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uncouth-the-fifth · 6 months

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pythia, a supernatural rewrite. phantom traveler, p.3

read it on ao3.

words: 14k notes: hello!!! on the wings of an absolute ARMY of betas, here is a fresh new chapter for you!! since the last one was a little short i took the time to really flesh this one out. I'm a shy idiot who is SO bad at responding, but i see your comments and they mean the world to me. i literally have a folder on my computer full of the sweet words this fic has been given, and i think i've re-read the comments in that folder at least a million times over by now. ty so much for reading, and i hope you enjoy!! bloody mary is next! a very special thank you to my beta readers, bear, M, venice, feeb, and daff, who easily made this my best chapter yet. thank you specifically for keeping me coherent and sane lol <3

PITTSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA - Dec. 4th.

You don’t have to be psychic to know precisely what your mother is going to say when she answers the phone. She’ll pick up on the fourth ring with an occupied, scathing drawl and say, Look who finally has cell service.

Alright. So you’re not the best, most communicative daughter in the world. You call when you can, you honestly do, but there’s not exactly loads of emotional bandwidth to spare on the road. Peeling off all the layers of case anxiety and Winchester grief takes a while, dammit!

Maybe you’d feel less guilty if you vented to Sam or Dean, but it’s kind of lousy to bitch about Mom-stuff to, uh. Yeah. The boys. You could use a simple, uncomplicated statement like, talking to my Mom reminds me of how much of a disappointment I must be to her, and Dean would hear matricide instead. Sam’s blank, uncomprehending look wouldn’t be much better. Looks like you’re alone on this one.

When there’s a natural break in the day’s long research-fest the three of you are riding, you slip away, pace beside the Impala for a while, then finally bite the bullet and call her. Cars whisk through the slurry of snow on the road. Your phone charms rattle in the icy breeze. One ring, two rings… She knew you were going to call, she could sense it, but of course she has to torture you… three rings, four.

“I didn’t know cell service was so hard to come by in Pittsburg,” Beth greets you, sounding preoccupied. Damn, do you know her well or what?

“Hey, Mom,” you sigh. The wind is loud, so you pull your phone further down your face and try to come up with an excuse that is even halfway reasonable. “Sorry I haven’t called. It’s been ages since I’ve been around the boys, and I guess I get a little caught up with them sometimes.”

This is objectively true. She used to have a rule about you getting your homework done before they came over, purely because you forgot about everything and anything else the second Sam and Dean entered the house.

“Forget those losers. You’re my baby, I love you most,” Beth gushes, and you understand that this is her way of saying that you’re forgiven. Both of you have fallen victim to the Winchester spell before, so she can’t exactly blame you.

You’re a little embarrassed by her mushiness, but a relieved, bubbly laugh jumps out of you. “Alright, consider them forgotten. Now… I know I don’t deserve it, but I’m gonna ask you a question, and I need you not to freak out or overthink it, kay?”

Beth snorts. “You mean my two jobs as a mother? Go ahead, shoot.”

This is not the kind of question that you just “shoot,” though. It takes you a moment to string together how you’re going to ask this, and of course, you’re nothing but graceful and delicate about it. “...What do you know about demons?”

Your mother doesn’t say anything for a long, yawning second. Still, you can sense her rising swarm of questions and outrage all the way from Pennsylvania, and you try to stop her onslaught before it starts. “Hey! No questions! Just answers. I promise I would tell you if this was outrageously dangerous.”

“Then you’ve already broken your promise,” Beth utters, slipping into her Sage Grandmaster Psychic voice. Just hearing it makes you deflate. She predicts, “...Let me guess. You’ve felt nauseous. Suffocated. Hungry, but everything you eat comes right back up again.”

You toe a chunk of ice on the asphalt with your boot, grumbling, “...Yeah.”

“Then you’re lucky,” she reveals, her words still ringing with the same crystal ball clarity from your childhood. “That means you haven’t come into direct contact with it yet. I’d hope you never would, but… you are your father’s daughter…”

You know your mom. You know that’s just her way of warning you about the kind of danger you’re in, here, but all the comment does is bolster your resolve. Damn right. You are his motherfuckin’ daughter.

“Tell me,” you push.

Beth sighs through her nose. There’s a squeak on the other line, and you can imagine her at home, dropping heavily into the massive, millennia-old armchair she always took her readings in.

“Demons… well, I won’t explain to you what you can already guess. They’re unlike most legends we know of, because everything that’s written about them is utterly true. Most spirits that walk the natural earth are here to feed—vampires, werewolves—or to take care of unfinished business. But demons… they come to earth to steal, kill, and destroy.”

Welp. Your mother is truly a pillar of optimism. You’d been hoping she’d say something along the lines of, don’t worry, sweetheart, they’re just really messed up ghosts. Instead of, y’know. The most evil creatures man encountered in the bible. Bible, capital B. An uncomfortable, existential shiver rolls down your spine. Now this was something you could bitch to Dean and Sam about.

You’d grown up surrounded by the idea of demons. Even before you’d fully understood that monsters were real, sometimes you’d slip into your mother’s reading parlor while she was gone and play a game with the strange, segmented star pattern on the giant worn-smooth carpet. Don’t hop on any of the lines! Only step in the points of the star! Or, jump from sigil to sigil!

The one time you’d gotten carried away and played for too long, your mother had appeared through the beaded curtain with a stiff frown on her face. Don’t play on the devil’s trap. It’s not a toy.

There was the fraying devil’s trap in your mother’s parlor room, which was one of the hundreds of sigils burned into your mind at a young age. You’d shaken hands with demon hunters before. Most of the rituals your family practiced were in Latin; and the list went on and on into oblivion. You’d always known demons existed, but as you pace the parking lot and take in what Beth is telling you, the ramifications start to stack. Demons. Actual, literal demons. The thing that took down flight 2485—the suffocating, unimaginable presence from your vision—was a real-life demon. When you’d stood in the skeletal remains of the plane and reached out with your Gift, you’d been sensing the lingering presence of a fucking creation of Lucifer. What the actual fuck.

In a strange, backward way, you’re kind of relieved. Anyone would be fainting all over the place in the presence of an actual, real-life demon. Especially somebody like you, with all their senses turned up to 100. It makes sense that you were having such intense reactions before.

What the fucking fuck. You’re suddenly grateful to be on the phone with your mom.

You wandered toward the Impala, (checked first that you weren’t wearing the kind of jeans with the little studs that would scrape the paint), then leaned against it. “...Um. Okay. That’s just… awesome… How do they get… up here, then?”

“I’m not sure,” your mother hums, thinking. “Your great-great-aunt Miriam wrote in her records that they find their way top-side on their own. Bugs through cracks, that sort of thing. Apparently, there used to be a whole lot more of em’—in Miriam’s day it was a Proctor’s job to shove them back where they belonged, but… I dunno.” Beth helpfully jokes, “Maybe we got most of them.”

You huff out a laugh, but it’s not the most sincere. “Maybe we did,” you cough. “But, um, do we have any Proctor family secrets that could help me out here? Did great-great-aunt Miriam have a trunk somewhere full of demon-killing grenades or something?”

Beth smirks. “Great-great-aunt Miriam turned the house into a brothel and carved terrifying sigils in all the ceilings. That’s all we got from her.”

Of course. How could you possibly forget? “Oh, huh. I was wondering why we have old chains and whips in the basement. That fills in a lot more for me, thank you.”

Your mom barks out a laugh at your joke, which gets you laughing too. The sound trails off. There’s that funny pause where you both remember what you just said, then start giggling all over again—and man, does it feel good to just have a moment with your mom. The boys both have an unforgiving radar for “bonding,” and the second they realize that you love them and they’re your friends, they creep right back into their shells. Neither of them were very good at absorbing that sort of thing.

Your mom is just as skilled at spoiling the moment.

“But, seriously…” She stresses. “Please be careful. Avoid contact with these things at all costs, especially with your Gift. It’s made to find the truth, and demons are made of lies. Not a good mix. They’ll rip into your mind… take you apart if they have to. This is a lot more hands-on than you should ever be with your Gift, ____.”

“...Right,” you say through your teeth.

This is the part where you start awkwardly shoving in a goodbye without coming across as an asshole. You open your mouth, about to say something stiff and unsure, when you sense a spike of alarm ripple out from where the boys are still researching in your motel room.

Phone call forgotten, you jolt off the Impala and whip towards the door. Not a second later, Dean’s slipping out onto the stoop and sweeping the parking lot with a calm, guarded stare. He doesn’t look at you—just gestures you inside, holding the door open. Even from the parking lot, you can make out the insane amount of notes and papers Sam has coated your motel room with.

“Jerry just called,” Dean utters. “The surviving pilot from 2485? Chuck Lambert? …He just went down in a plane crash.”

You snap your phone shut and follow him inside.

The three of you head to the site of the next crash as fast as you can. But first, you have the pleasure of watching the boys play Winchester Telepathy when you insist on coming along. They’re still worried. You would be too, in their position. (In fact, if the roles were reversed, you’d probably chain Sam to a radiator and call it a day.) But Chuck went down in a twin plane, not a massive, two-hundred-person graveyard, so your Gift should have the legs to handle it.

…And knowing what you’re dealing with has steeled your confidence. You weren’t slashing at the dark anymore, even if what was in the dark was, um. Proof that hell exists. After days of being totally screwed over by this thing, you finally had even the slightest leg up on what was going on. You were going to take that win and run with it.

Chuck’s twin plane was hardly a twin anymore; both the engines had been shredded, the white body of the cockpit twisted like a wrung-out washcloth. The plane had dove so hard into the farmland that the snow around it had melted. You still kind of felt like tossing your lunch, but more out of sympathy than psychic backlash. People had been in that plane. The thought made you taste bile.

Sam and Dean only hover a little bit (a lot) while you open your Gift to the wreckage. You take your glove off with your teeth and touch your right hand to the ashen, snow-soaked remains of the pilot’s chair… and there it was again, the leeching, seeping, violating presence from the vision that’d brought all of you to Pittsburg. A demon.

Your Gift wrings out another scraggly, disconnected vision for you. Chuck was beyond anxious to get back in the saddle after 2485. The co-pilot, Lou, had pep-talked him like any good friend would, reassuring him that the flight would go smoothly. After that, everything—gassing up the engine, takeoff, and the brutal, horrific crash—was blotted with poison ink. Every time you tried to steer towards Chuck with your senses, it was as if the strip of film playing your vision had been burned away. His face had been scratched out of every frame. He had become something else; something terribly familiar.

The research Sam had compiled began to link with what you’re seeing. You could feel, even through the leftover wisp of the demon’s presence on the plane, that it had done this many times before.

You jolted to your feet, scrubbing the palm with the eye tattoo off on your slacks. Dean and Sam reeled back, since they’d both been looming an inch behind you as you worked.

“What’s the verdict, doc?” Dean said, bracing himself.

You turn from the wreckage and bee-line straight for the road, eager to avoid a repeat of last time. The boys follow your lead. They fall into step on either side of you, and for once you feel like the specialist Sam always said you were, complete with stern-faced bodyguards.

“Full-on Pazuzu, just like last time,” you confirm, cursing. You shove your glove back on and stomp through the snow. “I-I get it now. God, it feels so fucking obvious. It’s—it’s playing. It finds these disasters, or it makes them, and then it picks off all the survivors one by one. Chuck Lambert, George Phelps. It possessed them. Like some sort of twisted cosmic-order thing.”

Sam pulls a face. “Final Destination style?”

“Minus the hot girls and the tanning beds, apparently,” Dean pouts.

“It’s trying to finish them off, boys,” you say, swallowing hard. “That’s something we can work with. If it’s only using disasters to do the job, then…”

“...then we need to see if any of the survivors are flying soon,” Sam realizes, finishing your thought.

The second the Impala’s on the road again, Sam is fishing out the passenger manifests from the first flight and chasing down any phone numbers he can find. There is a part of every hunt where your run is forced to become a sprint, and this is that turn-over moment, tensions ramping high. What once was seven people is now five.

As Dean hauls ass back to Pittsburg, you and Sam get to calling. You thank the Mother Goddess above for shitty, awful customer service, because posing as some lousy Delta Airlines representative has Dennis Holloway sitting in seat 21A and Kathleen Willard (seat 25E) swearing off flying for good. Sam uses a similar tactic on Blaine Sanderson (seat 14D). The two of you take the safe bet that the parents of Ava Struder (seat 1C), an unaccompanied minor, aren’t fucking idiots dumping their kid on another flight the second she survives one. That leaves you with Amanda Walker. A flight attendant on 2485… because of course, this job can never be easy.

Sam tries her phone. While it rings, you cross your fingers and hope that she has quit her job and started a new life as a dedicated couch potato. Sam’s forced to leave a message. He snaps his flip phone shut with a curse and throws it into the footwell, where it clatters against his boots.

You curl a cold hand around Sam’s shoulder, soothing, “Gimme the list, baby. I’ll try her emergency contact, at least find out where she is.”

Sam sulkily passes it to you, never once shifting under your hand. You do get a small, grateful look from him over his shoulder, and the urgency and anxiety there makes your gut twist. It would be more than easy to comfort him, to stroke your fingers through his hair, to rub his collar and tell him everything’s going to be fine.

But you’re a shit liar, so you open up your phone and make the next call. Sam’s lingering gaze ducks back down into his lap.

Of course, your luck continues to flourish. Amanda doesn’t answer her phone. But her sister does, and she informs you that Amanda, being a flight attendant, is in fucking Indianapolis for a flight. Indianapolis. As in, a good five-hour drive from Philly—and in the complete opposite direction of where you were going. Dean barely waits until the road is wide enough to turn the Impala around. The u-ey he hits sends you, and all your stuff, careening from the right end of the bench all the way to the left.

The drive is not fast. Staring ahead and silently revving yourself up can only waste so much time, so you pull out the mini sewing kit from under the seat and do your best to patch a rip in Dean’s jeans, struggling to thread the needle even more than usual. You feel a bit like a bad hunter distracting yourself from what’s ahead, but just one of you stuffing the car with anxious brooding is enough. Sam passes back a sudoku booklet for you and then goes straight back to his thousand-yard stare.

He used to be excellent when things came down to the wire like this. After years spent in empty motel rooms, counting pennies and waiting for John and Dean to come home, Sam’s patience was unimaginable. But losing Jess… had tilted his axis. These last few hunts, you’ve noticed how crazed he gets on the last couple steps to the finish line—when none of you are sure if there’ll be anybody to save. It happens. But you’re scared of what another round of it could do to Sam, even with a stranger like Amanda; he cared so much…

Dean isn’t happy, either, but he at least has something to do. He alternates between playing brain-melting Metallica or forgetting to reload the tape, so the drive is a strange mix of music you can feel in your eardrums and silence that’s just as loud. The first piece of levity you get is thirty straight minutes of Dean over-explaining the album to you. And, thank god you ask, because Dean rattling on about the “bass and drums feeding off each other” and the “musical integrity of a locked-in rhythms section” bring Sam out of his trance. He pries his eyes away from the rolling fields of snow, scrunches up his face, and sighs, “Can we at least listen to ‘...And Justice for All?’”

You’re an excellent tactician, so you use this opening to nudge them both toward the most surefire argument starter in the Winchester handbook: What’s the best album of all time? It would’ve been harder to lure flies into honey. Dean argues more with himself than he argues with the two of you, dancing indecisively between Zeppelin II, Dark Side of the Moon, and at least twenty other albums that you are vaguely aware exist. Sam outlines that there is a difference between someone’s favorite album (Californication in Sam’s case) and the best album objectively by sales (Thriller).

All three of you play into the argument more than usual. Guess you’re not the only one desperate to think about something other than the two hundred other people who might die tonight. By the time there’s enough of a break in the conversation for you to throw your hat into the distraction-ring, you’re thirty minutes from the Indianapolis International Airport.

“Both of you are wrong,” you decide. “There’s only one reasonable answer to that question, and it’s Rumours.”

Dean audibly grumbles, and when the Impala jams to a stop in front of a red light, he dramatically points at you in the rear-view mirrors and declares: “You are obligated by hippie, witchy-girl bullshit to love that album, Proctor. And it’s good, but it’s not the best. It’s mostly…” he flashes you a mean, big-brother smile, “girly music.”

You know you’re right, so his comment rolls right over you. Cooly, you remind him, “Nuh-uh. Sam loves Fleetwood Mac, too.”

You’d figured that was a good counter-point, since Sam was hardly girly. The hand he was using to keep his notepad on his knee was all kinds of veiny and calloused, and on top of being taller than Dean, he was a lot more comfortable with his masculinity. He didn’t have mile-long lashes or glazed donut cheekbones, either.

Sam hums in agreement, like you knew he would; the two of you listened to Go Your Own Way and The Chain endlessly before he left for school. Sometimes he’d even dance around the attic at home with you.

Dean side-eyes his brother, then barks out a hearty laugh. “Case in point.”

Sam elects to pretend he didn’t hear that, and instead turns around to talk straight to you: “I mean, the end of Silver Springs alone…”

…Maybe if Dean listened to more “girly music,” he’d have more women melting over him the way you melt when Sam says that. Even though you’ve gotten used to having him in front of you again, there are moments like these where you’re stunned by how similar the two of you still are. Dreams would play in your attic and Sam would already be offering you his hands, gangly and shy and bright red for you and only you…

You listened to Silver Springs a lot after Sam started dating Jessica.

INDIANAPOLIS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT - Dec. 4th, night.

All three of you must’ve been hyper-planning what to do the second the Impala parked, because you fan out as soon as Dean jams the break.

Sam uncaps the travel-sized hand sanitizer from your purse and empties it out onto the pavement. You’re a little sad to say goodbye to pumpkin cupcake, but then he starts pouring as much holy water as he can into the teeny bottle, and you’re reminded how clever he is. When Dean gives him a weird look, Sam explains, “3.4 ounces or less per liquid item, dude.”

“Shit,” Dean curses. Right. Travel size restrictions. That cuts your only physical weapon against the demon in half—or into a fucking fifth, I guess. But it’s something. “At least he’ll fuckin’ smell good when we send him to hell. Great.”

You give Sam the marshmallow pumpkin latte sanitizer, too. You’re going to look painfully suspicious walking into an airport with nothing but hand sanitizer and an occult journal, but there’s nothing you can do. There’s no time to check bags or trudge through security lines. Hopefully you won’t have to board, but knowing your luck…

You’re about to go peeling out of the parking lot at top speed, when you turn your boot and feel the warm piece of metal pressed against your ankle. Shit. “God, this is stupid,” you curse, and drop onto a knee. You lose the pocket knife in your boot, then dig around for the loose rock salt shells rolling around in your pockets. There’s a visible pout on your face when you abandon your iron knuckles. Anything that’d be caught by security or picked up on a metal detector goes straight into the trunk.

When you pull your butterfly knife out of your bra, Sam is suddenly very interested in the color of the sky.

The boys follow suit. By the time you’re through the doors and among the harried, criss-crossing crowd of travelers, you’ve lost ten pounds in weapons each. Dean grumbles the whole way about feeling naked. Everything in the airport is overstimulating, even at this time of night. The long, endless squares of glass looking out over the runway reflect the too-bright lights in big glossy spots, and the air is flooded with a constant stream of intercom updates and civilian chatter. You duck and weave all the way to the departure schedule, which is just the right font size to make you anxious.

Sam scans the chart. “They’re boarding in thirty minutes.”

Shit. You wrack your mind for something that could coax Amanda off her flight. But the gears in your head are suddenly muddy, and Dean’s faster than you, anyway. His eyes dart around the floor of the airport. “Okay… we still got some cards to play. We need to find a phone.”

Sam and Dean dart off like twin bomb-sniffing dogs. You move to follow them, but something tethers you in place. The buzzing, bustling commotion in the air pitches up, and then your ears are ringing, and your whole body is stinging with the ugly leeching feelings from before. The demon. It’s close.

You blindly walk in the direction your internal Winchester compass gives you, and just when Dean’s about to take a courtesy phone off its hook, your body extracts the phone from his hand on autopilot. For a brief flickering moment, you’re not yourself. Your powers talk through you.

Your Gift foresees, “That won’t work. Your only option is to board the plane.”

The boys exchange an unsettled look. For a second you’re confused why they’re giving you their Freaked Out faces, then you feel the hollow plastic of the phone in your hand, and you realize you’re a whole twenty feet from where you started. Man… you hate the whole psychic-possession thing. Just for fun, your Gift loves to take over and course-correct you when it thinks you’re being stupid. You drop the phone back on its hook with a heavy click. It takes Dean a second to answer, and he’s still giving you that look. After a long pause, he knocks up his chin and not-so-happily mutters, “...Uh, okay.”

Sam, at least, has learned to roll with your weird psychic bullshit. His voice is soft with conviction. “Fine. Plan B, then. We gotta get on that plane.”

You run your palms down your face, then steel yourself. There’s no other way, and no time to second-guess. Even your Gift has decided it’s your best plan. “Okay. Fuck it.”

The usual authority in Dean’s voice hikes up with a note of panic. “Uh, woah. Let’s just hold on a second–”

“Dean,” you wince, and your hands drop heavily at your sides. “We gotta. I’m sorry.”

Sam, per usual, reads Dean’s hesitance as something else. “That plane is leaving with over a hundred passengers on board. And if we’re right, it’s gonna crash. We have to–”

You watch as they have their usual back and forth; Sam, eager to throw himself at this, and Dean gnawing on the inside of his cheek. It’s easy for you to sense the steam of real, nail-biting terror radiating off your best friend. You feel Dean’s fear all the time–and even then it’s hard for you to picture him being afraid of much of anything, much less planes. It’s even harder for Sam to look past his little brother glasses.

“...Flying?” Sam puts it together. His voice is understanding, but super confused. “You’re joking, right?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Dean flails. He fists his hands as he talks, swaying back and forth to try and work up the nerve. He glances at you, the only other witness to his weakness, just once. “Why do you think I fuckin’ drive everywhere, Sam?”

Sam is genuinely stunned. Slapped-in-the-face stunned. But he takes it in stride, and, also glancing at you only once, he blurts out: “Alright. Uh, I’ll go.”

The anticipation of boarding the flight is making your skin prickle with anxiety, and you can’t help but inch back toward the ticket counter as they talk. But when Sam says this, without question or complaint, you’re instantly stepping up to his side and demanding, “Then I’m going with you.”

You brace yourself to shut down the argument you know is coming, but this Sam continues to be different from the guy you knew four years ago. This answer is just as easy for him, too. “Okay.”

Not, you’re staying here, or even, I won’t let you risk yourself like this. Just a plain and simple, okay. It bugs you. You don’t even have time to dwell on it, though, because Sam’s blatant courage tugs Dean over his fear.

“Man…” Dean utters, face twisted with nervousness. He gives in with a helpless scrunch of his shoulders, and taking that as permission, Sam twists around to buy your tickets not two seconds later.

You both watch him rush off, neither of you over the moon about this situation. Dean’s so anxious that his hands are clammy, and you can tell because he clutches at the sleeve of your jacket like a little kid. He knocks his forehead down on your shoulder with a groan, and your palm automatically loops around to give his back a soothing rub.

“This is fucking… awesome,” Dean gripes. “No guns. Can’t even bring a damn bottle of holy water. Is there some kind of psychic Xanax you can give me?”

Maybe some of your Gift drains into your voice when you promise, “We won’t have to worry about that. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Dean doesn’t make his Freaked Out face this time. He does, however, bump his forehead against your shoulder again, and sink into your touch with a rough sigh.

FLIGHT 424 - Dec. 4th.

You’d felt bad for Dean the whole time he’d struggled to get on the plane. Now, you kind of felt like choking him with your bare hands.

So many people crammed into one space was enough to flatten your Gift with the weight. Adding Dean to the mix, shoved shoulder-to-shoulder against you with his jitters ramped up to eleven, made you feel like picking your brain out with a fork. Your Gift ping-ponged between Dean and Sam, making you bounce between chattering your teeth with fear and thinking things like, wow, I just love the Dewey decimal system.

Maybe it was a good thing. You’d much rather be in one of their heads than yours.

All day, you’d done a pretty good job not obsessing over the things your mom had said over the phone. It was hard with so much time to marinate in the car, but the massive weight of the existence of demons only slammed on top of you once or twice. Boarding had managed to keep you occupied, but then the colossal body of the plane had shuddered and heaved its weight off the tarmac, leaving all chances for escape behind on the ground.

A part of you was resigned to it; it is a simple fact of your life that evil things are real. So what’s one more, right? But at the same time, you thought about the cross Sam wore under his shirt… you thought about being one of those things, being “made of lies,” like Mom had said. That, too, had been gnawing at you—what had she seen to learn all that? How did she know that a demon would “tear into your mind?” The Vague Psychic Thing is fun, until you’re on the receiving end.

“Can you sense who it’s possessing?” Sam’s smooth, calculating voice interrupted your thoughts.

…Oh, right. You’d gotten so swept up in your own head, no doubt influenced by Dean’s incessant foot-tapping, that you’d totally forgotten to scan the plane. Tilting away from Dean and his panic, you subconsciously shifted toward eerily calm, level-headed Sam. Just catching a wisp of the clean cologne he wears cools you down a little bit. Okay. No more freaking out—it’s game time.

You’d hoped that the white noise of the flight would settle your nerves, but the air tasted painfully sterile, dry, and cottony against the back of your throat. Everything felt like cold metal touching an open nerve. If the demon’s influence wasn’t making your powers touchy, then the woman across the aisle definitely was, oozing with homesickness as she watched Indianapolis shrink far below—or maybe it was the guy two rows back, replaying an argument again and again in his head—or maybe the other two hundred fucking people stuffing the plane with their boredom and their tiredness.

You push your knee into Sam’s. He pushes back.

After a tense beat, you whisper to him over the chatter of passengers, “Too many people. There’s no way I can narrow it down to one person—not unless they’re right in front of me.” Sam’s gaze turns expectantly to Dean, who’s still in full-on dissociation mode. He’d spent the whole boarding process humming tracks from St. Anger, and you knew he was really going through it, purely because he’d stopped and restarted Some Kind of Monster three different times now. Poor guy.

One of the things that made the three of you such a natural team was your ability to rotate leadership. In moments like these, with Dean way too wigged out to take charge, you’d usually step into his shoes without much trouble. But Sam has fielded your fainting spells and panic attacks all week, so he’s already got a pep-talk prepared for the two of you.

“...Okay.” Sam checks his watch. His voice still has that touch of classic Sam softness, probably because he knows how hard this is going to sound: “Stay focused. We got thirty-two minutes and counting to track this thing down, figure out who it’s possessing, and perform a full-on exorcism.” You’re about to make a comment about how blissfully easy he makes things seem, but Dean beats you to it. He snipes, “Yeah, on a crowded plane. That’s gonna be easy.”

You snap one of your bracelets against your wrist a few times, thinking. “Who would it want to possess?”

This gets Dean’s head in the game. Easily, he recites: “It’s usually somebody with some sort’a weakness, y’know, a chink in the armor that the demon can worm through. Somebody with an addiction or emotional distress.”

As he explains this, you unlatch Dean’s claws from their death-grip on your arm and give the top of his hand a little soothing pat. Your gaze remains fixed on the pattern of the seat in front of you. “For a regular demon, maybe. This thing might not even need a chink. It wants maximum damage here—so maybe it’d go for the pilot?”

This is not a soothing thought. Checking his watch again, Sam suggests, “Or Amanda… Surviving a crash like that? I’d be pretty messed up if I was her. We should check both.”

You’re happy to spend the little time you have left wisely, so you’re quick to push out of your seat and get moving. Dean puts on a brave face and follows your lead. There are only two ends of the plane to check—this thing can’t hide forever. Just when you start to do an awkward side-shuffle to nudge Dean out into the aisle with your hip, the whole plane thrashes top to bottom, and there he goes, dropping like a rock back into his seat. His spike of panic is so genuine that you end up dropping with him.

“Come on!” Dean hisses through his teeth. “That can’t be normal!”

You and Sam immediately get to shushing and soothing him, and suddenly you understand how married couples feel when their kid starts crying on a flight. Shifty eyes in other seats pretend they’re not glaring at you. Summoning as much strength as you can to share with him, you drop a hand on Dean’s shoulder and order: “Breathe, dude. You’re okay.”

“I’m not fuckin’ four,” Dean whisper-shouts, sulking flat back into his seat.

“She’s right,” Sam whispers back. Should it be worrying you how much he’s been agreeing with you lately? Stern, he says, “Listen—if you’re panicked, you’re wide open to possession. So you need to calm yourself down. Right now.”

A weird part of you is grateful that Dean is having a rough go of it, because it’s giving you something to focus on. You’re usually pretty good with planes. But for a minute there, when the turbulence had hit, your mind had defaulted to oh shit, this is real, we’re all going to die. A slideshow of the last crash had blitzed through your thoughts. Thoughts that had nothing to do with the anxiety you were picking up from Dean.

