Hyvä tyttö (On hiatus/September)

So far, I have written fics and hc's and just random rambles:

Remedy Connected Universe

Alex Casey Alan Wake

Mister Scratch

Casper Darling Zachariah Trench

Ilmari Huotari

Ahti the Janitor

Tim Breaker

Half-Life

G-man

Gordon Freeman

Barney Calhoun

Misc

Isaac Clarke (Dead Space)

Mr. Reed (Heretic)

Agent Rainbow (In Sound Mind) Various posts about stuff.

The navigation is likely to be updated! Love, Bear ᵔᴥᵔ

Gordon will sink to his knees for you without being asked. He loves nothing more than to rest his head on your knees, your hand threading through his hair... you'll have him purring in no time!

His strong, clever hands are everything. He'll trace your thighs with trembling fingers, press soft kisses to your inner wrist, hold your hips so you couldn't move an inch while he has his way with you. Gordon needs to touch you - never to take, always to serve. His favorite thing is to watch you come undone under his hands, because for that moment, his hands do not kill; they are used for pleasure.

A man without words makes noises in private that would make anyone blush. Little hitched breaths. Broken half-moans. The desperate, breathy way he whispers please when he wants something from you and baby, he always wants. He's not loud- he's too comfortable with silence - but with you he allows himself to let out soft gasps, the little whimpers, and groans that you came to crave as much as he craves you.

He's Gordon Freeman. He's never been told he's good. He's been used, manipulated, put on the pedestal and thrown into impossible situations, but he's never been appreciated. When you praise him, when you whisper "You're so good for me" or "That's it, baby, you're doing so well", "Good boy", he practically melts. His green eyes go dark, his breath hitches, and he'll try desperately to be even better for you. He lives for your approval.

He loves being told what to do, obvi. You're on top. You're the boss. Choice is a burden for him. For so long, every decision he made was a matter of survival. With you, he wants to let go. Tell him to lie down, and he'll do it instantly. Tell him to stay still, and he won't move a muscle. Tell him to tell you what he wants, and he'll struggle with the words, his face flushing, his hands clenching at his sides, until you take pity on him and guide him through it. He loves being taken care of. He loves being handled. If you want him on his knees, he'll kneel. If you want him on his back, he'll lie down. If you want to blindfold him and have him feel for the first time without the distraction of seeing every possible threat, he'll close his eyes and trust you. He'll give you everything. Because you are the only person who has ever made him feel safe enough to surrender.

”Lost, are we?”

The voice, coming from somewhere behind tall trees made you jump. Actually, that wasn’t the first jump you made; the woods were alive around you, grass moving, shadows flowing, trees making noises no wood should produce. And now this – growl, dark voice and you clutched the stripes of your backpack harder and blamed yourself for forgetting a knife, before finally, the owner of that husky voice stepped up… well, not into the light of the lamp, but closer and you took a look at him. He looked ordinary enough… but the shadows still obscured his eyes. Dark hair, sharp cheekbones, a jaw covered with coarse beard. He was wearing a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, like he just stepped out of a lumberjack catalog.

You should run.

That thought crystallized in your mind the moment he showed you a smile – which was polite. Disarming. Just a little bit condescending.

"I - I'm not lost. I'm just... taking a shortcut."

A man’s smile widened - just a fraction. Just enough to make your stomach drop.

"Shortcut," he repeated, and his voice was a purr now, a rumble that settled in your chest and loosened your fear just a bit more. He was just jesting. Of course. No other reason why his words were chopped short, like pieces of meat on a board.

Like he was struggling with connecting them.

"To where?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"Back to… town."

"Lost, then," he nodded as if confirming his suspicions… or hopes. "Definitely lost."

His head tilted to the side as his studied you – your backpack, your face, the way your hands trembled.

"Bright Falls… tricky place. Folk get lost a lot."

He took another step, closer to you and away from light post. You could smell him now - pine and rain and something darker, something that reminded you of old paper... and spilled ink.

"You look like you could use a guide,” a man’s hand left his pocket; he extended it towards you, took yours, clutched your fingers.

"I'm Alan," he said, and there was something in the way he said it - a hesitation, a pause, like he was testing the name on his tongue, like it didn’t quite fit.

"The storm’s coming,” he nodded towards the dark cold sky. "You won’t make it out of woods tonight. My cabin is over there. Come on.”

