#to see like 3 triggering things in a single day & feel the little *oof* - sure - but then to just carry on w ur day??? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

petri808 · 3 years

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@ktdkvalentines for Syd on Ig Valentines Exchange

Bakudeku College Au. TW: panic attack, anxiety, some angst w/happy ending based on the request.

Izuku Midoriya was in a great mood that Fall morning as he arrived at the college campus. His first day of his first year away from home, ready to start the next leg of his journey. He’d chosen this university for its good reviews and psychology program. He wanted to do something good in his life and what better way then helping others who’d suffered like he had. Not that he’d had a horrible life but growing up in a single parent household created some attachment issues and bullying when he was younger left him with anxieties. All through high school he’d worked extra hard to get to a point where he could function most of the time, and he was proud of how far he’d come. That growth is what led him to pursue a career in psychology, to take his negative experiences and turn them into a positive one.

So, he wasn’t ready when he walked into the dorm room and saw the familiar blonde hair and red eyes of his nightmares looking back at him.

Oh, this couldn’t be happening! Izuku swallowed hard, a mantra of calming statements flooding his brain as a silent staring content ensued. Neither man said a word, but the longer this went on for, the voices in his mind slowed and were replaced with questions. He was starting to realize... did the blonde even remember him?! He couldn’t tell if it was confusion, or maybe pain on the man’s twisted features, but it certainly wasn’t the angry boy he’d grown up with.

“Wow, Izuku is that you?” The man spoke with no malice in his tone, even rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Been a long time, huh?”

“Yeah... about 7 years I think.”

“H-How you been?”

“Okay, I guess. A bit surprised to see a familiar face.”

The blonde’s shoulders dropped slightly, and he averted his eyes to the ground, “probably not who you’d hoped to see again...”

“I didn’t say...”

“No, no, it’s okay.” The man waved his hands to stop him. “I— I owe you an apology Zuku. And I’m not looking for forgiveness cause I don’t deserve it, but I hope we can, I don’t know like start off fresh, I guess, since we’re stuck in this room together.”

Izuku blinked in confusion, what had happened to Katsuki Bakugou in these past 7 years?! He was certain it wasn’t all arouse, or that the man was trying to bring his guard down, because Katsuki sounded genuine. Until the age of 2 or 3 they were actually really close, but for some reason by the end of their first year of primary school, he’d started picking on Izuku, or taking out his anger on the smaller boy. He had no idea what triggered it, but in the end, he was left emotionally scarred. Now, the man standing before him exuded a broken version of that 3-year-old child he once knew.

“You’re right. I lost count of how many times I ran home in tears because of you. We were best friends and it really hurt when you started picking on me and being mean to me.” The pain evident in his voice rang out into the small, shared room. “I don’t care why you did it. But,” Izuku continued with a sigh, “you’re right, I don’t wanna rehash the past either, so if we can just start over and put up with being roommates, we’ll see how it goes.”

“I’d like that. A-and I know it might not mean much but am sorry Zuku— about how I’d treated you. I promise, I’m not that guy anymore.”

“I believe you.” And he did, for now. Deep down, Izuku always tried to stay positive because if he didn’t, and allowed the irrational thoughts to fester, it could pull him right back into an episode. He didn’t fully trust Katsuki yet, but if was serious about going into the counseling field, he also knew it was important to continue moving forward. That didn’t mean divulging all of his secrets, or telling Katsuki about his own struggles, but he’ll stay alert to make sure that at any sign the man was slipping, he’d get out of there.

As the first two months crept along, the roommates went about their own business with very little interactions at first. It was a bit weird to Izuku, to be in a shared room where their beds were literally just a few feet from one another’s, yet they were lucky to go beyond a good morning or hello. In comfortable situations, he was a bubbly person who genuinely enjoyed talking to people, so the stillness of their room was unnerving. Of course, this was better than feeling fearful around Katsuki, but how are they to move forward and maybe become friends again, if they weren’t interacting?

So, because they weren’t talking, Izuku did the next best thing and observed. One thing that had not changed about Katsuki, was being meticulous. The blondes side of the room was always neat and tidy, books or stationery on the desk stacked perfectly, clothes in the closet organized by color and type, even the bed was always made with crisp corners. Early to bed and early to rise, the man had a ritual of sorts. If he wasn’t studying at his desk, he’d be on his bed reading or listening to music. Even the way Katsuki ate was curious to Izuku, constantly wiping his hands or face of any residue. There were a few things the blonde requested of him, no scented candles or strong, smelling fish type meals, and to leave his side of the curtains closed, something about the sunlight bothering him. They were simple enough requests to acquiesce to.

The man rarely left the room except to go to class and as far as he could tell, Katsuki had only one other friend on the campus who’d occasionally drop by. A nice guy, very friendly named Eijiro Kirishima. Well, he assumed they were friends because most of the time, his roommate stayed quiet while Eijiro did the talking. Izuku was pretty sure he spoke to the man more then Katsuki during these visits. They seemed unlikely friends really, one happy-go-lucky, and one anti-social... kind of reminded him of their once friendship now that he thought about it.

Izuku could appreciate the idea of sticking to familiar surroundings. Their dorm room was a sanctuary for him as well. He avoided large, crowded areas as much as possible, and if he didn’t know anyone, did his best to be inconspicuous. But within their room, with just the two of them, it should be a comfortable experience. Before coming to the school, he’d wondered what his roommate would be like or imagined making friends, so it was a little disappointing. By the third month it was a close friend of Izuku’s that suggested he make the first move to engage Katsuki in conversations. Start out simple, maybe learn any hobbies, what music he listened to, his major, etc. Forget the fact he knew the man and pretend as if he’s trying to make a new friend. Ugh, he hated making the first move. Izuku preferred being engaged not initiating it because it drove his anxieties up. But they were right. ‘Think of it like practice,’ Izuku reasoned with himself, ‘pulling a difficult client out of their shell.’

It was a lazy Sunday around midterms when Izuku decided to make a move. As he sat rested on his bed similarly to Katsuki, with his back against the wall and a textbook propped on his legs. Every few seconds, he glanced over the book’s edge, side-eyeing the blonde who was also nose deep into a chemistry textbook. Should he say something? But the man looked preoccupied, and Chemistry is a difficult subject. Maybe he shouldn’t bother Katsuki? He didn’t want to be annoying or anything and it wasn’t important really. Then again, the guy was always preoccupied with something or other and if he waited for a perfect moment, what if it never came? Would he wait forever? No, this was as good a time as ever.

Izuku lowered his book. “H-How’s the studying going Kacchan?”

The blonde turned to look at him briefly. “Fine.” Then returned to his reading.

“Oh, that’s good.”

Ugh! It was always so hard to get a read on Katsuki! His affect and tone were flat, no anger, amusement, nothing, just his common one worded response. It was rare for the blonde to give or maintain eye contact, so at least the man looked at him this time.

He tried another question. “I noticed your chemistry book, is that your major?”

“Yup.”

“Um, what do you do with a chemistry degree?” Izuku asked genuinely.

This time Katsuki surprised Izuku when he stopped and put his book down before engaging. “I’m fascinated by the chemical reactions of fire and combustion. How it works, why it occurs, how it can be manipulated, stuff like that. And I don’t know, I could be a scientist, or maybe do pyrotechnics, just work somewhere I don’t have to talk to too many people.”

“Wow! I mean I was never good at math and stuff to understand, but it sounds pretty interesting.”

“I guess so. What’s with the questions all of a sudden?”

“W-Well,” Izuku shifted his body to face the man completely, “we’re roommates. I don’t expect us to be full-on friends, but I figured it would be nice to talk sometimes.” Katsuki’s silent reply of nothing forced him to make a decision to continue talking, because he assumed if the man wasn’t interested, he would have turned away. Silence wasn’t exactly a normal response, but maybe the blonde really wasn’t sure what to say next. “I don’t expect you tell me super personal stuff— just small talk. Like, um, what kind of music do you like?”

“Alternative.”

Izuku’s eyes flashed with surprise at such a quick response. Okay, so Katsuki was fine with answering. “I like that too! Well, some,” he giggled. “Though I mostly listen to pop now. What about movies?”

“Horror films.”

“Oof,” Izuku cringed. “I can’t handle those they scare me too much!”

“I remember. It gave you nightmares.”

Bouncing on the bed, Izuku’s legs moved to hang over the edge in his excitement. He was really surprised in a good way that Katsuki remembered something so mundane about him. “Wow! You still remember that?! Yeah,” he laughed, “I’ll stick to sci-fi or action. Plus, I’m not fond of theaters anyways so, I just watch stuff on my laptop.”

“Why not? You used to be the outgoing one.”

That made Izuku flinch because he wasn’t ready to tread into that territory with his former bully. “Oh, you know, it’s always crowded, and you have to deal with parent-less kids causing a racket in the place. I rather just enjoy my movie without all that.”

“Makes sense. I don’t care to go to places like that either.”

“Yeah, I noticed that— is there anything you do like or hobbies maybe?”

“Just exercising in the early morning, by myself, except since Eijiro inserted himself, I tolerate him.”

So, that confirmed what he’d already suspected. Katsuki kept his body in really great shape and that hadn’t gone unnoticed by Izuku. But since he wasn’t much of a morning person, he didn’t notice what time Katsuki left the dorm, only the man’s return, showered and refreshed. Needless to say, the blonde male with wet hair was nice to look at and smelled good too. “Oh,” his face heated up at the thought of it, but he needed to play dumb. “So, that’s what you do in the mornings. I wondered about that.”

Things between the roommates settle into a comfortable routine. As another month passes by, Izuku still needed to start the conversation, but at least Katsuki would respond amicably or engaged with him, and to his delight with the help of Eijiro, they’d even managed to get the man to go out to dinner once. Those years of dread and angst were melting away, and soon enough Izuku looked forward to spending time with his old friend.

He still couldn’t get a full read on Katsuki’s demeanor. The man’s emotionless responses made it difficult to tell whether or not he was even enjoying anything. So, Izuku could only assume that by participating, he didn’t mind. The old Katsuki would say whatever he was thinking, good or bad, and while he got the sense that he would do so as needed, such as letting him know about the scent issue, it would be really nice if it didn’t feel like a guessing game all the time. Regardless, the progress they were making to rekindle any sort of relationship was a win in Izuku’s mind.

“Here.”

Izuku looked up from his desk to see a plastic shopping bag held in Katsuki’s hand. “What’s this?” He took it tentatively.

“I saw it at the store. You still into this stuff?”

He opened the bag and pulled out the latest action figure of his favorite comic book character. It was a figurine he’d been saving up his spare money to buy. “Kacchan,” Izuku looked back up curiously at the man. “Is this for me? How’d you know?”

Katsuki just shrugged. “Just remembered you were obsessed with the guy.”

“Thank you, really, but I can’t except this gift, it’s not even my birthday.”

