heavy-duty

Perhaps, this should have alarmed him, but it didn't. Whatever was trailing across his walls was natural, was needed, though Benoit could not say how he knew that. He just did, with the same sort of certainty that had kept him begging for Marty to fuck him for months before the Change. Benoit understood that was he only the egg, and the egg - bearer, and that any other identity he possessed did not matter while they shared a bed. Not with Marty's breath warming his shoulder and the younger man's fingers manipulating his body.

Blearily, Benoit's hand stretched down. The movement of his thigh away allowed him to brush his fingertips across the tentacles. Moisture had gathered around them, and smears of orange decorated his skin. Half - aware, Benoit lowered his head. Guiltily. Greedily. Their blankets were crumpled at the bottom of the bed, cast aside blindly in the mess of their [ breeding ]. He was able to see the edge of his wrinkled sleeping - shirt ; the pale, creamy flesh of his belly ; and the point at which Marty's mysterious new appendages joined with him.

The tentacle teased his cervix again, and Benoit's head rolled back. His hair was stuck the side of his sweaty face. One of his hands entwined with Marty's on his side, and he was strangely glad for how sticky it was. Natural, needed — thus, the breathy exhalations of ❝go see the baby❞ and ❝you're close❞ that left him. Benoit rocked his expectant figure to the rhythm set by Marty's tentacle, relishing in the loud squelching sounds issuing from their union. Every groan of the younger man's name sounded sounded like a thank - you.

"Aw, God," Marty breathed, teeth skirting the side of Benoit's sweaty neck, "you're gonna kill me, you're so tight..."

The dual points of friction-- both from the soaked walls of Benoit's cunt and where Marty felt one tentacle rub against the other-- had his skin flush with pleasure. The hand on his side slid inward, feeling the outward bump of Benoit's navel and leaving sticky orange slime in its wake. The one on his thigh lifted it higher, and with next to no shame Marty pressed his clothed cock to the swell of Benoit's ass, rutting against it in time with the squelching rush of the tentacle fucking him hungrily. Blunt nails dug into his skin, and the throb in his cock ached even further down towards the bump at the base of it: stupid, greedy, and unaware of the fact they'd already made something.

The first tentacle, still teasing along the unyielding muscle of Benoit's cervix, split briefly into several tendrils to smear its goo all over the edges of that unforgiving opening. Marty felt himself twitch at the feel of it: at how small it was, at how clearly it wasn't meant for penetration. Their baby was well-protected-- by the shell around it, by the natural formation of Benoit's new parts-- and yet he found himself moaning as the deepest parts of Benoit's womb was broken into anyway. He almost felt cruel, keeping that tentacle firm; the perversion of feeling Benoit stretch around him had him shuddering with pleasure, though, and Marty laughed breathlessly into the man's jaw.

"Ah, shit--"

To his credit, Benoit begged and Marty listened. One tentacle thrust in and out of his weeping cunt, keeping him stretched and open, and the other licked along the inside of Benoit's tightest channel, pushing slowly until finally it made it all the way through.

They needed Doc. Benoit peeled up enough of Marty's shirt to begin cutting. The soft squelch that accompanied the motion turned Benoit's stomach. This was bad, he thought, as the soaked fabric fell heavily to either side of Marty.

❝I am somewhat of a ... home body these days, after — ❞ Benoit's voice broke. He plucked up the first towel, unfolded it, and pressed it unceremoniously to the young man's bare chest. This was not one of Phillip's things ; it was new, like its fellows. Every item of his late husband's was carefully stashed away in the basement, stored in labeled containers. That was how Benoit knew which tubs contained the blankets that he fancied still smelled like Phillip when he needed them most.

Being called a "wet dog" earned a bark of a laugh out of him. Half-incredulous, Marty pressed a (non-orange) palm to his forehead, and wondered at the heat that radiated between both points of flesh. All this because he slipped and fell into a vat of the stuff-- he shouldn't have been so foolish to think the drug being an injectable made a lick of difference.

"Just do it," he breathed, seeking the sight of Benoit's face, even if that spot of vision was blurred to hell and back.

It would have been nice if the cut-up shirt brought a dramatic sense of relief with it, but as it was the best thing Benoit did since he arrived was touch him with that towel. Marty's heart was racing, so he shut his eyes and focused on trying to steady that, ignoring the steady tugs of pain in the pit of his stomach.

