#It's worse than feeling your email toes touch

[thebeesholdmehostage]

I feel my teeth tickling my tongue-⁠ᄒ⁠ᴥ⁠ᄒ⁠-

[deluxewhump]

Erik's Journals pt 2 (2011-2013)

Content Warning for entire series: institutionalized slavery of a minor (11-18), emotional abuse and manipulation, dubious comfort, pet whump, disordered eating, violence, guns, mutilation (off screen, no main characters), corporal punishment, sexual content/dubcon ( character is 18+), broken bones, death of a parent, unreliable narrator

2: What the Fates Allow

December 2011

Feelings toward my new pet that are paternal in nature have been growing for some time, but last night I felt them so acutely I feel compelled to record the instance.

I had just come home from a week’s absence. (I was in Stockholm with Mathilde and our cousin Karl, settling some family business and enjoying an extended visit.)

I was exhausted from jetlag, and I’d spent all that afternoon until it was dark with Keith in the warehouse going over the minutiae of that side of the business. Though I needed to catch up on emails for O&H, I found myself absentmindedly watching a movie with Carlo.

Besides the TV, the only light in the room was the warm yellow glow of the Christmas tree in the corner. Its thousand tiny bulbs reflected against the black panes of the bay window like Van Gogh stars. Carlo was on the opposite end of the sofa, wrapped in a beige quilted blanket.

It was pleasant to share the room with another person, even a quiet pet. Poor thing. He’d been alone all week but for visits from his tutors and the maid.

It’s not just any pet you could leave alone for a week and not worry about. I called him a few times, to say hello. He always gave polite, perfunctory answers to my questions, though they were meant to be conversational. To a warm “how are you?” he’d answer “well, Sir, and you?” My gently exasperated laughter did nothing but push him into longer, more uncomfortable silences. I could picture him standing in my study, the cordless receiver to his ear, tracing patterns on the sun faded oriental rug with his toe in the socks I’d bought him.

I was an uncomfortable business call to him. He gave me the same stilted, self conscious reports as when I called one of my lower management team unexpectedly. “Did Anna make you your Italian wedding soup yet? I put your favorites on the menu for the week.” “Yes, Sir. Thank you.”

Eventually I would put him out of his misery and let him go. He is still adjusting. Despite my measured efforts to reassure him, he is so acutely aware our relationship to one another, my status as his master and head of the household that has become his fishbowl-world. I know he will grow more comfortable with me over time. 

More importantly, I had no doubt he’d be here when I got back, lessons done and house clean, no trouble. His behavior so far has been exemplary, and I try to remember to praise him on it. 

The movie took a sad turn (to ramp the ethos of the genre up to ten). The aging matriarch of the family was hiding a medical diagnosis, probably cancer, from her adult children so as not to put a damper on Christmas, and they had all just found out. I happened to glance over at my pet. In the soft light from the tree, I could see he was crying. 

“Carlo,” I said without thinking, my voice infused with nearly amused concern.

He turned his head away from me.

"Oh, hey now." I patted the spot next to me. I regretted the tone my voice may have taken when I said his name. “It’s alright. Do you want to come over here?”

Without looking at me, he did as I suggested, curling up fairly close. He didn’t touch the tears on his cheeks, as if acknowledging them would be worse than ignoring them. 

To preserve what he clearly considered as his dignity I said nothing further, but I wondered if it was just the tear-jerking tactics of the film with the doomed mother, or a mother-shaped ache of his own that had gotten him to cry.

I very much doubted if his mother hadn’t died that any of this would have ever become of him. As you can imagine, the trade is filled with orphans, runaways, drifters, and those with similarly tenuous ties to society. And even then, the state rarely offers up one so young as this one- still only a child. I put my arm around him.

“Things always work out in these types of movies,” I said. “Don’t you worry.”

He must’ve felt the affection in the weight of my arm, for he was bold enough to lay temple against me. The movie was coming to a relatively happy close a few minutes later, and I pulled back just enough to look down into his face.

“Are you okay?”

He nodded unconvincingly.

“You miss her, don’t you?”

This brought fresh tears, and he turned away again to hide his face from me, muffling a choked sob as he did. He said something that was lost in the tear-tight back of his throat, but what I think was an apology. 