“Just take it. Think of it as an I’m sorry gift if it makes you feel better.”

As Izuku sat there stunned, the blonde simply went back to his bed without another word and picked up a book as if nothing significant had just occurred.

“T-Thank you, Kacchan.”

“Yeah, no prob.”

His face heated up and a smile took over as he stared at the action figure for a few seconds before staging it prominently on his bedside table. Izuku had left all of his collectibles at home, so it was nice to have something in their room. But even more important, was again, Katsuki remembered something about Izuku from their childhood and took the time to get this gift. Despite their long rocky history, this small act meant the world to him. It was the first true moment to make Izuku think, maybe they really could be like they once were.

Finals were approaching in barely two more weeks, and some students were already stressing out. The anxiety in the air felt palpable to Izuku. He could feel it practically oozing off the other students. Of course, everyone dealt with stress in different ways. Some went inwards, the pressure fueling them to work harder while other’s went the completely opposite route of goofing off and procrastinating. Other’s might stress eat, binge caffeine drinks, and friends banded together in study groups. But then there are the ones who took out their frustrations and stress on others.

Bullies. The bane of Izuku’s existence.

Most of the time, he could easily avoid their type around campus. He’d developed a sixth sense for such individuals which his therapist explained as a heightened sense of energy levels. It’s really not as mystical as it sounds, rather that, those like him that suffer from a high level of anxiety, are sensitive to other people’s emotional outputs. Being bullied or harassed himself certainly sent his anxiety’s skyrocketing but seeing it could also trigger a problem depending on the severity.

Hence his current predicament...

It was the end of the day for Izuku and he was ready to just get back to his dorm, eat something, and dive into his studies. One of his teachers had released the finals study guide early, so he thought it best to get a head start. But as he made his way past the row of dorm buildings, Izuku spotted something that sent a cold chill down his spine. Three men cornering a fourth. They were at least 50 yards away and he couldn’t hear everything they were yelling. Something about a group project, pulling weight— One man had grabbed the victims shirt and was semi-lifting him up while the other two men just watched and egged him on.

Oh, this was not good! Izuku’s memories started to replay and his experiences were brought back to the forefront. The men’s faces were so close... he could almost feel the hot breath wafting over, spit hitting his face, or the smell of the bullies breath. It made him sick to his stomach. Izuku’s heart raced, his throat began to close up, and breathing grew erratic. He needed to get out of there! The red piercing eyes of his nightmares took center stage in his mind’s eye... all those times he was harassed and battered by Katsuki rushing back like a wave to toss him against a wall of sandy hair.

‘Deep breaths, deep breaths, deep breaths!’ Izuku screamed in his head, ‘calm down, calm down, get back to my room! It’s not you, it’s not you... it’s not him! It’s not him!!’

Izuku picked up the pace, a fast walk over a running sprint to avoid being noticed. The last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself and risk becoming the new target. He dug his nails hard into his arm to force his mind towards a physical distraction, but it wasn’t working.

A deep voice screamed, cursing at the top of its lungs, and filling Izuku’s mind, just like that long ago day. The worst attack, the one that finally pushed his mother to move him to a different school. All the fear coursing through his veins rush back, heart pounding against his rib cage. Katsuki had grabbed him, hand fisted into his shirt as he pushed Izuku up a wall and off his feet. He could still feel the cold stone wall behind him juxtaposed to the pain from his hot throbbing lip and swollen cheek where he’d been struck.

He burst through the dorm room door, stumbling, spilling his bag onto the floor as he fell to his knees, gasping for air because his jaw felt locked up and he couldn’t get enough air. All of his muscles were tensing up, imagined or not, it felt like he was suffocating. His body was shaking, sweating— he wanted to puke.

“Whoa, Zuku, what’s wrong?!”

Katsuki had rushed over and dropped to the floor, grabbing Izuku by the shoulders to hold him up and steady. But he couldn’t answer the man in words. Tears were streaming down his face as he did his best to focus and answer the man, but it was tough, fighting against the rapid assault of images in his mind and cursing blaring in his eardrums.

“Fuck, um, allergic reaction?!”

Izuku shook his head violently, no.

“Choking?!”

Again, Izuku shook his head violently, no.

“Panic attack?!”

Izuku now adamantly shook his head, yes!

“Okay, okay, shit, panic attacks, um, it’s been awhile, what do I— oh, right, okay, okay, d-don’t move!” Katsuki stumbled back to his feet and ran out of the room, coming back within a minute with a cup of ice cubes from the common kitchen. He takes one, two, three, shoving it into Izuku’s mouth. It took a bit of effort to get the man’s jaw to open wide enough to shove it in. “Close your mouth all the way, try to get the ice to touch the roof of your mouth.”

Seconds after the ice touched, it sent a brain freeze from hell shooting through Izuku’s pain receptors. “Ahhh!” He spat out all the melting cubes as his hands fly up to his head, cradling, squeezing to counter against the physical pain, “cold! Cold! Cold!”

At that statement, Katsuki slumped back onto his haunches in relief. “Oh good, it worked.” He then took Izuku’s hands with an even soft tone. “Look at me.” Once the man complied, he continued. “Focus on your breathing, inhale when I say to, exhale when I say to.”

Izuku struggled against the embers of irrational thoughts coupled with the brain freeze coming down. His breathing stayed haggard, jagged as he fought his own mind to follow Katsuki’s instructions. But every time he’d start to struggle, the man would refocus him back to the breathing by pressing his thumb nail into the webbing of Izuku’s hand. Not very hard, but enough of a sting to bring back his focus on the physical. It took about 15 minutes until he could breathe in time with Katsuki’s words.

Be it the overwhelming sense of release or sheer exhaustion, Izuku collapsed on to Katsuki’s chest. His panicked breathing whittled down to silent sobbing. The blonde didn’t move or flinch and held the man up, simply keeping his arms around his back without a word. Minutes dragged by as the tears finally slowed.

“Thank you, Kacchan,” Izuku breathed out. “How’d you know what to do?”

“Let’s just say, I’ve had my share.”

Izuku sat back, rubbing away the moisture drying on his cheeks as he looked at his roommate with new eyes. “You? W-When? I-I mean if you don’t wanna say, it’s fine, I’ll understand. We probably both have a lot a secrets.”

Katsuki thought for a moment. “If I tell you what happened, you gotta come clean too.”

He hadn’t expected that, but after what had just occurred, perhaps it was time. “Okay,” Izuku nods.

“In middle school I was sent to a therapist because of my anger issues and diagnosed as a high functioning autistic. Frankly, I don’t know how much to believe in that, but in the end, the therapist was a good thing.” Katsuki leaned back against a desk leg. “The short answer, I learned the reason I’d started bullying you was because I was getting frustrated with myself which lead to anger, and I wrongly took it out on the closest person to me.”

“Why were you frustrated? I thought we were fine...”

“It had nothing to do with you. It was me and I don’t know, I just started feeling different, I didn’t like being around people, didn’t understand or even care about anyone because I couldn’t figure out how to fit in. Yet I’d watch you make friends so effortlessly and I got mad. There’s a lot more to it, even blamed my mom for some of it, but I just didn’t know how else to get it out except through anger. It took a few years to learn to control myself. That’s one of the reasons I got into exercising. If I start feeling frustrated, I can take it out that way now, burn off the excess energy I guess.”

Izuku was a little taken aback at the idea Katsuki’s been diagnosed on the autism spectrum. The man didn’t seem like he had a mental disorder, but the clues were there. The aversion to certain stimulus, social apathy, his fixations on certain elements. “Wow... I had no idea. It doesn’t excuse what you did, but I’m glad you’ve come this far.”

“So, what about you?”

“I don’t think it was just the bullying that started it all. After my dad left us, I was already vulnerable, it’s why I latched onto you so quickly. So, when you started— I-I felt extremely hurt. You were my first friend, my best friend Kacchan and when you started hurting me... I don’t know what was worse, the physical pain or the mental ones. By the time I moved schools, I’d developed anxiety and depression, and it got so bad my mom finally took me to a therapist where I worked all through high school to get it under control. I do really good now, but sometimes things trigger me.” More tears resurface to cloud Izuku’s eyes, but he kept them from spilling. “Today, on my way here, I-I saw a guy being harassed and it brought it all back again. Nothing was working, so I just thought if I could just get to safety, a-and I don’t know, I figured I could get it under control once I was alone. But I’m glad you were here, because I don’t think I could have. You really, saved me today Kacchan.”

“It doesn’t make up for anything. I’m the asshole who made you like this.”

He snorted a laugh, “that’s for sure, but the cause became the cure.”

“What?”

“You caused this, but today you cured it. That means a lot to me because I do want to forgive you.”

“No. I don’t deserve a second chance. I’m content that we’re at least on speaking terms again and I could make amends somehow.”

“Kacchan, everyone deserves a second chance.” Izuku’s smile returned. “We were kids. You didn’t know better. And you’ve changed, that’s the important thing. I think we’ve both changed.”

“How?”

“Well, it’s those experiences that helped me to find a new passion in life to help others— people like us who are struggling with something. Turn a negative into a positive.”

“How the hell do you do that? You just had a panic attack and you’re already sunny smiles again. I mean you were always like this, and it’s me, I just don’t get emotions, but if you wanna forgive me, I guess I can’t stop you.”

Izuku shrugged. “Nope you, can’t,” he smiled wider. “Right now, this is probably the happiest I’ve felt in a very long time.” He stood up and extended a hand, helping Katsuki to his feet. “Dinner, my treat.”

“I don’t feel like going out.”

“I know,” Izuku smiled. “I’ll order in.”

#bkdk #ktdk #ktdkvalentines #bakudeku #katsudeku #Bakugou katsuki #Midoriya izuku #bakudeku au #TW: panic attack #tw: anxiety

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muchadoaboutbucky · 4 years

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On the Run (oneshot)

Set after CA: The Winter Soldier: Bucky’s on his own, and with the majority of the Avengers in the spotlight, there’s only one person Steve trusts to track him down.

PAIRING: Bucky x Native American!Reader WARNINGS: out-of-canon events, rough smut NOTE: 18+ only. Do not copy/repost on other sites.

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Bucky’s been in Bucharest for a little over a year. He’s gotten back to something close to stability, without all the creature comforts. He’s found a one-room apartment close to the market, where he can lay low, away from anything and everything.

He’d spent the first month of his freedom traveling across Europe, breaking into old HYDRA bunkers and stealing whatever cash he could find. He’s got enough to get him a nicer place, but “nice” sticks out like a sore thumb. He’s better off rationing and staying where he can blend in.

It’s hard to be alone, he finds. After first getting settled, he struggled to fit into the apartment. He hasn’t had a room or anything to call his own in several decades. He gets some plants, first. It’s easy to fall into a routine of watering them. His tomato plant prospers where he’s got it propped up in the window, but the flowers on the table wither and die within a week.