You know you despise it when Dean uses his Parent Voice on you, so you try not to use it on him when you urge, “C’mon. I think Amanda’s in the back of the plane. I’ll check up front.”

Dean gives an unconvinced, “I’ll go talk to her,” then makes grabby hands at Sam’s pockets, “pass me one of the hand-sanitizers. Fuckin’ uh, pumpkin latte—don’t gimme that face, _____, not all of us can tell with just a look. What if it’s in her?”

“It’s a bit more than a look—” you begin to clarify, but Sam stops your back and forth with a shake of his head. He pulls out the little orange plastic container of your pumpkin cupcake holy water and passes it to Dean.

“We should try to conserve what we got,” he warns, passing you the only other weapon against the demon (marshmallow pumpkin latte). “Go more subtle—if she’s possessed, she’ll flinch at the name of god.”

Now that you’re running out of both time and options, the second Dean unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out into the aisle on coltish legs, you take the opening and bolt out of your cramped middle seat. Anything you can do to get closer to finding this thing will make you feel loads better.

You start down the aisle. As the chatter of the boys fades into the all-encompassing thrum of the plane behind you, you take slow unhurried steps past each row of seats, soaking up what you can get. A girl listens to music in her headphones. A businessman clicks away at his laptop. Each of them you comb over with your powers, and each pass feels like scooping your hand into a bowl of tacks and waiting to get stabbed.

They’ll rip into your mind… take you apart if they have to, Mom had said. You waited for that moment, steeling your nerves the closer you came to the cockpit. If the demon’s on this side of the plane, and it sensed you, would it immediately press into your mind? Would just being near you snap its presence to you like a magnet? You didn’t like the mental feeling that gave you; the stark secret-seeking white of your Gift clashing with the black choking smoke that’d been chasing you all week. When you spoke to a spirit through your Gift, it felt like you were touching fingertips through a curtain. Would it be like that? Would this demon press its claws through the veil and dig around for something to tear, to grab?

The other flight attendant on board pushes past you with her cart, leaving no barrier between you and the cockpit. Behind you, bobbing in a sea of blurry people, your Gift could distinctly make out Sam (practicing the exorcism) and Dean (talking to Amanda). You’re just a few paces from the front exit of the plane when a man emerges from the bathroom cabin, and—

He twists to meet eyes with you. Expecting you.

You’re flashed a clever, haunting smile, then—a set of glossy void-black eyes.

You wait for it. And in its own way, the presence of the demon does overpower you, bringing the heavy-as-the-sky, parasitic feeling from your visions into the real world. For a long ringing moment, you are blasted with dark leeching power hot enough to singe the entire front of your body—like a nuclear bomb had dropped down just a few steps from you. It is spidery and vicious and knowing and awful—

…but the conquering sensation never comes. Beth had said that it would root into your mind, that just feeling it with your Gift, as you are right now, would tear you to pieces. Yet all that really happens is you staring at it and it staring at you, before it shoulders its way through the cockpit door and disappears inside. The only thing you really experience is the shock of seeing it in somebody, puppeting around a person with dreams and thoughts and memories.

For a few moments, you suck down heaving breaths through your nose and stare at the closed door.

Something about it nagged at you. Besides the obvious—how different it felt compared to what your mother had described—you swear you felt something else, some ringing sense of strangeness that you just couldn’t put your finger on. Maybe it was the fact that you’d just made eye contact with a real creature of hell, an evil spirit, whatever. But you made eye contact with evil spirits all the time. This was… closer to home than that. Underneath the writhing mass of bloody, black ink that made up the demon, your Gift had recognized something unimaginably familiar.

Sensing the demon in person had reminded you of… of a sensory memory, almost. It smelled like… warm static. The old staticy TV in your house, the ancient one that sat square and unattractively on your Mom’s slanting sideboard in the living room. You remembered her crystal ashtray propped up on the top, the fizzy sound the TV made when you’d shut it off…

On the nights when it was just you and Sam home, and the house felt so big and empty that the silence throbbed in your ears, the two of you would set up a fort in front of that TV and watch old horror movies well past your bedtime. The silly effects and the dated acting were easy to tease together. You’d much rather watch movies on the newer screen in your Mom’s room, but for whatever reason, Sam insisted on the clunker in your living room.

Y’wanna know somethin’ cool? He’d asked you once, running a finger through the film of static bubbling on the surface of the glass. A little bit of the static in TVs is actually radiation leftover from the Big Bang. How weird is that? Something so old and powerful, picked up by this random piece of junk.

Sam always crashed first, leaving you alone with the white static the TV defaulted to when the movie ended. You could vividly remember how your shoulders bumped against the hard floor through the thin sleeping bag the two of you had shared—how Sam’s warmth had seeped into your shirt where he was curled up behind you, his soft sleepy breaths tickling your hair.

When you’d pulled his arm around your waist to snuggle, a spark of static had shocked you through his touch. When you’d closed your eyes and tried to go to sleep, you swore that the ancient, cosmic hum of the static in the TV ebbed and flowed at the same exact time as Sam’s breath.

In. Bzzzsh. Out. Bzzzsh. Crackling as he breathed.

It wasn’t the demon you were scared of anymore. The ancient, ever-present sting of static you’d felt deep down inside it… that scared you a million, a billion times more, because—

You felt that static every time you felt Sam.

It’s like trying to describe the smell of your childhood home.

Logically, you know your house must smell like something. But when you’re in one place long enough your brain filters it out as background noise, and it becomes something you can only notice after a long time away.

You’d known Sam since you were in diapers. Back then, the meager threads of your Gift were already taking him in and absorbing him into your memory. Eventually, you felt him so often that all the pain and optimism in his core, all the stuff that made Sam himself, had smoothed out into warm, familiar background noise to your Gift.

Then he’d left for Stanford. Four years passed, and the only exposure your Gift had to him was the flimsy thread stretched two thousand miles down to California. Because it’d been so long since you’d sensed him in person, hugging him outside his apartment had been like stepping into your home after a long time away—for a brief moment, the filter over your psychic perceptions of him had lifted. You’d sensed for the first time what had always been there, buried deep. The Static.

At the time, you’d gotten so swept up in Sam, Dean, and the adventure of finding their Dad, that it was easy to get sidetracked. Things came up. You got used to Sam again, and his Static faded to background noise.

Until you’d felt that demon with your Gift.

A demon. A creation of Lucifer. You’d always remember what Sam felt like—you’d never forget the smell of home—but in one of them?

Your mind whirls with so many questions that it flat-out pops, failing you. Pulled along on a cloud of white noise, you somehow manage to turn away from the cockpit and start back down the aisle. The demon is possessing the pilot. You have forty minutes, less than, to exorcize it and save the two hundred people on this flight. These are all truths floating around in your head, but no matter how much you try to circle back to one, the static of the demon overcomes you again.

Static. You think of Sam, the crackle of his soft raspy voice through the phone. Your heart is pounding in your ears, thudding away in your chest like a piston. The static had burned in the demon, burned like busted speakers and smoking plane wreckage. Little pins all over your skin pressing in. The space you have until you make it to Sam’s seat seems to yawn, your footfalls sluggish and shivery. Why do they feel the same? Why does he feel the same? The static of the demon worms under your fizzing skin, bubbling, boiling—

You stop in front of Sam’s row, and he’s already looking at you when you get close. He asks you a question. You stare at him, the whole world filled with that awful roaring buzzing, the air tight and dessert dry in the back of your throat. Even though he’s right in front of you, you feel like you barely see him—just the vague burning outline of him in your powers.

Sam reaches out to grab your wrist, tugging it away from the long marks you’re viciously scratching into the flesh of your arm. The touch of his hand causes a literal static shock to jolt from his fingers to yours. You yelp in surprise, but it’s—

It’s different. There’s a similarity, definitely, between what you sensed in the demon and what’s always been in Sam… but his Static is hot chocolate warm and fuzzy and so good. Melt-in-your-mouth good. Your surroundings filter back in, and there are his soft, worried eyes looking up at you under his brow, and his big hand soothing over the irritated skin you’ve scratched raw. Sam. The same Sam he’s always been.

…Whatever it is, whatever weird connection you’ve just made, you’re sure there’s a lot more to it than Sam having something in common with a demon. Right?

Sam takes one look at you, your insane reaction, and your mysterious reappearance, then easily puts two and two together: “One of the pilots?”

“Co-pilot,” you tell him, and one of your absent-minded hands drifts up to scratch at your arm again.

And again, Sam fishes his fingers around your wrist and pulls it away. Now that you’ve noticed it, you can’t un-notice it. His touch makes your fingertips and the ends of your ears tingle, and not completely in the boy-crush way. In the psychic way.

He asks, “You gonna be okay? We got twenty-two minutes.”

That jolts you back to life. Twenty-two minutes until this plane is smoking ashes in a Pennsylvania cornfield. Though the last ten minutes have easily overcomplicated all twenty-four years of your life, you won’t have a life period if you don’t see this job through. When Dean returns from investigating a very un-possessed Amanda, he feels the exact same way.

Your resolve hardens, and you manage to give Sam an absent-minded smile. “I’ll be fine.”

There’s no time for arguing. Dean and Sam unanimously agree that the only possible place to exorcize the demon would be in the back, where Amanda is, since you can’t exactly jump the guy in the middle of economy. You don’t exactly like the idea of roping her into this, but Amanda’s the only one who could potentially lure that—thing to the rear of the plane. It is the world’s shittiest ambush. But by the time the three of you decide what to do, you’ve burned ten whole minutes on anxious chatter. A shitty ambush is the only plan you’ve got.

Dean starts down the aisle for the back of the plane. You stare at nothing for a beat, and only remember to get out of your seat when Sam nudges your elbow. He presses his lips together like he wants to ask you the million-dollar question (“Are you sure you’re okay?”), but there is literally no time. In a haze, you shuffle out of your seat after Dean and make a feeble attempt to get your head into gear. Sam does not make it easy. One of his broad hands brushes against the small of your back as you both squeeze out of the row, and you feel like you’ve just gone down one of those static-charged plastic playground slides.

Your Gift is exaggerating it. It has to be, right? Making big connections out of little things, picking at a fresh bruise. For weeks, you’ve been crammed into a little car with Sam, into teeny motel beds with him with no room between you. Why hadn’t you felt it? Why now? Not when you were four, napping in the same bed after playtime—not when you were twelve, and Sam was the first person outside your family that your Gift had connected with. Had it always been there, living inside him? Had you missed it?

You reach the back of the plane. Amanda is there, a pale, blonde flight attendant straight out of a commercial. You are dully aware that you have twelve minutes left before the demon makes its move, always on the forty-minute mark (...and you don’t like the line suddenly drawn between Sam and such an old, biblically evil thing).

The boys talk. A familiar conversation occurs over your head, which might be why it’s easy for you to tune out. Your mind returns again to thoughts of Sam, so intense and loud in your head that it all fizzles out to nothing, and you’re left standing there with the air pressure making your ears ring. Sam. The demon. It’s stupid and intangible and you’d have no fucking clue how to explain it out loud, but your Gift is made to find the truth. Something inside that demon exists in Sam, too. Something.

You try to reassure yourself that maybe, just this once, your Gift is wrong. Maybe this is the demon getting into your mind—learning your deepest fears and bringing them to life.

Sure enough, Dean’s charm and Sam’s earnest face must win Amanda over, because she flits out of the back room like a frightened bird. The boys peer through the curtain to watch her go, the two of them as still and sharp-eared as twin watchdogs. You’re slapped back to life by the sudden tension in the room, and quickly scuttle up behind them. Right. Amanda’s getting the co-pilot. These next ten minutes will determine the rest of your life.

In the same beat, you and Dean ready your holy water, and Sam gets the written exorcism from their dad’s journal out in front of him. There’s no need for the three of you to say a word. An understanding passes between each of you, hammered in from years of hunting as a team. Sam slides up next to you and Dean gives you a firm nod, squashing your last wisps of fear. You’re here to do a damn job.

A man’s voice floats toward the closed curtain to the back room, followed not-so-closely by Amanda’s. You’re glad she’s not the first one into the room—because Dean instantly slams a fist into their face.

The co-pilot—or really, the thing inside him—goes sprawling. You’ve got a strip of duct tape bridled over his mouth before he even fully collides with you, and for the blissful moment you have him pinned, Dean gets another fierce hit in.

While he’s still stunned, you whip the co-pilot to the grated metal floor. Dean clambers on top of him and keeps him there with a firm fist twisted in his rumpled button-up.

Amanda panics, “W-what are you doing? Y-you said you we-were gonna talk to him—!”

“We are gonna talk to him,” Dean grits.

Then, you’re hosing him down with holy water, splashing it brutally in the man’s pain-twisted face. Your gut clenches with empathy. Did the demon leave his body already? You’re terrified for a moment that you got the wrong guy… until you smell the smoke. It’s not just sulfur, but full-on dead body bloat, steaming up from the big black boils that spring up where the holy water hits skin. You get a mouth and noseful vile enough to make you gag. This thing fighting you? This is definitely not a man.

Amanda watches the demon’s skin sizzle, the usual terror and confusion on her face. “O-oh my god, what’s wrong with him?”

You pour all the psychic clarity and calmness into your voice when you whip around and tell her: “It’s going to be okay. Be calm, go outside the curtain, and don’t let anybody in. Can you do that, Amanda?”

You don’t stop to listen to her answer. Sam’s already tearing through the opening to the exorcism at ninety miles an hour, his pronunciation punchy and fatally clear. That had been one of the less exciting parts of the five-hour drive here; when Sam had run through it over and over, re-training himself. One misspoken word could get everyone on this plane killed.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…”

The demon thrashes viciously in your grip, twisting and contorting under Dean in ways the human body can’t bend. Bile rises in your throat as you hear a snap, then two, as the demon does everything it can to buck Dean off. By the time you go to stun it with another splash of holy water, it’s more of a dribble. That’s your first mistake.

Two people are not nearly enough to keep this thing down. It gets a hand loose that instantly sends Dean flying, and before you even see where he lands, it cranks your head all the way to the left in one vicious slap.

Your whole face is blasted with red, stinging pain. You go down hard, smashed sideways into the cramped wall.

The pain stuns you out of the headspace you built to distract yourself, and all at once the presence of the demon is thrust upon you. The black, molten psychic power of it crackles through your body, filling your nose and mouth with the same terror hanging in your visions all week. Until you realize— It fucking backhanded you.

Trying to see past the dots swimming in your vision, you mindlessly shove off the wall, snarling with rage. No fucking way.

And then it speaks (to Sam?), and in the fizzing noise of pressure in your ears you hear it promise, “I know what happened to your girlfriend!” The constant stream of Sam’s exorcism stops cold.

When the demon speaks again, its voice, a spectral twist of the co-pilot’s and something older, drooled with pleasure. “She died screaming,” it rasped, “Even now, she's burning.”

A lot happens in the next precious seconds. First, the little circular light flushed flat to the back cabin’s ceiling explodes. Just—bursts, in shock, spraying sparks and glass all over the little room. You’re stunned enough as it is getting hit in the face, so one more thing to fuck up your vision doesn’t help. But you heard what the demon said to Sam. Through the suffocating evil flooding your mind, you feel the sharp spike of hurt and rage and grief in your best friend—and that’s the precise moment when you decide that you’ve had e-fucking-nough.

These last few days have not been winners. And though you live a pretty shitty life with an impressive amount of shitty days, even before you got to Pennsylvania, your streak of bad luck had only just gotten started. This demon has screwed with your Gift on an unimaginable level. Your last few nights have been plagued with nightmares straight from hell, and your days haven’t been much better, riddled with useless visions that get more and more disconnected every time you faint. It made it even more obvious than usual that you’re deadweight for Sam and Dean. They had to handle your boiling water burns and your freakouts, not to mention your mood swings and your unhelpful visions.

The demon hurt Dean, which is enough to get your teeth grinding. And Sam—it had cut him much deeper.

You wanted to tear it apart. You wanted to reach into it the same way it had reached into you, dig in with your nails, and rip something out. Your mom’s words buzz in your head: contact, truth, lies, rip, apart. Rationally, you know you should listen to her warning. If just looking into its eyes has forever changed your view of the man you’ve loved since you were little, then looking deeper could kill you—scramble your mind. You know that. But beside the rage and exhaustion fizzing under your skin is this desperate need to know.

Demons are made of lies. What if it was lying about Sam? What if it had screwed with your Gift in some new way, tweaking the image of him in your mind? It had to be lying. The Static in him, as warm and as good as you swore it was—it came from something evil. Sam. The man you love, the boy you’d fallen in love with, his soft sleepy breaths as he lays on the floor beside your bed, his freckly arms swimming in his too-big sleeves. How could any part of him be evil? He couldn’t be. N-not your Sam. How could he ever have something like that inside him?

You need to be sure. Consequences be damned.

As the demon rears up to keep snarling in Sam’s face, you slap a hand over its forehead—reach in—and start ripping.

She died screaming.

Sam can’t pull a full breath in. The words burn through his body like a syringe of poison, spreading from limb to limb. The demon snarls up at him, its foamy spit hitting Sam’s face and its teeth snapping around Jess’s name—until.

_____’s hand seals over the demon’s face. The demon’s jaw snaps shut. There is a terrible hanging moment where Sam’s brain struggles to connect the touch to what she’s doing; she never, ever psychically connected with the full face of her palm tattoo. Even with her mom Sam knew she put up a barrier, reading Beth with the smooth back of her knuckles instead.

Shit. Another fresh shot of horror lances through him. What the hell is she doing to it?

The effect is instant. Whatever button _____ had just hit, it activates every horror-movie, Exorcist-level instinct in the demon’s body. Surprised yelps echo down the back of the plane as the lights violently flicker. In electrified, strobing flashes, Sam sees it. The co-pilot’s body is diagonal on the floor one moment, and then it’s arching its back three feet in the air, lurching up into ______’s palm like she’d hit it with a defibrillator. The demon floats up and stays up.

…Until Dean brings it smashing back to the floor again, throwing his weight on top of the co-pilot. He barks, “Sam!” Right. Whatever she’s doing to it, it’s the only working distraction they’ve got. Slapped back to focus, Sam stutters out where he left off: “...O-omnis congregatio et secta diabolica—” It’s a blessing that he makes it through the next lines of the exorcism. Sam pours all of his willpower into keeping his eyes on the stained notebook page it’s written on, no matter how many times his gut begs him to check on her. All he can do is have faith. This is what she does—when Dean’s not strong enough and Sam’s too weak, she finds a damn way, come hell or high water. Sam has always had endless faith in that. So when the whole plane gives that terrible shudder that he was expecting, and then tips, and tips, and tips into a full pitch forward, Sam grips that faith with both hands. The demon’s power ripples through the rest of the plane. Everything descends into chaos. Past the curtain, the lights go out in one silent burst, followed by the explosive, concussive screams of the passengers as the oxygen masks drop. Movies are unfortunately good at capturing this precise moment, but nothing could ever replicate the way Sam’s belly swoops as all five hundred tons of the plane heads straight for the ground. Sam and Dean both go flying, crashing sideways into the walls of the back cabin. The turbulence rips the journal from his hands, and of course, with their fucking luck, it goes skidding through the curtain and down the aisle to ricochet under the seats. “Grab it!” Dean screams.

Sam can’t hear him. He staggers into the open doorway of the back cabin, clutching the frame for dear life. A terrifying, unnatural howl whistles through the cabin, even louder than the wails of the passengers. Its wind flutters his hair around his face and sends luggage toppling out of the overhead bins. For a moment, Sam wonders if the plane’s been hit or the demon has done something—but no. It’s her. He flattens himself to the floor—or rather, gravity flattens him—crawling on his belly towards the shadow of the journal under the seats. The passengers sob and shriek. The air is singed with smoky fear, and riding that same fear, Sam surges ahead, lunging for the book where it’s lodged between tossed luggage. He has to twist to get his hands on it, and it’s then that he feels it.

Down the aisle behind him, the wind drags luggage and loose papers into the void-like darkness of the back cabin—where the great, cleansing, sweeping power of her is fighting the demon. Sam believes in what he’s seen; Sam believes in angels.

She’ll buy him enough time. He knows she will.

Sam’s hands don’t shake as he pries the journal open to the right page.

“Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus,” he shouts, and the words ring as clear and clean as a bell. The plane tries to toss him again, but Sam grits his teeth and persists, “audi nos!”

He waits. Sam sees it more than he hears it. Deep in the blackhole darkness of the plane’s cabin, something red and fiery flashes to life… flickers… and dies.

Maybe he’s imagining it, but he swears he feels the demon fizzle out. The heaviness in the air melts away. The lights, which Sam realizes had been snapping on and off, turn on for good. The hissing of the turbines spins to its normal hum. The plane swooshes back up with a slow coasting motion, then sets itself back on its peaceful forward track.

Gasps and sobs of relief chorus all around Sam, and sprawled in the middle of the aisle, he finds himself doing the same. Overhead, the pilot’s voice crackles reassurances over the intercom. As big wuffs of air cycle in and out of Sam, he waits for the moment for his heart to stop thumping, for the big “we won” moment to wash over him—but it never really does. It sits with him. For a long terrible moment, he is on the bed in his apartment in Palo Alto, Jessica’s blood boiling holes in his neck.

Even now, she’s still burning.

INDIANAPOLIS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT - Dec. 5th, early morning.

Somehow, amid all the noise of swarming paramedics, feds, airline authorities, and stunned 424 passengers, Sam manages to remain lost in his own head. He clenches his jaw til’ his ears pop. How had it known about Jess?

The terminal is quickly packed. He’s not in airports often enough to know whether they should be packed at one in the morning, but he’s gonna guess not. It is all background noise for him. Passengers whirl past, getting cleared by cops to go home, and Dean subtly nudges the three of them into the leaving crowd. Sam has a vague notion that he’s putting one foot in front of the other, but everything feels distant and hazy. His neck blazes with that terrible tingling feeling, and he digs into it with his nails until Dean stops him.

“Sam,” Dean orders, dipping his head towards the direction of the parking lot. Apparently Sam isn’t cooperating well. “Let’s get the hell outta’ here.” For a brief moment, the awful burning feeling covering him in a fog parts long enough for him to think, and Sam realizes that he doesn’t know where _____ is. Panic lances through his chest so fast that he sobers all at once, and he opens his mouth to panic more—until he sees her, scrunched up behind Dean.

Well, clutching Dean. Left shameless by whatever she saw in that demon’s head, she’s got Dean’s hand and wrist in a deathgrip, trailing him so close that her shoes catch the heels of his boots. She does not look good. Her eyes are big and wide and she looks straight through everyone and everything, still tethered to the other dimension her powers live in. She’s got her elbows pressed into her ribs and her body bunched up so tight that Sam can almost feel her psychic overstimulation from where he’s standing.

“S’okay, sweetheart, ” Dean hushes, the first in a long, quiet string of reassurances.

Sam stares at her. Even if she’s in her own world, she must be able to feel it, ‘cause she physically leans out of his way. That should hurt him—should make him burn with sympathy—but instead, all he can think is, she would know. She would know if the demon was lying. Sam’s connected with her like that—there’s absolutely nothing to hide, even if you wanted to, so there’s no way she couldn’t see if the demon had been telling the truth.

The line of people seeping through security to get out of the airport slows to a stop, making way for the pack of paramedics hauling 424’s copilot away on a stretcher. The black boils from the holy water have left his body entirely.

He’ll ask her once. He has to try. Sam lets the two of them in front of him, Dean, then _____, almost pressing her face into Dean’s back. When they’re stopped in line, Sam lifts a hand to touch her—but stops himself, not wanting her to feel any worse. “_____,” Sam swallows, trying to keep his voice even. “What did you see? H-How did it know about Jessica?”

Before she even has the opportunity to answer, (if she can even hear him), Dean swings around to shoot Sam a pained look. “Dude, look at her. Now is not the fuckin’ time. Let her get a full breath in before you start with the interrogations, okay?”

Sam recoils. The gnashing, rebellious fire he usually saves for Dad pours out here, instead, and before Sam knows it he’s snarling back, “I can’t ask one question about my dead girlfriend?”

It lasts only for an instant, but Sam gets to watch in real time the way that hit lands. He’s aware that it’s deeply fucked up of him to enjoy throwing Jess in Dean’s face, but it is his backward, comforting reminder that she was a real person; not a four-year-long fever dream he invented to escape. No one says her name but him anymore. At least, when he talks about her, someone else is forced to feel something too.

Dean sets his jaw. He makes the mistake of trying to turn towards Sam, which _____ thinks is an attempt to shake her off—and she lets out this awful, hoarse sob sound that stops them both cold.

Sam feels like a rail spike has been driven through his chest. Dean gives him a look, then mercifully drops it.

Immediately, Dean’s wheeling her back in and soothing her. The angle at which she’s clinging to him is awkward for all three of them, so he endures her trembling and hitching little sobs as he peels off her hands and re-arranges them. Dean loops an arm around her back so he can stroke her shuddering shoulders, uttering, “S’okay, kiddo, s’ all over… ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you…”

And of course, because Sam can never exist in peace, he watches the way ______ drops all her weight onto Dean and feels his chest squeeze. Suddenly, he’s very aware of what four years have changed between her and his brother.

The rush back to the car is silent, but for _____’s little sniffling breathes. After making it out of the blistering lights of the chattering airport and out into the peaceful snowy parking lot, things calm down.

Four separate times Sam thinks about reaching out to comfort her. The Gift always leaves her freezing cold, and early December in Indiana on top of that has her making audible little shivering sounds as they walk. Sam’s boiling under his coat. He unzips it, then zips it up again, unsure if she’d even want it. Dean gets her in the car and puts a warm blanket around her before Sam can get over his indecision.

They just saved two hundred people. In hindsight, that’s a massive win. Maybe if the demon hadn’t said what it’d said, and maybe if it hadn’t reduced her to this, Sam could celebrate. Seeing her so messed up always throws him. Less than an hour ago, she was the powerful psychic that used to have Dad clutching his telepathy-blocking charm under his shirt.

Sam scrubs his hand down his face, staring blankly at the trembling lump of blanket lying across the backseat. Now, she’s… whatever she saw in that demon.

Dean tucks her feet up onto the seat, then nudges the door closed with his hip. Sam stares past him, through him, at her silhouette in the Impala’s dark glass, because that’s somehow easier than looking at Dean.

The smattering of snow growing on the asphalt makes the whole world sound muffled. Sam feels like he’s talking to empty air when he croaks, “It knew about Jessica.”

“Sam,” Dean calls, softer this time. Asking for Sam to look at him. When he manages to heave his head up, Dean’s face is firm and reassuring. “These things—they read minds. They lie, just like Beth said. That’s all it was. Don’t let that thing get into your head, okay?”

Sam forces himself to nod. They both spare the shaking shape in the backseat one more look, then Dean’s rounding the car for the driver’s seat, and Sam’s sliding in next to him without another word.

PITTSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA - Dec. 5th, night.

Green. It had to be the ugliest color a motel room could be, Sam thought as he stared at the empty room. The walls were this sad limey green color that managed to look awful even in the dark, some parts made even limey-er by the huge neon green vacancy sign right outside their window. Their room was parked right next to it, so there was no escaping the sign even with the curtains pulled shut.

You and Dean, who were positioned right under the ugly green light, had somehow managed to fall asleep anyway. The only sound in the whole world was your soft breathing across the room and the crackle of the ancient TV.

Right now, it was playing a rerun of some televangelist in a big shiny white suit. He paced the screen on mute as Sam watched, curled on his side, laying diagonal to face the screen. Nightmares were so common for him now that the hardest part of the battle was getting to sleep in the first place. His strategy was to get so bored and so tired that his body would simply have nothing else to do but crash. Bored was the key word—Sam had tried reading, sudoku, and counting cars as they whisked by, but all of that occupied his mind too much to work. Tonight was another night where his mind was just too full to sleep.

He hoped Dean was right. He prayed that the demon had just been lying, lips pressed to the cross he kept under his shirt. Most days, Sam dropped into bed and sent off a brief prayer before the fight for sleep began. Tonight, though—tonight was one of those nights where he clasped his cross in both hands and poured his heart out. Sam prayed for his brother, his Dad, and for you, like usual, pleading for protection and strength. Sam prayed for Jessica, too.

(But never for her forgiveness—he knew he didn’t deserve that).

When Sam had first started getting comfortable with prayer, he’d always worried that he was being greedy or selfish by asking for so much. Health, food, lunch money, for Dad and Dean to get home okay. Now, it’s a natural comfort to him. To open yourself up to something higher than you, to give up your pride and ask for help—that is a mark of holiness. Goodness. Sam closes out his prayers and feels clean.

Across the room, Sam hears the covers in the opposite bed shift. He squints sleepy eyes at your silhouette, and even sluggish and drained, the shifting colors from the TV and the vacancy sign illuminate you like something not entirely from this world.