That unfamiliar, deeply personal ache, what I can only describe as something akin to paternal affection slipped painfully as a knife between my ribs. Gently, I turned him back towards me by his shoulders and held out my arms in an offer to hold him. He accepted, placing his cheek against my chest and letting me wrap my arms around him. 

“Of course you do,” I soothed, rubbing my hand between his shoulder blades. “It’s not fair, is it? I know it isn’t. It’s okay to miss her. You’re home, you can feel however you need to feel.”

I shushed him rhythmically and repeated any comforting nonsense I could think of until the tears subsided and he sat up sniffing, wiping his face like someone who’s just tripped in public hurries to brush themself off, afraid to look and see if everyone is watching.

“You’re my pet, Carlo Holstrom. I know you know that, but do you know what it means?”

He managed a wobbly, obligatory answer, keeping his chin and eyes down. No, Sir.

”It means it’s my job to look after you. Just like I’ve shown you your jobs, I have one too. It’s to take care of you. Always. You’re not alone, and you’re never going back to a state home, or with anyone else but me. I know I have to go on trips sometimes, but I’ll always come back.”

”It’s like family, then?” he glanced up cautiously. His eyelashes were wet, his nose red. “I know the difference,” he hurried to add. “But, kind of?”

”Oh yes,” I agreed seriously, and with fondness smoothed down a stray curl of his hair. “It is just as binding.”

Jet-lagged, compelled by his innocence and my own apparent sappiness, I made a promise. “I can’t bring your mother or anyone else back, Carlo. But I promise you that as long as I’m living, you’ll always have someone in your corner.”

-

That night I pulled an extra quilt from a linen closet to drape over his bed on account of the cold temperatures the weather channel had called for. When he thanked me for it, he said thank you, Papa, from his pillow, already half asleep.

I turned out his light and walked down the dark hallway with a feeling like a physical weight in my chest. This boy was only here because of misfortune and the banal ugliness of the world compounding one onto another sure as misery loves company. And of course, because of my own casual participation in a thing as tainted and archaic as the pet trade. One day he would understand my participation for what it was. I was complicit in all the ubiquitous systems of the world that put him on that block for sale or slaughter. 

Tonight I had shown him an ounce of human kindness, mostly because I have been pleased with his good behavior, and he had responded with generosity and trust tenfold. I know the difference, he’d said, assuring me he knew his place in the world. Papa, he had called his master, his captor. Half asleep. Like a lullaby. 

I had forgotten how beauty is sometimes made, crushed under the oppressive weight of the ragged world like a diamond. How it can persist not because of, but in spite of. I had forgotten how painful it could be to witness. 

3: Classically Trained

January 2013

In addition to English and math, I hired a piano tutor for Carlo, an old acquaintance who came recommended to me by a friend.

I know a little of the piano myself, just enough to substitute when Claude can’t make it, until Carlo advances beyond me. 

Yesterday was one such day. Claude canceled late, citing a toothache. I sat down at the piano bench with Carlo after dinner in the music room, a shoe-polish black baby grand surrounded by the seeking branches of potted plants striving hopefully towards the windows. Outside, the nighttime sky was bright with a corona of blue-grey light, heavy with unfallen snow.

“Show me where you left off last time.”

He flipped forward in his scorebook to Schubert’s Der Tod und das Mädchen, everything about his manner careful and stiff. I thought at first he might be nervous to play in front of me, which was alright.

“Show me your placement,” I said gently, and he did.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

He began to play, slowly at first like the first laborious push of a bicycle pedal, a timid touch gaining momentum on the mournful opening notes of the Leid.

At a transition, his thumb missed its intended note. Discord barked where the other notes sang, a dropped set of car keys among wind chimes. He froze. At this point I still assumed his behavior was just shyness of me, and his usual sensitivity to criticism. 

“Pick back up from here,” I said, pointing to the last half note. “Slow down over that transition to C. Piano, not pianissimo. You’re doing well.”

He seemed not even to breathe, fingers still poised over the keys where he’d made his mistake like it was the scene of an accident. I noticed not for the first time he had been biting his nails, some of them down to the tender quick, leaving pink half moons on his fingertips. Momentarily, he did as I asked, tread slowly past the note where he’d faltered before. It seemed it was his relief and pleasure that made him lose his concentration next. He faltered again when he picked back up to speed, his small back as straight as an ironing board next to me.

