny sits up straight and turns. Now that his panic has retreated—not gone, but tucked into a corner of his mind like a wild animal—he realizes where he is. Who he's with.

Danny didn't notice when Vlad pulled away. Part of him, much larger than he wants to admit, laments the loss of contact. Now, Vlad leans against the console of his lab. A large monitor rises behind him, with several smaller screens angled beside it. They can function as individual screens or act as one massive display. Danny has played Doomed on those screens many times in the past year. He can see the game's case just behind Vlad, alongside his NASA mug and a pair of headphones he has never seen before.

Vlad follows Danny’s gaze to the items on the desk. He smiles and picks up the headphones. “Do you like them? They just came in. I know your old headphones got damaged in a fight.”

“Yeah.” The ear pads on the headphones are planets, and stripes like the rings of Saturn decorate the headband. It will not be the first gift Vlad has given him. Danny swallows before adding, “With Tech.”

Vlad puts the headphones down and comes forward. “I'm sure you heard the news by now. It's all over Amity Park. I'm sorry your best friend turned out to be a ghost hunter.” He rests a hand on Danny's head in a paternal gesture, which Danny normally finds comforting. “It must be hard. Are you all right?”

Danny takes in the lab, which has grown more familiar to him than his own home. The day Vlad showed him this place and revealed himself, something in Danny changed.

You're like me, Danny had thought. You understand me.

Any ghost can stumble into Vlad's lab, but he and Danny are the only humans able to reach it. It became his haven. Here, he could be himself without worrying about anyone else seeing. And Vlad gave him that.

Tucker's words, which had never left Danny's mind, resurface.

Vlad told me to.

Danny jerks away from Vlad's hand, leaving it hanging between them. Something changes in Vlad's expression. It's so minute that someone else might not have caught it, but Danny has spent too much time with the man not to notice. Vlad's nostrils flare, and his mouth twitches downward. Danny blinks, and Vlad's smile is back at full brightness, but it's too late. Danny saw the mask crack.

Vlad clasps his hands behind his back and starts pacing. “I heard about your suspension. Your father added me to your list of emergency contacts after I came to Amity, and when you left without waiting for an adult, the school contacted me. You're lucky I found you. Have you even treated your injuries yet?”

“Vlad.” Danny's tone could make a ghost shiver.

Vlad pauses for a second. “Daniel. What did I do to lose my uncle privileges?”

“Whatever you did to Tucker.”

“Oh, dear. Is this about the press conference? I promise it won't be anything bad, but this is a big revelation for the city. I would be remiss not to address it.”

“No, I—press conference?” Danny shakes his head. “Stop it. Stop deflecting. Tucker told me.”

Vlad's jaw tenses. Another crack. “What do you mean? What did he tell you?”

“Everything!”

Vlad looks Danny up and down, then swivels, heading back for the console. He swipes the NASA mug up and swirls around the liquid inside. Some week-old energy drink, probably. He sniffs at it and makes a disgusted face, then dumps the contents over a nearby floor drain. Vlad takes his time going to the eyewash station, filling the mug with water and cleaning it.

Two minutes pass before Vlad returns to the console and leans against it, giving Danny a long stare. Unable to straighten with the gnawing in his chest, Danny curls in instead. Vlad smirks.

The expression makes Danny bristle. He knows that face. It's the smile Vlad gives him when they've both seen something stupid—a private joke passing between them. Danny doesn't smile back. He doesn't see any jokes around here except for himself.

“I don't know what you're talking about. Is your fever getting to you?” Vlad says.

“You knew who he was! Tucker said so!”

“Oh. I found out by mistake. I knew it would only hurt you, so I gave him some advice. I would have told you sooner if I thought it would end like this. But you know how unstable you—”

“LIAR!” Danny howls, the sound tearing from Danny’s throat, shaking the lab. It cracks the monitors and shatters the mug in Vlad’s hand. He scowls, shaking off glass and blood, while Danny cries out. “Why would you make me hurt him?!”

“I didn't make you do anything. You said you wanted to help, so I gave you a task. You did get the relic, didn't you?” Vlad pauses, but not long enough for Danny to answer. “How exactly you went about getting it was entirely up to you. I have plenty of resources you could have used to track it down before Tech got to it.”

“I wasn't going to use one of your ghosts!”

“Oh, that's delightful.” There is nothing friendly in Vlad's smile now.

The shift takes Danny aback. Despite the cracks he saw, he doesn’t want to believe the mask is there, to see it crumble. This isn’t supposed to happen. Vlad should be smiling at him—warmly—and offering some sage advice that sounds pompous but ultimately helps Danny figure this out. And, after taking care of Danny’s wounds, they will go upstairs and watch something in Vlad’s home theatre. An old Packers game if Vlad reaches the TV first, during which he’ll recite the same hundred facts Danny has heard a thousand times over. Some kind of monster flick if Danny gets there first, or a space documentary if he wants to annoy Vlad. But no matter what they watch, they’ll spend the hours crafting a perfect lie about his behaviour for Danny’s parents, and when Danny goes to sleep later, he can rest easy knowing that Vlad has his back. Even if no one else does.

Danny wants his Uncle Vlad.

He doesn’t want this.

“You really think you're a monster, don't you?”

Danny fights back tears, saying, “I'm not like them! I have a heartbeat. I still feel things. I don't just hurt people because I can!” He doesn't even convince himself.

“There's more than one way to be a monster.” Vlad presses a button on the console.

The screens, cracked but still functional, light up. All seven show the same thing: a clip from Friday's fight. It isn't in the video circling online, but Danny remembers this moment. It happened not long after the fight began.

Phantom grabs Tech by the chest piece, lifts him, and then slams him down on the ground. Hard enough that the pavement beneath Tech fractures and his suit glitches. The video closes in on the ghost's snarling face. Its bared fangs. The wild, inhuman eyes.

“Shut up!” Danny launches himself at Vlad. In the second it takes to cross the lab, he transforms from human to ghost. His claws tear into Vlad’s suit as they collide and crash into the main monitor. It shatters, glass raining down around them, but the video doesn’t stop.

The screens on either side show the clip on a loop. The same scene is happening here, in a different place, with a different friend, but the same feral look on Phantom's face.

“I didn't want to! You made me do it!” Danny slams Vlad down again and again and again. All the while, that recording taunts him from the edges of his vision. Danny's attention snaps to the screens on his right. Beams of ectoplasm explode from his eyes and carve through the screens, scorching the walls as he turns from right to left.

Vlad shoves his palm under Danny's chin and fires. Pink overtakes Danny’s vision as the ecto-blast goes off, throwing him across the lab. The smell of smoke and singed flesh overpowers the comforting tang of ectoplasm. Danny stares at the ceiling, panting, and swallows. It hurts.

“Little badger, look at yourself. You're not in the right state for this.”

Danny pushes himself up and finds Vlad, now transformed, floating closer. The front of his suit is torn, but the injuries beneath are little more than paper cuts to him. Danny flicks the blood off his claws and tries to stand. His knee gives out beneath him.

“You can't walk.”

Danny tries to respond but cuts off with a sharp gasp. He touches a hand to his throat. When he pulls away, he finds ectoplasm dripping from his claws.

“You can't speak.”

Danny snarls.

“I thought you said you weren't a monster?”

With a screech, Danny throws himself forward again. Vlad dodges to the side. They've been here before. How many times has Danny tested himself against Vlad, tried out new powers on him, and sparred in the lab?

How many times has Danny lost to Vlad in these friendly sessions?

That doesn’t stop Danny from throwing himself, again and again, at the man he trusts. The man he sees as a mentor, an uncle, and maybe even a father figure. He lashes out with claws, and teeth, and ectoplasm, but nothing hits. Vlad keeps slipping out of the way, unbothered, as if this means nothing to him. Danny's whole world is crashing down around him, and no one cares.

He tries to duplicate, desperate for any edge he can get over Vlad, and gets so far as having two right forearms sprouting from his elbow before something inside of him fizzles.

“No, no, no!” Danny croaks. A ring flickers around his chest. He forces it back, barely, and leaps at Vlad again, charging ecto-blasts in all three palms.

Vlad dodges the first blast and the second but slips right into the path of the third. Triumph fills Danny as the ecto-blast explodes, until a hand shoots out and grabs his wrist.

“Don’t forget who taught you all of your tricks.” The duplicate Vlad left behind to take the hit melts away as the real Vlad steps back, claws sinking into Danny’s flesh. He smiles before wrenching Danny’s arm upward.

Danny screams over the squelch of the limb tearing from his body. He crumples on the floor, groping at his elbow. Threads of muscle coated in blood and ectoplasm twitch beneath his fingers. Their tattered ends dangle from the arm in Vlad’s grip, a jagged bone poking out between the flesh.

Danny retches when he feels the muscles twitching. Darkness creeps into his vision, and he has to fight it back.

His arm. His arm. Vlad ripped off his arm.

A string of muscle slips out of the severed arm and hits the floor. Globs of ectoplasm follow, splattering against the tile. The flesh shrivels, sloughing off in chunks, followed by the remaining muscle, and the bones crumble in Vlad's grip as the arm corrodes from the inside out. Danny flinches at each wet smack, unable to tear his eyes away from the decaying limb. Every time a piece of it falls, his elbow spasms. He cups the wound, expecting his hand to close around a stump, but finds solid flesh instead. Slowly, his gaze lowers.

Ectoplasm oozes between his fingers. Pulling his hand away, he watches the last dangling thread of muscle fall, joining the mass on the floor. The ectoplasm on his elbow bubbles and smooths out into pale, unblemished skin.

Between the swimming in his head and the darkness creeping into his vision, it takes him a while to truly process what he sees. His right arm, from his shoulder all the way down to his fingertips, is still there.

The melting limb is fake—the duplicate.

It is the duplicate, right? Danny flexes his real—please, please be real—hand. The crumbling remains of his other fingers twitch, sending a jolt up his arm. Muscles that did not exist before—and exist no longer—strain to move a part of him that isn't there.

The limb is fake.

But it feels real.

Every second of agony as his flesh decays before his eyes.

When the rings come again, Danny doesn't have the energy to fight them off.

“Remember: it didn't have to be like this, little badger. If it weren't for your stubbornness, we could have kept going as we were. But I suppose you've ruined it.” Vlad waves his hand, creating a shield of ectoplasm. With a push, it shoots forward, pinning Danny to the ground, moulding around his body as it binds him.

The last chunks of his arm dissolve, and Danny’s eyes widen when the puddle inches toward him. He squirms, breath hitching as he tries to get away, but there’s nowhere to go. His bindings tighten, forcing his elbows into his ribs, cutting into his wrists until his fingers go numb.

The ectoplasm seeps into his hair. When he whips his head around, droplets splatter against his cheek. One lands on his lips.

The taste of lime. The smell. Burnt. Rotting.

Vlad rests a foot on Danny's chest, on his injury. It draws Danny’s attention, but one word lingers in the back of Danny’s mind.

Acrid.

“And I could have done so much for you,” Vlad says, then digs his heel in.

Danny is too busy howling at his cracking bones to see the foot come for his head next.

—

Danny was bleeding the first time they met. It was the standard for their first few run-ins, spread over the following weeks. Even now, it seems that Danny always bleeds in Vlad’s presence.

He had been late coming home from school, caught in a fight on his way. He pelted toward the stairs, clutching his backpack against his stomach—the fifth backpack he would lose after his accident. Before he started climbing, his dad beckoned him to the living room. Danny didn't have time for whatever his dad wanted. He could feel the wet spot on his side growing. If he didn't get behind a closed door soon, someone might notice the stain spreading on his shirt. He cared more about that than the grey tint slowly overcoming his vision.

“Danny? Are you coming?” his dad called again.

Danny made the mistake of looking back. His dad’s eyes were filled with so much hope. Danny knew his parents were eccentric and that put people off, but how could anyone ever say no to Jack Fenton when he radiated such joy?

Danny's earliest memory is the glint of his dad's smile. The warmth of his arms.

At that moment, Danny was bleeding into his backpack. His vision was growing dimmer by the second, and he wasn't sure if he could walk straight. But his dad smiled and waved him forward, and suddenly Danny was a toddler again, taking his first wobbling steps toward his favourite person in the world.

His dad’s beckoning hand pulled him toward the promise of that warmth, and he stumbled into the living room.

He didn't know the man sitting on the couch. Didn't hear anything his parents said, either. Danny rushed through an introduction (Hi, I'm Danny, nice to meet you—I'm going to my room now) and fled as soon as possible.

Once locked behind the bathroom door, he stuffed his bloody shirt into his bloodier backpack and started fixing himself up. He had to dig a pellet of ice from his abdomen and was surprised it hadn't melted yet. That ghost—what was his name… Klemper?—had been tossing snowballs left and right. Danny hadn’t expected it to hurt once he got hit with one, much less bury a chunk of ice in his stomach.

So much for making friends.

Once the shard was out, blood flowed freely from the wound. Danny nearly passed out at the sight of it. It was the first time he had bled so much from a ghost fight. He impressed himself by holding it together, until he tried to stitch himself up with a travel sewing kit. As the needle dug into his skin, his world went black.

An hour later, Danny was bandaged—but no stitches, never again—and the bathroom was clear. He had stuffed the toilet paper and towels he used to mop up the blood into his backpack, intent on tossing the whole thing in the dumpster once night fell. Satisfied with his cleanup job, he slunk into the hall, shirtless, once again hiding behind his backpack.

Danny had been so busy checking if Jazz's door was closed that he hadn’t noticed the body before him until he buried his nose in a cashmere jacket. He looked up into the stunned face of the man his dad had wanted him to meet. Some old friend of his parents’ from their college days. Danny had already forgotten his name.

He wouldn't find out for weeks how the man noticed the only drop of blood Danny had missed—a stain the size of a quarter on the hem of his jeans. In the moment, all he saw was the man's shocked expression melting into amusement, and something else, something Danny couldn't name but recognized on an instinctive level. Something that made him take a step back.

The man surprised Danny with a pat on the head. “Try dish soap. And cold water,” he said before gliding past into the bathroom.

Danny spent the rest of that evening hiding in his bedroom, afraid that at any second, his parents would come bursting in because their friend saw him bleeding. They never did.

To anyone else, that interaction would have been insignificant—a few harried seconds easily forgotten. But to Danny, who had already been through so much, it meant one thing:

There was an adult he could trust.

—

Danny wakes up to a fever and a ceiling covered in stars. Not the dollar-store, glow-in-the-dark stickers he grew up with, which his dad helped him put up when he was five, but a light projection from a lamp on the nightstand. With the curtains drawn, only the stars provide light for the room. Danny is thankful for that. He can barely keep his eyes open with how much his head pounds.

He reaches to peel off the blanket, but freezes. His right arm hovers in front of him, trembling. It comes back to him quickly: the sound, the smell, the taste. The slow decay of the phantom limb.

It was fake, he tells himself, squeezing his hand into a fist. That wasn’t real.

The rest of his body feels stiff, fresh bruises blooming across his back and shoulders, and he can’t catch his breath. It’s like there’s a knife in his back, held in place by Vlad’s heel, and even the smallest inhale pushes Danny’s chest back into the blade.

His throat is a footnote in comparison, barely worth his notice.

But his knee… This morning, Danny’s knee twinged. There was discomfort, but he could walk. Comparing his pain from then to now is like comparing a bruise to a bullet wound. He knows the disparity between those two injuries.

He pushes himself up, peeling away from the sweat-soaked sheets, and bites back a cry when his leg shifts. He has to stop twice and grit his teeth before he manages to sit upright.

The blanket falls into his lap just as he spots his reflection in the mirror across the room. His chest and throat have been bandaged with care. The edges of his injuries creep out from beneath the bandages, flares of red skin touching his collarbone and ribs. The bandages on his throat are also damp, but not from sweat. Danny recognizes the slightly tacky sensation of Vlad’s healing salve—a concoction made to soothe ectoplasmic injuries. It works best on surface wounds.

Beneath the blanket, he discovers unfamiliar pyjamas. Pulling up the left leg reveals a compression bandage around his knee. If it’s supposed to help, it’s not doing much.

There is little else in the room besides him, the bed, and the mirror. The projector and the nightstand, of course. A dresser beneath the mirror. A Dumpty Humpty poster on the door. This room is one of many that Danny had yet to explore in Vlad's manor. Despite this, he immediately knows what, or who, it's for.

This is Danny's room.

Only a day ago, that realization might have warmed him. Now, it fills him with disgust. He needs to leave as soon as possible, but he can't go out in a pair of flannel pyjama pants. Scanning the room again, he doesn't see his hoodie or sweatpants, but he notices a stack of clothes on the corner of the bed.

Designer jeans, a Vladco polo shirt, and a fur-lined leather jacket. No way Danny is putting those on.

He goes to transform, tugging on his core, but a jolt of electricity stops him. It rips through his body and leaves him breathless, clutching his chest. He doesn’t try again.

He should. If he wants to get out of here quickly, he only has one option. But just turning his hand intangible makes his insides itch. He doesn’t want to know how intense that would feel across his whole body. Doesn’t want to hurt any more than he already does.

Danny berates himself for his weakness.

He changes into the clothes and hates every second of it, but he doesn't have another option. It takes an embarrassingly long time since he has to manoeuvre his bad knee. Bending it hurts. Straightening it hurts. He can’t even let it lay limp without some discomfort. But he manages, grimacing when he catches his reflection, and starts the arduous process of limping through the manor.

He may not have explored every inch of Vlad’s home, but he knows the layout well enough to find his way to the front door. He keeps one hand on the wall to help his balance, but he still falls a few times.

By the time he reaches the stairs, the wall is the only thing holding him up. Every time he puts weight on his left leg, his knee slides beneath his skin. His right thigh aches from hopping across the manor on one leg. While ghost hunting keeps Danny in shape, the last few days have drained him so much that he feels like a weak freshman again, barely able to run a mile.

As he peers down the stairs from the third-floor landing, part of him whispers that he should go back and collapse into that soft bed. But he hasn’t sunk that low yet. As he debates the least painful way to make it down, a voice floats up to him.

“—wake him up. I don't want to take up more of your time,” Jazz says.

“It's not a problem, dear.” Danny's heart quickens at Vlad's voice. “Danny visits often enough. I don't mind him taking up one of my spare bedrooms for a few hours. I'm just glad I found him so quickly.”

Danny clings to the newel post as he lowers himself to the floor, starting the long process of scooting down the stairs one step at a time.

“Thanks again for calling the school back. Lancer said he didn't want to pull me out of class, but someone needed to be here for Danny.”

“He was fine with me.”

“Family, I mean.”

“Right. Of course. But you could have waited for school to end.”

Danny glances at the grandfather clock on the main floor, visible at the back of the hall now that he's worked his way down to the second landing. It's not even three yet. Jazz had to leave school early because of him. A bitter taste spreads across his tongue. He swallows a few times, but the taste lingers. He can't get rid of his guilt that easily.

“Yeah, that's not happening. Danny comes first.”

He wishes she would stop saying stupid things.

When Danny finally reaches the bottom floor, he stops to gather himself. A few quick breaths, so close to hyperventilating that he wonders if his panic has reared its head again, before he strides over to the doorway leading to Vlad's sitting room. He almost makes it all the way, but on the last step, his leg buckles, and he clings to the door frame to keep himself up. Jazz’s head jerks up at the sound of him hitting the doorway, and her face lights up when she spots him.

“Danny!” She is upon him instantly, leaping across the room to reach him, rubbing his hair, touching his forehead, and fussing with the jacket. “Oh. This is new?”

“His clothes were soaked, and he didn’t have a good coat. I couldn't in good conscience leave him like that.”

While Jazz frets, Danny stares past her. Vlad sits in a lavish armchair with his back to them but watches through the mirror above the mantle. He has a thing for mirrors.

Their eyes meet, and Vlad's flash red. Danny pales.

“Are you even listening to me?” Jazz asks.

Danny, unable to speak, nods. The way Jazz fusses, she keeps pushing him back, forcing more weight onto his injured knee. Tears spring to his eyes.

“Oh, Danny.” Jazz lifts a hand to wipe the tears away, but Danny flinches back.

“Careful.” Vlad rises from his chair. The movement yanks Danny's attention back to him as he approaches. “I think I might have bruised his ego when I had to carry him inside. He must be sulking.”

Danny can feel Jazz's eyes on him, but he can't look away from Vlad. Danny hasn't stopped shaking since they made eye contact. Vlad raises a hand to fix his sleeve, and Danny flinches again.

“Oh.” Jazz's hand finds Danny's wrist and squeezes it once. “Well, thank you again. I'm taking Danny home now if that's all right.”

Her tone says she doesn't care if it's all right; they're going home now.

“By all means,” Vlad says.

No one moves. Danny doesn’t want to look away from Vlad, afraid of what might happen the second he turns his back. Jazz must pick up on his wariness because she keeps looking between them as if she, too, is waiting for something to happen.

Vlad finally breaks the spell over them by gesturing to the door.

Jazz takes Danny’s hand and pulls him away. He stays behind her, so she can’t see him limping. Unfortunately, they’re nowhere near the wall, and he has no way to hold himself up when his leg gives out again. His hand rips from Jazz’s as he stumbles, barely catching himself from face-planting.

Jazz spins around, lips parting, but Danny snaps, “What?” before she can say anything.

Hurt flashes across her face. “Are you…?”

“I’m fine.” He drops to one knee, ducking his head to hide his grimace, and mutters, “Tripped on my shoelace.”

Jazz doesn’t say anything else, and he doesn’t lift his head to see what face she’s making. Danny fiddles with his perfectly tied laces until Jazz’s feet turn away from him and head for the door. He stays on the ground, breathing softly through his nose until he’s ready to stand, rising on one leg. His left knee spasms.

He massages it through his jeans, although it doesn’t help. The compression bandage doesn’t seem to be doing anything, either. It feels like someone sliced his knee open, chipped the bone to pieces, and filled the hole with oozing ectoplasm.

The front door opens and shuts.

Danny only has a second to process what that means before he jerks toward Vlad, just in time to see a syringe of orange fluid jabbed into his arm. Danny rips his arm away, but Vlad is faster. By the time Danny stumbles back, the syringe is empty.

“I've done a lot for you, little badger. I still will.” Vlad closes his fist around the syringe. There's a flash of pink, and then ash falls from his hand. “You'll be thanking me in a couple of hours when that kicks in. Remember, I only want what's best for you.” He turns but pauses halfway. “Oh… and keep that relic safe for me, won't you? I'll be needing it soon enough,” he says before drifting out of sight.

—

The car shakes as Danny drops into the passenger seat, and once more when he slams the door shut.

“Hey, not so hard,” Jazz says.

Danny ignores her, facing the window as he scrubs his face. He can still taste the salt on his lips, and the red around his eyes is prominent. He tries to rub it away, but there’s no helping it. After a few fruitless seconds, he gives up, pulling the bar under his seat to slide the chair back and give his legs some room. He cranks the lever on the side as well, putting the back down, and drapes a hand over his eyes.

“Hey.” Jazz prods him. “Upright, seatbelt on. That's not safe if we crash.”

“Do you plan on crashing?” The words drag at his throat, which quickly went hoarse during his minute of alone time. His voice comes out raspy and quiet. Danny doesn't know what Jazz sees, or what she makes of him right now.

After a few seconds of staring, she sighs and turns the engine on. “Just wear your seatbelt.”

Danny clicks it into place with the hand not draped over his eyes. If Jazz sees the redness, she’ll know that he was crying. Stupid. Fourteen years old and crying like a child. Danny's fingers dig into his scalp. His nails aren't quite claws when he's human, but they're sharper than normal and prick his skin. Every time he cuts them, they start growing back to a point. He always trims them before it gets too obvious.

They drive in silence. Danny grits his teeth, focusing on not hissing in pain every time they hit a pothole. Hold it together, he tells himself. Only a few more minutes to home, and then he can fall apart in private. Until then, he just has to be okay.

Everything is okay.

Everything is okay.

Jazz doesn’t try to talk again, which is better for Danny. He’s unsure if he can open his mouth without some strained sound escaping him. The inside of his lip is already ragged and bleeding from how hard he bites down.

When they turn onto their street, he thinks he’s in the clear. Jazz parks on the backstreet, in front of their garage, and Danny hears her shuffling around. At first, he thinks she’s getting out, and hopes he can wait her out and go inside a minute later. His hopes are dashed when something drops onto his chest.

Danny bites his tongue to keep from crying out.

“You left your backpack at school,” Jazz says. “After you got suspended. Do you want to talk about it?”

Danny clenches his jaw, breathing as deep as he can through his nose, and swallows the blood pooling in his mouth. Once he can speak without gasping, he says, “Yeah. I put it down, and then I forgot it was there, and then I left because I'm not allowed to be there anymore.”

“Only two weeks, and you still have to do schoolwork. I'll be bringing it home for you. Maybe you can use the rest of the time to get caught up on everything else you haven't done yet. And then you can tell me what the hell happened with Vlad back there.”

“Can we just… not do this right now.”

“Danny—”

“Jazz.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out angry, but there’s a bite to her name that he can’t take back. Being in this car, with her, is too much right now. He doesn’t need this. He needs things back to the way they were when he was oblivious and hurt, but not as hurt as he is now.

Jazz purses her lips. “Okay. I'll tell Mom and Dad about the suspension. You can talk to me—and them—when you're ready.”

“Yeah. Right.” Danny gets out before Jazz can say anything else. She follows, but he refuses to look back, fighting to hide his limp. He doesn't stop until he's inside, up the stairs, and in his bedroom. He doesn't even make it to the bed, crumpling against the door, curling over his knee as tears prick his eyes.

There are daggers under his skin, chipping away at bone and muscle, driven deeper with every step he forced himself to take. He thumps his head against the door, mouth open in a soundless scream as he lets the pain wash over him. It tears through his body, every bruise and burn throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

Outside his room, the house comes alive as his parents return, their voices filling all the empty spaces. Danny's room stays dead and quiet.

For hours, he leans against his door, staring up at the stickers on his ceiling. While his eyes trace the familiar constellations, his mind has receded deep within himself. Moving from his head to his toes, he focuses on all his aches and pains, giving himself a few moments to feel each one before shoving them out of mind.

Some pains are worse than others. The bruises, he files away without a second thought. The headache and the twist in his gut take a bit more effort. But his chest? His knee? Danny doesn’t have the words to describe how much they wreck him before he can push them away.

It’s just pain. He can handle pain.

At some point, someone comes by and knocks on his door. Danny doesn’t answer, barely conscious enough to hear it. His chin dips to his chest as he watches the shadow until it leaves, relaxing only a fraction when it does.

Eventually, the sounds outside dim. Jazz whispers goodnight. The floorboards in the hall creak, first under his mom’s light steps, and then they groan as his dad traipses across them. A door closes. Everything goes quiet. With the quiet comes an all-encompassing numbness.

The clock on Danny’s nightstand reads two a.m. by the time he drags himself from his stupor. In his backpack, abandoned at his side the second he sat down, something glows. Danny reaches inside and gropes around until he finds it, small and cold to the touch. He draws the item out.

“This is all your fault,” Danny mutters. Whether that is to himself or the relic in his hand, he doesn't know. Doesn't care. Both are true.

As Danny opens his palm, the Ring of Rage glows brighter.

#invisobang #invisobang 2023 #danny phantom #Tech Hunter AU #No One Knows AU #Danny Fenton #Vlad Masters #Maurice Foley #Mentor Vlad Masters #Manipulative Vlad Masters #danny phantom big bang #danny phantom fanfiction #phicc #phanfic #mild panic attack #nondescript mention of vomiting #graphic description injury #temporary dismemberment

[gayspock]

they're closing down the m1 motorway because a brave little guy with travel sickies frew up

#Egg.txt #vomit mention #it wasnt on the m25 at all but it was on nondescript motorway #but i was sick so badly somany times #so fucking mad my uncle drives like an absolute animal #literally he's like ''so are there speed cameras around no okay so i go as fast as i want' THIS ISWHY #YOU KEEPRASHING YOU FUCKING FREAK HOLY... #I EVEN TOOK MY TBALETS TO FIX ME BUT =NONETHELESS . OH SO POORLY.

[lewmagoo]

i will wait right here | b. bradshaw

description: in which four pilots find themselves in a hospital waiting room (requested)

warnings: angst, brief allusion to sex (no smut), illness (there’s a brief scene with vomiting lol), mentions of death, hurt/comfort

pairing/characters: bradley “rooster” bradshaw x nondescript f!reader, natasha “phoenix” trace, robert “bob” floyd, jake “hangman” seresin

notes: this is pretty self indulgent. also i might be projecting a bit here. y’know, with the constant need to be independent and put others needs before my own, even if it kills me. just eldest daughter things 🤪

Rooster had always said she was far too determined to be independent. 

It came from her deep, incessant need to prove to others, and herself, that she could take care of herself, and didn’t need anyone to fuss over her. 

“I’m fine,” she’d insist, “you don’t have to worry about me.”

Except, Bradley did worry about her. All the time, in fact. The fact that he was a mother hen was a running joke in their group of friends. But he was especially a mother hen toward her. When she assured everyone that she was okay, he could see right through it. He knew her well enough to know when she was not okay. And he was pretty good about helping her when she needed it. 

But in turn, she was good at evading his help. She didn’t want to be a burden. Although Bradley insisted that she wasn’t, there was part of her that always doubted that. She’d spent her entire life proving she didn’t need anyone to lean on. 

But one day, that stubborn determination of hers would cost her. 

It had all started with a migraine. 

She woke up to the splitting headache, and groaned in protest at the sunlight streaming in through the blinds. Bradley was beside her, one brawny arm slung over her waist. He felt her tense, and he shifted, lifting his head from the pillows. 

If she hadn’t been in so much pain she would have marveled in adoration at his sleep rumpled hair and the imprint of the sheets creased on his cheek. 

“Mm, mornin’, baby. You alright?” 

“Fine,” she mumbled. “Just have a headache.” 

Bradley buried his face against her shoulder, pressing a kiss there. His mustache prickled at her skin. “‘s probably about time to get up, hm?” 

“Probably.” She closed her eyes, trying to hide from the light. 

Finally, the man beside her sat upright, stretching out his torso, followed by a few pops of readjusting joints. “I’ll get the coffee going. Maybe it’ll help your headache.” He left another kiss, this time to her temple, before he slipped away, leaving her in the silence of her bedroom. 

Again, if her head wasn’t threatening to explode on her, she might have admired the view of his peachy ass as he bent to tug on his boxers. Instead, her eyes remained half closed, and all she saw was his retreating shadow as he made his way out to the kitchen. 

With a deep sigh, she attempted to sit up, but as she did so, an unbearable rush of pain flooded her head. She let out a hiss, reaching up to gently hold her head in her hands, lessening the throb as she slowly sat up the rest of the way. 

“Fuck, I don’t remember drinking that much last night.” In fact, she’d hardly been drunk at all. She and Rooster had shared a beer the night before, and had promptly after fallen into the sheets together. Her head certainly hadn’t been hurting then. All she remembered was all-encompassing pleasure. 

So sometime between their evening escapades and now, a migraine had sunk its sharp claws into her skull, and wouldn’t let go. 

She fumbled to open her nightstand drawer, retrieving a bottle of headache medication she kept there. Using the glass of water that was a permanent fixture on the nightstand, she swigged the pills back and hoped for the best. 

After taking a moment to physically prepare herself to get up for the day, her feet hit the floor. Mechanically, she pulled on the nearest article of clothing, which happened to be Bradley’s well-worn Navy t-shirt. 

Then she made her way out to the kitchen. The light was brighter in there, and she squinted in discomfort. As she took a seat at the table, a mug full of fresh coffee was placed in front of her. She didn’t have to question how it was made. Bradley knew exactly how she liked it. 

“I’ll be pretty busy these next few days,” he mused as she took a sip of the coffee. “Got those intense training exercises I told you about. I probably won’t be able to come home as often, at least not until the weekend.”

“Hope it goes well,” she managed, letting her eyes fall shut. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” His husky voice brought her back to the present, and when she opened her eyes, she found his warm ones staring back at her, flooded with concern. 

Despite herself, she gave him a small smile. “Yeah, don’t worry about me.”

“I always do,” came his response. He kissed the top of her head. 

He soon excused himself to get ready for the day, while she sat at the table and gently massaged her temples. She was thankful she didn’t have Bradley’s job, which required him to be at work bright and early. Instead, she worked at the Hard Deck, and her shift didn’t start until later that afternoon. She hoped her headache would settle down by that point. 

By the time she rose from the table to deposit her empty coffee cup into the sink, Bradley was already dressed and ready to head out the door. He kissed her cheek as he walked by, stopping at the entryway to lace up his boots. 

“Bye, baby. I’ll call you later if I have time. Love, love.”

Then he was gone before she could register what had taken place. She sighed into the quietness of her home. Normally, she would’ve been a more active participant in bidding him farewell. Especially if she wasn’t going to see him for a few days. But she simply didn’t have the wherewithal to do so. 

Instead of fretting over her less than enthusiastic goodbye, she headed right back to bed, hoping she would wake up and find her headache gone. 

She did wake up many hours later. However, her headache was still raging behind her eyes, like churning storm clouds. Not to mention, the bedroom was considerably darker than it had been when she went to sleep. 

“Oh, shit,” she cursed. She sat up quickly, regretting it immediately when her head began to pound and spots appeared in front of her eyes. She took a moment to pull herself together before she reached for her phone. To her horror, she found that it was 2100 hours. She’d slept until 9 pm. That meant that she was four hours late to her shift at the Hard Deck. 

Her phone screen displayed a few missed calls from Penny, and a few from another bartender, Samantha. She let out a frustrated moan, lowering her head to her hands. She couldn’t believe that she’d managed to sleep late enough to miss a whole shift of work. 

She felt awful, and she was quick to type an apology to Penny. 

Hey Pen. I am sooooo sorry I stood you up like that. I’m not feeling well and I laid down for a bit, but ended up sleeping way too late. I woke up just a few minutes ago. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.

She hit send and hoped for the best. Penny was understanding, so she wasn’t worried about the possibility of losing her job. But she still felt terrible about it, and vowed to make things right. 

However, the excruciating pain still piercing through her skull soon took precedence over her guilt, and she whimpered, lowering herself back down against the bed. 

She’d had headaches and migraines before, but they were few and far between, and none of them had ever been as bad as this. It was a constant, thrumming ache that distracted her from all coherent thought. 

She was surprised when tears sprang to her eyes. It pushed her to reach back into her nightstand and take another dose of pills. She hoped and prayed that this time, they would work, and she’d be able to go about her normal, day to day life soon. 

As she curled back under the covers and placed a pillow over her head, she found herself wishing that Bradley was there to hold her and possibly help soothe the pain. She imagined his big, warm hands gently cradling her head, keeping the pounding at bay. 

She was tempted to call him, but she wasn’t sure if he’d answer. When he was in training mode, he had a tendency to be pretty reclusive. Instead of coming back to her apartment, he’d stay at his place on base, because it was closer, and gave him the opportunity to come straight home and collapse into bed at night right away. 

But tonight was one of those nights where she longed for him. He always knew what to do to make her feel better. Now she was all alone and in utter misery. But, she’d always pushed through everything life threw at her, and this was no different. She’d simply have to bite the bullet and get through it. She had never needed anyone before. She didn’t figure she needed them now. But oh, how wrong she was. 

She drifted back to sleep that night, the pain lulling her into a fitful slumber. When she woke the next morning, the room was still too bright for her sensitive eyes, and her head seemed to ache even more so, if at all possible. 

It took her quite a few moments to work up the nerve to rise from the bed. Yet again, she held her head in her hands, and had to pause for a moment as the room began to spin around her. It should have been her first clue that something was horribly wrong, but she was stubborn, and was sure that this would pass soon. 

Another dose of Excedrin was downed, and she forced herself out of bed. However, on her way down the hallway, she grew dizzy, and the unsteadying pain sent her careening into the bathroom, crashing to her knees just in time to vomit into the toilet. 

She hadn’t eaten in over 24 hours, she realized, so there was hardly anything to expel. Finally, with her whole body trembling, she calmed down. She managed to reach a hand up to the sink to hoist herself from the floor, and when she looked in the mirror, she realized just how sickly she appeared. 

There was no way she’d be able to go to work like this. So, she regretfully called Penny. 

The first words out of the woman’s mouth were, “are you okay?”

“Hi. Yeah, I’ll be alright. I’m so sorry about last night. When I woke up I couldn’t believe I’d slept that late.”

“I understand, it happens. Will you be able to work tonight?” 

“I don’t think so. I’m sure I’ll feel better by tomorrow.”

“Well if you aren’t feeling well tomorrow, don’t feel like you need to come in. You should rest up,” Penny warned. 

“It’s Friday. I don’t want to leave you high and dry on such a busy night.”

“You won’t be a help to me if you’re sick, hon. So please, get some rest and only come in if you’re feeling up to it.”

“Okay, okay. I will. Thanks Penny.”

“Of course. Take care of yourself.”

When the call ended, she let out a weary sigh, leaning her weight on the sink. That two minute phone call had zapped her of any energy she might’ve had left. Her head throbbed in protest, and she let out a whimper as she squeezed her eyes shut. 

Her phone vibrated in her hand and she looked down to find that it was a text from Bradley. 

Sorry I haven’t been able to call you. Might be able to talk tonight, if you want. Love, love.

She didn’t have the energy to respond. Instead, she dragged herself back out into the hall and toward the kitchen. She could only muster the strength to unpeel a banana and eat it. Anything else proved to be too difficult of a task. 

The rest of the day carried on that way. She was lethargic and miserable. Medication did nothing to soothe her poor, aching skull. She was left to sprawl out on the couch and keep her head nestled against a throw pillow. 

She dozed off throughout the day. Bradley texted her again later that afternoon. She didn’t hear the phone vibrate. Sometime in the late evening, she became aware of the fact that her body was warm all over. Somehow, she managed to stumble to the bathroom and rifle through the medicine cabinet over the sink for a thermometer. 

When she pulled the device out of her mouth, it read 102°F. “Fuck,” she sighed. Concern grew in the pit of her stomach. She wasn’t sure what to make of a crushing headache paired with a fever. She had no other familiar symptoms like a congestion or a sore throat. This was entirely foreign to her. In hindsight, she would realize that not going to the hospital right away was the most foolish mistake she could ever make. 

Lucky for her, a certain knight in shining armor of sorts would be coming to her rescue. 

Before turning in for the night, she popped a few ibuprofen to bring the fever down, and headed straight to bed again. She left her phone on the living room coffee table, where it remained the rest of the night, going unanswered when Bradley tried to call her. 

When she didn’t answer, he grew concerned. It wasn’t like her to forego a nighttime phone call from him. That, paired with the unanswered texts he’d sent her earlier, gave way to an odd sort of nagging in the back of his brain, like something was wrong. 

The next morning, just before heading out for the last day of training before the weekend, he tried calling her again. It went straight to voicemail without even ringing. He pulled the phone from his ear and stared at it, brow furrowed in obvious worry. 

“Everything okay?” It was Phoenix’s voice. She was good at reading Rooster’s tells. He looked tense with worry, which compelled her to ask what was going on. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “My girl isn’t answering my calls. She normally always answers.”

Phoenix offered a reassuring smile. “Maybe she’s still asleep?” She suggested. 

“Maybe, but she didn’t answer last night either. Phe, I’ve just got this weird feeling that something’s wrong.” 

Her face softened, and she stepped closer. “Maybe you can—” but before she could finish her sentence, she was interrupted by an abrupt, “Admiral on deck!” Prompting everyone to stand at attention, conversations forgotten. 

Back at home, a very delirious, fever-ridden girl was just stumbling out of bed. When her feet touched the floor, it felt like her limbs were made of lead. She moaned in discomfort, and barely made it upright before she had to grip the bed post and steady herself. 

She was able to make it to the bathroom, but when she got there, her sickness-addled brain forgot why she’d even stepped into the room in the first place. But the tile was cool under her feet, and she decided it would be a good place to cool down. So, she lowered herself to the floor and sprawled across the cold tile. That’s where she would remain the rest of the day, fading in and out of consciousness.

Bradley tried to remain stoic as he went about his job, but he was teeming with anxiety. Something was wrong, he was sure of it. And because of this, he wasn’t on his A-game during training. It prompted a few smartalec comments from Hangman, who was surprised when Rooster didn’t reciprocate any sharp verbal jabs. 

By the time evening rolled around, even he was slightly worried, because it wasn’t like Bradley to be so distant. As they all walked out together that evening, Hangman fell into step beside Phoenix. 

“What’s with Bradshaw today?” He asked, voice low. 

“Something’s wrong with Bradshaw?” An eavesdropping Coyote piped up from just behind the pair. 

“Shh! Not too loud,” Hangman insisted, waving his hand in a be quiet motion. 

Natasha glanced at him through her peripheral before quickly explaining why Bradley was acting so off. 

“Shit, really?” Then he looked up, catching sight of the other pilot up ahead before he jogged over to him. “Everything alright, Bradshaw?”

He raised a brow. “Why do you ask?”

“Phoenix said something might be going on with your girl. Do you want me to go with you to check on her?” He was genuinely offering. Bradley’s comrades had all come to love his sweet girlfriend, so much so that they were very protective of her, and would do all they could to prevent any harm from coming to her. 

Bradley hesitated. “I’m gonna head over to the Hard Deck first. Find out if Penny’s seen her.”

And that’s how Penny Benjamin came face to face with a group of very concerned pilots, huddling around her bar with expectant looks on their faces. 

“What’s going on?” She asked. 

Bradley stepped forward, and realization dawned across Penny’s features when he asked if she’d seen his girlfriend. “She’s been sick the last few days. I tried calling her today and there was no answer. You should probably go—” but before she could finish her sentence, the sandy haired aviator was already turning on his heel and rushing out of the bar. 

“Roos! We’re coming with you!” Phoenix called, hot on his heels. 

“You don’t need to—” but when he turned around to protest, he found his friends staring back at him. Bob, Phoenix, and Hangman had decided that out of the whole group, they were going to be his wingmen, so to speak, as he went to find out what was going on. He realized that telling them no was a lost cause, so he sighed, relenting. 

They all squeezed into Bradley’s Bronco, and soon, a gaggle of pilots was leaving base to go check on their comrade’s girlfriend. Maybe they were all overreacting, but they were concerned, and just wanted to help out. 

“When was the last time you talked to her?” Bob spoke up from the backseat, question directed at Bradley. 

“Uh…the day I left for training. I usually don’t have time to call her the first day or two so we didn’t talk for a couple days.”

“Penny said she called in sick, right? I’ve never known that girl to miss a day of work, like, ever,” Hangman, who was sitting shotgun, mused. 

“Was there anything out of the ordinary when you left?” It was Natasha’s turn to ask a question. 

“I don’t think so. We woke up, and then…” He trailed off for a moment as he realized one very important detail. “Oh, shit. She said she had a headache. I noticed she was acting kind of off but she insisted she was fine.” He sighed in frustration, shaking his head. “Fuck, what if it was something life threatening?”

Phoenix’s eyes widened. “Hey, let’s not jump

to conclusions yet. We’ll see what’s wrong when we get there.”

They arrived in no time, thanks to Bradley going over the speed limit. As soon as they reached the apartment complex, they were all rushing inside. Her apartment was situated on the sixth floor. The elevator ride up was the longest few minutes of the four aviators lives, it felt like. 

When the doors slid open, Bradley was the first one out, already reaching into his pocket to retrieve the apartment key. He realized his hands were shaking as he tried to insert the metal into the lock. His chest was tight with anxiety, an awful sense of dread weighing heavily on his shoulders. 

He imagined the worst, picturing the love of his life dead, helpless and alone. It sent a jolt of panic through him, and it was as if he couldn’t get the door open fast enough. He prayed to whoever was listening that he hadn’t lost the most important thing in his life. 

Once he got the door open, the four of them stumbled through. The apartment was dark, and it sent alarm bells off in Bradley’s mind. He called out her name, but his voice sounded foreign to his own ears. 

The other three set about searching the apartment, calling her name. Bradley’s feet were heavy as he followed after them. Jake stepped into the bedroom and flipped on the light. They were all met with the sight of an empty bed. 

Bradley knew there was only one other place to look. Fear bloomed to life in his chest, and his hands trembled as he turned, stepping down the hallway and pausing outside the closed bathroom door. He grabbed the knob, only to find that the door was stuck. The creaky old door had a tendency to latch itself at the worst times. It was something Bradley had been meaning to fix, but had never gotten around to it. 

Before bursting into the bathroom like a madman and risking embarrassing her, he knocked first. “Baby? Are you in there?” He called. He was met with silence. 

“Is it locked?” Phoenix asked. 

“It’s stuck. Sometimes we gotta use force.” Then, he looked back, motioning for the trio to step aside as he stepped backwards to gain some momentum. 

He threw his weight against the door. It groaned, almost as if in protest. Again, a broad shoulder was slammed into the wood, and this time, a splintering sound could be heard. One more display of force, and it flew open, fast enough that it slammed against the bathroom wall inside. 

He reached for the light switch, and when he flipped it on, he was met with a sight that sent his blood running cold. “Oh my god.”

He rushed into the bathroom, falling to his knees beside the prone form of his girlfriend. He was almost hesitant to touch her, for fear of finding her skin cold as ice. 

In fact, Bradley froze. He knew he needed to be springing into action, needed to check her pulse, make sure she was alive. But his hands felt heavy as iron, and he couldn’t move. 

The one who finally acted was Bob. He was quick to kneel beside Rooster, reaching out to gently turn the girl and press his fingers to her pulse point. His eyes widened when he realized how warm she was. 

“She’s alive,” he assured the man beside him, “but she’s burning up. We need to get her to the hospital right away.”

The word hospital snapped him to attention. He met Bob’s worried gaze, and nodded. “We can take her there ourselves, it’ll be faster.” Bradley leaned over her body, carefully lifting her into his arms. He almost shied away at just how warm her body was. She was consumed with fever. 

“I’ve got you, baby,” he whispered as he rose to his feet. Then he looked up to find the grim faces of Jake and Natasha. All Bradley had to do was nod and they were all heading back out of the apartment. 

In no time, they were back outside. “I’ll drive,” Jake offered. “Keys, Bradshaw.” He held his hand out. 

“Not a chance,” Phoenix cut in, stepping forward to reach into Rooster’s left pocket, where she’d seen him shove the keys into earlier. 

Under normal circumstances, Hangman would’ve argued, but not now. It didn’t matter who drove, as long as they got to the hospital. He simply rolled his eyes and instead opted to open the back door so Rooster could climb inside. 

The moment everyone was settled, Phoenix was heading off toward the hospital. The interior was somber and quiet, each pilot sick with worry over the girl Rooster held in his arms. 

He cradled her close, reaching up a hand to brush her hair out of her face. “Can you hear me, sweetheart?” He whispered. He hoped she could. “Just hang on, alright? We’re gonna get you some help.” And then, more quietly, “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.” It would be something he’d beat himself up over for a long time. 

“You couldn’t have known,” Bob softly spoke up from beside him. 

“I knew something was wrong when she didn’t respond to my texts or calls. I should’ve taken that as a sign to go check on her.”

The bespectacled lieutenant shook his head, and there was nothing but kindness in his face. “You can’t play the blame game, Rooster. It’ll drive you mad.”

He was right, after all. But that didn’t stop Bradley from silently beating himself over the fact that he hadn’t been there when the love of his life needed him most. He imagined her all alone, unable to call for help, and it gutted him. I should’ve been there. I should’ve found a way. 

When the Bronco finally came to a stop outside the emergency room, all of them got out. The poor receptionist running the desk looked up to find four frantic pilots staring back at her. One of them held a girl in his arms and he looked about ready to fall to his knees.

“P-please, she needs help,” he croaked. 

A flurry of activity took place around the group. Someone reached out to take his entire world from his arms. He almost didn’t want to let her go, and subconsciously, his grip tightened on her. But he was surprised when Jake’s hand landed against his chest, his voice in Bradley’s ear, saying, “let ‘em take her. They’ll take good care of her.” And he finally let her go.

As she was wheeled away, the group watched helplessly. It might’ve looked humorous to a random passerby. Four of the Navy’s best aviators, rendered to nothing more than a concerned, anxiety ridden mess. 

They were told to retire to the waiting room, and that a doctor would be out eventually to inform them of what was going on. 

That’s where they found themselves. Hangman was sitting on the window sill, staring out into the dark parking lot. Rooster was pacing back and forth, enough to wear a hole in the linoleum. Phoenix sat sideways in one of the chairs, her legs slung over the uncomfortable wooden arm. Bob sat on the other side of her, face sullen as he stared down at his feet. 

Bradley felt like he was going insane from not knowing. He kept raking his fingers through his hair, hard enough that it hurt, but he didn’t care. His chest was tight with fear. He just wanted answers. 

He didn’t know what he’d do if he lost her. The thought was unimaginable. Had he really come this far, and finally let someone in after years of living as a lone wolf, only to lose her in the end? The thought alone almost drove him to his knees. 

Bob, ever the empath, looked up to find Bradley distraught, and his heart ached. He stood, moving to step in front of the other man. Bradley looked back at him, and finally, he broke. He leaned forward, and Bob pulled him into a hug, allowing him to cry silently against his shoulder. 

Then, he was joined by Natasha, who wrapped her arms around both men. From the window sill, Jake gazed at the teary-eyed trio, and he let out a dramatic sigh as he rose to his feet and joined in on the group hug in the middle of the hospital waiting room. 