You pad over to his bedside. A soft, ice-cold hand shakes his arm. When you get up close and realize Sam’s awake, you scuttle back in surprise. “Uh.”

Sam shoves his face into his pillow. With his mind still on Jess, it’s hard for him to look at you right now. “What is it?”

It’s funny. From the moment you got off flight 424, you’d been glued to Dean’s side. Sam had kept his teeth pressed together through the entire thing, watching from a distance as you reached for Dean, spoke to Dean, took the food Dean gave you. If Sam didn’t know any better, he’d figure you were avoiding him. Now you’ve decided you want something from him?

The second you touch his arm, every wisp of jealousy in Sam dries up. Not at all in the mood to be touched, he squirms out from under your hand and hoarsely repeats, “What?” You speak to him for the first time in hours. You sound rough and broken, and the edge of that awful sob from earlier today threatens to tip into your voice. “Can I…?”

Sam keeps his face planted in the pillow. At first he’s unsure what you’re even asking for—until you drop a hand on the mattress and he feels your weight tilt closer, wanting to… to lay with him. Like when you were little. When you share beds on the road, there’s often space left between you. That’s not what you’re asking for. If that’s what you wanted right now, you’d be in Dean’s bed.

The soft, choked little voice he can’t resist begs, “I just need to feel you.”

The last sliver of guilt and self-loathing that Sam has been holding onto instantly slips out of his grasp, hearing that. For the millionth time since this morning, he’s reminded of how awful he was to you. You’d been brought to the brink with your powers in a way they hadn’t seen in years, and Sam chose that precise moment to freak out. He wished he’d been better to you. Maybe he can’t pray for Jess’s forgiveness, but he can work to earn yours now.

Sam shuffles back on the mattress and opens the covers for you. “C’mere.”

As quiet as a mouse, you duck under his arm and slip under the covers. Sam immediately realizes that he should’ve fucking braced himself or something, because holy shit, you are so close. He accidentally gave you very little room in the already small bed. To keep from tumbling off the mattress and onto the questionable carpet, you reasonably and logically slot right up against him, your back against his chest and your heads on the same pillow. Holy shit, he did not think this through. Sam has very few gentlemanly places to lay his arm. And even if he found one, your icy cold hand picks up his warm one and—right, okay, you take it and wrap it right around your middle. That’s fine too. Cool. Awesome.

Okay. Forgetting every way he could sabotage this for himself for just a moment, Sam realizes that he missed this. God, he missed it so much. You wiggle back into his body and Sam gives you a big, indulgent squeeze around the tummy, earning this watery little sigh that makes his already racing heart zing out into orbit. Friendly snuggling became a lot less friendly when you were pushing seventeen instead of nine, so Sam hasn’t allowed himself to properly, um… cuddle you… in ages.

That isn’t even the best part. That little squeeze makes him realize just how pleasantly cold you are, a wonderful ice cube in blazing hot soup. Sam’s practically cooking under the covers—and that must be perfect for you and your chilly hands, because you make the same pitiful happy noise that Sam does as you get comfortable against each other.

Maybe if this were any other moment, after any other day, that would be something you might laugh about together. Instead, Sam’s prayers are filled with you and your incredible burden. He hesitates to go all in and hold you like he wants to… until your breath makes that tight, hitching sound again, and Sam’s sure you’re holding back tears. Screw it, Sam thinks. He’ll take care of you this time. Sam presses his face into your hair and entwines your hands on your belly, unsure of what to say and yet wanting to say so much. Dean can’t hold you like this—this is something you only want from Sam.

You both go still. Sam feels you hold your breath. His legs are itching to shift under the covers and your hand awkwardly holds his, the two of you afraid to disturb the magic.

Your thumb slowly caresses along the flat side of his hand. His heart leaps into his throat, and he squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to relax. You need this. Finally, it’s his turn to comfort you.

Sam swallows hard. There’s no way you can’t feel his heart thudding away, inches from popping clean out of his chest. Neither of you are stupid. If Dean were to wake up, you know exactly what this would look like to him—to the cleaning lady, to the strangers out on the street. But right now, in this frozen moment, there’s no one awake in the world but the two of you and the TV. It is so, so wrong. But when you touch him, Sam feels clean.

Bit by bit, you adjust to one another. Your breath syncs up. The whole time, your eyes never move from the TV, but if Sam focusses he swears something washes over him—that same great, sweeping, cleansing power from the plane, as light as moth wings on his skin. He has to bite back his smile. If you did that to anyone else, they’d find you creepy as hell.

After what feels like forever, you plainly croak, “It was lying about her. It was made of lies.”

That hits Sam like a slap to the face. That’s… yeah. That sounds right. He absorbs the impact as best he can, because although his faith was thin, Sam trusted Dean’s word and he trusts yours, too. There’s—so much that he feels about that, but he doesn’t want any more of his grief to overwhelm your Gift. Sam’s not naive. No matter how good of a person you are, no matter how considerate and understanding and empathetic you can be, Sam knows that talking about Jessica brings you some level of pain. It hurts him, too. And he has zero clue where that conversation would even begin, so he stores his shame and his loss and gives a shaky nod.

Instead, Sam asks, “...What did you see? When you looked into its head?”

Right. Cause’ that was such a better question to ask her, Sam.

You go silent. It’s a weighty, knowing silence, one that chokes the whole room. Sam readies himself for whatever you’re about to share with him. Admittedly, he’s curious. When the Gift was something new in your life, Sam used to pile on question after question about what the world felt like to you. ‘What does it feel like when Dean’s happy?’ A car motor turning on. ‘What does my happiness feel like?’ Dimples and a mystery being solved. ‘You’re joking.’ Not even a little. It fascinated Sam—how does a demon feel in comparison to a regular spirit?

“...It was just an evil spirit, Sammy,” you dismiss. “That’s all.”

Sam highly doubts that’s true. If it was just a spirit, then why did it screw with you so deeply? What had you seen in its head that had scared you? You, of all people, who was built for this? He knows there’s something more here, but after this week and all the ways you’ve fought to avoid being a burden, the fact that you’d crawl to Sam for comfort is a sign of surrender. You’ve given up. Clearly, you don’t want to talk about it. Sam isn’t going to push you. God knows he’s done that enough.

When Sam doesn’t push you, you shudder out a wet sigh and pick up his hand. At this point, Sam expects you in this state to do something weird—and sure enough, you do. You pick up Sam’s hand and you just stare at it. Just stare. Your thumb presses into the meat of his palm, almost like you’re looking for something. Feeling him. Sam’s heart gives another pathetic, noticeable throb. Feeling him and being close to him is, after everything, still a source of comfort for you. His cheeks burn.

Just to fill the silence, Sam whispers, “I’ve lost a lot of my calluses.”

Per usual, his little creep says nothing. You’re still feeling him. Your other hand comes up to investigate too, adding even more soft gentle touching to Sam’s already overloaded system. Your thumbs press into the center of his palm (reading it, maybe?), then over each bump, confirming for yourself that Sam’s real.

Maybe he’d be a bit more resilient if you were doing this to him in a crowded diner or a rowdy college party. Instead, Sam can feel the rise and fall of your breath through your thin shirt, and it’s the only sound in the dead world besides the buzzing static on the TV.

Your gaze turns to the TV. The fingers caressing his hand stop cold.

Sam says your name. He can feel your heart thud thud thudding deep in your chest, like rabbit’s feet hitting snow.

Again, absorbed completely in your own task, you don’t answer him. You roll over very suddenly under the covers. Sam hopes for a minute that being face to face with you will give him some answers, but the flash of your face he sees only serves to scare the shit out of him. You give him no time to process before you’re full-body hugging him, shoving a hand between his side and the mattress and fisting one in his shirt to bodily haul him against you. Sam sputters out a sharp noise and awkwardly slopes his hands down your back. The sudden intimacy gives him a whole world of shameful butterflies and freaks him out enough, but…

You looked terrified. The same bone-deep horror you had on your face after you saw the demon in person—when you trudged up to Sam with those haunting Proctor eyes, staring straight through him and right at his future. What had you seen in that demon?

Sam tries to speak, but you talk over him, just as haunted as you’d been on that plane.

“I love you. So much, Sam. You know that?”

It’s not a sweet, reminiscent kind of question. It is a genuine, unironic, please-tell-me-the-truth, You know that?

Sam’s brain stalls. “...Yeah. O-Of course.”

In case that wasn’t worrying enough, your hands needily grasp at his back, refusing to let Sam go as you duck your face into his shoulder. Sam can feel your entire body trembling from head to toe, can feel your hot breath on his neck choking back tears. “You’re a good person,” you tell him, insisting. “The best to me.”

“That’s—”

“I can feel it, okay?” You snap. One of your hands slips up his chest to smooth over Sam’s heart, and you squeeze him against you, promising, “Here. Right here.”

…Okay. Consider him officially freaked out. Sam manages an unconvinced, “...Thank you.”

You’re so wound up that you’re gritting your teeth, digging your nails into his shirt and clawing him as close as possible. This has to be an effect of what you saw. Which is strange, because that… whatever that was, did not feel like psychic possession or a psychic panic attack or any kind of psychic anything. It felt like you, trying to convince Sam that he’s a good person. It strikes a cold, dark chord somewhere deep within him that he doesn’t like. You’re just… you’re just reacting to what the demon showed you. You’re overwhelmed from stretching your Gift so thin. T-that’s. Yeah. Regardless, you’re scared. You need him. That, at least, is something he can work with.

“Shh,” Sam coos. He rubs a warm hand from the base of your scalp all the way down your back, then up, and back again, repeating the soothing motion until his arm goes numb. “You’re tired. Let’s go to sleep.”

You mumble something non-committal under your breath.

Sam hushes you, blindly reaching for comforting things to say. “S’ okay. You’re okay, baby. You can fall asleep on me.”

Maybe the demon showed you visions of Sam getting hurt. Something. That would explain this, maybe. He fixates on it, purely because it’s a problem in front of him that is much easier to think about than how scared he is for you, and worse, how much he loves this. Being your person. It’s a stupid, selfish thought to have in a moment like this, but—Sam wishes he could take care of you like this all the time.

As your frantic breathing smooths out into a clear, easy in-and-out, Sam wonders, wherever Jess is, what she would think if she saw this.

He closes his eyes and tries to steady his own breathing, the TV still crackling away on the dresser.

In. Bzzzsh. Out. Bzzzsh.

- tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydennyy @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1 @pplanetcaravan

#uncouthspn #spn #supernatural #sam winchester #dean winchester #sam winchester x reader #pythia #sam winchester imagine #supernatural rewrite

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archie-sunshine · 5 months

Text

So, What Now?(Rehabili/Cohabi-tation)

Chapter 6: In Which Robots are Poorly Constructed for the Purposes of Doing Yoga

FIC TAGS: Eventual Whirl/Cyclonus/Tailgate, Cyclonus/Tailgate, polyamory, slowburn romance, mutual pining, slice of life, fluff, comedy, eventual smut(planned for later chapters), sappy mushy lovey stuff, polycue, May eventually have illustrations

The Lost Light has a brand new universe to explore! But everyone's still tired from the old one! In the interim between wacky hijinks, a solution is offered to those bored to death by peacetime- Why form a club about it or renovate your hab suite of course!

Whirl doesn't know how he feels about all the pep. And even worse, he doesn't know how to feel about Cyclonus and Tailgate wanting him to join in on their clean slate.

Other Chapters Here! Read on AO3 Here!

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Author's Notes: THIS! IS! MY! FAVOURITE! CHAPTER! YET! or at least- well of the ones posted so far. this whole chapter is DESPERATELY silly, read into it whichever ships you so desire

CHAPTER TAGS: robots doing yoga, suggestively looking at your friends (whirl's optics wander a bit), comedy, slapstick, tailgate is a little old man with little old man joints, continuing fluff and cutesiness !

A few more cycles had passed. Whirl had insisted he needed time to get his hab suite in order and cleared out to move, but really, he was mostly just nervous. It was a big step, surely it was an intrusion, even if the couple didn’t know yet how he might sour their home with his presence. He tiptoed around the edge of their circle, even as they dragged him closer to them.

Whirl was in his hab suite, quietly packing junk into crates, as he had been for a few hours now. It gave him something to do at least, rather than carving more graffiti into the walls.

He perked up briefly as a comm came through.

TG: New club this afternoon, meet in the shuttle hangar in 4 hours! -Tailgate

Whirl breathed out in amusement.

W: Sure, I’ll be there.

The hangar was abuzz with movement, a small group of bots gathered around. Whirl hesitated to join the crowd. There were Cyclonus and Tailgate, standing near the edge of the group, Rewind-assumedly there to record- then there was Rodimus, and Ratchet(surprisingly) and Velocity again(less surprising) and then, hulking over the rest of them was fragging Megatron. Whirl had assumed- clearly incorrectly- that of those in charge of the ship Megatron would have the least patience or time or care for this whole CBEI business.

Tailgate glanced around, finally noticing Whirl and waving him over. He trotted over to them, glancing over Cyclonus’s shoulder.

“-afety purposes, we’re going to be using some of these maintenance magnetizers, so that we’re able to do our cyber-yoga class under the stars on the hull of the ship!” Drift explained cheerfully. Ah, so that's why Ratchet was attending.

Whirl’s optic scrunched. He leaned a bit further into Cyclonus to mumble in his audial. “Whats a cyber-yoga?”

“It’s a mixture of stretching and meditation, I believe. Some sort of ancient technique to loosen the joints and pistons to promote greater nanite recovery and flexibility.” He explained under his breath.

“And- we’re doing it on the outside of the ship? Why?” Whirl probed.

“Have you seen how large some of the bots who signed up are? They’d collapse under the ship’s false gravity.” Cyclonus glanced very briefly at Megatron.

“Oh primus- is this one of those stupid anti-grav aerobic class things for oldies?” Whirl groaned. “Come on, I can see this for Tailgate’s ancient aft, but, us-?” Whirl jolted as Tailgate playfully punched him in the leg, giving him an exaggerated look of offense.

“It’s good for you!” Tailgate hissed.

Whirl leaned down patronizingly, his helm breaching Tailgate’s personal bubble. “Yea, it’s great for you though, old brittle bolts- Ow!” Whirl jumped when Cyclonus began to pinch at one of his blades.

“Now, let's all get outfitted with our magnetizers, and it’ll be a brief space walk to the top of the hull for some relaxing cyber-yoga!” Drift said cheerfully, beginning to hand out magnetizers to the crowd.

“-Now bring your left leg over the right and up towards your pelvis… and youre going to engage your restarluesus pistons… and just lower into the pose.” If Drift had one thing going for him, his flexibility was it.

Whirl was no slouch in the flexibility department either, though his… shall we say unique frame shape made it a challenge to mimic the pose Drift was doing.

He was standing on his servos, holding tightly onto the hand held magnetizers he’d instructed the group to connect to the hull, right leg raised to a perfect toe point, left with its heel strut jammed directly east of his modesty panel.

Whirl glanced around. Ratchet was unsurprisingly struggling a bit. His joints were having a hard time extending to the same poise as his Conjunx. Velocity seemed to be doing just fine, with her more agile frame mirroring Drift’s pose with only a slight wobble as she struggled to stay steady. Megatron was a different story. His faceplate was set in an intense glare, which would have been intimidating were he not swaying with the effort to keep his frame straight with his left pede flailing to find purchase somewhere near his knee. Rodimus was also doing well, though his form was suffering as he quivered in an attempt not to laugh at his co-captain's struggling.

“Rodimus-” Megatron hissed at him.

Rodimus snorted and wheezed, cheeks puffing with strain at the display. “Nothing- nothing you're doing great, Megs-”

Whirl turned his attention to Cyclonus and Tailgate. Cyclonus was doing decently as well, though his bulkier frame made flexibility a struggle for him. Whirl inspected his form, definitely not… letting his optic linger on Cyclonus’s aft… not even for a moment. He turned his attention away quickly.

Tailgate- Oh, Tailgate was really trying his best. He’d gotten into the position, it was the lowering part he was having trouble with. His digits were so tight around the handles of the magnetizers he was worried the things might break off. He pulled himself, straining, down into the sort of twisted up pushup that Drift had instructed, not struggling for lack of strength, but rather for the strain of his old pistons.

“Hhhnnnn…. I’m too spry- and youthful- of mind and spirit- for this-!” Tailgate gritted out quietly, making Whirl and Cyclonus chuckle.

“Very good! Ok, now release the pose.” Drift instructed.

A chorus of relieved groans went up across the crowd.

“Now we’re going to do something a little more challenging.”

A chorus of pained groans went up across the crowd.

“Now for this position you’re going to connect the magnetizers on your pedes to the hull…” Drift gracefully brought his legs down, pausing for the chorus of clunks and zaps that signaled his club was not going to go flying off into space. “And for this one, I challenge you to give your spinal strut as deep a stretch as you can!” He began to slowly curve his frame backwards, servos making contact with the hull in a back bend- and- oh primus.

“COME ON- YOU’RE JUST SHOWING OFF NOW!” Ratchet barked from the back of the crowd, his hands still groping around for the hull as Drift nestled his helm between his own ankles as he wrapped his digits around them.

Whirl awkwardly began to mirror the pose, catching a glimpse of Tailgate ineffectually dropping into a weak crab walk and Cyclonus gritting his dentas at the strain in his back. Whirl did his best to not make a dirty joke about Cyclonus’s face being so close to his modesty panel.

“Woah there, take me out for a drink first.” Whirl snickered. Okay so his best was rarely good enough, sue him.

“You’re- so immature…” Cyclonus grunted out, pushing his abdomen upwards to further stretch his back strut.

Tailgate’s giggle was interrupted by a sharp wince as something in his frame popped. “Oh- Ow- OW-!”

Tailgate flailed a servo around in the air. “P-Pause- Time out- time out!” Cyclonus and Whirl quickly abandoned their poses to crowd worriedly around him.

“DRIFT-!” Cyclonus shouted, motioning panickedly at his sparkmate.

Drift unpretzeled himself quickly, rushing over to his side. “Oh- what is it- AH!” Drift grimaced as he noted the shifted panels that had locked the minibot’s abdomen in place with his back arched. “Oh Primus- Great effort, Tailgate, really good job pushing yourself- um- this might feel weird.”

“Itsfinepleasehelp-” Tailgate whined, the reedy noise breaking into a shriek as Drift brought his elbow joint right down on the disjointed plating. It set back into place with another pop. Drift rubbed at the little dent he’d left with his thumb. He frowned at the paint transfer he’d left. Ratchet balked at his conjunx’s flagrant and untrained plating reset technique with absolute horror.

“Sorry… Just go a bit easier on yourself, okay Tailgate?” He apologized, awkwardly chuckling as Tailgate flattened himself despondently on the hull of the ship.

“Thaaaanks Driiiift….” Tailgate wheezed, giving him a thumbs up. Drift returned the gesture with one of his own.

“Okay-! Uhm, everyone alright to continue?” He posed to the group. A mild, affirmative murmur rippled through the bots gathered.

Tailgate popped back upright, wheeling his arms in wide circles for a second to regain balance.

“Try not to push yourself, TG.” Whirl teased, bumping his shoulder with his servo and snickering as his frame swayed in the antigravity. “There’s precious few of us that can nab you if you go spinning off into space.”

“And if Ratchet has to watch Drift perform impromptu chiropracty on me again he might blow a gasket.” Tailgate whispered, suppressing a giggle and bumping Whirls hip to wobble him in return.

Whirl snickered again, bumping Tailgate back a bit harder.

Tailgate returned in suit, just a bit too hard as Whirl bobbed almost all the way back on his aft before floating back up into place. The two of them giggled.

Whirl held his vents with strain as he fumbled around for the tip of his pede. He had made connection with the tips of his claws, but was still trying to nab it fully to bring it into the right position.

“And with your other servo, you’re going to want to bring it all the way down to the ground, I encourage you to try as best you can to flatten your palm against it, but if not, just the tips of your digits touching is fine!” Drift instructed, no strain in his voice as his pede made near contact with his massive finials.

Cyclonus had caught hold of his own pede, and had bowed his back out to a decent simulacrum of Drift’s position. Tailgate was having more trouble extending his back strut, but with his longer pede, and some gentle coaxing from Cyclonus’s free servo, he’d managed to get close to the right position.

Whirl was happy for them and their success. It would have been stellar, however, if their afts weren’t both in his face. His optic darted around awkwardly, attempting to not focus on Cyclonus’s blocky, powerful thighs, and Tailgate’s tight little hip tires. He could see tender bits of protoform between their joints, soft and vulnerable from the way their plating stretched apart.

No, bad Whirl, bad. He trained his optic safely on the ground next to his other claw as he finally grabbed hold of his ankle. Had Tailgate always had such a nice aft? Had Cyclonus? What the frag was he even thinking about, it wasn’t even remotely okay to be having thoughts like this, about a happily conjunxed couple of all things.

“Alright, and bring your pede down, and we’re going to lower into downward facing cyber-dog…” Drift explained, expelling a slow, relaxed vent.

Okay this was getting fully unfair. The couple planted their pedes and- well you get the picture.

Whirl glanced around, taking stock of literally anything else when he heard a well timed ‘zzzzZZTHONK!’ from his left, followed closely by an indignant ‘ARE YOU FRAGGING KIDDING ME-!!?’ from Rodimus.

He looked over, optic widening and laughter beginning to quickly bubble up as he found Megatron’s pede magnetized to Rodimus’s chassis.

“You should have kept a further distance, Rodimus-” Megatron observed, lightly wiggling his leg and dragging Rodimus around with him, who had begun to yank and tug at the larger bot’s leg.

“OH- OH! OH so its- It’s my fault that your stupid slagging magnetizers are- STOP FRAGGING MOVING!” He snarled, clawing at the magnetizer on Megatron’s pede.

“AH- Stop- You can just- RODIMUS!” Megatron boomed, again attempting to shake Rodimus’s servos off his pede. The smaller’s helm bobbed back and forth with the force of the shake, but Rodimus’s digits held firm in their attempt to rip the magnetizer off his plating.

The group had begun to laugh at their co captains’ predicament, albeit stifled and attempted to keep under wraps- save for Whirl, who was cackling to a truly hysteric degree.

“Rodders- Roddy- RODIMUS-” Drift tried, beginning to walk over to him. “You can just- Stop- Hey- STOP-!” He smacked at Rodimus’s hands.

“NO KEEP DOING IT, RODDERS, YOU’RE GONNA GET IT EVENTUALLY!” Whirl called.

“Keep shaking your leg, Captain, he’ll come off I promise!” Rewind added from his perch on a protruding bit of hull, very obviously zooming in on the captains’ situation.

“YOU WILL BE DELETING THIS FOOTAGE.” Megatron demanded, abandoning his attempt to kick Rodimus off in favour of bringing his pede up so he could reach the magnetizer himself. A loud CLUNK echoed between the pair as Rodimus’s helm bounced off of Megatron’s aft.

The group roared with laughter as Rodimus wailed in horrific embarrassment.

“Where’s the- grh- where’s the stupid-” Megatron grunted, pawing at the magnetizer blindly.

“Alright- ALRIGHT- Megatron, just put your leg out- I’ll-” Drift intervened, grabbing the side of Rodimus’s head and prying their two frames apart- or as apart as he could with Megatron’s pede attached to Rodimus’s chassis. He sighed, rolling his optics and beginning to carefully prod around for the magnetizer’s off switch.

“If I hear about anyone seeing that footage, you’re DEAD, Rewind!” Rodimus growled, pointing an accusatory digit at the minibot as he laughed and zoomed further in on the pede stuck to him.

“Where is the- primus, I knew this bigger model was old but this is complete- AH! Is this it?” Drift prodded a digit into a button on the side and Megatron’s pede came free… leaving the magnetizer attached directly to the middle of Rodimus’s chassis.

Whirl continued to giggle before it crumbled into a hacking chuff from his vents.

Rodimus gave Drift an icy look. Drift bit back a smile, forcing himself not to make eye contact with him. “A-Alright uhm, It looks like we’re going to be uh-” He took a steadying vent as Rodimus began to fumble for a demagnetizing button. “We’re gonna be cutting this meeting short! Thanks so much for coming and- um, I’ll keep all of you posted on when we meet next!” He said with a broad grin, clapping his servos together.

“And you promise you got all of it?” Whirl whispered, frame practically jittering with malicious glee.

“From the moment that the magnetizer made contact, all the way to Megatron having to be dragged back to the hangar like an indignant balloon.” Rewind confirmed with a nod. “I even caught a bit of Ratchet and Velocity attempting to scrape the magnetizer off once they figured out it was on the fritz.”

Whirl cackled evilly, hopping from pede to pede. “You’ve gotta comm me that- hell, you’ve gotta give me a hard copy of that so I can carry it to my grave.”

“I’ll see what I can do…” Rewind mused coyly.

“Do you think Rod’ was really serious about the consequences of spreading that around?” Tailgate asked.

“Oh, no chance, he’d probably make a speech about it though. Maybe put him in the brig for like a week, or on riveting duty.” Whirl counted the options for punishment in his processor, leaning his arm on Tailgate’s helm and tapping out the tally on his fore-helm.

“Or have you make a formal apology, in front of everyone, perhaps.” Cyclonus added. “Or if he was adamant enough he’d likely want to cover it up before it got that far.”

“He can’t silence me, I know my rights.” Rewind laughed. “I gotta get back to my hab though.” He sighed, stretching his arms up and folding his servos behind his helm. “All this recording is tiring me out, I need a long recharge. If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, know that it's because Rodimus placed a hit on me.”

The group laughed, trading goodbyes with Rewind before the remaining bots turned to their- now shared- hallway.

For a while they enjoyed the comfortable silence, Cyclonus hand in hand with Tailgate, Whirl keeping a safe meter wide distance between them.

“So, Whirl,” Cyclonus began. “Shall we begin moving your belongings to the unit soon?”

Whirl stiffened a bit. Scrap, he’d hoped he didn’t have to think about that again today. It wasn’t that he was dragging his pedes because he didn’t want to move in- he just… It was hard to think about taking a step that big. Giving up his privacy, for what? Because they’d taken pity on him? It was weak of him, it was foolish and soft.

He shook his helm. “Yeah- yeah, I’ll get to it soon, don’t worry.” he thought for a moment. “Where am I squeezing in anyway? You bots gotta reconfigure another suite for me?”

The two of them glanced at one another awkwardly.

“Well- It’s not um-” Tailgate started.

“You wouldn’t be-” Cyclonus stammered.

“There was already-” “A full suite was too much for a berthroom-”

“Way too much, felt kinda greedy-”

“It was going to be- erm-”

“It was going to be an office!” Tailgate finished, faceplate flushed as he tapped his index digits together. “But- y’know, we don’t mind not having an office… it can be your room-”

Whirl squinted at them, examining their avoidant body language… their faceplates flushed with energon.

Did they really make a room for him without even confirming if he’d move in?

“Alriiiiiight….. Cool…” Whirl murmured suspiciously.

No… No they wouldn’t have done that.

Primus’s spike, they really did it, the crazy bastards.

The fields radiating off the two were incredibly tense, like they were holding their vents waiting for Whirl to turn on his heel-struts and walk away never to be seen again.

The room- the ‘office’ the couple had put together had a desk, a few varying chairs, a few shelves, a filing cabinet, a wide window across the back wall, and- of course, as was standard in any office- a recharge slab. For sure, an office, you know, the place you recharge in. The area specifically designated for recharging. The office.

Whirl put his servos on his hips, swinging his helm around to face the couple. “Great office fellas. It’s a shame to move in and interrupt the immaculate office like nature of the room. You must be devastated to no longer have use of this office.”

“It would have made a great office, yes.” Cyclonus agreed. “It’s a shame to give it up.”

“Don’t worry, Whirl, we think the office was a worthy sacrifice.” Tailgate nodded solemnly.

Whirl snickered under his breath. “I’ll put it to good use… Thanks.”

He stepped inside, glancing around one more time and letting himself relax. “I think I’ll… turn in early. Give the ol’ office berth a spin.” He walked forwards, sitting on the edge of the slab. The couple got the hint, nodding and giving thumbs ups.

“Just let us know if you need anything!” Tailgate said, before stepping back and letting the door slide shut.

Whirl watched the door for a long klik, before slowly leaning his frame back flat on the berth. He expected that feeling to leave him again, returning him to the familiar numb chill that reached him in the nights he spent alone in his hab suite.

It never left, though it faded to equilibrium, leaving the mech relaxed and at peace. He let his vents slow, cycled his processor down as he prepared for recharge.

His optic was about to go offline when he received a ping.

R: Supply run tomorrow, you’re on the team with CY, TG, BS, FA, UM and me. See you at the shuttle.

Whirl’s processor shot back online as he sat up. Supply run. Something was HAPPENING. He was practically vibrating with excitement for a moment, before a stubborn, foreign thought wormed its way to the front of his processor.