This time I reached over to lay my hand on his, guide him over how the movement would have felt if he’d mastered it. He flinched from my touch. I pulled back.

“Are you alright?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said automatically. Eyes on his fingers, fingers on the mute keys. He glanced up towards his sheet music, then away as if shocked by static electricity.

I followed his gaze carefully. How had I not seen it before? Tucked behind the sheet music on the music rack was a long black switch like an antenna, metal alloy tapering to an end as thin as a pencil. At first I thought it must be a pointer, like a conductor's wand. After a slow moment of understanding it occurred to me it might just as well be an instrument of discipline and punishment. Like a nuns right-hand ruler, it was perfectly made for inflicting pain.

“What’s this?” I asked, drawing it out by the tip. I held it flat in my palm like a carrot.

He avoided my eyes.

“I asked you a question.”

He drew his hands into his lap, his shoulders losing some of their rigidity. “It’s a switch,” he offered, in case I was just stupid.

“Is this your tutor’s?”

A reluctant nod.

“What is this for?”

No answer.

“Carlo,” I said in low warning.

“To correct, Sir. Only when I make a mistake. Or don’t sit up right.”

“Where does he hit you with it?”

“My hands. Fingers.”

I sighed. I almost told him that he should have told me, but he probably assumed I knew about Claude’s methods, since I’d hired him. Communication requires trust. I am still working on that with him. 

Claude is a decent pianist, but a twit. Julliard trained about a hundred years ago, which everyone knew by virtue of him letting everyone know. Roman Catholic, though no longer practicing. He fancied himself an outcast of the Church now, prone to Marxist commentary and mystical in ways he was sure they found threatening and lately sporting a bristly fundamentalist beard. Rasputin minus the charisma. Still, the sin and corporal punishment crowd often struggle to forget their roots.

But to presume to touch��� let alone hit— my pet without asking my explicit permission? I’d given his manners too much credit. I would not soon forgive his overstep, making my own pet flinch from my touch in learned fear. I hoped his toothache pained him fiercely.

“That particular tutor won’t be invited back here,” I said, and tucked the switch into my jacket pocket. “He’s not fit to teach you.”

For the first time since I’d sat down beside him he dared turn his head to look at me. “What about when I make a mistake?”

“You try again, until you are making better mistakes on harder pieces. Mistakes and disobedience are not the same thing. And pain is excellent kindling for art, but not the kind inflicted on children with a switch. You understand the difference?”

“Mistakes are not the same as disobedience.”

I nodded at him to ready his hands at the keys again.

“From the beginning,” I told him. “Take a deep breath. Lower your shoulders.”

Next

[angelamajiki]

[ a father’s love ]

PARING: StepFather! Aizawa x StepDaughter! Reader

SYNOPSIS: Your stepfather took you in with open arms after the death of your mother. Depression gets the better of you and Shouta promises to take care of you. But just how far is he willing to go to see it through?

CW: yandere, pseudo-incest, mentions of stalkers, mentions of death, depression, mental health issues, pregnancy, noncon, somnophilia, bondage, daddy kink, praise kink, afab reader

AN: my first collab with the bnharem server!! the theme was roommates (i ran with the term loosely) read the other member’s takes here! mind the tags as usual and enjoy!! :)

The death of your mother shattered you. A freak accident with a villain attack had her crushed under rubble from a collapsed building. Your stepfather, Shouta, suggested that you move back home with him after her funeral. As tempting as the offer was, you were determined to make it through University and handle yourself like a big girl, an adult ready to take on the world. You had only moved out a few months before her death, independence calling to you after you received your college acceptance letter.

A few months and an eviction notice later, you crawled back to him, the only remnants of your family. Open arms enveloped you, bringing you solace and comfort in your dire time of need. You felt like a child, bundled up in his arms as you sobbed, screaming at the cruelty of the world. Depression hit you hard and deep, flunking you out of your classes and preventing the bills from being paid. You had no other alternative but to accept his offer.

“You time and space to grieve properly, kitty. The most logical thing to do is take a breather.”

Ah, kitty. He always knew that was your favorite nickname, calling you that ever since you were a little girl. He also always knew just what to say. Patting your thigh, he stood up and extended his hand to help you up as well.

“Let’s go step up your room. I'm sure you need a nap after that cry.”