“Group hugging you three idiots is not how I imagined spending my Friday night, yet here we are,” he piped up, totally ruining the emotional moment, but pulling a laugh from each of them. Even Bradley, who smiled despite himself. 

“Leave it to you to ruin a good moment, Bagman,” Natasha teased, shoving at his chest. 

After playfully pushing her hand away, the blonde looked at Bradley, his face now sober. “For what it’s worth, I hope she pulls through.”

The other man gave him a nod. “Thanks, Seresin.”

They all parted, and this time, Rooster was able to take a seat, settling beside Bob. He’d always been friendly with the guy, but now, in the midst of the turmoil he was experiencing, Bob was a quiet, calming force, and it was helping Bradley through this moment more than he could say. 

Again, the waiting room drifted into somber silence as they all nervously awaited information. Minutes passed by, and soon, minutes bled into an hour and a half. 

Rooster finally stood up, legs sore from sitting for so long. “Goddammit, what’s taking so long?” He huffed, hands clenched into fists at his sides. 

He was heavily considering storming up to the front desk to demand answers, but Natasha stopped him, gentle hand on his shoulder. “Hey, let me,” she quietly offered. 

He nodded, and she slipped away, making her way up to the desk to inquire about his girl’s status. The receptionist had no definitive answers, and a forlorn Phoenix made her way back to the boys, shaking her head. They all groaned in frustration.

“How about I get us all something from the vending machine?” She offered. That seemed to catch their attention, and a few minutes later, she was returning to the waiting room with an armful of snacks and bottled drinks. Everyone took what they wanted and went back to moping about, this time with food in hand. 

Finally, a doctor walked into the waiting room. She didn’t have to look very far. There was a group of very despondent pilots sitting in the middle of the room. One of them, a blonde one, perked up at the sight of the doctor, and he reached out, tapping another one, a mustached young man, on the shoulder.

Mustache popped out of his seat, whirling around. His eyes were wide, face awash with fear as the doctor approached. The others stood up as well, waiting expectantly, and forming a bit of a protective group around him.

“Which one of you is Bradley Bradshaw?”

Mustache weakly raised a hand. “I am.” His voice nearly failed him. 

The doctor stepped forward. “You did the right thing, bringing her in when you did. A few hours longer and she very well could have passed away.”

All four pilots breathed a sigh of relief at the realization that she was alive. “What’s wrong with her?” Bradley asked, dark eyes swirling with concern.

“We ran some tests and it appears that she has a rare type of bacterial infection. It caused the extremely high fever. It doesn’t pass from person to person, so none of you are at risk of contagion, if you were worried about that. We’ve been able to get her fever down partially, and we started her on antibiotics. We’ll be keeping her for a few days to monitor her symptoms and make sure she doesn’t get worse.”

“Is she awake?” 

“No sir, not yet. What she needs is a good night of rest. I’d imagine she’ll be more herself tomorrow, once the antibiotics start doing their job. She’s being sent up to a room as we speak.”

“Can we see her?” The blonde one asked. 

The doctor eyed the group warily. They were all chomping at the bit to see the sick girl, and frankly, it was adorable. However, visiting hours were long past over. Even so, she was torn. She let out a sigh, staring back at their hopeful faces. “Look, visiting hours are over. I can’t let all of you go up there. But I will make an exception for Mr. Bradshaw here, since she’s his partner. The rest of you will have to head home and come back at 0800 hours.”

The disappointment was visible on all their faces, but they were respectful, and didn’t put up an argument. Once the doctor finished up her required spiel and dismissed herself, the group of friends turned to Rooster. Another group hug was had, and they all shared in the relief that everything was going to be okay. 

“Text us as soon as she wakes up,” Natasha instructed as she handed Bradley his car keys back. “We’ll be back tomorrow morning with breakfast.”

He looked at each of his comrades, hardly able to express his thanks for their support. “Thanks for waiting with me, guys. Made me feel less alone.”

“We’ll always be there for you, whenever you need us,” Bob spoke up with a smile. 

Rooster lurched forward and pulled him into another hug. “You’re a good guy, Bobby. Thanks,” he murmured. 

“Alright, alright, cut the sap. My teeth are about to rot out of my head,” Hangman cut in. 

The two men parted, and Jake stepped over to clap Bradley on the back. “Now get outta here and go see your girl, Bradshaw.” 

“Aye, aye sir,” he replied with a mock salute. 

He watched his friends head out of the waiting room and into the night, Phoenix and Hangman already lightheartedly bickering about something. Probably how they were getting home for the night. Bob shook his head in quiet annoyance, turning back to give Rooster one last wave before they all disappeared outside. 

Finally, Bradley turned on his heel and made his way to the elevator. Now that he was alone, his mind threatened to overwhelm him. All the anxiety he’d been trying to keep at bay came rushing to the surface, and his hand trembled as he pressed the button. 

It felt like an eternity before the doors finally slid open. He stepped inside and rode up a few floors. He was able to obtain her room number from the front desk after assuring them Dr. Holt had said it was okay for him to stay. Nobody had the heart to tell him otherwise, not with that look of fear written all over his face, which made him look younger than he was. 

When he was able to step into her room, the sight he was met with knocked the wind out of him. Yes, he’d seen her half conscious on the bathroom floor hours earlier, but this was different. She was hooked up to different machines, and there was an IV in her arm. 

He was overcome with longing. Longing to take her body into his arms and protect her from all harm. Longing to make her pain and sickness go away. It was times like these when he wished he was God, just a little bit. But he was a mere man, and didn’t have the power to do the things the Almighty did.

Instead, he made his way over to her bedside, and sank down into the uncomfortable chair nearby. “Hey, sweetheart,” he whispered, reaching out to take her hand in his own. “You scared the hell out of me. I thought…I thought I was going to lose you.”

Tears blurred his vision, and he closed his eyes. swallowing them back and instead opting to say something more positive. “Everyone else was scared, too. You should’ve seen them. Even Hangman was worried, if you can believe it.”

He squeezed her hand thrice. I. Love. You. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to you sooner. I should’ve known something was up when you didn’t answer my texts. I just hate the thought of you needing help and no one being there.”

He could see it so clearly in his mind’s eye. A picture of her. Sick, delirious from fever, entirely alone. It made his heart lurch in his chest. “But, I’m here now, baby. And I’m not gonna leave your side until you open those pretty eyes of yours.”

True to his word, Bradley didn’t leave her side once through the night. He situated himself in that vinyl chair and slept in an uncomfortable position that would be sure to leave a crick in his neck, but it was worth it as long as he got to be near her. 

When light began to peek through the clouds, Bradley woke, his bleary eyes settling on the girl who still remained still beside him. 

“Morning, baby,” he hummed, reaching out to bring her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. His thumb rubbed comforting circles into her skin. 

In the wee morning hours, just before the morning nurse came in, Bradley cherished the moment of peace he had with the woman he loved. 

He held her hand and silently prayed that she would come back to him. And she did. With the dawning of a new day, she slowly opened her eyes, and in turn, Bradley’s own filled with tears. 

“I’m here, sweetheart,” he assured her, leaning in close. 

When her vision focused, she found the face of a very relieved Bradley Bradshaw staring back at her. His deep umber eyes were brimming with unshed tears, but they quickly made their way down his cheeks. 

She was quiet as she oriented herself. It was clear that she was in the hospital. But she had no recollection of how she got there. The last thing she remembered was getting out of bed and heading to the bathroom. 

“Wh-what happened?” She croaked. His hand tightened comfortingly around hers. 

“You were really sick. We found you unconscious at the apartment.”

“We?”

“Yeah, uh, me, Phoenix, Bob, and Hangman. They helped me get you to the hospital.”

She shifted a little, and realized the crushing headache that had been plaguing her the last few days was gone. “How long have I been here?”

“Since last night. They got you on some antibiotics and brought your fever down.”

She looked at him again, gazing into his kind, concerned face. “Is this the part where you play mother hen and scold me for not asking for help sooner?” There was a smile playing on her lips. 

Bradley raised his brow. “Actually, yes. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was just a headache, nothing worth bothering you over. I figured I’d take some Excedrin and feel better in a few hours. But a few hours turned into a few days, and then I was out of my mind with fever.”

The man sighed. “Well, I should’ve known something was up when you didn’t answer your phone. That’s when I should have sent Penny to check on you.”

“Hey, don’t blame yourself, sweet man. I’m okay now, you don’t need to beat yourself up.”

“I always do,” he countered. He was right about that, he had quite the tendency to get too far into his own head and berate himself for things. 

Then he sobered, eyes meeting her own. “Finding you like that…it was one of the scariest moments of my life. I froze up. It was like my body couldn’t move. I was fucking terrified.” His gaze lowered to their joined hands. “Bob was the one who kinda got the ball rolling and helped me snap out of it. That guy is something else.”

She smiled softly. “Remind me to thank him, then,” she said. 

“You should thank all three of them. They stayed with me in the waiting room the whole time. I don’t know what I would’ve done without them.”

Her heart was touched at the loyalty of their friends. “When I get out of here we can take them out as a thank you.”

Rooster mirrored her smile. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.” 

Their private moment was soon interrupted as a nurse walked into the room. He took that as a sign to excuse himself and text the three pilots who just so happened to already be waiting outside the hospital, eager to come inside and visit.

“You think she’s awake yet?” Jake questioned as they stood around Natasha’s car. 

“I don’t know, Rooster didn’t say anything yet,” she replied. 

“Guys, he just did,” Bob spoke up, holding up his phone. Both of them looked at their own phones, and sure enough, there was a text from Bradley. 

She’s awake :) we’re in room 315

The trio all exchanged looks, smiles on their faces. “One minute ‘til visiting hours start,” Bob spoke, matter-of-factly.

“Close enough. Let’s go,” Hangman said, waving for them to follow. 

They all headed inside, scrambling for the elevator, arms full of pastry bags from the base cafe. When they finally made it to her room, they found her seated upright in bed, Bradley at her bedside. She smiled at the three of them, and suddenly they were all talking at once, expressing their relief that she was okay. 

She laughed at their eagerness, and gladly accepted the hugs they all gave her, along with the pastries. The dark, heavy cloud that had hovered over everyone was finally lifted, replaced by the sunshine of their smiles. 

“You should’ve seen Prince Charming over here,” Jake spoke up, clapping a hand against Bradley’s shoulder. Prince Charming was the nickname Jake had dubbed him after he met her, his princess. “He was worried sick about you. I thought he was gonna pull his hair out by how much he kept raking his hands through it.” 

Bradley smiled sheepishly. She reached for his hand again and gave it three squeezes. I. Love. You. “Sounds like my Rooster,” she said fondly. Then she addressed them all. “Thank you guys for looking out for me. Bradley says you stayed with him the whole time.”

“It didn’t feel right to leave him alone,” said Natasha. “Plus we all wanted to stick around and find out if you were going to be okay. Can’t tell you how relieved we were when the doc said you would be.”

“Yeah. You had us scared there for a minute,” Bob piped up. His blue eyed gaze was warm. 

“When I get out of here, Roos and I are taking you all out as a thank you.” 

“We’ll go, but only if you promise one thing,” Hangman spoke. 

“What’s that?”

“That you never scare us like that again.”

She couldn’t help the smile that broke across her face. “Deal,” she agreed. 

And that’s how she spent her morning. In a hospital room, surrounded by the love of her life and her closest friends, sharing pastries, shitty coffee, and laughter. 

She knew then, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that these people were her ride-or-dies. They’d follow her and Bradley to the ends of the earth, if need be. And she couldn’t ask for better friends if she wanted to. 

She had everything she could ever need, right there in the middle of her hospital room. And she wouldn’t have it any other way.

-

@halfway-happyyy @natasharomanoffisbaebby @oliviabelova @robertbobfloydlover @supernaturaldawning @marrianena @mys2425 @n3ssm0nique @ice-mans-world @lovemesomevesey @straightforwardly @mochi-de-bisou @christinafaucher @emmmaturtle @fantasias-creativebubble @worldmadeofmemories @tarohemianrocketmanapsody @m0chac0ffee @not-leaprvt @i-simp-much @soaharleys @colorfultyrantearthquake @obxsuperfan07 @juniebugg @marchingicenotes7 @airedale17 @jamiedontbeacracko @monosjoons @dilfsandtherapy @getmyprettynameoutofyourmouth @unluckymonaghan

#bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster bradshaw imagine #rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw #rooster bradshaw

[seasonsbloom]

baby, let's play house. rooster (part 1)

part 2

pairing ; bradley bradshaw x female!reader

synopsis ; marriage of convenience. you got yourself in trouble. bradley has a bit of a savior complex. together, you come up with what could potentially be the worst idea in the longstanding and illustrious history of bad ideas.

wc ; 12.5k

warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; angst; explicit language; explicit sexual content in later parts; pregnancy; mentions of infidelity; mentions of vomit; mentions of Tom Cruise; unhealthy family dynamics; one mention of suic*de but it's not a plot point; age gap

note: uhm... i blacked out. idk either. part 2 should be out eventually, which of course means that i haven't even started writing it yet. there will probably be several mistakes in here regarding the navy, etc. so i'm sorry about that i'm just dumb :-(

sol. sunderlust. crab. bestie... i love you forever, what would i ever do without you?

When you’re fourteen, sitting on a floral couch in one of the nondescript, army-commissioned houses you’ve been moving to every few months since you were old enough to remember, your mother turns on Cocktail with Tom Cruise, and you decide that, once you’re grown up, you’re going to be a bartender. You’re going to do just what Tom does - get a job in some dive, work your way up, learn the bottle slinging and the shot pouring and the flirting, and then you’re going to franchise the whole thing and take it national. It’s going to be just like TGI Fridays, except your drinks will actually be good instead of whatever watered-down punch they serve.

Of course, you’re fourteen, and you don’t even know what alcohol tastes like yet. Years later, you’re going to take a shot of Tequila at a bar, you’re going to splutter and cough and think you might choke, and it’ll leave you wondering if maybe you’ve made a mistake. But for now, you’ve got a dream, and you’ve got a plan, and not a smidge of doubt that you’ll make it all come true.

You’re going to do just as Tom Cruise does - minus the best friend’s suicide from the movie and the real-life Scientology thing and all that. But you’re going to be successful. You know it.

So this, then. This is not part of your plan at all.

Behind you, there’s a bang, and then the back door is ripped open. The buttery light of the bar spills in a rectangle across the beaten path, but it doesn’t reach your little corner. You hear the muffled thud of footsteps, a curse, followed by a shout of your name.

“Yeah?” you call back, hope you don’t sound like you’re balancing on the edge of a mental breakdown. Hope you don’t sound like you feel.

“Your shift’s about to start. I really need you in there cutting up some limes, please,” Jerry, your co-worker, says. Thank God he doesn’t walk over to investigate just what you’re doing huddled in the sand behind the bar.

“Okay,” you answer, voice a little wobbly, “I’ll be in in a sec.”

You wait until you hear the door shut behind Jerry, then you unfold yourself, get your shaky legs underneath your weight. You feel like somebody hit you over the head with one of those huge hammers they use to knock down walls. The nausea is back, too, something queasy and watery that shifts through your stomach.

Inside the bar, everything is like it always is. The chatter of the customers, the drawl of the music, the smell of beer, and the Ocean Breeze scented cleaner you use to wipe the floors. Far below it, the scent of the real ocean breeze drifting in through the opened windows. It seems wrong for the Hard Deck to be unchanged, unaltered, untouched when your own life has gone so completely off the rails.

You sneak in a quick, discreet bathroom break to swipe at the mascara smudged beneath your eyes, to dab at it with some damp toilet paper, to hope nobody will notice the obvious signs of tears still clinging to you. To stare at your reflection in the mirror for a moment, try not to think about that stupid test you buried at the bottom of the trashcan. You can taste your heartbeat in your mouth.

You don’t look any different - same nose, same hair, same eyes - but something has irrevocably shifted inside of you.

Behind the counter, you cut up the limes you promised Jerry. The scent clings to your fingers, the juice settles in the calluses. The steady sound as the knife meets the cutting board and the familiar motion of your hands help to ground you a little.

“Could we get a refill?”

You lift your head and then immediately lower it again, shoulders going up, turning to the side in an attempt to hide your face. If there are two people you don’t want to see tonight, then…

“Oh my god.” Natasha’s face pushes into your line of vision, her eyebrows crinkled, her mouth pursed. “Have you been crying?”

Waving her words of concern away with one hand, you grab for their empty glasses with the other.

“Allergies,” you lie. “I’ve got two on tap here, which one did you guys have? The German or the…”

“You don’t have allergies,” Bradley points out. You’d made it a point not to look at him, but now your gaze snaps in his direction. He stands with his eyes narrowed, with his hands on the polished wood of the bar top. Concern flutters across his face.

There’s something about Bradley Bradshaw. You like to think of it as a gravitational pull. Something with force, something that makes people look at him. Something that grounds them, too, though, gives them a tether. 

Ever since he first walked into this bar a little over a year ago, it’s like he’s become a fixture in your life, even if you only see him once or twice a week, even if it’s just a quick exchange of words over a countertop. Bradley Bradshaw makes for a good North Star.

He shrugs, and there’s something almost sheepish to it. “It was part of your list of reasons why you’re better than Hangman last month.”

You pause, still holding the glasses, and stare at him. He looks right back. 

“That’s beside the point,” Natasha pipes up. She’s balancing both her elbows on the bartop, pulling herself closer. “Why were you crying?”

That sort of shifts reality back into focus. What are you supposed to say? I let a guy who isn’t even really my boyfriend but also not really not my boyfriend knock me up, and now I have no idea what the fuck to do? To two people who are little more than glorified acquaintances?

You shrug and decide they look like they’d enjoy the new craft beer Penny got on tap. It has notes of vanilla and apple, and you’re not much of a beer person, but even you like it. Or at least you used to.

“It’s nothing,” you say, drawing the first glass. It ends up perfect - amber liquid topped with just the right amount of foam, the little bobbles popping as you push it across the counter toward Natasha. Your life might be a mess, but at least you still know how to draw a damn good glass of beer from the tap. “Don’t worry about it.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow, but then she lets it go. “You know I’ll beat a guy up for you, right?”

You don’t doubt it. If there’s anybody in this bar you wouldn’t want to cross, it’s Natasha, and not just because of whatever training the Navy put her through. You’re convinced she came into the world knowing how to take a guy out.

“Yeah,” you agree and are surprised to find you mean it. Realistically, you’re not particularly close to any of the pilots. You chit-chat sometimes, have had a few drunken conversations after everybody else has filtered out of the Hard Deck while wiping down tables or collecting shot glasses, but that’s not really enough to support a true friendship. Still. If you asked, you have no doubt Natasha would go to bat for you. “It’s okay, though. I’m fine. I’ll put this on your tab, yeah?”

She looks like she wants to say something else, but then decides to let it go. Sighs, “Okay.”

As Natasha pushes off the bar to rejoin her group of friends toward the back of the bar, Bradley takes a step closer instead. You make it a point not to look at him, but the yellow and white of his Hawaiian shirt flashes in your periphery despite your best efforts.

He places a large hand on the countertop, palm down, and you should be looking busy, but all you can do is stare as his fingers starfish across the wood.

“You can talk to me, yeah?” he asks, and his voice is soft enough that it almost disappears in the din of this Saturday night. “Whatever it is.”

You do look up then. Bradley has brown eyes, round and big and deep. There’s something about them that makes you want to trust him, trust his words, trust the sincerity. It almost makes you start crying again.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

Then somebody’s shouting an order at you, and you’re pushing a coaster under a sweating Cuba Libre, you’re pouring a Tequila shot, you’re looking for the maraschino cherries, you’re passing out salt shakers, and you don’t notice as he disappears and you don’t think about anything for a short, blissful, beautiful time.

+

Two months ago, you met Luke halfway through the door of a bar you’d seen on Instagram, something with low lights and neon signs and booths cushioned in lush, ruby velvet. They had this signature cocktail there, something with rum and gold foil and a lot of smoke that drifted up in sweet-smelling plumes.

Luke was charming and laughed a lot, and when he put his hand on your waist, when he looked at you, your heart skipped a beat or two. And still, the first thing you told Penny about at work the next day was the cocktail and not the guy.

You’re almost entirely sure you’re not in love with him, but you’re excited about the idea that maybe someday you could be. Luke is a nice guy. He works in finance somewhere in San Diego, takes you to expensive seafront restaurants, and once or twice, he even bought you expensive lingerie. Luke likes the same movies as you do, likes putting on Jazz music when you go down on him in his car, and that always manages to make you feel strangely sophisticated even with a dick in your mouth. He’s older, and he has a real, grown-up job, completely unlike you with your singles soaked in beer.

He’s a stead-fast, reliable guy. If you have to be in this situation with anyone, you figure it’s better to be in it with him than some twenty-something surfer dude who couldn’t even find the word responsible in a dictionary.

The anxiety has been gnawing at you since last night, has been chipping away your composure and your calm. Has reduced you into a jittery, terrified, chafing shell of your former self. All day you were fumbling - burning your hand on the heated water kettle in the morning, almost running a red light, cutting your finger deep enough it didn’t stop bleeding for a whole five minutes.

Earlier today, you took a last, desperate stand. Propelled by the sort of hope that exists against all better judgment, you went on a CVS run and returned with three more pregnancy tests. You left them back at your tiny apartment, right on the counter where you put them out in the first place, those three tiny, horrible, life-altering plus signs laughing right in your face.

And that was it then. Your fate decided. Your luck run out.

Since you were fourteen, sitting on that floral couch, the course of your life had seemed so clear to you. You’d been so sure of where you wanted to go, so sure of how to get there. And yeah, okay, maybe you used to think you’d get there sooner, but that’s never deterred you before. Slow and steady wins the race, that’s what you used to think.

Now, ten years later, everything is muddled. You can’t see an inch ahead in the fog of all this.

To add insult to injury, those tests were fucking expensive. The next time you check your bank account, you might start crying.

So you spent a good fifteen minutes curled up on your bathroom tiles, staring at your shower curtain, blinking away tears you never shed. You spent a good fifteen minutes trying to figure it out, trying to untangle it, trying to make sense of how you could fuck up so completely. 

And then you finally picked yourself up, massaged the grid pattern of the tiles off your cheek, and shot Luke a text asking if he was free tonight.

He drops by at the end of your shift.

“Hi, babe.” Luke grins as he slides into one of the bar stools. “You good?”

You nod, then pause. “Not really?”

You’re wiping down the bartop, dumping an ashtray you collected from the smoking zone outside into the trash. The Hard Deck is empty now, even the last stragglers filed out. Bob selected a song on the jukebox before he left, something slow and decidedly country. Your hands shake when you go to wet the rag again.

Luke frowns and leans across the bar to look at you closely. “What happened?”

“I have to tell you something,” you say and run the tap. The water hits the chrome of the sink with a splatter.

Luke raises an eyebrow, grins. “Illicit confession?”

Under any other circumstances, you would have laughed. But your stomach is coiled up in knots so tight you wonder if they’ll ever untangle again. Like the earphones you fish from the bottom of a purse.

You just so manage a half-hearted chuckle, a sad, pathetic little sound that has Luke’s eyebrow climbing even higher.

He pushes a brown paper bag across the counter. “I brought your favorite take-out… Would that cheer you up?”

Almost immediately, your stomach growls in answer. You’ve been so hungry the past few days that you can’t even manage to be embarrassed. “Mexican?” you ask, something like excitement in your voice for the first time in over 24 hours.

“Ah...” Luke bites his lower lip. “No, uhm… I got something from that one place we went to. The fusion kitchen?”

“Oh…” The excitement dampens immediately, and you force a smile. “Yeah, cool. Thanks.”

“Sorry… you did say you liked it when we went.”

He’s right. You did say that.

Luke likes experimental food, things like that cocktail with the gold foil. Things that look much better than they end up tasting. He takes pictures of them and posts them on his Instagram, and he always makes sure not to get your hand in, your purse, your foot. He doesn’t even follow you back, and you want to not care about trivial things like social media so very badly that you never ask him about it.

He looks genuinely apologetic, though, so you resolve to forgive him. You smile and say, “I did! This is great. Thanks, Luke.”

His satisfied smile puts you at ease.

“So, what did you want to talk about?”

It’s a bit like a bucket of ice water. The ease slips away as quickly as it came. You start wiping almost furiously at a stain on the bartop, then give up. Stare at your fingers gone wrinkly with the sudsy water. 

You open your mouth, and then you say, “I’m pregnant.”

It’s not what you meant to say. You meant to ease into this, make it sound… less final, somehow. As if that’s at all possible. As if that isn’t exactly what it is. Final.

You’re never going back from this, you realize suddenly. No matter what happens from here on out, there’s never going to be another moment where this hasn’t happened. Where you weren’t pregnant, where you didn’t mess it all up. The plan, the dream, the life.

Tears aren’t enough anymore. You’re going to run headfirst into the ocean and scream until the saltwater fills your lungs.

Luke laughs. You stare at him.

It takes a moment, but slowly he realizes that you’re not joking. That this is serious. The smile slides sideways off his face.

“Oh,” he says, and you can’t look at him anymore. So you let your eyes wander, down towards the lapels of his white dress shirt. He’s still wearing his suit and tie, and the realization that he’s come straight from the office touches you more than it should. At the same time, guilt settles in your stomach. You’re doing this to him, you’re altering his life, you…

The rational part of yourself scoffs, takes over the reins. It takes two to tango, you remind yourself. This is as much his fault as it is yours.

But that doesn’t get rid of the bitter taste in your mouth.

“Why…” Luke pauses. “Why are you telling me this?”

When you look up at his face again, his expression is carefully blank.

“Uh…”

“Shouldn’t you be telling the father?”

You blink. The cogs of your mind turn slowly like somebody slapped gum between them. “I am,” you say, wondering what the hell he’s on about.

“I’m not the father,” Luke says, very matter-of-factly. “You don’t need to lie about it.” 

“I’m not lying.” You’re too stunned to even be insulted by the insinuation.

“It’s alright.” He shrugs his shoulders, his expensive suit in the tacky, glossy fabric catching the light. “It’s not like we’re exclusive. I don’t mind if you slept with somebody else.”

“Not exclusive,” you repeat lamely. Maybe that part shouldn’t catch you as off guard as it does. You’ve never discussed it with him in as many words, never sat down to have the whole boyfriend/girlfriend talk, but you’ve been seeing each other semi-regularly for two months now, and you’d just sort of assumed…

“Sure.” Luke nods. “Don’t blame this one on me, then.”

Oh. Your heart clenches, and suddenly it feels like you can’t breathe.

“I didn’t sleep with anybody else,” you say, but your voice sounds far away.

Luke shrugs. “Well, it can’t be mine.”

You don’t even know what to say to this. You’re in desperate, burning need of a shot, and the realization that you can’t have one zaps through you like a pain.

“We always used a condom,” Luke is saying, and his words drift to you through a fog, through a mist, through a thicket of fear and anxiety and ice-cold panic. “I made damn sure of that.”

“It’s not….” You clear your throat. “They’re only like… 98 percent safe. Condoms, I mean.”

“What, so you’re saying we’re those two percent?”

He looks like he’s about to start laughing again, and suddenly you barely recognize him. You’ve always known that Luke wasn’t the love of your life, but that was fine. Love hadn’t been part of the plan anyway, that was for later, much later, after you’d gone international and gotten rich off Mojitos and Pina Coladas and the occasional Old Fashioned. But Luke had been… well, he’d been nice. Always. He’d been someone to laugh with, had been long walks on the beach, and quick tumbles in his backseat. He’d been fun and nice and…

And you’d been stupid enough to hope. Hope for more, hope for better, hope for something.

“I can’t have a baby with you,” he says. His voice rings with finality.

What are you supposed to say to that? With those three positive pregnancy tests back home on your bathroom counter. With the knowledge that you haven’t slept with anyone else.

“Well,” you whisper, and the words come out softer than you want them to, “you are.”

Luke is very quiet for a moment. He’s looking right at you, the blue eyes you used to think were open, inviting, now slitted and probing. Like a snake. 

“Jesus,” he says finally, draws back to run his fingers through his hair, a gesture of exasperation. His voice has lost some of its calm. “What do you want from me?”

You wonder if you look as dazed as you feel. “I don’t… I don’t want anything from you.”

That’s not true. You’d like him to hug you. You’d like him to tell you it’s going to be okay, even if that might be a lie. You’d like him to be nice to you.

Instead, Luke, who looks increasingly distressed, jerks his head and says, “If it’s a family you’re after… I can’t give you that.”

Everything has happened so quickly - the toppling of your plans, the chaos of your life. You haven’t really had time to think about how you want him to react. Not like this, though.

“Why not?” you ask and regret the question the moment it’s out of your mouth. You sound like a child - lost, confused.

Luke sighs. He rakes a palm over his face and shakes his head. When he finally looks at you again, there’s something almost guilty on his face. You can’t tear your eyes away, can’t help but feel your stomach plummeting down down down toward the ground. It’s like standing on the ledge of a skyscraper, feeling what the fall might be like even with both feet firmly planted.

“I can’t give you that,” he says, “because I already have a family.”

Beneath you, the ground seems to quiver.

“What?”

Luke pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, then reaches into his pocket and produces a shiny, golden wedding band. When he slips it back onto its original place on his finger, you watch the patch of pale skin, several shades lighter than the rest, disappear.

Your breath gets stuck somewhere in your chest.

“You’re… married?”

“Going on five years,” he says, and you think he sounds sad, but maybe that’s just your hope getting the better of you again.

You don’t know what to say. For a moment, you just stand there with the rag still in your hand, listening to the sad, sad voice of some wanna-be cowboy drawling from the speakers. Hear the phantom thud of the cues hitting pool balls. Turn your head to where the pilots were having fun earlier, back when things weren’t all jumbled up.

The whole world moves far, far away from you. Like something you watch on TV screens, something intangible, something fake. It’s not something that happens to people like you. It’s not something that happens to real people.

“It’s… you didn’t tell me that,” you say, and it’s like your voice echoes through a long, long tunnel, bounces off the walls like a tennis ball. “I didn’t know.”

And then you think back on it. Think of whispered phone calls in the dead of night, think of erratic work schedules, think of his insistence to come here instead of going to San Diego. Think of how little you know of his life, how firmly he kept you locked out of it.

Suddenly you’re not so sure if you didn’t know or if you just didn’t want to know. If you closed your eyes to what was right in front of you.

Guilt and anger and confusion flash through you in rapid succession. You feel sick to your stomach.

“I’ll give you money,” Luke says. It’s a peculiar thing - you see his mouth move before the words ever reach your ears, like a movie that’s gone out of sync with the audio.

“Money,” you repeat, very slowly. Or maybe not slowly at all. You just feel like you got stuck in molasses, like the whole world has been dipped in something sticky.

“Well. You’re getting rid of it.”

It’s not a question. He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s something that’s already been decided. Like it’s something you don’t get a say in.

You stiffen, fingers sinking into the wet rag. Soapy water drips over the lacquered wood of the bartop. 

“No,” you say. “No, I’m not.”

About five minutes ago, you hadn’t even made your mind up about it yet. Hadn’t decided whether to keep it or not. Had still been weighing the pros and cons in your mind, turning them over like a Rosetta Stone that might help you decipher the encrypted, tangled mess of your thoughts.  

And now that he’s said it, now that the option is right there in the open, suddenly you know that’s not the way you want it to happen.

“What,” Luke says, “you wanna have it?”

“Yes,” you answer, and you know it’s the truth.

Maybe it’s stupid. You’re twenty-four. You’re broke. You pick up shifts at a bar to pour tequila shots for other people. You live off the guys you flirt with long enough they decide you’re worth a tip. All those plans of grandeur, of franchises and cocktails and Park Avenue apartments, are dead-ends. You’ve been walking a cul-de-sac your whole life.

And still… something about it feels right to you. 

You’ve been thinking about the whole thing in theory - the theoretical truth of that test, the theoretical reaction of Luke, the theoretical existence of that baby, the theoretical impact on your life. But it’s not a theory. It’s real.

There’s a baby growing in you.

It’s the most terrifying thought of your life. You’ve never experienced something so wonderful. Even as the fear eats away at you, even as your stomach churns and your head spins, some part of you feels illuminated with light.

Luke laughs. “Babe… no offense, but that’s a horrible idea.”

You clench your teeth and grit out, “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

He shrugs. “Well, you’re gonna get it. You really think you could raise a kid?”

“I don’t know,” you say, truthfully, and wonder where all this calm is coming from. “But I want to try.”

Luke stares at you as if you’re growing a spare set of ears right in front of him. Then he laughs again, shakes his head. You can’t see what’s so funny about any of this. 

“Babe,” he says, “this isn’t some new Cocktail recipe. This is an actual child you’re talking about.”

If you weren’t so goddamn tired, it would make you angry. Set fire to you like a fuse. But you’re drained, empty, hollow. You want to go home, want to curl up in bed, want to cry. You want to go back two weeks in time, back when you were still just a failing waitress with a big dream. Back before the responsibility of it all hunched you over.

“I’m doing it,” you say, and hope he understands the decision is final. Hope your voice is firm.

Luke exhales. A muscle in his jaw twitches as he grinds his teeth, as he turns half away from you.

Finally, after an eternity, he says, “I can’t be involved in this.”

For your part, you understand that decision is final too.

You nod, grab onto the bartop to keep yourself from toppling over. The ground beneath you is a gaping, beckoning abyss. It’s going to swallow you whole.

“Fine,” you whisper. “I’ll do it alone then.”

For a moment, Luke looks almost surprised. As if he was sure you’d fold eventually, see reason. Listen to him.

You wonder if that’s how it’s been before - him pushing and you giving in. Rearranging your life to fit his schedule, his plans, his wants. Shrinking yourself to make room for him. And you didn’t even notice.

You straighten your spine.

“For what it’s worth,” Luke says as he slides off his chair, “I’m sorry.”

And then he does what men do best: He leaves. Walks away from you and the baby growing inside of you. Walks away from the mess he made, the dream he shattered, without a care or a thought. Without looking back.

You watch his retreating form, watch the set of his shoulders, the spring in his step, watch as he bounds down the steps onto the gravel of the parking lot, watch as the shadows eventually blot out the sight of him.

Good riddance, you want to say, but you can’t even form words.

With your heart torn to shreds, with your fear clawing a bloody path up your throat, you sink down onto the floor, press a hand to your mouth, and you sob.

+

Twenty minutes later, Bradley Bradshaw finds you in the exact same position.

You know it’s been twenty minutes because you’re staring at the digital clock of the dishwasher, counting down the wash cycle. The neon red of the numbers blurs through the veil of your tears.

It’s like somebody’s cut your chest open. Scooped you clean like taking a spoon to a tub of ice cream. Behind your ribcage, you feel hollow in a way that aches down to your bones. That spiderwebs through your veins.

Bradley pauses in the doorway, silhouetted by the outdoor lighting you still haven’t turned off. Like this, with your vision blurred, he looks like a drawing of the Virgin Mary on one of those cheap, tacky candles. Descending on a flurry of clouds and light and doves. Only this Virgin Mary wears Hawaiian shirts, apparently. It almost makes you laugh.

He casts his eyes over the room, a slight furrow dipping between his brows. It takes you a moment to understand he hasn’t seen you yet, not with how you’re crouching by the crates of Corona.

Part of you wants to hide, wants to crawl under the jutting canopy of the bar. Wants to pretend you’re not here, fold yourself into a tiny pocket square of a person until he leaves again.

“Hello?” Bradley asks, genuine confusion laced with the word, and you know you can’t do that.

“Hi,” you call back, and your voice sounds tiny. Miserable. You push up on your knees to preserve a bit of your dignity. The room goes spinning in a whirlwind, and you catch yourself with both hands on the wood, lifting up to peek at him over the edge of the bar. “I’m down here.”

For a moment, Bradley just stares at you. He takes in the scene, the smeared mascara, the swollen eyes, the fresh tears leaving tracks down your cheeks like you’re drawing rivers on a map.

Then he snaps into action. He’s crossing the room before you can even really come to terms with the fact that he’s here in the first place, pushing through the hip-high swinging door that separates the oval space hugged by the bar from the rest of the room and falling to his knees by your side.

“What happened?” Bradley asks, something hard to his voice. But when he goes to touch the side of your face, carefully as if you’re injured, as if you’re made of porcelain that’ll break at the slightest jostle, his brown eyes show nothing but genuine concern.

It makes you cry harder.

“Nothing,” you say, which is a ridiculous lie, all things considered. You’re crouching on the floor of your workplace, over an hour after your shift has ended, crying your eyes out. Clearly, there’s something wrong. “I’m fine.”

Bradley sits cross-legged on the hardwood floors, his knee close enough to graze against yours. He looks decidedly out of his depth, almost uncomfortable. Helpless. His mustache quivers as he opens his mouth, then closes it again.

But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t try to get you to explain it, doesn’t ask again. He just sits there with you, elbows on his thighs, and lets you cry. 

It’s nice not to be alone. To have somebody with you, even if he doesn’t know you. Even if he has no idea what it is that has you on the brink of a complete crisis.

You do your best not to think about it. Not about the baby, not about the guy who just dumped you. Not about gold foil and Instagram posts and wedding bands. Not about how he’s made you a homewrecker, and you didn’t even know.

Maybe this is karma. The universe punishing you for your sins. Something like that.

Maybe it’s just really, really bad luck.

“What are you doing here?” you ask when you’ve finally calmed yourself enough the sobbing has subsided to sniffles.

Bradley jerks his head noncommittally. “I forgot my wallet.”

“Oh.” You try to get up, but your legs won’t cooperate. “I’ll help you look.”

He shakes his head, pulls you back onto the floor by the elbow. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll look for it later. What happened?”

There’s something about his tone that tells you this time he won’t let you get away with a half-assed lie. Which doesn’t stop you from trying.

“Just… rough day.”

Bradley looks at you, then pulls his knees up, lets his arms dangle between them. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says, and his voice is very gentle. “But if you want to… I can listen.”

This is the thing about Bradley Bradshaw. He has the kind of face that makes you want to tell him things. Makes you want to spill your secrets to him, pour them into his space. He’s steady, reliable, calm. It would be so easy to trust him.

That’s dangerous.

But you’re so tired, and you’re so broken, and you’re so terribly, horribly lonely. With Luke gone, with your parents out of the picture, with nobody to help and no one to hold you, the loneliness is like an ache, like a stain, like something that festers and spreads and unfurls inside of you.

You just want to pretend you don’t have to do it alone. Just for a moment.

So you say, “I think I did something stupid.”

Bradley’s eyes are very brown. A soft shade of brown, like milk chocolate. When you look at him, you feel warm all over.

“Alright,” he says, and there isn’t an ounce of judgment in it. It’s just a gentle, careful nudge for you to continue.

“I…” You exhale shakily, look down to the floor, twist the bracelet around your wrist. It’s so much harder to form the words the second time around. “I’m pregnant.”

Saying it to Bradley, who is practically a stranger, saying it to someone outside of whatever little bubble, whatever vacuum two people playing at love built around themselves, makes it real in a way it wasn’t before.

You’re pregnant. In a few months, your belly is going to grow to the size of a watermelon. You’re going to get ultrasounds and wear maternity clothes and buy a crib. You’re going to hold a baby in your arms, a baby that will become a toddler, will become a child, will become a teenager, will become an adult. They’re never going to leave again.

I’m pregnant.

One moment - and in it the rest of your life.

It’s a skyscraper, it’s a monument, it’s a mountain. It dwarves you. How can you ever be enough for the path that lies ahead?

The panic jumps you. It rattles you. Suddenly you’re panting, you’re shaking, you can’t think, your head spinning circles around the enormity of it all.

“Oh,” Bradley says. He sounds like he expected you to say just about anything except that. “Congratulations.”

You stare at him, and he backtracks.

“Unless you don’t want me to congratulate you? Sorry, I shouldn’t just….”

“No,” you stop him, your voice a tiny, trembling thing. “It’s okay. Thank you.”

You wonder what it might be like if you were older, if you were married, if you weren’t such a fuck-up. Would people beam at you, hug you, shake your hand? Would they share the joy they must assume you feel?

Neither one of you says anything for a while. Through the opened windows, the sound of the ocean drifts in, of the waves crashing against the shore. The chrome of the fridge you’re leaning against is cold even through the layers of your shirt. You count the wooden tiles on the floor.

After half an eternity, Bradley says, “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

It’s like a knife to the heart, it slices right through you, stabs you between the ribs. And you’re not even angry, don’t even feel betrayed… it just hurts. The kind of pain that stays with you. The kind of pain that leaves phantom traces even after the wounds have healed.

“I don’t,” you say finally.

Beside you, Bradley shifts his weight. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m really putting my foot in it today, aren’t I?”

It’s almost enough to make you laugh. “It’s okay,” you say, even though it isn’t. This whole thing isn’t okay. “I’ll be fine.”

Without hesitating, Bradley says, “I know you will be.”

There’s such conviction in his voice that it baffles you. You stare at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“He’s… have you told him, though? Or are you guys not in contact?”

Still trying to recover, you shrug. “Yeah,” you whisper, drawing your shoulders almost all the way up to your ears, “I told him.”

You can tell he wants to ask more, but he gives you a second before his next question. “And you… you guys are gonna try co-parenting? Or is he… are you going to get married?”

That makes you frown. You say, “What is this, the 1950s?”

“I just think….” Bradley clears his throat. “I just think if you get a girl pregnant, you should step up. Take responsibility.”

Of course he’d think that. You’re not even surprised.

There’s always been something traditional about Bradley Bradshaw, like he’s one of those men written by women people rave about all over TikTok. If he takes a girl out on a date, he probably holds open car doors and pulls out chairs for her, hands her his jacket if she gets cold.

Distantly, you wonder what that would be like.

“I don’t want somebody to marry me out of responsibility,” you say. “I can take care of myself.”

Bradley scrambles. “I know that!” he says quickly, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him shift his weight forward, elbows resting on his thighs. “Of course, I know that. I just thought… I just thought you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

It’s such a simple thing to say, but it almost bowls you over. You turn your head to the side, press your face into your shirt sleeve and dig your fingernails deep into the skin of your shins.

Bradley watches you, eyes intent, and then he probes carefully, “Are you… are you going to keep it?”

You sink your teeth into your lower lip, blink against the sudden dampness. Keep your face turned away from him. The shame of it all, of the situation you’re in, of him seeing you like this, overwhelms you. Your vision blurs.

“I think…” You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I always used to think if I ever got in this situation, I’d just get an abortion but now… I don’t… I just don’t think it’s the right thing for me.”

Slowly, he nods. “You want to have the baby,” he says, and it’s not really a question, but you answer anyway.

“Yes. I mean… I don’t know, it’s just… I want this. I don’t know why or how, but I… it feels like I have to do this.”

“Yeah,” Bradley says, completely sincere. “Your body, your choice.”

Now you do snort. “What, are we at a rally?”

“I follow a few Instagram accounts,” he admits. His voice has gone almost sheepish. “Abortion rights should be everybody’s concern. Nobody’s free until everybody’s free.”

It’s endearing in a strange way because there’s nothing performative about it. It’s just bumbling and awkward and peculiarly genuine.

“You sound like you spend too much time on Twitter,” you say softly, and it makes him laugh. Bradley’s got a nice laugh, one that starts in his belly and seems to end at the back of his throat, punches out into the air from back there.

After things have gone quiet again, the anxiety sets back in. Or maybe it’s been there all along, chomping at the bit, and you just didn’t notice.

“You must think I’m crazy,” you say finally, a self-deprecating chuckle loosening from your throat.

But when you glance up at him from beneath lowered lashes, stomach tight with anticipation, Bradley doesn’t look judgmental at all. Instead, his face is wide open, his eyes clear, the corners of his lips still curled upward with the remnants of his smile.

Luke laughed at you, but Bradley is looking at you with something like admiration, and it takes your breath away.

“No,” he says. “I think you’re really, really brave.”

And then you’re crying again.

You’re surprised there are any tears left in you after your earlier session, but they burst forth now, in a sudden eruption of all the fear and all the pain. And Bradley is so nice. So goddamn kind even though he doesn’t know you, not really, even though this isn’t even his problem. Sits there on the floor of the Hard Deck with you at half past one am on a Sunday night, and doesn’t complain, doesn’t sigh. He just listens.

You don’t feel brave. You feel terrified, you feel overwhelmed, you feel… you feel… you feel like the whole world has toppled over. You feel like Atlas crashing down, buried beneath the weight of his burden. You feel tiny. Inadequate. You feel scared, scared, scared.

“I don’t know what to do,” you confess, choke it out between sobs. Wonder why you’re telling him this. When you don’t know him.

Funny how it is so much easier at times to be honest with strangers than it is to be honest with the people we love the most.

“I’m so… I’m so scared, Bradley.”

He moves as if to touch you, then seems to think better of it and slumps back into himself. The expression on his face is unreadable, his eyebrows furrowed, his jaw clenched.

“He’s not gonna… the father isn’t going to help you out?”

It makes you realize you never really answered his earlier question. And you don’t know why, can’t explain it rationally, but for some reason, this, too, makes embarrassment well up at the back of your throat. 

What is Bradley going to think? The poor, little, stupid girl who got herself knocked up by a guy who won’t even stay? Is that what everybody’s going to think now? Is that all you’ll be?

It’s a life sentence, this whole thing.

You shrug, pause. Shake your head. “No,” you say finally. “He’s not going to be involved.”

You know it’s true. Luke won’t come back, not now, not in ten years, not in twenty. There was something final about that exchange, something permanent. Something that can’t be undone.

Suddenly, you think of that tiny, unborn child inside of you. Abandoned before it ever came into the world.

It’s just you and me now, baby, you think to yourself, and it goes through you like a current, sweeps you under like a wave. We’re all alone. All we have is each other.

“What about your parents? Your dad’s in the Navy, too, right?”

If you could, you’d run away. Fold yourself to invisibility. Slip into the pockets between moments and become something other, something that exists out of sight.

You think of your parents. Floral couches and polished hardwood floors. Tom Cruise on the television as your mother scrubbed every part of the house like she was getting rid of an illness, wiping away a disease, perpetually finding another stain or another cobweb or another wrinkle to smooth over. Think of your father, rigid and strict and absent. Always on some mission, always thinking of a greater good that definitely didn’t involve you, always looking through you even as he looked at you. You don’t know if you have a single memory of him smiling.

You haven’t spoken to them once since you gave up a perfectly fine full-ride scholarship to college.

“My parents,” you say, and as the words spill from you, you realize they’re the truth, “would probably kill me if they found out I got pregnant out of wedlock. Maybe if I were married, they’d give me back my trust fund or something, but… No, I don’t think they’d help me out.”

A muscle in Bradley’s jaw jumps, then he’s looking away. Turning to the side so you’re knee to knee again. You stare at his profile, at the curl of his ears, the cut of his jaw. The jagged edges of his scars blur through the fog of your tears.

“So, how are you… do you have a plan?”

You had one. You had Mojitos and Daiquiris and Cosmopolitans. You had a slew of business classes at a community college. You had a dream and a set of tools to achieve it, and when you close your eyes, you can almost see it right there in front of you.

But now it’s been swept up in a hurricane. Swallowed by a tsunami.

“No,” you admit, and your voice trembles. “I have no idea what to do.”

Bradley’s jaw moves as he chews on his lower lip. He swallows, and his throat unudlates with it, and then he’s shifting, shuffling forward a bit.

“I…” He clears his throat. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looks nervous. “I may have an idea.”

“An idea?” you repeat slowly.

You think he’s going to tell you about some friend who’s looking to hire someone, looking to rent out a very cheap apartment, works at a doctor’s office and is going to treat you for free. Something like that, maybe.

Instead, Bradley takes a deep breath and says, “Marry me.”

It takes a while for the words to register. At first, you think you’ve misheard, then you wonder if maybe the romantic parts of your mind cooked that up. If he even said it at all.

But Bradley is looking at you expectantly, the only indicator of nerves the slightest glimmer in his brown eyes.

And you can’t help yourself. You laugh, even through your tears. It’s a sound that rips from you unconsciously, unstoppably, because surely he’s joking. It’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard.

“Good one,” you say, and wonder just how big of a mess you look like. You wipe at your cheeks, your nose with your sleeves and sniffle once, twice.

Bradley’s lips twitch into the pathetic half of a smile, then he’s serious again, avoiding your eyes.

And that, finally, is when you realize that he isn’t joking at all.

“I…” You pause, mind whirring, head spinning. “What?”

“It’s just….” Bradley shrugs, then explains, “It’s only a suggestion. But you said your family might consider supporting you again if you were married. It might be an option.”

You don’t know what to say. You feel like you’re in a low-budget Hallmark movie.

Bradley pushes on, “It wouldn’t be permanent. We could get a divorce quickie in a year or two, just stay together long enough for you to get settled with the baby and everything. Plus, you’d get free healthcare.” He glances at you, and the blank expression on your face must light a panic in him. Now his words come faster. “I wouldn’t expect anything from you, of course I wouldn’t. It would just be… keeping up appearances. Just for a while….”

Finally, he trails off. The silence stretches between you like a palpable thing, thick and dense like summer heat.

When you were twelve, sitting in the back of the car as your parents argued up front, the woods of Washington flying past in rapid ribbons of black and blue and green, the moon a disk of silver in the sky, a deer ran out into the road. You remember the screeching of the tires as your dad did what you’re not supposed to and brought the car to a sudden, abrupt stillstand. You remember the wide eyes of the animal, the muscles locked in its state of catatonic horror. You remember the flanks rising and falling quickly beneath the matted fur.

For a second, you feel like that deer. Frozen. Caught completely off guard. Vulnerable.