❝Careful, Marty ?❞ The back of Benoit's hand rested momentarily against Marty's forehead. Shit — he felt even worse. ❝I really have no fear for myself at present ; I am far more concerned about you. Stay put ... don't go rolling off.❞

Benoit left then. He fetched two bottles of water, aspirin, a pair of scissors, and as many towels as he was able to carry. When Benoit came back, he stacked the fabrics next to Marty's legs. ❝Now, I am unfamiliar with treating ... goo — but I've always known Bayer to be a fine help with a fever. We ought to get you dry, too.❞

With that, he shook a handful of the pills into the cap and set them alongside the rest of the supplies on the bedside table. Benoit's palm rested on Marty's side. Beneath it, the heat and sticky sweat from the kid came up, sickly and awful.

"All right." The concession was lousy but necessary. There was no use complaining. "...I trust you, Benny.

"I'm sorry about ruining your Thursday."

And yet Marty smiled, small and sheepish (and sweaty), in an attempt to convey the gratitude mixed in with that regret.

The aspirin went down after a mighty battle. It felt like swallowing a rock; Marty's throat didn't seem to want to cooperate at all. And when he collapsed back down on the bed, he made no move to argue when his shirt was cut and opened up like two flaps to a box. Sweat glistened over his toned body, dripping down the sides with every breath. As the cool air hit his flesh, there came a faint hint of pine permeating the air around them.

Marty didn't notice. He stared directly at the ceiling and gulped.

As if the fever wasn't bad enough, the moisture that collected on Marty's fingertips was alarming. He pulled his sweaty hand out of Benoit's grip, but the force at which it flew back led to a few drops landing, of course, on the small slice of skin revealed by the hem of the man's sleeve. He had to pointedly rip his gaze away from the flutter of the detective's pulse. "Shit," he hissed, all raspy and awful and sick. He was being dramatic, certainly, but he'd been feeling shitty since he came back from the 51st century two days ago. "I'm sorry..." Marty cringed, and in his dizziness the whole world spun with the action. "Aw, jeez, the stuff's orange, Benny." And, indeed, the more viscous liquid starting to ooze out of the pads of Marty's fingers was a light orange. It shimmered prettily under the sunlight. "All the crap I fell into was orange, too. I really musta been poisoned."

❝Whoa, whoa, whoa — ❞ Benoit didn't think much about his own exposure to the mysterious liquid ; he assumed, at this point, that it was already a done deal. The detective certainly wasn't about to leave Marty out there, either, like a stray on his stoop.

A wiser man would have initiated some kind of quarantine or broken his promise of silence to their mutual friend. Benoit, instead, hurried forward and wrapped an arm around Marty's waist to keep him upright. The kid was hot, hotter than a cat on a tin roof in the dead of summer. Shaking fingers drew Benoit's delicate handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it around Marty's oozing digits.

❝Come on,❞ he breathed, sparing a quick glance around them. ❝Spare room's just down the hall, on the left there.❞ He had set it up when he bought the house, which was far removed from his old city apartment with its too - many memories.

"M'gonna poison you," Marty said slowly. The words were meant as a warning, but his tongue was beginning to feel too big for his mouth.

"Be careful, Benny."

He wanted to believe he allowed Benoit to lay him down, but the aches in his body made it less his choice and more a necessity. Marty pressed his hips into the bed, awkwardly toeing his sneakers off and letting them clatter on the floor, and then groaned as he set the soles of them on the mattress. Sweat cut through the layers of his clothing and left his forehead shining.

Benoit's poor handkerchief was soaked through now, sticky and dripping. The slowly oozing goo began to puddle on the floor. Marty's free (still dry) hand pressed to his own gut, and he grit his teeth; it felt like a cramp... that was, if cramps were somehow attached to an ache in his balls.

Jesus. His jeans weren't that tight.

"I just need some water," Marty mumbled unconvincingly. He lay on his side, and bleary blue eyes sought Benoit's face.

Ooh,  composition  certainly sounded a lot more complicated than just a standard music theory class. Emily doesn't doubt Marty's ear  or  talent, but she gets how daunting it can be, especially stacked against a handful of peers. It didn't take a genius to assume he had to struggle with some sort of confidence about his work. If he didn't, Emily could see him treating it like a breeze. As he laments the composer's struggle, Emily nods along, chewing through her own bite of a rather stacked monstrosity of a sandwich. She reaches to thumb some mayo off Junior's cheek like it's second nature, eyes flitting back up to Marty as he continues.