He gave a wrinkly smile before disappearing down the hall.

Skeptical at first, you were unsure if it was the right move to return home. You needed time to figure out what you wanted, what you needed. A break from life would give you a chance to sort things out, right? And Shouta was more than prepared to use this opportunity to show you he would be all that you needed and more.

The man was nothing short of doting and generous. A shoulder to cry on, a good laugh, a friend, a father. He helped you piece your broken soul back together. Whenever he wasn’t patrolling, he was at home with you. When your depression seemed to drown you, Shouta was there to pull you out of the water. He made sure you ate, helped brush your hair when it was matted, and got you into clean clothes daily. It was the small things that he did for you that helped your demeanor change.

—

“Up and at ‘em, kitty. Breakfast is on the table.”

You grunted, burrowing deeper into your bedding. A chuckle reverberated in his throat as he rubbed your lower back soothingly.

“C’mon, I know you haven't been eating lately. Let's get some food in you. I made your favorite.”

—

But as time passed, his help could only do so much. Your mental health continued to dwindle, plummeting into the ground when her first anniversary passed.

—

Gentle strokes of a brush smoothed through your tangled hair. Shouta was kind enough to help you when your head got matted into a rat’s nest, being incredibly tender and gentle with you. Tears streamed down your face, broken hiccups and sobs bubbling from your chest. You were trying to hold it in, he could tell. A sweet kiss was placed on the back of your head as he enveloped you in a comforting embrace, letting his hands sip down to your hips to rub circles in.

“Let it out, kitty. I'm here for you.”

He was the only one that was.

—

The domestic dynamic the two of you fell into hardly felt like one of parent and child, but more as two lovers sharing a home they built together. The pair of you even adopted a new cat together in hopes of cheering you up. You can't say that you disliked it. It felt...nice to have your presence matter when it was a struggle even to be alive. Shouta always checked in on you; whether he sent you an update from work or shared a cat video. He really was the best father anyone could hope for, even when your depression got the worst of you.

Your depression started to manifest itself in many forms. Lately, you’d been having vicious nightmares, only to wake up with an unknown stickiness on your thighs. Recalling the night terrors was something that evaded you, but you knew you were being violated. Perhaps your body wet itself from the fear of the dream? It was the only logical answer you and Shouta could come up with. Depression sure had funny ways of physically manifesting itself. You thought that would be the end of it, putting the situation behind you.

It was until it started happening nightly. The nightmares only seemed to prolong themselves, worsening to the point where you could vividly dream of being assaulted. Your underwear was now soiled too, and it definitely wasn’t your doing. Fearing you had a stalker, Shouta installed brand new locks on your windows and doors, hoping to soothe you. He was a Pro-Hero, so he certainly had the means and know-how to protect you. It put you at some ease, but it continued to the point where your stepfather decided sleeping in the same room would help you feel safer.

It didn't.

The nightmares themselves only seemed to get worse, but Shouta was right there to comfort you as soon as you woke up shouting in a panic. He would take you into his arms and hold you until you fell back asleep. You felt like a child. But he didn't judge you.

After a month of strange behavior, the stress caused you to gain some weight. Visiting a doctor was your best bet to get an answer. He took you to your appointment, letting you hold onto his arm for comfort as his hand rested comfortably on your thigh. The two of you were mistaken for a couple by a nurse. What a strange, intimate relationship the pair of your tangled yourselves in.

The doctor ran some tests and had your blood drawn. The results were to be emailed to you in a few days. Shouta calmed your nerves with a tender kiss to the forehead, reassuring you that everything would work itself out.

The notification for the email came in a few days later while Shouta was at work and you were lounging in the living room. Patience was never your strong suit, so you took his laptop from the coffee table, only to open up to a camera feed. Coming from your room.

The blood in your veins ran cold as you looked into the memory drive of the feed. Maybe he set up a camera to see what was happening during your nightmares? That had to be it; how could you assume the worst of your sweet dad? The only saved footage to be found was him fucking himself deep inside of your sleeping body.

“I see the results are in.”

You nearly jumped out of your skin at the sound of his voice. He always had a habit of sneaking up on you.

“What-” You couldn’t find the words to describe your anger. “What the fuck is this!”

Disgust. Rage. Dispair.

Your only family left had turned against you.