His dreams are incredibly vivid. It’s as if seventy years of not dreaming has built up and exploded. He dreams of everything he’s missed… apple pie, the plum tree in the backyard at home, his childhood Border Collie, playing baseball in the dirt fields on breaks in the army… women.

God, he needs a woman. It’s not safe, though. Showing just any woman his non-human arm is sure to cause more than just raised eyebrows, and even if she’s okay with it the strength that’s come with the responsibility of being an enhanced soldier isn’t something an average human is capable of bearing.

In the end he settles for his right hand and calls it a day.

It’s summer, the first week of June, and he’s at the market in the late afternoon, taking shelter from the heat of the sun and hoping to fill his canvas bag with cherries and plums—the plums in Bucharest are the best he’s found. The baker's stall is open, and he can smell the fresh bread perfuming the air. It’s still in the season where nights are cool and it’s the perfect temperature for soup.

He’s just paid the fruit vendor when he turns, not looking where he’s going, and bumps into a woman. She stumbles, and instinctively he reaches out with his left arm and grabs her shoulder to keep her from falling.

“Sorry!” He says, helping her regain her balance. “Eşti bine?” he tries in Romanian first, “are you all right?”

She nods, taking a deep breath to settle herself. “I’m fine, thank you.”

American. Must be a tourist.

“Good.” Bucky releases her and steps back, hoping she didn’t think anything of the odd firmness and strength of his metal fingers. She’s beautiful, messy hair tied up in a bun at the back of her head. “Sorry, again, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Oh, it’s not a problem,” she says, “just found who I was looking for.”

His stomach turns icy. “What?”

“I know who you are,” she replies, “your friend, Steve, he sent me to find you.”

The mention of Steve makes Bucky’s chest tighten, but he doesn’t let his guard down. “Who are you?” he asks. “How do you know Steve?”

“Y/N,” she answers. “He and I have been friends for a while. I’m kinda new to the team… I can go places without triggering the news outlets.”

He glances around, not knowing who could be watching. “Let’s walk,” he says, keeping his head low. She follows him down the avenue and into an alleyway, walking by his side until he stops behind a trash-filled dumpster. His fingers curl into the collar of her shirt, and she lets out an ‘oof!’ as he pushes her up against the wall.

“How long have you been following me?” he asks.

“Long enough to know where you live,” she replies calmly. “Look, I’m not here to cause any trouble, he was just… you went off the grid after Hydra went down, the only thing that told us where you were was a security camera outside the drugstore down the street. You might have a beard, but facial recognition is a bitch to kick.”

Bucky tightens his jaw. “Why should I trust you?”

“Because Steve’s paranoid about who he’s friends with and I’m good at spying on people.” Y/N chews on her lower lip. “Wouldn’t be here if he thought I’d do anything else.”

He takes a deep breath. “Come by later tonight. It’ll be safer to talk.” Turning and stalking back down the alleyway, he mutters, just loud enough so she can hear, “there’ll be soup.”

***

He finishes his shopping quickly and returns home as fast as he can. After locking the doors and windows, he stores all his purchases in the crappy fridge and sets about cleaning the table. He’s only got one good soup recipe, the beef stew his mother used to make on Sunday nights. It’s a long process, but he doesn’t mind. The methodical cooking eases his mind.

He’s just finished dumping everything into a large pot when there’s a knock. He knows it’s Y/N, but he checks just to make sure before opening the door.

“You’re early,” he says.

“You never specified a time,” she replies, turning to face him. She’s let her hair down and changed into straight-fit jeans and a tank top. No bra; he can faintly see her nipples through the fabric and it makes his gut tighten with arousal.

“You know, you could have come to me,” she continues absentmindedly as he strides back to the stove, “I’m at the Epoque.”

“It’s safer here,” he says, “don’t need to be getting caught.”

She accepts that and gazes around the small apartment. His bed is just a mattress on the floor, one pillow that doesn’t match the thin comforter or the sheets. “Cozy.”

“It works.” He swallows, trying to focus on their dinner. “So… you must be special.”

“Special?”

“To be one of them,” he says, “one of the Avengers, or… whatever.”

Her boots click on the wooden floor as she steps around to survey his work. “I’ve got my powers. Nothing major, but I’m apparently a good asset in a fight. Not nearly as skilled as you.”

He sighs, barely able to look at her. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“I know.” She leans against the counter. “I’m strong. Not just lift-a-car-over-my-head strong, I can just… I can handle a beating, y’know? The last bad guy who punched me ended up with a shattered fist.”

“So you’re…”

“Relatively indestructible?” She shrugs. “I guess you could call it that.”

Food is on the table within ten minutes, and Y/N, surprised at the quality of her serving, digs in with gusto, mopping up the last of it with a chunk of fresh bread. Bucky eats slowly, keeping pace with her until their bowls are empty.

“So your powers,” he says, breaking the silence as they wash their dishes, “how did you get ‘em?”

“All I know is that I was born with them,” she replies. “First saw signs when I was five and my older brother accidentally knocked me off the playground. Fell six feet, and the ground caved under me. I didn’t have a scratch.”

Bucky watches her set her bowl on the drying rack and flexes his metal fingers. Titanium glints in the light of the overhead light. “So not even this?”

“I hope you’re not going to try and find out.” She grins and rests one hip against the counter, reaching out to run a fingertip over his wrist, along the border between two plates. “Men who hit without asking me first usually end up with broken arms and I’d hate to have to destroy this.”

Now she’s just being a tease.

Her eyes flicker up to meet his, and he snaps. Moving close with a single step, he grabs her face with both hands and kisses her. She moves into it, responding with a shove of her hips against his. Metal fingers curl into her hair, and she lets out a whimper when her scalp aches.

Before she can say or do anything else, he rips her top down the middle and tosses the ruined fabric to the floor. Her cheeks flush, and her eyes sparkle with arousal.

“You don’t play,” she murmurs, “you gonna finish the job or what?”

They strip each other in a matter of minutes. The minute Y/N jeans hit the ground, Bucky slides his hands under her ass and hauls her up, striding quickly to the mattress and lowering her down onto it. She’s wet, he can feel it against his bare cock, and she holds him tight in her hand, slowly moving the thick tip through her folds. He braces his hands on either side of her shoulders, lowering himself down to kiss her.

For a split second he flashes back to being seventeen, lying between the legs of the prettiest girl he’d ever known and trying his best to make it through his first ever round of lovemaking.

Except now, he’s no fumbling virgin. He’s a grown man who knows exactly what he wants and almost exactly how he’s going to get it.

He enters her with a low groan that muffles against her lips. She moans, fingers digging into his back as her legs wrap around his waist. Her pussy’s warm and slick on his bare flesh, and it’s all he can do to remember some form of self control when he begins to move. He’s gentle at first, but when she rocks her hips up to meet his thrusts and he suddenly bottoms out, he gives way to lust.

She cries out when his pelvis snaps against her ass. Her nails dig into his skin, the ache developing into a sting that only drives him on. His thrusts grow into strong, frantic beats that make the slap of skin on skin resound through the room. She tosses her head back, her moans unrestrained. When she arches up, her stomach rubs against his, and he gives her a teasing grind, humming against her mouth as she cranes her neck to kiss him again.

“Harder,” she whispers, “give me all you got.”

Bucky shudders when she hitches her knees on either side of his ribs, opening herself up more. It takes every ounce of strength not to look down at where he’s inside her, where soft meets hard. If he looks he’ll finish right there. Instead he buries his face in the crook of her neck, picking up his thrusts until she’s shaking and bouncing with the force of them.

“Oh, fuck!” She gasps loudly, mouth open in a smiling cry of pleasure. “Right there… that’s it...”

Bucky can only grunt and pant in answer. He’s never felt so primal, chasing pleasure like it’s nothing. When he loses his rhythm and slips out of her, she doesn’t waste any time to take advantage of the situation. She rolls onto her stomach and arches her hips into the air, legs spread wide. He kneels up, kissing and nipping up her spine until he thrusts back in, hands squeezing at soft skin. Her body ripples when his hips smack into her, and when he brings his flesh hand down on her ass, fingers grabbing at the smooth roll of her hip, she clenches tight, mouth open in a whimper.

He loses track of how long he fucks her. All he knows is warm skin, the scent of her sweat, her slick pussy tight around him, and the sound of her practically sobbing his name when he speeds up. He’s getting close, though, and he doesn’t have quite enough control to hold back.

Reaching around her waist, he skims his fingers over her sex, rubbing quick circles that make her clench tight around him. She reaches back, taking his other wrist in her hand, and pulls him over her. His metal arm curls around her shoulders, holding her close as he ruts them both closer to orgasm.

She finishes first, a cry in her throat choking off as she writhes and squirms under him. He doesn’t wait for her orgasm to flame out, just shoves forward with a primal growl and lets his own release pour into her. He doesn’t let her go until she’s begging for air, gasping, and he leans back, watching her pull away. She’s swollen, the lips of her sex slick and slightly puffy, and she squeezes her thighs together as a trickle of white dribbles over the crease in her thigh.

“Jesus,” she sighs breathlessly, running trembling fingers through her hair, “how long have you been working that up?”

Bucky chuckles, reaching up to push one of the windowpanes open. “Longer than you’ve been alive.” He slumps down next to her, rolling onto his back as cool air washes over them.

They stay there for several minutes in almost complete silence. When Y/N asks where the bathroom is, Bucky takes her into the shower, cramping together in the tiny stall as cool water washes over them.

She stays the night, stretched out and naked on half the mattress while Bucky slumbers behind her. For the first time in months, he feels relaxed, all anxiety and tension drained out of him.

She wakes sometime in the night, and he opens his eyes to find her rubbing up against him, lips pressed against the stubble on his jaw. He lets her crawl on top, finding him already hard and ready through the darkness. She sighs when he enters her, and Bucky, caught in the hazy middle of sleeping and waking, glides his hands over her hips to hold her as she rocks back and forth.

In the morning, they make potato cakes, bacon, and coffee. Bucky lends her a shirt, and she leans up against the counter, bare thighs peeking out from under the hem. She looks tired and worn out from the night before, but her smile is bright in the morning sun.

“Are they gonna come for me?” he asks, watching her nibble on a piece of bacon. “Steve, the others?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I made Steve promise not to come after you. He just wants to know that you’re alive, that’s all. He’s not here to recruit you back.”

Despite her words, Bucky’s stomach twinges. “I don’t know if I’m ready to see him. Or anyone.”

Y/N seems to catch onto his anxiety, because she sets her food down and locks her fingers in his metal ones. “You don’t have to,” she explains gently. “He won’t even know where you live. All I have to do is tell him that you’re alive and safe and—”

“That we slept together?” Bucky tries to joke.

“Well, I’m definitely not going to headline it,” she laughs. “I’ll definitely be keeping that to myself.”