       ❝ Maybe that's what you should do. ❞   Now it's her turn to thumb some mayo off her own face, popping her thumb into her mouth to clean it off before pointing his way.   ❝ Reverse Mozart  some shit. There's classical people that turn Metallica into symphonies, right? ❞   She knows she's had to have heard some sort of renditions like it by now, especially with Christmas music backwards and forwards. Another little wave and she picks a crumb off her plate to pop into her mouth.   ❝ Come up with a riff and see what it sounds like when you feed it through classical strings. Fuck if it sounds traditional. ❞

Something Emily's sure probably sounds easier than it's done, but she can't just sit and not  try  to offer some kind of solution. She's not so musically inclined as he is   ( or as Junior, at that ),   but she wants to lend an ear and maybe a hand if she can. Another bite and she chews while covering her mouth with her half-closed fist, pointing a finger out his way for just a second before she chews enough to get some words out.

       ❝ You've got a better head than you give yourself credit for, Marty. ❞   More chews, words clearer now.   ❝ You got this. And if you don't - ❞   a playful shrug,   ❝ who's gon'a know better if you make Junior come up with something  for  you? ❞

And, turning towards Junior, he snaps his fingers and points a quick finger gun in the kid's direction.

"We're not about that cheating life here, Junior, you got that?"

Then Marty takes a bite out of his sandwich.

It would be sweet if his number one issue was the moral conundrum of cheating, and for the most part Marty doesn't mind if that's what Emily thinks of it. In truth, however, Marty's not sure he'd be able to live it down if he submitted anything that wasn't his, never mind that Emily couldn't have been serious about Junior making music for him. He was too old to let something as absurd as a fear of rejection hold him back.

...nevertheless.

"I have been writing something," he admits then, tongue pushing his food to the side of his mouth to keep from sounding muffled. "Kinda came to mind when Spring started coming in... the stuff you see on walks, right? World's getting warmer, trees and flowers're coming back.

"So I went for something a little more preppy."

Marty pauses just before he offers to play for her, thinking it presumptuous. He swallows his food all the way instead.

       ❝ I'm a big strong lady, Mister Marty, I got it, ❞   Emily reassures him with ease and warmth and still relinquishes at least one bag as she steps inside. Banter was fun and all, but she didn't want to undermine his kind offer to help, either. It shows Junior at least that his mom's not above her pride. Whom, speaking of -

       ❝ Ma! ❞   Big, uneven toothy grin as he haphazardly collides into Emily. Junior   ( thank God )   wasn't quite at the age of embarrassment over motherly affection just yet, and she certainly didn't take it for granted. She leans down and peppers his hair and head messily with loud little kisses between asking,

       ❝ Learn a new song today? ❞   Emily's all ears and smiles herself as she listens to him excitedly talk and talk about how hard the chords were and  he  still got it down, thanks to Mister Marty. Warm brown eyes are on the man himself, giving him praise without saying it.   ❝ Sounds like loads of fun, kid. ❞   When she finally settles the bags on the space made for them, Junior's the first to start unpacking them, if only to get to what he hoped was his fixing of food. Marty's polite dismissal is equally dismissed with a wave of her hand that also beckons him over.

       ❝ Don't let it get cold,  fly boy,  just come and eat. ❞   Emily only gives him a quick glance before she starts plucking a few platters out as well, pointing here and there for Marty to pick from. A few little reminders to Junior about his manners and she's glancing around Marty's kitchen a little too comfortably.   ❝ Paper plates? ❞   Eyes to him.   ❝ I'll do your dishes if we use'm, but since you already fussed about me bringin' food... ❞   Meaning to accuse him of not liking the idea she'd do those chores, too, if it came to it. All just to be a gracious guest   ( since she did, after all, invite herself in in a way ).   It felt like the least she could do.

It was harmless, she thought. Teasing him how she did. He was a good man, and anyone that treated her son well enough that he looked forward to seeing them meant treating them well, too. Just not without the contingency of her own personality, at least. As Junior settles with his portions and starts eating, Emily's picking at her's as she starts up a conversation herself   ( Junior lost to literal sauce right now ).

       ❝ How're your lessons going?   - Hopefully deadlines aren't too  hefty  right now. ❞

I don't wanna talk about it is his knee-jerk response to anything about school, but Emily's earnestness is one he feels he's actually earned. For once this isn't someone he doesn't have any memories of-- he remembers exactly how they met, why they met, and the meetings they've had over the past six months. Amongst all the significant bonds he's somehow managed in this timeline, she and Junior are the most real ones; he'd been relieved to introduce himself as Marty McFly and receive absolutely no recognition for his last name. Nobody tells you when you change history for the "better" that the version of you that exists in it is a thousand times more successful than you ever were.