“You were upset at the loss of your family, kitty. So I decided to give you a new one.”

He couldn't possibly mean…

“You’re pregnant.”

Bile rose to your throat as you gagged at the mere thought of his words. Pregnant? With your father’s child? His betrayal cut you more profoundly than your mother’s death ever could have. But it couldn't have made more sense—his touches, his comfort, sleeping in your room, the nightmares that plagued you.

“You’re sick!”

You shouted, tears streaming down your face as you continued to pummel insults and nasty spats at him. You lost your voice by the end of your rant, panting and heaving while sweat beaded your brow. He just stood there, taking everything in with a grain of salt.

“I understand, kitty. I really do. I should have been straightforward with my intentions.” He confessed.

The capture weapon around his neck snagged you the second you moved on the couch.

“Let daddy make it up to you. I'll make everything better for my pretty little kitty.”

It secured you to the sofa, keeping your legs spread and your hands behind your torso. On his knees in front of you, Shouta was ready to serve his apology with his tongue. Panties and sweatpants were ripped at the seams before being tossed aside.

He caressed your thigh with a delicate touch, pressing his lips to the other side. A kiss was pressed to your clit before long slow strokes of a hot tongue lavished it in attention. He kneaded your thighs gently all the while, humming as he began to alternate between licking and suckling on your sensitive nub.

Your head thrashed about in your binds as you shouted in protest.

“S-Stop it right now! Get off of me, dad!”

In a desperate plea, you hoped that hearing you call him dad would force him back into reality. Instead, he groaned and took a breath.

“Call me that again, kitty.”

A hot mouth sealed over your wet cunt as he dove his tongue between your folds while sucking with his lips. The pleasure was undeniable; his tongue was too experienced to ignore how his ministrations made you feel. Toes flexing and curling, you cried out of a mix of frustration, disgust, and humiliation as he continued to work at your dripping hole. This pig was getting off on the fact that he was fucking his daughter. It made your soul shatter all over again, the one he worked so hard to rebuild.

You continued to sob, moans now added to the mix, as he worked a finger inside of you. He made a curling motion after plunging in knuckle deep. A pleasured shout broke between your cries.

“I'll take it that’s your sweet spot, pretty girl? Good to know.”

He continued to abuse that spot, slowing down just a touch with his tongue to drag out the ride to the peak. Can't have you coming too fast, now can we? Your moans and whimpers spurred him on even more as he wiggled another finger inside you.

Removing his mouth, he focused on stretching and loosening up your tense body. You were lax when sleeping, so sliding in was a pinch with his size. But now he has to deal with you thrashing and struggling against his bonds. Disgust and pleasure churned together in your gut, feeling the incoming orgasm approaching hard and fast. Shouta felt you clench around his fingers and added a third, using his thumb to swipe your clit back and forth. With a final cry, you came on his fingers with a shout as your body convulsed in the capture weapon. You found what little peace you could in your short-lived post-nut clarity, taking a moment to breathe and center yourself.

Your father gave you no such chance to do so, immediately springing his cock free and rubbing the tip against your clit to gather your wetness. A chuckle sounded in his throat as he watched you twitch even more from the stimulation that was starting to border on being painful.

“Relax, kitty. Being tense won't do you any good.”

He slowly nudged his cock into your hole, groaning as he took his time bottoming out inside you. Praise spilled from his lips as he let you adjust, feeling your pussy clench tight around him. Good girl, good kitty. He shushed your sobs, smoothing the tears off of your face with the pads of his thumb. Murmurs of good girl and taking me so well slipped your senses. The pace he set was slow and deep, letting you feel every agonizing inch of his rather impressive dick.

Your flowing tears were kissed away as he proceeded to thrust faster and deeper. The sound of skin slapping against one another filled the room, even above your now weakened crying and whimpers. Sweat beaded on your brow plastered your hair to your forehead. His breath was warm against your cheek, his moans of pleasure so close to your ear forced you to stay in the moment.

Shouta swallowed your cute noises with a kiss, cupping and stroking your cheek with his right hand while his left pinned your hips down into the cushions. He did his best to stop your tears, pushing the hair off of your sweaty face. A few minutes passed filled with kisses, cries, and deep thrusts before he maneuvered you to be seated in his lap. Back pressed into the cushions, he lazily thrust up into you, hands grabbing your now bouncing ass. His thumb made its way back to your clit as he rubbed it in small circles, grinning at your cries of pleasure that you couldn't hold back. Dark brown eyes fluttered shut as he groaned and moaned proudly, increasing the speed of his thrusts as he felt himself getting closer and closer.