But that might be dangerous

Of course it was dangerous, that was why he NEEDED to go… but… He shook his helm, going back to resting. What was he thinking, it was just a normal supply run, those two had faced down against tyrants and monsters and the fucking DJD for primus’ sake. They’d be fine.

… He’d make sure they were fine.

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cowgurrrl · 7 months

Note

I’m sorry. I am simply obsessed with rockstar!joel with crackhead twins. There is something about this hot dude in his 50s with a bad back having to raise two wild gremlins who like to gnaw on the table leg!? You know what I mean. Could I please request a cute fic where Joel is just super exhausted and feels like he is maybe not up tot he task, I don’t know maybe the girls are like in their chaos 2 year old stage. After a long day of them not being interested in him at all and him just feeling super insecure he resorts to strumming my girl on his guitar and they are just mesmerized by their dad?! Idk like the music is the moment the turn into sweet little mushy angels again? Sorry that was super long, anyway love yah.

Thank you for the request 🥺🥺 ily2 and I love that a general consensus has been reached that the twins are batshit crazy as toddlers and Sam is just a Perfect Baby Angel

My Girls

Pairing: rockstar!joel miller x fem!reader

Summary: Joel braves the first of many Sophia and Violet days [1.6k]

Warnings: mentions of pregnancy and the foster care system, Joel being a DILF, that’s it

It's debated on what's harder: going from no kids to one kid or one kid to two kids. You honestly don't have a lot of skin in the game when it comes to the question because Sarah and Ellie were teenagers when you met Joel. Even then, Sarah was fourteen when Ellie came into their lives and sixteen by the time the adoption paperwork was approved. You thought going from two to three with the birth of Sam would be hard, and it was, but Sam was an amazing baby. He always wanted to cuddle, followed the rules almost to a fault, and rarely threw tantrums. He's the kid that made you think, "Oh, yeah. We could totally do this again." Sophia and Violet, however, have given you a run for your money from the moment you found out you were having twins, and two years later, they haven't stopped.

True to form, once the girls turn two, you go back to work. Joel is accommodating because, of course, he is. He realizes you put your career on pause for almost two and a half years (if you count the mandated bed rest your doctor put you on at 32 weeks) and is more than happy to let you go and do your thing. He'd been a single dad with no help to a kid before. What's thirty years and a couple extra littles running around? As it turns out, a lot.

The day you return to set, this time as a director instead of an actor, the girls spend the first hour without you crying. Sam, being six and used to his parents' routine, is seemingly unfazed and continues watching Bluey and munching on his breakfast. Sophia and Violet bang on the door, scream and refuse to let Joel even talk to them, let alone pick them up to comfort them. They fight him the entire way to the car to get Sammy to school on time and then cry even harder because "Bammy's going to school." Joel can normally soothe his girls without any issue, but they didn't sleep well the night before and have been wound up all morning.

When he got home with them, they demanded a snack, but they had to be different because twins. Then, Sophia collapsed in a heap on the floor because Joel peeled her banana for her instead of letting her do it (rookie mistake). The toddler dramatics sent Daisy into action to remedy the situation, which made Violet scream in protest because she suddenly decided she hates when Daisy licks her or anybody for that matter. Poor Daisy didn't know what to do besides scamper off to her bed and watch Joel struggle with big, sad eyes. Then came the drama of what game to play: Princess Tea Party or Princess Dinosaurs, which caused another explosion of unregulated emotions. By the time noon rolls around, he's staring at his phone as he tries to decide whether or not to call you.

If there's one thing Joel Miller hates more than admitting defeat, it's seeing his kids upset. Everything he tries to do only upsets the girls more and makes him question his parenting skills. How the fuck did you do this for two years? Sure, the kids had their days, but the only time you ever sent him an SOS at work was when Violet had an asthma attack and ended up in the emergency room. Even then, you got all three kids in the car and to the hospital without help. You're a fucking force when it comes to taking care of the kids, and right now, he feels like the worst dad on the planet. After a quick cry in the pantry, while the girls watched Encanto for the umpteenth time and ate lunch, he takes a deep breath and decides he can handle a few more hours.

With a little more fuss and frustration, he gets Daisy on a leash and the girls in a stroller and walks them down to the neighborhood playground. The change of scenery and the sunshine put the girls in a much better mood. For a blissful hour, the girls run around and play and giggle without a care in the world. Joel does everything from pushing them on the swings to going down the slide with them to letting them play with Daisy off-leash. They have fun until the dreaded hour of nap time creeps up on them.

Thankfully, the girls (Daisy included) are tired from their adventures on the playground and start the journey home reluctantly. It's getting them to actually go to sleep that's the issue. Every time he tries to leave their room, one of them calls out the saddest "Daddy" he's ever heard in his entire life, and he turns right back around. And it would be fine if his presence wasn't enough to keep the girls awake. He knows that if the girls don't nap, it will only make the day longer and worse for everyone. He sits on the floor between their two beds and tucks a curl behind Violet's ear.

"C'mon Vi Pie, you guys gotta close your eyes and nap," he says quietly. "What can I do to get you to sleep?"

"Call Mommy?" Violet suggests, and he tsks.

"Honey, you know Mommy's working, but she loves you, and she's gonna be home real soon, okay?" As he speaks, he can see the tears welling in Violet's big brown eyes and turns to see the same tears in Sophia's identical ones. "No. No, please don't cry. Please. You're gonna break my heart." He begs. "What can I do to get you to stop cryin', huh? Y'know, when you two were babies, I used to just hold the both of you and sway and sing to ya and…" he trails off as his eyes land on Ellie's old guitar resting against the wall of the girls' room. She gave it to them when she got her new one and told them they could use it to practice. They don't really do much more than pull at the strings and turn the tuning knobs, but they'll learn.

He pulls himself up, his knees cracking as he does, and walks over to where the guitar sits. After some tuning and quiet adjustments, he sits on the edge of Sophia's bed and smiles at the two little girls staring at him with sleepy eyes. "Now, I haven't played this one in a while, so you be nice to your old man, but I used to play this for Sarah all the time when she was y'all's age." He says as his fingers find the chords. The girls are enraptured as Joel plays a quiet rendition of My Girl by The Temptations. He changes the lyrics to "My girls/talkin' bout my girls," and they smile as his southern drawl fills the room with warmth and serenity.

He notices their eyes getting heavier and their blinks getting a little longer each time, so he continues. "I don't need no money/ fortune or fame/ I got all the riches baby/ one man can claim/ well I guess you'd say/'What can make me feel this way?'/ my girls." He sings softly, his own eyes getting heavy with emotion as he thinks a little too hard about the lyrics. It doesn't help that the girls look just like you when they fall asleep. Joel has to cut himself off with a guitar riff to keep his voice from cracking and disrupting the girls.

He plays another song or two just to make sure they're fully asleep before he carefully puts the guitar down and tucks his girls in. "Love you, Soph a Loaf," he whispers as he kisses Sophia's head. He repeats his actions at the other bed with a gentle, "Love you, Vi Pie," before tiptoeing out of the room. On the other side of the scribbled-on door sits Daisy with a smile on her face as she looks up at Joel. He smiles back and pets her head.

"My girls." He sings to her, too, making her lean into his touch lovingly and stick close to him even when he goes back downstairs to let the girls rest.

"Did you write a new song?" You ask that weekend when all the kids are down for the night, and Joel gives you a confused look.

"Not that I know of. Why?" He asks, and you shrug.

"The girls asked if they could listen to 'Daddy's new song.'” You say. He chuckles and shakes his head.

"D'you remember the song I used to sing when you were pregnant with the girls?"

"Of course I do. It was the only way they'd settle down…" You extend your vowels as the connection sparks in your brain.

"It was the only way I could get 'em to nap earlier this week. Played it on Ellie's guitar and everythin'." He says simply, and you take a deep breath as you stare at him. He's wearing a shirt Ellie helped design to raise money for kids in foster care, but it's stained with nail polish from when the girls decided he needed a manicure before he could play baseball with Sam in the backyard. He took it all in stride and didn't flinch at any of the insane requests your kids threw at him. You sigh and peel your eyes away from him.

"It's really not fair how good of a dad you are," you sigh. "It's annoyingly hot." He smiles and kisses your cheek smugly.

"Sorry."

TAGLIST: @abbyhaslongshorts @kiwiharrykiwi @sumsworldz @myloveistoolittle @anavatazes @marantha

#one for the money two for the show #rockstar!joel miller x actress!reader #rockstar!joel miller #rockstar!joel #dad!joel miller #tlou au #the last of us au #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller series #joel miller fluff #joel miller the last of us #joel miller au #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader

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mysticalsoot · 1 year

Text

too, more, and most

A/N: this was originally supposed to be a lil valentine's blurb but then it took a very dark turn so it won't be that unless you want it to be, and in that case then sure, this very dark fic can be a valentine's gift to you all (all 70 of you??? what the fuck??) anywho ty all for the love on my writing, can't begin to express how fucking cool that is and how thankful I am!!!

TW// very dark, death is alluded to until straight out said, sorta MCD but redeemed, lots of swearing, derealization, hallucinations, death ish. that's it I think?

Summary: Wilbur is a broken man with attachment issues, his problems only worsen after reader breaks up with him. he finds out his love isn't here anymore but finds himself discovering what true reality is his.

Pairings: cc!wilbur x reader

Pronouns: they/them and use of y/n and l/n

Words: 3,378 (forgot to add at first, sry)

masterlist

@lvrboysoot love u, elliot. sorry for the pain I'm gonna inflict upon you with this</3

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

Wilbur was picky with who he said I love you to. His family was one thing, parents, brothers—those were easy. When it came to others, friends, romantic partners—those were more difficult, more calculated when he eventually admitted it.

But once he did, he never stopped saying it. And he was stubborn, fully set that he loved you more than anything than anyone ever loved anyone else.

He would say it at least once an hour, and if he was away he'd text the words to you, followed by some stupid mushy gif. He'd write love letters readmitting his feelings for you, attaching a little wild flower he found somewhere in the garden. He'd leave it on your side of the bed and sneak away back into his office. He sat in his desk chair and pretend to work as he listened for you to open the front door. He'd wait there, patiently dilly-dallying whilst he waited for your arms to wrap around him and kiss the top of his head.

He'd follow it by saying; "I love you, darling." His hands resting on your arms that snuck around his shoulders, your chin now on the top of his head.

"I love you too," Is what you would reply with, he'd chuckle and press a kiss to your arm.

"I love you more." Wilbur wasn't one to back down on this exchange, he was sure his love for you outweighed any amount of love for anyone or anything else.

Whoever ended the exchange would say I love you most.

It always mostly worked to end the exchange. Sometimes it just wasn't enough and strings of I love you's were exchanged. The word most wasn't the end all be all, unfortunately.

Or was that even...real?

—★—

The ceiling was far from interesting, but staring at it was better than falling asleep in Wilbur's mind. The other side of the bed was cold, and the lack of warmth and a person beside him, infected his bones with the same bone-chilling temperature the sheets beside him had.

He'd reach his hand over every once and a while, subconscious habits taking over his actions, the exhaustion blurring his mind's ability to keep control.

He forgot how he loathed being alone. And he regretted not saying those words sooner. You would still be here next to him, your hand on the back of his neck, your own head nuzzled into his chest and his arm holding you close to his body, the two of you now one.

Wilbur should have said I love you a long time ago. Sleeping wouldn't be a dreaded activity and maybe the bags under his eyes wouldn't be so dark they look like black eyes anymore. He'd have a reason to move forward.

His phone had been shut off by him for a few weeks, and the bills still went through but he needed to ignore all the pleas and notifications from friends and family.

No, James, Wilbur does not want to go out drinking and talk about it. He'd much rather have anything else.

And no, Tommy, Wilbur didn't want to join your next vlog at the beach. Do you want him to break down?

Jack asked to come over and play some Mario Kart with him to take his mind off things. They all had valid concerns and they were only doing their best but he didn't want to do anything.

Not when he could have prevented the situation he's in, he's in a void, and he has no purpose as far as he's concerned.

Ash was the most gentle of them all, he asked if Wilbur was okay a few times, always following it up with "you don't have to talk about it, just know that I'm here". He was kind, quiet, and gentle. Wilbur had genuinely contemplated answering his friend, spilling his guts on how it was his fault and that there wasn't anything he could do that would mend it, everything was gone and it was his fault. But he didn’t he kept his thoughts and feelings to himself.

He kept the too, more, and most to himself. He couldn’t tell you, so why tell anyone? It was best held close to his heart like an unforgiving secret, one that if spilled would put a ripple in space and time. So it was a secret forever held behind the bars of heartbreak.

He tried peeling himself out of bed, wiping his face of old dried tears--he couldn't cry anymore so the saltwater stains on his cheeks were days old, or maybe weeks, Wilbur couldn't tell. It took him a few minutes to coax his aching and tired body to sit up at the least--and even more time to convince himself to turn his phone back on. Maybe he would regret doing so, maybe he wouldn’t but the only way to know was to just..do it. So he did, the screen on his phone lit up, the classic white apple illuminating his face as he waited there, his eyes glued to the screen as it booted up. A few seconds and five password attempts later, his phone was unlocked and in the sms app.

He gravitated towards the last messages with you, it didn't take much convincing for him to open it and when he did, it felt like a train hit him. All of the emotions—the regret, the pain—came flooding back to him.

The last message he ever got from you was "I love you". He mentally kicked himself for never saying it and he threw his phone down on his bed, regret bubbling up his throat and he pulled on his hair. Dry, pained sobs escape his chest and he's shaking. This is so stupid. I'm so stupid. His thoughts ran wild, taunting him, stabbing him. Looking him in the face and telling him how this is all his fault. It's all his fault. It has to be all his fault.

He begins shaking, pulling his legs up to his chest, and wraps his arms around his knees, shoving his face between them. No tears fall, and the sobs lessen, although no less painful than before. He tries to take deep breaths, pushing the image of your last message to him that's burned into his vision, further and further from his consciousness. If his brain can push every other bad memory away, why won't it hide this one? God, he's so stupid—what person forces themselves to face the one thing that tore them apart? Wilbur would be it. He is the one to do that and he regrets it.

His breathing slows to a steady pace, and he drops his hands from his hair. He wants to curl up inside himself and just shrivel up until he's nothing but particles in the air. And he wants to, he really wants to. But he promised himself he would go out today and do something helpful for himself. Maybe some fresh air would help.

Or maybe it'll just remind him of you

Either way, he needed out. His bed was beginning to feel claustrophobic and the walls of his room felt like they were closing in on him. Not to mention he hasn't showered in at least a week, and the last time he did shower, James had forced him and stood outside the bathroom door the entire way because he knew Wilbur would try and trick him.

He lifted his blankets and tossed them to the side, throwing his legs over the side of his bed and pushing himself up to stand. His legs wobbled for a moment in a lack of use and then he mindlessly brought himself to his dresser, grabbing a sweater and some jeans, and whatever else he needed before his legs brought him to the bathroom and he turned on the shower.

The water burned his skin but was somehow comforting in the way he turned red as the water hit him. It burned, but it was nice. It was an unfortunate reminder he was alive, and this was real. But perhaps, a cold shower would be even worse, so the reminder of his reality through burning hot water droplets on his skin was a much better alternative than cold ice water douching him in the painful realization of never being able to get you back.

That was worse than anything. That you were forever to never be his again.

It wasn't much longer that he stood under the hot water, and then he soon stepped out, hurriedly wrapping himself in a towel to avoid the chilling cold you always feel after a boiling shower. He doesn't bother to change whilst in the bathroom, but instead snatches his clothes from the cluttered sink counter and pulls open the door, bringing himself back to the warmth of his room while he slips on his clothes, his sweater being last after a T-Shirt underneath.

He knew that if he made any more contemplation over whether he should go outside or not, he'd never make it past his bedroom door. So he was quick in grabbing his keys and wallet before slipping out of his bedroom door followed by his apartment door. He quickly locked the door until it clicked and hurried down the stairs. The faster he got downstairs, the less time he had to rethink his decisions.

He's quick to push open the clear entrance door to his apartment building, passing by some of his neighbors he's never met and then he's out of the stuffy building. He's hit with a wave of wind, hitting the tip of his nose, and the cool scent warming him in calm comfort. It's nice to feel comfort again, it's so, so nice.

He stands there for a moment, taking in the cool, fresh air. To passersby, he looks like an idiot who's most likely high—but in reality, he's a broken man who hasn't left his house in weeks and feels he no longer has a purpose. Neither version is a good one, but what he really is, is much better than the alternative.

He pauses for a moment, taking in what's around him. Wilbur didn't think about what he was going to do past walking outside, so now he's stuck. Maybe he could go right back inside or maybe he—

There's a shadow of a person on the beach, or maybe it just looks like a shadow—but something about it draws him to it. Where the shadow seems to pace on the beach—the person-shaped shadow—isn't far from where he stands in front of his apartment building. He's curious, and the curiosity gets to him and he's hurriedly walking over to the stairs that lead down to the beach. He doesn't waste any time finding that damned shadow, he doesn't even know why he wants to know what it is, so badly. But he does, he really does and his hurried walking turns to jogging until he's full-out sprinting on the pebble beach, the saltwater-twisted air hitting his nose sharply.

The shadow becomes more and more of a human shape the closer he gets to it. And then he's a foot away. And the shadow turns around to face him. And it isn't a shadow anymore. It's a person. It's a fucking person. But it isn't just any person, no, no—it's you.

It's you. It's you. It's you. Oh god, it's you.

But you don't look…alive. You look dead, gone. You're practically transparent and he wonders if this is what it was like for people to see Ghostbur if the DreamSMP was real. Dear god, you're dead. Or are you? Maybe he's just hallucinating, maybe he spent too long in his flat and now his mind doesn't know what reality is and so it's tricking itself into believing you're here. But as a shadow.

He wants to run so badly but something keeps him angered onto the pebble-covered beach. Why can’t he stop looking at you? And why in all things good can he not move?

“Y/N,” It’s the only thing he utters, and it's broken and quiet in the way he says it.

You simply stare at him, his expression cracking and shattering in the same way his heart does all over again, and then you’re gone again. You simply poof into thin air.

He takes hours before he can drag himself back to his flat, and he still hasn’t figured out if what he saw was real or not--but he’d rather not dwell on that for now. He just needs to get back home, he didn't even bring his phone with him, who knows how many people have tried contacting him whilst he was on his..walk. You could call it a walk, that’s for sure.

The door is opened haphazardly, and he nearly bangs his head against the side of it, not noticing his surroundings. He takes the stairs, his steps slow and by no means careful, and then hes on his floor, dragging himself to his flat. He unlocks the door until it clicks and then beelines for his room and snatches his phone off his bed.

He has a few dozen messages from friends, some from his parents and brothers--but he ignores them all and goes straight to safari;

Y/N L/N obituary

He presses the search button and turns his phone screen away from himself, face down in his lap. Wilbur has been offline for weeks--anything could’ve happened--and who would tell him anyways? Plus, who’s to say what felt like weeks to him, hasn't been months?

A few moments later and with some reassurance from himself, he turns the screen back to face him and his eyes glance to the first result.

Y/N dead at 26, drowned at brighton beach

It’s dated four months ago.

But they broke up with him three weeks ago? You were alive mere weeks ago! How did this--how did this happen?

It was your ghost he saw, that much he knows.

You died.

God…

You’re dead.

Wilbur finds tears sliding down his cheeks, droplets plopping onto his phone screen and he pulls the sleeve of his sweater over his hand to wipe away the salty liquid from his face and he sniffles.

How didn’t he know? Why didn’t anyone tell him?

He should go back to the beach.

The beach sounds great…maybe he’ll find you again, maybe he can ask questions and get answers for all of the wonders wandering his mind.

That’s what he should do.

And so he does, but this time he takes a blanket and his phone with him.

It’s the same path as before but now he knows where he’s going when he steps outside and its dark now. The biting cold wind of dusk hits his face in a harsh sharpness, but he moves on and continues walking, blanket rested over his arm and head held up as he looks around for you.

He spots you on an old pier and is quick to follow you, walking up the crickety stairs, being slow and careful with his steps, cautious to not spook the ghost of you again. He has questions that need answers, and scaring you away does him no good.

He keeps walking to the edge of the pier, there aren’t any railings, and its entirely open. He stops when hes one to two feet away from you and he drops the blanket on the planks of wood below. He looks up from the ground, eyes meeting your shadowy figure slowly revealing details about you, although still transparent, you aren’t just a shadowy figure.

“Hello, love,” Wilbur is sure to put on a soft smile when he speaks, and you shake your head at him, looking down.

You look up, head tilting and bottom lip poking out as a taunt, “I’m not your love,”

“I--I know you’re dead but--”

“No,” is all you say, and then you’re gone again.

Wilbur wants to break down again, decompose, and scream and sob and cry. But instead, he just stands there in cowardice. He doesn’t move, he simply stands in silence. He finds himself walking towards the edge of the pier and then he sits down, legs dangling over the water.

He wonders what would---

No, Wilbur, no.

He recoils. Pulls his legs up. Backs away from the edge. He feels someone push him. He pushes back and tries to find the source of said force--it’s just him up here. But he keeps pushing against the force trying to knock him off and he’s doing a great job of it--until he doesn’t and then he’s plummeting down and he twists in the air as he falls and something in his mind speaks.

“Your end is the same as your love’s”

And then it's all black.

The next thing he knows he’s choking up water or what feels like choking up water. But he doesn’t feel like he’s in water and-- But hes awake? Alive? It feels dry around him but he still can’t see.

He tries crying out, his eyes practically glued shut and he can’t force them open.

He jolts up and his eyes shoot open, his eyes frantically search the room, it's dark and he can barely see anything and then he sees an outline of a person; you. But you’re dead! And he’s dead!

Or is he, or are you? He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know anything anymore.

The shadow-like figure--you, kneel down in front of him, hands on his shoulders and your features come into view; eyebrows knitted in concern, eyes wide with fear, and mouth agape with worry.

“Love,” You inch closer to him and he backs away in fear, breathing rapid and labored, “Are you okay?” You pull your hands away in response to his skittishness.

He shakes his head, “You’re supposed to be dead,” His voice is quiet and it cracks when he speaks like he hasn’t spoken in months.

“What?”

He just shakes his head and pulls his legs up to his chest, hiding the lower half of his face between his knees, eyes the only thing in vision and his gaze is locked on you--completely unwavering.

“I’m not going to hurt you, my darling,” You put your hand out as an offering and he takes it into consideration, eyeing it like it has the chance to burn him.

“You won’t leave?” Wilbur’s eyes glance to yours for a moment before refocusing back onto your offered hand.

You shake your head, a soft smile donning your lips, “Never,”

He utters a small ‘ok’ and takes your hand and a few moments later he catapults himself into your arms. Heavy sobs ricocheted out of his chest. Your arms wrap tightly around him, and his own arms do the same for you. The two of you sit there in silence, the only noises are of the fan set up in your room or the sound of his cries as you hold him.

“I love you,” His voice is soft, small but he means it. He means it so much more than you could know.

“I love you too, bur,” You place a kiss on his temple, your hand reaching to tangle with his hair, “so, so much,”

He hums in response and another silence blankets the two of you in comfortable warmth, and then you’re the one to break it this time;

“What happened?”

He shrugs, “So much,”

You rest your chin atop his head, one hand playing with his hair and the other rubbing his back, “Wanna talk about it?”

He shakes his head, “No,” He pauses, gears turning in his head as he mulls over what to say next, “I love you more, by the way,”

A small, joyous laugh escapes your throat, “And I love you most.”

The two of you spend the rest of the evening like that, in each other's arms, muttering reassurances of your love for the other--and eventually, he tells you of all he’s experienced. And you feel horrible, your heart aches for him but you’re happy he’s in your arms now.

And he smiles.

He knows you’re not going anywhere and he knows you love him too, more, and most.

#wilbur soot #cc!wilbur #cc!wilbur x reader #dsmp wilbur #wilbur #wilbur soot x reader #wilbur soot x gn!reader #wilbur x you #wilbur is a sad lil wet cat #im so sorry for this #i am too broke to pay for anyones therapy after this sorry #wilbur soot fluff #wilbur soot angst #wilbur soot hurt/comfort #sorry man #implied sbi #sbi #sorta

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afreakingdork · 5 months

Text

Weak Spot - Chapter 49

RotTMNT Donatello x Reader

What would you do if you walked in on Donnie like how @inky-spikes drew him for this week's chapter art?

Warnings: Aged-up Turtles, Romance, Meet Cute, Villain Donatello, Cussing, Crushes, Xenophobia, Fear, Intimidation, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Hurt/Comfort, Love, AFAB Reader, Vaginal Sex, Sex Rough, Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Creampie, Teasing, Scent Kink, Sexual Tension, Breeding Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Cunnilingus, Fellatio, Marathon Sex, Somnophilia, Bondage, Feral Behavior, Feral Donatello, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Public Sex, Dom Donnie, Human/Turtle Relationships, Turtle Noises, Roleplay, Sexual Roleplay

Synopsis: A love story of villainous proportions! Though it hadn’t come easily, as these things rarely do, you found yourself in a whirlwind romance with a handsome and mysterious mutant. His idiosyncrasies had been easy to ignore as attraction grew into something more. However, will love endure when the unknowns about him end up being far darker than you ever considered?

Excuse me while I get incredibly mushy; you may known my rise origins, disastisfied with content, setting out to write my own love story, but did you know that I had never properly interacted with a fandom before? Why would I? I'm the type of person to only want to do what i want. This doesn't mean I'm not open to possibiltise, I love a good time saver and the truth, but most often, I just stay my funky little coruse. Then I received a piece of fanart.

I've always told myself, if you get fanart then you've made it. Well, I didn't know how much I had made it when I started talking to @unknownfanartist

It is not hyperbole when I say that I can credit everything about where I am now to my Contessa. Sure, I have my writing, but she gave me my community. Her friendship and the many others I hold dear now, she was the one who gave me every single one of those oppurtunties.

How does someone pay that back?

I've written her fics, is that enough?

It never feels like it.

I wouldn't be surrounded by anywhere near as much love if it wasn't for her. I wouldn't have found the people who bring me joy if it wasn't for her. My rise obsession probably wouldn't even be where it is today without her.

How do you pay that back?

I can't.

I can only use my words to show and say how incredibly thankful I am that you came out of the woodwork to draw little old me a scene from my silly little turtle fic. Contessa, I not only dedicate this chapter to you, but I have written it as an homage. I've jammed it with as many refrences to your work as possible while also slipping in some of your usual mannerisms.

Merry Christmas and thank you always.

P.S. @morning-sun-brah that includes you too because you opened the Pragma Elysium gates. I remember fondly waiting on pins and poodles to await your little updates. I have an ode to you here as well!

Fem!Reader References/Warnings Below Cut

Also available on Ao3

First 💜 Previous

LAST WARNING FOR THE 🍋 UNDER THE CUT. MINORS DNI!

Fem!Reader References/Warnings: bra removal, clit rubbing, breast teasing

You were shamelessly staring at your boyfriend.

In his usual spot on the couch, he was hunched forward in a way that made you worry about even his softened shell. With your phone on one knee, he had his tech gauntlet folded up to his face where code was spinning around his wrist. On your device's screen, a battle was flicking and flashing with all sorts of attacks. Attached by some unseen cord, data from the game was being sent right to Donnie’s gauntlet where he was studying it.

You adored him.

It didn’t matter that he didn’t care about video games or understood anything you were talking about; he was a trooper. When you’d mistakenly gotten into this mobile game for its characters, he’d listened without judgment as you yammered on about the designs. Every time you thrust your phone into his face to show him something, he indulged your delight. When you left him for hours on end as you combed through the story line, he simply busied himself with other things while only occasionally disturbing you to remind you to hydrate or something similar.

Not quite as obsessed as Coral, who’d already spent an obscene amount of money on the game. You kept playing relegated to once a night for sanity's sake. Your plan had worked for about a week until it became increasingly necessary for you to put forth actual effort into the battles if you wanted to keep progressing. One too many rules and all sorts of caveats, you’d gotten by on sheer luck until it ran out. With Coral barely able to keep her mouth shut about what was to come, you’d been forced to buckle down and study.

Scheduling the evening to figure it out, Donnie was buried in a project designing something on his own and hadn’t minded in the slightest. Armed with the wiki, you began the tedious study of combat logistics. Cramming for what felt like hours, you adjusted your team in all the recommended ways and restarted said battle only for it to yield the same result. Having back-ups prepared, you switched around your character’s positions and began anew only for the timer to run out even sooner. Unable to accept what was happening, you reverted to the original team. In a mystified stupor, you watched a greater failure and somehow worse result. Spurned, you spent the next 30 minutes in an ever deepening spiral as your losses piled on one after the other.

It didn't make sense.

You did everything right.

You followed all the suggestions.