And because you were tired, or stupid or something else entirely you followed him. He took you away from a main path, deep into the darkness and the trees and woods grew eerie quiet around you two. The cabin appeared out of the darkness like a thought made flesh, small, wooden, a single window glowing with faintest of lights. The steps lead up to the porch, a chair rocking gently in the wind, even though there was no wind. Alan held the door open for you, gesturing you inside.

"After you," he said and you stepped over the threshold. The door closed behind you and you realized that the room was lit by a single black candle on a floor, that the walls were covered in pages - sheets of paper, covered in writing, pinned up like a madman's scrapbook.

"Welcome to my cabin."

His hand touched your shoulder. Gentle. Cold. Unavoidable.

"Make yourself at home."

Your feet were frozen to a ground. He took your backpack from your shoulders and you didn’t hear it landing on the floor; the man’s hand returned to you, fingers dangerously close to your neck.

“Been awhile,” he hissed into your ear “When some stupid girl wanders too far away from light.”

He squeezed, just enough, but it made you whimper. The man pressed his nose against your neck, breathing you in, tasting your fear and despair.

"Don't worry," he said, and his voice was almost gone now, soft and overlaying itself like two records playing at the same time.

"I'll take good care of you. I'll make sure you never get lost again."

One hand slid down to grab your hip, the other curled around your jaw, squeezing hard, tilting your head and forcing you to look at the ceiling - at the pages that covered it, the writing that spiraled in patterns you could almost understand.

"Look," he commanded. "Look at what I've written."

Your eyes scanned the words. Your mind struggled to make sense of them.

She came to the cabin.

She was afraid.

She was tired.

She was exactly where she needed to be.

"You see?" he whispered. "It's already written. Everything that's going to happen. Everything I'm going to do to you."

His hand left your throat. Slid down your chest. Pressed against your heart.

"You're a character. My character. And I've got so many plans for you."

He turned you around. Looked down at you with those dark, unhuman eyes.

"Sit," he commanded. "Stay put. And let me write you a story."

He pushed you gently toward the couch.

Your legs buckled. You sat.

How hot it could get in the summer? Very, very hot it seemed. The sun beat down on the Nevada desert like a hammer, turning the air into something thick and impossible to breath in, a haze that made the distant mountains waver like a mirage. The base you were assigned to was a hidden complex of concrete and steel, designed to withstand Decepticon assaults, but not, you thought, the sheer, oppressive weight of a July sun. Soldiers in their fatigues moved slowly, their faces flushed, their eyes squinting against the glare. Technicians hunched over equipment with towels around their necks. Even the air conditioning units, usually reliable, were groaning under the strain, pushing out lukewarm air that did little more than stir the dust. You proceeded to wear shorts and tank tops, despite the glares, despite your own internal monoluge of – stop it, cover yourself, you are far too fat for this. You were hot.

Maybe even in more ways than one.

And then there were the Autobots. They didn't sweat. They didn't wilt. But they felt the heat too, felt it in their systems, in the whir of their cooling fans, in the extra strain on their processors. Most of them had retreated to the shade of the hangars, their massive frames crouched low to avoid the direct assault of the sun.

Except one.

Optimus Prime stood in the middle of the main courtyard, his red and blue armor gleaming almost painfully bright in the harsh light. He was speaking with a pair of NEST officers, his deep voice a low rumble that carried across the surface, but his optics kept drifting. He watched you now, as the officers finally left, a bead of sweat trickling down your temple, your shirt sticking to your skin in a way that made something low and ancient stir in his processor. He shook himself. Physically. A visible shudder that rattled his frame.

Focus, Prime he told himself. She is a human. A colleague. A friend.

But when you looked up and caught him staring, and you smiled - that soft, tired, genuine smile - his cooling fans kicked in with an audible whir.

"Optimus!" you called, waving him over. "You look like you're cooking in that paint job. Come over here, there's a bit of shade."

He didn't need to be told twice. He strode toward you, each footfall a heavy thud against the asphalt, his shadow falling over you like a canopy. He crouched, his massive frame folding with a complexity of grinding joints, until his faceplate was level with yours. His striking blue optics studied you - the flush on your cheeks, the dampness of your hair, the way you fanned yourself with the clipboard, which didn’t help much and you wanted to throw it on the ground and maybe throw a tantrum just to spice things up.

