Bryan Hodukavich | Monstrous

It starts because you walked past the couch.

That's all it takes these days. One second Bryan's slumped against the cushions, half-watching some awful cooking show, and the next his hand has shot out and closed around your wrist, and he tugs.

He doesn't mean to tug that hard. He never does.

You go flying. There's no other word for it. One moment you're on your feet, the next you're sprawled across his lap in a tangle of limbs, and Bryan's staring down at you with wide, startled eyes, like he's just as surprised as you are.

"Oh- shit, sorry, I didn't-" He's already laughing, though, breathless and a little disbelieving. "You weigh nothing. How do you weigh nothing? Do you even have bones?"

He doesn't let you up. He shifts you easily, one arm hooked under your knees, the other around your back, and hauls you up his chest until you're tucked right against him like you were made to fit there. It takes him no effort at all. That's the part that still catches him off guard: how easy you are to hold now, how he could keep you here all day and never get tired.

Then he's kissing you. Your cheek, your temple, the corner of your mouth, your nose, which makes you scrunch it up, which makes him grin so wide his eyes crinkle. Even the wrong one, amber and strange in the lamplight.

"Mm-mm, no, stay still," he murmurs, when you start giggling and shoving at his chest. It's like pushing at a wall. He doesn't budge an inch. "I'm busy, baby. Very important work. Very official."

Another kiss, pressed messily to your jaw. Another under your ear, where he lingers, breathing you in, the heightened sense of smell he still hasn't gotten used to making his head swim. You smell like his shampoo and the tea you had earlier, and something warm and soft that's just you.

"God, you smell good. It should be illegal."

Something shifts against your waist. A faint pressure, cool and smooth, curling around your hip.

He looks down. One of his tentacles has slipped free from beneath his hoodie without permission and is wrapped snugly around your middle, holding you in place, like it's decided on its own that you're not allowed to leave either.

"That's.. that wasn't me." A pause. "Okay, it was me. But I didn't tell it to do that."

The tentacle, traitorously, squeezes a little tighter.

Bryan groans and drops his forehead against your shoulder, voice muffled and mortified.

"..Is this weird? You can tell me if it's weird, sweetheart."

"Five more minutes," you said, an hour ago.

Bryan's been patient. He's stood in the doorway of the study three separate times, murmuring things like it's almost one, baby and your eyes are going red, and every time you've waved him off without looking up.

This time he doesn't say anything at all.

He just walks over, closes the laptop, and lifts you out of the chair with one arm like you weigh nothing.

You're over his shoulder before you can even protest. And when you do protest, kicking and twisting and pounding at his back, it's like fighting a wall. His arm is locked across the backs of your thighs, solid as steel.

"Nope," Bryan says cheerfully, heading down the hallway. "I asked nicely. Three times, sweetheart."

You squirm harder. He adjusts his grip with a little bounce, completely unbothered.

Then something cool and smooth wraps around your wrist, then the other one, gently tugging them away from his back. A third coils around your ankles, pinning your kicking legs together. His tentacles have slipped out from beneath his hoodie and have you neatly bundled up, holding you still with the same effortless strength as the rest of him.

Bryan glances back at them and snorts, "okay, I didn't tell them to do that."

He shoulders the bedroom door open, walks right up to the bed, and tosses you onto it. Not hard, but with an easy, careless strength that sends you bouncing across the mattress, the tentacles slipping free just in time.

He doesn't give you a chance to escape. He's right behind you, crawling onto the bed and collapsing half on top of you, his whole weight pinning you down into the covers like a very large, very warm blanket. He buries his face in your neck and nuzzles in, nose pressed under your jaw, breathing you in deep.

"Mm. Got you," He mumbles, muffled and smug. "Caught, arrested, bedtime jail."

One of his tentacles drapes across your waist and settles there, heavy and content. Another curls loosely around your ankle, like it's making sure you stay put.

"You're not going anywhere, baby." He nuzzles in closer, stubble scratching softly, and his voice drops warm and sleepy. "..you can keep fighting if you want."

Bryan's standing at the kitchen counter when you find him, shoulders hunched, head down. In his hand are the remains of a mug. Your mug, the chipped blue one you've had since before the wedding. It's split clean in two, a thin line of tea dripping off the counter onto the floor.

He wasn't even squeezing it. He was just holding it.

"I didn't," he starts, then stops. His voice is thick. "I was just picking it up."

He sets the pieces down so carefully it's almost painful to watch, like he's afraid even that will break them further. His hands are shaking. One of his tentacles has slipped out from beneath his hoodie and curled tight around his own arm, the way it does when he's upset and trying to hold himself together.

He sniffs, wipes his nose on his sleeve, and won't look at you.

His reflection watches from the dark kitchen window. The wrong eye glows faintly amber in the glass, and he turns his face away from it so quickly it's almost a flinch.

"That's the third thing this week," He mumbles. "The cupboard door. The remote. Now this." A wet, humourless laugh. "I can't even make tea without wrecking something."

He finally glances at you, eyes red-rimmed, and there's something small and frightened underneath the embarrassment.

"It was your favourite," He whispers. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I'll get you another one, I'll- "

His voice cracks and he presses the heel of his hand to his eyes.

"I just want to be normal for you. I want to be able to hold things."