By the time you scrambled over to Donnie, you were sure the look on your face was a horrified one.

It thankfully hadn’t worried him, but he’d abandoned his work to help you immediately.

All found him sitting, examining the game’s code, and mumbling something about DPS and buffs.

You wanted to kiss him nearly as much as you needed to win.

The latter winning out by the tiniest margin, you watched on with building affection until he turned toward you.

“While the damage ratio may appear the same, the actual amount dealt by your opponent is being randomly generated within a certain range.”

“So the RNG gods are frowning upon me?” You sulked.

He hummed with some altruistic form of sympathy.

The current match ended with another loss. “I guess I’ll just run it over and over until I get the right number.”

“Or…” Donnie flicked his data wheel and then hit restart on the fight.

You sat up and watched as the same attack patterns went by, but this time you were dominating.

Donnie tapped the screen to dispel a few debuffs and you won.

“Yes!” You leapt and he caught you while lifting your phone out of the way. “Thank you! Thank you!”

He allowed you to ply him with kisses. “I can adjust the code accordingly.”

“Cheating?” You asked with your lips still to his cheek.

“You won’t be caught. A few imperceptible lines.”

“Done!” You removed yourself to give him space.

He chuckled and brought back up his screens to apply whatever he had in mind.

Back to watching him, you couldn’t help but muse over how his deviousness had been watered down. This once wretched villain now hacked mobile games for his love and your heart overflowed. He had done undeniable bad, but in only a year he came to lavish in his choice. Living finally came to him easily and you were overjoyed to be a participant of that journey.

“Hey, Don.”

“Hm?” He had a small smile on his lips as he ran a new battle and studied the metrics it produced.

“Can I be the villain?”

“Of course.” He spun his code. “What do you covet, my dearest? We’ll put on a great heist.”

“I want to steal from you.”

He still didn’t look as the battle was won once again. “Something other than my heart?”

You had to put your face in your hands.

He was in a good mood which proved fatal for your heart.

Peering between your fingers found his smile spread wide. “You goofball, that’s not what I meant.”

“Done. Do tell me if you have any other issues.” He offered you your phone. “How then?”

“Thanks.” You hugged your device to your chest. “You like it when I pull one over on you.”

He slowed, clearly going through his memories.

“What better way…” Giving your game a parting goodbye, you left it on the cushions in favor of crawling towards him. “… then at your own profession?”

He sank into the couch to receive you. “In no demeaning way, in a no hold’s barred scenario, I’m not sure you’d be able to.”

“No?” Lifting onto your knees, you straddled him.

You saw his fingers twitch from where his arms laid out across the back of the couch.

You cradled his jaw and inched forward until your lips almost brushed his. “All the times I deceived you?”

“Underestimation.” He murmured, resisting to close the gap.

“Afraid?” You tilted your head and ghosted your mouth against his.

“I won’t fall for goading.” One of his arms slipped from its perch, but didn’t come around you.

“Test it then. What do you have to lose?” You gave him a protogenic kiss.

“Nothing I suppose…” He chased you for another chaste press.

You nosed along his jaw. “I’ll try to steal from you.”

“Everything mine is yours.” He sighed contented.

You pulled back to stare at him dully. “Roleplay.”

“You make a captivating honeypot.” He caught your hips and yanked them down for a grind.

You chewed your lip as your eyes rolled back. “N-not that.”

“Explain.” His grip loosened, but you felt his fingers at the ready.

“A game of keep away. See how much you still have in you.”

“You don’t believe I’ve gone soft.” He studied you.

“No, but I’m your weak spot right? How will you fare against me?”

His expression opened up for genuine surprise. “Fascinating…”

“See what I mean now?”

“Yes.” He urged you off his lap and you reluctantly tucked in beside him. “I won’t be going all out.”

“Worried about my safety?” You asked.

“Those aren’t terms. That’s a fact.” He adjusted his pants.

You flicked your gaze down to check what he'd fixed and he tapped a digit to your nose.

You swatted at him and he chuckled. “Clear mind. If someone were to steal from me, I’d employ all means necessary to get it back.”

You nodded remembering he’d mentioned something about that when revealing his backstory.

“I could torture you, but in ways you already know.”

“Not edging!” You whined, throwing your head back.

“The prize is sex then. Not a means to be utilized.” He offered his hand.

You took it with a squeeze. “Okay… Is this just an ‘if I win’ sort of bargain?”

He looked up to the ceiling in thought. “Let’s both win.”

“Even if I’m not successful?” You leaned your head against the couch and stroked his thumb. “Don’t patronize me.”

“Never.” He returned and seared an intensity into your eyes. “You’ll have gone up against me and survived. That’s clout enough.”

“I’ll be able to go to the Hidden City and brag at some bar?”

“You would most certainly be taken to meet someone’s boss if so.”

The honesty with which he’d said that9 brought your head up. “Oh…”

“What a way to meet Big Mama.” He rolled his eyes.

“Not doing that.” You gave an awkward laugh.

“A dry spell to enhance the achievement?”

“No sex until… when?” You worried over the last time such a restriction was implemented.

He pressed your hand open to pair up his fingers to yours. “Two waves. One week to steal from me, we rejoice as soon as you do. Then another if you can keep it from me, broken if I find it.”

Giving a Vulcan salute to match him, you opened and closed the ‘V.’ “I win, you win.”

“Even, no harm. We stave off the pain of last time.”

Trying to foresee pitfalls, you slid off his pads to thread your fingers. “It sounds good… Is there something specific I should take?”

“Your choice.” He dipped in for a quick peck. “It’s all yours regardless.”

“Menace.” You whispered against him.

His smile said he agreed.

“Wanna start after a little…?” You pulled on his hand.

“Very much so. Yes!” He shifted the tide to pull you to him.

Donnie was in the shower.

It had only been a few hours since the heist begun and, having spent most of it in bed, he’d left you to rest while he washed up. Waiting to hear the telltale sound of the shower hitting a body, you snatched the closest thing to you and stowed away into the kitchen. Slamming the tap there on, you ducked down below the counter.

“Shelly?”

A single curious buzz came from your tech gauntlet.

“Mess with Donnie’s implants!”

A confirming buzz responded.

“Okay… Uh…” Turning over Donnie’s much larger gauntlet, you were sure you had previously seen it in some kind of smaller form. “Darling Protocol… shrink?”

The metal sat useless in your hands.

“Darling Protocol small!”

You shook the long band.

“Shorten! Reduce! Condense! Little! Mini!”

Staring, you resisted the urge to chuck it out a window.

Your wrist buzzed with interest.

“No, I have to do this. I feel bad enough I already asked for your help, but the stupid protocol is voice activated.”

More buzzing occurred and you could tell it was S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. wanting to know what was going on.

“It’s a… game we’re playing. I’m the villain and I’m trying to steal Donnie’s tech gauntlet, but it’s too big!”

Your band was silent and you ignored it in favor of the frustrating one.

“I don’t understand… How does this thing get all compact?”

Upon the last syllable, Donnie’s gauntlet shrank to the size of a watch.

“Synonym stickler.” You grouched before raising up.

“Darling protocol…” You tried to think of the way he’d say it. “Disengage tracker.”

Nothing happened, but you almost figured it wouldn’t.

“Oh, Darling Protocol sleep mode!”

With its holographic display, it looked like nothing more than a glorified bracelet. You couldn’t remember having ever seen Donnie charge the thing. It seemed indestructible and waterproof, but he had removed it on several occasions as you did yours. Since the apartment was fully under his command, he only really needed the device when he left.

“Can he track you now…?” You wondered, turning the object over.

Buzz. Buzz.

“You’re not supposed to help-! Wait, I got it?”

Buzz.

“You’re not doing it, right? Swear to me. I need to be the one.”

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

“Yes or no!”

It was impressive how much sass S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. could inject into a single vibration.

“… Yes you’re doing it or…?”

Donnie’s computer lit up.

Walking over to it, you saw S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s little icon waiting there with annoyed impatience and a taping foot. “Hey, you updated your avatar to look like your new body!”

‘Thanks for noticing. You like?’ The little avatar did a twirl.

“I do, it’s very cute.”

He gave a gentlemanly bow.

“Did you help me?”

‘Now you ask a yes or no question?’ His lids lowered with put on irritation.

“Shelly, please. I’m in a hurry.”

‘And I wasn’t busy? It’s 9:37pm on a Thursday.’

“Oh…” You lowered your gaze and pulled the gauntlet close. “That’s true. I’m sorry.”

His avatar appeared at the bottom of the screen with a wagging finger. ‘It’s a joke. I can be in up to 14 locations at once, no probbles!’

“Only 14?”

He snickered. ‘You’re right. It’s been a while since I last calculated. Should I test it? Dare me!’

“Some other time, I’m really sorry for assuming you’d be at my beck and call…”

‘You didn’t assume wrong, but accepted and, to clarify, I did not tamper. You got the correct bypass.’ He threw his hand up and a little log with a time stamped list of commands last executed appeared.

“Awesome, thank you!”

‘Have fun and fill me in later!’

“Will do!”

He saluted before he disappeared along with the light of the machine.

Looking down over the tidy desk, you scanned the surface. You had seen enough movies to know that hiding something in plain sight was one of the best ways to pull off a grift. It needed to be somewhere that didn’t attract attention and was easily overlooked. Finding nothing where a cylinder of metal could disappear here, you kept your feet moving as you rounded the apartment. Shower still going steady, you felt the urgency as you imagined he was nearly done washing himself off. From the paintings that adorned the walls to the coat rack near the door, nothing appeared right. Ready to return to the kitchen and unearth some rarely used pot, a glimmer of something caught your eye.

Slowing, you stared and had to study the space until you caught the source. Standing at his post stood the astronaut that had been forced back into your possession when you moved in. The metallic film on his visor threw an errant beam, but up close your body shadowed the piece. He hadn’t been altered much since his stay and, in fact, had mostly been forgotten about. A mainstay in the space now, you flipped his little visor up and down a few times to hide his haunting face.

Thinking it over for a moment, you gave a smile before digging your claws into the hinge. With little effort, the plastic snapped off and you set the toy back on the shelf just so. Making several adjustments so he was exactly as he was, you then moved to drop the miniaturized tech gauntlet over his face. It took twice the amount of fiddling, but you eventually got it to sit and turned in a way that looked similar to his true brim. Stepping back, you tried to recreate the light flicker effect, but it wasn’t the same. The metal had a different sheen than the plastic, but you smiled. Deeming it a cute first try, you imagined Donnie would probably find it in the next hour.

With evidence to dispose of, you wandered back to the kitchen long enough to throw the visor away. You imagined you’d at least keep Donnie on his toes with this little stunt and wondered if you should steal something else as a double bluff. Sleep tugged against the thought so you returned to bed with a giddy feeling. The dopamine rush reminded you of your game and you gave into the delusion that it might inspire you. Jumping in, you found dominating the battles to be infinitely more fun. Almost forgetting all about the roleplay, the story in your game finally progressed and you ate up the new dialog until Donnie emerged.

“Your turn.” He spoke casually as he rounded the bed to his side.

“Mhm, in’a minute.” You tapped viciously on your screen to get rid of some little dust bunny enemies zapping HP.

Not seeing as much as hearing, Donnie approached his side table and stopped. “Really?”

“Yeah, almost done.” Clearing the field, there was a burst of text that signaled some victory. “Ah, this is so great. Thanks again!”

“Y/N.”

“Yeah?” You let your phone fall flat on your chest and turned to look at him.

“My gauntlet.”

“Your-” You blinked wide before the recognition struck you. “-what?”

He threw his weight on one hip to stare down at you, bored.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” You salvaged a little dismissive persona. “I’m going to shower.”

“Technicality.”

You sat up and threw your legs over the side of the bed.

“This feels…”

He held his pause a little too long so you turned to look over your shoulder.

He was waiting there with a blasé expression. “…uninspired.”

You shrugged.

“Wallet, keys, phone. Infantile.”

“Oh no.” You dulled your voice for faux worry. “You must have misplaced it.”

Donnie sighed before bringing a hand up. “S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. I assume?”

“No.” You gave a sharp retort.

“He leaves a trail.” He raised one of his brows and you watched the whole apartment take on a faint purple light.

Standing and looking over your violet tinted skin, you turned a hand over to hear Donnie make a noise of confusion. “Find your trail?” You exaggerated your own brow at your boyfriend.

“He could have used the door.” Donnie grumbled, walking into the next room.

Knowing that’d be right next to where you’d stashed the gauntlet, you smiled at how you'd gotten the timeline right. Giving right up, you went to take your shower. You sometimes worried about the other tenants, but you loved how your apartment never ran out of hot water. Soaking up all ill gotten glory, you emerged a steamed bun and ambled out in a fluffy towel to find Donnie sitting on the bed with a laptop you’d never seen.

“What are we hacking tonight?” You mused and meant to sit down next to him. With your muscles liquefied, you let yourself fall over and bumped your wet head up against his bare thigh.

He made an irritated noise and jumped. “What did you have him do?”

“Who?” You rolled your head to look at him.

“S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.!”

It was a blow to your relaxed form. “I didn’t get Shelly’s help. In fact, I called him up just to tell him that.”

“Then how did you-?” He cut himself off with closed eyes and pinched the bridge of his snout. “Darling Protocol.”

“Took awhile to get the right words. At least you didn’t program the codes in.”

“I’m changing that.” He started furiously typing.

“No, come on!” You playfully whined and grabbed at him.

He leaned away from your touch. “I’ll bind the print outs. I estimate a 24 volume set.”

“What did I even graduate for!?” You bemoaned and wiggled off the bed to get into your pajamas. “Now here's your torture.”

“I’ll print it so small you'll need a magnifying glass.”

“The horror.” Pulling your towel off, you rubbed furiously at your hair. “What are you doing?”

“Locating it.”

“Fun. I assume there’s trackers in everything, but me. Is there one in the couch?”

The only indication Donnie heard you was a little smile quirking the corner of his lips.

Leaving him to his task, you finished getting ready for bed and, as you were about to tuck yourself in, you found him sat in the exact the same way. “You gonna sleep?”

He stopped by extending his fingers and holding them over the keyboard. “True.”

“What?”

He closed his laptop and turned to you with a heated stare. “For the time being, you’ve earned your first prize.”

You giggled as he came in with kneading fingers to your waist and a kiss to your cheek. “You’re wonderful, but can I bank it?”

He kissed a few more times until you would relent with your lips. “Suit yourself.”

“Do I get to keep it after you find it?”

He perked up and released you. “It’s close.”

You rolled your eyes into laying down. “Sure it is, Don. Answer please.”

“It’s… not?” He stared you down.

“Donnie.” Your pillow was beckoning you.

“This was not discussed.”

“Banking?”

“Multiple thefts.”

“I figured it balanced.” You snuggled down into the sheet. “Each one you find is a win for you too.”

He made a satisfied sound as he thought it over.

“Goodnight kiss if you’re going to stay up and obsess?”

Holding on for a few more seconds, he collapsed down beside you with enough force that it bounced your head from your pillow.

“Hey!”

“I suppose it’s no rush. I have the entire time you’re at work.”

“Mhm.” Your lids felt heavy.

He kissed your forehead and moved the laptop in his grasp. “I have to put this up.”

“Where’d you get that, anyway?”

“Mm, don’t worry about it.” He almost nuzzled your hairline, but found it damp so he hopped out of bed to put the laptop away.

Waking first found you oddly calm. Consciousness came comfortably and recognition over what had occurred the previous night drifted to you. Capturing it with open eyes, you watched your partner’s sleeping form before dragging yourself out of bed. You’d make him breakfast for a change and, in only a slightly hunched stupor, you shuffled over to the kitchen. It was there, with the hidden object just across the room, that you had to keep reminding yourself over and over not to look. Checking would make it obvious. You needed to own this. You’d stolen from him, successfully so far, and that was the whole point of being bad.

You had said you wanted to be a villain.

Was that relegated to one nefarious act?

Pulling out a frying pan to make scrambled eggs, you pondered this query.

Villains were supposed to be evil, but Donnie had never struck you as truly bad. Doing a mental timer as the metal heated up, you folded yourself against the counter to stare at the egg carton. Wondering about the colloquial bad egg, it wasn’t something you could always tell by looking. One that was truly rotten would smell, but that didn’t mean all the bad ones stank. Instead, there were tests, things like floating it in water or getting it all the way to your lips. Nothing in the world was so black and white.

Flicking your gaze to the clock, it was about time so you spread a bit of butter to prevent sticking. Adding the eggs in, one crack at a time, you stirred them to make the scramble. A bit of toast sounding like a nice addition, you switched course. Lowering the heat and you left the eggs for a new appliance. Getting a toaster, you slotted the bread in and looked back over the bar. Clear across the apartment through sheer curtains, your egg was still tucked into his carton. Mostly a cozy lump, putting him in water revealed little other than it calmed him like a balm.

Life was the test of proclivities.

Everyone came in all kinds.

The world shades of moral grey and you fit into that same bland color palette.

Slowing at the thought where you hadn’t moved, you gave an amused puff of air.

How did you fit into all that?

You had been called good and bad over the years with a varying sense of hyperbole. For the average person, you imagined this wasn’t the sort of thing people applied to themselves. They read it in stories where the characters were exaggerated and it was usually clear who the antagonist was. The balancing scales weighing your heart to a feather was mythos.

Turning around with the toast giving an almost done, you scoured the cabinet as quietly as you could. Slipping a bowl free with only a minor clink of ceramic, you set it down and riffled for your cereal. The type of food Donnie often chided you as not actually being suited for breakfast, you poured a bowl and unplugged the toaster just as it seemed it would pop. Switching between tasks, you plated up the eggs meant for two on one plate with the toast and then splashed a healthy amount of milk into the cereal bowl. Situated, you then sauntered back to bed and over to your partner's side.

He was facing outward which helped as you parted the curtains with your plate. Holding it up towards his snout, you watched the tiniest wrinkle as the scent of breakfast invaded his dreams. Within moments he was blinking awake and humming with slurred affection over you having made breakfast.

“I’ll leave yours here.” You told him warmly.

He hummed having been given the space to wake and you left the cereal behind to go eat your eggs in the living room.

You had just about gotten through your usual portion when you heard a snort of disdain. Trying not to laugh around the tines of the fork, you traded it for a point of toast.

“Y/N.”

“Mhm?”

Silence chased you and you put on your best pious pose as you waited for him to approach. It took a moment, but he appeared, standing nude and with the bowl clasped in one hand. Flowing a gentle current of irritation, he waited for some type of explanation.

“It’ll get soggy.” You offered.

“It’s already soggy.” He bit back.

“Shame. You were too slow I guess.”

“You didn’t even leave me a spoon.”

“No?” You scooped another forkful of eggs into your mouth.

“Your ploys continue to be childish.” He turned to the kitchen and disposed of his breakfast.

“Crazy these kid games are landing, huh?” You chomped down on toast.

There was another minor bout of silence before he turned the tap on.

You were assaulted by your boyfriend as soon as you got home from work. Squeaking at the sudden intrusion, you almost thought it was a hug before his hands roved right into your clothes. Trying to fend him off as you were still half in the hallway, you were no match for his speed and strength.

“Donnie, what are you doing?!” Your voice warbled as he yanked your shirt straight up your body. “Stop, stop!!”

“Where is it?!” He growled, tugging your shirt down to bring you to his squat eye level.

“Where-ah!” Sliding into your pants he squeezed your ass cheeks. “Q-quit!!!”

Several angry clicks sounded in your ear until he lurched backwards, ready to pounce again in a moment’s notice. “My gauntlet! You took it with you! On your person!”

“I didn’t!” The reply popped out of you before you could grab it.

“It’s not here!” His eyes continued to scan you.

“It’s not-?!” You might have felt confusion if your blood pressure hadn't plummeted at the sight of downy stuffing on the ground.

Stepping forward and pushing your angrily clacking partner out of the way, you found the apartment turned upside down. From the couch, where he’d ripped it to shreds, to the kitchen, where all the cabinets were open and leaking, you knew the bedroom had to be in a similar state.

A short, rattling breath emerged from your lips as you did a slow rotation. Not hooking on it, but passing by, you saw the little astronaut standing a proud protector on his lone shelf where he hadn’t been disturbed.

The spaceman had failed at one job and succeeded in another.

Some protector.

“Donnie, what the fuck!?” You shoved him.

“Where is it!?” He was immobile.

“That’s the point!” You shoved him again and he relented a single step for your sake.

“Yes, but it doesn’t make sense! You had no planning! You had no time! Without S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s help how could you have-!?”

You slammed your palms into his plastron over and over.

He made a few irritated snorts until he let you push him back several steps.

“You are being such a jerk!”

A light bulb went off for him. “You did plan.” He walked away and you were left to stew with your coat hanging off one shoulder. “You proposed the scenario. You must have been plotting. For how long?” He walked up to his computer where all sorts of models were running.

“It was spur of the moment!”

Without a keyboard, lines of information were being written at an alarming rate.

“Donatello!”

“Depending on the length of time you had, any number of scenarios could have been implemented. If I take into account-”

Slamming the door behind you, you stormed back down the hallway and toward the elevator. “Shelly! Ugh, I know this is last minute and we just talked about it, but…”

Buzz!

“Wanna go get dinner?”

The single vibration nearly rocked off your tech gauntlet off your wrist.

“So being villain was fun for ten whole seconds.” You rolled the liquid in your glass where you were plopped down on S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s couch and had just finished catching him up.

Similarly aerating his wine, he held his goblet up as if he were making a toast. “Dump him!”

You snorted and had to scramble not to spill.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. repeated himself with a cheer that did cause wine to slosh out. Only for him, a mechanical arm appeared out of his back and wiped the liquid straight out of the air before it could fall.

“Woah…” The sound came out of you as your glass neared your lips.

“I’m sorry, but I’m having a blast right now.”

“I can see that.” You chuckled.

“Pizza at a real dirty restaurant, whine session with wine, like this is the thing! I’m doing it!”

“The human thing?” You asked after a sip.

“Yes!” His eyes turned into stars.

“I mean, you’re crushing it.” You turned and looked around what was a quintessential bachelor pad. Though the layout was identical to Donnie’s preference, the rooms themselves looked like movie sets. With a proper clutter budget, clothes were strewn about just so, little knick knacks made the space feel homey and there were even dirty dishes in the sink. “Did you have someone over?”

“Huh? No. Why?”

You gestured around with a sweep of your glass.

“Oh, pfft. That’s all me. I like to mess around and I like the way the space is. Feels like me, ya know?”

You softened. “Yeah.”

“I stole the dishes.” He pointed.

“Why?” You shook your head at how ridiculous he was.

“I don’t wanna clean the kitchen.”

“So, don’t use it!”

“I didn’t!” He chirped.

“You just wanted the sink full.”

“It looked lonely.” He tipped his head, commiserating.

“You know I thought this place was going to be nothing but a charging port.”

“Ew.”

“Right?”

“That is what dad gave me, but I ordered a bunch of stuff as soon as he left.”

“He’s ridiculous.”

“Dump him!”

“No!” You kicked at S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. and he let it connect for a metal thunk. “Ah!”

“Oops.” He leaned forward to study your leg. “You good?”

“No, yeah, sorry. I just forgot cause usually…”

“People dodge.” He snickered. “Not people.” He reminded you and then poured himself over the back of the couch. “See those clothes there.”

You looked where he was pointing. “Sure.”

“None of those fit. Those are just for decoration, but I have been trying new ones since I can now!”

“Fashion show?”

His eyes sparkled and he tossed his glass behind him where it smashed into the wall.

“Shelly!”

“My house, my rules!!!” He screamed as he launched himself, fists in the air, over the couch and into his bedroom.

Modeling several looks from something grungy where he’d smeared black oil under his eyes to something preppy enough for a country club, he was twisting in a simple t-shirt and jeans when he dropped right out of his purchasing process explanation for something else. “So, where’d you hide it?”

“You know.” You were draped over the couch.

“Yeah, but pretend I don’t.”

“That’s a secret.” You grinned.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. gasped. “In my own dojo!”

“I know!” You lifted a scandalized hand to your mouth.

“It’s wild though.”

“That he didn’t look there? Yeah.”

“Huh? No, but he kinda did.”

“What do you mean?” You lifted up.

A screen appeared in your face showing Donnie right next to the door in your apartment. Borderline feral and nearly crawling around on all fours, you watched him storm by the astronaut with his head on a constant swivel before he disappeared out of the camera's frame.

You let out a single satisfied laugh. “Dummy.”

“You can barely tell on the feed.”

“It looks good in person too. The only thing is it goes all the way around. If he had moved it, he’d have seen it wasn’t right.” You twirled a finger in demonstration.

“Why’s Major Creeponaut duct taped? Did you try to shove it inside?”

You chuckled. “Nah, that was from our first kiss.”

“So gross!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. screamed at the ceiling. “Tell me everything.”

“Do you want to know or not?” You laughed.

“Not at all. Tell me.” He took a few hopping steps over before he plopped down, legs crossed, in front of you.

“When a mommy and daddy love each other very much…” You began.

“Stop, stop!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. threw his arms out in waving embarrassment.

“They have the urge to-!”

“No, seriously stop!”

You blinked, waiting.

“You’re getting a message.”

You stared at him for a moment before you turned. “My phone’s on silent from work…”

“So?”

“How do you know?” Looking around, you searched for your bag and found your device.

“How do I explain…?” He rocked to one side. “I can hear the other electronics near me? Kinda like how you hear voices.”

“You’re not tapping in…?” You stared at an increasing number of messages from Donnie.

“I might be like dad, but I’m not dad.”

“It wasn’t comparing you to Donnie...” You thumbed over the preview which was an apology. “You literally stole dirty dishes.”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. let the comment sink in before he started laughing. “Oh, true that!”

Returning home, your boyfriend once again met you at the door. This time without the attack, he sullenly apologized and you gave him a proper hug. Kissing him back to a baseline mood, he scooped you up, carried you through an immaculate apartment, and to a freshly made bed. He set you down only to curl up in your lap where you rubbed his carapace as he opened up.

“I can’t… leave without my gauntlet.”

“Don’t you have another?” You spread your nails out for an even scratch.

He gave a heady hum and rooted closer to you. “Sentimental.”

“That one’s special?”

He nodded into your thigh. “There’s three more like yours, but only one of mine.”

“Tell me about it.”

Slouching, he sighed. “Not a first, but one of my more important inventions. A universal remote of sorts, it was my backup for my goggles.”

“The ones that short circuited?” You kept one hand to his carapace and used the other to brush the scarring on the side of his head.

He nodded. “I’ve never replaced it. I’ve been upgrading the original.”

Your hand stopped. “That’s… how old is it?”

“Older than S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.”

“I didn’t… know.”

“I didn’t mention.”

“I’m sorry…”

He shook his head. “No, me.”

You patted him. “That’s not withholding, it wouldn’t come up. Do you know how old my phone is?”

“Yes, I know the model.”

“But did I get it the year it came out?” You tilted your head to glimpse his face.

His eyes moved as he thought that over. “Did you?”

“No, two years after. I was so mad; they released the next gen like a week after I got it.”

He didn’t make a sound, but squeezed you.

“Want it back? I’ll take something else.”

He thought for a long moment and you went back to giving him scritches.

He made a little hum before he spoke. “Is it safe?”

“Very.”

“I’ll make do.”

“You sure? It’s really not a big deal.”

He shook his head and reluctantly rose up. “You were successful. I want to honor that.”

“This wasn’t supposed to make either of us uncomfortable though.” Your hand dragged up to his shoulder.

“I’ll survive.” He kissed your hand with confirmation. “Besides, I’ve moved on to the next stage.”

“You’re not looking for it anymore?”

“Oh, I am, but I’ll need information.”

“Shelly’s records are closed and you didn’t find anything at the scene of the crime.”

His head tipped back and forth as if weighing the options. “Typically I’d move onto kidnapping, extortion, torture, blackmail…”

You stared at him with a growing gaze. “I’m in for quite the week.”

“You think me relentless now?” He almost purred as he leaned into you.

You hummed in return, not taking the bait of his lips.

“Tomorrow.” He confirmed before pouncing on you to shove his carapace back under your digits.

Your morning began with retribution for yesterday’s breakfast. You were served what looked like a normal meal, but the orange juice had been all pulp, the eggs were covertly stuffed with shells, and the bottom half of your toast was burnt to a crisp. Laughing at the forethought, you got yourself cereal and he did an amused peacocking as he readied for his day.

Being the first to the bathroom, you hid his toothbrush in the shower.

He found it soon enough, but you heard him knock a few things over in the process.

Getting dressed found he had left all your clothes pristine, but had swapped all the drawers where they usually sat.

Laughing over how he must have prepared that one the previous day, you scurried to the door with a premonition.

“Wait.” He trailed after, getting his head through a sweater.

You held a guard on your shoulders. “What?”