Then you think you might be a little overdramatic. 

You say, “What the fuck, Bradley?”

Part of you expects him to backtrack immediately, laugh, and tell you that he was joking after all. But Bradley stands his ground, even as he still won’t look right at you.

“I probably wouldn’t even be home much anyway. I leave for work all the time,” he says, brows drawn into a straight line above his eyes as he stares intently at his thumb rubbing circles into the skin of his arm. “But I could babysit, and then you could go back to work. I really wouldn’t mind. I’m good with kids, you know?”

You’re not entertaining the whole thing, not really, but you can’t help yourself. Your curiosity takes the upper hand.

“Why would you… why would you ever offer this? You barely know me.”

Bradley seems to think about it for a long moment, his face unreadbale. Then finally, he says, “There’d be something in it for me, too, you know? I’ve been meaning to get assigned to North Island permanently, do a relocation. But those spots tend to go to the guys with family, so…” He shrugs, but the gesture seems forced. “I could help you out, you could help me out. Win-win.”

“That’s all?” you ask, and you don’t know why there’s something like disappointment in your voice.

Bradley looks like he wants to say something else, and for a moment his face is vulnerable. But then it shutters again, and he nods. “That’s all.”

For a second, just a second, you let yourself imagine it: Imagine saying yes to this mad, insane, incredible proposal. Imagine marrying Bradley, someone soft and warm and responsible, someone completely opposite to Luke. Imagine him in a tux and you in a white dress, imagine his mustache tickling against your cheek as he leans in to kiss you. You imagine one of the quaint little houses you grew up in, but one that would belong to you, at least for a while. You imagine a toddler running through it, imagine Bradley bending down to scoop them into his arms. You imagine a life without this aching, shifting loneliness. You imagine a life with Bradley.

When you finally shake your head, when you let go of that ghost, it feels like it takes a piece of you with it.

“No,” you say softly, and it breaks you open in ways you can’t describe. “I can’t let you do that, Bradley.”

It’s just too insane. Too far out there. It wouldn’t be fair to him, when you’d be getting so much more out of that arrangement.

And besides. I don’t want someone to marry me out of responsibility. That’s what you told Bradley earlier, and you meant it.

When you do marry, when you walk down that aisle, you want it to be for love. And people can call you delusional, naive, whatever. You don’t care. You just know you want the big thing, the real thing, True Love, capital t, capital l. You want the hurricane of romance, the monsoon of love. You want to fly into it.

Bradley’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “Okay. But if you… change your mind, yeah? I’ll be here.”

And he means it. Bradley carries his heart on his sleeve, you’ve learned this much. He tries to hide it, but he’s no good at it. Eventually, his emotions always get the better of him, burst forth like fountains. It’s part of his charm.

“What,” you say, “right here on the Hard Deck’s floors?”

It’s a sad attempt at a joke, but Bradley is nice enough to laugh anyway. “Sure thing. You guys have the cleanest floors in all of North Island, did you know that?”

You hum. “Sure. I’m the one who cleans them.”

Finally, you get up off the floor, unfold yourself from the bundle of misery you’ve crumbled into. Your legs ache, your back hurts, your chest still feels hollow. All the crying has left a dull pain pulsating behind your left brow.

The two of you look for Bradley’s wallet together, finally find it over by the pool table. You pretend like you’re not still reeling from his proposal, like it’s not suddenly become impossible to do so much as look at him without your heart flopping around like a fish finding its sad end on dry land.

“Can I give you a ride home?” Bradley asks as he watches you lock up. The Hard Deck has an old lock that gets jammed whenever the slightest bit of dampness creeps into the air. You have to hang onto the doorknob with all your weight while simultaneously turning the key to get it to lock.

“I drove here,” you say, casting your eyes about for the tiny tin can you call your car. You can’t even remember where you parked earlier.

“You okay to drive?” Bradley asks.

You glance at him. With the lights off, the parking lot is almost covered in a thick blanket of darkness. The headlights of a few passing cars winding their path along the coastal highway illuminate patches of gravel now and then. Moonlight spills silver and dim across his shoulders, like fingers caressing him. He looks concerned, examining the state of you.

The truth is that you’re tired. Bone tired. Dead tired. So tired you could probably go to sleep where you stand if you put your mind to it. But you don’t want to bother Bradley anymore, have already stolen enough of his time.

So you’re about to decline, but it seems you hesitated too long.

“I’ll take you home,” Bradley says decidedly, “and you can come get your car tomorrow, okay? I don’t think you should be driving like this.”

“You don’t have to do that, you….”

“I know,” he interrupts you, a smile spreading on his face. “But I’ll feel better knowing you got home safe.”

That makes your insides clench in a way they shouldn’t. Your chest feels tight, and you look away just in case you start crying again.

Is it too soon in your pregnancy to start blaming raging hormones?

Wordlessly, you let Bradley lead you across the parking lot toward his monstrosity of a car. His hand hovers at the small of your back, incredibly close yet never touching. He’s big behind you, bulking, and you try not to think about it. When he opens the door for you and waits until you’re buckled in to close it, you feel like your head’s going to explode.

The ride home is quiet, as is the town around you on this Sunday night. An old Killers song plays on the radio, and you think of deer stepping out into streets, then press your eyes closed and will the thought away.

In Bradley’s car, with the windows rolled down, with the Californian night breeze whipping your hair into your eyes and clearing the fog from your head, for a short, blissful while, nothing seems real. It’s one of those liminal moments, a not-time, when reality feels like a dream and even the sharpest knives don’t cut deep enough to hurt.

It ends quicker than expected because time always goes the fastest when you want it to go slow. Then you’re thanking him, saying goodbye, both of you pretending he didn’t just propose some strange, fake marriage to you behind a bar counter not even thirty minutes ago.

Bradley waits until you’re inside the building before he starts the engine again. You hear the roar of it as you climb the stairs up to the second floor.

In your bedroom, you don’t even bother getting undressed. You just slip under the covers, pull them up over your head, bury in the sticky, stale air beneath them, close your eyes, and fall asleep within seconds.

+

The first time you told your parents about your bartending dreams, your father yelled at you for forty-five minutes. He hurled words at you that hurt, that left scars, that made you wonder and kept you second-guessing yourself for years, that stayed with you. Your mother didn’t say anything.

Somehow, that was worse.

You call her on the landline at five pm on a Tuesday, just before your dad gets back home, and she answers after the third ring. You’re so sure she’s going to acknowledge the four-year gap in contact, the crumbling of the relationship, the fall-out of screaming and crying, and your dad kicking you out of the house.

What you get, instead, is a ten-minute spiel about who brought what to last week’s church potluck and which laundry detergent your father’s contact allergies don’t act up with.

You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, your digital alarm clock counting down the time in radioactive green. Outside, you hear the sounds of jets roaring through the sky. In your tiny kitchen unit, the faucet is leaking.

Finally, five minutes into a lecture on the advantages of pre-chopped garlic, you interrupt, “Mom?”

You wonder if she hears the shift in your voice, the slight tremble of it. Something makes her go very quiet on the other end of the line, no sound but her breath.

Drip-drip-drip goes your faucet.

When she doesn’t acknowledge you, you push on, your heart beating a staccato rhythm against your ribcage, “I might… I think I might need some help.”

She doesn’t answer for so long you think you might have lost connection. Then you hear shuffling, imagine her walking through her empty house the way she sometimes does - like a phantom, like a specter.

“With what?” she asks after an eternity.

It’s all you can do to keep yourself from hyperventilating. Years of pain and fear clog up your chest, settle like goosebumps on your skin. You close your eyes and let your head drop back against your pillow.

“I’m pregnant,” you say.

And then you can feel it through the phone, like something physical. What you’ve always known deep down. The disapproval and the disappointment, and the complete lack of understanding.

You’ve never been who your parents wanted you to be, and they’ve always punished you for it like it was a crime.

When your mother says your name, it’s so plain. That she can’t understand what you’re doing, with your cocktails and your late nights. That she doesn’t see why you’d ever choose something like that over a real education and a real job. That she cannot fathom how it could come to this now - you, broke, young, alone, pregnant.

It’s like being five again, trying to get somebody to look at the picture you drew. It’s like being ten again and being overlooked. It’s like being fifteen again, still vying for the attention you’ll never really get.

Your mother is a stubborn woman, set in her ways. She knows what she wants from people, more specifically, what she wants for them. And you’re no exception. Nobody’s ever asked her a question whose answer she couldn’t find in the bible.

More than wanting you to go to college, wanting you to work in an office, your mother has always wanted you to get married. To fit yourself into the picture-perfect stencil of white picket fence and smiling husband she cut herself. For you to let some guy put a ring on you, put a kid in you, buy you a house and a porch swing and a family van.

It’s pathetic, but it doesn’t matter how much time passes. How much older you get. At the end of the day, you still want her approval, just once, even if you have to lie to get it.

So, like a child, like you’re five again, like you’re ten again, like you’re fifteen again, you say, “I’m getting married.”

“Oh?” your mother asks, and there’s so much hope in the one word it hits you like a ton of bricks.

“Yeah,” you confirm, and then the lies just burst out of you, and you hate yourself, hate yourself so much it’s like bile on your tongue, “yeah, we’ve been engaged for a while, and now with the baby and all… It’s been long overdue.”

Your mother almost sounds excited. Sure, she’d probably prefer for you to have been married before getting knocked up, but all of this must still seem better than the last plan you presented to her four years ago. “What’s his name? What’s he do?”

You squeeze your eyes closed. If your mother knew you at all, if you hadn’t spent the past few years not speaking, you’d like to think she would have heard the shame in your voice when you say, “Bradley. He’s a Naval aviator.”

It might be the worst thing you’ve done in your life: Dragging poor, kind Bradley Bradshaw into the mess you’ve made of your life. Nevermind that he offered. It doesn’t matter.

Your mother starts babbling, the way she only does when she’s actually pleased about something. She’s talking about how happy your dad will be that you’re getting married to a fellow army guy, but you barely hear it. Now that you’ve gotten the approval, it doesn’t feel at all like you thought it would. 

It just hurts. 

For a while, you just let her keep talking as you blink away the tears, as you stare at your bedroom wall, as your mind spins and spins and spins in circles. Then you promise to send her an invite, say your goodbyes, and hang up.

It’s like you’re numb all over. You stay on your bed for another five minutes, and then another, and you feel just as empty as you did after your last conversation with Luke.

What has your life become? How could it crumble as quickly as it did, going from okay to horrible in less than a week?

Even when you weren’t speaking to your parents, you never felt this distant from them, this far removed. A chasm you’ll never be able to breach. An ocean you’re never going to bridge. The only way you’ve ever gotten your mother to be happy with a decision you’ve made is when you lied to her.

The loneliness is everywhere, then. In your chest, in your bed, in your veins. Crawling like a shadow that swallows you whole.

And then the panic sets in, ice cold in your veins, and with it comes the guilt. Your stomach rolls with it. 

What have I done? you wonder. What have I done to myself, to Bradley? How will I ever get out of this?

You scramble. Blindly reach for a dress to slip into, for a pair of flip-flops, for your car keys. It’s a miracle you don’t crash on your way to the Hard Deck. Your heart works itself up into a frenzy, and the guilt gnaws at you, slashes at you, paws at you. All these emotions are tearing you apart.

In the back, Bradley and Bob are playing Pacman on one of the retro machines. They’re pretty loud, too, and from what you gather in your mad dash through your workplace, Bradley seems to be disproportionally competitive about the whole thing.

Figures. Nobody gets into Top Gun without a cutthroat streak and a mean penchant for ambition.

“Bradley,” you say, and when he looks up, his eyes sparkling, the smile slides right off his face. “Can I talk to you?”

He seems stunned for a second, then nods and deposits his beer on a nearby table. “Sure thing.”

You lead him out the back. Out of the corner of your eyes, you spot the exact corner you huddled in a few days back, agonizing over the positive pregnancy test, the decline of your life, the decay of your dreams. Don’t look, you tell yourself, and then do it anyway.

The sun hasn’t set yet, but twilight is descending on the world rapidly. Everything is washed into soft pastels, the sand and the last surfers shaking salt water from their hair. Bradley’s shirt and the honey gold of his skin.

You can’t look at him. It’s a shame that grows in the pit of your stomach, that settles there, heavy like a stone. How can you do this to him? 

You’ve never felt worse about yourself, and still… The fear is too big. 

Since you decided to give up on the scholarship, since you walked out of your parents house four years ago, you’ve been on your own. You’ve been footing your own bills and renting your own apartment and paying for insurance on your car. You were alone the time you got a cold so bad you couldn’t get out of bed for two days. You were alone when your tire popped on the highway and you almost hit another car. You were alone when you got rejection after rejection from the big San Diego bars, the ones that end up featured on TV and in magazines.

And that was fine. You’re strong, you know you are. Any issue that came your way, you managed to figure out eventually. You’ve been doing fine without any help.

But this, here, now. This… You just can’t do it on your own. Not when it’s about a baby. Your baby.

So you take a deep breath and ask, “Is the offer still on the table?”

Bradley exhales. You watch as he takes a step closer to you, as his shoes move in the field of your vision, grains of sand crunching beneath the soles. When he speaks, a cadence of insecurity has snuck into his voice, “The marriage?”

You nod because you can’t say it. Your mouth just won’t form the words.

“If…” Bradley clears his throat. “If you want it… yeah.”

When you look up at him, there’s something strange on his face. Something that looks less like surprise and more like awe.

His eyes are so brown, and your heart beats so fast, and you’re dizzy like you just got off a rollercoaster. 

“I…” You pause to collect your thoughts, and then you rush it all out at once, scared that if you don’t say it now, you never will. “If I were to say yes, like, hypothetically… I’d need to know that you’re not just doing it for me. That there’s something in it for you, too, so….”

He’s nodding before you’ve finished. “I told you. I wanna stay here. I’m sick of getting sent around the country all the time, so… It’s good. It’s an opportunity.”

An opportunity. That sounds like business, sounds like a transaction, sounds rational and level-headed and reasonable, and you latch onto the idea. Maybe if you try to take the emotion out of the equation, it’ll be easier.

Bradley seems relaxed about the whole thing, much more relaxed than he should be given the absurdity of the situation, but you feel like you need to make things clear anyway, if only to put yourself at ease. That’s what people do before singing contracts, right? Put all the cards out on the table?

So you go on, “And I wouldn’t, like… Like you’d still get to do anything you want. I wouldn’t expect you to help with the baby or anything. And you could keep dating, of course, you could, I won’t mind. I promise. It’d just be for show, right?”

Bradley hesitates, and for a second, you think he’s going to say something. But then he just shrugs, nods, says, “That’s fine. Yeah. Whatever you want.”

For a moment, you both just look at each other. 

“This is insane,” you say because it is, and you don’t know what else to say.

And Bradley just chuckles and agrees smoothly, “Yeah, it’s nuts, isn’t it?”

As you look at him, here in this pastel lighting, here on the verge of something monumental, there’s something so reassuring about him. Something so steady and reliable and constant. Something that makes you think, with him, maybe it could be okay, no matter how insane the whole idea is. An opportunity. An investment that just might pay off.

North star, you remind yourself. Bradley Bradshaw is the North Star.

At the very least, you won’t be alone.

“So is that….” Bradley shifts, scratches the back of his neck. “You saying yes, then?”

There’s a lump in your throat like you’ve swallowed a pebble. It almost chokes you.

“Yeah,” you agree finally, and can’t believe you’re saying this, doing this, can’t believe you’re this mad and this selfish and this desperate. “I guess I am.”

It’s awkward after that. You both just stand there, you with your arms around your own ribcage, Bradley with his thumbs hooked into his belt loops. Space and silence stretches far and gaping and glaring between you.

Then he says, “Can I hug you?”

That’s sort of the last thing you expected him to say.

You blink at him. “Uhm… sure?”

When Bradley pulls you into his arms, when he holds you against his chest loosely, carefully, giving you room to pull away at any moment, the whole thing almost bowls you over. It’s the first time anybody’s hugged you since you found out you’re pregnant, since your entire world came crashing down, and you can’t help yourself. It’s a visceral reaction. You cling to him, wrap your arms around his neck, press your face into his shoulder and your chest against his and squeeze your eyes shut, and stay there for longer than you planned to, longer than you should. Let him hold you tight enough that for a moment, for a while, it almost feels like you’re whole again. Like you’re not alone.

For the first time in a week, for the first time since that positive test, things feel real. You feel real. Only with his hands on you. The thoughts that have been echoing through your head constantly, loud enough to drown out everything else, quiet.

You could get addicted to it, could get greedy and selfish and never-satisfied. Could eat it raw.

Bradley smells like sunscreen and sandalwood. You try to commit that scent to memory, try to ingrain it into your brain and your body. Something to remember the next time the loneliness sets in.

Finally, he pulls away, and his smile is gentle. You feel every inch of separation like an ache in your bones, like an echo, like a reverberation.

You can’t cry again. You’ve been doing it so much recently that you just won’t allow it again. If you’re going to do this, if you’re going to be a mother and a wife, in whatever capacity, you’ll have to be strong. No matter how hard that will be.

“I don’t even have a ring for you,” Bradley says, a frown etching itself into his forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” You’re shaking your head quickly, vehemently. “No, Bradley, that’s fine, you don’t need to….”

“I think you should have something, though. I want to give you something,” he interrupts you. “I just don’t know….”

And then he seems to think of something. The epiphany is practically written all over his face, and for a moment, he looks so much younger. Rosy cheeks and all.

Bradley reaches into his wifebeater and pulls his dog tags from beneath the fabric. Before you know what’s happening, he’s tugging the thin silver chain down over your head, moving your hair out of the way carefully. It settles against the skin of your neck, warmed by his body heat.

You stare down at the metal dangling over your dress, the letters of his name etched into it. Bradley Bradshaw. 

Your heart seizes.

When you were younger, much younger, you used to dream of this. You used to imagine what being proposed to would feel like, what it would be like. A fancy restaurant, an expensive glass of champagne, and a diamond ring at the bottom of the flute. Something flashy, something extravagant, something beautiful. The man in your fantasy was faceless at first, and then he looked like Robert Pattinson, and then he looked like your first crush, and then he went back to being faceless again.

He never had a mustache. He was never a stranger. Your dreams were never this: Rushed and fake and no ring at all. You, pregnant with somebody else’s baby, and Bradley, marrying you to get assigned to a base of his choosing. None of it real. No True Love, no capital t, no capital l. Not even lowercase. Nothing but madness and guilt and business between you.

And still you want it, want it so bad it swells inside you, pushes against your ribcage with enough pressure to crack bones - you want to be wanted.

You wonder what Bradley dreamed of. Not you, probably. So much younger than him, so naive, so gullible, falling for married men and getting yourself into situations you can’t climb out of yourself. Making him do this when he deserves better, more, deserves something true and real.

It makes you sick to your stomach. It makes you want to cry. It makes you want to ask Bradley to hug you again, so you can forget, just for another second, just for another moment.

Instead, you say, voice barely a whisper, “Thank you.”

Bradley shakes his head. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says, and he sounds so genuine you have to avert your eyes. “We’re friends, right?”

Friends. This man you barely know. This man who is doing something unfathomable for you.

“Yeah,” you agree softly. “Friends.”

And then later, in the bar, as Bradley’s friends discuss some new Star Wars show you haven’t seen, as they order round after round of beer you can’t drink, as the sky goes from pastels to blues to blacks, you’ll pretend you don’t see Natasha staring at the dog tags around your neck, pretend you don’t wish you could hold Bradley’s hand, pretend you don’t feel like you’re falling apart, like you’re capsizing where you sit, like you're kicking water miles and miles and miles below the surface.

Beneath the table, you put a hand on your stomach, fingers spreading out, close your eyes, and let the current drag you under.

part 2

#rooster #bradley bradshaw #rooster x reader #rooster imagine #bradley bradshaw x reader #top gun imagine #mine #f:blph

[criminalskies]

To Catch a Profiler - A Parent Trap Story.

Hi there loves! So this was originally posted on my old blog, but like everything else on there, it got thanos snapped along with my heart :( anyways, I thought i'd repost it because I thought this was really cute. I really enjoyed writing it, however, the longer i sat down and tried writing this a part two, the more I felt like I couldn't do it. So for now, this is a standalone fic. Hopefully you can still enjoy it for all that it is <;3!

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader. warnings: mentions/descriptions of sex (nondescript), MINORS DNI, pregnancy, nausea, vomiting, not the happiest of endings, but a sweet love story nevertheless. w/c: 2.5k

New Year’s Eve, 2012. As the crowd outside in the streets around your New York apartment counted down to midnight, you were overcome with joy, your arms and legs tangled with those of your lover. He held you close to him and as the clock struck midnight, the two of you celebrated in the most passionate way two lovers can, your souls intertwined as you worked together to chase your highs. By the time the clock struck one, the two of you were spent, choosing to lay in bed watching the remaining fireworks and balloons drifting through the night sky. Little did you two know, this was just the beginning of your story. 

Two months went by, you were living in quiet serenity with the one you loved, when you began feeling very strange. Not like any sickness you’d ever encountered, you were eating twice the amount you used to, you were having strong heartburn in bed every night and you would have to get out of bed to use the bathroom almost every hour. You didn’t feel anything like your normal self, so Aaron took you by the hand to the hospital to get checked out. That was when you learned what the New Year had really brought the two of you, a gift unlike any year before. You were expecting. You can still remember the shock you felt through your body when you heard the words. But more than that, you can remember the tears glistening in Aaron’s eyes, his grin spreading across his face as his cheeks burned red. His dimples were deeper than you’d ever seen them and you knew he was going to be the best father to your baby.

Only three weeks later, at your very first ultrasound, Aaron was sadly tied up in court, in what he would later call ‘the longest preceding of his career’, the sonographer let out a quiet gasp, offering you a smile of their own as they completed your baby’s scan. You knew they weren’t allowed to offer you any results, but when they fetched the doctor, she was offering you the same warm smile as she took you by the hand and showed you the two little blobs on the screen, “Twins?” You asked, beginning to tear up at the thought of your beloved Aaron, a baby on each arm. Your heart suddenly felt so full you could just fall down, luckily you were still seated on the exam bed when you found out. 

You spent that night pacing your small apartment, waiting for Aaron to return from work. You couldn’t wait to tell him your wonderful news that your beautiful family was just about to double in size. It wasn’t until you checked the time at 11:41 pm that you realised just how many times you’d found yourself in this situation lately, waiting for your lover to come home, hoping every sound out in the hall will be followed by his keys jangling in the lock. He was doing great work, putting awful people behind bars, you know that. You try not to hold it against him how hard he works to make money for you and for baby, but it’s getting harder and harder to be alone now that you’re entering a new endeavour for the both of you. You decided to head to bed, your ankles swelling and your body drained from pacing your apartment all night. His dinner was staying warm in the oven, and you needed to sleep. You heard him come home, quietly moving around the apartment at 1:30 in the morning but your overworked body was too tired to pick yourself up and go to him now. He showered and finally joined you in bed, wrapping you in his arms and splaying his big hand over your stomach, trying to hold you and your baby in his arms. 

You woke up so excited to tell him in the morning, your printed ultrasound in your purse waiting to deliver him the great news, and you came out into the kitchen to see a very exhausted Aaron making you breakfast on a tray. 

“Sweetheart, I was just going to bring you breakfast in bed. I didn’t mean to wake you, I just wanted to make sure you and baby are fed before I head into the office.” He walked around the counter to you, looking so delicious in his apron that you took back every negative thought you’d had of him the previous night. You took him in your arms, kissing his beautiful cheeks. 

“Morning, hedgehog. I have something for you too! Not to brag but it is far better than breakfast in bed. Wait here!” He scowled a little at the nickname, knowing his infamous bed-head always left him looking like the most adorable little hedgehog. 

“Always have to one-up me, huh?” He remarked, as you skipped back into the kitchen with his gift. 

“Here, look at who I got to meet yesterday.” You handed him the ultrasound with a shaking hand, the anticipation of his reaction eating you up inside. 

“Oh! The ultrasound, oh angel I am so sorry I missed it. This case is just chewing away at my time, I’m sorry. I’ll cut back when baby is coming I swear. I’ll be here to help you, every minute I can.” He looked so apologetic, scanning your face for any sign of disbelief, but you believed him. You always trusted him to follow through with his word.

“Look, silly!” You lightheartedly yelled at him. He peers down at the printout, peering at it with that exaggerated look of focus you find so adorable on him.

“Wait, which end is the head? I’m lost.” He turned the photo to you for help.

“This is a head,” you pointed at the first little blob. “And so is this.” you pointed at the second one. Aaron turns to face you immediately, dropping the card to pick you up and swing you around, looking up at you as he spun in the kitchen.

“Twins! We’re having twins, are we? Oh my god. Oh my god! Wait we are having twins right, or one two-headed little baby. Oh I don’t even care, I will love them with all of me either way!” You had never seen him so happy, as he put you down just in time, the two of you starting to get dizzy.

“Well, I think it’s two one-headed babies, but with your genes who knows, baby?”  You tease him, always commenting on how his head had to be bigger to make room for all his knowledge. You’re kidding, of course, you love how well-read he is. His reading habit has only increased tri-fold since you learned you were pregnant, he has taken home a copy of every book on pregnancy, parenting and how to be a helpful teammate throughout the trimesters. He is going to be the greatest  father to your children, you have no doubts. He wants so badly to end the generational stoicism and hatefulness his father tried imbuing onto him in childhood. He will foster love and openness in your home and you know he will never cause your kids harm. You think that’s even why he’s been working more recently, too, wanting to make the world just that much better for your kids before they arrive and he has to take a step back from prosecuting.

The next few months fly by, all in a blur of morning sickness, twice the little kicks, your life feels like a revolving door of going to the bathroom to pee and living the rest of your life outside the confines of a toilet stall, but you and Aaron push through. You pick out baby names, paint the nursery, build cribs and baby proof your whole apartment, however temporary this home may be. You get it ready for your little family, for a new chapter. But you realise as time goes on that you’re doing more and more of this parenting and planning stuff alone. It isn’t that Aaron isn’t doing everything he can for your babies, it’s that he’s doing it all for them and all the things he used to do for you seem to have stopped. No breakfast in bed or foot rubs or the things that make your life feel more supported and easy, he puts all of his energy into being a prepared father and providing for your babies. As you have to leave your job, in your last trimester. You’re bed-bound for the last two months of the pregnancy which feel like forever. 

Aaron is still trying so hard to make the world a better place for your babies which means he is putting in seemingly endless hours at the office and in court, which you feel so proud of him for, but simultaneously you begin to feel very very alone. 

When you go into labour, it is unexpected and much too early for your little ones to be ready to meet the world, but here they come. You have to call your neighbour over to help you get to the hospital, and your best friend meets you there, holding your hand for hours until Aaron gets out of court for the day and finally finally checks his phone. He barely avoids landing himself in court for his driving on the way over but it’s all worth it when he arrives and takes over for your friend, helping you breathe through the waves of overwhelming pain as you prepare to bring your twins into the world. 

When your two little ones are born, tiny and screaming, Aaron follows the doctors and nurses to the warming stations where they determine that the babies are three weeks premature, but growing nicely and will need to spend just a little time in the NICU before they’re ready to come home with the two of you. 

You saw it happen, right before your eyes. The moment your little girls wrapped their sweet tiny little hands around the tips of Aaron’s fingers, you saw every ounce of love he once held for you transfer to them. You saw how the sparkle in his eye could only be seen when he could hold the twins near him. He looked at you still with pride and with admiration, nested deep within him, keeping you both warm. But it wasn’t the same, you used to make his world turn, put the stars in his sky. Now you were just the vessel that delivered him the true centre of his universe. 

You thought it might pass, that as time and closeness and shared efforts to calm your screaming daughters would bring him back to you. You had hope. 

The two of you settled on names that day, choosing to name the first twin Charlie and the second twin Hazel. You were allowed to hold them on their second day of life, and you felt the gravity of your unwavering, unconditional love for them blossom through you as they squirmed in your arms. 

Aaron must have taken a thousand pictures of you all that day. He was so proud of his girls.

When you were finally able to bring the babies home, your house was all ready, Charlie’s side of the nursery decorated with vines and happy little forest creatures nestled in amongst the flowers. Hazel’s side of the room was decorated with clouds and sunbeams, with butterflies fluttering about the space.

It was perfect. The two of you had made the most gorgeous home for your girls, only it wasn’t enough.

As the months went on you and Aaron, both equally enamoured by your twins adorable little faces and squishy cheeks and happy smiling faces, grew apart. You had felt the shift in the air that day when Aaron met your girls and you had been right. His heart really was too full, he seems to have pushed you ever so slightly out of it to make room. It wasn’t one big change, but lots of tiny subtle actions that made you realise he didn’t love you like he used to. He didn’t have the room to. 

This drove you crazy, as you tried and tried being a better partner for him, a kinder person. More loving, spontaneous and more thoughtful. But nothing could bring him back to you. Nor could you bring yourself to hate him for it. 

You began fighting. Little things like who was responsible for bringing the girls’ diaper bag out to lunch or who should be able to return to their workplace first. Until one day, you were standing in your living room trying to decide what to watch on TV and Aaron was refusing to compromise for what you wanted. He always used to adjust for what you wanted. You blurted it out, in the blink of an eye.

 “I think we should break up.” His jaw fell open at your admission but he looked solemnly at you, more in relief than in surprise. He was happy you were the one to say it first. “The girls both deserve parents who love each other as much as we love them, Aaron, and while we used to and it was beautiful. I think it’s clear we just aren’t meant for one another any more.” 

“What about the girls?” Aaron was quick to ask. He knew your parents had split up when you were younger and being torn between two homes had almost killed you. You had hated your parents for making their marital problem your life problem, always living out of a suitcase at one house or another. “I don’t think we should make this their problem. They should never have to know.”

The two of you decided, then. Your loving little family would have to split down the middle. Hazel would live with you, and Charlie with her Dad. It was easier this way, while they were young enough to never have to know the burden of a home built on lies. They would not have to watch their parents fake smiles and not-so-happy marriage drive them crazy. You could all be happy, this way. You knew Charlie would never need any more love than Aaron could give her, and the same with Hazel, getting more than enough love from you. You would both treasure them. 

For eleven years, you both lived different lives in different states. You moved to California and Aaron to Virginia. You only knew where he was for the sake of absolute emergencies, the two of you hadn’t spoken in years. It’s better for the girls if they never know what’s missing from their lives. You’re both living perfect, happy little lives, thousands of miles apart. 

Until…

again, I'm sorry to say I lost myself in this, and at this moment I'm not sure how to even progress with a part two, but maybe that'll change in future. I hope you all enjoyed!

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner x f!reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner x you #hotch x reader #hotch x f!reader #hotch x fem!reader #hotch fanfic #hotch imagine #hotch fluff #hotch angst #hotch x you #hotch x y/n

[apricotpopsicle]

Sweet Talk

masterlist || requests || ao3

pairing: best friend!Eddie Munson x Reader

word count: 15.6k (oops lol)

warnings/tags: eddie is alive and graduating because i say so, Hawkins is fine too, fem+afab reader, "mean" reader (she's just bad at emotions), eddie and reader make fun of each other a lot! descriptions of light violence, dubious d&d knowledge (sorry), underage(?) drinking, eddie and reader both drink a little, mention of reader having hair, some angst because ofc, mentions of eddie almost dying, mentions of vomit (nondescriptive), insecurity, perceived unrequited feelings, SMUT, slight dom!eddie ig, fingering (f receiving), dirty talk, light choking, unprotected p in v (plz use protection y'all, this is just fantasy!), sort of semi-public sex/chance of being caught

description: based on this ask! i definitely did way more than you asked for nonnie my bad lol

Minors DNI!!!!!

---

Your relationship with Eddie Munson has always been unconventional, to say the least.

You've been unlikely friends longer than most people in your life remember. You, however, remember vividly how it happened- the first day of third grade, Mrs. Walcott's class, during lunch. He was what the teachers called a "trouble student," all fidgety limbs and mischievous smiles. You were a "pleasure to have in class," quiet, and mostly kept to yourself.

The day you met Eddie, one of his friends had dared him to yank on your braids in exchange for a twinkie. As soon as his hand released its grip from your hair, you turned around and punched him in the face.

The lunch room went dead silent when his butt hit the floor. You hadn't hit him hard enough to hurt, just enough to stun him. But you could see in his eyes how surprised he was that the shy, mousy girl could lay him out flat like that. You thought he would cry, yell, run to get a teacher. Instead, he opened his mouth wide and devolved into fits of laughter.

You both got in trouble. And in detention that afternoon, he offered you half the twinkie he earned. You thought about punching him again.

You've been inseparable ever since.

That moment defined your whole relationship. If a stranger saw you interacting, they easily could've mistaken you for a couple mortal enemies. You were both sarcastic and a touch combative, but it was all in good fun. He really was your best friend. Your dynamic held a strange kind of intimacy- it was the kind of relationship where you had virtually no secrets from each other.

Okay, maybe you were never exactly "vulnerable" with each other, but it was good. You kept each other grounded. Even when times got hard, when his dad went to prison, when your parents nearly lost the house, you were the only people who could cheer the other up. The only ones who could make each other feel normal. And you never made a dig harder than the other person could take.

When you graduated high school and started going to the local junior college, he was so proud of you. Mostly, he was over the moon you were staying in Hawkins. He didn't say that directly, of course, but you knew. He showed his gratitude by teasing you for not getting out of town, and you teased him for being a super senior. And then, a super super senior.

It was nice. Normal. It was enough for you.

Lately, though, things have been different. You've been so busy with classes and work, and Eddie's been just as preoccupied with running his D&D campaign, and finally snatching up his high school diploma (and apparently, saving the world). You haven't been calling or hanging out like you used to. You've both been weirdly distant. Especially you.

What's even weirder, is on the occasions you do hang out, he's almost... nice to you. Not lobbing insults as fast, not so quick to poke fun at you for stumbling over a word. Maybe it's the fact that he almost died, or that you're both getting older, or... maybe he just doesn't feel as close to you anymore. But you can't get mad at him for being nice. You're definitely not freaking out about it.

And most importantly, you're not freaking out because all the weirdness made you realize you've been in love with him for years.

Nope, not freaking out at all.

But you push those swirling thoughts out of your mind. Your feelings towards your best friends aren't important right now, because today is an important day. Eddie's and your absolute favorite day of the year- the Hellfire Alumni party. An annual tradition that started after the first graduating class of Hellfire club crashed a meeting with enough booze to tranquilize an elephant.

This is the day that every current and former club member can gather together, come home from college, from new cities and new lives to play a crazy, elaborate one-shot (then throw a crazy, elaborate party). This is the event of the year for the nerds, freaks, and outcasts of Hawkins.

And this year, with your parents serendipitously out of town for the week, it's your turn to play host.

You have a solid hour before everyone is set to arrive. The game would be ending soon, but you left early to set up. As per tradition, the afterparty's host was "tragically and without any coincidence at all" sent off on a side quest early in the game to allow for plenty of time to prep for guests.

You flit from living room, to kitchen, to back porch, affixing cheesy homemade D&D decor to the walls, setting up string lights and seats, laying out snacks on the tables, and making sure coolers are stocked and readily available. There's still so much to do if you want this party up to your impeccable standards. This might be too much for one person, and you curse yourself for being too stubborn to ask for an extra set of hands. With how much effort you were putting into the party, you haven't even had time to change out of your Hellfire shirt.

The one you helped Eddie design.

You pause your fussing on the streamer you're hanging up as soon as he crosses your mind.

You'd managed to avoid him completely at the meeting, having shown up late and left early. He was just making you... nervous. Ever since his near death experience in the Upside Down, and how nice he's treating you now, you just can't push down your emotions. Any time he's close to you, you can physically feel the words "I Like You, You Idiot" being pulled from your throat.

And god, it's so hard when he just looks so Goddamn good. Jesus, it's like you can't even control yourself around him anymore. Any time he laughs, or touches your arm, or stretches to reveal a sliver of skin riding above his jeans, the urge to jump him is nearly untamable. That stretch of skin lives in your head rent free, and you start to picture the fabric lifting up and off his body, imagining him in front of you bare and soft and so warm-

Fuck fuck fuck, you need to get it together. You can never let him know he's affecting you like this, or it's bye-bye best friendship and hello awkwardly bumping into each other at the supermarket until one of you moves away.

You've decided it's much better to just push him away until you get a handle on your feelings. Keep him at arm's length. That always works, right?

Luckily, you don't have too much time to dwell. The sound of the front door slamming open returns you to reality.

Right, you're on a step-ladder, hanging streamers. Don't fall off and break your neck because you can't stop thinking about how in love you are with your best friend. How embarrassing would that be?

"I'm coming in! Oh my god- it looks like a middle school dance in here," a deep voice calls from your front corridor.

Of fucking course. Who else would show up at the worst possible time?

"Well, speak of the devil," you call back over your shoulder, ignoring his jab about your awesome decorations and trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

"Jesus, don't call me that," Eddie's voice appears right behind you this time. You hurry yourself to look busy with the crepe paper you're hanging. Nothing's amiss, you're not avoiding him, nobody has a crush on their best friend. Keep it cool.

"Right, I forgot about the whole 'Eddie-Munson-is-Satan-Reincarnate' thing," you turn over your shoulder to flash a shit-eating grin and feel it falter momentarily. You whip back around quickly, hoping he didn't catch sight of your panic.

Fuck, he looks so good right now. Pale cheeks tinged pink from the excitement of the evening, Hellfire shirt stretched tight across his chest, his hair pulled back into a scraggly low bun with curly tendrils framing his face, neck extended upwards to look at you on the ladder, and God wouldn't it be so easy to reach out and just bite it-

"Wish everyone else could forget," he mumbles.

Right, touchy subject. Roll it back. You want to push him away gently, not to remind him of his recent trauma. Thankfully the feds had spun some story and greased plenty of palms to clear Eddie's name. Legally, he was free and clear, but the town is much slower to forget.

"Well, thank God for government hush money," you offer, glancing back with a smirk.

He chuckles lightly, shoving his hands in his pockets.

An awkward silence settles over the room. Why is he so quiet right now? It's not something you're used to with him. The silence makes your skin feel too tight, your face feel too hot. You feel exposed under his gaze, like an animal cornered.

It's been a while since you've been alone with him, and you can practically see his unasked question hanging in the air between you- are you avoiding me?

You really, really don't want to explain the answer to that question.

He moves forward slightly, his full lips parting around the beginning of your name, so you do the logical thing. You interrupt before he can say anything.

"Is the game over? I thought I had more time," you return to the red streamer billowing loosely above your head. You may have only interrupted Eddie to prevent him from questioning you, but your statement is true. There's plenty left to accomplish before your guests arrive, and you expected more time to complete everything.

Eddie readjusts himself, retreating from whatever he was about to say.

"Nah," he tilts his head, "I had Henderson take over. Wanted to help you set up."

This throws you for a loop. You carefully turn yourself around on the stepladder to face him.

"You, Edward James Munson, left the campaign you've been planning for the past three months to help me... hang streamers?"

That's entirely unexpected. Thoughtful. Sweet, even? Some unwelcome part of you swells at the mental image of Eddie leaving the drama room early, keys in hand, eager to see you. Telling everyone Sorry guys, go on without me, gotta help my girl set up the party!

God, he makes you sick.

"Yeah, figured you'd fuck it up," he says, grabbing an extra roll of streamers off the couch and lobbing them at you. "Couldn't let that happen, could I?"

You catch the roll against your stomach with an unattractive grunt, and the misty vision of Eddie calling you his girl fades away. Right, back to being rude. Good. That's good. Less confusing.

"Asshole," you mutter amicably.

"Only for you," he smiles. You feel your heart tug in your chest, so you throw the streamers at his head. He ducks it with a boyish laugh.

You point out all the tasks that still need attending to, and Eddie makes himself surprisingly useful. Almost everything was finished prior to his arrival, but you'd be lying if you said that his help was unwelcome.

He clears off the couch and finishes laying out all the snacks, and you deal with this fucking streamer that just won't stay up, God damnit.

You both work in silence for several minutes, Eddie moving from room to room just like you did before he arrived. Hopefully with all the prepping, he doesn't have a chance to grill you, and you don't have a chance to slip up and confess anything.

Perfect. Having a task will keep you from utterly embarrassing yourself.

Speaking of your task, this streamer is the worst piece of paper you've ever encountered in your life. This is your White Whale, your Mount Everest. The bright tail of it flutters in your face mockingly, refusing to be affixed to the corner of the room. You wipe a bead of sweat off your temple and clench your jaw on the thumbtack pinched between your teeth, refusing to let this goddamned children's decoration get the best of you.

Somewhere in your periphery, you sense Eddie finish what he was doing and come to a rest leaning against the doorframe. The tiny hairs on your neck raise from the feeling of his eyes on your back.

You're fighting for your life over here, and Eddie is just... holy shit, he's laughing at your very serious, momentous struggle with the streamers!

Whatever, just focus, you think, trying to ignore how shaky his gaze makes your hands, how his laugh makes your stomach flutter, This streamer is imperative to the party's well being.

The corner of the wall is just barely out of your reach, but you refuse to readjust the stepladder again. That's basically admitting defeat. Maybe if you just- just lean over completely to the right, keeping one hand on the ladder for support? Yes! If you fully extend that should work- one arm completely outstretched with the streamer in hand, the ladder squeaks ominously underneath your feet, but you ignore that, you've nearly got it-

The ladder starts to keel over, threatening to send you with it.

Your best friend peels himself off the wall, crossing the room swiftly. He steadies the ladder with both hands, putting its legs firmly back on the floor before you can topple over. His arms bracket you in, and you return to an upright position. Ok, maybe that wasn't the smartest idea you've ever had.

He shakes his head, exasperated.

"Here, Jesus, you're gonna hurt yourself, sweetheart."

Before you have a chance to process sweetheart, Eddie climbs the ladder behind you. He doesn't even tell you to get down first, he simply steps onto the rung underneath the one you perch on. The smell of him envelopes you, the faint scent of cigarettes and weed, of drug store cologne and no-tears apple shampoo. You can feel the heat from his body against your own, pressed behind you, and it's all too much. This is too domestic of him. He's rendered you completely dumb.

His hands snake around your front to pluck the offending decoration from your viselike grip. One strong, ring-clad hand grips your right shoulder for balance. His chest flexes against your back as he leans over with minimal effort to hold the end of the streamer against the wall.

Was it this hot in here before? It feels really hot in here all of a sudden.

"Ok, now give me..." He says absentmindedly, reaching towards your lips with his other hand to pluck the thumbtack from your mouth. Your brain short circuits at the feeling of his calloused fingers brushing your parted lips. It sends an embarrassing bolt of warmth through your stomach, and if he hadn't been basically holding you up, you would have fallen off the stepladder.

"And- got it!" Eddie stabs the thumbtack through the end of the streamer with a victorious flourish of his hand. He leans back in and rights himself behind you, moving his palms to grip your waist for balance.

Fuck. Fuck. He's too close. His hands feel way too good on your sides. He's holding you close, back to chest, and you're sure he can feel your heartbeat thumping wildly out of your ribcage.

This is not good for your "pushing him away" plan. This is, in fact, the exact opposite of pushing someone away.

Eddie slinks back down the ladder, his hands sliding gently down your sides, his breath ghosting down your back as he descends. You can feel your pulse in your teeth. 

And of course, when you shakily turn around, he's offering his hand to help you get down like a total gentleman. Because of course he's doing that right now.

Stupid fucking chivalrous, crazy-hot Eddie Munson.

You need to put a stop to this. Stop letting him be nice to you before you ruin everything (and make sure he doesn't know you were ridiculously turned on by all that).

"Ok, you're being weird," you say, ignoring his outstretched hand. You step off the ladder without his help, and shove the last of the streamer roll against his chest. That puts a healthy amount of space between the two of you, and you can finally breathe again.

"I'm being weird?"

"Yes."

"I'm being weird?"

"Yes," you repeat, purposefully ignoring how he emphasizes the first word.

He pauses. You're not letting this go.

"Weirder than normal?" a lopsided smile appears on his face. You fight the urge to smile back. He's trying to joke it off, but you have to stay strong, set some boundaries. Cool the situation down before you do something you'll both regret.

"I'm serious," you cross your arms against your chest. If anyone asked you'd say they're crossed in annoyance, but it feels more like protecting your vital organs.

"Ok, I'll bite. How am I being weird?"

"You left the game early for me," you list off on your fingers, "You're helping me decorate. You haven't said one thing yet that makes me want to punch you!"

"So?" he drags a hand across his face.

"So! So, you're being... nice to me."

That sentence hangs in the air for what feels like an eternity. Yes, he's definitely the problem. Nice is definitely the problem. If he would just stop being nice, no more being in love with him! Problem solved.

An imperceptible emotion flashes across his eyes, but he recovers before you can name it.

"Aww," he coos mockingly, "I'm always nice to you, princess."

"Fuck off," you shove his shoulder gently. You hate that nickname, and he knows it. He gifted it to you in detention the day you met, with half a twinkie held out like a peace offering in his hand. You punch like a little princess, he told you, and it stuck. You hate it, and it helps to ground you further, having a taste of your normal back and forth.

You realize you haven't taken your hand off his shoulder. Withdrawing it quickly, you put another few inches of space between you, the back of your knees knocking into the stepladder.

"We're not nice to each other, Munson. Be mean to me."

"You want me," his head tilts curiously, "to be mean to you?"

"Yes!" you rapidly exclaim, much louder than you intended. He takes an unsteady step back at your outburst.

"... Ok?"

"Thank you," you breathe.

The two of you stand silent like that for a long time, you still cowering against the ladder, him still cradling the streamers to his chest, unspoken words hanging thick in the air.

Eddie swallows loudly. You feel like he's about to say something, and if he keeps looking at you with his stupid beautiful doe eyes you're either going to kick him out or tear his clothes off.

This time when you hear the front door swing open, you're desperately grateful for whomever is barging into your house unannounced.

Walking single file into the living room is the newest group of Eddie's friends/World saving partners- Steve, Robin, Nancy, and Jonathan. You thank God for the group's intrusion. Like, for real, you might give each and every one of them a kiss for rescuing you.

Steve is the first to spot the pair of you.

"Hey, Munsonnnnnn! Woah," Steve looks around, squinting as his eyes adjust to the room's sparkly adornments, "it looks like prom in here."

Eddie's back is to him, and he makes one more attempt at eye contact with you before turning to greet the newcomers. You avoid his gaze.

"Hey, pretty boy!" Eddie turns on his heels, shaking off the awkward fog between you and slipping back into his cool-guy persona, "Glad you could grace us lowly freaks with your presence!"

The pair meet in the middle of the room and do an awkward half handshake/half man-hug.

"Well, no idea how to play yD&D , but I do know how to party," Steve says, raising a six-pack high in the air.

You exchange quick hellos with Jonathan and Nancy. Robin waves at you before scanning her eyes around the room. Her expression drops when she realizes no one else has arrived.

"We're early? Oh my god, we're early! That is so lame," Robin grumbles, kicking Steve lightly in the ankle.

The group bickers and laughs, blissfully unaware of the strained tension between you and your best friend. Unaware of how, if you had taken Eddie's hand when he offered it earlier, you would have pulled him into you and kissed him right there.

You mumble something about needing to go get changed, slipping past the group and rocketing up the stairs. The boisterous conversation fades behind you, and you exhale a sigh of relief.

It's only one night. You can handle yourself for that long.

"Where's Henderson?" you faintly hear Steve ask.

This is exactly what you needed. All your fussing over the decor might have seemed ridiculous at the time, but looking out over the living room, at all your friends enjoying themselves under the fairy lights and streamers fills your heart to the brim.

You play the gracious host, grabbing everyone new drinks, directing your friends towards the bathroom, keeping the music going and the people happy. There's a lot more people than you expected, but it's a perfect scenario for you- with all this party tending, you have no time for Eddie to catch you alone.

Several hours in, with a light buzz going, you find yourself trapped on the couch, being regaled with the epic tale of how the campaign went down after your departure.

A very long, extremely thorough tale.

"- and then I rolled two nat 20s in a row," Mike informs you, absolutely beaming, "I swear, I was on fire tonight!"

"Mmmhmm," you mumble for the hundredth time in the past 15 minutes, head leaning on your fist. You definitely need more beer if you're going to indulge them in this much longer.

Dustin shoves his friend in the shoulder.

"Pants on fire, maybe," Dustin turns to you self-righteously, "It wasn't an honest roll. He totally bumped the table."

"Did not!" Mike scoffs.

"Uh, did too!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

The pair continues their back and forth for an embarrassingly long time. If this is the future of Hellfire, God help you all.

"Boys!" your eyes snap upwards when you hear Eddie's voice enter the circle, "Boys, boys, boys. Let's stop trying to look cool in front of the lady, shall we?"

Eddie towers over them, his features lit softly by the fairy lights above him. Donning what he believes is a menacing look, he takes on the role of the ever-annoyed parent. The boys turn to him and plead their argument, talking over each other, growing increasingly louder and more frantic. He silences them after a few moments with a dismissive wave of his arm.

"No one cares, kiddos," He tuts. They pout as he continues, gesturing to you with the cup in his hand, "And what do we say for dick-measuring in front of the nice lady?"

"Sorry," both the boys mumble to you at Eddie's behest.

Eddie shoos Mike from his spot on the couch next to you, encouraging him to find his little girlfriend. He plops down ceremoniously, two red solo cups in hand. He positioned himself close, his ripped denim-covered thigh brushing your own. The drag of his leg against yours is so intoxicating, it's hard to remember why being this close to him is a bad idea.