Nevertheless, the answer he offers is half-sheepish, half-annoyed: "I'm supposed to write something for the Spring concert for my Composition final, and I'm stumped."

He's more or less given up trying to look cool in front of Emily, at least, who's a badass and then some with one of the meanest left hooks he's ever seen. That and it's a little juvenile to pretend, anyway. Marty McFly of Timeline B was far more successful than he'd ever be.

"I was never a big classical guy," he says, tucking the lettuce in his sandwich further in. "I mean, I know how the patterns work, and I know the only real difference in composing is what instruments go into it, but man...

"It's like my head doesn't work for it, you know?"

Marty takes his first bite, chews, and swallows. It's a way better sandwich than whatever cup ramen monstrosity he could've come up with on his own.

Lunch with Junior.  Lunch with Junior.  Lunch with Junior.  Like a mantra to save her life, Emily repeats the little innocent incentive to herself as she stands in line to pick up the picnic package she'd ordered for all of them together.  Lunch with Junior...   and Mister Marty McFly.

She'd kept his preferences in mind, as much as she could remember of them anyway. Hoping nothing was off his palate   ( and even if it was, she had no doubt she and her son would clear everything else anyway ),   she hoists the large brown paper bugs on her hips and starts her merry little stroll down the block to pick up her son. The walk helped work away some of the day's tension, bring her temper simmering down to a neutral state by the time she reaches Marty's and knocks on his door -   once, twice, three times in a little off rhythm.

Thank God for that walk, 'cause when Marty opens up, she's able to greet him with a dimpling smile instead of an exhausted scowl.

       ❝ Brought some lunch.   - How's Junior? ❞

Some kids are better than others, though, and Junior's gotta be one of them. Marty won't say he's got a natural gift for music, but at so young an age, he has an incredible work ethic-- one that reminds Marty of his own when he was little and playing with toy guitars. They're in the middle of playing Should I Stay or Should I Go when he hears the knocking; Marty looks up at the clock, blinks at the time, and then turns to Junior with an amused little grin to ask--

"You think your mom's here to pick you up?"

Junior's returned smile is enough of an answer that he isn't surprised when (after straightening his sweater) he opens the door to see her. He is a little surprised by the bags, though.

"Uh-- do you need help?" Priorities. Regardless of Emily's answer, however, Marty's opening the door wider to let her in.

His studio apartment isn't huge, but there're posters on the wall, shelves stacked with cassettes and CDs, and a little radio that he asks Junior to pause so the drums for the Clash's song stop playing. He takes the fruit bowl off the table by his counter for Emily's stuff to be placed down, meanwhile.

protective prompts, but make them actions!

[ FIGHT ] : sender physically fights off receiver's attacker.

[ TACKLE ] : sender tackles receiver out of harm's way.

[ PUSH ] : sensing danger, sender pushes receive behind them, sender becoming a human shield in the process.

[ WARN ] : sender, seeing incoming danger, shouts a frantic warning to receiver.

[ PULL ] : sender pulls receiver into a relieved embrace following a nearly-lethal fight.

[ INTERCEPT ] : sender takes a bullet/punch/attack meant for the receiver.

[ CHECK ] : sender worriedly checks the receiver for injuries after a potentially dangerous situation.

[ STEER ] : sender, sensing a dangerous situation simmering, guides the receiver to safety.

[ RECKLESS ] : sender yells at receiver after receiver endangers themselves unnecessarily.

[ CATCH ] : sender catches receiver as they're falling or collapsing.

[ KILL ] : sender kills receiver's attacker.

[ INCAPACITATE ] : sender knocks out receiver's attacker.

[ READY ] : sender prepares to fight for receiver.

[ DECEIVE ] : sender tells a lie in order to protect the receiver. (the lie can be directed to a potential enemy (e.g. "they went that way" "i'll take them") or to the receiver themselves.

[ HIDE ] : sender shoves receiver out of sight in order to hide them and keep them safe.

[ BANDAGE ] : sender tends to receiver's wounds.

[ WATCH ] : sender watches receiver after a potentially upsetting moment to make sure they're okay.

[ TOUCH ] : sender rests a worried hand on the receiver.