"You are struggling," Optimus observed, his voice a low rumble. "The heat is affecting you most."

You just laughed, a breathless, tired sound.

"Yeah, no kidding. This is not my favorite season."

He tilted his great helm, dermas pressed together. Almost tentatively, he finally said, "My internal cooling system is... functioning at an adequate capacity. Would you permit me to redirect some of the airflow toward you?"

You blinked.

"You mean... you'd blow cold air on me? Like a giant AC unit?"

"I suppose I have been called worse," he chuckled.

Your grin was radiant. Optimus Prime was the handsome bot when he was joking.

"Optimus, that's the nicest thing anyone's offered me all day. Yes, please!" you quickly accepted his offer.

And so he did. You heard it first - a low hum, almost a purr, from deep within his chest. Then a soft whir, and a gentle breeze, cool and dry, washed over you. You let out a soft, involuntary sigh, your eyes fluttering closed as the cool air hit your damp skin, your sweat-soaked shirt, the back of your neck.

And Optimus watched.

He watched the way your body relaxed. The way your head tilted back, exposing the long column of your throat. The way the breeze made the fabric of your shirt flutter, revealing the outline of your breasts, the dark peak of your nipples through the thin, wet cotton. His ventilators hitched - a sound that was almost a stutter in his voice.

"You are... you are still overheating," he managed, his optics fixed on the way your chest rose and fell.

"Keep going," you waved your hand, your eyes still closed, totally unaware of how breathy your voice sounded or just what you were saying. "Don’t stop, Optimus, not yet… ah…”

Oh, Primus.

"There will be a cool front tonight," he said, weighing innocence. "I have... observed the atmospheric patterns. The worst of this heat will break closer to midnight."

"I," you started, and your voice is still a little wrecked, "I didn't know you cared about the weather."

His optics flickered. Something that might be amusement rippled across his face.

"I care," he sayid quietly, "about many things. Lately… I started to care---"

You opened your eyes.

When did he get so close to you?

“You care about… what?” you prompted him… but he didn’t answer. Because it wasn’t what. It was who.

You wanted to stay in his shade longer and feel the breeze that he produced just for you, but you had job to do. Before he stretched back into his full size, you touched his servo, and said so only he could hear you, "I’d love to meet you when the heat breaks. Closer to…"

"Midnight," he repeated, inclining his helm. "I will be here, little one.’"

Oh, God.

You spent the rest of your shift in a haze. You didn’t notice the heat as much, or maybe it just didn’t bother you. Optimus Prime was going to wait for you. The thought made you giddy. Made you stupid. You were a grown adult woman with a job and responsibilities and you were glowing like a teenager over a boy who happened to be a twenty-something foot alien robot with the voice of a god and the gentleness of a saint. Your shift ended at 11 PM and it took all of your willpower not to rush to a spot where you were meeting. You told yourself you weren't rushing. You walked slowly, deliberately, taking the long way, looking this way and that way, saying goodbyes and goodnights and hey, Bee, because you didn't want to seem eager, didn't want to seem ----

You rounded the corner and here he was, standing in the moonlight like he'd been waiting for hours. The air was cool - the heat had broken, just like he said. You could smell the wet earth, the grass, the night. And you could feel him, even from across the clearing, the weight of his attention like a physical thing. You stopped a few feet away.

Looked up.

Up.

He wasn't kneeling this time, and the sheer size of him in the moonlight made your breath catch all over again.

"Midnight," you said, and your voice was steadier than you expected. "You kept your word."

"I keep all my promises,” his optics flickered into deeper blue. "Especially the ones I make to you." His servo lifted, slowly, and hovered in the air between you. Your hand did the same and you propped yourself up and into the palm, where the metal was surprisingly warm and you forgot all about your weight as he lifted you closer to him. He treated you like you were the most precious thing in the galaxy, his touch featherlight, his thumb brushing across your knees like he was memorizing the shape of you.

"You wanted to meet me," Optimus said, his voice low and intimate. “Here. At midnight. Why?"