"Both those drinks for you, Munson? That's excessive," you tease.

"Yup," he pops the word theatrically, and brings both the cups to his mouth at the same time. He sips them both goofily and inefficiently, a dribble of cheap beer trickling from one of the cups down his smooth chin.

You pursue the drop with your eyes, and imagine following the trail with your tongue, licking a lazy stripe from his jaw up to his open mouth. You nearly have to stifle a moan picturing what it would taste like- the amber liquid mixing with clean skin and spit.

"You're an animal," you mutter, feigning disgust at his antics.

He growls playfully at you. The noise would have been weird and cringey if it didn't make you throb involuntarily between your legs. It takes all the strength you can muster to roll your eyes.

"Actually sweetheart," he wipes his mouth with the back of his tattooed forearm and passes you one of the cups, "I grabbed this one for you."

Almost in a trance, you grab the beer from him and hold it close to you. You should be making a snarky remark about not wanting to drink his backwash. But once again, the smallest morsel of affection he throws your way leaves you vulnerable and speechless.

Why is it such a bad idea again to give him a thank-you kiss on the cheek, to snuggle into his side, to praise him profusely for thinking of you?

Because, the rational part of your brain reminds you, you're going to ruin your friendship, stupid.

Right. That.

You shrug off your lovesick daze and level Eddie with an indignant look. Not wanting to rehash your previous conversation in the middle of the party, you reiterate your point silently.

What did I just say about being nice to me? you raise an eyebrow at Eddie.

He stares back, then looks off quickly, giving in to your silent demand.

Right, sorry, He throws his hands up in surrender, Won't happen again.

A derisive snort erupts from the boy on the floor across from you. Right, Henderson. You'd forgotten he was there. And unfortunately, he'd been watching the entire non-verbal exchange with your best friend. He's also annoyingly perceptive.

"Booooo," Dustin cups his hands around his mouth, "Get a room, lovebirds."

You feel your cheeks heat up, and Eddie scoffs.

"I can hardly stand being in a room with you now," he throws cheekily at you.

You breathe a sigh of relief. This is... good. This is safe ground, familiar ground. You honestly aren't sure how you'd react if he was nice to you again.

"I'd leave right now if this wasn't my house," you hide a smile on the edge of your solo cup.

Now it's Dustin's turn to scoff.

"Oh please, Eddie, you never shut up about her! It's getting really annoying. You two should do us all a favor and just do it already-"

Eddie sets his drink down and moves so quickly to put Dustin in a headlock, the kid doesn't even have a chance to react.

They wrestle childishly for a minute or two, rolling around carelessly, knocking into people and furniture alike. You watch on in fake annoyance, only interjecting to berate them for bumping into your parents favorite lamp.

Eddie releases Dustin with a huff, having successfully pinned the freshman, and throws his hands over his head victoriously.

"Congrats, Eds. You physically dominated a twelve year old. We're all so proud."

Dustin sputters incredulously, something along the lines of I'm fifteen, actually.

You giggle at that, and Eddie settles back into your side. This time, much to your displeasure and excitement, he throws his arm around your shoulders. He's touchy in general, and for all your catfighting, you're no stranger to being tucked into his side like this. But today, with your light buzz and fuzzy emotions, it feels more intimate. More dangerous.

His fingers trace absentminded circles on your upper arm, and you shudder lightly at his touch. You should throw his arm off of you, but can't bring yourself to. Not when it feels so right.

Dustin picks himself up off the floor and dusts himself off with a huff.

"Eddie's just mad because he knows I'm right. There's too much sexual tension," he says, his bruised ego shining through. Damn, that kid always sounds like such a know-it-all. It's just his tone.

Your best friend leans in close, his lips lightly brushing the shell of your ear, and your breath involuntarily catches in your throat.

"Not even in your wildest dreams, sweetheart," he whispers loudly, then leans back with a toothy grin.

You curse the way your stomach drops at his statement. His mixed signals are driving you crazy. He still has his arm wrapped around you, but he basically just rejected you, basically said he would never even think about you in that way.

But this, this is normal, isn't it? Exactly what you asked for? This is how you guys are, he's an asshole to you, you're an asshole to him, why should your feelings be hurt, you never let it hurt, you won't let yourself get hurt.

The boys wander to a different topic, something about how lame the graduation ceremony was this year, completely oblivious to the internal riot happening in your head.

Not even in your wildest dreams, sweetheart. What the fuck did he mean by that? It's not like you were banging down his door or anything, you never even thought- I mean, yeah, fuck, ok maybe you thought about fucking him all the time, any way he would have you, but it's not like he knows that, and God did he have to say it like you were so fucking unappealing, like even the thought of being with you was some big fucking joke-

You shake your head violently, willing the physical action to clear your mind. Like an etch-a-sketch, you think blearily.

Yeah, you're definitely done with alcohol for the night.

Eddie's eyes drift back over to you at the sudden movement. His dimples fade away, the lazily content look on his face morphing into one of genuine concern.

"Hey, you ok?" he asks so earnestly it makes hot tears prickle behind your eyes.

Now he's being too nice again, and you can't handle it. It's just all too fucking confusing, his arm around your shoulder suddenly feels too restricting, too mocking.

Jesus, you need to get yourself together before you respond. The phrase I'm fine dies on the tip of your tongue. Ok, just don't say anything revealing, don't say anything at all actually, just don't say anything-

"Am I really that repulsive?" you spit, not meaning to let so much vitriol drip into your words. The plastic cup creaks in your hand, and you release the tension in your fist. You didn't even realize you'd been squeezing it so hard. Fuck, chill out, you're both just kidding around, he didn't mean to poke the one raw nerve you've been hiding from him.

Confusion flashes across his face. You never react like this to his teasing.

"Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Munson, you wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid."

The party is still going strong, but you swear the whole world goes silent in that moment. Maybe it's all the blood rushing to your ears, or the lack of a standard sarcastic reply from your friend.

You must have said that much louder than you intended, because now everyone in the living room is trying very hard to pretend they're not listening to your conversation.

Your mind flashes back to that moment in third grade, right after Eddie hit the ground. That achingly long, silent moment after you'd knocked him down, when you were waiting for him to say something, anything, and then he started laughing.

C'mon, start laughing.

But this wasn't a childish squabble. There was venom in your words, a tidal wave of repressed emotions and raw anger and lust and hurt, feelings you didn't even have the words for- and Eddie felt it.

His face blushes a deep scarlet, and his arm retracts from your shoulder like it had burned him. You’re itching to pull him back in, to take it back, to apologize, to explain that you were just kidding, but you're frozen.

"'M gonna get some air," He stands up swiftly, not making eye contact with you.

"Eds, wait-" You reach out for him, trying to grab his arm. He slips easily from your grasp and shoves his way through the mass of partygoers, disappearing into the hallway.

Well, that could have gone better.

"Shit," you mutter, slumping back into the couch. This is exactly why you'd been avoiding him in the first place- so you wouldn't stick your foot in your mouth.

When you glance up from your wound-licking, everyone's eyes dart away from you, avoiding your gaze.

Real nice, guys.

Dustin must feel guilty for instigating your outburst, because he stands up from his spot on the floor and takes point on damage control.

"Alright, show's over everyone. Go get another drink or something," he announces to the room, waving everyone away. He plops down on the couch and awkwardly puts a comforting hand on your shoulder.

"Sorry about them. We're just not used to Mom and Dad fighting,"

You laugh bitterly at the epithet the freshmen class had dubbed you. While it normally makes you secretly giddy to hear the kids refer to you and Eddie as such, you're not ready to give up on wallowing in your own self-pity.

"We fight literally all the time."

"No, you don't," he says matter-of-factly, "You never really get mad at Eddie. And I can't even imagine him being mad at you. What you actually do," he pauses, "is convoluted flirting."

You let out a groan. Is it really that obvious to everyone how you feel about him? You must not have been hiding it as well as you thought. That's so humiliating. And if everyone knows... that means Eddie must know too. Despite what you just yelled at him, he's not a stupid guy.

He must have figured it out. No wonder he's been so weird to you the last few months. It must be what... pity?

Oh my God. He's been so nice lately because he feels bad for you.

That's almost worse than him not liking you back.

"Christ, Henderson," you try denying, a transparent last ditch effort to cover up your feelings, "you have no idea what you're talking-"

"Are you dicking me around? You're fully dicking me around right now," he states incredulously, "You. Are. Into him."

Denial isn't going to work on the kid. He's too goddamn observant for that.

Hearing your feelings out loud like that, even if it isn't you saying it, sends a shot of anxiety through your stomach. Normally you'd dissent and evade the topic, but that hasn't exactly been working out for you tonight. And if everyone knows already, fuck it. 

You decide to give honesty a try.

"It doesn't matter, ok? Eddie doesn't... see me like that," you concede.

"Have you ever, I don't know, asked him?" He questions, his voice tipping right on the edge of condescending.

"... No."

Dustin pats your arm sympathetically, as if he's soothing a petulant child rather than someone five years older than him.

"Well, that seems like the place to start."

Still pouting, you shake your head.

"Why would I do that, Dustin? Just for him to reject me? It'll ruin what we have," you sulk and look down at your hands. The whole incident with Eddie sobered you up immediately, making the foamy cup of beer you're clutching look extremely appealing right about now. Moving the cup to your lips, you start to gulp it down. Dustin, clearly fed up with your self-indulgent wallowing, stands up and snatches the cup away from you.

"Hey!"

He holds the cup out of your clawing reach, and speaks at you loudly, in that sanctimonious tone he uses when he thinks he knows better than someone.

"You may be too stubborn to see it, but you're both so into each other it makes me sick!"

You're not even listening to him anymore. You're so frustrated at how this conversation is going, with how your whole night is going. Jesus Christ this kid is a total fucking headache! First he causes your fight with Eddie, then he totally embarrasses you by making you admit your crush, and now he's snatching shit from you? All of the misdirected irritation you've felt building since earlier balls up in your stomach, threatening to break out. Malicious words start to form in your mouth, preparing to absolutely rip him a new one. What a self righteous little-

Pause.

His sentence finally registers in your brain.

Both? You're both so into each other?

All the anger you felt dissipates in a split second. Both. Meaning, you and Eddie. Feeling the same way.

No, there's no way. It had to be a figure of speech, or a slip of the tongue. The part of you desperate to protect yourself retains there's no way that's what Dustin meant, but a cautiously hopeful warmth spreads through your chest all the same.

"He- when you say both- do you mean he also..."

Dustin cuts you off with an exasperated sigh of your name.

"Just go talk to him."

You've been doing laps around your house for nearly twenty minutes in search of your best friend. Everyone is 100% annoyed with you by now. You'd asked all your friends at least twice if they'd seen him, and only got back half-hearted shrugs and variations on "I don't know, we thought he was with you."

He has to still be here. His shoes are still by the door, and Gareth assured you that Eddie's van is still parked outside.

He wasn't on the back porch with the smokers, or in the kitchen, or in the basement with the other type of smokers. You tried checking your bedroom, but the door was locked, and from the outside you could hear multiple voices making some very emphatic sounds. Mental note- bleach literally everything in your room tomorrow.

Wouldn't it be a real cosmic gut-punch if that was Eddie in there with someone? a jealous voice in your head croons. You roughly push the thought down.

The only place left to check is the upstairs bathroom. When you reach the door you notice the light is on inside, yellow light leaking from the doorframe.

You move your hand up to knock, and waver momentarily. Your hand is still poised to rap on the door. Maybe it's not Eddie in there, you consider. Maybe it's just someone who had a few too many, and you're about to bother some poor soul hugging the toilet bowl.

Yeah, that's perfect. It won't be him. He definitely just left his van behind, walked home without shoes, and you can both take the night to cool off. You won't have to confess anything tonight. You'll call him tomorrow, apologize for being a dick, and pray he doesn't hang up on you. Everything will go back to normal.

Clinging to your false hope, you tentatively knock on the door.

"Ocupado," a muffled voice bleeds from the other side of the door.

Eddie.

Of course. You wouldn't be that lucky.

You steel yourself for whatever lies ahead, and turn the knob. Part of you prays it won't open, that he miraculously shed his bad habit of forgetting to lock bathroom doors. But the knob rotates without resistance.

No going back now. You swing the door open and shut it behind you swiftly. The sounds of music and laughter muffles abruptly as the door closes. Sitting hunched over on the edge of the tub is your best friend, his head sheltered in his hands.

"Holy shit, occupied!" He raises his head to rail at the intruder, "What part of- oh," he cuts himself off abruptly when his eyes land on you.

He stares at you intently, his jaw ticking from how hard he's clenching it. Both of you are waiting for the other to speak, neither one wanting to break the silence first. You squirm under his piercing gaze and lower your head to peer at the floor.

"The, uh, door was open," you mumble after a while.

"Jesus Christ, what if I was taking a shit or something?" he hisses.

Normally you'd wrinkle up your nose and call him gross, or admonish him for not locking the door, but you don't have the energy for that right now. You lean back against the door for support and cross your arms over your chest. He still refuses to break eye contact with you.

"... Sorry."

More silence.

"Well?" he asks pointedly. He looks pissed, more pissed than you've ever seen him, "What's so fucking important that you had to bust in here?"

His tone reignites the swell of anger in your stomach. Normally he's the funny kind of asshole, but right now he sounds like a total prick. You can't believe you were really coming in here to apologize and confess your feelings to him.

"I'll just go," you snap. You turn around to leave, gripping the door knob tightly, "This was a mistake."

You barely manage to crack the door open before Eddie appears behind you, reaching over your shoulder to close it firmly. He's boxing you against the door, his breath fanning over your neck. Against your better judgment, you register a dull throb between your legs at the position he has you in.

He reaches down to lock the door this time, still caging you in, a silent demand that you don't run away from this conversation. You swallow audibly.

He's not going to let you avoid him any longer.

Eddie lingers behind you a moment before retreating again, allowing you space to turn around and face him. His brown eyes, normally soft and jovial, are squinted in irritation. His broad shoulders shake lightly, with hurt or anger you can't be sure.

You take a deep breath and prepare to apologize for earlier, but he cuts you off before you even begin.

"What the hell is your problem tonight?"

He raises his eyebrow at you, impatiently waiting for your response.

Lie, the cowardly voice in your head says. Dustin was just jerking you around, you're going to ruin everything. Lie lie lie, you can't let him know how you really feel.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you say coolly.

"Really?" he crosses his arms and pouts, mocking your closed off stance.

"I don't-"

Eddie cuts you off before you can double down.

"I'm nice to you, and you tell me to fuck off. I'm mean, and you lose your shit. I'm walking on goddamn eggshells over here, so pick one, because you can't have both."

He finishes his monologue, his breath coming out in short puffs.

Oh my God, you think, I must seem literally crazy right now.

It sucks to have your own behavior laid out so plainly like this, to be confronted with how your actions are hurting him.

You can't even get defensive, because the worst part is, he's right. You were mad at him for sending mixed signals, but you're the one who's been avoiding him for weeks and embarrassing him in the middle of a party. And now you're flipflopping so fast he can't even keep up.

In all your self-absorbed uncertainty, you never stopped to consider how confusing you must be to him right now.

You don't answer him fast enough.

"Just tell me what you want from me!" he begs.

"I just- I want-" you start and stop several different sentences, but can't find the end of any of them. You sigh raggedly and tilt your head up towards the ceiling, harshly blinking against the frustrated tears beginning to bead up in your eyes.

You can feel him inching closer to you. When he speaks, his voice comes out gentle, low, almost... hurt?

"Do you want me to be nice to you or not?" he implores, "I'll be mean if you want mean. Whatever you want, sweetheart, I'll do it. You just have to tell me."

"I... Both. Neither?"

He huffs at that, rolling his eyes to stare up at the ceiling.

You think you're confused, buddy? Try living inside my brain.

He's not getting anywhere with this line of questioning. He tries approaching from a different angle this time.

"You've been avoiding me," he states. It's not a question.

"... Yeah." you admit carefully.

He purses his mouth tight and nods. You'd only confirmed what he already knew, what you'd both been dancing around all night.

"Did I do something wrong?"

No, you shake your head tearfully.

"Do you want me to," he sighs, "give you some space, or whatever?"

"No!" you exclaim. The thought makes you panic, a single teardrop finally spilling over your lash line, "Fuck, God no, that's not- I mean, I thought I did but- that's not what this is about."

Eddie's curses under his breath, growing tired of playing twenty questions.

"Then what is it about?"

"I-" like you, you idiot, "It's just.. I can't- God! Fuck, I can't!" you groan dramatically and bury your head in your hands.

Why is it so hard to just say Munson, I want you? It's just Eddie. Drug-dealing, music-snobby, ridiculous, overdramatic, forgetful... 

Caring, funny, thoughtful, loyal, beautiful Eddie Munson who you don't want to lose forever all because you have a stupid crush on him.

He crosses the chasm between you hesitantly. Grabbing both your wrists, he removes them from your face, replacing them with his own. He cradles your face tenderly, like you could shatter under the weight of his hands, and uses a thumb to swipe away the tear on your cheek.

He breathes your name gently, and you glance up at him through your lashes.

"Please, just... tell me what you want," he whispers. His face is so close to yours, every freckle and hair visible in perfect clarity. His eyes dart around your face intently for an answer.

What do you want? He wants you to choose what you want?

Fuck this, you choose. You choose fuck this- fuck how beautiful he looks right now, fuck how him touching you like this makes your heart flutter, fuck how badly you wish you could drop all the stupid pretense and tell him that I need you to be mean to me because otherwise, I'm gonna admit I like you!

"I like you," you blurt.

Fuck.

Eddie's eyebrows shoot up at your declaration. His hands fall from your face as he backs up a bit, and you want to scream. You actually might scream, he looks so freaked out.

"You... like me?"

Fuck.

"Yes," you repeat. You're fighting to seem confident, like that will quell the pit of fear in your stomach, will lessen the wave of humiliation threatening to drown you. His eyes open impossibly wider, an indiscernible expression on his face.

You backtrack quickly, "No. No! I'm so sorry, of course not! You know what? I take it back. I didn't mean it, I was just kidding! Just please, please forget I ever said anything, ok?"

He shakes his head and points a finger at you as you ramble.

"Nooooooo. You said," a mischievous smile spreads across his face, his voice sing-songy and teasing, "You like me. Like, like me like me. Like, you want me."

Of course he's letting this go to his head. You told him you like him and now he's laughing at you. The last thing you can handle right now is him making fun of you when you're at your most vulnerable.

"Well, if you're gonna be a fucking dick about it-" you shoot your hand out once more to reach for the door. Eddie blows out a sharp breath and pulls your arm towards him, maneuvering you to face him with your back pressed against the sink.

"Sorrysorrysorry, I’m sorry! Will you stop trying to run away from me? It's getting annoying," he says, not at all unkindly. He still has that wide smile on his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling up in amusement.

Your face is still radiating heat. Your breath comes out in sharp pants. One of Eddie's hands moves to your hip, the other attempting to lift your chin upwards. You move your head out of his grasp.

He says your name again, vying for your attention.

"Would you just look at me," he jostles your hip playfully, "Please? You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

You shake your head at the ground. Now he's trying to cheer you up when you totally just ruined your friendship? This is so fucking humiliating, you wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole.

His head rolls completely around, face-framing curls flopping in his face. His whole body tilts to the side in a dramatic display. 

And in that moment, Eddie makes a decision- you just admitted something, and now it's his turn.

"Does it really make me look stupid?" he asks, tightening the grip on your hip, pulling you ever so slightly closer to him.

You finally raise your gaze to his.

"I- what?" you blink dumbly up at him.

He quickly drags you in even closer, until there’s no space between you at all. Your hands fly up for balance, landing squarely on his broad chest.

"You said earlier, it makes me look stupid," he swallows, "How badly I want to fuck you."

You must have passed out from sheer embarrassment. That’s the only explanation for what’s happening right now- you’d knocked yourself out in humiliation, and now you’re laying on the bathroom floor, dreaming. Because there’s no way Eddie actually just admitted to wanting you, no way he’s holding you this tightly against him, and no way he’s licking his lips as his eyes dart down to your mouth.

"What..." you repeat dazedly.

His head dips down at an aching crawl, like he’s giving you the chance to push him away.

"I thought it was kind of obvious,” he chuckles, “But I like you too, sweetheart. Always have,” a boyish, vulnerable smile flashes across his face.

Instantly a tidal wave of relief floods your body. Your sigh fans across his face, still so close to your own. You didn’t ruin anything. He likes you back. 

Eddie likes you.

“We can talk about what this means later,” he murmurs intimately, one thumb stroking your hip, “But right now I really need to kiss you, so just… tell me to stop."

You don’t stop him. His plush lips brush yours briefly, chastely. Tingles spark where his mouth presses to yours, and now you know it’s not a dream. None of your dreams have ever felt this electric.

When he goes to pull away, you don’t let him. You grasp his face with both hands and pull him hungrily into you, kissing him again- harder this time, more insistent. His mouth parts under the pressure, and he swipes his tongue against your bottom lip. You give him entrance immediately, and you both let out a soft moan at the feeling of his tongue massaging against yours.

It’s unreal- absolutely unreal how good he is at this. When you used to hang out alone, he would always divulge the details of his latest hookup- which cheerleader is actually freaky, which Corroded Coffin groupie cornered him at a venue. You would laugh when he proclaimed himself a sex god (of course, you’d also be secretly jealous of whichever girl he was hooking up with). But you never thought he was actually as good as he claimed, you thought he was exaggerating out of male-pride. Now you can't believe you’d wasted so much time not kissing your best friend.

A giggle rumbles up from your chest.

Oh my God, you think giddily, I’m kissing Eddie. My best friend Eddie.

He pulls away reluctantly with a final quick peck, a string of spit connecting your mouth to his.

“What?” he smirks down at you, with an expression that can only be described as adoration, “What’s got you all giggly, baby?” his hands brush comfortingly up and down your arm.

You snort again at the pet name, your heart swelling and your head lighter than air.

“You,” you ball up his shirt in your grasp and yank him back down to you, “Just you.”

He reattaches himself to your lips, resuming his worship of your mouth. Your arms slide up from his chest to clasp around the back of his neck, and you kiss him harder. One hand reaches up into the curly hair tied up behind his head, and gives an experimental tug. He rewards you with a short gasp. His tongue swipes against the roof of your mouth, almost like he’s trying to tickle you, and you giggle again. 

Kissing him is really, really hot. Ridiculously, leg shakingly, earth-shatteringly hot. 

It’s also full of silly moments. You’re both teasing and prodding at the other, trying to get the other to laugh into the kiss. But you’re also both gasping and panting, holding onto each other with all your strength, growing more and more turned on.

“You know what’s weird?” he says into your mouth.

“Hmm?”

“This doesn’t feel weird. Like, at all,” he squeezes your hips. You give his hair another gentle tug in response.

He’s right- even when you imagined what this moment could be like, there was always the underlying fear that it wouldn’t work, that you and Eddie together would be too awkward. But this is so you- so perfect.

You kiss like that for what feels like forever, taking time to explore each other. Eddie paws at whatever he can reach, the curve of your ass, the plush of your thighs, the divots of your spine.

As the kiss grows more and more heated, the silly teasing dies down. The hands wandering your body grow rougher, more frantically grabbing at you. Your underwear starts to dampen uncomfortably. Something hard and warm presses against your stomach. You’re aching to find out what.

He disconnects from you again, and you pout.

“Hop up for me?” he taps twice at your hip bone.

With his help, you brace yourself on the counter and haul yourself backwards to sit on the edge of the sink. 

“Good girl,” he praises, sharp canines flashing at you roguishly.

Your cheeks heat up at the endearment. Good girl. You’re his good girl. Fuck, that sounds so good coming out of his mouth. You cover your face with your hands and let out an embarrassed whine.

“Oh my God,” he snickers, “I so knew you’d be into that.”

“Shut up,” one hand shoots out to shove at his shoulder. He catches it and presses a mockingly apologetic smooch into your wrist. “Kiss me again.”

You don’t have to tell him twice. Two ring-clad hands grip your legs and spread them wide, an open invitation for Eddie to stand between them. He accepts graciously. Now that he has better access, he tilts your head backwards and leans down to mouth at the spot where your neck and shoulder meet.

Eddie works up and down your throat, pressing bruising kisses into the sensitive skin there. Your hands wander his body as he works, shakily pushing hair from his face, grasping his taut biceps, clutching his ass.

“So good for me,” he mumbles.

You gasp when he sucks and nips one spot particularly roughly, then soothes it with his tongue. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you register that you’ll have crazy hickeys blooming tomorrow, bruises that everyone else will definitely tease you for. But you can’t bring yourself to care, not when Eddie decorated you with them so lovingly.

His hips slowly start to grind into yours, stuttering against your warm, still clothed center.

“Just let me know if you want to slow down,” his words say one thing, but the desperate way he ruts in between your parted thighs says another.

“I’m good,” You shake your head vigorously. You’re burning to keep going. You’ve waited so long to have him touch you, love you, worship you like he’s doing right now. You’re ready for whatever he’s willing to give you, “I wanna keep going. Please.”

“Fuck. Yeah, ok,” he stifles a groan at the desperation in your voice. Lithe fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt to splay against your stomach. His fingertips twirl intricate patterns on your skin, and you shiver at the temperature difference between his hands and the cool metal of his rings. 

With your permission he tugs your shirt upwards and over your head, tossing it on the floor behind him. Silently, you thank your earlier self for putting on your cute bra today.

“Is this ok?” he checks in with you, keeping his hands to himself with great difficulty. His eyes rake over you hungrily.

In answer, you reach behind you to unclasp your bra, tossing it over Eddie’s shoulder.

You lean back on your palms, pushing your chest out as confidently as you can. His eyes bug out of his head the moment you’re half naked, and it’s a shot straight to your ego.

“Holy shit, babe,” he reaches out greedily to grasp at your chest, palming both, pushing them together and then letting them drop into his hands, “Did you know you’re really fuckin’ hot?” he tweaks both nipples in his hands, grinning as they perk up under his touch.

You squirm under his praise.

“Oh, you’re shy again, huh?” he smirks, and dips down to catch the peak of your breast in his mouth. One hand flies shakily to his hair as he nuzzles at you, cradling him tightly to your sternum.

He pulls away from you with a pop, then switches to the other side. His tongue slides over your nipple lasciviously, the tantalizingly wet sound of spit on skin reaches your ears. A soft moan leaves him as he rolls the sensitive bud between his lips. 

The gentle scrape of his teeth is what breaks you.

“Fuck, Eds,” a sound embarrassingly close to a whine escapes your throat.

“Shit, baby, you sound even better than I imagined,” he mumbles against the skin of your chest.

You feel an impossible amount of wetness spreading between your thighs at his admission. He’s thought about this- the mental image of Eddie alone in his trailer, hand palming his cock roughly, getting himself off to the imagined sounds of you moaning- it’s almost too much for you to handle.

“You imagined this?” you ask breathlessly.

He looks up and scoffs, making a face that says, are you kidding me?

“Only every night since I hit puberty,” he ducks back down to suck a mark into your collar bone.

Your head is spinning. Eddie’s lips are on you, his hard cock is nuzzled against your thigh, his soft pants and curses are all because he’s touching you. This all feels unreal, and you’re desperate for more of his skin to be exposed to you.

“Your turn?” you hum, tugging at the bottom of his shirt.

He disconnects from your skin with a pop and grins wolfishly at you. He reaches behind his head and pulls off his t-shirt in one fluid motion, turning at the waist to toss it into the steadily growing pile of discarded clothes.

You should be focusing on his pale taut chest, the curve of his collarbone, his bare arms flexing underneath his tattoos, the sparse trail of hair on his stomach disappearing into the waistband of his boxers- but you can’t.

Your eyes fall to his ribs immediately, to the crisscross of bite marks and scar tissue lacing his sides. You knew he’d been injured saving the world, but you’d never seen how bad it was.

He rushes back into you, eager to reattach his lips to your skin, but you hold him at arm's length. You can’t take your eyes off his healed wounds.

You must look as concerned as you feel, because he's quick to brush you off.

"It looks worse than it is," he tells you humbly, grabbing one of your wrists and pressing it to his side, inviting you to gently brush against the battle-marred skin.

Fuck, it's so easy to forget how close you were to losing him. How he could've been gone, and you wouldn't have had the chance to tell him how you really feel. The last thing you said to him would have been some dumb, meaningless quip. The thought makes you lightheaded, your breath coming in short puffs.

"Hey," he lowers his head to your level, purposefully holding eye contact with you, "I'm okay. I’m not going anywhere, I promise."

You nod erratically, pressing your hands more firmly into his sides. His heart beat flutters through his ribs against your palms. Steady. A bit elevated. 

Perseverant.

"Yeah, I know. I know, I was just thinking," you clear your throat against a voice crack, "That you look pretty metal."

“Yeah?” his face splits into a wide grin.

“Yeah. Metal as hell, Munson,” you lovingly caress the wounds on his side once more.

He pulls you into a heartbreaking kiss. Not as lustful as earlier, softer, yet more insistent. Full of heart and hope and love, and the unmistakable feeling of being alive.

The kiss quickly grows deeper and more desperate, his tongue dragging headily against the roof of your mouth. Your back arches into him when he bites at your lower lip. You both pant into each other's mouths, the press of your nipples against his chest sending shivers down your spine.

Your mouth reaches for his neck, and you mimic his earlier ministrations on you- licking a long wet stripe up his neck, suckling bruises into the hot spot right below his blushed ear. His hips give a weak stutter when your teeth catch his earlobe, and you swear his eyes cross.

“I so knew you’d be into that,” you repeat his tease from earlier, and nibble gently on the shell of his ear.

He presses into you impossibly closer, and what can only be described as a whimper falls from his lips when you leave a love bite on the crux of his jaw.

“Can I touch you now,” he sighs, “Please?”

Mmhmm, you nod eagerly. Equal parts of excitement, arousal and anxiety course through your veins- you’ve waited for this for so long, and now that it’s finally happening, it’s a tad nerve-wracking.

His hands fumble with the button of your jeans, and he glances quickly up at you with a look equally nervous and elated. You’re relieved to know he feels just as nervous as you do. It sets you at ease. Eddie always makes you feel better, even when he isn’t trying.

He pushes and paws at the fabric until it passes over the curve of your ass. You lift your hips off the counter, allowing him enough room to peel the denim off you and drop it to the floor. His eyes glaze over when he turns his gaze back to you.

You sit before him, lips kiss-swollen, chest heaving, completely naked except for a pair of tiny black of panties.

Eddie’s sanity has left the building.

“How are you even real,” he groans, more to himself than to you.

One shaking hand deposits itself on the crease between your thigh and your waiting center. You hum with need. The hand on your thigh peruses you lightly, testingly. You’d expected him to dive right in, to rip off your underwear and go to town, but he doesn’t. He draws it out, building up the anticipation.

His thumb brushes a line across your damp underwear with a smile.

“That’s cute,” he crinkles his nose when you jolt at the sensation of his thumb catching your clit. He goes back to touching everywhere but that electric spot, teasing and rubbing around it, his finger exploring you through the fabric.

“What is?” you shiver, fighting the urge to take his hand and push it back to where you ache for it most.

“How wet you are for me already,” His finger slides shallowly underneath the elastic, just barely ghosting across the sensitive skin. He raises the band of your underwear and lets it go with a snap. You jump slightly at the stinging sensation.

“Eddie!” you yelp, “Stop teasing, you’re being-”

“Mean?”

You huff a small laugh. At first, you think he’s joking. But a mischievous glimmer flashes across his eyes, and then he’s hardening his expression.

His thumb returns to your clit, and you nearly sob in gratitude until you feel how soft he’s being- just barely grazing the nub with each half circle. 

“But I thought,” he leans down and gnaws a gentle bite into your pulse point, “You wanted me to be mean?”

You shake your head desperately.

"No? So what, sweetheart" he says in between nips at your neck, "You gonna let me be nice to you now?"

His thumb circles faster, still only applying the faintest hint of pressure through the soaked fabric. You attempt to grind your hips up into his hand, but he holds your hip down flush against the counter, only allowing you to take as much as he wants to give you.

"I get to say all the nice things I've wanted to say?" he whispers against the shell of your ear. You mumble under your breath, unable to form a proper response. Eddie stills his hand completely.

You let out an embarrassing whine.

“Yes, God, whatever you want, just please, please touch me,” desperation leaks into your voice.

Eddie smiles against the side of your throat and yanks your panties down to hang off one ankle.

“Well, because you asked so nicely,” he swipes two fingers through your folds without further delay.

Your breath catches in your throat as two of his fingers circle your entrance, collecting the wetness that pools there. Fireworks flash in your vision. He dips ever so slightly inside of you, then works his hand upwards towards your clit and gives a testing rub. You stutter through a moan.

“Right there?” he strokes more confidently this time.

“Yeah, that’s- yeah,” you sigh, throwing your head back.

“Fuck,” he drops his head to your shoulder, staring at the way his fingers work against you.

He lets you rock your hips into his hand for a while as he strokes you, chasing the growing sensation. It’s like he can read your mind. He knows exactly the amount of pressure and speed you require to be shaking under him. He’s hardly even touched you, but you can feel your orgasm building up, curling around your insides like tendrils of smoke.

You’ve never needed anything more than to touch him back. With unsteady hands, you reach out to unbuckle his belt, shoving his pants half-way down his thighs unceremoniously. Your hand wraps around his dick through his boxers and gives a few squeezes. He bucks into your hands with a moan, his rhythm on your clit faltering.

You whine when he bats your hands away reluctantly.

“Don’t worry about me, pretty girl,” he whispers, refocusing on you, swiping against your bud in a way that has your toes curling, “This one’s all you.”  

His two fingers disappear momentarily, and he shushes you before you can whine again. He replaces it with his thumb, continuing the rhythm you liked before, and trails his index finger down to inch slowly into your waiting entrance. You gasp at the feeling. It’s just one finger, but it’s so long and thick that you can feel yourself stretch around it.

“You have the prettiest pussy baby, Jesus,” he presses an adoring kiss to your shoulder and gawks at the way his fingers thrust inside you, glistening with your slick.

You can’t even bring yourself to be embarrassed.

Chattering voices pause outside the doorway, and you fight to still yourself, even as Eddie’s fingers work against you, inside you. 

You’re suddenly very aware that he’s fingerfucking you in a bathroom, in the middle of a party, with all your friends just downstairs.

He adds another finger without warning, and you have to slap a hand over your mouth to stifle a moan. Eddie turns his ear towards the door, gauging the distance of the people outside, never pausing the rough drag of his fingers against your walls. His free hand raises to his lips, one finger against his smirking mouth in a hush gesture.

He pulls the tips of his fingers forward in a come-hither motion, rubbing deliciously against the spot inside you that you can never reach with your own hands. Luckily at the exact moment a loud whimper leaves you, whoever’s outside erupts into obnoxious laughter.

You both pause and turn to the door, waiting to make sure no one heard you moan. After what feels like an eternity, the voices in the hallway fade away, the sounds of footsteps thunder down the stairs.

Eddie drops his forehead to your shoulder once more, and redoubles his efforts, thrusting his fingers harder into you, the thumb circling your clit nearing on vicious.

“That was a close one, babe,” he teases, “almost got caught.”

You can feel your bottom half tightening, and your pussy starts to flutter around his hand. Eddie smiles and circles his thumb around, hitting from a new angle, and you’re about to combust.

"I ha-have a room, you know," you gasp through your fingers, your legs start to shake around him.

Eddie shakes his head vigorously into the crook of your neck.

"Nancy, Steve, an' Jonathan are using it."

Well, file that away to ask about later.

“Guess you have to try and keep quiet,” he leans up to kiss you, silencing your growing pants with his mouth.

You whimper against his lips, the hip held in his grip thrashes upwards into his hand, and he holds you steady through it. Your hole squeezes his fingers rhythmically, warning him of your impending orgasm.

“Shit baby, you gonna cum for me already?” he asks incredulously. Color stains high in his cheeks, and he looks so proud of himself, so proud of you.

You nod pathetically.

“Such a good girl,” he simpers.

The rubber band in your stomach tightens impossibly, threatening to snap. His fingers move inside you once, twice, and you’re gone.

“Eds- Eddie, I-” you lean back and come around his fingers with a broken moan. 

It’s like a wildfire, ripping through your whole body without abandon.You don’t care how loud you are, because the only thing that exists right now is Eddie- his hands, his mouth, his panting. You clutch his arm roughly, your nails leaving half-moon impressions in his flesh. He works you through it gently, lovingly pumping his fingers inside you until you have to push his thumb off your clit, shivering from overstimulation.

You catch his lips again in a sloppy, sated kiss.

“That was… wow,” you lean back, resting your cheek against the cold bathroom mirror.

It was much more than “wow”. That was better than you ever dared to hope. If you knew this would happen tonight, that your feelings would be returned, that Eddie would be smiling down at you after giving you one of the best orgasms of your life, you would have walked in on him in the bathroom ages ago.

“Very wow,” He smiles slyly and slips his fingers wetly out of you. 

The cool glass of the mirror against your cheek is a welcome contrast to the hot drag of his fingers leaving you. Your breath still comes out in heavy pants, recovering from your climax. Even as you come down, you still feel that spark inside your gut, that need for him.

Eddie leans across your naked torso to plant a kiss on your cheek, and he nuzzles his nose into your hair.

“Do you wanna stop?” he whispers into the side of your head.

Hmm? You murmur, your brain still fuzzy from the orgasm he just gave you.

“We can stop here, if you want,” he kisses your forehead, “Go back to the party, or just talk?”

You glance down at the erection clearly visible in his boxers- at some point when he was fingering you, he must have shoved off his ripped jeans completely. His chest is flushed completely, heaving silently, and you can tell how turned on he is. He’s straining against his waistband with arousal, and he’s still thinking about your comfort first.

“No!” you lean forward, and brush a finger across the front of his boxers. He shivers at the faint touch, “No, I wanna… wanna keep going.”

His hands tighten against the edge of the counter, his knuckles blanching from the pressure.

“Yeah?” his nearly growls, eyes darkening at the prospect.

“Yeah,” you smile coquettishly, “I want you to fuck me.”

His eyes roll back into his head and shut tight, almost as if he’s saying a quick prayer.

“I was really hoping you’d say that,” he kisses you again fervently, like he’s a man dying of thirst and you’re the last sip of cold water.

His hips slot between yours again, grinding intentionally this time. You exhale a moan as the tip of his cock nudges your oversensitive clit through the fabric. Your wetness spreads around the front of his boxers messily, and you’re about to tear them off him-

"Fuck, shit!" Eddie rips himself away from you without warning, leaving you cold and exposed on the counter, "Shit shit shit," he mumbles. A spike of anxiety rips through you.

"What? What's wrong?"

Eddie drops to his knees on the ground, grabbing his discarded jeans off the floor and digging through the pockets fervently. You nervously cross your arms over your bare chest, watching as he tosses the pants back down. He sighs heavily, not having found what he was looking for.

He rises up and moves to the cabinet above the toilet. Swinging the hinge open, he rifles through your toiletries, cursing under his breath the whole time. He's still in just his underwear. The sight would be comical if this display wasn't making you so nervous.

"Eds, what are you-"

"I don't have a condom. Shit!" he interrupts with his back to you, still shoving through your belongings frantically.

"Eddie-"

"You don't have some down there, do you?" he turns around, points to the cabinet underneath the sink and advances forward to squat in front of you. He grabs both your ankles with one hand and holds them to the side, placing a distracted kiss on your knee before reaching to rummage in the drawers under you.

"Do I keep condoms in the bathroom my mother cleans?" you snort, your legs flexing in his grip, "No."

"Fuck. How about plastic wrap?" he punctuates each suggestion with the slam of a drawer, "Ziploc bag?" slam, "A really thick sock?" slam.

"Eddie, stop," you giggle and grab his face between your hands, stilling his restless body. He stares up at you through his lashes, breathing hard, and trails his hands up from your ankles to grip your thighs.

"It's okay," you reassure him, "I'm on the pill. So, if you want to- I mean I really want you to- ya' know..." you trail off.

He exhales unsteadily.

"You want me to come inside you?"

Your chest tightens with slight embarrassment. Hopefully that doesn't freak him out, but yes. You can't think of anything besides Eddie fucking into you with no barrier, feeling every twitch, him spilling so deep inside you that you can feel it for days after.

You nod at him, tight lipped.

His forehead drops to your thigh and he lets out another shaky breath. You wiggle impatiently on your tailbone, waiting for him to respond. He settles his shoulders decisively, and you're almost worried he's about to turn you down. Instead he lunges up and catches your lips in a bruising kiss.

"This is my fuckin' wet dream, I swear," he yanks your hips to the very edge of the counter. He kisses you again, all tongues and teeth, and his underwear disappears in an instant. 

You’re floored. Like, your jaw is dropped, absolutely flabbergasted- and that’s not a word you throw around lightly.

“Holy shit,” you pull away to stare at him, completely naked and aching before you.

“Impressive, right?” he waggles his eyebrows at you, “Do I live up to your imagination?”

Impressive is definitely the right word. You’d felt him earlier, just briefly, but nothing could have prepared you for the sight of him. He easily has the nicest dick you’ve ever seen. It’s fucking pretty- a trail of dark hair leading mouth-wateringly down, blushed as red as the rest of him, and leaking pearly drops of arousal at the tip. 

It’s also way bigger than you anticipated. Like, I don’t know if it’ll fit bigger. Your eyes widen with slight anxiety.

I have no idea where the fuck you think you’re putting that, buddy.

“I mean, yeah. Better than imagination. But- uh…” you swallow. He has to know how intimidating this is.

“Hey, you’re gonna be fine, baby,” he drops the smug act and cups your face, “I’ll go slow, ok? Just let me know if I need to stop.”

With one final glance down at his throbbing cock, you give a sharp nod.

“Yeah, ok,” you steel yourself and brace against the counter as he grabs himself with one hand, giving a few short pumps before lining himself up with you.

The stretch you feel around just the tip of his cock is insane. He’d already worked you open with an orgasm around his thick fingers, and you’re drenching both your thighs with your arousal. You’re as prepared as you could possibly be, but this much of his cock inside you already makes you feel full.

“Oh my God,” he groans as he slowly breaches the ring of muscle at your entrance, “You’re so wet baby, Jesus.” You know from previous drunken conversations that Eddie has never had sex without a condom before. It must be taking all his willpower to go slow for your sake.

He moans your name brokenly, just barely inching himself inside you. You desperately want to hear that again.

You wiggle your hips gently and clench around him, anything you can do to get him to moan your name again. He has to shoot his hand to the countertop and grab it ferociously to stop himself from bucking his hips fully into you.

“Not nice, sweetheart,” he growls, “I don’t wanna hurt you. Play nice.”

Your pouting is cut off by a moan when he gently thrusts further into you.

“Fuck- how are you still so- ah- tight?” the hand gripping the counter comes up to clutch at your breast. His grip is just on the edge of painful, and he claws at you like he’s trying to distract himself, to calm himself down. You hope you’ll have finger shaped bruises to stare at in the morning.

You hum and pant, “I think you’re just really… really big.”

He huffs an uneven laugh at that.

He’s only halfway in when you hold him still with your thighs, clenching them tight around his waist and trembling with exertion. It’s not exactly painful, it’s just so much. You need a second before he continues.

You tremble for a few moments, then give him a quick nod, his cue to keep going.

“Good?” he swipes a hand down your arm affectionately.

“I’m good, I’m- I’m good,” to be honest, you could use a few more seconds. But you want him to just fuck you already so bad, you’re willing to endure a bit of pain.

He clicks his tongue in doubt. He’s always read you like a book, and he knows you’re fibbing a bit.

“Relax, sweetheart. Just relax for me, ok?” his hands drops down to your clit and starts to circle gently. You sigh and lean back against the mirror, giving Eddie ample space to bite at your exposed throat and chest.

The new angle, paired with Eddie’s mouth and fingers relaxing you, serves to open you up enough for him to bottom out completely. You both moan when he sinks fully into your heat. 

His hand removes itself startlingly from yours. Your calf comes up to rub against his hip, and you attempt to kiss him, but he’s not looking at you anymore.

Eddie’s eyes are trained straight ahead into the mirror, his brows furrowed deep, his mouth clenched hard. His arms are braced next to your shivering form on the counter, and his whole body is statuesque with tension, except for a slight shake in his shoulders.

“Eddie,” you whisper, “It’s ok, you can move now-”

“No.”

He doesn’t even look at you when he says it. He keeps his eyes trained forward, his brows cinching impossibly tighter. It almost looks like he’s giving himself an internal pep talk in the mirror.

You scoff. It’s sweet that he’s trying not to hurt you, but you’re more than ready.

“Really, I’m ok,” you wiggle your hips around his thick cock, feeling victorious when he exhales sharply, “I want you to-”

His hands grab your hips fiercely, holding you down with all his strength so you can’t bounce down onto him. You pout at him, eager for him to do something, do anything.

“I know. I know, just… give me a second,” he grits out, “Or I’m gonna finish before we even get started.”

Oh.

You hide a proud smile. Your pussy is driving him so crazy he’s about to cum without even moving. It’s ridiculously hot. It’s also something you can tease him for later, but not right now. Right now you lean back on your hands and put space between your bodies, giving him room to calm himself down.

“‘M trying to think about baseball.” he huffs humorously, “But I don’t know anything about baseball.”

You start to grow fidgety as the seconds tick by, waiting for him to move. 

You’re only getting wetter at the feeling of him unmoving inside you, filling you so completely, like he was made to fit right there.

“Eddie, please,” you whine, teasingly clenching around his length, “”S ok. Don’ wanna wait anymore, just please, please fuck me-

He tilts his hips back and then thrusts forward, and he’s finally, finally fucking you.

It's not comfortable. The counter digs into the flesh of your thighs, your panties hang garishly off one ankle, every thrust of Eddie's hips shoves your head into the mirror behind you. 

It's not comfortable, but you hardly even notice because it feels so good.

He thrusts into you, and you lose track of time, lose track of anything besides the feel of him burying himself deeper than you thought possible.

“Oh my God,” you dig your hands into the curly hair at the base of his neck, his hair tie having long since been pulled out. His forehead is flush to yours, and he’s peppering your face with little kisses, a sweet gesture in stark contrast to the filthy way he fucks into you.

“You ha-have no idea how… fuck- long I’ve wanted to do this,” he moans at the feeling of your warmth dragging wetly against him.

“Me too,” you admit breathlessly, “‘S always been you, Eds.”

“Just for me, yeah?” he says with a sharp thrust, “This little pussy is all for me?”

If anyone else had spoken to you like this, you would be beyond embarrassed. But there’s something about the way Eddie spits filth so possessively, so passionately. It makes you burn with need.

“Yes, fuck, all for you, only for you,” you whisper.

You can already feel that tension growing in your stomach again. His hair forms a soft curtain around your face, and he’s the only person in the world right now. His tongue flicks out over his lips as he concentrates, and even as his thrusts grow more desperate, he flashes you the sweetest smile.

Perfect.

One of your hands reaches back down to your aching pussy, to the place where he splits you open. You gingerly caress the place where his cock meets his body and he stutters.

Your hand trails back up to your clit and you start to circle it, chasing the orgasm you can feel squeezing your insides.

He pulls your hand away and replaces it with his own, using his thumb to work toe-curling strokes into your clit in time with his thrusts. Your eyes roll to the ceiling at the sensation, and you’re so close.

Eddie’s close too, you can feel it. His pants and moans grow higher, breathier. The movement of his hips grows frantic and erratic, and he starts to shake. He loses the ability to form sentences, the only coherent words coming out as broken curses and stutters of your name.

The hand that isn’t circling your clit slides up your body and deposits itself over your collarbone.

“Can I…” he hovers his palm over your throat, asking for permission.

“Yes, ohmygod, please,” you lean your neck up into his waiting grasp. He gives a gentle squeeze, never harder than a soft grip. It isn’t about controlling your air. Instead it feels like Eddie having total possession of you- the willingness to place your most vulnerable pieces in his hands for safe keeping.

Eddie nearly cums on the spot when he catches sight of you with your eyes shut tight, moaning his name, with his rings glinting lowly around your throat.

Neither of you are going to last much longer. The hand circling your clit doubles down, and you nearly black out. Full body shivers wrack your body, and Eddie isn’t doing much better- he looks ready to snap.

“You gonna be a good girl and come for me again, baby?” he asks you, lightly squeezing at your throat and bearing down on your clit. 

You nod and whine as his cock nudges against your plush walls, your pussy fluttering around his cock as you come hard.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” both his hands drop to your hips when he feels you coming around him, and he ruts up into the tightness. He gives a full body shake and a final broken little whimper, and then he’s spilling deep inside you.

You’re both panting, chests heaving with your release. You lean back so your shoulders rest against the (now foggy) mirror, and Eddie follows, draping himself over you, cuddling you as best he can in the cramped bathroom.

When he goes to slip out, you stop him with your thighs, keeping his cock still inside you. You’re not quite ready for him to leave your warmth yet. He chuckles lightly and drags you back up to a sitting position. You grumble, but allow him to manipulate you where he wants you. He pulls your arms up to rest around his neck, and his come down to wrap around your waist. You exchange soft breaths, both caught up in what just happened.

“Well, fuck me,” he mumbles after a minute or two, “I was always rooting for us crazy kids to get together,” he tickles lightly at your sides.

You giggle at that, and snort again when his whole body seizes up. Whenever you laugh, you clench around his now-softening, overstimulated length.