She leaves late that night, after a dinner of ordered pizza and crappy soda. Before she goes, she scribbles her private cell number on a scrap of paper pinned to the fridge, and he makes a note to salvage his old Blackberry that hasn’t been used in months.

He kisses her goodbye and watches her drive off in a rented Mercedes. The apartment feels too quiet without her now. He wishes he could keep her with him, but her life must be busy if she’s with the Avengers… it’s selfish to keep her back.

When the phone is charged, he sits back on the couch and tucks in to a rerun of an old nature program. It’s almost two in the morning when the phone buzzes with a new text. The number on the screen is hers, and he clumsily navigates the small device to see the message you sent.

> Back home. Call me when you get a chance. -Y/N :)

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#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader

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megabadbunny · 4 years

Text

if we let go (5/?)

A lazy smile quirks Rose’s lips. She doesn’t know why she’s so surprised. She did say he was the one who let her in, after all. It’s just nice, she supposes, to be right about something for once. (It’s very nice to be right about him.)

Right after Journey’s End, Rose gets a choice, even if she has to carve it out for herself. This chapter has lemons; visit ff.net for a citrus-free experience.

***

chapter five: you gave me a life i never chose

After what feels like a lifetime (but is, in actuality, a mere thirteen hours, seventeen minutes, and forty-six seconds), amidst a landslide of half-empty teacups and coffee mugs and medical-technical gear and bits and bobs, the medscreen finally (finally) begins to beep.

“Really?” murmurs the Doctor, straightening up from his slumped position over his research materials for the first time in hours. Hardly daring to believe, he reaches for the device with only the smallest amount of trepidation, mentally preparing himself for whatever he might find there. He flips the screen his way. And there, amidst a string of medical technobabble reassuring him of Donna’s stasis (respiratory and cardiopulmonary systems going a little faster than he’d like, but stable enough, considering), reads a string of text distinctly unlike the rest:

<oi>

Eyes widening, the Doctor reads the text again, over and over, barely able to process what he’s seeing (never mind that he engineered things for this very purpose—the fact that it all worked is nothing short of miraculous).

The device beeps again as new text blinks across the screen, bright white lines flashing cheerfully against the grey.

<what’s going on>

<hello>

“Yes, yes,” the Doctor stammers immediately, out of instinct, more than anything—doubtful Donna can hear him right now, after all, even if he is stationed just a few feet away from her comatose self. Half-panicked, half-giddy beyond belief, the Doctor scrambles around in the technological viscera scattered over the medbay counter until he finds all the pieces he’s looking for (cables, clamps, Martha’s old mobile, a webcam the size of a thumbtack plucked from the year 2057, a simple jury-rigged electroencephalographic scope, the usual) before realizing that, oh, right, Donna would probably like an answer, wouldn’t she? and abandoning it all to type out a quick <<Yep, I’m here>> before he returns to the task at hand.

<great> flashes across the screen in response. <so you gonna tell me what the hell is going on? or where the hell i am? or why’s it so dark here? or why can’t i move?>

<<Why, hello, Donna! It’s nice to hear from you, too>> the Doctor types into the medscreen, even as he smiles. <<No need to thank me for saving your brain from immediate and irreversible liquidation, original memories fully intact and pristine. The dulcet vision of your digital voice is the only accolade I need.>>

<<You’re still on the TARDIS. You can’t move or see or otherwise process external stimuli because you’re in a medically-induced coma.>>

<well isn’t that wizard> reads the immediate response in a tone so reminiscent of Donna that the Doctor can’t help but laugh. <you wanna tell me why i’m in a coma?>

Smiling, the Doctor shakes his head. <<In the wake of the metacrisis-event, due to the external memories’ rapid deterioration of your brain, I’ve telepathically isolated the offending elements from your neural network and blocked them from re-entry>> he explains, typing between bouts of plugging in cables and adjusting dials on the electroencephalographic scope. <<Unfortunately, the best way to maintain the integrity of the telepathic blocks involves keeping your conscious mind safe from anything that might trigger the memory of the offending elements, which involves putting you in a persistent vegetative state until we can find a way to safely and permanently extract the metacrisis material from your temporal and parietal lobes, without damaging any of the surrounding tissue or neural pathways. Got it?>>

If the medscreen could convey an exasperated sigh, the Doctor imagines it would right about now. <in english please> the screen flashes at him.

The Doctor grins madly as he works, relief bubbling up in his head until he’s almost dizzy from it. He’s never been so happy for a companion to do the digital equivalent of offering him nothing but a blank stare; no more babbling about macrotransmissions or shatterfrying or mountains that sway in the breeze means his telepathic blocks are holding firm. That means no more Time Lord knowledge overwhelming human brains, which means that, for the time being anyway, Donna’s safe.

Which means, he realizes as he fishes his specs out of his pocket, that he may actually have a chance of saving her.

<<My memories are still in your head and you’re stuck in a coma until I can remove them>> he types to Donna. <<But don’t worry, in the meantime I’ve rigged up this handy-dandy medical transceiver and plugged it directly into your subconscious so we can still communicate!>>

<oh god no> flashes across the screen. <doctor do NOT make me a brain in a computer, i expressly forbid it>

<<Wouldn’t dream of it>> the Doctor replies before affixing the tiny webcam to the side of his specs.

<good>

“Oh, ye of little faith,” murmurs the Doctor, slipping on his glasses and fiddling with the settings on Martha’s mobile phone. “When have I ever let you down?”

“That tatty old suit lets down my sense of fashion every single day,” mutters a digitized version of Donna’s voice, and the Doctor laughs, now, properly laughs. A spluttered sound of indignant surprise erupts from the webcam’s built-in speaker, and the Doctor laughs harder, imagining the shock that would sweep across Donna’s face right now, were it capable.

“Oh my god!” shouts Donna’s voice from the speaker, disjointed and tinny in that way that voices-projected-from-telephonic-devices often are, but still her voice, nonetheless. “Doctor, I can hear you!”

“Yes!”

“And you can hear me!” yells Donna’s voice.

“Oh, yes!” the Doctor shouts gleefully in reply.

“But how? I’m still asleep, aren’t I? I still can’t move or see anything—”

“Well, then,” says the Doctor, fiddling with more settings on the mobile as he smiles what may or may not be the universe’s smuggest grin, “Let there be light!”

He hits one last button and is rewarded with a high-pitched screech not unlike one that might rip out of a pterodactyl. “I can see!” Donna shrieks, and silently, the Doctor adjusts the webcam-speaker’s volume, lest Donna’s voice split his eardrums or manage to wake her own comatose body somehow. “Oh my god, I can see the TARDIS—her walls, I mean—and cabinets and lights and—you’re in the medbay, right? Oh, you are—cos that’s me over there on the bed, isn’t it? Oof, I look a bit peaky, don’t I? But how on earth—?”

“Oh, it was just a small matter of rigging together the right materials to tap into your subconscious mind. Simple enough, if you’ve got a spare mobile and travel-size electroencephalographic scope lying around. A direct line, if you will,” the Doctor laughs. “Doesn’t get much more direct than this!”

“This is bonkers, absolutely bonkers. I can’t believe you managed it!”

“Didn’t I mention, though?” asks the Doctor as he springs up, feeling lighter than he has in days—maybe weeks, maybe longer. “I’m brilliant!”

“You really are,” Donna concedes, and in any other situation, the Doctor might feel mildly insulted at how surprised she sounds to admit it. “So, what do we do, now? What’s the next step?”

The Doctor considers as he darts over to Donna’s body on the bed, double- and triple-checking her vitals, just to be sure. “Well, now that the imminent danger has passed, I suppose it’s time to do a little research, scan our local solar systems to locate the equipment we need to finish the memory extraction.”

“Sounds good to me. The sooner I stop being a vegetable, the better, and if anyone can fix that, it’s you.”

No, not just him, a stubborn little voice at the back of the Doctor’s head insists. Not him. Them. Because in all honesty, the only reason he’s got any hope at all right now is all because of—

He chuckles, silently chiding himself. He really can be an idiot, sometimes. Doubting himself. Doubting her. He should know better than to distrust Rose’s instincts, whether they’re telling her to help Donna or bolt back for the TARDIS at the last second or anything else; for all he knows, her intuition could very well be a side effect borne of the Bad Wolf phenomenon (but really, he suspects it’s all just her and her gut, in the end. She’s surprisingly insightful, for a human. Always has been. He’d do well to remember that, he thinks).

Looking down at the medscreen, at the numbers displayed across its surface showing a significant calming-down of Donna’s vitals, the Doctor softens. Rose was right, in more ways than one. The Doctor reminds himself to apologize to her at the first available opportunity—though really, he thinks as he stows the medscreen and all of its connected parts safely inside his pockets, wouldn’t she prefer that he showed her how right she was, instead of telling her?

“Hang on, how come my hands look like your hands?” asks Donna, interrupting his thoughts. “I mean, obviously they’re your hands, but it’s the wrong angle, like they’re coming out of me instead of you. Like a first-person videogame thing. Am I seeing the world through your eyes, right now?”

“Near enough,” the Doctor replies cheerfully.

“Okay, but—but not like. Not literally though. Right?”

“Strictly figuratively,” the Doctor laughs. “Don’t worry, Donna. It’s all in the glasses.”

“Oh, thank god. The thought of accidentally seeing you naked again makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit.”

“On second thought, maybe I’ll leave you in the coma after all,” says the Doctor.

***

Rose awakes with a start, tensing at the weight pressed against her, the unfamiliar room surrounding her. Her first thought is that she must have been knocked unconscious during a jump gone wrong—not terribly common, but it’s happened before—but as her eyes adjust to the semi-dark, taking in everything in the room from the curved ceiling to the carpeted floor to the telltale rough coral walls, recognition slowly filters in, and she remembers.

She made it. She made it back to this universe. She made it back to the TARDIS, back to the Doctor. (Doctors, plural? Both of them, then.) And he—

Oh. That weight, that body pressed close—that must be him. One of them is with her right now, isn’t he? Because this is his room, isn’t it? And if she turns over, Rose will see the Doctor lying in bed next to her, won’t she?

Her limbs still thick and heavy with sleep, Rose lazily rolls over to find the Doctor (the human one, she remembers, because that’s a thing, now), curled on his side and fast asleep. Slumber-tousled hair tumbles over a forehead smooth from worry, the Doctor’s mouth parted just slightly, his eyes shuttered, as if in prayer. It’s strange seeing him like this, not because of their years apart, not even because they’re both lying in his unfamiliar bed, but because Rose is casting about in her memories to recall the last time she ever saw him so quiet and unguarded, and she’s coming up empty-handed. She has seen him sleep before, technically; that’s not new. But she has never seen him really, properly vulnerable, in this body or any other. She’s never seen him look so human.