The question hung in the air, but what could you tell him? That you couldn't stop thinking about him? That every time you closed your eyes, you saw his optics, heard his voice, felt the cool metal of his servo against your skin? That you were a grown adult and you had never felt this way about anyone, let alone a being of impossible scale and impossible gentleness? That you loved and feared him and--

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"I—" you started, and your voice cracked, and you were so embarrassed—

The tip of his cold thumb found your chin and tilted your face up. His face plate moved closer to his palm and you were mesmerized by the moonlight reflecting over silver and blue plates and he studied you, like he couldn't bear to have even this much distance between you, and his optics were so blue, so deep, looking at you like you were the only light in the dark. As your thoughts swirled in your head you didn’t know, couldn’t know that he was wondering the same thing.

Optimus had watched you all day. Not because he was supposed to. Not because you were a soldier under his protection. But because he couldn't stop. Because every time you moved, every time you brushed that wild curl out of your face, every time you tipped your head back to drink luke warm water, he felt something shift in his spark. He had watched you struggle through the July sun, had seen the way your shorts and tank top clung to your soft curves, had noticed the way you bloomed when you were angry and the way you melted when you were tired. He had catalogued every detail. And he wanted more. With his spark pulsing and his processors stuttering Optimus Prime wanted - desperately, irrationally, hungrily - to pull you into his arms and never let go, to make you a viability no warrior should possess.

"Little one," Optimus said, and the word escaped him before he could stop it because he had been calling you that in his head all day. He wanted more. He wanted to know the weight of you in his arms. The sound of your voice when you said his name. The taste of your skin if he pressed his glossa to your pulse point. He wanted to lay you down on the grass and worship you with every part of himself that was capable of tenderness - and he found himself capable of so much tenderness when it came to you.

But he held back.

Because he was Optimus Prime, and he was ancient, and he was wise, and he was terrifyingly gentle.

"You do not have to have all the words," he murmured. "You only have to be here. With me. That is enough. You are enough. You are always enough. And I am so very grateful that I get to see you just… look at the stars with me."

And so you did. He moved you together to far end of the base where you wouldn’t be disturbed and sitted on the ground, perching you up like a precious thing on his shoulder. He weaved stories of space and planets, of Cybertron lost and Cybertron of his dreams. He counted the stars and every so often the blue of his optics, burning with love for humans matched the beauty of cosmos above you.

You are enough, the stars said as well. You are always enough.

Everything has changed once Tron was recovered from the cruel sea and reprogrammed back from being a Rinzler. He was... broken when they brought him to you, broken in more way than circuits and malicious code - that can be repaired. No, he was broken in the way that mattered. His memory was a shattered mirror, his identity a fractured signal doomed to be replayed again and again and again. He knew he was Tron, knew he was Rinzler, knew he was used and discarded and rebuilt into something new. But he didn’t know what he was now. But you - you were the only constant, the only warm thing that felt real in a simulated cold world.

He reached for you constantly. His fingers would find yours when you sat beside his recovery cradle, his kind, tired eyes tracking you when you moved across the room. His voice - soft, uncertain, almost childlike - called your name when you were gone too long.

"Stay," he asked. "Please, User. Just... stay."

You stayed because it was the least you could do.

You were often spotted by other programs in his chamber, sitting beside him, holding his hand, talking to him, with him about nothing and everything – about the weather on your side, about the books you read recently, about how you missed me and how you afraid for him. He listened with an intensity that made your chest ache. He memorized every word, every inflection, every breath. And slowly, he began to heal. Slowly, but surely the healing brought something else, something neither of you expected.

Touched.

He began to crave your touch.

Not the clinical touch of the healers and the cold light of repair beams and diagnostic scans. Tron needed you. The warm press of your fingers against his circuits. The soft brush of your hair against his cheek. The weight of your hand on his chest, feeling the pulse of his core.

"I do not know what is happening to me," he admited one night cycle, his voice thick with confusion.

"I cannot stop thinking about you. About your hands. Your voice. The way you smell. That you are here and then… going away."

His fingers curled around your wrist and hold tight.

"I need you closer," he whispered, locking his eyes with yours. "I need... more."

"Okay," you whispered. “Okay, Tron, I will give you more."

You careful sat down, positioning his head onto your lap, being careful, though Tron tried to convince you (and healer programs) that he was being back at full functionality. Your fingers threaded through his hair - soft, programmed, impossibly real. He sighed and closed his eyes, his body relaxing just slightly.

"You are good at this," he murmured. "You are good at everything."

"I am just petting you, Tron," you laughed softly.

"It is not just petting. It is you. Everything you do is good. Everything you touch is better. I become better under your touch."