“Fuck. I gotta take it out now, sweetheart,” he warns. He slips wetly out of you and slots his mouth over yours to catch the moan falling from your lips. You feel intensely empty, but satiated. Although now, you’re not sure you’ll ever feel whole again without some part of him inside you.

Seconds later, his cum begins to drip out of you. Eddie notices as you stiffen up, eyes dropping to your naked center then back up to your face. Before you have a chance to deal with the mess, he’s dragging your panties from your ankle, up your legs, and hitching them to their rightful place over your ass. He flashes a dastardly smile, very aware that his cum will stay in your underwear, keeping the smeary mess between your thighs. Gross.

Hot.

He leans onto the counter and kisses you easily, lazily as you both come down from your highs.

After a while you part from each other. He offers a gentlemanly hand to help you down onto your shaky legs. 

The pair of you begin to redress in silence. It’s just a tad awkward. Still nice, but the vibe is a bit delicate. You can feel a question lingering in the air- where do we go from here?

“Well, Henderson’s gonna be really smug about this,” Eddie smirks, pulling his underwear and pants up his legs in one easy motion.

You pause halfway into pulling on your shirt over your head, your arms extended upwards, your belly exposed to the muggy bathroom air.

“Dustin talked to you too?” your voice is muffled by the fabric. Eddie laughs at the sight.

“Yeah, he’s the one who convinced me to leave the meeting early tonight. He helped me work up the nerve to tell you how I feel,” he admits.

You finally wrestle your shirt down.

“Oh my God,” you cup the sides of your face in embarrassment, “That kid is a little fucking puppet master! He totally manipulated us into- not manipulated, sorry, that’s not the right word, that makes it seem like I didn’t want to- you know, but I really, really did, I promise,” you ramble on, growing increasingly more flustered, “Ugh, not the point! I’m totally gonna kick his ass!”

“Well, I’m gonna thank him,” Eddie drags you into him and plants a sweet kiss on your cheek, “And then I’m gonna kick his ass.”

You laugh gently at that. Silence settles back over you again, and you back up ever so slightly to cross your arms over your chest. One of Eddie’s hands grabs at his hair and pulls it in front of his face, hiding behind it.

“So, I-”

“Eds-”

You both speak over each other, and giggle again. This kind of awkwardness is new, and sweet, and something you’re excited to explore with him. Your palm slides down his arm and catches his hand in a loose hold.

“You first?” you offer.

He nods and takes a deep breath.

"I went through a lot a few months ago,” he taps the scars on his rib absently, “And maybe it would be easier if we were just friends.”

Your heart sinks at those words. You drop his hand and retreat further. Oh. Maybe you misread everything that just happened. Just… friends. Just friends who hook up? You don’t think you could handle that.

“No, hey, listen. That came out wrong,” he huffs, and grabs both your hands in his once more, “Almost dying from those stupid fucking bats, it made me realize... I don't want ‘easy' with you. I don’t want to be just friends. And I don’t want this to just be a hookup, either.”

You exhale shakily. You’re beyond relieved, but questions still niggle in the back of your mind. Was he worried about that? That you just wanted a hookup?

"This isn't just... I don't want you to think- fuck, why is this so hard?" you groan.

"Yeah, it was pretty hard, huh?" he waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“Shut up,” you shove lightly at his shoulder, “I’m trying to be vulnerable here!”

He smirks down at you gently.

“Not exactly your forte, sweetheart.”

Once again, he reads you like a book. But if you want to make this work, you have to let him know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, how you feel about him. 

Be vulnerable.

Your two index fingers hook into the loops of his belt and pull him into you flirtily. You push yourself up on your tiptoes and bring your face close to his, like you’re about to kiss him.

“I think you should spend the night,” you pull back slightly just before your lips touch his. His face sours jokingly, but he allows you to continue, “And then tomorrow you should take me on a date. And then, you can ask to be my… boyfriend, or whatever.” you make a silly face at the word boyfriend.

His doe-eyes light up, and his teeth bare in the most radiant smile you’ve ever seen.

“Boyfriend, huh? Very official. I like it,” he leans in slowly, achingly slowly, and his lips are just barely brushing yours-

Knock Knock Knock.

Both your heads whip around to the door at the sudden sound.

“Hey,” you recognize Dustin’s muffled voice, “Are you guys done having sex in there? I need to pee and Gareth’s totally throwing up in the other bathroom.”

You cover your mouth to hold in a raucous laugh. Yeah, you’re totally kicking that kid’s ass later. Eddie holds his hands up to you as you're about to respond, and gives you a shh gesture. He cups his hands around his mouth like a megaphone.

“AhAhAh! Fuck ohmygodfuck I’m gonna-,” Eddie loudly fake moans and whines in a high pitched voice at the door, aiming to scar the kid for life. You hit him lightly on the shoulder, holding in silent giggles the whole time.

“EW WHAT THE FUCK,” Dustin screams, and you hear him run off loudly in the opposite direction of the bathroom.

You turn to each other and burst into laughter. Eddie throws his arm around your shoulder as you unlock the door, opening it wide, ready to face whatever comes next together.

"You're such an asshole, Eddie," you roll your eyes. Your face feels like it’s going to split from how hard you’re grinning.

"Yeah,” he gives you a quick peck on the cheek, “Only for you, princess."

___

here's where that line is originally from!

crossposted to ao3

#eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x afab!reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #stranger things x reader #stranger things x reader smut #stranger things x y/n #stranger things x you #stranger things #stranger things spoilers #st4 #st4 spoilers #stranger things 4 #stranger things 4 spoilers #my eddie stuff

[gemini-sensei]

With the GirlCock!Tory and LaRusso!Reader, what if after a few months of them graduating and the two are still dating and messing around, Reader actually gets pregnant? And the family finds out?

Girlcock!Tory x Chubby!LaRusso!Reader

Part One | Part Two ○ Fem!Reader

CW: slight smut, blowjobs, secret relationships, pregnancy and symptoms, nondescript but mentioned vomiting, pet name: babe, breeding kink, a tad bit unhinged. A/N: in this, Reader goes to college, just fyi. Also, Sam and Reader attend different colleges, bare with me on that one lol. (unedited)

I've been putting this off for no good reason

○ After graduation, Reader and Tory keeps their relationship a secret. There's barely any conversation about whether they will tell Reader's family, just going with the motions of transitioning out of high school and into the real world. Tory has no issue with it, used to the hard work that goes into busy workdays and long hours. Reader has it cushy and relaxed at home with her parents and siblings, but Tory finds herself never wanting Reader to lift a finger.

○ Their little relationship is a lot of Reader coming up to Tory's job just to see her. She left the house telling her parents that she was going to see some friends, have an adventure before college starts in autumn, but really she's sneaking away to go see Tory, who flirts with her relentlessly the whole time she's there. At first, she wanted to act like Reader was too much of a distraction and be mad about it, but couldn't hold up that front for long.

○ When she goes on break, she and Reader sneak off to Reader's car to have a quickie. Sometimes it's just a bj that has Tory rolling her eyes into the back of her head. Those are the times she really shoves Reader's head down on her cock and makes her gag on it as she comes down her throat. Other times, they have a quick fuck in the backseat where Reader has to ride her because if they get caught, Tory could get fired. The thrill adds to Tory's high in all honesty.

○ As summer goes on, Reader finds herself at Tory's place a lot more. If she stayed the night, she hangs out while Tory gets ready in the morning or she'll wake up a little earlier and make breakfast for her. Days off, they spend the whole day together - either staying in bed or watching TV.

○ At night, Tory loves having Reader in her bed. She secretly loves the cuddles Reader gives, holding her curvy body close. There's no way she'll ever actually admit to it, but it's her favorite part of the day.

○ When it comes time to go to college, Reader moves out of her parents' house and into a little apartment not far from school. It isn't too long of a drive from the Valley to the school, but her parents didn't want her to "waste time driving." They pay for the place so she can focus on school, and that's fine, but she's lonely. The first weekend, she invites Tory over to "help her unpack" but all they end up doing is packing Reader full of cum.

○ Tory loves driving down to see Reader because it's way more private for them. They don't have to worry about getting caught or someone from her family interrupting them. Sure, the thrill of sneaking around was fun, but as their relationship continues, Tory finds herself not wanting to hide anymore. She just wants to be with Reader.

○ A few weeks into the first semester, Reader starts feeling under the weather. She gets up and goes to class, but by the end of the day she's unbearably tired. Then she starts getting dizzy spells and nausea. She made the mistake of complaining about it to Sam because her sister drove all the way from her college to Reader's. Reader has to tell Tory not to come see her even though the only person she wants to see at that time is Tory.

○ Sam comes to take care of her sister, but as soon as she finds Reader dry heaving over the toilet, she hates where this looks like it's going. She eases into the idea; she asks if Reader's been to any parties and if she's met anybody and Reader tells her no and of course not. Answers like that make Sam confused and suspicious. However, she doesn't accuse her of lying and just suggests that she take a pregnancy test.

○ She holds Reader as they wait for the test to come back and when they see that it's positive, Sam has to ask her why she's lying about seeing someone. Reader doesn't want to answer, but that just makes her sister even more worried.

"If you just hooked up with someone, that's okay," she tells Reader, holding her worried and sweet sister. She tries to keep her calm, but in reality, Sam is the one close to freaking out. "You just have to tell me what happened." "No offense, Sam, but it's none of your business right now," Reader tells her, wanting nothing more than Tory there with her in this moment.

○ They spend the weekend finding a good doctor nearby and Monday confirming the pregnancy at a little doctor's office. Sam assures Reader the entire time that she has options, but Reader isn't listening. She's just going over what she's going to tell her girlfriend - hardworking, unstoppable Tory. Sure, Tory's breeding kink is prevalent in their sex lives, but is it just a kink? She knows they'd have to talk about it, but Sam will have to be gone before that can happen.

○ Before Sam finally leaves, Reader makes her swear not to tell their parents and Sam tells her that she won't. Then, like the wind, she's gone and Reader can only hope Sam keeps her mouth shut.

○ She's not that shy little girl she once was. She's a full fledged college student now, so she didn't need her sister or parents nosing around in her personal life all the time. However, she doesn't know what to do. She's supposed to be focused on school, not having a baby. On top of that, though she is an adult, she's still young and worried about what her parents are going to think. It's a lot of complex layers that amount to a lot of weight on her shoulders.

○ The next weekend Tory comes to see her, she sits her down immediately because she's too nervous to even try to act like nothing's up. She keeps it simple and short:

"I'm pregnant," Reader says. She started off by looking at Tory, but quickly looks down at her lap and pulls out the pregnancy test. She hands it over before Tory can get a word out and doesn't say anything else. Tory takes the test and looks at it, kind of stunned. However, that is quickly overpowered by the immense sense of pride she feels over it. Her breeding kink is blazing and everything is just telling her how great this is. So she puts the test aside and lifts Reader's head to make her look up at her. "Babe... this is all I've ever wanted with you," she tells her. Reader gets a little flushed, feeling like they're in high school again when Tory would go out of her way to make her feel so flustered. However, she bounces back with, "Well, actually, this all started with you wanting to make my life Hell." It makes Tory laugh and hug her close, squeeze her tight to her chest and give her a quick peck. "Yeah, yeah, hold that over my head, why don't you?"

○ Following such a conversation, Reader and Tory had celebratory sex. Instead of the hard and rough sex they usually have though, Tory took things slow and gentle with Reader. Worshipped her body and made her feel good, but that didn't mean her breeding kink didn't still shine through... "Just have to make sure you're really pregnant." "What's one more?" "Trust me, babe, this isn't the gonna be the last time I breed this tight, fat cunt of yours.

○ As time goes on, they decide to tell her parents of course. They can't hide a pregnancy and a baby from them, plus Sam already knows. She just doesn't know that it's Tory that Reader has been seeing. It's a lot to tell them, so they put it off a while.

○ Come winter break, Reader can't get out of going back to the Valley like she did for fall break. So she packs a bag with her maternity clothes, tosses toiletries and her prenatal meds in while she holds her little bump, and ensures she packs an extra pair of comfy shoes. Tory comes to drive her, puts her bag in the car and holds her hand the entire way there.

○ When they pull up to the LaRusso house, everyone sees the car but is too busy to notice that it isn't Reader's car. Sam comes to the door to greet her sister, intercepting since she's the only one who know's Reader is pregnant, but before she can greet her she's shocked by Tory's presence.

"Reader, what is she doing here?" Sam asks, as if Tory isn't standing right there. Reader gives a little smile and holds up her and Tory's joined hands. "She's my girlfriend, Sam... and the mother of my child." Sam is frozen in the doorway, to the point Amanda has to come out see what's going on. "Sam, is everything okay?" she asks, but is quickly made speechless what she sees her other daughter at the door with Sam's rival and a hand on her belly. All she can let out is an, "Oh my."

○ Amanda regains her self faster than Sam and invites the couple in, telling Reader that they can go get settled upstairs. They scurry off, Tory trying not to laugh as they escape to Reader's old room before her father can see them. Tory drops Reader's bag and they sit on the bed. Tory has to pepper Reader's face with kisses to calm her nerves, rubbing her belly soon after. She knows Reader has been worries about what her family will think.

○ There's a knock at the door and Anthony pokes his head on. When he sees them fussing over Reader's belly, he says, "Damn, I thought Sam would be the one knocked up in college."

"Anthony!" Reader seethes, embarrassed by his words. Tory just laughs at him. "What are you doing here?" "I live here. Plus, I heard mom and Sam whispering to each other and had to come see if what they were talking about was true." Anthony walks in like he owns the place, shutting the door for some privacy at least. It still makes Reader roll her eyes because he's still the same as ever. He looks between them and asks, "So did you two have a threesome or something?" Tory doesn't shy away from giving him the answer. "No, I fucked your sister with my big dick." "Ha ha," he lets out humorlessly, but when he sees the cocky look on Tory's face, he deadpans. "Wait, you have a dick?"

○ When it's time to walk downstairs, Tory holds Reader's hand the whole time. They first go to Amanda and Sam, explaining some of their relationship and how Reader got that pretty little bump. They don't give them all the details of course, glossing over the parts where Tory used to bully Reader. Sam hasn't forgotten those days and wants to say something about it, but their mom stops her from bringing it up.

○ Then Daniel walks in and he greets Tory, trying not to be so put off by her presence. He got some of the details from his wife, so he's just trying to act civil since Sam is spiraling. However, all that goes out the window when he hugs Reader and feels the new bump protruding from her abdomen. He pulls away, holding her shoulders, and looks at her with a "please tell me that's not what I think it is" look and she just smiles at him.

"Surprise," she says, a little weary.

○ Daniel almost faints, but manages to stay upright as he starts barreling questions at his daughter and her girlfriend. It's a little overwhelming, but when he asks "how did this even happen?" Anthony walks by and nonchalantly says, "Tory's cock, obviously."

○ Meltdown mode activated. Not because Tory has a cock, but because Daniel never needed to know that. Daniel would have lived blissfully if he never knew his daughter was having sex with anyone. Amanda has to walk him out of the room and tell him to calm down because he's only going to stress out their pregnant daughter.

○ While they're out of the room, Reader gets held by Tory, who tells her that went a lot better than she expected. She kisses Reader's head and keeps her nerves at bay, ignoring everyone else in the room. Sam bares witness to the seemingly 180 shift that's been made, seeing Tory be so gentle with her sister as opposed to the rough and mean treatment that occurred before. She's suddenly not so opposed to the idea of Tory and her sister after all.

○ But neither Reader or Tory care what's going on around them. They have each other and that's enough for them. Tory's taken care of herself more often than not and the last few months, she's been taking care of Reader and their growing little one in her belly, so she's not worried about getting support from anywhere else.

○ However, it's a warm welcome when Reader's parents come back in to tell them that they're happy for them. They still need to get used to the fact that their daughter is even dating anyone, let alone pregnant. But after most of the shock wears off, they know they're getting a two new additions to their family and that's something worth celebrating for the holidays.

#girlcock!tory #tory nichols x chubby reader #tory nichols smut #tory nichols x reader #tory nichols #tory nichols headcanons #pregnant reader #pregnancy headcanon #pregnancy #larusso!reader #cobra kai #cobra kai headcanons #cobra kai x reader #cobra kai x chubby reader #cobra kai x plus size reader #chubby reader #plus size reader #sam larusso #daniel larusso #daniel is a disaster #amanda larusso #anthony larusso #gemini sensei

[aziawow]

secret kisses (lash x f!reader) 13k+ words

summary: you and lash hate each other, but an unexpected kiss sparks a certain arrangement. a very hot, very secret arrangement.

warnings: lots of descriptive kissing, mild swearing, mild violence, very brief toilet humor, brief underage drinking, brief intoxication, vomit mention (nondescriptive), blood mention (nondescriptive)

notes: stronghold!reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns, reader has telekinetic powers but that doesn't matter until the end

Boomer hauls you and Lash into the principal’s office, yammering away like he had in the cafeteria and in the hallway. You’re barely paying attention, your focus on the earlier events and containing your fury rather than the loud coach. 

He uses the grip he has on both of your arms to toss you in the two seats in front of the desk. You’re silent, not sparing a glance Lash’s way and not wanting to meet Boomer’s eyes. 

He sighs heavily and runs a hand down his face. “Principal Powers is still dealing with your mess, so until she’s done, you two are gonna stay in here.” He begins to walk back to the door. “Try not to kill each other, and don’t leave this room. Just to make sure,” he holds up a key. 

“What if there’s a fire,” Lash drawls. 

You roll your eyes and Boomer ignores him. The door shuts and the only sound you can hear is the jingle of metal as Boomer locks you in. 

You last all of one minute before you explode. 

“I cannot believe you,” you fume at Lash. “Wait, actually, I can. Pretty on par for you. What I can’t believe is how you think this is anything other than your fault.”

Lash clenches his jaw. “My fault? If it wasn't for you this entire thing wouldn’t have happened.” 

You jump to your feet and face him. “Me? You started it! You always start it!”

He gets up and towers over you, face hard as he glares down at you. “That doesn’t mean you have to finish it. You can’t leave well enough alone, can you?” You scrunch your nose at him. 

“No, I can’t. Not when you pick on defenseless kids right in front of me! You expect me to do nothing while you humiliate them?” You step closer to him, secretly pleased when he sharply inhales at your proximity. Good. He should be afraid of you. “You are nothing. But. A. Bully,” you enunciate by jabbing his chest with a finger. “I am sick of your behavior.” He scowls. 

“I’m sick of you! Ruining my fun all the time. Making that face you make all the time.” Lash gestures to your face, clearly peeved about something.

You reel back, confused. “My face? There’s nothing wrong with my face. What about your face, huh? Always twisted up in that mischievous look you have when you’re doing something mean. And it’s not just one part of your expression, oh no, it’s your whole face,” you say, waving your hand around him, nearly taking an eye out. He grabs your wrist and pulls it down. “With that stupid troublemaking grin and the way your eyebrows pinch together when you’re plotting. Your eyes are the worst. They have this look in them that’s so cocky, like you know you can get away with whatever you want. But you can’t! I hate it.” 

He tilts his head, completely in disbelief. “You have a face too. I call it your Getting Lash In Trouble Look. Always so innocent, but I know the truth. You pretend to be this good samaritan, a champion for the people when really you just like the attention you get from being a busybody—”

“Busybody!”

“—and messing with me! You literally can’t let anything go ever! It’s so annoying. Every single time you look so sweet and blameless and when they praise you for being a hero, you smile like you’re shy, which is a total fucking lie, I’ve never met anyone as conceited as you, with the way you pat yourself on the back like snitching on me is a badge of honor!” 

Your jaw drops. “I do not!”

“Yes you do,” he argues. “And you bat your eyelashes and it makes me so mad because that’s what does it! That’s what gets me in trouble! I don’t know how you do it, but whenever you flutter your dumb long lashes like that it convinces them to throw me in detention. It’s a weapon you use against me and you know it. It’s deceitful.” 

You’re taken aback. You are not hearing what you are hearing, surely. “The second you decide to harass someone is what gets you thrown in detention, asshole. I have nothing to do with it.” 

Lash scoffs. “‘Nothing to do with it’,” he parrots. “You have everything to do with it!”

You get in his face, which proves to be immensely difficult as he’s so much taller than you, but you’d rather fall off the edge of the school than back down now. 

“Everything?” 

“Everything,” he confirms. 

You are, genuinely, at a loss for words. You’re so frustrated and infuriated with him that all you can do is glare at him. This conversation is giving you a serious headache, but you have enough of a mind to be furious that he, technically, got the last word.  

You’re breathing hard, staring into his eyes, and you, all of a sudden, notice he’s doing the same thing. You also notice how close he is. It’s normal for you two to butt heads, but not literally. You’ve had arguments that shook the whole school, but you’ve never been this close to him. 

You know what everyone says about you. That all the fights are a result of unresolved sexual tension. No one ever dared to say it to your face, and most likely they’ve never mentioned it to Lash, but the gossip mill runs fast at Sky High and a ridiculous amount of people are terrible at whispering.

It enrages you when they imply there’s something more going on between you, but you can't deny the fact that you and Lash have some sort of attraction to each other. Always seeking each other out to push and shove, endless arguing and, admittedly, some preening. You convinced yourself it's not a sexual or romantic attraction. You hate each other, it’s just that neither of you can get away from the other. 

But.

You can’t deny you have a certain energy with Lash. You always have. He knows it too. There was this electricity between you two, and that's half the reason you hate him so much. Every time you think you might be genuinely attracted to him—because you’re not blind and, despite your feelings, it’s an undeniable fact that Lash is a seriously attractive guy—you get angry at yourself, at Lash, at everything for being so confusing and unfair. Your hormones are unbelievably stupid around him.

Which is how it happens. 

You and Lash are similarly breathless after your fight, and realizing you can feel the little puffs of air from his mouth on your face overwhelms your thoughts instantly. 

Again, you notice how close the two of you are. 

In his eyes, you still find simmering anger, but his edges have softened now. The way he’s staring at you, focused and drawn—it’s as if, to him, you’re the only person in the world. Like you're some kind of puzzle he wants to take apart and inspect bit by bit, wanting to know the pieces and touching along the ridges until he can commit them to memory. 

He’s not relaxed exactly, he’s calmer, but there’s another kind of tension you can feel coming from him. He breaths again, and when you feel his breath on your lips, you can’t stop your eyes from dropping down to his. 

They’re an incredible shade of pink, and for a moment they disappear as he quickly licks them, a constant tick of his you noticed a long time ago. 

You blink back up at him, somehow closer than ever. You see the question in his eyes: are we really gonna do this? You also see something dark and longing.

That is…unfamiliar to you. You know all of his looks and expressions by heart, particularly because they are so often aimed at you, but never something like this. Like wanting. It makes you stop, heart stuttering. 

You begin to move your arm, why you did and where it was going is unbeknownst to you, when you realize Lash has been holding your wrist the entire time. Probably since he had moved your hand away from his face just minutes ago. 

Both of you look down at the two hands in between you. He squeezed you slightly before releasing you slowly, but you don’t move away. Instead, you continue to hold your arm out, letting his fingers run along your wrist and your palm, slow and aching. It tingles, and you gasp lightly at the feeling. 

Lash, taking that as a sign, clasps his hand around yours and tugs you towards him. 

You go readily, and when you meet his gaze, you lean in and your lips finally meet. 

The kiss was tentative at first, but after a few seconds, you sink into it completely. You let go of his hand at the same time he drops yours. How else was he going to wrap his arms around you and hold you? Yours comes up and fists in his hair, running it through his soft strands over and over as you kiss. You had an arm curled under his, a hand gripping at his shoulder, something to keep you steady and touching all of him that you possibly could. 

One of his hands rubbed up and down your back, stroking and feeling purposefully, and when it grazed over a sensitive spot, you moaned into his mouth. Your feelings for him were a complicated mess but this was easy and so, so good. 

Your resolve slipped as you careened into him further. You were still so angry at him and you kissed him exactly how you fight with him: swift and calculated, but with an edge of vengeance and fire as you undo him as he does to you. Lash, similarly, wasn’t gentle with you. He did what he always does and takes, chasing satisfaction but not doing so without a show of power. Just to remind you who he is. You, unlike his victims, were not helpless. You matched him stride for stride, insistent and sure, unrelenting as you refused to let this spark burn out. 

He kissed you deeper, his tongue slipping in and you didn’t think about it: you let him, because his mouth on yours? It felt absolutely and completely— 

The door rattled. 

—horrible! So, so horrible! 

You push Lash away, both of you staring at each other wide eyed and cheeks flushed, disbelief and confusion evident on Lash’s face. Damn you for thinking this caught-off-guard looked good on him!

You had seconds to compose yourself, but after a kiss like that? You were lucky to look half as composed as you felt when Principal Powers burst in. 

“Instigating a food fight? That's a new low, even for you two. Now, here’s what’s gonna happen...”

You listened to her as best you could, but your mind kept straying back to that kiss without your permission. 

It was so.. intense. It kind of makes sense, you think. With what you know about yourself and Lash and yourself in relation to Lash, everything you two do was heated and passionate exactly like that. You’ve always known that you and Lash are cosmic forces mere moments from colliding, but kissing him? Surely the universe was laughing at you. It’s Lash. 

The two of you were sent home, serving a half day of suspension and the rest of the week in after school detention. Together. 

You were surprised that she didn’t make you clean up the cafeteria, but the janitor with a cleaning power begged her not to for a reason you can’t recall, and that was perfectly fine with you. The cafeteria was a mess, cleaning it all up would take forever. 

There was hell to pay when you got home. Your parents, the Commander and Jetstream, were extremely disappointed to say the least. Honestly, you were barely paying attention to the lecture your mom was giving you. It’s always a sermon with her, and who would rather listen to that than lose their mind over having the World’s Most Earth Shattering Kiss? 

It stayed in your mind the rest of the night, the next morning, and all throughout the school day. You and Lash had a few classes together but sat nowhere near each other, so it was easy to avoid him. Then detention came along. 

You met him at the room, eyes darting away from each other just as quick as they were found, and you walk in. 

Mr. Medulla was assigned as your detention teacher, but he had an experiment in the observation stage so he couldn’t stay in the room the entire time. In fact, he didn’t stay at all. He promised to make periodic check in’s, told you to pass the time with homework, did an evil laugh, and walked away. 

You had your homework out, but made zero progress on it. The silence was so suffocating that, in a roundabout way, made you want to laugh hysterically. You didn’t want to say anything or even talk about it, but at the same time you had to know. Why did it happen? How did it happen? When it happened, did he feel the same things? Feel the same way? These questions nagged at you, but when Lash spoke up without warning, you panicked. 

“So…you kissed me.” 

“Nope.” Deny, deny, deny. 

“...”

“...”

“Um, yes. I was there?” God, his confusion should not have been as endearing as it is. You know Lash, so you know he’s not stupid or purposefully obtuse, so maybe you had messed him up just like he did to you. 

You sigh. “Look, that didn’t happen. That wasn’t a thing. I don’t know what happened or why, but that’s fine, because nothing happened.” 

You spare a glance his way. He was slouched on the chair, an arm draped over the back, no books in sight. He was so casual. He shrugged, looking totally unbothered. “Alright then. Nothing happened. Fine.” 

A few minutes went by. Medulla checked in. You scribbled down an answer on the sheet in front of you. It was probably right. 

But, like, the way he said it. Like it meant nothing. It didn’t have to mean anything so why was his attitude so blasé. He was hardly ever indifferent so what made this so special that he let it go? It didn’t have to mean anything but it didn’t have to be nothing. He wasn't better than you just because he apparently felt nothing. Well, you don't do things by half, and Lash is not an exception. You full body turn to him.

“We’re just not gonna talk about it then?” You could not care less if that was the exact opposite of what you just said. It’s fine; Lash knows how contrary you can be. 

Sure enough, when you get a good look at him, he’s smirking at you, eyes bright and expectant. Like he knew you couldn’t not talk about it and was just biding his time until you broke first. 

God, he was aggravating. 

“Hey, I always knew it’d be a matter of time before you jumped me.”

“What!” you squeak. “If memory serves me right, you were the one who couldn't keep your hands off of me. Do you always do that when you kiss someone? Hold them so tight they can’t escape. You’re like a straight jacket. God knows I should be in one, what was I thinking?”

“You were thinking ‘Oh, Lash is so hot I need him now’ and if someone wants to kiss me why would I deny them that pleasure?” he mocked your voice with a high pitch, and you got so annoyed that you took off your shoe and threw it at him as hard as you could. 

The bastard didn’t even look mad when it hit his chest. He caught it and cackled. “You are so not getting this back, Stronghold.” 

You jump to your feet. “Why! You only have one and it won't fit you. Give it!” Your very reasonable demand was not met. 

Instead Lash rose from the chair and walked toward you. He dangled your shoe above his head, knowing full well that, even without using his powers, it was well out of your reach. He looked up at your shoe as you threw your dignity out of the window and jumped for it with no success. You very well could jump on him for it, but you know the jokes he’d make after. 

“Your feet are so tiny,” he teased. 

Oh! Feet! you think, and stomp on his. 

As expected, Lash backed up and hunched over in pain, whining at you. You take this opportunity to reach around him for your shoe, but it remains elusive as he continues to hold it out. You did however manage to grasp his arm and pull it forward. 

Lash’s body followed and the unexpected weight against you tripped you up. Soon you two were crashing into the desk you were using with half of the contents on your table falling to the floor. 

You and Lash were in an awkward potion. Not quite standing but not completely on the floor either. Lash, being on top, moved first. You still had a grip on him, and he had no choice but to pull you up along with himself. 

The result? 

You were close. Very close. Again. 

You wanted to move back, you really did. Your body had other plans though, and when you looked into his eyes, you knew immediately it was a mistake. You wanted to kiss him again, no, you needed to, and the gleam in Lash’s eye told you everything you needed to know.

You get on your tippy toes, throw your arms around his neck, and tip your head up. He meets you halfway, for once, and you two are kissing and kissing. 

It picks up where it left off, all fury and passion the two of you felt bleeding into the kiss. This time, you open your mouth immediately and pry his open with your tongue. Judging by the sweet mewling sound he made into your mouth, Lash was not expecting you to be so bold. 

He should know better. 

Your tongue slides against his, tasting and feeling and wanting. He fights you when you flick the roof of his mouth and caress his teeth and cheeks, realizing he’s lost all control. This makes you pull back and smirk, momentarily breaking the kiss. You couldn’t resist, a helpless Lash is one you don’t see often, and this time? It was all your doing. 

You make eye contact for a second, visibly proud of yourself and confident that you can make him react like that, and Lash’s expression shifts to one of determination before diving back in. 

You know what he wants, and you got what you did, so you let him guide this kiss. He mapped the insides of your mouth, quickly becoming its best cartographer as he tongued every tooth, every ridge possible in the most delectable way. 

He sucked on your tongue when you offered it, and it nearly brought you to your knees. He held on tight to you, holding you up. It would have been embarrassing if it was anyone else. 

You stopped kissing, both needing to catch your breaths. You didn’t stray far, breathing into each other's mouths, lips brushing and still high on adrenaline. Neither of you moved apart while you waited for your breathing to return to normal. You traced your finger over the patch of skin he had exposed on his neck, and he rubbed circles on your hip with his thumb. 

You were just wondering if Lash would think you were desperate if you tried to go back in for another round when the door slid open.

There really was no way to salvage the situation, but Lash took a few steps away from you. Luckily, Medulla’s head was turned as he talked to someone in the hall. He didn’t see you and Lash in an embrace of any kind, but there was still the matter of the room.

“What happened here? Miss Stronghold, why are your things all over the ground?” You had no idea what to say. You kept your mouth shut and rushed to pick everything up. Lash on the other hand— 

“Lash, why in the name of Science are you holding her shoe?” 

Fuck. You forgot about that. It’s like Lash has this ability to invade all your senses, being so successful that you forgot you were only wearing one shoe while making out with him. 

Lash looked at the shoe in his hand. “Um.”

The teacher blinked. “Well give it back!” 

Lash handed you your shoe, and you pulled it on as Medulla gave you a quick lecture. After both promising to not cause any further incidents, Medulla ran back to his lab to check on his experiment and left you and Lash alone again. 

Then, you started laughing. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. After a moment, Lash joined in too, the events finally catching up to him. 

“Why did you still have my shoe? You didn’t let it go? Not once?” you can't even form coherent words after that, still giggling. 

Lash’s body convulses as he’s overcome with laughter. “I have no idea what happened. I literally didn’t even think about it.” 

“Am I a bad kisser? I’ve never gotten anything other than stellar reviews so tell me now because if you were so unimpressed by me that you didn’t drop my shoe from your hand, then I need to know now.”

Lash, unexpectedly, became affronted. “I didn’t say or think that. Not at all.” You saw a blush rising to his cheeks. “You’re good. Like, really good. I like kissing you.”

Whatever you thought he was gonna say, it wasn’t this. You blink. “Oh. I like kissing you too.” 

You were silent for a moment, but you knew where this was heading. Neither of you wanted to be the one to admit it, but if you did it together, it would lessen the sting of seeing each other so exposed like this.

“So, if I like kissing you, and you like kissing me…” he trails off. 

“Then we should kiss,” you declare. He nods enthusiastically. “We should just kiss.”

“Yes, just kiss. Whenever we want. No promises, just kissing.” Very reasonable. 

“Yup.” you say. Then, “We can’t tell anyone.”

His eyes bulged. “No, god no. I have a reputation and you have yours. We wouldn't be doing ourselves any favors.”

“Right, right. Can you even imagine?” You shudder. No one can know that you and Lash have kissed. More than once. Even worse, they cannot know that you’re going to keep kissing him. 

The rest of detention rolls by, the atmosphere half awkward at what you agreed to and half giddy at what’s to come. 

The next day as you’re walking to gym, lagging behind for no good reason, you feel an arm wrap around your waist and pull you away. You don't freak out, knowing immediately who it is. When you see the sign on the door you were just pulled into you say, “The boy’s locker room, really?” 

Lash hushes you. “What’s the point of keeping this a secret if you’re just gonna shout it out for everyone to hear?” He continued to pull you around, weaving through rows of lockers.

You huff. “First of all, I said nothing of the sort, and second, I didn’t shout. It’s echo-y in here! That’s not my fault.” 

Finally, Lash stops in a decently secluded area and corners you against a locker, bodies pressing together. “No, you are by far the loudest person I’ve ever met. Seriously. Do you have a volume control or are you permanently stuck on the loudest possible setting?”

“Shut up,” you instruct, and kiss him. 

He came to you willingly and you made quick work of keeping him quiet. 

You nip at his lips then suck on his mouth, ignoring his prodding tongue and not opening up fully. You continue to tease him for a few moments, giving him just enough of what he wants, but holding back until he decides to finally take it. You love being in control and it’s so easy with him, but the idea of Lash coming undone because he can’t stand the thought of you having something just out of his reach and finally doing whatever it takes to get it is a power trip in of itself. 

Just knowing that right now Lash is obediently following your lead on this makes it all the more sweeter to punish him later when he unleashes himself on you. 

When you‘re ready, and only when you’re ready, you loosen yourself up enough for Lash to take over. 

He whines.

Lash dives into you, your mouth open and waiting. He kisses and sucks and licks everywhere he can, you don’t think he’ll stop for anything. You feel like he’s drinking you up the way he completely devours you. 

You’re having fun learning what makes him tick. You know them already, but not in this context. Having to relearn him is something you do easily, and it’s funny that not only is he predictable, but he doesn’t even notice he’s showing you these things about himself. 

Like your hair. You’ve noticed he brushes his hair to the side often, and not just to get it out of his face. He likes the soft, silky texture, which means Lash, currently, is caressing every strand of yours he can get his fingers on. On the flip side, with the amount of times he runs his hands through his hair, you know he melts when someone does it to him. 

Lash constantly licks his lips and purses them. You don't know why, you don’t care. It’s good for you, because that means he isn’t opposed to wet lips, and you know that if you lick his and kiss him firmly, he will fall apart. 

He also likes power. This is the most obvious. Who doesn't like power? The thing about Lash is, he likes to be drunk on it. He seeks it out even when he doesn’t need to and milks out that high for as long as he possibly can. Power, however, he likes to gain with a fight. Fighting is what you do best, and if there’s one thing about Lash, it’s that he will fight no matter what. He has no problem with it, and the struggle for ultimate dominance is what keeps him going. It pushes him, and the result is always victory. 

He wants victory over you, but you know him, so his victory depends on how you exploit him. 

Right now, Lash thinks he’s winning. You’re okay with letting him think that for a while longer if it means he keeps kissing you like this. What he lacks in surprise, he makes up for with enthusiasm and skill. 

Surprise was never too important anyway. 

You kiss and kiss, stopping a few times to suck in much needed air before going back for more. Eventually though, you pull back. 

“We’re missing class,” you remind him. 

He gives you a hard kiss that bangs your head against the metal locker, which you enjoy immensely, but you refuse to deepen it. 

“I will gladly take a tardy for this, but not an absence,” you insist. 

Seeing that you’re not budging on this, Lash groans and pulls away from you completely. Your front is suddenly very cold, but you pay that no mind as you make your way to the door. 

When you move to open it, Lash spins you around and presses your bodies together once again. Seeing his big round eyes plead at you plucked at your heart strings. “Fine. One more.”

Lash ducks down and presses your mouths together. You move your lips against his for a few seconds, secretly thankful he wanted another. 

You pull apart when you hear chatter in the hall. 

“We can't leave at the same time. I'll go first, then you,” you tell him. He hums, not really looking like he heard a word you said, eyes far away and lost to satiation. 

You slip out and simultaneously add two more things to your mental list about Lash:

Can and will beg and Gets kiss drunk.

Both very, very interesting bits of information. 

Over the next week, you and Lash realize you can’t make out in the detention room. The window made it too risky and teachers were in and out constantly. The locker room was out of the question after the first time, it would seem was too suspicious for you and Lash to constantly miss the beginning of P.E. on the same days and at the same time, and there were just too many stragglers in the locker room and the hallway. So Lash has the brilliant idea to kiss in the boy’s bathroom. 

You try it once and only once. 

You pull your mouth away from Lash with a smack. 

“This is the worst,” you deadpan. “You’re the worst. 

His jaw drops open, looking slightly offended. “Uh, I don't see you finding anywhere for us to do this. There aren’t that many options.”

You roll your eyes. “And one of them has to be a bathroom? Getting E. coli is so not worth it.”

“Fine,” he says, grip on your waist tightening. “Where do you think we should go?” 

“The back of the school, the roof, janitor’s closet, one of the many empty classrooms, behind the buses, under the bleachers,” you list off. “Literally anywhere that doesn’t involve a toilet.” 

You can see the irritation flashing in his eyes, but you can tell he’s mildly impressed. He bites his lip and grins, “You sound very eager to kiss me, you know.”

“Oh yes, very eager,” you say sarcastically. “Remind me, Lash, who was the one begging who to ditch study hall for this? Was it you or me? I can’t seem to remember.”

He’s still grinning, and you can't help but to match it with your own. Lash dips down and murmurs against your lips, “Me, but who came anyway?” and he kisses you again. 

His mouth is hot and fierce against yours, and you give as good as you get, sucking and licking him until he’s pliant enough to let out those soft noises you like so much. You scratch at his scalp and weave your fingers through his hair, occasionally pulling when you want him to do that thing he does with both of your tongues. 

Although, no matter how hot this is, him and the kissing and the sneaking around, you’re still in a public bathroom. 

The door creaks open and you pull off of him. You’re locked in a stall, but no one in this school has four legs so it was just too risky for you to stand there, whoever came in might see. 

You do the only thing you can think of: you wrap a leg around Lash’s hips and pull yourself up. Lash, always seeming to understand what you want, holds your body firmly to his and reaches down to grab at your other thigh. He lifts you with no issue, securing you in the air. Now all you have to do is wait. 

The thing is, you’re not the best at holding it together during tense situations, you laugh at everything no matter what. This is no exception. It’s just, the way Lash looks so serious, like being caught is a death sentence, humors you greatly. When you hear the guy relieve himself, you have to cover your mouth to muffle your giggles. 

It mostly works, but seeing Lash’s face of utter bewilderment at you makes it hard to stop. He mouths at you to shut up, but you can’t. Laughter makes your whole body shake and he has no choice but to wait it out. It’s getting pretty hard to breathe at this point and you’re a little dizzy, so you decide to rest your head on Lash’s shoulder, your mouth pressed against the hot skin of his neck. At least you can breathe now. 

The guy leaves, and you crack up again loudly, unmoving from your position. 

“You are,” Lash begins, sounding drained, “the weirdest person ever. Literally all you had to do was be quiet, what if he caught us?” 

“‘All you had to do was be quiet,’” you mock. You lift your head up and snort. “I can't believe I'm saying this to you, but you have to calm down.” Who would have thought Lash was the serious one between you two? 

Lash begins to bitch at you, but you don’t care enough to pay attention. You’re not with him to listen to him talk, and besides, what he’s saying is a whole lot of nothing. You don’t let him rant at you too long, deciding to bite his neck because it’s there and you want to do something with your mouth. 

It works. 

He grunts in pain and he shuts up for all of two glorious seconds before asking what the hell was wrong with you. 

“Lots,” you reply. “Now kiss me.” 

He shakes his head at you, eyes both disbelieving and in wonder. He’s still holding you up, and you have no intention of getting off of him, so he backs you against the stall and kisses you like a man starved. 

You try out other places at school, finding what works best and what doesn’t. You thought the roof was a safe place to go during lunch, but you had no idea how many teachers and students came up for a smoke. They took forever and there was no time for you and Lash to do anything, so that was out. Empty classrooms and under the bleachers were also a no-go, there was just too much traffic and exposure in those areas, and getting caught would be inevitable. You did manage a few sessions behind the buses, but you realize Ron spent most of his time there for some reason you can’t figure out. You like the guy, but he really needs a hobby, especially when it interferes with yours. You tried the janitors closet, but Lash nearly passed out from the fumes. 

The only place that works is behind the school. Students never went there, and the only people who did were maintenance workers and delivery guys. These were issues that had schedules, so you and Lash worked around them. 

You’re back there one day, sitting on a slab of uplifted concrete with Lash in between your legs. You’ve been kissing for a few minutes, and you didn’t have much time if you wanted to eat lunch that day. Lash, however, didn’t seem as into it like usual. 

He was pouty and slow, hands braced next to your thighs on the concrete, not really giving you anything to work with. 

You pull back and cross your arms, shooting him an expectant look. “Okay, what’s up?”

He shrugged. “Nothing, I’m fine,” he responds, moving back down to you. You stop him with a hand to his chest. 

You give him an ultimatum: “No telling, no kissing.” 

He has the audacity to look affronted with you, pouting even worse than before just because he was denied a treat. You raise your eyebrows at him and wait. 

It doesn’t take long for him to break, either because he knew this was the fastest track back to kissing or because he wanted to tell you, you weren’t sure. 

“You hair,” he says quietly, he bends his head down and rubs his neck, face flushing. “I like when it’s down, I like touching it.”  

Oh. You werent expecting that. You knew he liked your hair, but enough to get genuinely upset when he couldn’t have it? It made your heart stop. 

You let out a tiny, amused scoff. He stands there, sheepish. 

You’ve never seen him like this. 

“Okay,” you say. He looks up, his expression filled with blooming hope. Your hair is in two braids today, so you offer him one. He takes it hesitantly, unsure of what to do. You giggle and take your other braid, removing the tie and undoing the plait. Lash copies you, gentle when he removes the purple hair tie, slipping it on his wrist just as you had done, and he’s even more gentle as he uncoils your hair. 

He undoes it slowly, fingers brushing lightly on each strand. You watch him, heart threatening to beat out of your chest. The way his attention is fully focused on your locks with unfiltered amazement, just wholly enraptured, like he’s never seen it before causes an ache to sprout in your chest. 

When he finishes, you fluff out your hair, flashing him a smile when it settles. 

He blinks at you, mouth parting open. “Oh. It’s wavy.” 

Your smile widens and you bite your lip. His eyes track that movement with renewed vigor. “Yeah, that happens sometimes.” You reach for him, and he’s already tipping his head to catch your lips with his, kissing you with that familiar spark. It’s a bit different this time around, the way he moves against you and how he explores like he’s rediscovering you. You swear it's softer. 

Later, when you’re back in the cafeteria, you hear Speed's voice a table away, asking Lash where he's been and why he has that. ‘That’ being your hair tie. You don’t look over at them, instead you smile down at your food, pretending to listen to your friend talk. 

You and Lash continue to meet up, but after a few weeks you explain that you can’t continue to kiss him at school because your grades are suffering because of it. 

“So, you don’t want to kiss me because you got an A- in the Heroes of History test? You should be grateful, I got a C on that!” Lash looks extremely put upon, and you elbow him.

“I didn’t say we had to stop, just that we can’t do it at school anymore. Or, at least, as often as we have been. I can’t let my grades suffer.” 

He nods. “Alright, fine, you don’t want me to get in the way of your 4.0. I, however, am at a steady 3 and am perfectly fine with it.”

“Oh, sweetie, you don't have to tell me you’re okay with mediocrity, I’ve always known,” you say, voice sugary. 

“I hope you have fun with burnout in senior year,” Lash drawls, voice agonizingly calm. “I’m sure your Type A personality will be great at helping you with that, babe.”

You preen at him, not taking the bait. “I’ll be sure to mention it by name in my valedictorian speech.”

Tension rolls off you two in waves, both feeling the burn inside as you crash into one another, heavy and unstoppable. 

Five minutes and very swollen lips later, you’re heading inside. 

Lash bumps your shoulder. “If we can’t meet up here anymore, where are we gonna go?” 

You say, suddenly becoming shy, “Well, I was thinking, you could come over.” He furrows his eyebrows together and you tear your eyes away from him. “To my house. You can come over to mine. If you want.” 

Oh god this was so awkward. You were well aware of this line you were crossing, an unspoken boundary to keep this separate from your private lives. You haven’t set an end date for these meetups, but you would understand if you freaked out Lash enough for him to call off the whole thing right then. You were dreading it, to be honest. You had no idea what you were gonna do when this was over. 

But he doesn’t call it off, he agrees. 

You smile to yourself, not willing to show how thrilled you were. 

You did miss kissing at school, only meeting up there twice a week, but it’s so much easier to kiss him when you have actual privacy. You were a nervous mess the first time he came over. You cleaned obsessively and checked, double and triple, that your parents weren't home and wouldn't be until Lash was long gone. 

You led him into your room, fidgeting as he observed its contents. 

“Cute,” he remarks, fingering at an NSYNC poster. 

You swipe at his hand. “Don’t touch Joey,” you whine. 

He cackles. “Figured you be a JT girl,” he teases.  

You shove him and he, frustratingly, doesn't go anywhere. Instead, he snatches up your hand and tugs you forward. You crash together, limbs finding their way around each other, mouth inches apart. 

“Don’t you have a brother?” he mutters, eyes drawn to your lips

You shake your head. “Will’s at Layla’s. I dunno when he’s coming home, but he knows to knock before coming in here. He learned that the hard way.” Lash laughs, a short thing. You feel his air puffing on your skin, tingling all the way. Your gasp is soundless, and he chases the movement of your lips, but still not breaching the gap. 

“Oh? And what kind of scandalous thing were you doing for him to have learned that lesson, hm?”

You press your foreheads together and push his head back hard. Not enough to seriously hurt, but a clear punishment. You've never done that with him before, another boundary broken, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “I know what you’re thinking. No, it was nothing like that.”

You feel him vibrate as he hums, it shudders through you like an earthquake. “Will you tell me?” he asks. 

“Nope,” you deny. “You gonna kiss me anytime soon?” 

Lash brings a hand up to grip at your chin and tilts it where he wants, eyes dark and wanting. “You gonna let me?” He barely finishes his sentence when you surge forward, lips finally coming together, slick and demanding. 

A few days later, everything changes. 

You were invited to a party at Gwen's, and you knew Lash would be there since he’s part of her inner circle. You’re good friends with her, seeing as you’re both in the same year and popular, but they had this interesting four person (not including Penny’s clones) clique that remained exclusive. 

Gwen’s parties are always absolute ragers, and you had no trouble letting loose, drinking and dancing with your friends. There was also a karaoke machine, and you were part of the small group that had commandeered the mics. You got lost in the music, singing and swaying along, not caring how you looked or sounded, just basking in the fun. 

Unbeknownst to you, Lash stood in a corner, watching you the entire time. 

Had you noticed him, you would see the fond, amused smile that never left his expression. You won’t know this, but he was thinking of what a terrible singer you are. Enthusiastic for sure, but completely tone deaf. He thinks about how devastated he would be if you ever got any good. You’re having fun, though, and that’s all he cares about. 

Had you noticed him, you would have seen that smile drop, moments later, when he comes to a realization. Probably the most important one of his life. It’s dangerous and unsteady and tilts his whole world sideways, yet so unbelievably worth it. But you don’t notice. 

You’re drunk and your vision has blurred when you get pulled into a game of Spin the Bottle. It’s not your favorite game, but you whoop along with everyone else when people kiss. You think you’re lucky that the bottle never lands on you, until, of course, that’s exactly when it does. You’re a little reluctant, but rules are rules, and you get a peck from some senior who’s name you wouldn't be able to recall even if you were sober. 

You don’t take your turn, flipping off everyone who boo’s you as you hobble to the nearest bathroom. 

The truth is, you’re not too keen on kissing anyone who isn’t Lash. That senior was so unimpressive you forget about it as soon as it happens. It’s fine, though. Nothing you want to remember anyway. 