Human or not, it’s surreal to be so close to the Doctor right now, after so many years apart. So Rose just watches him for a moment, just taking everything in. Part of her can’t believe it, even though he’s right here, right in front of her. It’s all almost too much to absorb.

(Only almost, though. God, he’s pretty like this. Then again, he’s pretty much always pretty.)

Probably she should go ahead and get up (escape, she doesn’t think, before the moment swells too much in its sentimentality, before he wakes up and goes flighty, before she grows vulnerable herself), but struck with a sudden curious need, Rose shifts in the bed instead, one hand lifting up. She places her palm flat against the Doctor’s chest, gently, feeling its rise and fall with each deep inhale and soft exhale, before tracing a line down to the bottom of his ribcage. She can sense his heart beating, behind layers of tee shirt and skin and muscle and bone, pulsing quietly almost in time with her own.

It’s all very different. But not bad different.

“I thought I was the rude one,” mutters the Doctor, eyes still solidly shut.

Rose twitches. “Huh?”

“I thought,” the Doctor repeats, eyes sliding slowly open, “that I was the rude one.”

There goes her plan. “Oh, don’t worry,” Rose chuckles. “You’re plenty rude.”

“Says the person trying to tickle me awake.”

Cringing, Rose starts to draw her hand back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

The Doctor stops her hand before it can withdraw very far, anchoring her fingers and palm solidly back against his chest. “S’all right,” he mumbles, blinking sleep away. “Probably a good time to get up anyway.”

He’s right.

Neither of them moves.

“Did you end up getting any actual sleep last night?” Rose asks.

“Do you know, I think I did, after…” the Doctor starts to say, and trails off. Rose can practically see the memory of the night before as it replays in his mind, and admittedly, it’s a little difficult to tell in the semi-dark, but is he blushing? “After you came in,” he says hurriedly. “What about you?”

“Yeah,” says Rose, hiding a grin. “I’m good.”

He smiles at her then, almost shyly. “Good.”

And that marks a good time to get up, Rose thinks. For her to put space between them before he has the chance to.

(Except he still hasn’t moved his hand from hers. Palm pressed against his chest, Rose can feel his heartrate pick up beneath her fingers, and suddenly she’s very warm, and moving seems difficult.)

“But, like I said, probably good to go ahead and get up,” the Doctor says quickly, and Rose imagines that if his hand weren’t full of hers, he’d be nervously tugging on his ear right about now. “You know. Get the day started, and all that.”

“Probably. What time is it?”

At that, the Doctor blinks just a little too much, fully awake now. “Well,” he says, drawing the word out. “That’s sort of an interesting question, isn’t it? What time is it. Difficult to answer, considering the relativity of time (especially on the TARDIS), and taking into account that there’s no real universal chronometrical measurement or standard, and we’re really just relying on observations alone, which can vary greatly depending on the observers’ proximity to a gravitational mass—”

“You don’t know,” Rose realizes aloud.

After stuttering for a second, the Doctor closes his mouth. He shakes his head, the motion tight.

“Because of the metacrisis?

He nods.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she means it.

He shrugs. “It’s no worries.”

“Not even a few worries?” Rose asks, lips quirking in a small smile.

“Eh, I’m sure I can manage without the time sense. Plenty of species do. Now, the bypass, on the other hand...”

As if on cue, the Doctor starts to yawn, only to snap his mouth shut halfway through. “Oh,” he says, nose wrinkling in disgust. “Rose, I don’t mean to alarm you, but I think I might have morning breath now.”

Rose chuckles. “Many of us do.”

“Well, isn’t that wizard,” the Doctor says drily. “Being human is just wonderful, can’t imagine why I never tried it long-term before.”

“It’s not all bad, you know.”

“Hmph. I’ll believe it when I see it,” he grumps. “Or hear it or smell it or feel it or taste it, as the case may be.”

Humming thoughtfully, Rose takes a moment to consider. Her fight-or-flight instinct is still murmuring quietly in the background, telling her that this is as good a moment as any to end the conversation, go ahead and get up and wash up and go about their day, whatever it may bring; the sooner she leaves this warm little cocoon, after all, the sooner Rose will be able to build her walls back up, retreat back to safe territory. Before things get out of hand. Before she has a chance to get hurt again. (Before any of them do.)

She ignores it.

“That,” Rose says, scooting just a little bit closer to him (just the littlest bit closer, mind), “sounds like an awful lot like a challenge.”

“Oh?” asks the Doctor, eyebrow arched in amusement.

“Yes,” she says solemnly, nodding. “Tell me: what do your human eyes see?”

“Plenty of stuff. It’s not my physical sensory capabilities that concern me.”

“Humor me.” Rose curls her fist against his chest. “What do you see right now?”

Beneath his ribcage, Rose swears she feels his pulse skip a beat. “Well,” says the Doctor, “not to belabor the obvious, but I see you. In my bedroom. In my bed, of all places.”

“That’s not so bad, is it?” Rose asks cheekily, tongue pressed against the back of her teeth.

The Doctor grins at her in a way that makes something flutter in her stomach. “Not bad at all,” he concedes.

Rose smiles. “And what can you hear?”

“All the same things you can, I imagine. Your voice, my voice, the TARDIS’ hum,” the Doctor counts off, “the buzz of the temporal-spacial equinometer, the quiet hiss of the life support system, faint overtures of the Vortex—”

“Right, of course I can hear all of that,” teases Rose, rolling her eyes.

“The sounds of you wriggling in the sheets like the squirmy little thing you are…”

With a laugh, Rose’s smile widens. “How’s about your nose?”

The Doctor wrinkles said nose again. “Aside from my aforementioned temporary halitosis, let’s see. It’s picking up on a hint of recycled oxygen courtesy of the TARDIS, traces of residual space matter from our time onboard the Crucible, traces of the toothpaste you used last night…”

He leans in closer, making a show of sniffing her hair. “Moringa oleifera, arginine, extracts of Fragaria ananassa, other components of your shampoo. Still partial to strawberry, hm?”

“Now you’re just showing off,” Rose laughs, and he laughs too, nodding enthusiastically.

They are very close now.

The Doctor hasn’t moved his hand, still holding hers against his chest, but that’s all right; Rose’s other hand is free, and, feeling brazen, she reaches up with it now, to run her fingers through the Doctor’s gloriously rumpled hair. If his hair is any different from his Time Lord counterpart’s, she can’t tell; it’s still thick, smooth, stupidly pretty. Her fingertips glance against his scalp first, scraping lightly after, and the Doctor’s eyes threaten to shutter closed, fluttering like he’s fighting to stay awake.

“What do you feel?” Rose asks him.

The Doctor hums deep in his belly, the sound rumbling against Rose’s fingers. “Sleepy, if you keep doing that.”

Rose’s hand slowly drifts downward, tracing a path from the Doctor’s ear down to his shoulder, joining its counterpart on the Doctor’s chest.

“Suppose you’re going to suggest I eat some candy or a biscuit next,” the Doctor chuckles wryly.

“Oh yeah?”

“Certainly. What better way to appeal to my sense of taste and thereby prove your point?”

Rose considers for just a split-second before she draws in close to kiss him. It’s impulsive, and her heart races in her ears for all that it’s a short and sweet and chaste kiss, but it’s worth it for the small sound of surprise the Doctor makes when her lips meet his, and the dazed look on his face when she pulls back.

The Doctor blinks at her. “Do you know,” he replies, just the tiniest bit breathlessly, “I might be willing to slightly revise my stance on my newfound humanity.”

“Just slightly?”

“Just a little bit,” the Doctor agrees before leaning in to return the kiss. His lips work softly against hers, the pressure light, relaxed, and Rose melts into it immediately, even as some distant part of her brain still reels in disbelief that this sort of thing happens, now, that this is something they can do—that they can see each other, and hear, and smell, and feel, and, as the Doctor’s lips part to grant entry to Rose’s tongue, taste. Rose’s tongue glances against his briefly before retreating and he chases after her, suddenly starving. Distantly, she thinks she should tease him that his morning breath isn’t that bad after all; presently, she wonders how the Doctor would react if she pulled off his boxers, if he would rather straddle or be straddled. Her hands fist in his tee-shirt, his pulse speeding up against her knuckles as she pulls him in until they’re so close, they’re nearly touching, the scant space between them nearly buzzing with the desire to be bridged.

The Doctor breaks the kiss long enough to catch his breath, and if Rose didn’t know any better, she’d think he was gasping. “We,” he starts to say, and swallows. Sighs. “Erm. We really should…”

“Get up now?” Rose supplies, but she doesn’t move away, closes the whisper of a gap between them instead.

“Hmm. We should,” says the Doctor, even as he bends down to press a kiss, featherlight, to the pulse point beneath Rose’s jaw.

Her breath hitches in her throat and she fights not to let her eyes fall shut. It’s impossible not to feel a little giddy at the closeness of him, the sudden sensation of their bodies sliding together, skin achingly close to skin; she wonders if that’s as true for him as it is for her, with all his fresh new cells and nerves buzzing beneath thin layers of clothing and pretense.

“Yeah,” she sighs, hands slipping down to the elastic of his boxers. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, last night was—”

“Unexpected, but inspired?” asks the Doctor as he kisses her neck.

“And probably a little too much, too soon,” Rose adds, playing with his waistband. “Better to ease into this sort of thing, right?”

“That would be very responsible of us.”

“Yeah,” Rose pants as the Doctor insinuates one of his legs between hers. “We should take things slow. Make sure…”

“No one gets hurt?”

She slips a finger beneath his waistband. “Are you talking about the two of us, or—”

“Much as I hate to admit it, this equation has three variables.” The Doctor nips her collarbone, soothing the hurt with his tongue after, sending heat pooling deep in Rose’s belly. She fights the urge to grind down on the Doctor’s thigh. “And as much as I’d like to pretend it doesn’t matter,” the Doctor continues, as if he doesn’t notice how hot and wet she suddenly is, “the other me is bound to have conflicting thoughts about all of this.”

“Then maybe he shouldn’t keep pushing me away,” says Rose, running a teasing thumb along his hipbone, relishing the feel of him stiffening against her.

“A fair and rational point,” the Doctor concedes, even as he shudders and kisses the swell of her breast, his lips warm and soft through the fabric of her shirt. “But I’m not sure how much rationality applies in situations like this.”

Rose pulls back enough to properly look at him. “He’s not the one who let me in,” she tells the Doctor, her gaze hard. “He’s not the one who stayed.”

“So is this a reward for me, or a punishment for him?” the Doctor asks.

He doesn’t look angry, or sad. There’s no blame in his tone. His expression is perfectly neutral, like a scientist putting forth a vague hypothetical. Rose sees through it immediately.

“There’s no one else in this room,” she tells him, “but you, and me.”