His hand lifted, finding your cheek and cupping it.

"I want to touch you," he whispered. "I want to learn you all over again. I want to remember what it’s like feeling you fall apart because of me."

His thumb traced your lower lip, his eyes turning bright, curious, hungry.

"Will you let me?"

You nodded. You couldn’t speak because your throat was tight, so you did the only right thing to do. You leaned down and kissed him.

He tasted like static electricity and when you sighed into him Tron made a small sound of wonder that vibrated through your entire body. The memories flew back of many kisses before… before…

His fingers threaded into your hair, tilting your head towards just enough to deepen the kiss, and you felt the moment something shifted in him - that stubborn final barrier dissolving, the last hesitation melting away into pure, unfiltered want. He pulled back just far enough to look up at you, his eyes impossibly soft, and then he was kissing you again with more purpose, more hunger, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you opened for him and let him taste you properly.

The kiss went on for what felt like hours, deep and exploratory, his hands wandering down your back and pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

"That I remember now," he whispered, and his hands found the hem of your shirt, fingers brushing the bare skin of your waist. "Can I have more?"

You nodded, breathing heavily and he smiled - that slow, wide smile that made your heart stutter - before he carefully pulled your shirt over your head and laid you back against the soft surface of the recovery cradle, positioning himself above you. He took his time exploring you, his hands tracing the lines of your collarbones, the curve of your breasts, the dip of your waist, his touch feather-light and reverent. His mouth followed the path of his fingers, pressing soft kisses to your skin until you were arching into him, breathless and aching for more. His fingers found you wet and ready and he made a soft, pleased sound that went straight to your core. He was so careful, so deliberate, his touch exploring every fold and hollow with the focused attention of a scholar studying a sacred text. He learned the rhythm of your breathing, the way your hips tilted into his hand, the precise pressure that made you gasp and clutch at his shoulders. He learned you like you were the most important thing he had ever encountered, and when he pushed one finger inside you he watched your face with wonder, cataloging every micro-expression, every flutter of your lashes, every trembling exhale.

It was better than the first time he did this.

"Like this, my dear?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, and you could only nod and whimper as he added a second finger, stretching you gently, curling just right.

"Tell me if it's too much. Tell me if you need me to stop."

But you didn't want him to stop. You wanted more, always more, and he gave it to you with that same patient, worshipful attention, his thumb circling your clit while his fingers moved inside you in a rhythm that built and built until you shattered against his hand with a cry that echoed off the glowing walls. He watched you come apart with an expression of pure awe, his fingers never stopping, drawing out every last tremor until you lay panting beneath him, utterly undone. He withdrew his hand slowly, careful not to hurt you, and then he brought his fingers to his lips and tasted you. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, savoring.

"You taste like memories," he murmured, and then he was kissing down your body, leaving a trail of heat in his wake until he settled between your thighs and looked up at you with a question in his eyes. You nodded, breathless (who would stop him now, anyway?), and he lowered his mouth between your thighs. His tongue was everything, soft and warm and skilled, tracing patterns that made your hips buck and your fingers fist in his hair. He learned you all over again with his mouth, cataloging every sigh and every moan, adjusting his rhythm and pressure until he found exactly what made you fall apart. He brought you to the edge and pulled back, teased you until you were begging, ‘Tron, please, please, Tron—’ and then finally pushed you over with a slow, deliberate stroke of his tongue that had you crying out his name like a prayer. When he finally rose above you, his body covering yours, his eyes were dark with want and his voice was rough with restraint.

"I need to be inside you," he said, and it was not a demand but a confession, raw and honest and aching. "I need to feel you around me. I need to remember what it's like to be part of User."

You turned for him, rolling onto your hands and knees, and he made a sound of surprise and delight that made you laugh breathlessly.

"Like this?" you asked, looking over your shoulder at him, and he nodded, his hands settling on your hips with a reverent grip.

His cock materialized and though you couldn’t see it, you knew how it looked like. Impatiently, you allowed yourself one soft little whine and it was everything that needed for Tron to give you exactly what you wanted. He entered you slowly, so slowly, letting you feel every inch of him as he sank into your wet heat. He was thick and hot and perfectly shaped, and when he was finally fully seated inside you he paused, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin.

"You feel incredible," he breathed. “Like I belong inside you."