You finally find a half bath, kicking at the door, and hurl into the bowl. You’re grateful when you feel someone collecting your hair, holding it out of the way. They rub your back, and you know immediately whose hand it belongs to, having felt them on you many times before. 

Lash has only encouragement for you, and when your stomach is empty, you hold out your arm so he can haul you up to the sink. You find a bottle of mouthwash on the counter and grab it, rinsing and spitting habitually. You can see Lash watch you in the mirror, staring at you with an expression you were too drunk to fathom out.

Finally, when your mouth feels clean, you dissolve into giggles. 

“Oh no,” Lash groans. “You’re not one of those drunks, are you?” 

You’re still giggling when you nod, your whole body following the flow of your head, tipping forward. You catch yourself, and you can only snort in laughter as an exasperated Lash puts his hands on his hips, shaking his head all the while. 

You stop laughing, zeroing in on his pose. His arms aren't necessarily open, yet there were two perfect gaps in between his arms and body wide enough for you to slink yours through. You fall into him, doing exactly that. The urge you felt to stick to him like a second skin overrode everything else in your mind, and besides, he looked like he could use a hug. 

He’s frozen for a moment—not that you notice—before wrapping his arms around you too. You stay there for a long while, clinging and breathing each other in, the party outside nonexistent in the bubble you created. 

“Are you upset,” you ask Lash eventually. “You seem upset.” 

You feel him breathe in deeply then sigh heavily. “Yeah. A little bit.”

“Oh,” your heart sinks and you pull away. You’re still koala-ing him, but you tilt your head up to pout at him. “At me?”

“No,” he admits. He brushes a loose strand of hair out of your face. “At Ricky Wilkins.”

You squint at him. “Who the hell is that? That’s such a dumb name. Why are you letting some guy with a dumb name upset you? How dare he take away your smile! I like your smile. Lash,” you bat your eyes up at him, “can you smile for me?”

And he does. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. “There it is!” You’re so enchanted by his mouth, so you bring up a hand to trace his lips. They’ve long since been burned into your memory, yet, in your state of drunkenness, you forgot how pretty they are.

“Why did Rocko make you upset?” you ask, still playing with his lips. 

“Ricky,” he corrects, but you’ve already forgotten it. “He kissed you.”

Your eyes dart up to his. “Nuh uh.” 

“Yuh huh,” he mocks lightly. “He kissed you during Spin the Bottle. That’s why I got upset. I didn't like seeing that.” 

You can tell he’s being honest with you, even if being open didn’t come naturally to him. You feel a warm flutter rise in your chest. 

“Lash, I can’t even remember his name.”

“Clearly,” he says sarcastically. Then he sighs and says quietly, “I didn’t like seeing you kiss someone else.”

“Oh,” 

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Lash smiles, it’s not the same as before. This one is hurting. “We never agreed to anything like that, you can kiss whoever you want. I’ll deal with it.”

“No,” you shake your head at him, “No, don’t do that. I don’t want to kiss anyone else but you. I haven’t since you. You’re too addicting for that.” 

Lash grins and eyes shiny at your lack of a filter. “You’re extremely addicting too, and it drives me nuts that you don’t know how much. I haven't kissed anyone else either.”

Relief pours through you all at once. “Then we agree. We don’t kiss anyone but each other.” 

The way Lash is looking at you now, like you’re something precious, makes you melt. 

“If it makes you feel any better,” you sigh in contentment, tucking yourself back into him. “I’ve never thrown up after kissing you.” The way Lash burst out laughing at your words made the bathroom the home of your symphony.  

Days later, you and Lash are, surprise surprise, making out on your bed. Him half on top of you, one arm propping himself up and the other roaming along your side, like he was a pianist and your ribs were the keys. You’re holding his face in both your hands as you kiss languidly. 

Lately, they’ve become softer, more purposeful. Your touches have also become more daring than they had been before. Fingers pressing deeper into skin, hands wandering further than normal, lingering where they shouldn’t. Kisses now all over faces and jaws and necks, biting and sucking and feeling so, so good. 

Lash’s hand skirts past your waist this time, trailing down your hip and over the side of your thigh. He traces a random pattern on your flesh before he grips it with a hot hand, and you gasp as he hikes your leg up and onto his hip and back. It was a bold move, and you knew he wouldn't dare go further. No matter how much you fight and defy each other, he would never make you do something you didn’t want to, and you were never compliant enough to let him. He’s still holding your thigh, you think you might kill him if he lets go. 

You’re kissing deeply, obsessed and intoxicated, bodies twisted together, lost to the world and only concerned with finding each other. 

Which is why, unfortunately, you get caught by Will. 

“OH MY GOD!” your brother screeches.

You and Lash startle apart, looking at the intruder. Will was in the doorway, flushing red and hands covering his eyes. Lash rolls off you and onto the other side of the bed, allowing you to get up and yell at your brother.

“William! Knock! You know this!” 

“I’m sorry!”

You roll your eyes. “What do you want,” you exhale. 

The dork still has his eyes covered. “Mom called, they won't be home until tomorrow. I was gonna ask if you can make Layla and I pizza.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. I’ll be down soon.”

“Sweet, Layla’s gonna be so happy! She’s a vegetarian, remember? So no meat,” he reminds you. 

“I know, bud. Now get out of here.”

Will turns and speeds off, but not before running into your doorway first. “Oh my god, Will, open your eyes.” 

You turn around and see Lash getting up. After all, it’s usually about this time when he heads home. To be honest, you didn’t want him to go. You never did. 

“Hey, um, if you’re hungry you can just…stay.” The words fought you coming out, unsure how Lash would feel and what he would think. You’ve been crossing all kinds of lines with each other lately, was this really so different? 

Lash’s eyes widen, and for a heartstopping second, you think he’ll say no. 

“I could eat.” 

That’s how the two of you end up in the kitchen, Lash obediently following your instructions as you throw together a pie. 

Lash holds up an unmarked mason jar. “So, where does this come from?” he asks, and you explain that your dad homemakes it, it’s a Stronghold secret recipe. 

“Of all the hobbies the Commander has, I never would have guessed that he dabbles in homemade pizza sauce.”

“Hey,” you defend. “You’re holding a seven time winner of the annual Maxville Realtor’s Pizza Fest. Show some respect.” 

“Seven?”

“Consecutively,” you add.

Lash shakes his head at you with a grin. You’re quiet as you work together, comfortable with the peace that comes with the silence. When you finish your creation, a simple mozzarella spinach pizza, you pop it in the oven.

“Y’know,” Lash says, leaning against the counter. “I’ve realized that my mouth is super tender now. It’s totally your fault, by the way.”

“Wha— my fault? Do you know how much chapstick I’ve gone through these last few months alone because of you?” 

“Believe me,” Lash assures, “I know. You taste like a different flavor every week.” 

You slide up to him, head tilted. “Oh? What was today’s flavor?” 

“Not sure,” he says, nonchalant. It's not a very subtle segue but you’re not gonna complain. “I think I might need a reminder. Care to give me one?”

“Shut up,” you murmur, and kiss him until your lips bruise. 

The timer goes off sometime later and you detach yourself from Lash. You got out the pizza, and he offers to tell the other two that it’s done.

“Wait!” You stop him. “Wait wait wait, I need to check on something.” You get behind the wall that looks into the living room, and observe. You don't have the best spying skills, but their backs are turned, so it’s fairly easy to see what's going on and to hear their conversation. You feel Lash shuffle behind you, resting an arm around your waist as he peers around the corner. 

“What are you doing?’ he whispers in your ear. 

“Hush. I can’t hear what they’re saying.”

Unfortunately for you, Will is rambling on about something incredibly boring, Layla giving him her undivided attention as always, so you huff in annoyance and leave them alone. 

“Is it just me or is that green chick totally in love with your brother?” Lash asks, unprepared for the can of worms he just opened. 

You whirl around to face him. “Yes!” You whisper-scream, him reeling back at your reaction. “Will is an idiot! Layla isn’t subtle at all, oh my god. I can’t believe how oblivious Will is.”

“Maybe it’s a Stronghold trait,” he mutters under his breath, luckily for him, you’re too focused on the tween romance in the next room to catch that. 

“She’s been pining after him for so long, it’s reaching a point where something has to be done.”

“Probably best to let them work it out,” he advises. 

You nod. “Probably. Doesn’t mean I’m not keeping an eye out for any developments, though. They belong together, mark my words.”

“They’re marked.” 

You shove his shoulder. “Oh stop. Hey, we should probably tell them dinner is ready.”

The rest of the evening is relaxing, you and Lash messing around, teasing each other’s eating habits, and stealing bites of pizza. The four of you watch a movie but Will kicks you and Lash out for being too loud, so you grab his hand and haul him away, finishing dinner on the floor of your room, doing nothing but talking and talking and talking. It’s the best night you’ve had in a long time. 

Later, Lash lingers in the doorway as you’re saying goodnight. He hesitates in the threshold, opening then closing his mouth, not daring to speak his mind. He’s absolutely adorable like this, face flushed red and glowing under the fluorescent porchlight. 

“Yes?” you ask.

He ducks his head down, eyes avoiding yours before ultimately spitting it out. “Can I—uh. Can I have a goodbye kiss?” God, the way his voice was so shy and scared, like you’d ever say no to that, like you’d ever want Lash to be insecure around you. Like he thinks he can’t have you. 

“Yes,” you reply, and kiss him. 

He whimpers against your mouth, his emotions being nearly too much to contain. He cups one of your cheeks, guiding your head where you both like it. It’s slow and soft. You find the tenderness he was talking about earlier, finding the new sensitivity all-encompassing and everything. 

As you stand there watching him leave, you press your fingers to your lips to chase the impression of his mouth, memorizing and wanting. 

It’s almost sickening how sweet the two of you were with each other from that point on. You still spit fire and he tugs on your pigtails, this syrupy flavor just another addition to the zest of your relationship. These soft and vulnerable moments you keep allowing each other to see and to show off becomes like second nature the more you do it. You find it easy when it’s him.

You’re on your bed, panting after Lash left you breathless. From your perch on his hips, you watch as his chest heaves, similarly gasping. You run your hands up and down his torso, needing to feel the heat of his skin through the fabric as you both decompress from that intense session. When you reach the top of his sternum, he snatches your hand up and presses his burning lips to your wrist. Then, he laces your hands together and tugs you down. You fold, and peck his lips once, twice, three times before murmuring against his lips,

“Have you seen Pinocchio?”

Lash’s body stiffens under you. “I really, really don’t like where you’re going with this.”

“Please,” you whine, squeezing the hand that never let yours go. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to know. I’m talking years. Literal years, Lash. I’m sorry if you get asked this all the time, but I need to know: can you stretch your nose like Pinocchio?” 

“No one,” Lash says flatly, “has ever asked me that. I knew this is where you were going with that question, I just knew it, you absolute weirdo.” 

You cross your arms and level him with an unimpressed glare. You end up in a staring contest, neither willing to back down. You’ve played this game before and won, never mind that you and Lash always seem to tie. This time, you would not be the one to crack. You know him, you know what makes him fold like a deck of cards, and as the dealer you’re not above a little manipulation to satisfy your curiosity.

Slowly, you let your expression shift to one of hope, eyes shiny and brows furrowed, not quite begging but rather expectant that he would sacrifice something small like his dignity to show you a party trick. Then, you bat your eyelashes at him, not quick enough for him to think you’re doing it knowingly and on purpose like he rightfully accused you of before, but innocent, fluttering blinks timed perfectly enough apart to seem genuine. 

Lash sighs heavily, looking like he regretted every decision he ever made, and you try to not look half as pleased with yourself as you felt.  

Slowly, Lash’s nose stretches out a few inches. He doesn’t hold it for long, but just long enough for you to get a good look before quickly retracting it, his face back to normal, frown and all. 

You cover your mouth with your hands briefly, eyes bugging. “Oh my god. That is the most amazing thing I have ever seen.” 

Lash huffs, his bottom lip sticking out, and he twists his head away from you. 

“Hey, no,” you say, easy and comforting. You reach out and grab his jaw, turning it back towards you. “I wasn’t making fun of you, promise. I think that’s really cool. Thank you for showing me.” To prove you meant no harm to his ego, you smack a kiss on the button of his nose. 

His eyes blow wide, and for a second your heart starts to sink, believing what you did was a mistake. Lash proves you wrong, again, when his mouth stretches into a goofy grin. You light up again, and don’t think before falling forward to leave a lingering peck on his lips. 

He pulls back, just barely, and asks with complete adoration flooding his voice, “How are you real?”

This is when you know your heart belongs to him. 

For a while, neither of you take the next step. Cross the next boundary. You know what you want, and you’re almost positive he wants it too, but the thing is, you never stopped being each other. You’ve always been the same people since the beginning. There are only two ways it could end, and you weren’t ready to cross the finish line only to find out he isn’t the prize. That’s not winning to you. 

Speaking of winning, it’s something you plan on doing as the monthly Save the Citizen game was announced for P.E.

They didn’t participate every game, but Lash and Speed have been an undefeated team since freshman year, everyone dreaded going up against the powerful duo. Few came close to winning, but they were ultimately unstoppable. This time though, Coach Boomer threw in a twist. 

“I’ve been feeling a little bored, so I’m changing it up this time. Lash, Speed; as the undefeated victors, you will not be on the same team today.” The sea of students began to whisper, wondering what Boomer was doing. “You two will be on opposite teams and, because I’ve been spending too much time with Medulla, I’m feeling a little evil, so you will choose each other’s partner. Lash, you first.”

Lash deliberates for a second before choosing freshman hero student Brittney Wilson, AKA Freeze Girl. Interesting choice, you think, and wonder how Lash plans on winning when she has a stronger power than him. He’s pretty clever in a pinch and that’s how he and Speed keep winning, but sometimes brute force is all it takes. He does have two more years worth of experience than she does, and Speed isn’t known for being much of a tactician, so Lash isn't totally without an advantage. You continue to think of possible strategies Lash could use to combat this when you hear Speed say your name loud and clear. 

Suddenly, whispers rise all around the gym room, heads turning to look at you and gossiping immediately. You hear many students speculate about the easy win Speed and Freeze Girl are sure to have, because there’s no way you and Lash can work together long enough to win, your rivalry is sure to get in the way. Even Boomer and the other teachers looked surprised at Speed's choice, albeit also unable to hide their curiosity. Speed, the asshole, is smirking to himself. Good thing losing is not an option for you. 

A coin flip determines that you and Lash are the villains. You make your way to the changing room to get into your gear, passing Lash on the way, and you can’t resist an opportunity like this. 

“We’re winning, so I would really appreciate it if you don’t fuck this up,” you say to him, not that anyone but Lash can tell you’re teasing him.

He’s got an eyebrow quirked and a very bad poker face on as he peers down at you. “If you break my winning streak I’ll make sure you’ll regret it, Stronghold.” The you of a few months ago would take this as a threat, but you now see it as the promise it is. Whatever the results of the game are, you know you and Lash are gonna end it in your own way later. 

In typical high school fashion, the students around you “ooh” as you and Lash exchange barbs. You’re not paying them much attention though, now focused on nothing but winning. 

Soon, you’re inside the arena and you begin to strategize with Lash at your side. 

“You should take Speed, you know his moves better than I do. I can hold him off if he tries anything, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to face Freeze Girl alone,” you say, observing your opponents across the room. If you recall correctly, this is Brittney’s first game participating. 

“Yeah,” Lash says. “That’s what I was thinking. I don’t think beating Speed will be too hard, he’s too fast and too impulsive: he won’t stop and I can get him then. And he pretty much only has one move.”

You cut in, “You’re right, but you’ve never been his opponent before. You’ve never seen him from the other side. Don’t underestimate him, that’s a good way to lose.”

“Okay,” he agrees. “I’ll keep an eye on him. So Freeze Girl. She’s powerful and quick, but if she exerts herself too fast then she’s basically powerless. You have more stamina than her, so if you keep hitting her and don’t let up, she won’t have a chance to fight back. She’s also too mild—even if she does freeze us it won’t be enough to hurt.”

You nod along. “Exactly. She won’t dare try something that could seriously injure us, she’ll hold herself back. Try to stay as far away from her as you can, you won’t be able to stretch if she freezes you, but I’ll still be able to use my power. Also, I think she’s afraid of her powers, I’ve seen her use them in training. She’s prone to hesitating under pressure. I doubt she’ll think straight while worrying about us and the citizen. She doesn’t have the best control, either.”

“That could be dangerous,” Lash points out. “If she’s that untrained you need to be careful.”

You smile at him. “I know. I’m just hoping she hesitates enough for us to win. She’s not thinking about this as a battle between heroes and villains.”

“She’s thinking of it as a game in gym class,” Lash finishes.  

You stare at each other then with half hidden smiles and mischievous twinkles in your eyes, silently appraising the other and thinking about how good you are at this teamwork thing. It goes unspoken: you’re a team and you’re unstoppable. There’s no other way, not when you’re together. 

The game still hasn't started yet, and you take this opportunity to put your hair up. Fighting is much easier when there aren’t flyaways blocking your view. Only, the hair tie you had this morning is missing and there’s only one place it can be. 

“Hey,” you say, grabbing his attention (as if you ever lost it). “I need to put my hair up.” You hold your hand out, and Lash rolls up a sleeve, revealing your signature purple hair tie sitting snug on his wrist. He slips it off and hands it to you. 

As you’re gathering your hair in a ponytail, you can’t help but think of that morning when he took it from you, your memories filled with hot kisses and sharp nips, Lash’s fingers threading through your hair and making a mess so bad you needed to brush it again. He’s taken possession of so many of your hair ties because of his insatiable fixation. You don’t mind one bit. Over the last few months, you became accustomed to putting your hair up for the sole purpose of letting Lash take it down, still in awe of the way your hair cascades down and around you. 

“Good?” you ask him, showing off your hair. You hate when it isn’t smooth and he knows this. 

He pinches his lips together and hums in agreement. Despite that, Lash reaches up to flatten some stray baby hairs, shaping your face.

Neither of you notice the whispered exchanges all throughout the gym, starting when the two of you emerged from the changing rooms without biting each other’s heads off. Rumors began to circulate quickly with you and Lash accidentally fueling the fire as you interacted. 

Boomer takes his place. You see Speed whisper to Freeze Girl, she looks scared and unsure as Speed flattens his hands and gestures to the floor then to you and Lash, but then she nods, seemingly reluctant but agreeing with whatever he suggested. An uneasy feeling coils in your gut. 

Boomer is about to start the countdown, so you lean over to Lash and whisper, “The second the timer starts, jump. We need to stay off the ground.” Lash gives you a confused look, but it only lasts for a second as the timer blares, beginning the countdown. 

He trusts you, and when he sees that Speed doesn’t take off immediately, he knows why. 

The two of you jump, Lash stretching his arms up to hang from the rafters, and you use your powers to hover above the ground, looking like you’re standing in midair. 

Your instincts were right, because a few feet under you lay a sheet of ice, right where you and Lash were just standing. They were gonna freeze you to the floor. 

It was silent for a few seconds. Then, the crowd went wild. 

Lash drops down next to you, knowing you’d keep him off the floor. 

“You,” he says seriously, “are so hot.” 

“So not the time,” you respond, not being able to wipe the grin off your face, and he beams at you. Then, together, you charge into battle. 

The thing is, no one knows exactly how powerful you are. Most people know that you’re telekinetic, but not what you’re truly capable of. Your parents think you’re the most powerful person in the world. You think you’re just a teenager. They made sure you were trained properly, and through that, you found out just how strong you are. 

You deter Speed every time he comes at you, apparently not caring that he was supposed to save the citizen. At one point, as you’re blocking a rapid attack from Freeze Girl, you feel an arm wrap around you and drag you to the side. You realize it was Lash moving you out of Speed’s way as he attempted to catch you off guard. He didn’t account for Lash watching your back. You lock eyes with him, giving him a nod of thanks.

Eventually, after you threw him back and knocked him on his ass a few dozen times, he stopped going for you and focused on Lash. 

Brittney, bless her heart, tries her best. It’s almost enough, but if her opponent was anyone other than you, she most likely would have won instantly. She attempted to freeze you, make you fall, grab the citizen with her ice, but it didn’t work. Her ice just wasn't strong enough to combat your powers, so you broke through everytime. In the beginning, it was harder to do, but as she exerted herself more and more in a short span of time, she exhausted herself and her ice became weaker. 

Once, she attempted to freeze Lash while his back was turned, but you shattered the ice before it could go anywhere near him. She was a good fighter though, full of potential and capable of greatness if she applied herself. 

Lash and Speed were engaged in a game of cat and mouse. At the one minute mark when it became clear to Speed that Freeze Girl was no closer to the citizen than when the game started, he became desperate. Every move becoming wild and sloppy as the timer counted down. He attempted to jump to the citizen, something that would have been easier for him as the mannequin lowered, but Lash would slingshot or smack him away, even tripping him a few times. He did get close at the 15 second mark when he managed to knock Lash down, but you simultaneously defended yourself against Freeze Girl’s desperate attack of ice shards and used your powers to move the dummy just out of his reach.  

You and Lash won. 

Exhilaration flowed through you, hearing your classmates cheer, seeing Lash’s face light up at you, and that was an adrenaline rush in of itself. You were gonna run to Lash, not knowing exactly what you would do when you got to him, but all you were thinking about was celebrating your win. 

Unfortunately, Speed had other plans. You forgot he was a sore loser. 

The game was over, you weren't watching him, so when he ran past you at full speed, he shoulder checked you. Before you knew what was happening, the coupled momentum sent you flying, and you cracked your head against a wall of ice. 

You don’t fall, but you stumble, head dizzy and incredibly nauseous. The impact distorted all your senses, everything too loud yet muffled at the same time. Your skull felt like it was vibrating in your head, and the side of your head where the impact hit throbbed agonizingly, the ache clearly not dulling anytime soon. You feel something wet on your hair, so you reach up and immediately hiss in pain as you touch the tender spot. You pull your hand back, vision blurry and darkness creeping in, but what you can see is bright red staining your fingertips. 

You think you hear someone call your name, but you pass out before you can process anything. 

You didn’t expect to wake up in the nurse's office hours later, your entire body pulsing in pain. Nurse Spex began a series of inspections on you, testing your memory, motor functions, and everything she couldn’t while you were unconscious. She let you know that your parents were on the way, give or take a possible European villain detour. 

Turns out you have a mild concussion, and she advises you to take it slow for the next few weeks. You’d have routine check ups to monitor for brain damage, but she’s positive there won’t be any. Then, she asks if you’re up for a visitor. 

Your heart races as you nod your head yes, then you groan and clutch your head as you realize how stupid that was. She gives you a tylenol and lets someone in. 

To say you were disappointed it wasn’t Lash was an understatement. Brittney bounced in, one part freshman perkiness and the other incredibly and unnecessarily apologetic. Nurse Spex leaves you two alone, saying that she’s going to update the staff on your condition and how they can best help. 

After she finishes apologizing for creating the ice that hurt you and you assure her multiple times that it wasn’t her fault, you ask Brittney what happened after you blacked out.

She blushes and needlessly fixes her glasses. Then she practically gushes her next words. “Well, Lash caught you. You fell right into his arms like a princess! It was like seeing a fairytale play out right in front of my eyes! He was so worried about you. People tried to help when they realized what happened, but he wouldn't let anyone near you, only the teachers. I didn’t know he could be so sweet.” She sighs dreamily. 

“I do,” you say quietly, smiling to yourself. 

She blinks. “Oh. We were all wondering, I mean, his reaction was so unexpected but it all makes sense now. The hair and the jump and the way you saved each other. Like, it was all there.”

Her words are absolute gibberish to you. You ask her to explain. 

“It’s just, everyone saw how well you work together, even though it seems like you hate him. No one thinks that anymore about either of you. You were strategizing, and he had your hair tie, and the way he fixed your hair, I mean, you know what they say about hindsight. Oh! Not to mention the fight with Speed.” 

You sit up. “What fight with Speed?”

Brittney’s eyes widened. “Um. Lash probably would have been here instead of me, but he’s in detention because he got into a fight with Speed. About you. And he said—well, he said…” she trails off and bites her lip, looking down. 

“What did he say,” you urged. 

“I really shouldn’t be the one to say it, you should hear it from Lash. He kind of yelled about his feelings for you at Speed, but there were so many people there, I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who doesn’t know.”  

You were tired. So, so tired. “Yell what.”

Brittney waves her hands frantically. “No, seriously, ask Lash. I heard the teachers talking earlier, apparently he was begging to see you and they said they’re gonna let him soon. Ask him then.” 

You calm down, regretting losing your cool on her. She stays and talks for a few minutes and you promise to help her with her powers, but leaves when you begin to feel droopy. You’re asleep again soon after. 

This time, waking up was less painful. Your head still hurts like a bitch, but you felt more steady. You wake up slowly, feeling incredibly groggy, when you feel a squeeze on your hand. You open your eyes and see Lash next to your bed. Head resting in the mattress and sitting on the chair Brittney was in last. 

You squeeze back, his head shooting up near comically. His face shifts in a multitude of expressions going from shock to relief to worry to fear to joy and to a million others before settling on something soft, something just for you. He looks you up and down, assessing your well-being and making sure you’re okay. 

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi.” 

“How long have you been here?” you ask. His clothes are rumpled and his eyes have dark circles under them. 

“A few hours. It’s late, so they’re keeping you here until your parents come back in the morning.” 

You hum. “Will?”

“With the green chick,” he assures. 

You giggle softly. “I know you know her name.”

He shakes his head at you, eyes crinkling as he smiles. “Whatever.”

You two stay like that, staring and drinking each other in. 

Against all odds, you’ve become absolutely intertwined and fully enamored with him. He’s Lash, and he’s yours. You know what you do to him, how you drive him insane and obsessive and he’s completely fine with it because he’s nothing if not addicted to you. You are his too. 

“I love you,” you tell him. 

He gasps, all sharp and hopeful. He looks at you, really looks. He’s looking for a lie, a deception, a meaningless babble because of your concussion. The search is quick; he knows as soon as he starts looking that he’ll find nothing. 

“I love you too,” he admits softly.  

You wish he could kiss you, but you know he won’t risk anything right now. That’s okay though, you think. You’ve kissed him in almost every way that matters. You can wait a little longer for the last few if it means being with him. Here, as victors, having crossed the finish line together. 

#lash sky high #lash x reader #lash sky high x reader #sky high 2005 #x reader #if you read this whole thing THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! please let me know what you think! #im honestly not expecting any readers but i wanted to post it anyway. this is probably my most favorite thing ive ever written. #i put a LOT of care into this oop

[themand0lorian]

BEHIND THE MASK // 4 // THE NEW NORMAL

Summary: You deepen your relationship with Dieter Bravo.

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating: Teen

Words: ~4000 (AO3)

Tags: enemies to lovers, miscommunications, lots of Pandemic talk, lots of mention of illness/vomit/pills/doctors, the scene in the trailer where he’s on the toilet (jfc this tag), the real Dieter Bravo™️, Stardew Valley, a specific reference to a Netflix movie in which a dog dies (nondescript)

no movie spoilers (unless unintentional)

Notes: Wanted to finish this story before the movie, but it doesn’t look like that’ll happen :( I have two more parts planned!

You end up being correct, at least in one aspect.

Right as you get on the mend, temperature approaching normal levels and stomach keeping down solid foods, Dieter comes down with the same flu you had.

You suppose it was inevitable; since the night in the bathroom, he hasn’t been short with his physical affection. He was always laying his hands on yours, pulling you to him on the couch until your head rested on his shoulder and your knees touched chastely.

You’re pretty sure you hallucinated his lips on your forehead, since nothing like that ever seemed close to happening again.

Luckily for you, he had been popping Vitamin C and zinc pills like candy since you were diagnosed, so he wasn’t as severely ill as you were; still mostly capable, not bad enough to warrant his own prescriptions. But Dieter Bravo was a petulant patient.

He was needy, but not in a bad way; not needy like when he wants his pants ironed or his coffee brewed just right. More like needy for human interaction, for an escape from the mental prison he had built up. Needy for something, you think, he doesn’t know.

Still, he had doted on you when you were ill, and so you doted right back on him. His tea and coffee were made perfectly, even when he groused at being awoken; you pulled new sets of pajamas and forced him into a shower—alone, much to his chagrin—when he needed a pick-me-up. Netflix was always queued up to the movies section, some classic or another droning in the background, though you didn’t think he was really paying attention.

When he emerges out of the shower this time, wearing a Cliff Beasts promo shirt with his face over it (which you had chosen for him purely for comedy, finding it stuffed behind some other, nicer items), he sniffs loudly at the air, still congested.

“Are you cooking?” You startle from the kitchenette, your back to the bedroom.

“Oh—yeah. I had Pete bring by some ingredients for my Mom’s famous chicken noodle soup. Thought it’d help get rid of the last of the flu.” He shuffles over, bending down for another whiff and letting the steam clear his sinuses. “Ew, don’t get snot in it—”

“Alright, alright,” he acquiesces. “It smells great—I hate to mess with perfection, but, maybe, could you hold the noodles?” You roll your eyes. Typical Hollywood.

“Dee, you could really use the calories to help you get better—”

“What? No! Not—no,” he sputters, then scoffs. “Not because of that. I—I’m allergic to gluten.” You drop the spoon, narrowing your eyes at him, and when he gives a sheepish grin, you decide to believe him.

“Ok. Get in bed. I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready.” He nods, excitedly shuffling back to the bedroom as you continue the recipe, setting aside the noodles. You suppose it made sense; he didn’t eat Pete’s cookies because he physically couldn’t, not because he’s an ass. None of the candy or food in the room was ever gluten-based. You had even spotted the half-eaten bag of chocolate chips, specified “gluten free” on the package, in the cupboard.

When the soup is done, you bowl it up, moving to walk slowly with the full bowl into Dieter’s room. It still feels strange to call him Diego; part of the fever dream you’re still not quite sure is real. But you were getting used to Dieter.

Speaking of, you found the man tucked into the fluffy white sheets, an awful movie about killer beavers playing on the large tv, though his eyes immediately shift to you with a big smile when you enter.

“Here we go, chicken-no-noodle soup for you,” you offer him the bowl, and he takes it greedily.

“And some chicken noodle for me at the table.” You set your bowl on the little table you’ve setup just outside the room, but he whines moodily when you move to walk to it.

“Come to bed.” “What?” You look at him in confusion.

“Come watch Zombeavers. It’s very bad.” You cock your brow. “You would like it.” “Are you in it?” With that he chokes out a laugh, which turns into a pitiful coughing fit.

“No. C’mon. I’ll restart it.” You think on it a moment. You think about your original list of rules; no getting involved. You think of Hailey’s comments; Dieter Bravo never has the same woman in his bed twice. But then you think of his care when you were sick, his puppy-dog eyes and sickly-sweet smile, and you acquiesce, bringing your soup bowl into bed, too.

Dieter practically cheers, excitedly restarting Zombeavers as you settle. The sheets are mussed, no housekeeping in while you’re quarantined, but it feels comfortable and homey as you both begin eating, and Dieter explains the intricacies involved in the filming of this movie bomb.

By the time the movie’s halfway done, you’ve both settled low in the bed, watching as the idiots on screen essentially set up their dog to get eaten by a beaver.

You turn away before the carnage can show, upset; watching the humans be killed by zombie beavers was one thing, but the poor dog? As you turn, you curl closer into Dieter’s shoulder, broad and warm and perfectly fit to your hiding. When did you get this close? When did his arm snake around you? He holds you there as you mumble into him.

“Tell me when it’s over.” “Okay,” he murmurs. When a bark sounds, you burrow closer into him, and he holds you, seemingly ready to distract instead.

 “You know, I never thanked you for your help with the necklace—I chose a simpler one, just a bar with stones in it, but my sister loved it.”

“Your sister?” You mumble into his shirt. “Yeah, Lina? I had her boys’ birthstones put in it, she loved it--”

“Lina’s your sister?”  You bounce up as you speak, though you ignore the tv, and he looks to you in confusion. “Why does she have a couple emoji in your phone?”

“It’s not a couple! It’s a brother and sister!” “It’s a couple,” you mutter. “I’m pretty sure they’re holding hands.” His eyes widen, and he pulls his phone from the nightstand, presumably pulling up the emoji and holding it close to his face to inspect as you settle back on his chest.

“Oh, god,” he groans, realizing the mistake and making you laugh loudly, forgetting about the movie. “You thought I was dating my sister!”

“I’m glad you’re not,” you chuckle. He pins you with a look you can’t really place, as you rest your head near his, cuddled in bed and watching shitty movies together.

“Me too.”

You must fall asleep to the sounds of zombie beavers, ensconced in Dieter’s arms, because when you startle again, the Netflix homescreen plays idly on tv, and the moon shines bright and big outside Dieter’s window.

And the bed is empty.

In your hazed confusion, you begin to look around the room, until you hear the sound of what likely woke you up to begin with; painful retching from behind a closed door. You move closer to it, knocking lightly.

“Dieter? Are you okay?”

“F—Fine,” he replies smally, though it’s punctuated by more gagging noises.

“Are you sure? You don’t sound—"

“What—what brand of broth did you use in the soup?” You twist your brow. “Uh—I don’t know, let me see—” you run out of the room, grabbing the carton out of the trash and reading it to him through the door.

“Does it have gluten?” Your eyes go wide as you scan the label.

“Oh my God,” you reply, which is all he needs to hear before heaving again. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! Dieter! Let me in!” You hear several more awful retching sounds, seeming to escalate in their fervor as you try to open the door again.

“It’s fine, you didn’t know, just--please—just go,” he pleads.

“Dee, what’s happening? What can I do?” You jiggle the handle aggressively. “Let me in!” “No! Leave!”

“Dieter!” You try to jiggle the handle again, hearing him groan. “Dee!”

“Please, just let me be,” he practically begs. “I—It’s repulsive, and it’s only a matter of time before it starts out the other end, and then I get mean and achy and tired--” “Dee, I don’t care.” After a moment, he doesn’t respond, and you get desperate. “Please. Let me help. I—I did this. I want to help you. I don't care if you're gross.” You hear him sigh through the door. “Please, Diego—" You hear the lock give on the door through the silence, though you push the door open to burst in to a pitiful sight.

Dieter sits in front of the toilet, not unlike you had before, his top soiled with his own sick, which is unfortunate for the Dieter Bravo Cliff Beasts shirt. His eyes are glazed a bit, his bones stiff as he groans. You quickly flush what he’s produced so far, before looking to him.

“I—I’m gonna get you a change of clothes, okay? And some water? What else?” He directs you to some pill bottles at the bottom of his luggage, which you bring back with you along with a comfy grey shirt and sweats. He quickly takes a few of the different pills—all treatments for the symptoms, he later explains, not the cause—and flops back as he attempts to change himself, so you step in, pulling the shirt off of him and replacing it with the new one, which you’re surprised to see is from Target. He thanks you smally before gagging again, though he doesn’t produce anything, and you gently wipe his mouth with the old shirt.

“You don’t have to do this—"

“Dee, I told you. I don’t leave when things are hard. Especially not when I made them hard.” “You’re lucky I’m too sick for a boner joke,” he mumbles, his head resting back against the porcelain tiles on the wall. You sit next to him, and his head heavily swings over to your shoulder instead. “Didn’t want to get out of bed. You looked peaceful.”

“I guess there’s a first time for everything,” you attempt to joke, but he pins you with soulful eyes.

“Why do you do that?” “Do what?”

“Hate on yourself for being strong.” You twiddle your thumbs in your lap, and a broad hand rests over them to bring them to stop.

“It’s not that long ago you were calling me a ‘ball-buster.’” He opens his mouth, but you cut him off. “That’s not the worst thing I’ve ever been called. That’s not even the worst this month.”

“M’sorry,” he offers, squeezing your hands in his.

“Me too,” you reply softly. “For the things I said.” “I know,” he whispers, his head still heavy on your shoulder, though his eyes linger on your face.

“What?” You chuckle awkwardly.

“You’re beautiful.”

“You’re delirious,” you brush off.

“Then you know I really mean it,” he replies with a goofy grin, his stomach still gurgling. “Even if you did poison me.”  The two of you sit in the quiet some more, just the sound of the bathroom fan humming above you, when he breaks the silence awkwardly.

“Thank you for helping me. But I’ll be honest, sweetheart—things are about to get bad in here, and no matter how beautiful you are, I think I need some time alone.” You nod, moving to stand, then pulling him to his feet.

“I’ll be just in here,” you gesture to the bedroom.

“Go back to bed,” he almost pleads, but you ignore him.

“Come get me if you need me.”

Dieter does not come get you.

But you also do not go to bed.

He looks sheepish when he emerges again, the bathroom fan humming, seeing you watching a trashy reality TV show in a chair to the side of his bed. Almost immediately, you shake his embarrassment, standing up and approaching him with a smile that seems to erase any ill-will left in his heart as you enrobe him in fluffy terrycloth. When he finally does get into bed, you move to turn off the light, but he stops you with a hand to your wrist, not unlike you did to him.

“Stay?”

“Dee—”

“Stay. Even when things aren’t hard. Stay.” You search his face for a moment, finding nothing but sincerity there. Hailey is practically screaming in your ear. Dieter Bravo never has the same woman in his bed twice.

But it’s late, and you did poison him, and he’s giving you this look you don’t think you could ever describe, even with all the words in the English language at your disposal.

So you stay. Even when things aren’t hard.

You stay.

After a few more days and some final negative flu tests, you’re quarantine is finally over; it seems most of the cast and crew had been ill at some point, as the set doctor looks haggard, and you get word that it’ll be a few more days still until filming starts up again.

Though you’re finally allowed to travel back to your own room—a page had been delivering some of your items to Dieter’s while quarantined—you don’t spend much time there.  It seems most of your time, even unrestricted, remains with Dieter—or Diego.

All the items that had made your way to his room seem to stay there; the Dieter Bravo promo shirt a favorite for pajamas as you exhaust Netflix’s archives. Dieter shows you his favorites—be it for cinematography or acting or costumes—and you see his passion again. You listen to him talk about it with rapt attention, even if the words mean nothing to you. You had never been much into movies before this, but snuggled low in Dieter’s expansive bed, tucked into his side as he tells you about green screens and practical effects and creative vision, it feels like you fit right in.

When the day’s movies are done, he even graciously switches to your trashy reality tv shows, getting more invested than you thought he ever would on whether Natalie and Shane would end up together (“He’s a psycho! Don’t, Natalie!”) or which housewife would end up in jail this time (“Teresa. Absolutely. Just look at her—you know she’s laundering money somewhere.”). You get the feeling he doesn’t often get to indulge in this side of himself; carefree, silly, human. So you do your best to bring it out.

You bake gluten free cookies, asking Pete for his recipe but changing out the flour for rice flour. It ends up with a flour fight and most of the chocolate chips in Dieter’s mouth, but the flour creases around his eyes when he smiles, and you wish you could bake the smile into his face like the cookies. You spend the afternoons out on his balcony—because of course, his room would have a balcony when yours could barely house a tv—the breeze billowing the curtains as you sit around the wrought iron table, Dieter studying his lines as you answer his emails and set up interviews. It all feels normal, domestic--only a little strange, like standing upon ice you know may start melting at any moment. At night, you’ve brought your Switch up to his room, and gotten him very invested in his farm in Stardew Valley, even if he only has a cabin on your main save file. He ensures he pets the chickens every day, and when he pets the dog and the heart emoticon shows up, he tells you all about his childhood pet, Doug the Dog, and how he starred in Dieter’s first directorial debut at age nine.

“It was about a dog trying to be tough like a wolf. Doug did the acting and I did voiceover. Though he was not a great actor,” Dieter laughs. “Was more interested in my treats than following my directions.”

“Of course,” you reply, eyes on the screen as you both move your characters down to the beach. It’s a rainy day, and a man stands in the corner of the sand.

“Who’s that?” Dieter asks, interacting with the man on screen. “Oh, he sells you a pendant if you want to marry one of the characters,” you supply, not looking away from your half of the screen. You make your way down to fish, setting it up before looking more closely at Dieter.

“Why don’t you do that again?” “What? Talk to that guy?”

“No. Direct. With real people and not dogs.” He shrugs, watching you catch a fish before both your characters walk back home to go to bed.

“No one wants an actor as a director.” “Why not?”

“I just—I’m washed up. I don’t know anymore—it doesn’t feel like it used to.”

“Then it sounds like you do need something different. Like directing.” He sucks in air, getting into his bed on screen before turning in on himself. “What if I suck at it? What if—what if no one listens to me? Like Doug?”

“Dee, Doug was a dog,” you chuckle, but he doesn’t return it. “Hey—look at me.” When he does, you see the fear in his eyes, and you grab his hand over the controller. “I listen to you talk about movies all the time. That’s the passion you want; the passion you need. I know it’s scary, but I think everyone would listen to you.” “You never do,” he supplies back sarcastically, watching your character climb into his bed instead of your own. “Get out of my bed!”

“In game or in real life?” You ask with a grin, pushing his buttons with you giggle. That makes him laugh fully, and he tumbles over you, the game forgotten as he cages you in with his body and you both dissolve into laughter. For a moment, you stay there; his elbows holding his body just barely above yours, your breath mingling between you as you come down from the giggles. You see that look in his eyes again; the one you don’t know how to take, and swallow nervously as he scans your face.

“Tomorrow’s back to shooting,” you murmur quietly.

“Yeah,” he offers plainly. You have so much you want to ask—will things go back to how they were? Will more hairstylists and boom operators make their way to his room when he’s allowed to have them? Will he turn back into Dieter Bravo like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?

“I—I should go then. We have an early call.” I don’t want to get hurt when I figure out this isn’t real. I don’t want to be sucked into you any more than I already have. He nods, slowly moving away from you until you can get up around him. His hand traces the bed where you once laid, the warmth still set in the sheets.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” “Yeah,” he offers dumbly. “I’ll see you then.”

Dieter sleeps in your spot that night, holding on to whatever warmth, whatever scent is left, as he worries himself. Had he gone too far? Did he fuck this up like everything else? Had you finally seen who he really was and fled? It was what he expected all along. People see the glamour, the pomp, the fame. Then they see the real him; the him who can’t eat bread and talks about one shot in a movie for fifteen minutes straight, the messy, human side of him. They see Diego, not Dieter, and they run. Or they get what they wanted, and they run. There was never an option three.

You hadn’t though. You stayed through everything, requested specific flour and listened to his ramblings and encouraged his passions—

You saw Diego.

And you stayed.

And he needs to tell you what that means to him, what you mean to him; if he could only figure it out himself.

He’s never been good at words; it’s why he acts and doesn’t direct. The words are already on the page for him, ready to be said. So when he sees what’s on deck for the day—a specific scene in mind, one they blocked just before quarantining, he has an idea.

The morning goes the same as always, though he’s up and dressed before you even get to his room. He offers you coffee instead of the other way around, and you give him that smile, crooked and endearing an yours, and he knows.

They film a few group scenes first, getting back into the action after time away. When everyone comes back from lunch, Dieter finds you with the other PA’s, waiting to get your attention until you’ve noticed him.

“Hey, what’s up—” “Could you come with me?” You nod, seeming ready to jump in and help however he needs, but he leads you to the other side of the set, hands on your shoulders as he guides you.

“What are you doing?” You laugh gently, moving with him. He doesn’t answer, but mutters to himself.

“Just—riiiight here. There.” He places you to the side of the active set, finally releasing your shoulders. “You see that rock?” He points at a set piece. “When we do this scene, I want you to stand here, looking at that rock. Okay?” “Okay?” you reply confusedly, though he looks thrilled at your acceptance, and you stay rooted in the spot as the various castmates take their places. You’re not sure what’s interesting about the rock; it looks like every other one on set, likely made of Styrofoam rather than earth, but painted appropriately, but you have a feeling this may be another one of his movie making tangents he loves, and you watch it appropriately, hoping to finally provide some feedback when he talks about his interests. As the scene plays out in front of you, Dieter and the woman who plays Dolly, Lauren, move in front of your assigned rock, and you huff in annoyance at losing your intended visual target. Looking up at them instead of the rock, Dieter is standing, facing you, while Lauren has her back to you.

“Status update: We. Are. Fucked.” A glance down at the script in your hands confirms your suspicions; this is the scene you had practiced with him, though Lauren plays a much more believable Dolly. “It looks like this is it. I’m sorry I couldn’t save ya’ll. I’m supposed to know all about these beasts, and they damn near snuck up on me.” You watch on, Dieter looking up to face Lauren; but, instead, he looks past her, making eye contact with you.

“Well—I have to tell you. I don’t know about any beasts. I don’t know about any cliffs. But I do know a beautiful woman when I see one, and I can’t—no, I won’t--let these creatures take you away from me.” Your mouth hangs open slightly as he continues his impassioned plea; he hasn’t broken your stare as he speaks, even though he should be saying it to Dolly.

“What are you sayin’?”

“I’m saying, I think I’m falling in love with you, sweetheart, and that scares me more than these beasts ever will.” His eyes convey that thing you can’t quite place; a quiet pleading, a desperate ache. He has yet to even look at Lauren, holding eye contact with you instead. When he’s done, the director yells cut; Dieter messed up the line.

“Dieter, no, you made a mistake. See here—you say Dolly’s name. Not ‘sweetheart.’” Dieter hangs his head at first, but then looks up at you, though he nods in understanding at the director. You hold his gaze for a moment as he keeps talking. “It was good though—do it again, just like that. Maybe a bit thicker on the accent.” Dieter nods, letting the director walk off set as he sent you a coy smirk that made you think, maybe, the director was wrong.

Maybe Dieter hadn’t made a mistake.

Maybe he meant to say sweetheart all along.

TAGS: @i-love-movies @frasmotic @justanotherblonde23 @nicolethered @buckybarneshairpullingkink @scorpio-marionette @songsformonkeys @pedrostories @littlemisspascal @gracie7209 @fangirl-316 @spideysimpossiblegirl @mariwinns16 @ajeff855 @hungrhay

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x y/n #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x y/n #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo fanfic #dieter bravo fanfiction #the bubble #the bubble fanfiction

[under-and-over-the-moon]

Hunger III | Hyunjin

*Please read Part I and Part II before the below for context*

~~~

You had dreamed of the scene where Hyunjin holds your pregnant belly. You were seated on the ground, and the horizon was the same. Your clothes were the same.

But there was no Hyunjin. Just as empty void in front of you, no hands to bunch up the fabric as he traced the curve.

~~~

pairing: Hyunjin x Reader

word count: 3.9k

genre: fantasy!au, historical!au, soulmate!au, forbidden love, angst, fluff mentioned

warnings: ANGST, so much angst, pregnancy, nausea, vomiting (not very descriptive), fatigue, aches and pains, reader is really going through it, anxiety, self-doubt, historical-style misogyny, mentions of sex but not explicit

A/N: I accidentally texted the header of this to my mom, and never have I been so grateful to my past self that (1) my photos are nondescript and (2) i did not choose an aggressively smutty title. However, it was still HORRIFYING.

I have no idea at this point how many chapters this will have in total anymore, because so far everything has taken longer than I thought. I would guess maybe 6-8??

Also, there is a plot related A/N at the end in order to avoid spoilers.

Comments, questions, and theories always appreciated! 😊

~~~

Returning to her room, Lia sat on the bed, watching Hyunjin. He was pacing back and forth, eventually slumping into a chair and shoving his head into his hands. He ran them harshly through his hair, like he was trying to scrape his scalp, to pull out the strands. There were bumps along the crown where he had pulled too hard, the hair straining away from where it was gathered so tightly in a ponytail. She didn’t understand why he didn’t just untie it, let it fall to his shoulders.

She stood up, and walked towards him slowly, carefully. When he looked up his eyes were first unreadable, opaque, before taking on an edge of dread. He looked at her as if she didn’t truly exist, as if she was just his cursed shadow. Haunting him.

She felt, for the first time, like she was intruding in his space, not that he was withholding himself, unjustly, from hers.

So, instead of trying to get close to him, as she had done previous nights, she just sat in the chair next to him, leaning back, hands draped nonchalantly on the armrests.

After a few quiet minutes, she opened her mouth to speak.

“You’re worried.” she stated. Not as a question, but as an obvious truth.

He didn’t respond, but absentmindedly ran his hand across his chest before gripping his shirt, knuckles white. A few more silent minutes passed.

“When did you learn we were to be married?” she asked, gently, apprehensively.

“I was eight,” he said, flatly.

“And what did you think of it?”

“I didn’t think anything,” he said, “I was so young.”

She sighed, leaning back, watching as he stared at the floor, his hand now resting on his shoulder. A pit settled deep in her stomach, burning.

~~~

You rushed back to your room from the bridal suite, quickly packing your things before you could change your mind. You hated it here, the way it reminded you of how briefly you had held your future. You hated the gold, the silks, all the reminders of the wealth and power that kept your husband locked away from you.

Yet part of you was desperate to find some reason to stay, any flimsy excuse to occupy the halls that Hyunjin had once walked, the spaces you had once inhabited together. Perhaps the only spaces you would ever inhabit together.