The Doctor nods. “Good,” he breathes, and Rose kisses him again, fiercely this time. It’s a bruising thing, greedy even, but neither of them are complaining as Rose’s tongue slides over his, slick and warm and sweet. The Doctor groans into her mouth as her thigh brushes against his cock, as she finally surrenders to the urge to grind down on his leg; his fingers knot in her hair as he takes control of the kiss and it’s only a little frantic, the way they’re clinging to each other, and it’s awkward, this tangled mess of clothes and limbs, but it’s delicious, too, the friction and the need and the way the Doctor maybe-accidentally bites her lip when Rose’s hand slips into his boxers to stroke him from base to tip.

He’s hot in her hand, hot and hard and wonderfully human and his reactions are human too, as he abandons the kiss in favor of burying his face in the join of Rose’s neck and shoulder, panting, his hands flying down to clench her by the hips, pulling her into him. A moment later and he’s pulling at her tee shirt, dislodging her hand from his shorts so he can strip her shirt all the way up and off. After urging Rose onto her back, the Doctor takes just a second to appreciate the view, his eyes at half-mast and lips just parted, before he dips down to kiss her breasts. Swearing under her breath, Rose arches off the bed, into his touch; he rewards her with his fingers on one nipple and his mouth on the other, teasing both to stiff, sensitive attention.

His thigh is still wedged between hers and Rose grinds down wantonly, practically whimpering, grateful for the chance to relieve the mounting ache throbbing between her legs. She wants so badly to touch him again but it’s difficult, positioned the way they are, and it’s only made more difficult when his hand leaves her breast in favor of sneaking beneath the waistband of her borrowed boxers, brushing featherlight and tentative over the seam of her sex. At that point it’s almost impossible to think about anything but his mouth on her breast and his fingers gently stroking her and how it’s so good, it’s so good, it’s almost perfect, and she reaches down to guide him, push his fingers into her slick wet sex and show him how she likes to be fucked.

Rose clamps down on any cries that might try to escape as the Doctor picks up on her rhythms, fingers fucking her gently at first, then—at her grasp tightening on his wrist—more, harder, until sweat starts beading on Rose’s forehead and breasts and she can feel her climax tensing deep in her belly, coiling tighter with each delicious thrust. The Doctor is a fast learner. (Of course he is.) But she wants more.

“Off,” Rose says breathlessly, pushing at the Doctor’s waistband until he seems to get the hint, propping himself up on one elbow as he removes his hand from Rose’s boxers. But instead of immediately disrobing, he looks at his hand thoughtfully for a moment, and even in this dim light, Rose can see how slick his fingers are, nearly glistening from her. She has approximately half a second to feel embarrassed before the Doctor’s tongue darts out to taste his fingers. Rose just stares as he plunges his fingers into his mouth, tongue swirling around the tips, like he might do with a strange new specimen he just encountered, or perhaps one of his very favorite jams. He hums appreciatively and Rose only just manages to stifle a whimper as renewed heat floods between her legs.

The Doctor glances up at her, removing his fingers from his mouth with an obscene smack. “Rude?” he asks innocently.

“Very,” Rose says, pulling herself up by his shirt so she can kiss him again. He tastes like sex. Like sex and something sweet and something musky and animal, primal. He tastes incredible. Struck with indescribable need, Rose pulls at the Doctor’s clothes and this time he definitely gets the hint, sitting back just long enough to strip off his shirt and boxers before returning to help Rose wriggle out of her (his) shorts and Rose might knee him in the ribs a little but before she has a chance to apologize he’s covering her mouth with his, claiming any words that might tumble out. Settling between her thighs (and god, but that’s glorious, the feel of them sliding together, skin on skin at last), the Doctor urges her legs over his hips and around her waist. After teasing her for a moment with his hand, fingers sliding through slick heat to make sure she’s ready for him, absolutely sure—and she absolutely is, almost embarrassingly so, though she can feel herself tightening with anticipation—he pushes inside.

The fullness is almost overwhelming. Rose bites down on his shoulder to keep from crying out.

He draws in a sharp breath. “Is that—?”

“It’s good,” Rose stutters against his neck. “It’s good. You’re good.”

The Doctor leans back to look at her, concerned. He thinks he hurt her. Rose shakes her head—he didn’t hurt her—well he did, just a little bit—well, she’ll be a little sore later—but good sore—and she doesn’t mind, she was a little overeager herself, she just tensed up is all, excluding last night it’s been a little while since she’s done any of this, and this is all stuff that can be discussed later, and don’t you dare stop now, don’t you dare—and she pulls him down by the shoulders for a kiss.

“Don’t stop,” Rose pants into his mouth.

“Right,” he says, distracted, between kisses and bites. It’s a question, not a declaration; for her, not for him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t push further, though Rose can tell he’s aching to. His whole body is humming under her hands, sweating with the effort of holding back. But she’s adjusted to him now, enough that the stinging has given way to warmth and she really, really wants him to start moving. Her hips roll forward, pushing him in deeper, until Rose can feel the full length of him inside her. The Doctor groans at the back of his throat.

“Good?” Rose prompts, chest heaving.

“It’s—ah—good,” he grits out. His hips start moving, grinding against her with slow, long thrusts, his eyes clenching shut. Rose suspects this is the moment his respiratory bypass would be kicking in, in the other body. “Very good,” he gasps.

They fall into a rhythm, pushing and pulling and sliding together, fingernails digging into each other’s backs and hips and shoulders—they’re definitely going to find each other’s marks, later. But for now, Rose arches up and kisses the Doctor’s throat, mouth drawing a path up to his jaw, lips pressing against the space behind his ear until she can feel his heartbeat hammering there. She nips at the sensitive flesh and hears him bite back a curse; she grins so he can feel her teeth on his skin. The Doctor slides his hand back between them and his thrusts pick up in speed and urgency. Tension starts building up again, low in Rose’s abdomen, down where they’re joined, where he’s teasing them both. Little shocks of pleasure ripple through her, previews before the main event.

It’s almost too much, the sensory overload—she very nearly wants to push him away, wants the maddening tension to stop, wants to shatter into a thousand glittering golden pieces. She bucks against him wildly, her toes curling at the feeling of him meeting her stroke-for-stroke, her breath leaving her in a staccato. Their exhales are punctuated by gasps and groans as they clutch at each other, Rose reaching up to drag her fingers through his hair again, her fingernails scraping against his scalp. She feels his responding hum deep in her own sternum and pulls him up for a kiss, mouth open, tongue sliding against his.

After a moment, the Doctor breaks off the kiss, his face twisted in concentration. “Oh,” he gasps out, his voice ragged and husky, words breaking in the air. “Oh, Rose. Oh, fuck.”

Now it really is too much. Rose lets out a shout and her eyes slam shut as she comes, shuddering, muscles clenching deliciously around the Doctor. She arches off the bed, scrambling at the Doctor’s back for purchase as he empties into her with a muffled groan. His thrusts slowing to a stop, the Doctor slumps over her, only to roll off onto his back immediately afterward, chest and stomach heaving as he gasps air back into his lungs.

It’s very quiet in the room, except for how they’re both panting like they just ran a marathon. Lightheadedness swells up in Rose’s skull, complementing the something that feels an awful lot like tenderness settling nicely behind her ribs.

She tries to shut that line of thought down before it can get too far. Because any minute, Rose thinks, he’ll spring up; time to go, time to move on to the next great adventure, time to pretend none of this ever happened. That’s how he would have reacted before, she knows (or she suspects, rather, as if he would have even let things progress so far, before), and there’s no reason to pretend he wouldn’t do exactly the same thing now, last night’s venture notwithstanding. That, Rose reasons somewhere in the pleasant post-sex haze that seems to have replaced her brain, was just a fluke. It’s much more like him to push her away, or to run. Which means it would be better for her, really, if she was the one who left first. So she’s going to. Before he does.

Any minute now.

A few long seconds tick by, and Rose can’t help but notice neither of them is moving away.

Huh. Imagine that.

Tentatively, eyes still fixed glasslike on the ceiling overhead, Rose extends her hand somewhere in the netherspace beside her, where she can hear the Doctor breathing, where she can feel the dip in the mattress that signifies his weight pressing down. She doesn’t have to reach far; her hand finds his almost instantly, or maybe his finds hers, their fingers twining together regardless of the sweat cooling on their skin. She offers a little squeeze, and the next exhale that leaves the Doctor sounds suspiciously like a sigh of relief.

“I must say,” says the Doctor, still sounding just the littlest bit winded, “you make a very compelling argument in favor of this whole humanity business.”

“Damn right I do,” Rose mutters, and they both laugh.

***

Grinning ear-to-ear, it’s all the Doctor can do to keep from running as he strides down corridor after corridor toward his bedroom, hands in pockets and a whole heaping helping of pep in his step.

“Can’t help but notice this isn’t the way to the console room,” pipes up Donna’s voice from the webcam speaker.

“Nope,” says the Doctor, popping the p at the end. “Got to make the rounds first, wake up all the non-comatose humans. And I wouldn’t mind a moment to freshen up in the bath as well. And yes, I will take off the glasses first,” he says before Donna has a chance to.

“You better.”

The Doctor rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry,” he laughs, reaching for the handle on the bedroom door. “I’ll make sure nothing has a chance to offend your delicate—”

The sound of laughter from inside the bedroom stills his hand.

...human sensibilities, he thinks and forgets to say, but it doesn’t matter. The Doctor fully expected to open the door and see his room, painted dark by synthetic night and occupied by a bed and one (1) singular sleeping human—which, of course, is still a strange thing to see, this whole other version of his current self outside the confines of a mirror or any other reflective surface, but still: expected. What he did not expect, however, was not just one human in his room, but two. And after the events of last night, he certainly did not expect to hear either of them laughing. And apparently together.

To be fair, it isn’t the sound that sends his stomach plummeting so much as the implications accompanying it.

Probably he should turn and go, give them some privacy, but he’s too busy lingering and simultaneously chiding himself for lingering. He and Rose shared a bed plenty of times before—well, not always a bed, per se, sometimes more of a bedroll or a cot or a prison bunk or the occasional pile of prickly sneeze-inducing hay—so there’s no reason he should be standing and staring like this, no reason at all for him to be gaping at the door to his room like some kind of slack-jawed idiot. It doesn’t matter what they might or might not have got up to in there, besides sleeping. He’s a Time Lord, for goodness’ sake. He doesn’t—he can’t—care about any of this. He’s better than all this. He’s got to be.

“Wow,” pipes up Donna, cutting through the sluggish silence like a knife through jelly, and the Doctor jerks back from the door before the sharp sound of her voice has a chance to disturb anyone and make the situation even more awkward than it already is. “They didn’t waste any time at all, did they?”

The Doctor does not reply, preoccupied with collecting some thoughts and working overtime to push others away, racing to put as much distance between himself and his room as possible. This doesn’t change anything, he knows. He’s still got things to take care of. He still has research to do. He still has to help Donna. He still…

Jaw set, he grits his teeth against the unwelcome feelings trying to swell up uncomfortably in his throat. What’s wrong with him? Isn’t this what he planned for? Isn’t this what he designed?