He made a timeout symbol and you relaxed. Pulling you close, his hands dug into your lower back as he languidly kissed you. Melting into him, you felt his hands move against you before a jingle sounded and he ran.

“There was a time out!” You chased after him and your keys.

“I timed it back in.” He ducked around the bed. “Return my gauntlet!”

“Never!” You pivoted and charged the kitchen.

“Damnit!” You heard him leap.

“No! I was here first!” Banging your body against a cabinet, you covered the drawer containing the spare with your body.

You screeched with laughter as he hooked an arm around your waist to lift you out of the way. “You should learn to use your opponent’s power against them.”

“Or!” You got hold of the keys before letting your body go slack. It shifted his hold and gave you a momentary break. Just long enough to drop down to the ground and break free, you crawled the few steps out from where his long legs impeded him from making another grab. “Bye! See you after work!” You cheered and exited the apartment to him giving an annoyed huff.

The next few days found an escalation in what you referred to as the school yard bully ploy. Keeping it playful, it amounted to a prank war the likes of nothing you’d ever experienced. The back and forth sabotage was quickly subverted by your boyfriend's intelligence. Not able to hack your systems, he’d happily entered your bosses where he’d rearranged the entire calendar for the day. The ensuing mess reached throughout the company and IT was none the wiser to whatever was happening. It meant meetings with clients were missed and memos seemingly disappeared. You survived until lunch, nothing outright destructive, but it felt like pure chaos when you called Kaleb.

Your next plan of sneaking hot sauce into his food wasn't going to cut it.

With Kaleb's engineering background, your chill friend had whipped up what he referred to as a pie throwing robot in what seemed like too little time. It meant a detour after putting out office fires and meeting him at a pastry hop. There you ordered for the lot of you as a payment for your friend’s help. He’d attached spindly metal to your bakery box and sent you on your way with another request of pictures.

Promising it, you headed home with the box in tow and entered the apartment in a feigned huff. “I can’t believe you.”

Donnie spun around, smirking in his computer chair like a cartoon villain.

“I got you something still because I’m so nice!” You spoke loud and haughty.

“Pass.” His gaze narrowed on the box and though his lips turned it down, his eyes tracked you with interest.

“Suit yourself. I would never hurt a defenseless pastry.” Setting the container on the counter, you held down the little switch in the back that temporarily stopped the mechanism. You then opened the box wide so Donnie could see and picked out a croissant before closing it back up. “I’ll have your banana caramel roll for breakfast tomorrow then.”

He perked up.

Walking around and munching on your croissant, you looked at him. “Was I ruining dinner or you?”

“Take out.” His eyes were glued to where you’d just been.

“Nice, I’m ordering that place that always messes up your order.” You juggled your treat with your phone.

He made a noise of little interest as he crept over to the box.

You chewed your lip and tried to cover it with the pastry. “You gonna want the same thing?”

“Your choice.”

“Gizzards it is.”

He shot a sour look at you and you chuckled in a scroll.

Looking at it from all angles, he checked to find you trying to pointedly ignoring him.

A testing sniff to the air said he picked up on the promised treat inside and the quiet that followed indicated your care in having Kaleb using layers of gloves had helped to cover your friend’s scent.

Cracking the lid for the softest scrape of cardboard against itself, he peered inside.

You switched over to your camera and prepared to record a video.

Finding the inside laden with treats, he opened the lid further just as you brought your phone up to track him.

In a flicking snap of metal, cream flung out and splattered across Donnie’s chest and chin.

Little snickers leaked out of you as you stepped up to record him fully. “Good, right?”

His lips were set and he opened the box further to examine the mechanism.

“Kaleb made it. He’s a prank king.”

“My regards.” Donnie grumbled, passing your phone a glance and grabbed his cake.

“I’m switching tactics.” Donnie announced the next night.

“What’s next?” You asked, hanging up your jacket. Thankful for the reprieve not because you’d been scorned, but simply because you were running out of ideas.

You moved over to him.

He received you by holding out his hand.

You took it and he pulled you straight into a waltz.

Spinning with a flip of your stomach, you settled as he led you around and around.

“I’ll try my hand at seduction.”

“Is that new? I’m pretty sure I’ve fended you off before.”

“Sexual advances.” He clarified, his face neutral as he focused on the dance steps.

“Versus… what?”

“Romance.” Coming to a close, he lethally dipped you.

Your heart leapt into your throat.

“I don’t know how you’re supposed to outdo yourself.” You mumbled as he was slow to right you.

“I won’t be.”

“You’re building this up.”

He flicked a gaze at you and walked you over to the computer.

The usual plain purple background was displayed on the cluster of monitors. You looked them over before checking with him.

In a flick of his finger, you watched a large document appear. With little charts and tables, there was a bulk of words that he enhanced. Starting you at the top of the page, it read like a scientific paper, but the content was about touch limitations. Slowing after the third line, you turned to him with recognition. “This is from…”

Donnie didn’t respond and used a finger to slide to a specific paragraph. “’I find myself at a loss…’”

He was reading it aloud from memory as he stared directly at you.

“’I crave Y/N’s very being. Even as I know myself to despise contact, I find an impenetrable ache. This malady should be isolated and quarantined. This is not something to be studied. This is an ailment. A manifestation of a higher power sent to devastate my person. I consider this a visceral attack. I fear I will not recover. I’m already too far gone and therefore all data previous should be discarded. No longer the impartial party I can usually hold my standard to, I also cannot share this research with anyone. It would be revealing my heart, one that I thought had long stopped beating. It yearns now, cracking free layers of debris built up for its own protection. I will not survive this onslaught.’”

“This isn’t what you told me…”

“No..”

“You wrote this… back then…?” You were still reading over exactly what he had just spoken.

“Yes.”

“But the experiment…?” Hitting the end of the paragraph, the next picked back up with tedious data.

“I made it sound like I was doing it for your benefit.”

You nodded, your heart a steady thrum.

“I lied. This is the first recorded instance of my affection for you.”

“You make it sound like you’re dying.”

“I was.”

He hadn’t gotten any closer, but you turned to gawk at him as if he’d made some big move.

“…Care like that. It rips you apart. Rearranges your sense of self. The reason it is labeled ‘crush,’ but for me it was more.”

“Donnie…” Your insides swirled a confused mass. Though he'd since admitted his early interest, he never let on to the depths

“Do you know how long this document is?”

You looked for a little page counter, but not only could you not find one, you weren’t sure how accurate it’d be with the many tables. “No?”

“Over ten thousand words.”

You paled.

That day at the Thai restaurant, he’d spent an entire meal conveying it.

That must have been the shorthand version folded even further down.

“How long did this study last?”

“A week…? Or something like that. You said I was novel and sort of gave up.”

“I said many things. To you. To myself.”

“What are you saying now?”

“That I was a lost cause the moment you tried to steal my lunch.” He appeared in your face.

Your skin felt alit. Not with fire or chill, but something new. Surges of blood refreshed your body in a cleanse just for him. Prepared on a cellular level, you stepped closer with an innate shyness that you couldn't place.

You were reformed, but the you of the past emerged.

His fingers ghosted your cheek like you were too precious to touch.

It made your jaw wind as if tortured by yearning.

“I won’t say it.” Another waft of his hand urged your head to tip back without contact. “Not under these circumstances, but this is the closest yet that I’ve come to a confession-”

You kissed him.

A crushing force, he smiled into the exchange before wrapping around you.

You broke between presses for a needy ask. “My win… I need to cash it in… Now… Right now… Please?”

He nodded against your lips and steered you towards the bed.

Fumbling together you shoved at each other’s clothes until you turned to lead. “I top.”

“For the record, this isn’t-” He interrupted himself as your top hit the ground and he kissed down the new real estate of your shoulders. “-what I intended.”

“Yeah, no gauntlet for you. Upset?” You asked as the backs of his legs hit the bed.

“How could I be?” He smiled as he fell back with full confidence.

A trust fall into the mattress, he caressed your form as you crawled up to him. Kissing him senseless into the sheets, he handed himself over to your desire. An odd mismatch where only you held the mad fervor, you kicked off the rest of your clothes. Straddling him nude, you stared down at his wobbling form and he returned the gaze with abject adoration. Melting under it and wondering if this is how he felt back then, you stole his lips for the thousandth time and tried to put care into undoing his wraps.

He caught your wrists for a momentary reprieve and kissed your knuckles to calm you. Only stoking the fires, a whine escaped your throat and he reassured you with a squeeze to your arms that he was there; he wasn't going anywhere. Burying the need into him, you kissed and nipped down to your mating mark before you bit into it. His head rolled at the move and you felt the faintest insistence of his hips below yours. Not having the leverage to grind him, you instead focused on clenching your teeth with a minor gnaw until his skin broke.

You earned your favorite honed chirp.

Stomach doing backflips, you needed yourself stuffed to prevent more. Only shimmying his pants down enough to reveal his erection, you rose up adjusting his shaft at your entrance before enveloping him in one swift drop. He exhaled sharply and you tossed your head back for a mewling noise as some basal itch was scratched. Rolling your hips into riding him, his jaw fell slack as he watched you. With his hands loosely holding the thick of your hips, he stared up as if cradling some precious treasure.

If his gaze were any indication, you were long sought and nearly unattainable. Feeling jittery, each rock sent tingles up your spinal cord. Lapping at your brain stem, misfires indicated waves of emotions, each drowning the next. From confidence to devotion, he poured them into you, not through your connection, but his gaze alone. His cock a superfluous peg there to keep you tethered and it was his face that was stirring on your ministrations.

His lips parted.

He spoke a short phrase in another language.

“No…!” You cried, grinding down hard onto him.

“It’s not proper.” He elucidated, grabbing your hands for a reassuring squeeze.

“You can’t just say it in another language like that!”

His eyes shimmered as he spoke it again in an entirely different way.

“Donnie!”

He had another and another.

You renewed your efforts, trying to stop him with your hips alone.

It only spurned more languages off his lips as he spoke his adorations in all the ways, but the one you understood.

“So unfair!” Your pitch rose several octaves as you grew close.

“I know.” He slipped out of a foreign tongue before dipping right into another.

“Then why!?”

“I won't say it like this. Not for some gambit!” He tugged down on your hips and you felt his knot expand.

“Shit, we’re g-gonna-!”

“Together!”

You could only scream his name as you both came. Body arching back to accommodate as much of him as possible, you heard a thousand words fly off his lips. Some a rehash of things you’d heard, he proclaimed a universal language of love.

Not coming down, but instead tapering off, he was slow to rise up and hold you. Moving deliriously with him, you found a limp press of a kiss before burying yourself into his neck.

Loosely running his hands over you with a revelatory awe, he nuzzled against your skin to mumble, “You are my greatest mistake.”

Fluttering lashes brushed the stiff plastron you were dozing against. Cozy and satisfied, your cheek slid against the smooth surface to glimpse your partner. His eyes open, he stared up at the ceiling with an expression similar to how you felt. “You up?”

In a blink of registration, he struggled to look down at you. “Hey.”

“Thinking?” You asked anew.

He hummed an agreement and pet your back.

“Bout what?” Settling against his pectoral scutes, you let your eyes close.

“When I mess up, it’s no longer a failure.”

You made a curious sound as that didn’t make much sense to your sleep coddled mind.

“Before.” His hand stopped and spread flat. “A misstep would cause ruin. I couldn’t afford them. With any, with you.”

“We messed up a lot early on.”

“And look where that almost got me.”

“Us and almost, but not.”

“True, I'm not brooding.” He did one long languid stroke down your torso. “A consideration, late stage revelation.”

“You’re surprised?”

You felt him nod. “This whole exercise has been one mistake after another, but none damaging.”

“Yeah, as far as mistakes go…” You drew a curve with a finger to his plastron.

He squeezed your ass cheeks and you whimpered against him.

“Sensitive…” You huffed and scooted up to bury your face more comfortably against his neck.

He kissed the top of your head. “Referring to you or me?”

“Sensitive?” You chuckled.

“At fault.” He clarified, threatening to grope you again.

You tried to squirm away from him, but there was nowhere to go.

He relented by moving his hand back to the small of your back.

“Both.”

“Shame. I was going to applaud how vile you were.”

You blew an unintentional raspberry and sat up to stare at him, incredulous. “Sure, I’m so evil.”

“It’s true.” He arched a knowing brow. “You’ve ruined me.”

“I’ve taken one thing from you and pied you in the face with help, how is that ruin?”

“You’ve taken a great blight and nearly erased the stain.”

“You did that.”

“You spurned me on.”

“You mentioned this before.”

“I believe it.”

“You’ve been wrong.”

“I’ll admit it when I realize.”

You pecked his cheek. “Can’t wait.”

“Intimidation is next.” Donnie told you first thing in the morning.

You were breathing in the steam of a hot drink. “Huh?”

“My gauntlet.”

“Oh yeah. I was ready to just let time run out. Only a couple days left.”

“I want to win.”

“You’ve already won.”

“I have.”

Smiling into your mug, you let both warmths fill you before you went to get ready. The usual routine, you kept waiting for him to appear as a tower of terror, but he didn’t approach. Seemingly only getting ready himself, you got a goodbye peck on your way out. Carrying the press to your cheek through your commute. You worked with little worry and made it through the trip home without complaint. With anything waiting for you behind the door, you prepared yourself with a deep breath as you opened it.

Donnie stood across the room in a readied pose.

You took your time taking your jacket off and setting your bag aside before addressing him fully.

Unperturbed by the wait, you spied the style of outfit on him that you hadn’t seen in over a year. Cool pieces that were street wear reminiscent of his villain costume, sleek black utility pants were cuffed off with sharp combat boots. The understated bottoms accentuated his show stopping top where a wrap jacket was buckled off on one side and its enormous hood bowed around his shoulders, ready to conceal him at a moment’s notice.

You sensed anticipation in the air.

“Arm of the couch.”

Looking where he directed, there were clothes there. A splash of black with some gold accenting, you slid a hand over the cotton and what felt some stiffness mixed in. “Not really scary.”

“Stand off.”

“You have to give me a little bit more.”

“Change. You’ll see.” He walked off into the bedroom.

Staring after him and feeling a bit like you walked into a cut scene unprepared, you stripped. For clothes that definitely weren’t yours, they were tailored to your exact measurement and felt the epitome of comfort. Black pants hugged your body just right, but had a flexibility that you could move freely in. Doing a testing stomp in your own shiny new pair of steel toed boots, you looked over your arms. With one bare and the other emerging from a ballooned sleeve that was attached with a ring to your middle finger, you were wearing what you could only think of as a corseted hoodie. The top had the usual loose nature with a hood, but it was cinched around your waist and was obviously missing one of its sleeves. It gave you free roving motion to your dominant hand and perfectly coordinated with reaching to your hip where a pouch was strapped to that leg. Patting the pocket found something with a grip inside.

The only piece left that you hadn’t put on was a golden yellow bandana. Similar to his, it was missing the eye holes, so you carried it along as you walked over to the partition between rooms. “Don, what do I do with the-?”

You heard a warp of metal and watched as his bo extended to full height.

“Mask, if you prefer anonymity.”

“Like a cowboy.” You mimed holding up the fabric over your mouth.

He gave a nod and readied his stance.

“You haven’t really trained me to fight…” You felt jumpy and ready to dig into that holster.

“What have I taught you?” He charged forward, clearly holding back.

Using the golden mask, you blocked his bo as he telegraphed his swing.

“Not bad. Deflect would have been better.”

Twisting the fabric and tossing one end over the other, you looped it around his staff and yanked it to the side.

It brought his face up to yours.

“Mano e mano! I get it now.” You grinned.

“Tell me where my gauntlet is.” His voice husked.

“Never!” You lowered your center of gravity and twisted your arms around the mask to spin the staff.

He let it get sent further away.

Stumbling a few feet away from him and further into the bedroom, you panicked as he turned for another strike. A flick of his gaze hit your hip and you dug for whatever weapon was there. Finding two objects inside, you unceremoniously got one into each hand and then threw your arms out in a readied way that you had seen Leo do. The flick extended something and you had to glance down to see you were holding two extendable batons. “Are these legal!?”

He dropped his act for a moment to give you a bitterly sardonic stare.

Puffing up in annoyance, you charged him and he blocked with ease.

Though you had no idea what you were doing, you could feel his expertise. Through each swing, he was also leading you in what to do next. Teaching on the fly, he emboldened you to push harder. It culminated in a dancing duel around the apartment where you exchanged blow after blow. Neither of you once getting physically struck, you knew he could disable you in a heartbeat. Instead, it was about the battle and the heat to it. Charged from exhilaration and exertion, you pushed him back until he flipped over the couch.

He landed on the toes of his good foot on the coffee table and balanced his staff perpendicular to his body on his other raised knee to appraise you with an overflowing expression.

Further boosted by his pride, you squared for a stronger stance and lifted your batons. “Give up?”

“Yield and tell me where it is.” He responded coolly.

“Eh.” You gave a little shrug. “Don’t wanna.”

“Suit yourself.” With only the slightest dip, he launched, almost brushing the ceiling and you had to squander a few steps back. Losing your footing, he landed a force around you with his bo. The staff pressed across your front and, in a twirl that blurred your vision, he shoved upward. It manipulated the batons clean out of your hands and pinned your wrists above your head in one fluid movement. “Mercy?” He teased hot breath along your jawline.

Able to feel the staff with your fingers, you feigned your most pitiful expression which he ate up. Something you’d known from groping it before, it took only a quick slide for you to find the telescoping mechanism. His staff collapsed above you and you kneed into his stomach. Holding back since there was no air to press out and its firm surface would only damage you, you instead used it as a pressure point to throw your weight into him. Having lost his hand hold, it was just enough to throw him off and you both fell back onto the floor.

He scrambled for leverage and you fought to grab his hands. A silly squabble to an outsider, you caught a wrist of one hand and a single digit of his other to force them to his throat since you couldn’t manage over his head.

Leaning over him and panting, you smiled. “How about you beg?”

His grin grew wicked and you couldn’t steel yourself in time as his knees kicked up and his thighs slammed into your ass. It popped you forward until you were almost straddling his face and broke your grip. Swift, his arms swept downward to lock onto your thighs, but you dug your knees into the sides of his shell. Throwing all your weight to one side, he only caught one hip before you crushed said arm to the ground as you rolled. Momentum put him momentarily on top before it continued and you were the victor once again.

Kicking a foot out, you caught a sprawled limb under your boot and crossed his body to exert the rest of your force on his other arm. “Well!?”

He gave a breathy laugh. “Well done, where’d you learn that?”

“I didn’t. Full luck.” You giggled at him.

“I want you.” He purred.

A little shudder wiggled your hips. “Don’t cheat like that…!”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

“A trick.” You pursed your lips.

“Tempting, but not that.” He whispered softly as himself and then projected his voice to show he was back in character. “Why fight when we could work together?”

“I betrayed you, stole from you, what’s to say you won’t do the same to me?” You put on your best glower. “I’ve got nothing to lose.”

“You also can’t end me like this.”

Shifting your boot where it was digging into his arm, you looked over to find he was right. He could probably break this entrapment now, but under the guise of the battle all you could do was continue to pin him. “Give me your staff as collateral.”

“It’s behind you.”

Staring him down for a long moment, you jumped away and scrambled to get it.

He was slow to sit up and show you his hands.

You extended his staff and kicked your lost batons away where they slid somewhere into the bedroom.

“To an exceedingly beneficial partnership.” He grinned.

“I’ll listen and nothing more.” You waited for the turn coat and got to your feet.

His hands stayed where you could see them. “A change of scenery?”

You adjusted your posture for a question.

The far finger on one of his hands came to his thumb.

You held his staff ready to whack him.

He turned his hand over and snapped.

The lights went out.

Backing up where it was suddenly pitch black, you heard several pieces of furniture move until the lights came back on to a far lesser degree. It took a few adjusting blinks, but you found the sofa and coffee table had been pushed flush to the wall with the door. In its place sat a lovely round table, set ready for a romantic dinner. Around the room were now candles, all lit for a flickering honey amber glow.

“Wha-?” The bo loosened in your grip.

“I take my partnerships quite seriously.” Donnie stood ready in the kitchen.

“You…” At a loss, you walked over to the table. “You… uh… could have… poisoned it?”

“How does that benefit me?” He gestured for you to sit. “It would not reveal the information I seek.”

You collapsed the staff and sat down in the chair across from him. “From fighting to wine and dining?”

“I play to my advantage.”

“No scruples.” You looked over your place setting and the cutely folded napkin in the center of your plate.

“Some may say.” He turned and you noticed a large strange contraption on the counter. It just barely fit under the upper cabinets and had the look of a mini fridge. Grabbing a metal handle, it had an unlatching mechanism and it clicked to open. A puff of steamy air poured out and he reached in to remove two plates. A gourmet looking meal, he walked them over and exuded power.

You felt like you had already lost as you pulled your napkin into your lap.

He set your plate down without clinking the china and passed you a coy look.

You returned it with an unsure one and he simply smiled as he placed his own plate down. Smoothly taking his seat and flicking his napkin for placement over his legs, he scooped up a knife and fork to address you. “I see talent in you.”

“Should I be flattered?” Your mouth watered as the smell wafted up.

“Up to you. I would be.”

“Such an ego.” You cut into a steak medallion and marveled how your knife slid through it like butter.

“When one can back it up?” He took his first bite and watched you while he chewed.

“What do I get out of it?” You smeared into a sauce and when you put it in your lips you had to break character to swoon.

He did the same to savor your reaction.

Clearing your throat, a little embarrassed, you tried the sides next. “Well?”

“Besides my tutelage?”

“Yes.” Turning your head from the bite, a happy little moan leaked from you.

You heard a little rhythmic thump and he was forced to readjust his posture.

Your heart somersaulted.

You could see a faint dusting to his cheeks. “You’d have my everything to command. My empire shared.”

“All for some gauntlet?”

“All for being the first to deceive me.”

There was something about his face.

That phrase was both in character and not.

The weight of truth shifting the scales, you had to openly gape.

That couldn’t be possible, could it?

No, he had scars to prove otherwise.

“Donnie-”

“Flukes.”

He read your mind and felt yourself sharply inhale.

“Not praying on naivety, jumping on a moment of weakness, or making a move while I was already down.”

You had to rest your fork and knife on the edge of your plate.

“You named your intent and executed. I am at your mercy. You are the first and only.”

Vision shifting, you returned to your plate and took a few bites in rapid succession to stave off your closing throat.

Across from you, you could feel his smile as he continued to dine the same.

You made it about halfway through before you went for a drink to find there wasn’t one.

He scrambled up and into the kitchen where he quickly returned with two full glasses.

Your smile felt like it took up your whole face.

You loved him.

Taking in the space along with a sip, you returned to him with the intention of giving your answer.

“I must have you.” He interjected before you could.

“You’ll over do it.”

“Impossible.” He dabbed his mouth before rounding the table.

He knelt in front of you and your entire body constricted.

He’d already said he wouldn’t confess his love under this guise so you hoped that extended to a proposal.

“What are you doing?” You held onto the pieces of your voice.

“There will always be more.” He held out his hand and you slipped yours into it. “My affections for you have no limit. They will continue to grow as long as you give them even the slightest attention. I’m bewitched and at your mercy.”

“which you didn’t call it earlier.” You almost felt bad interrupting his speech.

His grin said he didn’t mind. “Show my devotion under duress? When I can present of my own volition?” He brought your hand forward for a chaste kiss.

You melted. “You’re showing me your whole heart. Don’t you want to leave something to the imagination?”

“No. I only want you.”

“You’ve missed something.”

He dropped his sweet nothings to stare with genuine surprise. “What?”

“You already have me.”

He surged forward and caught you in a kiss. Draping your arms over his shoulders, you stoked the flames for a more tender press and he melted against you. Stealing as many as some unknown appropriateness allowed, he eventually retreated reluctantly. Parting with an extra peck to your knuckles, he held your hand as he crossed the table to return to his seat.

“I’ll need that to finish this amazing meal.”

“Sweet sorrow.” He mused, letting go.

You sent your lingering blush to your plate and took a few more bites.

“I may have jumped the gun.” He had a normal candor to his voice and you assumed the role play was over.

“Yeah?”

“I meant to do that with dessert.” He seemed a little irritated and bit his fork a little too hard.

“What else did you make?”

“Soufflé.”

“Shut up.”

“One vanilla, one chocolate.”

“Did they both turn out?”

“Hadn’t fallen last I checked.”

“I’ve never had a fresh one!”

“I hope to do it justice.”

Grinning, you hurried to finish your meal and he cleaned his plate. He then cleared the dishes for you and refreshed you with a glass of water which you sipped as he went to get the next course. “What is that thing?”

“This?” He set the plates down and gestured to the box. “A warmer to maintain the food.”

“The plates weren’t hot.”

“Smart technology.”

“Are the soufflés in there?”

“Yes, I have concerns about the scent transfer.” He readied for the hot air as he opened the door. “Hm.”

“How is it?”

“Haven’t fallen, but the smell…”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

He whisked two large ramekins out and your eyes shot wide in excitement at the fluffy overflowing desserts.

Getting up on sheer instinct, you walked over to him and he set them down on the counter for you to inspect. “If I poke it will it collapse?”

“Best to do with a spoon.”

“Fine, fine.” You feigned throwing your hands up and headed back to the table. “Oh, yeah!”

He hummed a questioning response as he approached.

“You won, let me get your gauntlet.” You passed the table heading toward the door.

“The dessert…” He sounded sullen as you left him.

“What about it?” You grabbed the gauntlet off the astronaut and turned.

His limbs sank and you watched the soufflés tip in his grasp.

“Ah, Donnie!”

They hit the floor before you could reach him.

“What happened? Why?!”

“Do that again.”

“What?” You surveyed the damage, steering clear of stepping in the fallen dish.

“Again.”

Unaccustomed to that bitter heat, you shrank a little into yourself.

He didn’t relent so you returned to the astronaut and hovered.

“Place it.”

You set it down as it was, nerves shaking your fingers.

He stared hard at you until you had to break eye contact.

“Pick it up.”

You did so and were slow to walk it over with your eyes glued to the ground.

“This whole time…” He sounded a step away from rage.

Feeling worse than the dessert looked, you held out the gauntlet.

You felt the weight of it leave your hand.

It brought anxious words to your lips. “I-I never thought I was outsmarting you. I just thought… you hide things in plain sight. It’s a trope or something. I wasn’t trying to humiliate you. I didn’t think it was clever. I’m sor-”

Something brushed your arm.

Having not seen it, you looked up to find him standing beside you. He wasn't facing you and was instead staring down at the table with an unreadable expression. Feeling hopeless, you watched as he reached out and caught the table cloth. Wincing in preparation, he gathered up each edge slowly and methodically. Everything on the table tipped and fell including your water which splashed before he tied the whole thing up into a giant bundle.

“Donnie, please-!”

Grabbing the knot, he tossed the entire sack into the kitchen where the dishes shattered inside.

“Donatello!”

He addressed you and you froze under the scalding heat pouring off of him.

Knees feeling weak, he held out his hand and on pure instinct you slotted yours into it. With the faintest pull, he led you the step to the table where you got the sense he wanted you to sit. Turning within his grasp to do so, you hopped up at nearly the same time he dropped to his knees. His name on your lips again, you almost spoke it when his fingers slid behind your ankle as if you were a porcelain doll. Something infinitely precious, he brought your left foot up and set your boot on his thigh. He then began the exceedingly careful action of unlacing your boots and you could only watch him with growing interest.

With one final tug, he pulled the lace free and only then worked to remove your boot. A slow rock to release it from your foot, he was just as careful in setting the shoe aside. Hooking the top of your sock with an attentive digit, he rolled the fabric down until your foot was free.

Your nerves flared as he cradled your arch.

You hadn’t had a chance to shower after the whole work day or from the following workout. “D-Don, wait!”

Ignoring you, his face lowered and he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your foot.

Sparks shot off at the delicate nature and he lifted only a few centimeters before placing another.

Your thighs pressed together and he continued his trek up until your pant leg stopped him. He then left you only to repeat the same process with your other foot. By the time he reached your hem a second time, you were love struck. Painting your utter being, you sent the adoration down to him where you saw it returned as he closed in. Coming up like you willed him to, he stopped short and a complaint died on your lips.

Fingers barely brushing your hips, he found your waistband and traced it toward the center. Not fully touching as if you’d shatter with the slightest pressure, he got the button undone and the sound of the zipper going down unraveled your mind. Hips trying to meet his hands, he left your fly down and moved to tuck his digits into your hem. Your arch helped and he used the space to shimmy the fabric down.

Slow and deliberate, he took your underwear down with the pair as he peeled the bottoms from you. Twitching with each inadvertent graze, it was the absence of lust that was your undoing. Pants pooling around your ankles, he removed the fabric one leg at a time before he neatly folded the clothes. Setting them aside as if they were precious garments, he gazed up at your legs as if he had never seen you uncovered before.