Shoving your last shirt into your bag, you rushed out the door, swinging it shut behind you. But you couldn’t help yourself from pausing at Hyunjin’s old room as you walked down the hall, opening the door, and peering in. The bed was perfectly made, the pillows in place, the traces of your night erased. You gazed at the pillow where his head had once lay, you over him, with him inside you, your hands tracing over his skin. You fought with your brain to keep that as the memory you would hold with you, not the sterile scene that he left behind.

~~~

You stepped out of the palace’s red gates, and immediately were met with the absolute chaos of the city. Men and horses kicked up dust around you, and you had to weave and push to even cross the street. As you reached the downtown area, where all of the shops were, you were unable to distinguish one sound from another, one scent from another.

And you were grateful for it - the absolute sensory overload helped distract you from the way your heart ached, the way it felt like even breathing got harder the farther you stepped from Hyunjin. You were grateful, too, for the long list of things you needed to do, the way it helped your mind flip over to its more pragmatic, professional mode. Before you retrieved your horse and tent from the palace stables, you needed to buy provisions. Lots of provisions. The journey back was, if all went well, at least 6 weeks long based on your trip from the grasslands to the eastern capitol. But, with your current condition, you were almost certain it would take longer this time.

You were quite familiar with the basic supplies you would need for the trip - you sped down the street, popping into stores shoved into alleys, squashed beneath rickety buildings, to buy all the essentials - salted beef and fish, dried fruits, cords, and tools.

But then, a thought popped into your mind, and your heart tightened. And so you walked a bit further, entering a shop marked “Apothecary.”

The interior was dark and dusty, every corner stuffed with plants and art and objects, and the far wall boasted an extensive collection of glass bottles, glittering in green and blue, gold and pink. In front of it, hunched on a stool with eyes glazed over, sat an elderly woman facing the window.

She looked over at you, scowling, obviously disgruntled about being interrupted from whatever daydream she had been in. But this didn’t bother you - it was the city, after all. People were known for being blunt, prickly. But that had no real correlation with them being unkind.

She sighed, rolling her eyes.

“What do you want?” she demanded, placing her hands on the counter, leaning forward.

“I am wondering...if there are any herbs you would recommend, for an expectant mother?”

Mother.

The word caught in your throat.

~~~

You are 6.

You are sitting in a tent with your sisters, the afternoon sun casting a warm glow across their heads. Each of them is holding a doll, rocking it back and forth, cooing at it. When you had seem them pull their favorite doll from the large pile in the corner of the room, you had rushed to pick up the only one you had, one you had been gifted at birth. It was a little simple, a little bedraggled, but it would work - you just wanted to sit with them, to play too.

But you don’t know what to do with the doll. Pat its head? Sit it up? Lay it down? Roll it over? You look to your sisters, trying to mimic their movements.

Your mother saunters into the room, smiling at her circle of girls. She leans over your oldest sister, watching her for a few seconds, before softly whispering, “Oh you’ll be such a good mother one day. Won’t it be exciting when you have your own baby?” And then she looks to your other sisters. “And I’ll be a grandmother! How fun!” They all giggle, beaming back at her.

Then she looks to you, her smile fading, for one heavy, long moment before she leaves the room. You place your doll down, dropping your gaze.

You don’t want to play anymore.

~~~

Still standing in the shop, you were momentarily frozen, the weight of the word still heavy on your tongue.

It wasn’t that you found the word offensive. But it felt...foreign. Not quite like you. Perhaps like a hat you would put on once as a costume, not for a lifetime role.

Imagining yourself as a mother had always been like imagining yourself as a dragon. Or a sorceress. Playing at a fantasy that seemed delusional and embarrassing as you aged. 

Most women knew from the time they could speak that they would one day be mothers. And, as they reached maturity, they had an extended courting period, where they spent their days meeting potential suitors, imagining their lives with said suitors, discussing how many children their husbands would want and when.

And perhaps they even found themselves, after an indiscretion, impatiently awaiting the arrival of red in their undergarments.

You supposed, therefore, that motherhood was a role that most women were able to ease into. That by the time they fell pregnant, they had at least tried on the role for size.

But for you, the space between being strangers and being husband and wife was razor thin, the amount of time it took your to utter six words. You had known that it could happen when he had made love to you, but even then, it hadn’t seemed real. The possibilities of your life had opened so quickly, like a sudden spring downpour, that, like packed earth, you hadn’t been able to fully absorb it in the time given. 

But now, weeks later, you found yourself submerged. Drowning, with no boat and no one to pull you to shore. And no one had ever taught you to swim.

~~~

Your troubled thoughts were still swirling when the shopkeeper’s voice startled you.

“You’re expecting?” asked the woman, her previously harsh expression softening just slightly.

“Yes...but I...” you stuttered, “Don’t really know what I need...it’s uh, very new.”

“Not to worry,” she says, turning away from you as she starts reaching towards the shelves, grabbing glass bottles of shriveled purple petals, fuzzy white mosses, red bark, “I’ll get you everything you need for your and the baby’s health. I’ll get you a dose for this week, and then you can come back for a refill next week.”

“I’m afraid I will be leaving after today,” you said, “I have a long journey ahead of me.”

“Oh,” she said, absentmindedly, “And where are you going?”

“The...central clans,” you said.

Her head snapped around, eyes bright, alive. And then suddenly, you see a shadow pass over them, like storm clouds just on the edge of a lightening strike. She looks for a long moment at you, and you swear her eyes flicker, just for a moment, to the palace.

She turns to fill up the vials, and then places them in your hand, before wrapping her hands around yours.

“May the gods be with you.”

And as you look down at your hands you see just a hint of color playing on her skin beneath her sleeve’s hem.

~~~

It was the evening after your departure.

The king sat on his throne, relieved that you had left.

He didn’t think about you much when you were still in the palace, but still, he had grown irritated by you, like you were a rock in his shoe. He didn’t fully understand why you had stuck around so long - you had completed the deal, fulfilled your role. Perhaps you were just like all the palace maids, obsessed with Hyunjin, creeping around the corners to get a glimpse. Regardless, it didn’t matter.

The only thing that mattered was that Cyrus himself was satisfied with the deal. That Cyrus viewed it as an enthusiastic collaboration from both parties. The king had sent a congratulatory message to him as soon as you had left, carefully calibrated in terms of its enthusiasm. Cyrus needed to see you now as partners, as a family. The ports would open to the clans, and the eastern kingdom would have be able to expand its trade to the west.

More importantly, it would be able to move freely within those trade routes. Dispatch personnel on those routes. Invite clan leaders to the capitol as part of normal relations as allies, as family.

The King looked out the windows to his left, the clear blue waters twinkling against an orange sky. He remembers how dazzled he had been by when his grandfather had first brought him here, when he was just a boy, saying, “All for you, my boy...”

He relaxed into his seat, allowing his eyes to close. The sun was beginning to set, and his stomach growled, signaling that it was dinnertime. 

As he stood up to leave, he felt a twinge of something deep and gnawing in his bones, a restlessness sitting just on the edge of burning.

But the feeling passed, and he continued across the marble floor, content.

~~~

The king sat at the table at dinner, laughing merrily at a joke that Advisor Le had just made, downing the last of his wine. His wife sat next to him, her hand placed lovingly on his leg, and he placed his over hers.

He felt a twinge of unease when he looked at his daughter, whose mouth had settled into a straight line, her eyes distant. Hyunjin sat next to her, beautiful as ever, but his face was vacant, hard. As if his soul was somewhere else, his body just going through the motions to stay alive. Lia looked over at him briefly, eyes pained, as she turned her attentions back to the soup in front of her.

He would check in on Lia tomorrow. He would make sure that Lia got what she wanted, and even the things she did not yet know she wanted.

The king shifted in his seat, sighing. As he repositioned, the fabric of his robes brushed against the skin of his belly, and oddly, it felt rough. As if the fabric were burlap, not the finest of silks. It scratched him, the skin smarting as it moved.

~~~

“All choices on the table though, would you marry?”

A day has passed since you left the capitol, and as expected, you found yourself in the same misty roads you had passed over with Hyunjin weeks before.

And all you could hear in the silence was the echo of the question he had posed in this same spot.

“All choices on the table...would you marry?”

And your answer.

“Yes.”

You had known that the early days of the trip would be especially hard. Besides stinging from the fresh separation, you were forced to retrace all the places where Hyunjin had silently carried the weight of both of your destinies by himself, and relive all those moments knowing the full truth.

You knew you shouldn’t think this way, that it was dangerous, but you couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if he had turned to you in that moment and told you everything. You were sure, then, that he knew what was happening to him, that his skin was already burning.

You looked at the road ahead and all you could see were all the paths you could have taken had you known, had you turned around in that very moment, never to step foot in the palace.

But you pushed down these thoughts. The situation was what it was, and you had to pull yourself together. You were the only person you had now to rely on, and you now had another growing person relying on you.

You could do this.

...You could do this?

You took a deep breathe, trying to imagine yourself as the confident, no-nonsense, untethered woman you had been weeks ago. 

And so you continued on, building a camp at the same place you had stayed previously, going through motions of the things you had always done alone before, before tucking yourself in to sleep.

~~~

You woke up in the middle of the night, gasping for air. You dug your hands in the dirt, trying to ground yourself, not caring if earth got stuck under your fingernails. 

You had dreamed of the scene where Hyunjin holds your pregnant belly. You were seated on the ground, and the horizon was the same. Your clothes were the same.

But there was no Hyunjin. Just as empty void in front of you, no hands to bunch up the fabric as he traced the curve.

And so began the battle in your mind - of never wanting to let those images go, yet being terrified to hold onto them.

And you felt a sadness so heavy that it took you until the sun was just starting to rise to fall again to sleep, but you awoke quickly regardless. Your heart was restless, your stomach restless, thinking of where you would soon arrive.

~~~

The next day, you found yourself seated on that rock, in the exact same place as before, watching as the sunrise illuminated the mountains in front of you, the golds and pinks mixing with the lush greens. The river in front of you meandered forward, uninhibited by the reeds and rocks near the shore.

You ached, an emptiness settling eerily in your bones, feeling as if the ghost of Hyunjin from weeks ago was still seated next to you. As if he still held his head in his hands, apologizing as he struggled to hold the weight of his dreams alone, believing you would never be able to inhabit them with him, to help hold them up.

You wished your bond allowed you to reach back in time to that Hyunjin, to hold him, to place his hand on your stomach and tell him that his dreams would be fulfilled.

Or at least some of them would - with your separation, you feared that the gold on his chest had a finite edge. That the stain of you in his life had spread as far as it ever would, like paper after its edge is briefly dipped in wine. 

You took a breathe and stood up, turning away from the horizon, now a deep pink. You had a lot of ground to cover today, and this time, you needed to allow enough time for you to take down the tent alone. You looked over at the beams, and the ghost of Hyunjin appeared again in your mind, his figure pulling off the hides, quietly, dutifully. You imagined how he would do it now, smiling, playful, running over to kiss you after he had finished. Your heart squeezed painfully.

~~~

It was 2 weeks after your departure.

The king’s wife slept next to him peacefully, but he bolted up in bed, his heart racing. Trying to erase the images from his mind.

It was just a dream...it was just a dream...

~~~

The ache of missing Hyunjin had been overwhelming enough. 

So you had thought yourself lucky as you had felt, for the most part, normal. Sure, you knew you were carrying his child, but if your memory had somehow been erased, it would probably take you until your next missed cycle to realize.

But now you were doubled over, heaving, your breakfast on the ground in front of you. The same roads that probably taken an hour or two to traverse now took two to three times as long - nausea would hit you so hard, and so suddenly, forcing you to dismount, to run to the side of whatever road you were on. And it had been like this for weeks.

In these moments, when tears streamed down your face, pushed out by the force of your heaving, all you wanted was to feel Hyunjin’s hands tenderly pull back your hair as you know he would have, rubbing comforting circles on your back as he said, “It’s okay, baby. I’m here. I’m here.”

But of course he wasn’t there, and you scolded yourself for craving his soft hands on you, his sweet words, when you could handle this.

You took a few deep breaths, allowing the nausea to subside, before dragging yourself back onto your horse, struggling to keep your eyes open. Part of the exhaustion was that, while you had grown up on horseback and had previously been fully comfortable there, you now felt anxious the entire time you rode. Your horse was of good temperament - gentle, obedient - but you knew that there was always the possibility of a spook, of her throwing you to the ground.

But you made it through the rest of the day, clutching her mane, pitching your tent and collapsing on the ground, not even fully in your blankets, your whole body aching. You weren’t sure if it was from the pregnancy, or spending the whole day with your muscles clenched, desperate to not fall.

~~~

You awoke that night, again, in the pitch black.

You had dreamed of the same scene, of you alone with your pregnant belly, Hyunjin nowhere to be found.

Except this time, when you awoke with a gasp and tried to add Hyunjin to the scene in your mind, you couldn’t. You wracked your brain, but he was gone.

~~~

You woke up the next day, bleary eyed, forcing yourself back on your horse. You dreaded a day on horseback, your already tender breasts jostling around for hours and hours.

Worse than that, though, was the silence. The way you were left with nothing but the clopping of your horse’s feet and your own thoughts.

The way you would chastise yourself about how you were failing at your job, as a wife, as a mother. surely, you could have done something to avoid this mess. maybe you just weren’t cut out to take so much on. maybe this is why you were told to never marry - it wasn’t about your face, but an intrinsic flaw in your being. the face was just a convenient excuse.

It left with an exorbitant amount of time to ponder the weight of your decision. In the moment, the choice to become Hyunjin’s had seemed obvious, relatively simple. You knew there would be consequences, that it would complicate matters, but turning away from him was something you simply could not do.

But without the joy of having him at your side, you were left with only the consequences. The absolute mess that your decision had left in its wake.

You were planning to return to your clan, but you now were not sure you had a place there. You loved your sisters, and you were sure they would try to help, to support you, but you were coming back an unwed mother.

You had spent your whole life staking your identity being respected, if you couldn’t be loved. But there would be no respect for an unwed mother. You hoped your family wouldn’t throw you out, but you had no way to know. At best, you would be sidelined, hidden away, a family shame. You would never be able to work again.

You imagined your life, growing old alone, spending time with only your child, haunted by the ghost of your time with Hyunjin. You had planned on going back for Hyunjin - but how could you possibly do this trip with a child? Would the palace guards even let you in? You hoped that your child would act just like him, look just like him, so that even if they never met him, they would at least know him through themselves.

But if your child looked just like Hyunjin...that would be a problem. Because no one looked like Hyunjin, except for Hyunjin. Everyone would know that he was the father, that you hadn’t just had some romp with some man in an inn on the road.

And that could have potentially deadly consequences, knowing how Hyunjin’s clan operated. Your clans had been allies for years...but you also knew what happened to their enemies. Your baby, would, no doubt be viewed as a threat to their precious alliance...Would they take your baby away? Or...worse? Your stomach dropped, the possibilities too horrible to even fully think through.

As you got closer and closer to home, the grasslands growing more familiar, you tried, and failed, to stop thinking about this.

~~~

You were now maybe a few days from home. You sat on the ground threading the grass through your fingers. The familiar sound of the wind caressing the blades temporarily calmed you, quieting your ever-swirling thoughts.

And then, suddenly, you heard a voice call out to you, tone desperate.

You knew that voice.

~~~

* Part IV Now Available Here :) *

~~~

A/N: This part was a struggle. Originally this whole chapter was like a 1k speedrun version of itself plus a whole bunch of what now will be the next chapter, but it felt too rushed and like it didn’t properly address the weight of reader’s hardships. But I felt so bad when people said they were excited for the next chapter because this one is, for sure, mostly a bummer  😅 

Photo by Adam Bixby on Unsplash  

taglist: @hwangful, @currently-xuxi, @maedesculpaeusoubi

#skz #skz hyunjin #hyunjin fanfic #skz fanfiction #stray kids fanfiction #hyunjin fanfiction #hyunjin fic #skz fic #skz fanfic #skz hyunjin fanfic #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin #stray kids fic #stray kids fanfic #stray kids hyunjin #stray kids hyunjin fanfic #hyunjin angst #hyunjin x you #hyunjin x reader #skz x reader #skz x you #stray kids x reader #stray kids x you #hwang hyunjin fic #hwang hyunjin fanfiction #stray kids

[scarlettscribbles]

there go the whispers

- Msgr. John Pruitt/Father Paul Hill x Reader

Tags: 5.4k words - 2nd Person POV, ghosts, mystery, confrontation, horror (as much of horror as my writing skills can provide anw)

Warning/s: Mentions of injury, blood, brief mention of vomiting, major character death

Summary: One night, while you were walking home, you witnessed something unnatural. Little did you know, this encounter will shed light on the secrets of someone you hold dear.

a/n: i know i’m a bit late but i wanted to make something spooky for halloween !! my favorite time of the year ohoho enjoy this little oneshot :)) also, the timeline doesn’t exactly match the show but i plead creative liberty

〜

It was a nondescript night, same as any other. The sharp nip in the air made you rub your arms in a futile attempt to feel warmer. You just came from school after helping out Erin with the Halloween decorations. Despite Beverly Keane's adamant disagreement because of its Pagan roots, she was outnumbered. You began working at the school a few months after your arrival at the island and you were met warmly by Erin Greene, one of the teachers. Keane, on the other hand - well. The less said about that, the better. You didn't hate the woman, she was just very displeasing even on a good day.

You could've probably gotten home earlier but you'd crossed paths with Father Paul. Time seemed to just pass by so fast when you two were talking. You were never an avid churchgoer but you found an unexpected friendship with the island's only priest, talking about both inane and complex topics. Father Paul was just so well-read and had on his belt insight beyond his years.

Besides, he seemed troubled recently. His usual light-heartedness was tinged with something you couldn't quite put a name to. You asked him in case you could provide assistance but he rebuked you, saying it was just a passing concern. You didn't believe him but your friendship was still so new that you didn't think it appropriate if you called him out on it. So you let yourself be steered into other topics, like Halloween.

Father Paul found it delightful that you were holding a celebration for that and wondered why not do it for the whole island.

"Your deacon would probably have a fit if we did that." His nose had scrunched adorably. "Erin and I will take our small victories."

"Father Paul?" you'd asked and he hummed. "Do you think ghosts are real?"

"Well that's quite a question." He had laughed, tucking his hands inside the pockets of his cardigan. "I wouldn't say no but I can't exactly say yes either, seeing as I haven't seen them."

You'd raised your brows then, smirking. "Not the first time you believed in something you couldn't see." It was after a beat that you realized how cheeky your remark was. You prepared to be berated but he only laughed with a hand up to his chest and elbowed you lightly.

"But you forget," he began. "I see God everyday in his creations. From the birds that I wake up to every morning, to the faithful parishioners, and in you too, my dear." You had looked up at him, surprise coloring your face when he mentioned you. Both your eyes met and you gulped at the intensity of his look. Father Paul was incredibly easy on the eyes, you didn't think you'd admit that especially for someone who's a man of cloth. When you first saw him, you considered making a move on him but you stopped when you saw his collar. Thankfully nobody caught you - well, nobody but Erin, that is. You were grateful it was her. You shuddered to think of how anybody else on the island would react. At least Erin only occasionally teased you, and, when she's feeling particularly playful, encouraged you to pursue him.

You wondered if she saw your thoughts at times - if she knew how you would drift off sometimes in daydreams of universes where you and the priest were a possibility. What if you were able to be together? Hold hands, hold each other? Would he be as warm in bed beside you as he usually were when he talks to you? What was the color of his eyes under the early rays of the morning sun? Of course it's ridiculous but in moments like these you can't help but think that he might be asking those questions too.

After some time, it seemed that both of you caught yourselves, though, and the moment was broken with awkward laughter.

"Well," you had cleared your throat. "You know what they say about the veil being thinnest on Halloween." And from there, there were no more moments of staring at each other, no matter how lovely they were. Just two friends sharing a nice conversation with each other.

You wished you asked Father Paul to walk you home, though. It was always nice to spend time with him but you also didn't like walking in silence, with only the sounds of your footsteps trailing behind you. Usually you had a good time going home at around sunset. You always liked waving at your neighbors and seeing the houses painted orange. Now only the dim lights served as spots of color on the otherwise bleak night.

Your heart started hammering in your chest and you slowed your walking. It was a lesson you taught last week in class, evolution. You had fun showing the students how animals changed due to their environment, in a lot of cases it was the development of prey to have a fighting chance against predators. That's how you felt right now. Over the years, humans seemed to develop a sixth sense on whether they're being observed.

Maybe it was just some idiot trying to prank you, maybe. You clenched your fist and turned around. You exhaled loudly into the night.

"Jesus Joe!" You fisted the cloth above your chest, trying to calm down your heart. "You almost gave me a heart attack! I didn't even hear you." You and Joe weren't particularly close friends, not like you and Erin, but he was a nice enough man, if not a bit rough around the edges. When Pike was still alive, poor boy, you would always make sure to have treats on hand when you encountered them going for a walk.

You'd heard about Leeza and his alcoholism. Joe Collie wasn't a saint but he wasn't a monster either. You were happy when you heard that he was going to start attending AA meetings with Father Paul and Erin's Riley. You haven't seen him much since then but you just assumed that he was taking some time to deal with the changes happening in his life.

"Joe? You alright?" you asked him. "I haven't seen you in ages. How have you been and, ah, why are you out here so late?"

Joe wasn't answering. Maybe he was drunk? That's no good. You would hate to see him in the cell again in the morning when you buy some food from the store. "Joe?" You waved a hand in front of him.

You couldn't see his face. The cap he usually wore was angled downwards and the dim light overhead casted deep shadows. Your heartbeat which was slowly returning to its normal pace was picking back up again. There was something eerie about the stillness.

"Okay, come here. I can assist you to your trailer. The sheriff I think misses you, but he's glad you don't live in the station anymore." you said to him, urging him to lean on you so you could both go on home. "Are you sleeping upright? Jesus, how much have you had to drink?" You touched his arm.

Cold.

Something was wrong.

"Joe?" you gulped. With a shivering hand, you slowly took off his cap. It dropped to the ground, barely making a sound.

Joe blinked slowly. There was a surprising clarity in his eyes. He didn't look drunk. Instead, he was startlingly pale, like he'd been out in the cold for a long time. His lips were a shade of blue. You didn't know if the temperature actually dropped or you just felt colder as an effect of looking at him.

You stepped back in surprise as blood started streaming down his face from somewhere on top of his head. Joe stayed still, unbothered at the red liquid making its way to his face and dripping from his nose. In the darkness the blood looked inky, almost black but you could smell the iron from the copious amounts.

"Oh god, did you hit your head somewhere?" A sense of unease went through you at his blank reaction but concern compels you to not just run away. "It is late but I'm sure Dr. Gunning will accomodate us. Come on,"

You turned your head as someone called your name from a nearby house. "- Good evening!" It was Mrs. Whittleby, a kind old lady who loved baking. She was a bit nosy but sweet, never forgets to give you a plate of whatever pastry she had.

You waved back enthusiastically. "Good evening Mrs. Whittleby! How do you do?"

"Oh just fine dearie." she responded as she pushed further the panes of her glass window. "Just wondering who you were talking to. You know how I've always been asking you about your love life and I hear you over here talking to someone on your phone!"

Your brows furrowed. Even in her old age, you know she wouldn't mistake Joe for anybody else. You patted your phone inside your pocket, making sure it was there. You hadn't taken it out while you were talking to...Joe.

You froze as you saw your reflection on the glass of the window. It was only you.

You could still feel Joe's presence behind you as evidenced by the coldness of the air where he stood. The hairs at the back of your neck stood up. You whirled around and sure enough, nobody was there.

"Are you alright dear?" Mrs. Whittleby asked.

"Just fine," you shakily answered. "A-are you sure you didn't see anybody with me?"

"Honey, you were walking all by your lonesome. Why? Were you expecting someone?" Her light-hearted teasing didn't do anything to abate your nervousness.

"No, I- no." You licked your dry lips. "I'm going to go on my way now. Have a good night Mrs. Whittleby!" You barely heard her wishing you safe passage, the sound of your heartbeat drowning anything else. Maybe Joe just ran away? Could he even run in such a state? Your spine chilled at the mention that you were alone the whole time, talking to someone that nobody else could see. You still felt him, though, while you were talking to Mrs. Whittleby. You wouldn't have thought he was gone if not for the missing reflection or Mrs. Whittleby saying so.

You broke off into a sprint. The sooner you get home, the sooner you're safe. The sooner you could get your brain in working order so you could parse what happened to you. And what might've happened to Joe.

〜

Just this morning you thought you heard Pike barking outside your home. It has happened before. Half-asleep, you opened the door to let the dog in when you remembered that he was just buried in a modest grave near Joe's trailer. Speaking of-

Across the street, there he was. Joe Collie with blood all over him, hair matted on one side. After a blink, he was gone again.

"Riley's missing too?"

"I mean it could be nothing, I'm just really worried."

"I don't think it's nothing, Erin."

Sheriff Hassan leaned back on his seat and gestured for you to continue. You were only just beginning to explain yourself when Erin came in. You both looked equally surprised to see each other.

"Wait," Erin said, taking a seat beside you. "What do you mean 'too'?"

"I think something happened to Joe." you gulped, playing with your fingers. "You're going to think I'm crazy, honestly I thought I was too. I'm not sure what's happening. Last night when I was walking home and then this morning, I saw Joe."

"But-"

"I don't think he was alive." You could feel the incredulity of everyone in the room. You continued. "Last night, Erin and I stayed back to decorate the school for Halloween. I was going to go home immediately after but I met Father Paul and we- talked. By then, it's gotten very late."

"I felt someone following me even if I didn't hear anything. When I turned around it was Joe. He was cold. So cold. I took off his cap because I couldn't see his face and he wasn't answering. My first thought was that he was just drunk. But then blood started pouring down from his head." You touched the part of your scalp where you approximated it came from. "I was worried that he was injured but he didn't move or anything. He was just standing there. Frozen."

"Then my neighbor, Mrs. Whittleby, if you know her, called me and asked what I was doing alone. I was sure I wasn't alone but then I saw Joe wasn't there anymore. Gone, just like that. I didn't hear anything or see anything. I thought about looking for him again but I was so shaken. This morning I saw him too, across the street but then he was gone again."

"Like a ghost?" Sheriff Hassan asked.

"I know how it sounds! I have nothing to give you except my word but I know what I saw. I don't know what happened, if Joe's just running around with a head injury but-but it doesn't make sense."

"Riley's gone too. He was supposed to come to mine last night but he didn't. Checked in with his family, nothing. Last I heard, he was going to the AA meeting with-"

"-Joe." you and Erin said simultaneously. "Maybe Father Paul knows something." You stood up, eager to get going.

"Wait, wait." The sheriff flipped open his notepad and retrieved his pen. You stopped in your tracks, one hand on the doorknob. "Last time you saw him, did he say anything to you?

You shook your head. "My last interaction with him is not very recent. We met in passing here in the store. He was staring at the cans of beer in the fridge. I made a joke and he told me he was starting his first AA session that day. That was the last time I saw him."

Sheriff Hassan nodded grimly and turned to Erin, who had more to share. You made your way to the rectory, not noticing the drop of blood that bloomed on the collar of your shirt.

〜

Despite being somewhat close with Father Paul, you never really hung out much at the rectory, or at each other's houses. Maybe it was a line too far to cross. There was something beyond friendship between you that was far too fragile to name.

You wanted to reach out to him, his presence always gave you comfort. You held your breath as you knocked on the door. Your excitement turned into uncertainty as you saw who was behind the door. Mr. and Mrs. Scarborough were there along with Beverly Keane and Sturge, all of them forming a half-circle around Father Paul who was sitting at his desk. There was tension in the air that made you step back.

"What is it? As you can see we're a bit busy so it would be appreciated if you stated your business." the deacon prompted impatiently.

You were unwelcome. At the very least, you knew that. "I'm sorry for the disturbance. I'll just um- I'll come back later."

"No, wait." Father Paul called out. "Please stay. I think we're done talking now, aren't we?" He addressed the last part to the four people. You stepped aside as they shuffled out. Beverly gave you a dark look that you didn't know what you did to deserve. Once they were gone, you gingerly made your way inside and closed the door behind you. The first thing you noticed were that the curtains were pulled shut and the room was lit by lamps only.

"You know you can save electricity by just opening the curtains right?" you tried to smile but it came out half-hearted. Father Paul immediately looked worried. He stood from his chair and stepped close to you, placing his hands on your shoulders.

"Are you alright, my dear?"

You wound your arms around his waist slowly, giving him time to push you away. He didn't. Father Paul readily wrapped himself around you. You sunk into his warmth and the smell of his perfume. You thought you could stay like this forever. "Is this okay?"

"More than."

You both remained like that for some time. Just like when you were talking, time seemed to become malleable, no longer measured in seconds, minutes, or hours. All that mattered was his hand on your head and your synchronous breathing.

Father Paul led you to the couch, sitting beside you as he held your hand with both of his. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you." you replied, sighing. "By any chance, have you seen Joe or Riley recently? Weren't you conducting the AA meetings with them?"

"Yes." he shifted in his seat. "R-Riley came last night, but not Joe. He said he was visiting his sister in the mainland?" Oh, he was? Then what did you see last night? Perhaps he got into an accident on the way or after he arrived at his destination, that is, if you really believed that the ghost of Joe Collie was haunting you.

Why you, though? If any...ghost wanted to be brought to justice, you were sure that you weren't the first choice to turn to, a teacher at a small school on a small island. You weren't particularly religious or a believer of the supernatural either.

"What about Riley, did he say anything about where he was going? "

Father Paul shook his head. "It was a pretty standard session. Sorry, did something happen?"

You massaged your temple, partly due to frustration. "He didn't come home last night or this morning. Erin is very worried and I'm sure that so is his family. As for Joe, I'm not sure but I saw something strange last night.

"Do you remember when I asked you if you believed in ghosts?" He nodded in response. "That's what I saw. He was bloody and frozen and there was someone else in the area but only I could see him."

"It was so bizarre." You shivered at the memory. "I was talking to him, you see, I was so worried. But he just stood there, unresponsive and so cold. He was so cold, Father."

"Dear God," he whispered, something like terror in his eyes. "My dear, are you sure you're getting enough sleep?"

Your thoughts screeched to a halt. "What? What do you mean?" Out of all people, he was the one you expected the least to doubt you.

"What we talked about last night, it was all just speculation. If I knew that you would be so affected then I wouldn't have entertained the topic." Suddenly, his hands around yours felt restrictive. You snatched it away and shifted in your seat, putting space between you. You felt hurt.

"No, no. It was real."

"My dear, sometimes our mind makes us see things-"

"Stop calling me that."

"-ghosts are n-not created by the Father-"

"The holy ghost is literally the holy spirit. What are you on about?"

"Please." Father Paul reached out and put gentle hands on your cheeks. His eye caught on something. "Oh dear, were you injured? There's blood on your collar," You looked down, and sure enough, the cloth there was stained red. You pulled at it and and looked at the skin underneath the area but there was nothing.

"Pray with me so that we might alleviate your worries." he went on. "In the name of the Father-"

You pulled away from him and stood up. "I'd rather not. Thank you for your time.

Just as you were about to cross the threshold, he called your name like he was about to follow you but he halted. "I'll pray for your then." You closed the door behind you and walked briskly. Grasping your collar, you wondered where the blood came from. The edges of the stain were darker so it must've not been recent.

There was a tap on your shoulder and you whirled around, irritated, expecting Father Paul. "I told you I don't want-"

You froze at the sight of Joe Collie, his mouth open in a suspended scream. His face was gray and black veins ran all over his face. Some parts of his skin fell off and his clothes were wet and tattered, clinging to his body. Various insects crawled over him.

The last thing you remembered were his milky eyes staring into yours.

〜

It was dark. You needed to go somewhere. The body walked. What was the name of the body? You were cold. Where has the light gone?

You felt detached. You saw with your eyes but your mind lagged behind in comprehension. What was that place? It's familiar. You'd been here before. Earlier in the day.

You pushed open the door and the man jumped. He exclaimed something, was that your name? "You scared me! Where did you go?" The name on his desk said Sheriff Hassan. You remembered him, in the far recesses of your mind. Reliable. Brave. Deserved better than this place. "Are you alright? You look...shaken. Did something happen to you? What did Father Hill say?"

Father Hill. Father Paul Hill. That name evoked a complex mix of emotions in you. Adoration. Fear. Love. Anger. You remembered him hugging you. After which, he killed you - no. That can't be right.

"He didn't believe me. When I said I saw Joe." you replied. The words that came out of your mouth were slow and emotionless. You moved to sit on the chair but you barely made it, as if your limbs weren't used to themselves. The sheriff looked at you worriedly. "He said he had the AA meeting with Riley only and he said nothing, no other clue. He said Joe went to-to mainland to visit his sister."

"I think he might be lying." The irony of the priest committing a sin didn't escape you.

"Why?"

Why indeed? How were you so sure? Father Paul was kind, wasn't he? You didn't realize that your vision went out of focus until you saw the very blurry image of the sheriff waving something in front of you. "Apologies, how much time has passed?"

"You zoned out for like, 5 minutes. Did-did Father Paul do something to you?"

Yes, he killed you. No. "No. I don't think so."

He raised his brows at your uncertainty. "You don't think so?"

"I'm sorry sheriff, I don't think I'm thinking right. I feel like there's lapses in my memory." There was a low, irritating sound in your ears, getting louder and louder.

"Well, what do you remember?"

You remembered Erin with her waves and bright eyes. You remembered the school, looking so lively with the streamers and banners finally hung. You looked around the office and found your eyes drawn to the bars. You remembered that cell, and how it felt like comfort despite you landing there after doing something unsavory. Sometimes you wished you were locked in there forever just so you could atone for your sins.

"What?" Oh, you didn't realize you were talking out loud. The sheriff said your name imploringly. "In my entire experience being the sheriff here, you've never been detained."

What? "What?" you looked down at yourself, hands too young and smooth. You turned your palms over and over again and then touched your face, your arms, the growing spot of blood on your collar. "Something's wrong."

He looked extremely alarmed. You stood up, stumbling on your heel and felt the coldness of the metal. "I think I need to go home, sheriff. I need to feed my dog." The door creaked as it swung open.

"You don't have a dog." You looked over your shoulder and made eye contact with the woman standing over him. When did she get here? Or perhaps she was here all this time and you simply didn't notice. She was beautiful. She looked like one of your students, what was their name?

"Don't I?" you replied, still looking straight at the woman. "You have to get out of here, Hassan. Take the earliest ferry out to the mainland. She wants you to be safe."

"Who's she?"

Before you could answer, your consciousness sunk down to the empty blackness again.

〜

You woke up to the sound of your name getting louder and louder. You leaned on your elbows, bleary-eyed. You felt the soft ground and grass beneath you. This wasn't your bed. You looked around. It was some sort of island surrounded by a dense fog. Just on the horizon you saw what you assumed was Crockett. You've never been to the Uppards, well, until now. Somehow, you got here.

You looked up to see Father Paul hurriedly disembarking a rowboat. He parked it beside an identical one that you probably used to get here. You didn't know he knew how to paddle. Once he was certain that his boat won't get carried by the waters, he ran up and knelt beside you. He quickly unbuttoned his cardigan and wrapped it around you.

You didn't realize how cold and frozen your limbs were until he touched you. Compared to your body temperature, he was scorching hot. You tried to speak but the chattering of your teeth interrupted you. "I-I–"

"It's okay, it's okay." He embraced you so close that you didn't know who was shivering, him or you. "How did you even get here? I was looking everywhere for you! I was so, so worried my dear."

The strange thing was, you knew that being in close proximity with Father Paul would usually bring you comfort. But right now, your subconscious is screaming at you to get away from him. You felt like iron was being poured into your lungs.

"I can't- I can't breathe," you weakly pushed against his chest. He easily let you go but a hand remained on your shoulder as a point of contact. You pulled your knees close to your chest and tucked your head in between them. What had happened? You tried to recall the events of the day. You went to the sheriff's office in the morning. Erin was there. You went to the rectory. Father Paul disagreed with you. You went back to the station. There was a huge chunk of memory missing between the last two events but you remembered the main feeling that changed.

Cold.

Joe.

Your head snapped up and there he was. With his back to you, Joe Collie stood along the shore of the Uppards, staring at something in the water. You scrambled and ran, uncaring of Father Paul's shouts behind you. You went through the translucent figure of Joe and waded through the waters. You've been so cold that you barely felt the sharp chill. There was something floating just out of reach. You ducked under, hearing the muffled curse behind you.

You couldn't see much under the water and the darkness of the night didn't help either. You surfaced just an arm's reach of the object. It took everything in you to not scream and flail. If you did, you would be as dead as the corpse before you.

You felt a scraggly beard rest atop your right shoulder and a scratchy voice whisper in your ears. Bring me back. I don't want to float aimlessly my entire life, bring me back.

And so you did. With great difficulty, you hauled the bloated corpse of Joe Collie to the shore where Father Paul stood. You took a few seconds to make sure that Joe was properly on land before you ran some ways and collapsed, rocks digging into your skin, and vomited. You felt Father Paul once again approach you but you held out a palm to stop him in his tracks. When you were done emptying what you ate the entire day, little as it was, you simply sat back on your heels and ran your hands through your face. You stood up shakily and faced your friend.

"You don't look surprised." you whispered.

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"The truth, please."

And he did. The extensive truth. He spared no details. "So you murdered him. Joe was warning me, then. You know, I was so confused why he came to me of all people."

"Do you even feel the least bit guilty?"

He hesitated, torn between telling you what you want to hear versus what he thinks you need to hear. "No, I don't feel any guilt for killing him but I do feel guilty for making you go through this. It's never my intention to make you suffer, dearest."

"Well, dearest," you volleyed back his own endearment. Once that word would make your entire day but now you just felt tired. And sad. "You know how they say there's a thin line between faith and delusion."

"I did what I had to do so that the island could experience the same miracle I did.”

"And does the entire island not include the ones that died? What about Joe? Riley? Were they not deserving or would you just not admit that this thing is not anything godly? That it’s selfish and self-serving.”

"Please!" he looked close to tears in frustration. "Please don't speak of things you don't understand."

You both tensed at the sound of wings flapping. Father Paul looked frantic, his head swinging from the sky and then to you. "It's your angel, come to save you." you stated sarcastically. "Paul, please. Won't you reconsider? This isn't right!"

"You have your regrets, I do too, everyone does. But isn't that the beauty of life? We make mistakes and we learn from them, it builds character as we go on and explore the world. It's not perfect and there's unjust suffering but that's just the way of life. It ends. We live our time and we can't go back."

"The appearance of this...thing felt miraculous because it came to you at a desperate moment in your life but it is not good. Look at what happened to Riley, the other victims! Look at what it turned you to!"

He hissed, holding his palms out to urge you to stop. "Stop. The angel might hear you speaking blasphemy. If you can't accept this, please do me the favor of not speaking until we are safe,"

You scoffed. "If it's an angel, why are you so scared of it then? Deep down, I think you know it's not good."

"I'm scared for you," he blurted out exasperatedly. You jumped as you heard the crunching of leaves. It has landed. "Come, pray with me. The angel will excuse you if you ask for forgiveness." He tugged you by the wrist but you didn't relent. The creature stepped into the clearing as Father Paul's chanting of your name grew extensively more alarmed. He shouted your name one last time before you felt yourself being swept away.

Pain bloomed on the back of your skull because of the impact but it didn't matter in the face of the overpowering agony when the creature ripped into your neck. The spot on your collar was no longer a spot, the rest of your blood joining with it as if completing a puzzle. You didn't know how long it took but the edges of your vision were steadily getting dimmer and the pain grew to numbness. Over the creature's massive wings, you saw Father Paul standing frozen. His dark hair and clothes accentuated his paleness. You expected to see hunger in his eyes, seeing as you were there getting your blood sucked out of you. Instead, there was only pain in his eyes. You wondered if this was enough to knock him back to his senses.

You closed your eyes repeatedly, each time you opened them there was an inconsistent fast forward of time. By the fifth or the sixth, you found yourself being cradled by Father Paul. His tears were stinging your wounds. He bit into his wrist and soon enough, you felt liquid filling your mouth. He reared back as you spat out the blood as fast as you could, some of it hit him on the chin.

"No," you gasped.

"Don't be stubborn!"

"No." you firmly stated. Father Paul wilted under your stare. His big eyes were shiny with unshed tears. He was so beautiful and he held your heart that you were almost compelled to stay and keep him company. "I told you. It doesn't work like that, my dear. You can't wipe the slate clean; you have to live with this." However, you wanted him to have your heart as it was now. Still human.

"I hope this was worth it."

〜[fin.]

#midnight mass #midnight mass x reader #father paul x reader #father paul hill #monsignor john pruitt #gender neutral reader #reader-insert #oneshot #halloween oneshot #there go the whispers #scarlettscribbles

[cellsshapedlikestars]

So Jon and Sansa both see a crime being commited and become prime witnesses to arrest this big crime mastermind (Petyr? Or maybe Tywin?) and they have to go to witness protection... Only witness protection makes them pretend to be a married couple when they actually don't know each other. Does that sparkle something in that brilliant brain of yours as a prompt?

Look I'm in a Mood™ today and wrote this in a weird fugue state so don't @ meeeeee. I also like barely edited this so who knows if it makes sense, and grammar? I barely know her.

Also, I don’t really know how to do trigger warning tags, so this is my warning that there are vague mentions of blood/gore/violence.

.

.

Sometimes when she wakes up, she forgets.

But then she looks around the room that isn't her room and she has to tell herself that it is. This is her room. This is her home. That is her husband downstairs making breakfast.

(And sometimes she wakes up unable to breathe, the dreams are so real; the blood and brains and pieces of skull spraying the wall in front of her, the sounds of men pleading for their lives. The strong arm wrapped around her, one hand over her mouth to keep her from screaming, the only thing that kept her still and quiet and hidden under the desk, the only reason she's alive. He's downstairs making breakfast.)

….

If there was ever a place to get lost, she thinks, it's here.

She stares out the window of her house, the same as every other house on the street. Row after row of identical houses. Neighborhoods of them, the suburbs stretching on forever. They've been here for two months and she doesn't even know her neighbor's names. The one across the street is Edmond, she thinks. Maybe. Edmure? No, if it were Edmure, she would remember, because of-

(But Alayne Stone doesn't have an Uncle Edmure.)

“I'm headed out.”

She turns to look at her husband.

“Have a good day,” she calls, just like she does every day. She watches him walk out to their nondescript grey sedan, just like he does every day. He backs it out of the driveway, then drives west, towards the main road.

…

They don't talk about before.

He is Aemon Stone. They met in college, in a geography course that they both almost failed, and they fell in love. They just got married and moved here - not that any of their neighbors have asked, so she's only had to tell that story to her new coworkers at the craft store.

They're trying to start a family.

(Jon, she thinks his name is, she remembers the agents calling him that, before they were handed folders with their new lives inside. But Jon is not her husband. Aemon is.)

…

Sometimes she likes to think she's a hero, giving up her whole world just to take down the bad guy. She's a hero, a martyr, the protagonist of her own daydreams. Her actions will save the lives of countless others.

(The reality is that she had no choice. They gave her one, technically, she doesn't have to testify against Petyr Baelish, but they all knew there was no choice. If she stayed, he would've found her. He would have killed her and anyone she could have possibly told about what she saw. She knows Aemon had no choice, either, and sometimes she wonders what he gave up. But they don't talk about before.)

…

She tries not to let her mind wander too much, but it's hard not to. Her life is routine. Mundane. She makes friends with her coworkers but she can't – she won't– let them get too close.

The problem with all her free, mundane time is that it gives her space to think – gives her time to regret.

She remembers that weekend, remembers thinking what harm could it do? Remembers thinking the bachelorette party sounded so fun. Remembers taking cash out to play the slot machines, ordering drink after drink until she felt numb.

It all goes a bit fuzzy after that. No matter how hard she tries, she can never remember how she got into the back halls of the casino, to the places where guests aren't allowed. She remembers a strange man kissing her, large, with scarring across his face, who told her that a pretty bird like her shouldn't be back here and demanded a kiss as payment. She remembers running, running, running.

If only she hadn't run.

If she hadn't run, she wouldn't have found herself in that room. She wouldn't have heard the door opening, turned around to see him, watched his face twist in horror when he saw her. He wouldn't have had to tell her get down, hide.

She remembers not being able to move, frozen to the spot at the sight of the gun at his hip. She remembers the way he'd pulled her down under the desk, one arm around her waist to keep her still, one hand over her mouth to keep her quiet, just in time, just before the door opened again.

(And she remembers the men who came in right after, the gruff where the fuck did Rivers get to?)

…

She's seen the tattoo.

(She doesn't think she was supposed to. Aemon Stone shouldn't have a tattoo.)

They try not to get in each other's way – he works days, she works closings. She sleeps in the master bed, he sleeps in a guest room down the hall. He wakes up early and makes breakfast and leaves her a plate. She eats while he goes for a run. But every once in a while...

That day he'd been coming back from the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist. She's never upstairs when he takes a shower, but she had gotten the urge to read, for the first time in months, and had gone up to grab one of the books that came with the house when she ran into him in the hall.

And there, on his chest, right above his heart, the mockingbird tattoo.

(Aemon Stone is her husband. He is not one of them.)

(But Jon Snow was.)

…

She probably should be scared, but she can never find it in her to be. Their handlers wouldn't have put them in the same house if they thought he'd hurt her.

(He's the reason she's alive. His arm around her waist, his hand over her mouth. Get down. Hide.)

…

Sometimes she wants to ask – why?

Why did he hide her?

Why is he here?

He was one of them, there's a tattoo on his chest that proves it.

Why did he save her? Give up everything for her to live?

…

She slips, once.

She's at work, in the break room, heating up a mug of soup in their tiny, low watt microwave. The break room TV is on, the news is playing, and then he's there.

Petyr Baelish, donating a giant check to an orphanage. Everyone's clapping and cheering him on and all she can hear are the screams of two men, pleading for their lives. Begging Petyr Baelish to stop. (They had wives and children and their screams echo in her head and-)

“Alayne?” her coworker, Myranda, shakes her arm. “I think your food's done?”

She's shaking so hard that the soup sloshes over the side of her mug and she apologizes as she cleans it up and Myranda asks if she's sick or something. She has to go home early because she vomits into the break room trash can.

At home, Aemon is watching football on TV and he's surprised when she comes home early. All he says is, “everything ok?” and she knows what he's asking.

“Everything's ok,” she tells him and he nods and she goes upstairs.

They don't talk about the past, but they don't talk about the present, either.

(And they definitely don't talk about the future.)

…

There's one time she doesn't wake up confused or breathless.

She wakes up screaming.

In her dream, he finds her. In her dream, Petyr Baelish walks around the desk and bends down and reaches under and pulls her out. In her dream, he tortures her like he did those men. In her dream, he puts a gun to her head, just like he did-

She wakes up screaming.

The door to her room slams open and she takes a gasping breath and looks up at her husband, standing in the doorway with a baseball bat in his hand. His hair is wild and his eyes are wide as they search her room and she tries to tell him it's all in her head but she can't make her voice work. When she tries, the words just come out as a small sob and she watches his tensed shoulders relax and he sets down the baseball bat.

She curls into herself and cries into her bent knees – for her dreams and her fears and the knowledge that this might never end. It's a choking, clawing abyss in her chest that's been growing as the days and weeks and months slide by – that she will never see her family again. She'll never eat mom's cooking or hear her dad yell at the TV when his team loses or see Robb's infectious smile or argue with Arya or talk about philosophy with Bran or watch one of Rickon's basketball games. She'll never get to play with Lady again.

She has kept them locked away inside her, tried to forget about them because Alayne Stone doesn't have a family.

The bed dips and she lets out another gasping sob as she feels an arm settle around her shoulders. “Alayne,” he says, and then again. Again and again, until - “Sansa.”

“I'm not Sansa,” she whispers when she finally looks up.

“Sometimes you need to be,” he says, his voice is steady and he brings one hand up to tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear. “It's hard, not everyone can just change who they are. Especially not like this.”

“You say that like you're some expert,” she sniffs, wiping at her cheeks now that her tears have slowed. She feels like a mess – her eyes feel hot and puffy, her nose feels raw, her throat is sore, but she also feels more human than she has in months.

He hesitates, seems to think hard about something before - “Aemon Stone isn't the first person I've had to become.” She jerks back a bit, but she doesn't pull away.

(He saved her life.)

“Who else?”

“Before this, I was Aegon Rivers.”

“I thought your name was Jon Snow? That's what they called you.”

“Jon Snow,” he says, voice low and soothing and she feels herself relax, settles into the warmth of his arms a bit more, “is a federal agent who went undercover with the Mockingbirds two years ago.”

She looks at him, then – really looks at him. At his grey eyes and his long face and his black hair wild from sleep, at the scar that runs through his eyebrow and the dark stubble that he meticulously shaves off every morning.

“Jon Snow fits you better,” she tells him.

“And Sansa Stark fits you.”

“I'm not Sansa Stark anymore,” she reminds him again, feeling her voice waver, though she thought she was past it. “This was just a bad dream, I promise I'll do better.”

“Like I said, sometimes it's hard,” he tells her. “And sometimes it's easy to forget who you are.”

“Is it for you?” she asks. He doesn't answer, but she thinks he doesn't need to, she can see it in him and she wonders how much of Jon Snow he remembers. Two years is a long time to be someone else. “I don't...” her voice breaks and she has to drop into a whisper. “I don't want to forget them. I know I have to-”

“What if,” he cuts in when her words fail her completely, “what if we're Jon Snow and Sansa Stark here?”

“They told us we-”

“No,” he shakes his head, “I don't mean... not in the house. Not during the day. But how about, once a week, at night, when it's just us, when the rest of the world is sleeping – I'll come in here and just for an hour, we can remember.”

The words make her ache and she nods and looks over at her clock. One hour – one hour to remember who she is and where she comes from. One hour to talk about anything and everything – about the past and the present and the future. It's not a lot and it's a risk and against the rules, but-

“Yes. Please.”