(Isn’t this more or less what he knew would happen, when he pushed her away for the umpteenth time? When he told her she wasn’t welcome here, with him?)

“Doctor?” asks Donna’s voice, unusually quiet, now. “Are you all right?”

The Doctor shakes his head in an attempt to clear the nonsense away. “Of course I am,” he replies. “I’m always all right.”

***

He knows he should feel guilty, on some level, allowing himself any measure of happiness while Donna’s in crisis and his other self is so busy tending to her. But the human Doctor is finding it increasingly difficult to dampen his grin whenever Rose so much as glances his way, and when she returns his smile, lashes fluttering and lips curving shyly upward as the two of them make their way to the console room, it takes every ounce of the Doctor’s considerable willpower to keep himself from pulling her into the universe’s tightest, happiest hug. If he were a cynical man (and goodness knows, at times, he has been), he’d chalk up all this giddiness to the postcoital hormones fizzing pleasantly in his veins. Just chemistry, pure and simple. But right now, he’s fairly certain the only chemistry involved here is how hopelessly drunk he is on her.

Of course, then they step into the console room, and the Doctor is forcibly reminded that, much like with actual alcohol, when humans forget to pace themselves, afterward they get to deal with fun little things like hangovers and other delightful consequences.

“There you two are!” pipes up his other self, darting about the control desk, flipping switches and pulling levers. “I was starting to think you’d sleep the whole day away, the both of you. Of course, Rose, you always did sleep like the dead, metaphorically speaking—you could put Donna’s coma to shame—but it’s surprising even to me how quickly your particular brand of circadian rhythms has spread to those around you. Suppose it only makes sense, given the matching human physiologies and all. Still, you two missed quite a lot while you were out, so you’ve got a bit of catching-up to do, the both of you.”

He sounds cheerful enough, bordering on oblivious, but this is a manner the human Doctor remembers all too well, recognizes with startling clarity once viewed from the outside—he’s just a little too nonchalant, just a little too casual, yet somehow manic at the same time as he makes a show of checking monitors and typing commands and pressing buttons, perhaps, just a little harder than he needs to, unable to look either of them in the eye as he does so.

He already knows. Somehow, he’s figured it all out. He knows everything. Of course he does.

Speaking of hangovers, the Doctor’s starting to feel just the littlest bit queasy.

“How’s Donna doing?” he calls out anyway, ignoring the sick feeling twisting in his stomach.

“Oh, right as rain,” Donna’s voice chirps out of the blue. “Thanks for asking!”

Rose and the Doctor both jump. “Donna?” asks Rose in disbelief, glancing around the console room as if Donna may manifest from thin air at any moment. “Donna, was that you? Where are you? What’s—”

“You rigged her up to a medical transceiver, didn’t you?” the Doctor realizes immediately. “And it worked?”

“Apparently,” says Donna. “‘Course I’m still stuck in the medbay, still put under and all that. But he’s got a camera or something sort of rigged up to his specs, so even though I’m asleep, I still can see and hear everything he does. Isn’t that genius?”

“Wow,” Rose breathes. “Are you all right, Donna? You’re not still in pain, or anything?”

“Can’t feel a thing. Could probably use an extra blanket, though, knowing how cold he keeps the place.”

Laughing, Rose shifts her focus to the other Doctor, shaking her head in wonder. “This is incredible,” she says earnestly. “God. You’re brilliant.”

“Thanks,” replies the other Doctor with a grin that’s just a little too tight. “Of course, it’s just the first step of a much longer process, it isn’t exactly a tenable long-term solution to keep Donna rigged up like this—”

“No brain-in-a-computer for me, ta.”

“—but it’s a good first step nonetheless.”

“What’s step two?” asks Rose.

“Step two for me is scanning the nearby systems to find the equipment needed to extricate the offending material safely from Donna’s brain,” replies the Time Lord Doctor, tilting his head distractedly at the monitor as he types in another command. “Step two for you lot, I suppose, is whatever you want.”

“Great,” says Rose. “We want to help you.”

“No need,” the Doctor insists. “I’ve got it all under control. And you know what they say about too many cooks in the kitchen. Speaking of, have you two eaten yet? The galley’s fairly well-stocked at the mo, lots of good proteins and complex carbohydrates at your disposal. I’m sure you two are famished after everything you’ve both got up to last evening. Humans tend to rack up quite the appetite, activities like that.”

The Doctor’s blood pressure drops like a stone. He glances at Rose to find her face carefully composed, her earlier excitement already fading like it was never there.

“You talking about everything with the Daleks and the end of the world?” Rose asks coolly. “Or the sex?”

If she were physically present, the Doctor imagines Donna’s jaw would drop open at that, at the bold frankness of it. Now the blood comes rushing back into his cheeks til he thinks he might catch fire from it. Rubbish human body and its rubbish autonomic nervous responses.

His other self does not look away from the monitor in front of him. “I’m sure the latter is absolutely none of my business,” he says pleasantly.

“You’re right. It’s really not.”

“Yeah, it’s not really any of my business either,” Donna pipes in. “So could we maybe turn the transceiver off for this—”

“Fair enough,” interrupts the Time Lord Doctor, “but then that does beg the question of why you brought it up.”

“It was gonna come up sooner or later. I’d rather bring it all out into the open now. Or would you rather I made passive-aggressive jibes about you two and you lot and snide comments about late-night activities?”

“Honestly, it would be delightful if we didn’t comment on any of this at all.”

“Great,” Rose laughs weakly. “So just ignore it and it’ll go away, just like we always used to do?”

“That’s what you came back for, isn’t it? To get back to the way things used to be.”

“I came back for you!”

“All right,” says the human Doctor loudly, surprising himself and everyone else. “That’s enough!”

No one responds, the console room silent except for the glass column grinding quietly away over the hum of the TARDIS. The Doctor glances between Rose and his other self, pulse pounding sluggishly in his chest, the sick feeling in his stomach growing heavier with each passing moment. The other Doctor still won’t look at either of them.

“That’s enough,” he says again, quieter this time. “We can all have a good row about this later. Our priority right now is taking care of Donna. Everything else can wait. Right?” he adds to Rose, arching an eyebrow meaningfully.

Jaw set and gaze hard, eyes flashing, for a moment it seems like Rose is going to argue with him. But she quickly relents, tension easing from her shoulders. “Right,” she says quietly, nodding.

“Right?” the Doctor snaps at his original self.

The Time Lord Doctor doesn’t look at him, too busy staring at his monitor. “Right in theory,” he murmurs, slowly. “But in practice…”

“What?” asks the human Doctor impatiently. “What is it?”

His original self scans the readings on the monitor again and again, as if different information may yield itself on repeat viewings. Whatever he sees there makes the tight, forced grin melt right off his face. His brow furrows in alarm.

“Doctor?” asks Rose, concerned, now.

In lieu of responding, the original Doctor pushes away from the control desk, racing toward the TARDIS doors. With a great heave, he throws them open, to reveal—

Nothing.

No planet surface beams at them from outside the TARDIS. There is no sun, no stars, no vortex. No light, no dark. No warm, no cold. An empty, silent, colorless expanse extends as far as the eye can see.

“Oh, no,” murmurs Rose, clutching a hand to her stomach.

“What is that?” demands Donna’s voice. “Is something wrong with your glasses, Doctor? I can’t see.”

“That’s because there is, quite literally, nothing to see,” says the original Doctor quietly, shaking his head.

He turns to face Rose and the human Doctor, eyes wide with fear. “We never made it out to the other side,” he says. “We’re trapped in the Void.”

***

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter [forthcoming]]

***

P.S. I would like to give a big shout-out to the absolutely wonderful @tenroseforeverandever @goingtothetardis @hanluvr @ladydiomede @wordmusician @gallifreygirl81 @OH @super_powerful_queen_slayyna and absolutely anyone who ever said something nice about this story or especially if you encouraged me to continue it. I’m sorry this chapter was three years in the making (!!!!) but it is heartily dedicated to y’all lovely lovely peaches! <3 <3 <3

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ofdamnation · 4 years

Text

name / alias: rachael

are you over 18? yes, 22 ! is your muse over 18? all of them are

when was your blog established? oof this one ?? 4 years ago. my og blog was around 6 years ago !!

writing

are you selective about who you write with? no (anyone) / semi (most people) / yes (some people) / highly (few people - mutuals preferred) / private (mutuals only)

are you selective about who you follow? no (anyone) / semi (most people) / yes (some people) / highly (few people)

if your muse is canon, how much do you adhere to canon? not at all / a little / some / mostly / strictly / not applicable

what post lengths do you write? one-liners / single-para / multi-para / novella / all of the aforementioned

do you use icons and/or gifs? no / gifs / icons / yes / sometimes

do you write on other platforms? no / yes ( discord )

what level of plots do you write? unplotted / open-ended plots / semi-plotted / fully plotted epics / all of the aforementioned

how quickly do you usually respond to threads? very slow (more than a month) / slow (3-4 weeks) / average (1-2 weeks) / fast (less than one week) / very fast (less than three days) / it depends

what types of themes do you like? adventure / romance / fluff / angst / smut / violence / tragedy / domestic / family ( not really into baby plots if this is what that means )

what genres do you like? ( feel free to add! ) high fantasy / supernatural / science fiction / historical / horror / comedy / romantic / drama / action / adventure / espionage / all of the aforementioned

are there any themes you’re uncomfortable writing on your blog? (not triggers) no / yes / sometimes

do you have any triggers? how do you request it tagged? the only thing that makes me really uncomfortable is a small cluster of holes ( trypophobia ) so if you could tag those on the dash please !! that would be great. ( honeycombs ect. )

shipping

what types of relationships are you open to? romantic / platonic / familial / all of the aforementioned

what types of pre-established relationships are you open to? romantic / platonic / familial / all of the aforementioned

do you have otps? no / chemistry only / yes

do you have notps? no / yes

what is your muse’s sexual orientation? heterosexual / heteroflexible / bisexual / pansexual / homoflexible / homosexual / demisexual / sapiosexual / ( grey ) asexual / still trying to figure it out.

what is your muse’s romantic orientation? heteroromantic / heteroflexible / biromantic / homoflexible / homoromantic / panromantic / demiromantic / sapioromantic / aromantic / still trying to figure it out.

are you comfortable writing smut? no / selectively / yes

how early in a relationship do you ship romantically? autoship / during plotting / after a couple ic interactions / several ic interactions / slow burn / plot dependent / never

are you open to toxic ships? no / selectively / yes / i am not sure

are you open to problematic ships? no / selectively / yes

are you open to polyshipping? no / selectively / yes / i am not sure.

are you an exclusive shipper? never / sometimes / yes

does crack shipping ever happen? no / yes

tagging!

tagged by : @theirvictory tysm !! tagging : anyone that would like to do it, tag me so i can see !!