A creature unlike any other, his hands hovered, afraid to sully your perfection. Squirming to try to meet him, he avoided you with a near clinical nature until he ditched his research to feel you anew. Starting right where he’d left off on your right foot, he explored with his lips and snout as he tasted every inch of your flesh. Rounding the entirety of your calf before he would move upward, you were panting his name by the time he hit your knees. Nuzzling at the sound was the only indication he was aware of you. He worked your round thigh and avoided the area between your legs.

Shuddering as he mouthed up to the joint of your hip, he descended again and you almost wished you were a mermaid. Something with a singular lower body, you wanted him to continue forward instead of having to reset. A beached siren, you would sing him a sweet melody if only he would abandon his ship and offer himself up to you.

Moving through the same steps, this time when he reached your other hip socket, his hand extended in a testing brush of your cotton top. Tracing the gold boning in your corset, he skipped over your chest for drawstrings. Toying with the aglet, he removed himself from you and appeared to hover in your face. Sensing him like one would a hummingbird and fearing he’d disappear, you reached out.

He caught your hand and you waited with a weak whine in case he’d push it away, he instead pulled it close. Curling your digits to cup his cheek, he leaned his weight there while staring love into your eyes. Lips parting for a shaky breath, he gave a little nod before he turned to nose and kiss your palm. Needing more, but unable to extrapolate, you watched him put your hand back where you had been gripping the table’s edge for dear life.

He shifted focus with closed eyes as he reached behind you to undo the corset’s ties. The fabric soon loosened and he followed the hem around to the side. Lifting your arms, ready for him, he pulled up with the same rolling move to bunch the fabric as much as it would allow. Boning prevented much, but he got to your armpits before he adjusted his grip to flip the top off of you.

Feeling a sweep of relief that air-cooled skin granted, he was slow at receding as if it brought your being into focus. Wanting to scream that you were already his possession, his arms disappeared around your back again and you readied yourself for your bra to be removed. A silent pop, the fabric let go of its hold on you and he traced up feathered touches over your shoulder straps. Sliding them off one at a time, by the time the band unseated from below your breasts, you were gnawing on your now raw lip.

Thumbing over your chin to stop you, a mewl leaked out and his eyes watered at the sound. Wanting to soothe him or do anything other than hang on, you couldn’t wrench your fingers free as he knelt once again. Following up his predetermined path, he planted rows of kisses across your stomach. Yielding an immediate crop, you were on your back of your own volition and he only continued to sow.

Reverent to a fault, he filled the expanse of your torso without shifting to erogenous duty. Your breasts were simply more skin for him to trace. Etching your soul to paper for use in great academic discovery, he diverted course as he hit your collar and shifted to your left shoulder. Arm detaching from you for his own use, he curled his fingers under your wrist to lift further as he worked his way down. Feeling it in your very veins, you mourned what you did not know you needed. Something beyond you and of a higher existence, you could only tell for certain that it wasn’t sexual.

Infinitely more, the signals crossed in a way you couldn’t repair. Not made for his actions, you could only tell that what was between your legs felt inappropriate. Your leaking desire made a mockery of his work and you despised that it wasn’t within your power to stop. Wanting to be a pious vessel for him, your being quaked as he seared off each of your fingertips with a kiss.

Knowing that meant one more round, your head lolled as he returned to your chest. Making a V, he trended the other direction across your right shoulder and, in a swerve, your head bumped his. It knocked him out of his stupor where he briskly rubbed his cheek to yours. An animal-like contact, you returned with as much as you could before he deemed the interaction satisfactory and continued his work.

A puppet without strings, he sought your joints as he kissed across your other arm. Once carved and now painted, you moved for him. A master of none, he was reveled in you though he’d been the one to drain you of yourself. He animated through his lips and you only wanted for him to use you more. Feeling useless without him, he capped off the ends of your digits and appeared again, that roving elusive bird.

You thought you might fall over and he must have noticed because he grabbed your shoulders. Mentally thanking him, your head tipped forward and you felt him push. Odd as he had been more interested in operating around you, you resisted the move until you realized how you were being piloted. It was a turn and you felt doused in the fact that he hadn’t been able to reach your back.

“I can’t…” Your whine hit your ears.

You couldn’t move.

You’d plummet over the edge.

You’d leave this world.

You needed his anchor.

“You can.” He spoke warm beside your head.

Feeling a deep throb within your body, you couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken.

His voice now a foreign one, you shook your head and he let it fall to his shoulder.

“You can.” He repeated with a nuzzle.

A strung out noise pulled from you, you heeded his direction and he got you turned around. Edging you to curl forward and expose your spine to him, you imagined he would flay off chunks of your meat like a fish. Carving skills learned from years of training, he’d yield perfect filets and sear them off with only salt for flavor.

His lips hitting the base of your neck, you unintentionally cried out for the blade. None came and instead he kissed the worries away with each baked press. A toasted stone, it helped ground you and, as he filled out the expanse of you, some of your sanity returned. Tickling toward the center of your spine and downward, it caused muscle groups you’d long forgotten to contract. A writhing mess by the time he inched around your hips, he had to hold you down because you kept trying to rise off the table.

When he left you for a momentary reprieve, it felt like a breath. The first after near suffocation, it was a deep respite of illumination. Drinking in enlightenment, the rustling of fabric signified the change of being. Reality was being swapped and you were an autonomous being. As much of a fact that was, you also couldn't help your tether to Donnie. Newly born, his forging was of his responsibility.

With a show of hands, he returned, standing, and picked up at your hairline. Moving up to your crown, you rolled your neck back to give him access as he worked his fingers into where his lips could not. Soon staring at the ceiling with some sort of sight, something moist barely tapped the top edge of one of your butt cheeks and your eyes widened as you placed it as his cock.

He was not so innocent.

You were the same.

Keenly alive, you broke free from the last of your bindings and left him. He watched on, a painting of a mortal who’d tasted ambrosia and you the god doomed to fall. Your back turned to him, you got on legs that you knew would hold you. It was your body to command and the you who only moments ago thought otherwise felt like some curse you'd broken free from.

An immortal unfairly imprisoned, his existence shifted as you stood nude and powerful. He was no master and had instead come to possess you momentarily. He was an ear to coax and despite your allure, he'd been the one to free you of his own violation. Shifting your weight from hip to hip, your head lifted high as you finally turned to him.

Whatever expression you wore destroyed what was left of him.

Caught having touched what no mortal should, a pathetic chirp exited his body and you approached.

Falling like a tower, he was forced to kneel as you towered over him.

Save for his eyes glued to yours, his being screamed of his lowly station.

A smile picking up your lips, he chirped again, even more pitiful, as you finished your approach. Where he looked up at the object of his worship, you shifted your weight to your right foot. Lifting the left that he started all this with, you touched the tip of your big toe to his pectoral scutes. Spurned by your being, he crumpled backward as you exerted pressure.

Placing the full force of your foot to ensure he’d stay down, he squeaked his compliance and you removed the appendage to regard the whole of him. Laying on his carapace, he spread with full submission and his cock swayed to flag you down. Regarding the organ with the affection that one might give an old childhood toy, you traced the line of his plastron to his face. Gaze piteous for his transgressions, you walked the side of him before moving to place a foot on either side of his head.

It gave him an unencumbered view of your sex and you watched him regard what was above him like a rare bloom. One only fated to have its petals spread once a century, you adjusted your stance a final time before dropping down. Knowing this to be his only chance, he caught your thighs as you sat on his face.

Tipping the bowl back to drink your everything in, your knees hit the floor and you cried out as his tongue pressed into you. Scorching heat of your defiling fall, you were sent further forward. You imagined he gave up breathing in exchange for this moment and you were forced to slap a hand to the floor to keep from doing an outright somersault. Eating you out like his very life depended on it, your other hand buried into his mask, pulling on the fabric and you shoved down the top of his head to make sure he served your ethereal being as he should.

Nails bit your thighs as his snout nudged your clit. His tongue still buried, the appendage felt endless as he siphoned all he could. Your life force tied directly to his, your orgasm felt like it was coaxed by fate. Something needing to culminate to prove that both of you still existed in your current forms, the winding felt like a woven cloth. Made by the fates, the spool rotating for the world’s loom, you shouted.

His only signal, you ground down into him, snuffed out the last of his breath. Cumming only for your pleasure, you allowed your body to spasm and your voice carried the necessary tune. The design of which was orchestrated by him and you felt him still as he drank in the sound along with the last of your juices. Feeling weak and cut off from the god’s might, you slumped, arms no longer made to bear a load of mortality.

You were rising from your fall and it made no sense until you felt him readjust his hold. Dizzy and drunk off your own supply of chemicals, you slacked above him. Moving further, you were deposited onto the flat of his stomach and when his plastron pressed to your sex, you gave an overtaxed jolt. He chirped sweet nothings and aided in your come down until you were again clay for him to mold.

Formless, he searched for your shape, afraid to touch in case the wrong form be built. Reverted to your essential dogma, you needed to help your mate. Your hands rose on this instinct and you watched them as they moved to grab your own breasts. Rolling the fat sacks in your hands, they took what had to be the right shape so you left them. Trending downward, you squeezed bits of yourself, pinching skin and molding what had yet to find its place. Leading down your body and to the little pool you created over his stomach, a touch down into your sex cemented the last of you.

Ready to be fired, he was brimstone and his kiln sat at attention behind you. Lifting on clay limbs, they held your form up long enough to deliver it to the fires. There you dropped and felt yourself split in two as his cock plunged into your body. A snarl ripped from your partner and you felt weak as his Hephaestusian powers awoke. The volcano itself, he sought to overwhelm you. It was all too much and the words you formed made little sense. The foreign tongue couldn't reach you and you were trapped in the lava flow.

He hadn’t moved.

You had only been tossed in for your first fire in an attempt to set, bone dry.

Now paled and ready for the final cook, your hands appeared in your vision. Curious spread digits, they reached out until they found the ridge of his pectoral scutes. As soon you made contact, his own flew up to catch your wrists as if you'd mistakenly committed some great taboo. Afraid of what that might be, his face contorted as your body moved with his. His distress troubled you and you meant to soothe him. Reminding you of your connection, you clenched his cock and the twine paining him snapped.

A vibration revved so intense you saw the minor quiver of your fingers. Lifting one hand up to observe the phenomena, it disappeared up close and you frowned. Looking down to see the other hand still shaking, your brows scrunched as you tried to make sense of where the source was. Far stronger than your tech gauntlet, it seemed to stem from where you touched Donnie. Having seen him just injured, you felt like a bother for putting that jittery sensation onto him.

You'd have to let go to save him.

He still had your wrists cuffed so when you tried to retreat, he wouldn’t let you.

“Let go…” You protested.

He shook his head.

“What?” Your lips felt lame.

He pulled hard on your hands.

It tugged your digits up until your fingertips curled over the edge of his plastron. Skimming the skin above, you felt his chest oscillating at a higher frequency.

The vibration was coming from him.

Now searching for the exact source, you encircled his neck to find it there along with a guttural purr echoing from his throat. “I don’t understand…?”

“Churr.” He could barely get the word out as the sound swallowed up his voice.

“Churr.” You repeated the incantation and he gave a smile as the power turned up.

Hands now another connection point, this churr shook your very bone structure. The circuit completed, you again clamped down on his cock. He squeaked through the churr and you felt yourself descend. Not letting you traverse the depths alone, he encircled you as you finally began to ride him. A drag of your hips churned the water into a whirlpool that threatened to swallow you whole. Your partner, a devolution of chirps and churrs, disturbed the fluidity and kept you afloat until he forced you upright.

Folding overtop you, his knees kicked up as your backrest and you were buried into his chest. Feeling whole, your limbs wrapped around him as you rocked together. A pump to keep the water filling your vessel from sinking the ship, the back and forth exchange staved off the storm. Calypso christening your union, you felt like crying and the thought manifested tiny water droplets. Confused as your face wasn’t wet, you searched for the new leak and found it on Donnie's cheeks.

Brushing furiously to shoo the invaders away, you saw love as the source of the well. Forever bound, the overflow sought your ducts until you dripped with little commiserations. Closer than ever, he brought your foreheads together for further commingling. His churrs echoed in your ears and quieted all useless noise. It slowed time until neither of you rocked and resorted to the smallest grind.

Depths plugged satisfactorily, the micromovements were only meant to maintain the connection. Growing weaker by the second because you had all you needed, you kissed and it felt like something new. Whether it was the roleplay or his new ability, your lip lock enhanced and he waxed poetic; there was no upper limit to his love. Soaring on the thought, it was amongst a thousand shallow thrusts that you came.

Having had no warning of your orgasm, when it struck, you drowned in the many tears. Something silent beyond guppy gasps, your wrenching signaled his own. Mind lost to the white noise of his churr, your wringing forced him to join you. His breath, his vibrations, and his cum brought true silence as your existence had been fully excavated. With Donnie’s locked knees as the only thing keeping either of you upright, you slacked against one another. Toasty, you allowed yourself to sleep, just like that.

Waking was brought about by a jostle to your body. Wanting to doze for many more hours, you frustratingly found the room much darker than you’d left it. Many of the candles had burnt out while a few hung on, flickering with their last breath. Your head rolled to find a clock. You could almost see the one in the kitchen and, though it was upside down, you thought it read sometime after midnight based on the shape of the digits.

It meant you’d been like this for hours and it was Donnie who struggled to rise. Breaking the calcified seal of your hips brought an ache that cemented the time frame and you both groaned loudly to free yourselves. Uncoordinated and a mess, you fell away from one another. Weak and not wanting to lie on the floor a second more, you were the first to get on your hands and knees where his spent leaked down your legs.

Feeling like a filthy animal, you dropped your ass down and let his cum drip to the floor as you forced your bearings. They didn't come readily and you had to tap reserves. Summing all you could, you noticed a ramekin laying on its side. Reaching for it, its cool touch helped with your bearings and you turned it to find some kind of gooey mixture inside. There were spoons once, a far thought reminded you, but their absence meant you had to forage. With half open lids, you caught a nearby chair to get yourself upright.

Toting your prize along with your stumbling and trembling form, you made it to the kitchen and found blessed rest against a counter. Another chill that you despised for its wakefulness, you gathered enough strength to register you were close to the silverware drawer. Wondering about the mystery mixture, you took an embarrassing amount of time to draw a single spoon from the rest. Not to be deterred by one struggle, you rushed as soon as you had a utensil and plunged it into the dish. Getting a solid scoop of white fluff, you brought it to your lips for a burst of sweetness.

“Can… I have… one?” A raspy voice sounded beside you.

Looking with surprise, you found Donnie the source and wondered what had happened to have ruined his throat in such a way.

Unable to place it, you delved out another scoop and held it up to him.

He had to hold himself with one hand to the counter, but he leaned toward enough to take the bite and relished it without releasing the spoon from his teeth.

“That’s my soufflé.” Your own voice wasn't near as destroyed, but sounded thin upon listening.

Frowning around your utensil, he allowed you to pull it out only to ask something. “You… don’t… want… some of… this…one?” He shook another ramekin.

“Chocolate.” You remembered as pieces started to assemble.

He nodded and scooped a spoon for himself out from the drawer that had been left open. Trying his gathered treat first as you had, he made a bitter face. “Cold…”

“So’s this one.” You noted, leaning into him to await your bite.

He took a while getting a good amount onto his spoon before offering it to you.

Like him, you held it with your teeth before the flavor made you release. “It’s good.”

He got out a repulsed grunt before he was struck with what looked like a migraine.

“You okay?”

“That’s… your first…” He grouched.

A laugh shined brightly through the dark before you realized it was coming from you.

He returned it with a smoker’s enthusiasm and you got your strength up by feeding one soufflés. It got you both ambling, unwashed, toward bed. In the morning you knew you would hate the decision, but until then, the mattress felt incredible. Amongst soft sheets that only wanted to soothe achy bodies, you snuggled in and found Donnie hadn’t been as close behind you as you thought. Searching for him reluctantly, you watched him trail up with something in his hands. Not huge, but an odd shape, he set it down with enough force that you couldn't help but get a good look at it.

He took his miniaturized tech gauntlet and placed it, like a visor, on the astronaut's helmet.

The toy was undoubtedly cursed, but the little guy had shown a higher aptitude for this sort of guard duty. Ruminating on his line of work, you let sleep take you as your partner collapsed by your side.

You know my many merry holidays and thanks go out equally to my darling betas @tmntxthings and @thepinkpanther83

#weakspotfic #rottmnt #rottmnt donnie x reader #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt #rottmnt x reader #donatello hamato #donnie x reader #rise donnie #rise donnie x reader #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt donatello #me #fanfiction #my fanfiction

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jeanette-luminia · 1 year

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𝐋𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐚 𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

New years Joy : New years are always loud and chaotic, but watching her made it peaceful.

Lie when you Cry : Yoy was getting better, and everything was doing fine. but then it all came crashing down. you broke her promise, is she mad about it?

Different Perspectives : She admired the tattoo you got that was engraved with her initials, she wonders why you would do such a thing. To her, she wasn't the standard of a woman, to you, she was a goddess.

Needed to hear : Your mother's visit was unpleasant. Larissa said the things you have been dreading for your mother to tell you.

There for you : Larissa is a strong woman, adored by everyone, and a role model to young students at nevermore Academy. But every strong woman has a limit, even her.

Bravest thing : "What's the bravest you've ever done?" "Asking for help."

Pretty Girl : She gets flustered seeing your body with only your swing suit on a beach,

I found you : You got lost on the train with Larissa, and when you saw her, she was already staring at you.

Would have been the One : Hey can you do a Larissa x femreader where reader insecurities get the best of her (age gap and how she looks maybe) and Larissa being stressed with work just push her more down to that hole and there's no happy ending...... sorry i just want to have a good cry

Deadlines : Larissa x Autistic reader where they have a meltdown & Larissa finds them & comforts them n just a lot of fluff n kisses

Valentine Kiss : I would like to make a Larissa Weems X Fem reader request where r is a teacher at Nevermore and Larissa just has a huge crush on her (the crush is mutual ofcourse). And she decides to get r a bouquet of flowers and a gift (favourite book, coat to match Larissa, piece of jewelry, anything of that sort) on Valentine's day and asks her out.

Que r getting all mushy and giving Larissa many kisses, maybe even a cuddle scene afterwards if you're up for it!

Malfunction : may i ask for a fic where everytime larissa smiles, whether it be directed to reader or to someone else, reader just... malfunctions. like stopping or forgetting whatever she's doing for a moment and smiling like an idiot, who still does her best to compose herself because she needs to do things but larissa's smile is really making it difficult. so, reader decided to take a breather outside but then larissa followed her. cue to reader saying "one more smile and you'll be the death of me" or something. i just want the fluffiest fluff to ever fluff, if it's okay with you.

Confused Feelings : Okay okay so I just read your most recent Larissa x reader and thought “what if it’s reversed?” Where instead of reader malfunctioning, it’s Larissa and it makes her confused at first because she’s usually so well composed but whenever she sees reader she just turns to mush. She later realizes she has feeling for reader but they’re very clueless and thinks they are doing something wrong because Larissa would avoid them whenever they’re alone. But still fluffy ending. Thank you!!

Second Chance : Hi!! can I request a Larissa x teacher!reader with a really shy reader but is also a people pleaser. Basically reader finally asks Larissa out on a date. Reader wanted it to be the best date ever so they planned a lot but Larissa completely forgets. And I mean like maybe a few days have passed and she still hasn’t remembered because of work. Reader doesn’t want to make a fuss so acts okay but also avoids Larissa a little until one day, Marilyn (just Marilyn) who is reader’s best friend who was maybe away for a conference comes back and asks Larissa how the big date went and Larissa panics and apologizes to reader and asks for a second chance. Fluffy ending please. Thank you!!

A Family : Hello i love your job. My request is could you write a fic where Larissa and reader are dog moms🙏🏻

Tolerate : Hey, i wanna thank you for the "Whould had been the one" fic! Seriously it made me cry!! You took exactly what i was looking for, so thank you!! 💞 and i want to request another one if it's not a problem, Larissa x femreader inspired in tolerate it by taylor swift!

Marry me : Any chance you'd write a super fluffy piece Larissa x fem!reader, Larissa has always wanted to go to a ball and loves the classic piece "on the beautiful blue danube" so reader surprises her with a trip to Vienna (can be anywhere, but Vienna and waltz kinda go together) and they have a super romantic evening and dance until morning? I just have this super soft image of Larissa dancing in a super flowy dress to a classic piece of music being regal and all. Thank you.:) If you're not interested it's also cool, I'll just keep dreaming. :)

Trust me again (I will show you) : After four years of separation, now being married to someone, Larissa finally finds out about your relationship with him. [PART TWO OF "WOULD HAVE BEEN THE ONE."]

Heart like hers.

#☕: writes #masterlist #larissa weems x reader

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brighteyedbushybrowed · 1 year

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𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 It turns out that Mary isn't as experienced as you first assumed he was, but that's not the only surprise you're going to get. 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐲 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 First Kiss 𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐩(𝐬) Mary Goore x GN!Reader 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 No smut here, Mary has long blonde hair in this one because I said so, Mary is inexperienced, first kiss (obviously), I made a bad pun about ghosting that I find absolutely hilarious (anyone who says it's not funny is wrong actually). 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 1439 words. 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 I'm still in pain from yesterday but don't worry y'all, I'm still giving you a Mushy may fic today. I've only briefly proofread this to make sure I don't use gendered terms or pronouns for reader but if I've missed any please let me know and I'll fix it! 𝐊𝐨-𝐟𝐢 𝐓𝐢𝐩 𝐉𝐚𝐫

Out of the two of you, you’d expected Mary to have been the most experienced when it came to relationships and sex. Not that you hadn’t had any experience, of course. You’d dated a couple of people in school, fooled around in college, and as an adult you’d had your share of one night stands and a couple of serious relationships. You’d assumed it had been the same for Mary, especially considering he was in a band and seemed to have fans throwing themselves at him regularly enough at the bar after gigs that would have been more than happy to share a bed with him. So, when you and Mary were actually talking about relationships one night at his apartment you were surprised to be told otherwise.

“That’s bullshit!”

Mary snorted. “Why? Do I seem like I’d lie about that kind of thing?”

“Of course not. You just… I don’t know. You’re hot, you’re talented, you’re cool. I’d have thought at least one person would have kissed you by now.”

“Well, they haven’t.” They shrugged, tearing off a corner of garlic bread and plopping it in their mouth before they continued talking. “I wasn’t all that popular at school, and I was more focused on the band and writing music and keeping a roof over my head. I didn’t really stop to consider when I wanted my first kiss or who it would be with.”

Smiling, you plucked a couple of fries from the greasy takeout box and dipped them in barbecue sauce. “Come on, there must be someone you wanted to have your first kiss with.”

“Nope.”

You caught the reddening of the tops of his ears and the blush just starting to creep into his cheeks. “Lies. There’s totally someone you want to kiss, I can tell. Who is it? Is it someone I know?”

Mary wrinkled their nose and looked away, long blonde hair falling and obscuring their face. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. Now shut up and eat before the food gets cold.”

Taken aback, you averted your gaze and stared down at the food laid out on the coffee table. You’d both pitched in to buy yourselves some pizza and other various bits of takeout for the night while you watched a movie, but even though your stomach felt empty your hunger had quickly dissipated at their tone. The blonde was almost never snappy with you. In fact, you were one of the only people that they hadn’t gotten into a spat with in the four years you’d known each other.

The tension that had emerged in the air was stifling as you forced yourself to eat your food, both of you remaining silent save for the odd comment about something happening in the movie.

***

You hated the bar. The people in there always leered at you, watching you with predatory eyes every time you visited. If it were possible, you’d have waited until Mary got off work and just called or texted them instead. However, you’d been given no choice when they left all your messages on read and let your calls go to voicemail for the past four days. This was the first time you’d ever gotten into an argument with the blonde and you weren’t even sure if this was a fight. It was less fight and more flight, Mary avoiding and ignoring you every time you tried to communicate.

And it fucking sucked.

Trying to shrug off the feeling of being watched, you approached the bar and were relieved to see Mary was on shift, their long blonde locks tied back into a ponytail. You waited until they’d served their current customer before walking over to where they’d just stood, hands on your hips.

“Huh. That’s funny.”

He frowned. “What?”

You made a point of looking him up and down, leaning in to pinch his cheek. “I thought you were dead seeing as you’ve been ghosting me. Assumed you were just floating around back here in spirit form, wailing and waving some spooky chains.”

Mary swatted your hand away, trying and failing not to smile. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“No. What’s ridiculous is you ignoring me for four days without telling me what I’ve done wrong.” You rested your elbows on the bar, looking up at him expectantly. “So, spill. I’m not leaving until you explain what I’ve done so I can apologise and try to make it up to you.”

The blonde bit his lip, glancing over at one of the other bar staff. “Wait here for a moment.”

Before you could say anything in response, they strolled over to their co-worker, and you watched them talk. The colleague glanced at you briefly, giving an awkward wave, before turning back to Mary and nodding. Mary looked over at you and gestured for you to follow them before slipping out from behind the bar and towards the staff only area.

The staff room was small and harshly lit, but it was also cosy. A couple of sofas, a little kitchenette, and some lockers took up a lot of the space. You felt a swell of pride when you saw the poster, you’d made for Repugnant hanging up proudly on the wall above the sofa that Mary plopped themselves down on, patting the cushion beside them.

“Look,” you started as you sank into the seat beside him. “I don’t want our friendship to be ruined because of what happened the other night, okay? I really like you and spending time with you, and I don’t–”

Your eyes widened at the soft press of lips against yours. Of all the possible outcomes you’d thought of for tonight, Mary kissing you wasn’t one of them.

It took a moment for you to respond, eyes fluttering closed as you shakily took hold of the front of his shirt and kissed him back. There was nothing sexual behind it, for you or for him. There was just the movement of your lips against his, Mary letting you take the lead as you tilted your head and gave an experimental swipe of his bottom lip with your tongue. He quickly leaned back, panting and staring at you with a panicked expression.

“Shit. Uh…” Their face turned a pretty shade of dark pink as they hastily looked away. “I probably should have asked first. Sorry.”

The full realisation of what had just happened struck you, hard. Mary gave you their first kiss.

You weaved your fingers through theirs, squeezing their hand. “Don’t be sorry. Please.”

Their eyes briefly flickered up to yours before darting away again. “If you don’t feel the same way for me then that’s fine. I didn’t really think I had a chance with you, but I’ve wanted to do that for a few months now and when you asked me the other night, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want you to get up and leave and our friendship be over just like that.”

Cupping their chin with your free hand, you gently turned their head so that they were looking at you once more. “And who said you don’t have a chance with me, hm? Because I know I certainly didn’t.”

“Oh, well, nobody did. I just assumed–”

“Yeah, you’re damn right you assumed.” You released their face and were relieved when they didn’t try to look away again. “You could’ve asked me out on a date at any point and I’d have said yes immediately. I trust you a lot more than I trust a lot of other people, especially the customers out in the bar. You treat me with so much respect and care and it’s so easy to talk to you. You make me laugh harder than anyone else does and you’re always there when I need someone to talk to. And just so you know, I’ve wanted to kiss you for some time now too.”

Mary nodded quietly, processing your words before he responded. “Okay. Well, in that case, do you wanna… go out sometime? On a date, I mean. Not like, go out in general. You go outside every day for work. And to do groceries. And to visit me at work. And–”

This time you were the one to surprise him and pecked his lips, beaming. “A date with you sounds perfect.”

Mary grinned and pulled you into a hug, arms crushing you in his embrace as he tackled you onto your back on the sofa and the two of you burst into a bout of giggles.

You couldn’t wait to take him on his first date.

#mushy may #mary goore #mary goore x reader #mary goore x gn!reader #repugnant #fanfic #my fanfic #mine

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enam3l · 1 year

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mona i cannot get rockstar eddie and reader dancing to seals kiss from a rose outta my head man its bad

how did you read my mind! the awards show was actually based on the 1996 grammys where seal did win best song for kiss from a rose as well as bunch of other stuff!! and i kept thinking about it whilst writing the fic and never managed to include it... until now. here is a bonus just for you!

96' awards show bonus: kiss from a rose (rockstar eddie x reader) ficlet / fluff

a bonus scene for this fic

you can see all rockstar eddie x reader stories and lore at #enam3ls rockstar eddie or the masterlist! and check out my new series love, lola

There was one huge reason you were insisting on going to tonight's award show - Seal. You couldn't deny it and you didn't have to admit it thankfully because Eddie knew. He'd seen the way your eyes welled up every time 'Kiss From a Rose' came on, how you would hum or sing along under your breath and that was before you were pregnant. Since hitting the four month mark in your pregnancy, the obsession only intensified. It was played multiple times a day and Eddie didn't complain, how could he deny you of something that makes you go all cute and mushy? Plus, he'd heard it in the 'Batman Forever' movie and it was badass. After a month of hearing it endlessly and seeing your reaction, Eddie caved - he had to know what was special.