He nods and looks a bit grim and she wonders, once again – why? She doesn't think he wants to talk about Jon Snow. He's doing it for her – he's saving her life again and she still doesn't know why. Maybe she'll find out, some day.

“Ok,” he breathes, like he's jumping off the deep end, “Sansa Stark – what's your favorite color?”

#jonsa #prompt fic #also once again i cannot keep these under 2k words #mentions of violence and blood

[eveningstar477]

Backup prompt from me- Agent Carter if you would oblige me. A conversation over comms that would be better in person.

*warning for a brief nondescript vomit mention*

also on ao3

Another Friday evening date night cancelled, Daniel thought ruefully. It wasn’t as if it was unusual, what with his wife being the director of a fledgling federal agency, but he and Peggy had barely had a honeymoon after their wedding, much less any quality dates since then.

This time, there had been rumors of Russian spies infiltrating the President’s dinner party, so Peggy had been asked to attend to provide extra security. Daniel would normally have recommended that she assign another female agent to this type of task, but given the potentially catastrophic nature of a failure tonight, he had agreed that it was best if Peggy herself went.

Daniel, who officially was SHIELD’s recruitment officer, was spending the evening in a surveillance van keeping tabs on Peggy and the handful of other agents (who were patrolling the perimeter) via comms. By the clinking of silverware, he guessed that they had started the evening meal.

All of the sudden, there was a commotion from the other end of the line, a stifled gasp and then the sound of a chair being shoved back from a table.

“Excuse me,” came Peggy’s clipped voice, followed by the sound of her heels clacking along the hallway at a rapid pace.

“Peggy, is everything all right? Did you see something?”

Instead of an answer, the only thing Daniel got in response was the sound of a stifled heave followed by a door banging open. Peggy’s shoes echoed louder in what Daniel knew must be a bathroom, and sure enough, the next noise sounded roughly like a stall being opened, closed, and then locked.

“Peggy?!”

The harsh sound of retching came over the radio and Daniel grimaced, turning down the volume momentarily to spare himself the sound of Peggy losing her lunch.

“Peggy, come on, answer me - is this poison?! Has someone tried to poison the president? I’ll radio the other agents, have them lock the place down - and call Stark and the scientists of course, have them make an antidote-“

“Daniel.” Peggy’s voice, breathless and scratchy, crackled across the line, and Daniel sagged in relief.

“It’s not poison, I’m quite certain of that. Daniel, I didn’t want to tell you like this, I wanted to do it in person,” she sighed, “but it seems it can’t be avoided.”

The moment of pure relief when Peggy had said she was sure it wasn’t poison evaporated. Daniel had no idea what she could possibly have to say. If she was ill, and it wasn’t poison…

“I’m pregnant.”

Daniel’s jaw dropped open.

“Peg…what? You’re….?”

“Yes, pregnant, darling. We’re going to have a baby - not the most convenient timing, I know, and this godawful “morning” sickness isn’t in the morning at all, and our apartment isn’t big enough for a baby, and…”

“Peggy, stop. We’re going to be parents!” Daniel enthused, grinning ear to ear. Peggy laughed in response, and he could hear the joy in her voice.

……………………………………

A few hours later, after the party ended (and there had been no Russian assassins after all), Daniel was waiting outside the van for Peggy to emerge.

“Daniel!”

He turned towards her voice, and she flung herself into his arms. He swung her off the ground for a moment, then set her down. He gently cupped his hands over her stomach, grinning.

“Peggy, I can’t believe it! A baby!”

He leaned in to kiss her, only for Peggy to stop him with a hand on his chest.

“At least let me get home and brush my teeth first,” she laughed. Daniel chucked and offered his arm instead. Peggy took it, and the two of them headed home to celebrate.

#my writing #for those who are here for the Jack Thompson content not to worry I have lots of those prompts coming up too #Daniel sousa #Peggy carter #peggysous #agent carter

[shorkbrian]

Asleep

My stupid hornee brian thinks thots every second of the day EXCEPT when I’m trying to write something smh stupid I’ve mentioned I HC that Yan!Aizawa is probably into somnophilia so…

ALSO binch im about to finish Avatar (benders not weird blue nekkid aliens) and whoooooo give a shout if you can see ZUKO and SOKKA and sfjbsfkskgs SEVERAL OTHER CHARACTERS being messed up and having a darling. ngl when Zuko has Katara tied up in S1? thats probably when like bby me developed a bondage kink. I’m a sinner and will shut up now

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Aizawa loves to catch you sleeping. You look so peaceful and innocent, and he always wants to come and cuddle you wherever you might be snoozing. Taking a nap on the couch? Expect him to pick you up before settling underneath you so your head can rest on his chest. Did you accidentally fall asleep on the floor while reading a book? Aizawa will grab a blanket and a few pillows and drape himself over you.  His touch unnerved you; usually the older man was so reserved and stoic, only speaking when absolutely necessary and trying his hardest to not touch you outside of the bedroom (he knew you didn’t like it when he touched you at all, but there was only so much he could deprive himself of).

It made you so uneasy that you had taken to sleep deprivation, refusing to fall asleep in his presence. Whenever he was gone at work, you would set his bedside clock’s alarm to wake you before he got back. You disliked having him touch you and move you while you were unconscious and resting. Aizawa would quickly pick up on this; he’s the textbook example of suffering from sleep deprivation. That’s when he’d pull out his personal favorite, sleeping pills.

The first time he made you take them, Aizawa simply instructed you to “ take these” while he pressed two nondescript pills into one of your hands, a glass of water in the other. You wanted to argue but knew it would not sway him, so you obeyed.  Aizawa would pretend not to see your hand shake as you gulped them down. The last thing you’d remember was feeling extraordinarily tired, barely stumbling into bed before becoming oblivious to the world.

You innocently assumed that Aizawa was making you take the pills to ensure that you would achieve a healthy amount of sleep. You didn’t like the fact that he probably cuddled you while you were out, but you had tried refusing to take the pills before. The ensuing days spent tied up as punishment were enough to discourage you from trying that again. At least when you were asleep he probably only cuddled. Being awake while he did far worse made you want to vomit.

The dark truth came out when you had awoken from another pill-induced slumber. You were being rocked gently, and it didn’t take long to figure out why when you realized Aizawa was in the bed with you, holding one of your legs into the air while you laid on your side, his hips thrusting gently against yours. When you had started crying the man stopped for a second, mumbling about how his shift ended later than usual and most of the time you didn’t even know he was there. Then he shushed you gently, continuing to use your body as you sobbed.

He loved it so much.

Aizawa loved how pliant, how helpless you were when he took you while you were asleep. You never fought, never cried or told him what a horrible man he was. It was so much easier for the both of you, he reasoned. You would be lost in dreamland, and he would get to sate his lust for you. Now that you were aware of what happened whenever Aizawa would make you take those pills, you would begin to cry as you swallowed them, feeling cold, afraid, vulnerable.

You hated sleep even more now. It had been a way to escape the man, but he made sure that you could never really escape, even in your dreams.

#yandere aizawa #my hero academia aizawa #aizawa imagine #aizawa shouta #shouta aizawa #yandere thoughts #yandere imagines #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere mha #boku no hero x reader #noncon tw #tw dubious consent #daddyzawa #somnophilia #ew #poor reader #gross aizawa #aizawa x reader #help this man #creepy aizawa #drug use #lucid yandere #he knows its wrong #he does it anyway

[callboxkat]

Statement of Patton Sanders

Author’s note: Anon, this is probably not what you meant, but, hey! Here you go!

Summary: Statement of Patton Sanders regarding a series of accidents. Statement recorded live from subject, February 7th, 2021, by Logan Sanders—no relation—Head Archivist of The Magnus Institute, London.

(Necessary bg info: The Magnus Institute is an organization that takes and investigates statements about paranormal experiences. Jurgen Leitner is a character who collected books with supernatural powers.)

Warnings: This is a The Magnus Archives AU, so if you’ve listened to that you should know what to expect. Body horror (cut off fingers, broken neck), nondescriptive vomiting, blood mention, food mention. Child abuse, sort of. It's in a story in this story. No character death or villain characters.

Word Count: 3289

Original prompt:

Writing Masterpost!

Ao3 Link

@badthingshappenbingo​

...

“Hey, we have the same glasses.”

“Yes, I suppose we do—Do you need help with the chair? Oh, you’ve got it.”

Patton and the other man sat down on opposite sides of a desk. He was a weary-looking, bespectacled man who couldn’t have been much different in age from himself, although slivers of premature gray were visible in his hair.

The man—an archivist, he’d introduced himself as—leaned forward to turn on a tape recorder. It seemed a little old-fashioned, but it certainly did fit in with the overall vibe of the place (recording on a laptop would have probably felt out of place), and Patton didn’t mind. This would be much easier than hand-writing his entire statement.

The archivist cleared his throat. “Statement of Patton Sanders regarding a series of accidents. Statement recorded live from subject, February 6th, 2021, by Logan Sanders—no relation—Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.”

Patton shifted in his seat. The archivist sat across him, looking at him expectantly. The tape recorder lay innocently on the desk between them, the tape inside slowly turning with a quiet tick. They sat in the basement of the oft-mocked Magnus Institute. They were in an office, but even here the walls were lined with bookcases, stacked with boxes upon boxes, each of them, it appeared, filled to the brim with folders, or with cassette tapes. Other peoples’ statements, presumably. Patton wasn’t sure how he felt about that. His story just being one of hundreds more, maybe thousands, in those boxes.

“Do I just… start?” he asked.

The archivist adjusted his glasses. “Yes, please.”

He nodded, swallowed, and even before he’d fully decided where to begin, he spoke. The words came surprisingly easily.

“I used to work at a library in my home town, back in the US. It’s a little town in Florida, almost at the border with Georgia, pretty near the coast. I don’t… I don’t work there anymore, of course. But at the time—this was about three years ago, back in 2017—I was there most days.

“One day we got this book in the return bin. It was weird. Not one of ours. It didn’t have a title that I could see, but there was a label on the inside cover. It was a bit smudged, but the last name was Leitner. I don’t know if it belonged to them, or if that was the author… I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, I guess.”

He noticed that the archivist suddenly seemed very interested in what he was saying, even leaning forward to hear.

“I was about to move the book over to the donations bin—I figured that’s what it was, you know, just a book somebody didn’t want, and decided to give to us rather than throw away, and got the wrong bin by mistake. But… I don’t know. Something about it just drew me in. I have no idea what; usually I go more for cookbooks, or crafts stuff, or um, lighter fiction. Not… that.”

He tried for a weak smile, but the archivist didn’t seem open to humor. Which Patton have once found awkward, but now it was almost a relief. He wasn’t sure how to make his story funny.

“So I took it out of the return bin, and I put it on my desk, instead. I was busy right then, but when I had a free moment, I sat down to take a look at it. It was old and worn, and like I said, there was no title. But it had this… weird feeling to it. Something off about it. I didn’t like it at all. But it was like I had to open it.

Patton sighed, glancing away. Suddenly, he felt on the edge of tears.

“And I made the biggest mistake of my life, and I opened that book.

“It was a story about a child who keeps refusing to do his chores. His mom would give him things to do, and the kid would say, ‘Yes, I’ll do them!’ but then as soon as the mom leaves, he’d drop the broom or whatever and run off to play with his toys instead. And as time goes on the mom gets more and more tired of this, because she has to do all the chores he doesn’t want to do.

“So, she takes him aside, and tells him sternly that he has to do his chores, or there would be consequences. And of course, he doesn’t listen, because he’s a kid.

“So the next day, takes him aside again, and tells him again to do his chores, and he continues not to. And it continues like that for ten days. But on the tenth day, the mom trips on the broom that the kid left in the middle of the floor, and she hurts herself. Very, um… very badly. She… breaks her neck. But she gets up off the floor, and her neck is all… it’s bent at a 90 degree angle. And there’s blood on the floor. I remember that page very vividly. Most of the book was in black ink, with some—” He made a face, “—illustrations. In the picture on that page, the blood was red.

“So, the mom… she goes to the kid, her neck all wrong, and she tells him, ‘You’re going to clean until your fingers fall off! Which… he does. She makes him clean, and clean, and clean. He has to scrub the floor, and when he finishes, she makes him start all over again, and again, and again. And, one by one, his fingers just… fall off.”

Patton was silent for a moment.

“On the last page of the book, there was a handprint. It wasn’t printed, you know, with ink. It was stuck in with a dark substance. I like to think maybe it was chocolate or something… but I doubt it. The weirdest thing about it, though, was that it had no fingers.

“When I closed that awful thing, I looked up, and it was dark outside. I’d apparently been reading for hours. I want you to understand—this wasn’t a big book. Maybe twenty pages, tops. And I’d found it near the start of my shift. I have no idea where all that time went, or how I didn’t notice it passing. Or why no one came in to disturb me. It’s like no one came to the library that entire day. I lived in a small town, like I said, but it wasn’t that small. We usually had people trickling in and out, even on slow days. Retired people who needed something to do, school kids doing homework, you know. You have a library here, you should understand, even if yours is more, uh… specific. So, it was really strange that no one had come in at all.

“Anyway, it was a horrible, horrible book. It was like someone set out to write a kids’ book about why they should do their chores, but instead of that, it was this nightmare version. I really didn’t want to add it to our library. Where would you even put a book like that? So I didn’t put it in the donation pile like I’d planned. But I also didn’t seem… able to just, like, get rid of it. I couldn’t just throw it away. Not because it was old and weird and maybe worth some money, no, more like… I don’t know. I just couldn’t do it. It’s hard to explain. So I put it in my desk, went home, and tried to forget about it.

“I’ll admit that, at the time, my apartment—my flat, you call ‘em here—wasn’t the cleanest back then. And thinking of that book, I kind of wanted to clean it. But also… I really didn’t. Thinking of that book made me very aware of the mess, but I kept thinking of that kid and the way his fingers just fell off, one by one, with that horrifying mom with her broken neck just watching, and then that handprint in the back of the book.

“I thought maybe whoever owned the book last, that Leitner person or whoever, put the handprint in there as some kind of joke. Just tilted up their fingers so they didn’t touch the page, to make it look like they didn’t have any. But I guess I kinda doubted that, even then.

“I made dinner that night, fed Jim and Pam—they’re my cats—and I left the plates in the sink to clean the next day.

“In the morning, they were stacked on the counter, perfectly clean. I tried to tell myself maybe I’d cleaned them and forgot, or maybe the cats had…. Somehow bumped them, and licked them clean, and it had just coincidentally looked purposeful. I don’t know. Pam liked to jump up on tables.

“I’d almost put it out of my head when the doorbell rang. I wasn’t expecting any visitors, but sometimes a couple of my friends would drop by at random, so I might not have thought much of it, except that my cats suddenly started acting different. Scared. They were hissing, and they ran off to hide. That wasn’t like them at all. …I didn’t answer the door.

“A half hour or so passed, and I figured whoever it was was probably gone, so I went to peek out the front window. Sure enough, whoever it was… if there ever even was anyone out there… was gone. But there was a box sitting on the welcome mat. Plain cardboard, no shipping label or address or anything.

“I should have left it alone. It probably wouldn’t have changed anything, but… who knows.” He let out a heavy sigh. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t leave it alone. I looked around, I wanted to make sure no one was there. No one was, as far as I could tell, so I opened the door.

“The box was small, maybe 6 inches long, a little less tall and wide than that—err, I’m not sure what that is in metric. Maybe like… 15 centimeters?”

The archivist waved him off. “It’s fine.”

“Sorry. So the box was small, and it was very light when I picked it up, which was honestly a bit of a relief at the time. I could practically hear one of my friends, Virgil, screaming at me about mail bombs. He’s a pretty cautious guy. Now I think maybe he had the right idea.

“I thought maybe the box was empty, even, until I stepped over the threshold and… and I uh, felt something rolling around in there.”

He shuddered at the memory.

“I brought it into the kitchen and opened up the box. Inside was… inside was a single, human finger, cut off just below where the joint would have been on the person’s hand.

“I felt sick. I was sick. I barely made it to the trash can. I remember my cats still didn’t come back to see what was going on, which was unusual for them. Normally they were very nosy little guys. It was like they knew something was very, very wrong. I don’t blame them for staying away.

“I called the cops right away, of course. Or, as soon as I’d calmed down enough to dial the number. I mean, course I did. Someone had dropped off a finger at my door.

“The lady on the phone was very nice, but I don’t think she believed me at first. Or maybe she just couldn’t understand what I was saying. I was a little upset, obviously. Eventually, though, the police did show up. They took the box, asked me some questions, and they left.

“That night, I was in the kitchen, cleaning the dishes, trying to forget the whole thing. I was almost done, but then, somehow… the garbage disposal turned itself on. Something wrong with the wiring, they told maybe. I was so surprised that I dropped the plate I was holding, and the stack of dishes shifted, and somehow, my hand ended up… my finger went down the drain. Into the garbage disposal. It all happened so fast. One second I was just washing a plate, humming the intro to Steven Universe, and the next….

“I scrambled to turn it off, but it was too late. I grabbed a dish towel and drove myself to the hospital in a panic. Only remembered later to send someone to look after the cats.

“They couldn’t save my finger, even if they had tried. There wasn’t anything left to save.

“A week later, I got another package. Left at my door, just like the last one. Identical to the first, but this time it was a different finger. Maybe from the same hand, but it wasn’t like I looked at it long enough to know for sure. And I’m not a doctor. I called the cops again, and they came. They weren’t much help. They poked around a bit, talked to the neighbors, and told me to get a security camera. I did do that.

“I was very careful that day, remembering what had happened last time, even though I knew it was ridiculous. What, some crazy person leaves a severed finger on my doorstep, and that somehow makes me lose my own in a freak accident? …But I was careful, anyway. And nothing happened that day. But the next morning, when I went to go to work… I slammed the car door shut on my finger.

“It kept happening. The same plain cardboard boxes left at my door. The camera always seemed to cut out when they were delivered, although once I swear I caught a glimpse of a silhouette. It looked… wrong, though. Maybe it was a tree casting a shadow or something. No one’s head looks like that.

“I stopped calling the police, eventually. They didn’t help. Just asked the same questions, swore they were doing all they could, and left. I stopped opening the boxes, too. I tried throwing them out, burning them, kicking them into the gutter. I went to stay with my friend Virgil, but the box found me there, too. I moved twice. It didn’t seem to matter. Every week, a box would show up, and within a day or two, even if I never even opened my front door or looked at the box, I’d lose another finger. Until….”

Patton looked down at his lap, where his hands sat. Where each finger should be, they instead ended in neat little stubs just after the knuckle. They were remarkably even, considering that he’d lost each one in different ways, in different weeks. One after the other.

“After that, it finally stopped. My hands healed as much as they ever would, and I went back to work—I still don’t know how I kept that job—and I found that book in my desk. I tried to throw it out, but I couldn’t make myself let go of it. I tried to feed it to the paper shredder, but I couldn’t make myself rip out the pages. Eventually I just threw it across the room, and it landed neatly in the pile of donated books. Apparently, it would have let me just… add it to the collection. But I couldn’t let other people read it—What if the same thing happened to them? So I took it home with me.

“I did try to get rid of it on the way there. I stopped by the river, a dumpster… I tried to set it on fire. Imagine trying to get a lighter to work like this. I couldn’t follow through with any of them, though, and not just because of my hands. The book wouldn’t let me. Or I wouldn’t let myself. I don’t know which it was, really. Maybe I was afraid something worse would happen if I managed to destroy it. I don’t know.

“I locked it away. Buried it where I couldn’t see it. Still, it was like it was calling to me, telling it to hold it, to read it, to place my own hand over that awful handprint. It was driving me crazy. The cats wouldn’t go near the room it was in.

“I tried to ignore it. To forget about it. For a while, I thought it was working. I was still constantly aware of where it was, but it got easier to ignore.

“Then, one day, the doorbell rang. It was another box. Inside was a single, severed toe.”

A silence stretched between them, yawning between Patton and the archivist. The tape recorder ticked on. A tear rolled down Patton’s cheek. When he continued, his voice was choked.

“I will never forgive myself for what I did next, but I couldn’t go through that again. Please don’t judge me. I know it’s unforgiveable. But you can’t understand what it was like, not if you’ve never been through something like that.  I knew it was the book by now, that was doing this to me, and I had to be rid of it. I still couldn’t destroy it, but I could… give it away. So I went and I got the book, and I wrapped it up as best I could, and I wrote ‘DO NOT READ’ on the package in capital letters. And I gave it away. I don’t know who I gave it to, and I don’t want to know. I drove across town, stopped at a random house, and stuffed the book in their mailbox. I can only hope they never read it.”

Patton let out a shaky breath. “It worked.”

The archivist’s face was impassive.

“After that was all finally over, I decided I needed to get out of there. Not just out of the town, but as far as I could get. I had family in the UK, and one of my friends studied abroad here and loved it, plus you guys speak English, so it seemed like as good a place to go as any. So I moved. Nothing else has happened since. I don’t have any fingers, but at least I have all my toes, and I’m rid of that awful book. I’ve tried to forget the whole thing, which as you might imagine, is a little difficult, but I try. Still, when one of my coworkers mentioned this place—I work at a shop now, restocking at night, so I don’t have to see the customers—I decided to come. I just want to be rid of this story. So… if you guys can track down that book, stop it from hurting anyone else, please do.” He clenched his hands, as well as he could. “I don’t want its weight on my mind anymore. It’s done enough to me.”

He fell silent.

“Statement ends,” said Logan. The archivist leaned forward and turned off the tape recorder. “Thank you for coming in. You can leave the way you came. Roman, my assistant, will take down your details. We might contact you if we need further information. Do you, by chance, remember the address of the house where you left the book?”

Patton shook his head. “No, I… I didn’t want to know.”

Logan nodded slowly. “Alright. Well… we appreciate your time.”

“I hope my statement… ah, comes in handy,” Patton joked weakly. He almost smiled at the gobsmacked look on the archivist’s face, the most emotion he’d shown the entire time Patton had been there. And then, he got up, and he left his story behind. He’d given it away to someone else, and he was done with it.

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #ts patton #ts logan #ts sides #tss #ts #sanders sides fan fiction #ts fic #ts fanfic #bad things happen bingo #prompt: finger in the mail #bthb #finger in the mail #horror #statement of patton sanders fic #fanfiction #tma #the magnus archives #tma au

[astxlphe-fics]

Dazai didn’t plan for any of this to happen to Akutagawa

The first thing he does, upon being pulled out of his cell by Ango, is planning on how to get him back.

Fix it fic

Pairing : Dazaku, Dazai Osamu / Akutagawa Ryuunosuke

Word count : 5 361

Content Warnings : mentioned character death, vomiting, blood drinking, vampire, biting

There is a commotion in Yokohama, and Ango comes to pull Dazai out of his cell.   

"I managed to convince them to let you out," Ango tells him, gaze severe. "That you were essential to putting a stop to what is going on."  

"Smart." He smiles, tilting his head, and wonders how Atsushi and Akutagawa are doing. If he's right — and he usually is — Kamui is someone influential, and the two of them will have exposed him. "And what exactly is going on?"  

Ango doesn't look happy, and Dazai can feel a tiny bit of suspicion worm it's way inside his brain. He remembers when he glanced at Fyodor, in the cell facing him, as he walked out of the prison, and the Russian man smiled, mocking.   

Smug. Why is he so smug? Dazai is free, Fyodor is not. Dazai wins.  

"What," he repeats, "is going on?"  

"I picked up Atsushi at the drop point, as planned. Kamui is Fukuchi Ouchi, the head of the Hunting Dogs. Atsushi barely managed to get away."  

And what about Akutagawa, he doesn't ask, because he feels enough dread and he's smart enough that maybe he can guess.  

"We are now dealing with a vampire outbreak," Ango goes on, and the look he sends him is too close to pity for Dazai to stand his gaze for too long. "As for what exactly happened...I think Atsushi should be the one to tell you."  

It's bad then. His mind conjures images of Akutagawa, bloody and face  blank and heart still, and his own skips a few beats. He stops his train of thoughts before they get the best of him. He’s not ready for where it's going, so he hangs onto Akutagawa as much as possible.  

Angry scowl and rebellious and slightly petulant “I don’t care" to his request to help Atsushi and a fiery temper and eyes that make Dazai's stomach flip in a way he’s still not quite ready to face.  

He breathes. Akutagawa is strong, he is fine. He was always strong, in spite of Dazai's reluctance to actually tell him that.   

Atsushi and Akutagawa are young, and still inexperienced, but their combined power is nothing to laugh at and pulled them through several powerful enemies.  

But is it strong enough to beat Fukuchi Ouchi, he wonders, and quickly he knows the answer is “probably not”.  

“Bram Stoker?” Dazai guesses. There is only one known ability user capable of creating something close to vampires, and it’s Bram Stoker — who caused a terrible calamity eight years ago and was since then not heard of again. Officially, Fukuchi himself killed him, but if Fukuchi is Kamui then—   

“Very likely.”  

Ango leads him out of the prison, not through the front door but through the underground tunnels leading out in the deeper parts of the city.  

“The outbreak started within the Port Mafia,” Ango goes on, “and spread throughout the underworld through them. The Black Lizards went down first, according to Tachihara. We have no idea what happened to the high-ranking members, but—” he trails, scowls. Checks his phone. “We’re not optimistic.”  

The Port Mafia should be able to hold back against such a thing — lock down their Headquarters and safe houses, carefully comb through their members for any wayward vampire, keep the infection to a minimum in their ranks, and then hit back against the source of it.  

This kind of thing means loss of business and Mori, he knows, would not stand for it. 

With Chuuya, Kouyou, and Mori out of the picture, they can’t count on their strength to fight back, which is a less than ideal situation. 

His mind races as he follows Ango through quiet, empty streets, trying to figure it out. The source of it — Bram Stoker, obviously, but who is the first victim? Would putting Stoker out of commission be enough to turn everyone back? So, does it mean Dazai only needs to find him and touch him?  

If Atsushi came back alone from the confrontation with Fukuchi, instead of walking away from it with Akutagawa at his side, probably means that—  

“We’re here.” It's a house. A nice one, at that, nondescript and, he guesses, some sort of safehouse for spies or criminals. He doesn’t recognize the address, but the Mafia is always shifting and changing to avoid being caught. “It’s a Mafia safehouse,” he confirms, “the Agency is here, Mori gave them access before the outbreak.”  

+

“Dazai!!”   

It’s a chorus that welcomes him, and he grins, trying to be lighthearted even though their faces tell him how tired they are. “My, my, what a mess,” he exclaims, “you guys are really lost without me, aren’t you?”  

Some muttering and eye rolls answer him, but they all smile and pat his back and Naomi and Kenji draw him into a tight hug, but to be honest they’re not the ones he expected to jump at him.  

The president pats his shoulder, and tells him how good it is to have him back, before his eyes slide to the teen sitting on the ground in the corner. "He hasn’t said a word since Ango brought him back here,” he informs him. “Six hours ago.”  

So, Dazai turns to his protégé, who is staring at a spot on the opposite wall and resolutely does not look at him, or anyone. Kyouka sits next to him, so close she might as well me melting into his side.  

No Akutagawa in sight, but Atsushi is wearing a familiar black coat. Still, while Dazai usually trusts his brain to come up with the answers by itself, this time around he wants to hear it. He will not let Akutagawa go until he doesn’t have proof before his own two eyes.  

He crouches in front of Atsushi; whose gaze focuses on him and Dazai just has the time to smile and say “ hello Atsushi" before he bursts into tears.  

“I’m sorry,” he cries, and rubs at his own face until it’s red. “Akutagawa—he— Fukuchi killed him.” He says the words as if he barely believes them himself, as if it’s the first time he actually speaks them out loud and is just getting used to the notion. “He— Fukuchi offered to train him and said he had to kill me but Akutagawa said no and we tried to fight him together and we won.” He pauses, catching his breath before his words can turn too garbled by his hiccups and sniffles. “But his sword, it cut through time and with it he also — he cut his throat with his sword and Akutagawa knew and he still did it to help me get away— I’m so sorry Dazai, I didn’t want—”  

Dazai’s blood has gone cold, and he isn’t sure what Atsushi tells him next. This is one of the worst outcomes. He estimated, when he asked for Akutagawa’s help, that the risks were minimal.

He miscalculated.  

This isn’t what was supposed to happen.   

Akutagawa and Atsushi were supposed to make it, together, and come out on the other side stronger than ever.   

“—and now he’s this—this— vampire thing and it’s my fault, I should’ve listened to Ranpo but Fukuchi had the page from the Book so— I don’t understand,” he ends up saying. “Why would he—”  

“It’s not your fault,” Dazai hears himself say. “Akutagawa took on this mission out of his own, free will.” He still sees himself insisting until he agrees in spite of his misgivings, and this affirmation feels a little like a lie. “Akutagawa made the choice to save you. It was his decision and his alone. It’s not your fault.”  

It’s not Atsushi’s fault, but it’s Dazai’s, a little, and Fukuchi’s, the most.  

“He said he didn’t want to die until you acknowledged him,” Atsushi adds quietly, wiping his nose, as if it doesn’t make it worse. “That he couldn’t afford to disappoint you.”

Fukuchi, in Dazai’s mind, is already a dead man, and he can feel the cold dread in his insides turn into white hot fury.  

“I’m not.” Atsushi doesn’t look convinced, so he insists. “I’m not mad or disappointed in you, or in Akutagawa.”

He’s disappointed in himself for not seeing it coming and mad at Fukuchi and Stoker for doing such a thing to Akutagawa.  

“That’s good.” Atsushi sniffles, the whispered answer has Dazai pulling him into an embrace.

Atsushi grabs onto his coat, hands closing into fists, and buries his face in his chest. Dazai rests his chin on the top of his head for a short time, holding tight on the grieving kid, trying to put order in what he’s heard.  

“Akutagawa is a vampire?” he asks the rest of them. Ango shrugs.  

“He told me, on the way here, that he saw him. I didn’t though, and I guess we could write it off as a hallucination of sort, but—”  

“The outbreak started with the Mafia, specifically the Black Lizards,” Ranpo cuts in, glasses firmly up on his nose, sucking on a lollipop. “According to Ango here, Akutagawa’s subordinate was turned first and spread it to the rest, but she hasn’t been anywhere close to Fukuchi or Bram Stoker.” He stumbles on Fukuchi’s name, and the president looks nothing but pained. “Short answer is yes.”  

“And he’s probably our patient zero,” Dazai completes for him. “I figured as much.”  

“Do you have an idea on how to combat the infection?” Kunikida asks. From the beginning, he has been standing close to Atsushi, obviously unwilling to push him too much to speak. He sits down, though, and his hand now rests on Atsushi’s shoulder.   

“Well, Ango came to get me, didn’t he?” He smiles blandly. “You guys think No Longer Human can cancel it?”  

Dracula is an ability, which means that No Longer Human can erase it. “If we can find Stoker,” the president suggests, “we could put a stop to it.”  

“Would it turn everyone back, though?” Yosano wonders.  

“We believe it would.” When everyone turns to him, Ango elaborates: “From previous records, all of them are linked to him in a way. On their first report, Fukuchi and his team noted that while they acted wild, they seemed to have some sort of hivemind. That was before Stoker was discovered to be at the origin of the phenomenon, so Fukuchi would not have falsified that information. After Stoker's defeat, everyone infected was cured on their own.” And, back to Dazai: “So yes, we track down Stoker, you erase his ability, everyone is be back to normal. You’re the only one who can do this, Dazai.”  

“It appears so.”  

It doesn’t change the fact that Fukuchi killed Akutagawa, and right now they have no way to know if turning him back into a human will send him right back into death’s embrace.   

In any case, Akutagawa is Dazai's student. His responsibility. His. If someone has to stop Akutagawa on a blood drinking spree, it's Dazai. He refuses to allow anyone else to do it.   

“And I will fix it, as you ask, but only—” Ango's almost silent sigh of relief is cut short. “Only if we find Akutagawa first.”  

No, he’s not ready to let Akutagawa die. Death has already taken much from Dazai, and he will not let it have Akutagawa. Not now. Not as long as Dazai is alive to pull him away from it.   

Ango stays silent for a long time, lips pinched. “Dazai.” His tone is very careful. “I understand your position but we can’t prioritise Akutagawa over the rest of the city. Stoker is our priority.”  

“Akutagawa first,” he insists. He knows Ango is right, but a plan is already forming, and adjusting to his previous miscalculations and going off into several directions until he thinks of something coherent enough that he’s sure it’ll end with Akutagawa coming back to them.   

Coming back to him.   

“Thousands of people are being hurt because of Stoker,” Kunikida argues. “We should—”  

“Akutagawa,” he repeats firmly, glaring at Kunikida, whose mouth closes in a clack of teeth, though he is not any less frustrated. “Then Stoker.”  

And then…And then the president’s clench around the handle of his blade and, one way or another, Fukuchi will not get away with it.  

He doesn’t know what the others see when they look at him, but whatever it is it shuts down any other attempt at supporting Ango's argument.  

“Fine,” Ango relents. “But be careful. We don’t know if you can be turned.”  

“Very unlikely,” Ranpo pipes in.   

Dazai nods along, and ruffles his distraught junior’s hair with a smile. “Hear that, Atsushi? We can still get Akutagawa out of all this trouble.”  

+

 “I—” Atsushi pauses, sending Dazai a sidelong glance, which lets Dazai know that he’s still making that face everyone seems to find scary. “I’m sorry.”  

“No need,” Dazai tells him again. “It’s not your fault. Which way?”  

Atsushi stops and raises his head, breathes in deeply through his nose and mouth, licks his lips. Dazai watches him intently — he is slightly better, less distressed than before. The perspective of saving Akutagawa, even if only to repay him for what he did for him, seems to lift his spirit. Good, because Atsushi is an essential part of the plan — if anyone can track down Akutagawa it’s him, with his keen tiger nose.  

They have been following his trail for about an hour now, after another full hour of Ango explaining what he knows of Stoker’s ability.  

The other person needed for it is Yosano, because no matter the outcome they’ll need a doctor on site.   

“This way.”  

Atsushi leads them deeper into the city, towards the slums. Atsushi keeps sending him little nervous glances, fidgeting with the collar of Akutagawa’s coat. It’s obvious he has something to say, and a twinge of guilt lets Dazai know that he dislikes making Atsushi feel like he can’t speak to him.  

“What is it?” he asks, willing his tone to be softer, like Atsushi needs.  

Atsushi needs kindness and guidance. He doesn’t need to see the Dazai with the itch in his bones, with the urges to repay his enemies tenfold, waking up after years of forcing them down. Old habits die hard. 

Those urges, he knows, are only back because he feels stupid and useless and angry. 

“It’s just—” he bites his lips. “I want to help Akutagawa too, but Ango is right, isn’t he? And if we stop Stoker, wouldn’t that help Akutagawa all the same?”  

“It’s riskier,” he explains. “If Akutagawa died — or was dying — before being turned, then he could die soon after he turns back.”  

Atsushi blanches. “So, you want to knock him out and bring him back so Doctor Yosano can be around when he turns back?”  

“We would not be able to hold him until we found Stoker and put out of commission — remember that the vampires have increased strength? Besides, we would have to leave Yosano and several of ours behind to keep him in check, and they would risk being infected before we deal with Stoker. So, my plan is a bit different.” 

“And... are you sure it’ll work?” 

“Of course, I am!” 

Of course, he isn't. He can see two outcomes right now but who knows how many he’s missing? He completely missed the vampire development, didn’t he? What if it doesn’t work?  

“According to Ango, Dracula works by blood consumption — when Stoker drinks someone’s blood, he infects them with a component which alters their very being to transfer a part of his ability within them. This is what allows his victims to spread it to other people. Now, Atsushi-kun—” he wags his finger in front of the boy’s face, confidently, as if he’s sure of what he’s doing and not hoping he’s not missing something big “—what do you think will happen if someone tries to infect me ?”  

“With your ability? I guess it wouldn’t work and— Oh!” His face brightens. “If they drink your blood —”  

“No Longer Human will also cancel Dracula within their body.” Or so he hopes. “If he starts dying on us, Yosano will be able to heal him. Right?”  

“Right.” Yosano plays with the handle of a large knife. She's carrying a first aid kit which contains everything under the sun that could be needed.  

Even if all vampires are connected to him, Stoker can’t individually control them. There are too many of them. As a result, the brain functions and blood flow must be conserved for each infected person to move on their own.  

If Akutagawa was dead when turned, then Stoker had to reactivate them, which means being under his ability's influence he is functionally alive.They still have a chance at healing him even if those functions fail once Stoker’s ability leaves him.  

If they don’t but his wounds reopen, Yosano can heal him. If his heart stops, Yosano can revive him. 

Akutagawa depends on him being right on this — and a few years ago he would have scoffed and scorned at Akutagawa for being too weak, too dependent on him. But even then, he would have tried everything to save him, and then taught him a lesson to remember.  

(Now he just wants to hold him, make sure he is alive, and maybe kiss him one day, but it’s neither the time or the place or something he likes thinking about)  

Atsushi leads them through the slums now. It’s midday, and so far, they’ve managed to avoid any large groups of vampires thanks to Atsushi’s nose detecting them before they could.  

“They smell like blood,” Atsushi explains, wrinkling his nose. “It’s kind of gross, actually. The only reason I can pinpoint Akutagawa is because I spent time with him and I have this—” he tugs at the coat again.  

“Are you sure we aren’t following an old trail?”  

They’re approaching an old road Dazai knows very well, as it leaves the city to turn into an even more familiar path as it goes through the woods.   

“I’m sure.”  

He can see, in the distance, the old tree stump he met Akutagawa almost 7 years ago, and another time, just a few days before.  

“He’s close,” Atsushi whispers.  

His lips twitch into a small smile. Of course, he comes back here. Even if he doesn’t have all his mind, even if it’s only instinct, Akutagawa’s steps always take him back to Dazai.  

“Stay here, and remember to protect Yosano.” Then, to Yosano: “Be ready to jump in.”  

She nods resolutely, and he can feel their eyes on his back as he walks alone towards the clearing. His stomach turns, presumably from apprehension.  

“Come out now,” he calls out cheerfully. “I know you’re here.”  

The woods rustle, and footsteps ring out. Too heavy to be Akutagawa’s, he knows him to be light on his feet, but when he turns to face the newcomer, he pinches his lips.  

“Hello there, Akutagawa.”  

It is Akutagawa, but it is not.  

His steps are heavier, louder, uneven, and when he appears his body is hunched over.

Port Mafia’s rabid dog, Akutagawa is sometimes called.  

And as this Akutagawa snarls, showing off sharp fangs, features twisted and distorted, his eyes blood red, the color filling the pupils and cornea, Dazai figures that he finally lives up to the nickname.   

It’s the first time Dazai gets to see Bram Stoker's handiwork up close and he does not like it at all. Akutagawa stares at him but there is no recognition, and the only sounds out of his mouth are beast-like growls.   

He smiles ruefully. “What have they done to you? Do you even know who I am anymore?”  

How dare they try to steal his student, kill him and turn him into this? Dazai will not stand for this, and the itch is stronger now, but he’s not that kind of man anymore, no matter how furious he is he will not rip Stoker’s teeth out of his mouth and he will not bury the head of a gun down Fukuchi’s throat and press the trigger over and over again.  

No, he’s a different man, the kind of man that saves, and he will save him.  

He waits for Akutagawa to make his move. Further down the path, Atsushi is restless, he can tell, but he does not interfere.  

Then Akutagawa pounces, fast enough that Dazai flinches back, but he forces himself to stay still, fighting against the instinct that commands him to get out of the way.  

The things he won’t do for his wayward student.  

Akutagawa slams into him with surprising strength, knocking him off his feet and the air out of his lungs. Akutagawa pushes him back, and Dazai’s head hits the ground with a thud. He bites back a cry of pain, stars dancing in his field of vision while Akutagawa pins him on the ground, hands pressing on his chest.  

He glances back to Atsushi and Yosano, to find his protégé hackles raised, pupils slit. He shakes his head in spite of the vertigo. “Don’t move," he mouths.  

“That’s right,” he manages to say, struggling into Akutagawa’s grip to raise on his elbows. He succeeds, though Akutagawa rips through the collar of his shirt in the process. Akutagawa’s fingers grasp at his hair, pulling them harshly, dragging a hiss out of him.  

He bites.  

His fangs pierce Dazai’s throat with ease, and at first, it doesn’t hurt more than a scalpel breaking the skin. He feels his own blood run down his neck and Akutagawa’s tongue on his skin and it takes longer than Ango said it would before the ability tries to change him.  

When it does, it burns .   

No Longer Human always cancels ability from the outside, it’s the first time it has to do it from the inside.  

“That’s right,” he chokes out again, through the pain. Dracula tries to change his nature and clashes with No Longer Human and his whole body screams and tries to push the intruding ability out . He raises his hand, rests it on the back of Akutagawa’s neck to pull him closer. “It’s almost over.”  

Then the pain recedes, or maybe he’s feeling too light headed to care about it.  On top of him, Akutagawa’s fangs are still deep into his neck, and to be perfectly honest it almost feels good. 

Above him Akutagawa slows down and takes in a shaky breath. He raises his head, eyes still red, and maybe it doesn’t work, Dazai’s plan fails again, he can’t save him, so he pulls him down again — 

He said he didn’t want to die until you acknowledged him

“You fought so hard,” he whispers, because if the one last thing he can do for him is telling him the truth then he might as well do it. “You were so strong. I’m proud of you.”  

— instead of pushing him back into his neck, he kisses his lips, not minding the blood dribbling down his chin or the fangs scratching his skin.

Then, Akutagawa shakes his head. “D—” His body shivers, and he opens his eyes — two dark, human eyes, wide and afraid staring down at him. “Dazai-san— ”    

“Yosano.” He calls, and he doesn't think he's loud enough. "Yosano!"  

Akutagawa's body heaves again and he drags himself off Dazai, collapsing on the ground. He pushes himself up with his hand, before another shudder runs through him, dragging a strange sound out of his throat, and he promptly throws up.  

Dazai pushes himself up, ignoring his own nausea. “Akutagawa,” he calls out, and his student lets out another pitiful sound as he empties his stomach in the grass. At least his heart hasn’t stopped (yet), so once Dazai sits he lays his hand on his nape again. “It’s okay.” His tongue feels pasty and everything else slightly blurry. “I’m not letting you go.” 

He doesn’t think himself capable of anything more, for now. 

Yosano is here before Dazai can call for her again, and Atsushi pulls him away. “He’s throwing up blood,” he hears Yosano say through the sound of Akutagawa vomiting and the strange buzzing in his ears, and what he feels is relief.  “I think there is some in his lungs— you said Fukuchi cut his throat, right? and check on Dazai —” Atsushi scrambles to the first aid kit, and Yosano swears as Akutagawa suddenly goes limp. 

He can’t see, because Atsushi is all over him now, and he tries to push him away. “No, wait—” Atsushi protests, “I need to clean and bandage your neck, you’re bleeding. Doctor Yosano is taking care of him, he’ll be fine. You planned for this, remember?” 

“Yes,” he answers out loud, and smiles at Atsushi. “You're right, I did. He’s going to be okay. Yosano is a great doctor.” 

“Are you going to let me bandage you, now?” Atsushi doesn’t wait for his answer before getting to work, grabbing disinfectant and a roll of bandages. "Don't move."

Yosano mutters more swear words under her breath. Then, she leans back, wiping her forehead. “Good,” she declares, nodding, and Dazai can breathe. “He’s fine —” she raises an eyebrow at the still unconscious Akutagawa, “—and hopefully, you’ll stay that way, or Dazai might kill me.” 

Akutagawa is alive, Dazai can’t think of anything, and he throws his head back and laughs.   

+

Ryuunosuke dreams.  

It starts, he is not quite sure why, with a detached head who calls itself Bram Stoker. It has something to do with this man he’d been fighting with a weretiger, though both their names escape him for now.   

(What the hell is a weretiger anyway?)  

It moves along, and there is this woman— her face is wet with tears and she's saying something he can’t hear because he’s too hungry to listen, because everything around him feels wrong and now she’s screaming at him, in fear? Maybe, but she was never afraid of him before—  

(Before?) 

—and the screaming stop, and she is gone and he is running somewhere, looking for someone—  

— someone he wants to see, but he can’t name him quite yet, not until he’s standing in front of him, smiling, eyes dark, hello there, do you even know who I am anymore — the answer is no, yes, the name forces its way through his foggy brain as he sinks his teeth into his neck and his blood gushes down his throat and his body hurts.  

It's almost over   

You fought so hard   

Pain shakes his body as if something is trying to crawl out of him.  

You were so strong   

It burns.  

I’m proud of you   

Dazai. It’s Dazai.

The dream ends and he focuses, breathless, at Dazai, his throat bleeding, face stained with blood in a way that wakes the memories of lips on his own. 

The metallic taste in his mouth is disgusting, makes him want to retch, and he’s pretty sure he does just that, before the world goes cold and dark in a scarily familiar manner. 

I'm not letting you go  

+

When he wakes up, Akutagawa is understandably confused. 

Dazai opens up his third energy bar as Atsushi frets over the mafioso, trying to explain what happened in coherent sentences. Dazai does not intervene for now, watching them from where he’s sitting on the tree stump.  

He has not lost too much blood. Just enough to feel light headed and vaguely sick, but not enough to pass out, which is good news. All he needs right now is some food to get him back on his feet while Yosano checks Akutagawa up.

“A vampire outbreak,” Akutagawa repeats plainly, and Atsushi energetically nods.  

“— after the fight with Fukuchi, an ability user called Bram Stoker turned you into a vampire.” He frowns. “You spread it to the rest of the Mafia, through Higuchi first.” 

“But I was—” He pauses. “Dead. I remember that.” His voice is strange, Atsushi winces, and Dazai ponders on the clarity of the memory. 

Ponders if Akutagawa still remembers what it feels like to die. 

“Yeah. You were, Fukuchi he—” It’s his turn to pause, unwilling to go into details. “You saved me,” is what he ends up with. “Everything you did on that ship saved me . The coast guard you didn’t kill bought me enough time that Fukuchi couldn’t catch up to me.” His voice wavers. “Thank you.”  

And Dazai can tell that Akutagawa has no idea what to respond to that — has he ever been thanked before? Dazai doesn’t know, he doesn’t remember ever doing it, anyway. Akutagawa shifts awkwardly, picking at his hair, probably still too dazed to think of a witty retort, so Dazai decides to come to his rescue.  

“We need to get back and start hunting Stoker. We have thousands of people affected by his ability; we need to get a move on. Atsushi?”  

The kid immediately raises his head and takes a good whiff of the air, then grimaces. “Some are getting closer.”  

“The vampires,” Akutagawa says blankly and Atsushi nods again, so Akutagawa glances at Dazai doubtfully. 

“Yup. Blood suckers. We have been calling them vampires though, because it’s self-explanatory.” He stands and smiles, and Akutagawa looks back at him with eyes Dazai isn’t sure he can read properly. He wonders if Akutagawa remembers what he said (I'm not letting you go) and what he did ( kissed him ), and if he does, how much will those admissions — confessions — change between them. “We need to go. Can you stand?”  

(Now is not the time to think about that, maybe once the Decay of Angels is no more, if Dazai doesn’t chicken out of it.) 

He extends a hand to Akutagawa, who stares at it, trying to find the catch. It is another test. If Akutagawa remembers, Dazai thinks, then he’ll take it. If he doesn’t, he’ll get up on his own. Or maybe he’s still too weirded out to think things through. 

The wait isn’t long. Akutagawa is hesitant, but he takes it, and Dazai’s fingers close tightly around his hand to pull him on his feet. 

He still has fangs (seeing him experimentally run his tongue over them makes Dazai’s stomach do a little summersault that is definitely neither fear or worry) and looks like death warmed over. Stoker’s ability might take time to dissipate completely, but beyond that he’s back to normal.

Still, the marks of his latest trial are stark. Face pale, dark bruises under his eyes, and a thick scar on his throat.  

“This isn’t how it was supposed to go.” It’s the closest thing to an apology he’s able to put in words.

Akutagawa scowls. “If I didn’t want to do it, I wouldn’t have.” He narrows his eyes, glaring at Atsushi. “Is the weretiger wearing my coat?” 

“Uh? Oh, yes, he hasn’t left it in days, from what I was told. That's how he found you.” He taps the tip of his nose. “The smell.”

Akutagawa crosses his arms, shivering, his steps still unsure. He seems on edge  — sending little glances around him. He has been dead twice, then hasn’t eaten anything consistent for days. Considering the fourth energy bar in his pocket, Dazai shrugs off his coat. 

“Here.” He drops it across Akutagawa's shoulders. 

“What are you—”

“You looked cold.”

And defenseless, but he will not tell him that, he won’t take it well. For Akutagawa, his coat is both a weapon and an armor, it’s natural that he would feel ill at ease without it.

Sending him a suspicious glare, he pulls it tighter around himself, and Dazai catches himself thinking, as a red spark runs across the fabric, that he quite likes this color on him. 

Atsushi leads them safely through the slums, occasionally having them duck around and hide, while Akutagawa shuffles around under his coat. It takes him a minute to find the snack and he tears it open without bothering to ask Dazai if he can, looking very intently at his own shoes. 

Dazai reaches out to put his arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and he is glad to feel him, alive and heart beating, leaning into him. “Come on now,” he says, “let’s go home.” 

#bsd #bsd spoilers #dazaku #daaku #bsd akutagawa #bsd dazai #writing #cw blood #cw vomit #fix it fic