He started to move, his hands gripping your hips as he found a rhythm that was deep and slow and devastating. He watched the way your bodies joined, his eyes tracing the way you took him, the way you clenched around him with every thrust. He was so gentle, so careful, even as his pace began to build, his fingers pressing into your skin with just enough pressure to ground you both.

"This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," he murmured, his voice ragged, his thrusts growing deeper, reaching the places no human ever could, your mouth opening nice and wide in the soundless scream. "You are the most beautiful thing. You are everything. Let go, my dear User. I have you. Tron will always have you."

You shattered around him with a cry that mingled with his, feeling him pulse inside you as he followed you over the edge, his body shaking with the force of his energy release. He held you through it, his arms wrapped around you, his face buried in your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. When the last tremors faded, he pulled out gently and gathered you into his arms, turning you so you could curl against his chest. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth, his hands stroking your back with a tenderness that made you want to cry.

"Oh, to forget that it could be like that," he murmured, his voice soft with newfound wonder. "To feel you. To be happy again. To be back into you, with you."

He smiled down at you, and the Grid pulsed gently around you, as if it was sharing in his joy.

The nightmare never ended, not truly. Not for Alan Wake. Even though his eyes were open and his body was held tightly, so tightly by you, you knew with a deep grief that he was still there, still in the Dark Place. It broke your heart to see him twitch, to hear his mumbling or find him completely motionless, eyes straining to see something in the shadows that you could never know.

“Alan,” you called for him in the middle of a night, always around 12 pm, that time when the day ends and the new begins. You could feel the man laying wide awake, body stiff, eyes still looking and searching.

“Alan,” you tried again, your hand finding his under the blanket. Usually so warm, now it felt cold. You were afraid he was having a fever, that he was lost in the darkness of his mind again, but then…

“I’m here,” you heard him whispering. “I’m… I’m actually here. With you.”

The words came out like he was learning to speak for the first time. Rough. Disbelieving. As if he had to test each syllable before he could trust it, as if speaking them was just the same as writing them in ink – once it’s out there, no way to erase them. You felt his hand twitch beneath yours - then slowly, achingly, his fingers, calloused and strong curled around your own.

"Alan…” your voice was softer now, barely a breath. "You're here. You're in bed. With me."

He blinked. Once. Twice. The searching in his eyes didn't stop, but it shifted - like a man trying to focus on something just out of reach. His throat moved as he swallowed, hard.

"The shadows," he said, and his voice cracked. "They were - they were moving. Writing themselves. I could see the words forming on the walls, and I couldn't - I couldn't make them stop-”

"Alan."

You shifted closer, your free hand finding his cheek. His skin was cold, damp with a fine sheen of sweat.

"Look at me. Look at me."

His eyes found yours in the darkness. And for a moment - just a moment - something in his face eased. The tension in his jaw softened and his breath, which had been coming in shallow, uneven quiet gasps, began to slow.

"You're here," he whispered again. But this time it wasn't a confusion. It was a realization. A quiet, trembling wonder.

"I'm here," you confirmed, your voice trembling. "I'm not going anywhere."

His hand came up to cover yours against his cheek, pressing it deeper, his stubble tickling your sensitive skin. He leaned into your palm like a man starved for warmth.

"I keep thinking..." He paused, licking his dry lips. "I keep thinking that I'm going to wake up and you'll be gone. That this is just another loop. Another version of the story where I lose you."

"You won't lose me." You said it firmly, because he needed to hear it. Because you needed to believe it too. "I'm right here. I've got you."

He let out a shaky breath. Then, slowly, he turned his head and pressed his lips to your palm.

"I don't deserve you," he murmured against your skin, slowly shaking his head.

"That's not for you to decide, mister Wake."

A huff of laughter escaped him - surprised, almost disbelieving. It was the first real sound of amusement you'd heard from him in days.

"There you are," you said softly, echoing the words he'd once said to you. He shifted closer, tucking himself against your side like he was trying to disappear into you. His head found the curve of your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck, his strong hands wrapping around your body.

"Stay," Alan whispered. "Just... stay with me. Please."

"Always."

His body was still tense, still carrying the weight of a thousand sleepless nights in a place that never let him rest. But slowly, by increments, you felt him begin to relax.

"I love you," he said quietly.

"I love you too, Alan."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, so softly you almost missed it: "Thank you for pulling me back."