'Sweetheart...' Eddie's voice rang through the hall as he approached you in the kitchen, where you stood in his tshirt and some underwear swaying to the song.

He leant against the door frame taking in the picture, you half dressed, hair messy and making breakfast whilst dancing - it was a perfect sight. You hummed in response to the nickname, attention still mostly focused of the dulcet tones of Seal's voice.

'I gotta know... what is it about this song?'

Eddie instantly feels bad as he watches you freeze up, drop the spatula you were wielding and sees the pretty blush creep over your face. You look at the floor awkwardly, not wanting to be sucked in by his inquisitive brown eyes.

'S'embarrassing...' you mumble.

He sidles over, tucking a finger under your chin to look at him, his other hand finding yours to offer comfort.

'Come on, y/n, let me in on the secret!'

You can never refuse his cute pouty face whenever he feels left out. You sigh.

'She likes it...'

'Who?' Eddie's brow quirks up, he knows you like it - that's literally why it asks.

You look down at the bump between you.

'The baby...' you whisper.

Eddie ohs in response as your intertwined hands reach to rest on top of it. The grin on his face is adorable, she's doing it for our baby, he thinks.

'Why is that embarrassing, babe? S'cute!' Immediately he realises he's said the wrong thing as your face scrunches up and suddenly tears burst out. Shit, shit, shit, Eddie panics internally. There's no predicting with the hormones, just sometimes what he says is completely wrong and he feels awful every single time.

'Baby! What is it, what did I say?' He begs, quick to start wiping away your tears.

'She'd only move for you,' you whimper, the floodgates have opened and you try to speak between choking on sobs.

'When the doctors said soon she'd start moving at four months and she did but - but only when you were there... every time you were around, talking or touching my belly she'd respond a-and she'd never ever do it with me. But then I played the song one day and she did and you weren't there. So I kept doing it and she did it ev-every time. We dance together. She jumps around in there Eds... it's the only time she moves just for me.'

Eddie feels fucking awful. Whilst this is one of the most adorable stories he's heard, it breaks his heart knowing you'd been feeling like that and hadn't said. He can't help his own eyes prick with sympathy tears. The pair of you are sobbing messes in the middle of the kitchen.

'Y/N... I'm so sorry! I didn't realise! I'm so sorry sweetheart, you should've told me,' Eddie presses a kiss to your salty cheeks, pleased than you let him.

'Didn't want to upset you either, Eds. Like, I love how responsive she is to you but I was jealous and then finally I got to have this little thing with her. I was feeling selfish and wanted to keep it to myself,' you sniff, tears drying out finally.

'That's okay, she's your little girl. You can have it to yourselves. I don't mind!'

Sometimes it's sickening how kind and understanding Eddie is. You really married the perfect man.

'Do... do you want to see?' you ask shyly.

'Of course, I mean... are you sure? I don't want to ruin your special thing.'

You nod and replay the song. Both your hands pressed to your stomach and Eddie follows your movements as you sway. He gasps as he feels the baby begin to wiggle and bop around inside. Her little limbs pushing at the surface. He can't believe it, it's truly like she is dancing inside there. The song is replayed several times on repeat in the kitchen that morning.

So Eddie was excited himself that all three of you would now get to hear Seal singing your baby's song live. It wasn't lost on him how your dress was rose red. You knew Seal would be there because of all his nominations but you weren't certain he'd be performing. Therefore, once you'd sat in your seats and finally read the evening's programme you couldn't help the squeal you let out at seeing his name under the list of performers. Eddie nervously chuckled at your excitement, squeezing your hand, slightly terrified at what your response will be to hearing the song live.

When Seal accepts his award, you're on your feet clapping. You see Eddie's raised eyebrow and smirk.

'He deserves it!' you scowl.

Eddie can't help but notice the twinkle in your eye as you gaze at the man on stage. He nudges Gareth.

'Please tell me this guy is married or gay?' he pleads.

Gareth looks over at your beaming face and snorts.

'I hope so for your sake, man.'

Finally the moment was here, Seal was about to perform. Your tummy was full of butterflies, you felt silly for the nerves, but somehow this felt so significant. Eddie is there holding your hand. As the band kicks in, the first notes from 'Kiss For A Rose' begin to flutter through the auditorium and your grip tightens. The way your face lights up as if you were a kid on Christmas makes Eddie's heart swell. Unable to resist your cuteness, he leans over and places a chaste kiss on your bare shoulder. It doesn't take long for your baby to realise her song is on, she begins to bop and instantly both yours and Eddie's eyes fix to movement under your dress. Suddenly, Eddie has an idea. He has to make the most of this moment, it's too special. Who cares if everyone sees, you're worth everything and more?

Eddie stands, tugging you up. Your eyes widen, confused at what he's up to but the naughty grin on his face tells you everything you need to know - he's up to something. You're unable to protest, Eddie easily dragging you out of the row and into the empty aisle. He pulls you to his chest... as close as he can with the bump in the way.

You giggle, blush matching your scarlet dress. 'Eddie Munson, what the hell are you up to?' you whisper.

'Dancing, all three of us! We have to... think our little dancing bean,' and you can't say no to those pleading chocolate eyes.

Or the bouncing presence in your stomach. You nod. Eddie is quick to take your hands, clutching one and wrapping the other round his neck then putting his on your hip. Together you dance. The audience whose gaze linger at the two of you and the confused staff just blur. It's only you, Eddie, Seal and your happy bouncing little girl. Both of you look down at her, bopping around more than ever. Eddie can even feel her from your stomach being pressed to his. It's perfect.

'She's going crazy in there, hey sweetheart?' Eddie gasps.

'She's never been like this before! I think she knows she's getting her own little live show.'

Neither of you can suppress the laughter at her flailing movements.

'Jesus, babe. I don't know how you do this. Can feel her right against my stomach! She's kicking the shit out of me?'

You roll your eyes.

'I know. Why do you think I'm constantly peeing? I swear, I'd only go through this for you, Eddie Munson.'

Overwhelmed with love, the way he has been since the moment you told him you were pregnant, Eddie crushes a kiss to your lips.

'And I'll never be able to thank you enough for giving me my little wiggling princess.'

You let your head rest on Eddie's shoulder. Dancing together until the song fades away. Smiles plastered on your face at the precious moment. Both of you wondering what it'll be like to finally see your baby girl.

Eddie supposes if there's any man he has to share his girls with, Seal is worthy. He is grateful to the singer for making his wife and his baby so happy throughout the pregnancy. Also, Eddie's pretty sure he's now got the perfect middle name for your little girl - Rose.

my taglist angels: @whoahoney @lukewearingbeanies @esme-viridian @elysian-chaos @munsonology @mseddiemunson @kreepja

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sadienita · 1 year

Text

Things That Go Bump in the Night

Bang Chan & Reader (feat. Hyunjin, Jisung, and Changbin)

Word Count: 4k

Genre: Angst, Hurt / Comfort

Contents: mutual pining, nightmares & sleep paralysis, Swearing, Changbin swings the reader around

Notes: I really did start this as a comfort fic and somewhere along the line it got really angsty oops

A wide smile tugged at Chan’s lips as he threw open the door for you. You couldn’t help but match it, feeling relief at seeing him in front of you after such a long time, and such a tiring few weeks. You’d barely managed any sleep recently, too plagued by nightmares waking you every few hours. Sleeping in a new location for the weekend likely wouldn’t help but Chan liked to stay up late so maybe, just maybe, you’d stay up with him until you were so tired you simply just slept through the night for once.

Chan wrapped you in a tight hug, squeezing you against him. “I’ve missed you.” He mumbled.

“Missed you too, you dork,” you chuckled. “You’re too busy.”

“Well if you lived a little closer,” he countered.

You pulled back to meet his eye. “Touché.”

Chan chuckled at you, lingering just a moment longer with his arms around you before letting go and swooping down to grab your bag. You rolled your eyes as he ushered you into the apartment with a dramatic sweep of his hand.

“I can carry my own bags, Christopher.” You snorted.

“And what sort of gentleman would let you carry your own bags?” He questioned.

“Who the fuck told you you were a gentleman?” Came a familiar voice with a laugh. You grinned as you turned towards the kitchen to find Hyunjin leaning against the island. You made your way to him quickly, wrapping him in a hug before he could protest.

“If it isn’t my favourite whore,” you cooed, pulling back just in time to catch his eyes rolling.

“Still the same old bitch,” he replied before scrunching his nose. “I- I guess I- I kinda mis-”

“God no don’t say that,” you said quickly.

“Thank fuck,” He sighed. “If I show you too much emotion I’m legally obligated to combust.” He moved towards the fridge while Chan came into the room, having dropped off your bags in the living room.

“Surprised you’re still standing,” you chuckled, feeling Chan come up behind you and wrap an arm around you in a way he knew he wasn’t supposed to. In a way you weren’t supposed to like. “You used to be so mushy.”

Hyunjin made a disgusted face. “Yeah well when I hit 18 I changed. The teen years were dark days.”

“Aww but you were so cute,” You cooed.

“You were,” Chan confirmed.

“He was a problem,” Jisung said, a smile crossing his lips as he entered the kitchen. He was quick to hug you, squeezing you tight.

“You were the problem,” Hyunjin muttered, placing a drink on the island for you.

Jisung fully ignored him. “How're you?”

“Same old same old,” you hummed. “Just further away.”

Jisung pulled back. “I know your boss sucked but I still wish you’d stayed here.”

You pinched his cheek affectionately, watching Jisung pull back in disgust and chuckling. “I’m not that far.”

“You’re pretty far,” Hyunjin said.

“You’re too far,” Chan confirmed, pulling you away from Jisung just to coax another hug from you. You accepted it, letting him snuggle into you just a little before hearing footsteps pounding down the hallway. Chan let go of you and you turned just in time to see Changbin barreling at you into the kitchen. You screamed as he wrapped you up in his arms, using his momentum to spin you around in a tight hug. You gripped onto him for dear life, even once he slowed and set you down properly.

You kept a death grip on his shoulder as you tried to blink away the dizziness while the room still moved. “Good to see you, Binnie,” you mumbled.

“Back at ya,” He chuckled, making his way to the fridge like nothing of note had happened.

“Well, now that you’re thoroughly reacquainted,” Chan said, “How ‘bout I order some pizza and we get a movie started?”

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

The chatter had, eventually, died down. Jisung and Hyunjin spent the first half hour adding their commentary to the film, initially to everyone’s delight but eventually building annoyance and getting pillows and blankets thrown at them until they relented and watched quietly for the rest of the film. You were squeezed between Chan and Jisung on the couch that was clearly meant for two people but you hardly minded, their warmth more comforting than anything.

When the second movie started Hyunjin took off to his room, thoroughly tired of interaction and ready to spend the remainder of his evening drawing. Still, the rest of you refilled on snacks and settled in for the movie. And though it was late by the end and Changbin decided to turn in, Jisung and Chan stayed.

You knew Chan would stay up as late as you wanted, possibly even later. He never was able to sleep well in all the time you’d known him. Even if you were sure he was itching to work on the inside he seemed calm, enjoying the third movie starting. You found your gaze drifting to his face, simply taking in the profile of his nose, his lips, his jaw in the low light. It was a little self-indulgent, taking in his features like this. You were sure it was being tired that made you so much less careful but you couldn’t help yourself, wanting to drink in his handsome features for just a moment longer.

His gaze shifted and you saw the smirk pulling at his lips before the eyes on you. You didn’t miss the warm, rosy hue adorning his cheeks as your eyes traveled to meet his, nor the warmth in your own chest. An all too familiar feeling. You smiled back at him which served to make him giggle.

“Whathca looking at?” He hummed.

“Just you. You look nice.” Was your reply.

Chan just chuckled again, shoving you lightly and clearly a little flustered. “Okay, sure.” He returned his gaze to the movie as did you, only noticing then that Jisung had fallen asleep, mouth hanging open and head resting back against the couch. You giggled quietly, leaning against Chan to get his attention. He chuckled too when he saw Jisung’s face.

You shook your head as you looked back at the screen, staying curled up against Chan. He was warm and comfortable and while you had planned to stay up a while longer your eyelids were starting to feel heavy. You supposed the traveling really had taken its toll on your body. You felt an arm snake around your waist and elected to not think too hard about it as you drifted off to sleep against his shoulder.

---------

“Hey.”

The voice was soft as someone gently shook you and slowly came to your senses. You furrowed your brows, stirring a little before opening your eyes to see the TV, now off, in front of you. The space next to you where Jisung had been was now empty and cold so he’d clearly gone to bed some time ago. You sat up with a yawn before looking at Chan.

“I think I’m ready for bed,” You admitted.

“You think?” He snorted quietly. “I already put your bags in my room so-”

“No,” You said, suddenly feeling very awake.

Chan sighed. “You do this every time you stay over. Just let-”

“No.” You restated. “I’m not kicking you out of your own room, you dingus. I’m gonna go get my stuff while you get ready for bed.”

“You had to travel to get here and it was probably tiring,” he protested.

“I’ve made up my mind,” You said simply as you made your way down the hall. Chan grabbed your wrist before you went into his room, a last ditch effort to convince you. But you had this discussion every single time you visited and it always ended the same.

Nevertheless, he called your name softly, trying not to wake his roommates now. You looked him in the eye, seeing his sincerity but also his exhaustion. You were right to think he hadn’t been sleeping well.

“Please, please take my room. I’ll sleep on the couch, you know I don’t care. Someone could break in-”

“Christopher.” You said his name sternly and he fell silent. “You’ve never been broken in on, not once. There has never been any threat in your living room. I will be perfectly fine-”

“Sleep with me then.” He said quickly, his ears started to burn red as he fully processed his own words. You ignored the skipping in your heart as you frowned at him.

“Your bed is too small.” You pointed out. “One of us will end up on the floor.”

Chan’s shoulders finally slumped and he let go of your wrist. You sighed, stepping closer to him and wrapping him in a hug.

“You worry too much,” You hummed.

“Yeah,” He gave a half-hearted laugh. “Yeah, I just worry.”

You pulled back to look at him. “You need the rest more than I do I’d guess.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Is it that obvious that I haven’t been sleeping?”

You gave him a sad smile. “Just, try and get some rest, okay?”

Chan finally relented, dropping his head with a sigh. You took his hand and squeezed it comfortingly before heading into his room and grabbing your bags. You took them back to the living room and washed up while Chan grabbed a pillow and blanket for you. Even as you came back to settle in he gave you a pout and sad eyes. You just rolled your own as you plopped down on the couch.

“Go to bed, Chris.”

“Are you sur-”

“Yes,” You said firmly. “Go to bed.”

He gave you a half smile before finally shuffling back to his room.

You sighed to yourself as you snuggled under the blankets. He was always like that with you, protective and kind to a fault. Sometimes he cared a little too much. OR maybe he just cared more than he should. But you weren’t about to jeopardize his sleep for your own comfort. Their couch wasn’t even uncomfortable, he just hated the idea of you being out here alone. Even if some small part of yourself would rather be snuggled up in his bed you knew it wasn’t worth it.

---------

You blinked your eyes open, looking up at the ceiling above you. The room was dark, but not so much so that you couldn’t see anything. You could see the outlines and edges of the light fixture above you. Your gaze shifted along the lines of the ceiling, everything feeling a little slow as you did so. Even sitting up it felt heavy, like the air was thick with something.

Your breath caught in your throat as you looked over the back of the couch and felt fear strike through you. Two small, red glowing eyes peered at you through the darkness. You gripped the couch tightly as the creature, still shrouded in black stared back at you and you felt the way time was getting slower and slower.

Despite that, when the creature moved, it moved fast. In the blink of an eye it stood at the back of the couch. You tried to move back, get up, run, anything, but you were stuck. A hand, looking like that of a person that had been long dead, skin black and decaying and hanging off of the skeletal frame started to slowly reach towards you.

Your eyes locked on the hand as you opened your mouth to scream but not a single sound came out.

Closer and closer the hand came and your stomach started to churn as you tried in vain to cry out for help, utterly stuck in place as the creature reached closer and closer to your neck. You met its glowing eyes again only to feel dizzy. Each breath was getting harder, as if it was already choking you. Despite not seeing a mouth you were sure the thing was grinning somehow and it made you sick.

The second it’s cold, rotting fingers touched your throat a scream ripped itself from deep inside you.

--------

You sat up suddenly, trying to catch your breath as the last echoes of a scream reverberated through the room and down the hall. Your heart was racing, beating far too heavily in your chest as tears stung your eyes and you looked around frantically, the horrible creature was nowhere to be seen.

You let out a sigh, slumping into yourself and squeezing your eyes shut. It was just a dream, nothing more. Even so, the backs of your eyelids seemed painted with the image of those horrifying red eyes. You blinked them open, your attention drawn out of your thoughts and to the sounds of someone stumbling out of bed.

Mere seconds later a door flew open and Chan came running out of his room. He ran to the back of the couch, nearly slamming into it before reaching out and cupping your cheeks with his hands. You flinched a little at the sudden contact after such a scare. Chan seemed to relax just a little just looking at you and seeing you okay.

“What happened? Are you hurt? Did someone try and get in here? Did you-”

“It was just a bad dream,” you sighed.

Chan stared at you seriously. “You screamed.”

“Yeah, it just kind of happened,” You mumbled. “I’m sorry about that.”

Before Chan could say anything else another door opened and Changbin wandered into the hall, rubbing his eyes.

“Is everything alright?” He yawned.

“Yep,” you admitted, head dipping a little. Chan let his hands drop from your face, shifting a little so you could see past him to Changbin. “Just a bad dream.” As the reality of it hit you embarrassment started to creep up on you. “You can go back to bed.”

Despite your reassurance, Changbin hesitated. “You sure you’re okay?”

You met his eye briefly and nodded. “I’m sure Chan will refuse to leave me alone now anyway.”

Changbin let out a chuckle and you saw Chan give you a shy grin out of the corner of your eye as Changbin headed back to bed with a sleepy wave. You sighed heavily and reached for your phone which had been going off for the last minute while Chan made his way around the couch to sit next to you. You unlocked it to find Hyunjin and Jisung freaking out in your group chat about how you were probably dead and they were next. You rolled your eyes tiredly and shot off a message to let them know you were fine before setting your phone aside and looking at Chan. He looked exhausted, like he hadn’t slept a wink since you sent him off to bed.

“Are you actually okay?” He asked softly, lacing his fingers with yours.

“I am,” You said tiredly. “It was just a nightmare. Don’t worry.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

You dropped your gaze. “No, it was just a one off thing.”

“Are you sure?”

You met his eyes again, giving him a tired smile and squeezing his hands. “I’m really okay. It was just a little freaky but I woke up and I’m fine.”

Chan chewed on his lip for a moment, seeming to think of something but you caught on before he could voice said thoughts.

“You can go back to bed.”

Chan said your name softly but you stopped him.

“You need to sleep and so do I, just go back to bed. Nothing happened. I’m busy and probably just having a nightmare from stress, okay?”

Chan gave you a sad smile. “You really think I’ll be able to sleep at all with you out here after that?”

“Nothing happened,” you insisted, feeling exasperated.

“Yeah but now I know what you’d sound like if something did happen. I can’t just forget it.” He gazed at you, clearly tired and a little less guarded, a little more disarmed than usual. “If I go back there I’m just going to worry for the rest of the night.”

You sighed. “I don’t want to take your bed away from you.” He opened his mouth but you beat him to the punch. “And you know it’s not big enough for both of us.”

“It was once,” he mumbled. You broke away from his gaze, feeling your face heating at the memory of being sick cuddling up with him in his bed when he insisted that you needed someone to take care of you. You were tired and in need of comfort and not going to refuse it in the moment. Even if you already felt warm, the comfort from it sent you right to sleep and it was more restfully than you’d slept in a long time.

But you also remembered how you felt when morning came. Once your fever broke and you were thinking straight again. You remembered the way you felt and the way he clearly thought that night would somehow change all of the circumstances that made you fit together about as well as two pieces from entirely different puzzles.

You remembered the argument it caused between the two of you over the meaning of it all. The way it strained your friendship so much you thought you might just lose it. And there was far less that needed to fall into place so nicely with friends.

Crossing that boundary again wasn’t something you wanted to do.

“I know,” you said. “I just… isn’t this easier?”

Chan met you with a sad look on his face, almost heartbroken. “You think?”

“Don’t you?”

Before he could say anything else a rather loud cawing outside made you nearly jump out of your skin. Your eyes snapped to the window, half expecting to see the red eyes peering back at you. But there was nothing there, just a bird somewhere out in the darkness calling out into nothingness.

Chan’s hand left yours, moving to rub your back again before giving you an expectant look.

“I’m f-”

“You can’t even handle a damn bird,” he chuckled.

“My nerves are a little fried,” you defended.

He looked at you, his stare calculated before he got up from the couch. For a moment you breathed a sigh of relief. He was as stubborn as you were and it was hard to convince him you were alright. If only he looked after himself with the same energy he tried to look after you.

A few moments later you groaned as he returned with a pillow and blanket.

“Christopher, no,” you said sternly as he settled into the armchair. “You can’t sleep there.”

“Well I’m not gonna get any sleep in my room so what does it matter?” He asked matter-of-factly.

“It’s so uncomfortable,” You whined. You knew, you’d tried to sleep there before when the couch broke and you visited with no other place to sleep. It was one of the worst sleeps of your life.

Chan shrugged. “Then at least I’ll be here and awake if you have another nightmare.”

“I told you I don’t usually do that.”

“Scream yourself awake or have nightmares?”

You bit back your comment. He was right. The stress recently had been getting to you and you’d been having terrible dreams. When you woke up it was fine but it did mean you didn’t sleep very soundly. Taking in his gaze you knew he’d made up his mind on this and you weighed your options. Despite everything, his bed was infinitely more comfy for both of you.

“Fine, you win,” you grumbled, standing from the couch. “We can go to your room.”

Chan positively beamed at you and it made you soften just a little, stomach flipping once again at the sweet expression. At the very least he was content and maybe you’d both get some good rest this way.

“I’ll clean up quickly out here and then I’ll be back, okay?”

You gave him a tired smile and shuffled back to his bedroom. You paid him not too much mind while he tidied up the blankets and grabbed the things you’d need. You simply took a pillow with you and collapsed onto his bed. There was definitely not enough space for both of you unless you cuddled close but in your tired state you just resigned yourself to the fact that it would feel nice even if it left everything a mess come morning, imagining things that couldn’t work out.

Though it would have been better to wait for him so you could figure out how to share the space, your exhaustion got the better of you as you curled into the soft, comfy bed, still warm from Chan’s body heat and with his comforting scent on the pillows. He was still cleaning up and no doubt grabbing water and maybe even a snack since he was awake and your tired body gave into the welcoming darkness of sleep mere moments after falling into bed.

---------

Your eyes blinked open in the darkness of Chan’s room, initially confused at the location. But it only lasted seconds before fear struck through your heart. The red eyes of a shadowy figure peered at you again from across the room. You sucked in a breath, too shallow, to try and make a sound but your mouth wouldn’t open. Your eyes wouldn’t close against the horrible creature either and as it shifted closer you felt tears well up in your throat.

What do you want with me? You wanted to ask. What did I do? Why me?

You couldn’t manage a single word of it, just pure and utter fear, breaths coming more shallow as the thing came a little closer and you were sure another was behind you, feeling a presence there too. You fought with your body to move, to speak, to do anything but you were frozen in place as hands landed on you from behind.

--------

“Hey, hey!” Chan’s voice came in panicked whispers. “Wake up! Please, wake up!”

You managed to force your eyes open, sucking in a deep breath and gasping for the air it felt like you’d been starved of. Chan pushed you gently until you were laying on your back, looking up at his worried expression. “Wh-What happened? You’re cryin-”

You were quick to throw your arms around his neck, hugging him tightly as you let out shaky breaths, relieved that it was just your brain playing tricks on you. The torment tonight had been relentless but you were thankful that it was, nevertheless, not real. You nuzzled your face against his shirt, subtly trying to wipe away the tears before he looked at you again.

Chan sat on the bed and gingerly brought you to sit in his lap, holding you close and rubbing your back. He murmured reassurances to you as you calmed down. The image of the red eyes was burned onto the backs of your eyelids but it was somewhat dulled, more bearable when he was this close.

When you finally pulled back to look at him his expression was still laced with concern. “Was it another nightmare?”

“Sleep paralysis,” You sighed. “But both had the same spooky ghost thing.”

Chan said your name softly, holding your chin gently to keep you from looking away from him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m…” You paused, trying to find the words. “I’m tired and stressed. I’ve been too busy to rest. But I am okay. You know how it goes, sometimes your brain throws you nightmares when you’re stressed out.”

He pouted. “I hate it though.”

“Getting nightmares?”

“No, you getting them.”

You smiled at him. “Well unless you can travel inside my brain and stop them.”

He chuckled. “I know, I just wish I could do something.”

You finally pulled away from his grasp. “Let’s just sleep, I think…”

“You think…?”

“Nevermind,” You said. “Let’s just sleep.”

Chan seemed like he wanted to press you a little more but he didn’t. Instead he moved to lay down before opening his arms and welcoming you to cuddle into his chest with a wink that made you snort and hit him with a pillow before you settled onto him. He was quick to lock his arms around you and squish his cheek into the top of your head.

“Good night,” he hummed and you could feel it rumble in his chest.

“Night, Chan.”

--------

You felt warm and comfy as you slowly came to. Light was streaming through a slight gap in the curtains so you knew it was morning but as for the specific time you didn’t much care. You snuggled closer into Chan’s grasp, nuzzling your face into his neck. You didn’t want to think at all right now. After struggling to rest for so many hours, after so much stress recently, a few precious moments of rest were very welcome.

“Morning,” Chan’s voice was a little lower, a little rougher as he woke up, no doubt from sleep. You hid your face in his neck as your heart fluttered, pretending you were far more sleepy than you actually were. His arms around you got a little tighter as he nuzzled against your head.

“Did you sleep well?” He hummed.

“I did,” you mumbled. “No more nightmares at least.”

“And I slept like a log. It’s almost like we’re good for each other.”

At this comment your stomach did a series of flips and you pushed up, away from him. While your heart beat a little too hard you fixed him with a disapproving stare and stern tone. “Chris.”

He met your sternness with a decided softness of his own when he said your name in a way that made your heart melt just a little. You kept your gaze the same though as you sat up fully, him following along like you were a magnet pulling him closer no matter how you moved.

“You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” He pouted.

“You know why.” Even first thing in the morning the man made you want to scream. He knew. He knew about the distance. He knew about the false starts and the awkward moments and the hopes of something that crumbled as soon as it was touched. He knew about always getting the wrong. He knew about the personality clashes. He knew about the explosions of emotions that had nearly shipwrecked it all. He knew about the drunken quiet whispers that shouldn’t have been said. He knew about the incompatibilities. He knew because he was there, the other half of all the conversations.

Chan’s shoulders dropped a little. “If you’re talking about you moving away-”

“Christ, Christopher!” You groaned. “You know I had to get out of that place. You know it’s better now, even if I am farther away. And besides, you know that’s not even what I meant, it’s more than just… work.”

“You know over time things can change, right?” he said quietly.

“Do you really think things can change that much?” You questioned.

“Don’t you think it’s at least worth a shot?”

You stared at each other through a beat of silence. You hated the way your heart yearned to give him the answer he wanted, the answer you wanted, even if you knew it was a bad idea.

“I think wasting our time on a lost cause is stupid,” you muttered bitterly, getting up from the bed.

“How could you think it’s a lost cause?” You couldn’t look at him, not when he sounded so heartbroken. Not when you knew you’d be able to see it on his face.

“I think the parts that don’t work, that don’t make any sense between us are bigger than whatever we have.”

“Whatever we have?” He sounded almost as if he didn’t believe you could say such words. Maybe he really couldn’t. “Look at me.”

You kept your gaze trained on the floor.

“Look at me.” Softer this time. “Please.”

You relented, meeting his eyes again and feeling the crushing weight of the quiet room.

“Tell me, honestly, that you don’t feel this too. Tell me you don’t love me like I love you.”

You felt so much pain in your chest as dry lips parted, trying to find words. But you couldn’t say no. You couldn’t lie to him. Not like that.

“Do you really think love is enough?”

Chan just stared at you in disbelief, as if it made no sense to him. He took in a breath but whatever he had come up with was soon cut off by Hyunjin’s voice in the hallway.

“Breakfast’s ready!”

Another silence as Chan closed his mouth.

“Come on,” you mumbled, dropping your gaze once more. “Breakfast’s ready.”

Before he could manage a single word you left the room, putting on the most normal front you could. Breakfast was ready after all.

#stray kids imagines #bang chan imagines #chan imagines #chris bang imagines #stray kids angst #stray kids fan fic

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