#[ jinyoung voice ] i'm your mom!#tw: long post #mun.

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dreamiesformula · 5 years

Text

Triggered - Seo Changbin

When the one person you trusted to not break your heart does just that... how do you recover? Broken one too many times before can you forgive him?

To say you were insecure was an understatement, your whole life you were made to feel less than everyone else, worthless, ugly and a waste of time. That was until you met Seo Changbin rapper for famous idol group Stray Kids, exactly 2 years ago today. He made your life worth something, he made you feel loved, wanted, needed he made you feel beautiful. So you wanted to make him feel special and surprise him with lunch, before your very exciting anniversary night but shit backfires!

Y/N’s P.O.V

He is everything that’s good and I felt so bad about having to rush to my best friend Jack’s house early morning, but it was only cause he is helping me to organise Binnie’s surprise for tonight! Dinner at his favourite restaurant, 2 tickets to a Chase Atlantic concert being performed in a bar (since he said he wanted to see my favourite band live with me), then back to my place for a long night of appreciation and sentimental words, oh and loving.

Walking into the JYPE building even after all this time still made me nervous, I’d brought enough for the 10 of us to eat but probably would end up making sure Changbin ate enough for the both of us. I make my way to the dance studio where they undoubtedly are overworking to perfect their lastest comeback, but to my surprise I hear them talking.

“I just can’t handle Y/N today man, the stress and exhaustion may be getting to me but god I can’t deal with her insecurities. Every night she’s crying over something new, worrying I’ll leave her, skipping meals. Every single time I come home she’s panicked and I can’t deal with her insomnia one more sleepless night I’m gonna lose my shit.” I hear Changbin ramble on, standing at the door awe struck and frozen with fear. I hear footsteps...

“That’s not nice Changbin!” Jeongin defends me, bless him he’s always been so kind to me.

“Yeah maybe you’re being a little bit harsh, she’s had it rough and on today of all days you shouldn’t be bagging out the girl you’re dating.” Chan agrees knowing full well what today was while Changbin seemed lost.

“Today of all days? What do you mean?” Tears start rolling down my cheeks as the foot steps getting closer before you could process the door swings open revealing a very shocked looking Jeongin and scared looking Chan.

“Don’t.” I choke out handing Chan the food and with blurry vision and my head up high looking Changbin dead in the eyes. “I know where I stand, happy anniversary btw asshole. Enjoy it on your own!” Sarcasm lacing my voice as I spin on my heels ignoring the pleads of the boy who was and is my world.

Changbin’s P.O.V

I go to chase after her, I was dumb, I didn’t mean any of it. I said it myself I’m just tired and stressed, one things for sure, I need her.

“Changbin, Jyp is on his way and you know that, you can’t leave now.” Woojin scolds.

“Hyung, I cant just let her leave, not like this, not today, not anyday. I need her I was just being a dick, you all know that.” I say pointing to the members.

“I’m sorry but right now Woojin is right, she’s already gone, your damage has been dealt.” Minho backs Woojin up looking at the boy sorrow filling his eyes, Minho of all people knew the extent to which Changbin needed Y/N.

“Did you really forget what today was Bin?” Felix asks, his voice a whisper as he stood beside the boy.

“Yes.” He breaks “I fucking forgot.” He colaspes to the ground in his own sorrow he doesn’t hear his boss entering the studio.

“Changbin, what’s wrong?” The man dressed in casual attire sounds genuinely concerned.

“I-I -I’m just a bit cranky today sir, I’m sorry.” He stands up momentarily regaining his composure.

“Well you boys have tonight off, but I wanted 3 racha to go to a show tonight. The group is an Aussie group, I figured you’d like that Chan...” he chuckles to himself “the point is to widen your musical exposure and hopefully give you some ideas for beats, composition and you’ll have a chance to talk to them afterwards. In return they’ll come to your show later this month, their manager wanted them to have some free time and they wanted to check you boys out after hearing that you’ll be watching them.” They all nod Changbin regretting so afterwards.

“The show starts at 8pm, goes for about 2 hours and you’ll meet them afterwards. Changbin I know it’s your anniversary but is there anyways you could call Y/N, I’ll pay for your make up date, I know how inconvenient this must be and I’m so sorry.” He smiles genuinely patting the boy’s back and walking out.

“Fuck as if it couldn’t get any worse.” He grunts turning to Chan who’s still holding the bag.

“She brought this for us.” Chan says followed by “She’d want us to eat it regardless.” A bittersweet smile on my face as I realise exactly the magnitude to which I have just fucked up.

Y/N’S P.O.V

“Yo mitty, so I’m coming to your show tonight, was wondering if you and the boys wanted to get drinks after. Like old times back home!” I ask excitement filling my broken voice, my voice hoarse from an hour of sobbing until I decided I’d just go to my friends concert and let lose. Have a good time like we used to!

“You know I’m always down for that, but we gotta meet with some idols or something after who are coming, you’re more than welcome to join back stage. We can race fireball like old times?” The boy chuckles over the line.

“Alright Cave, you’re on!” I smile proudly knowing I’ll kick his ass just like old times!

“Alright cutie you’re on.” With that he hangs up the line, cutie was what he used to call me in highschool. Some junior tried to hit on me during our last year and he swooped into rescue me, I miss those times. No broken heart, no betrayal, just a bunch of idiot friends having a good laugh and writing some songs.

I get dressed while calling Casper to update him on the situation. I take my lacey black bra and pair it with some black ripped skinny jeans and a pair of combat boots and leather jacket to top off the bad ass bitch vibe for tonight. Put my piercings in, necklaces on, straighten my hair and do some light make up and boom ready to have an awesome time. Despite the ever growing pit of grief in my stomach, was I really that needy? Desperate? Clingy? That I managed to make Changbin the man who would always call me the love of his life, hate me.

Changbin’s P.O.V

3RACHA pulling up looking hot as fuck. Chan dressed in his mixtape 4 outfit (cause that’s a fat OOF 🤤), Han Jisung wearing his outfit from the boxer street video (p.s author loves her baby UWU he’s so handsome.) and Changbin wearing his outfit from SBS Inkigayo ep 997 (because Oml What an absolute king of I am not a goth but black is such my colour and I own this shit). Okay visual cue out!

“What the fuck is up Seoul? We’re Chase Atlantic thanks for coming out tonight.” The crowd screams “it’s super amazing to be here tonight and we hope you all have a dope time, our first song tonight is Triggered. I wanna hear you get loud.” A man with long dirty blonde / brown hair hypes the crowd up and they begin. The music itself wasn’t bad but most of the lyrics went in one ear out the other, lots about drugs but then again I only picked up half the songs contents but after all we were only there to listen to their use of sources, beats and their instruments so if it works, it works.

Next was a song called Swin, Cassie, Into It, 23, Lust, Friends, Uncomfortable, Drugs & Money, Right Here, What U Call That, Ozone, Devilish, The Walls, Okay and then they talked for a little. I scan through the crowd from our seats which were front section of second level as I was not really understanding what they were talking about until I see her, there she was, Y/N here, or at least I think it’s her I can only see her back but she’s got the jacket I gave her on. It had a SPEAR.B patch on the back, one she had designed for me when we were only known as 3RACHA. Surely it’s her the hair colour and jacket, surely that’s MY Y/N.

“Oi Chan?” I turn to the blonde haired Aussie to my left “is that Y/N?” I question pointing to where the girl is.

“Looks like it, that’s her jacket after all and this is her favourite band.” He looks slightly annoyed I hadn’t put two and two together, Aussie band, Chase Atlantic. Y/N always talked about how one day we’d go to their concert and we’d be the hottest couple because she had me. I told her I wanted to go see the things she loves. Jesus today keeps getting worse. Time ticks on and I can’t help but watch her, the girl I love, dancing with some other guy, laughing, singing, being happy. When I left her broken-hearted.

“This is our last few songs, these are You Too, Meddle About and Like A Rockstar! Enjoy Seoul you’ve been fucking awesome.”

I watch by as she gets crazy, let’s go and enjoys herself. Was she really unphased? No, I could tell, I know her better than anyone.

The boys wrap up the show and I watch as the lead singer leaves before we head back stage. My eyes searching for her, but she’s no where to be seem.

Y/N’s P.O.V

“MITTY” I scream as I hurl myself at my oldest friend who’s laying in the green room couch. “CUTIE!” He screams back tickling me “how the fuck have you been man?” I ask as we spend time catching up we hear a knock. “Yeah come in” Mitchael screams “bro my fucking ears, Jesus” I complain getting off of him and going towards Clinton as he’s where the drinks are. “Clint? Gimme something strong yeah?” I plead “Jesus rough day?” He chuckles “you have no idea man. No I fucking dear” I sigh turning around and regretting it instantly.

There he stood, Seo Changbin looking as good as ever. Without much thought I down the entire drink and head back to sit with Mitchel, Chan breaks the momentary awkward silence “hello it’s nice to meet you, we are 3RACHA.” Chan extends his hand to Mitchel but instead he bro hugs him, “how’d you enjoy the show man?” Clinton asks Changbin as they bro hug “uh... it was really good, I-I really like the uh compositions of your music-c.” I smile slightly to myself he’s doing so well my precious boy, Y/N SNAP. OUT. OF. IT. “That’s so nice, thanks bro.”

The night or the next hour and 30 minutes at least consisted of everyone sitting on the couches sharing advice, ideas, stories and me on my phone. “You know this little chick right here is pretty good with a beat, we used to have jam sessions and she always started our old songs.” Mitchel looks down at me as I occupy the space next to him, “she even sends us samples and lyrics still to this day, cutie over here got mad skills.” My eyes go wide knowing full well Changbin just heard and understood everything that was said, I hum from behind my phone screen too scared to look up in fear I’d meet his eyes. Those same eyes I can feel burning a hole into my forehead right now, “how about we watch some of your videos, I know we get to see you live soon but aye give us a sneak peak!” Clinton changes the topic, my life saver. Chan pulls out his phone and everyone huddled around where he was sitting I stand at the back close to Changbin just too rest the waters, knowing he was both sad and jealous I didn’t want to escalate things. He notices my position and while everyone is focused on the phone snakes his arm around my waist and pulls me closer into his side “baby, you know I love you. I was a dick I am so sorry. I need you to stay with me. Please love.” He whispers in my ear sending shivers down my spine as he peppers soft, sweet kisses along my neck, “we will talk about this later” I muster up all the courage I can to detach myself from his side and go back to sitting on the couch scrolling through my phone. “Y/N, you good?” Clinton asks knowing I’ve had a few drinks “yeah boys, all g” I smile.

“Talk about sick beats man, those are dope. So you make all your own shit. Composing, mixing, lyrics. The whole lot yeah?” Changbin nods “yeah the whole lot.” He smiles confidently, fuck he’s making this hard.

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