He usually lasted longer while you were sleeping; he does have quite a bit of stamina from his hero work. But something about seeing your flushed, torn face, hearing your whimpers and cries, he can't help but cum rather quickly for his own record. The pleasure was manifesting itself within you again, a second orgasm hitting you like a speeding truck as you gasped and choked for air at its intensity. Shouta was soon to follow, grunting and moaning loudly as he filled your cunt with his spend. He rode out both your orgasms, relishing in the silence between the two of you. It was better than hearing your broken, choked up wails.

It was wrong; he knew that. Breaking your trust, violating you, sabotaging your personal life, he couldn't help but be selfish with you. But he always knew what was best for you, always knew how to take care of you when you couldn't.

Foreheads pressed together, he caught your sagging body against him in a warm hug, stroking your hair when you started to sob uncontrollably.

“Let it out, kitty. I'm here for you.”

[blackacre13]

can we get an update for teacher x student?

Part 31 is here; Here's part 32!

“I was just thinking about you, baby,” Debbie chuckled. “Actually, I haven’t stopped thinking about you since you left. But tell me, how do you feel about naked fondue? Too dangerous?”

“Baby? Naked fondue?” A deep voice laughed, Debbie’s heart jumping into her throat as her eyes went wide. “Guess that means we’re on better terms than I thought. But I know that can’t be true. No, no. Cause you don’t Fuck anything with a dick anymore. God forbid I get promoted for actually doing a decent Fucking job for teaching. Oh no. Has to be sexist because that should’ve had your name on it, because you’re so great.”

“Claude,” Debbie seethed, gritting her teeth as she sat down on the edge of her bed.

“Who is she, Deborah?”

Concentrating in class had never exactly been Lou’s forte. The thing was, if you actually did your reading, prepared for class, and studied, the class itself was the least of your worries as you already knew what to expect. And while she took notes and let her mind fade in and out of the lecture, she was already onto the next project or deadline and doing her best to multi-task best she could. Or now, apparently, daydream.

She no longer had any general education classes to complete now that she had finished her core and solely took things in her major, so Tammy was no longer around to kick her ankle or email back and forth as they sat with their laptops side by side. So it was only natural that her mind would wander to Dr. Ocean.

Debbie.

Her Debbie.

Debbie, who loved her. Deborah Ocean loved her! And she was madly in love with her in return.

But she still couldn’t fathom that not only were the feelings between them real, they had been acknowledged and shared and reciprocated. Debbie wanted to be with her and love her and travel the world with her. It made Lou’s heart want to explode.

This was so much worse than a crush or an itch or even lust. How the hell was she supposed to just sit in class like a good student and take notes like the most beautiful woman in the world wasn’t in love with her? Like Lou hadn’t scooped her up and thrown her on the bed this morning to touch her. To taste her. To memorize every last inch of her body. Watch her breath catch in her throat and her eyes glaze over as she pulled orgasm after orgasm from her. 

And she would never stop giving her pleasure and tracing over her body, admiring the greatest, most delicate art she’d ever seen, if Debbie didn’t feel just as good to her. And she could see Debbie study and savor her in return. Learning each other. Feeling each other. Lou could still taste her bursting on her tongue.

Lou would be lying if she said she paid any attention to her lecture, but frankly, she didn’t care. She did, however, pack up her books for some overdue studying and organize her planner before packing things up in a bag to head back to Debbie’s, shooting Tammy a text that she was still holding her car for ransom so she could commute back and forth to campus. Tammy snidely suggested she look into renting a U-Haul instead. 

Lesbian jokes aside, this only created a fantasy in her head of watching Debbie creep quietly out of bed, thinking Lou was still asleep while she got dressed. Lou rolling to her side so she could watch the brunette tip toe around the room, humming softly as she chose her outfit again, not realizing Lou was awake until she came over to kiss her softly goodbye and sweep her unruly bangs off her forehead. Gently chiding her for not announcing her wake up and using the quiet morning to watch Debbie in the glow of the sunrise instead as she got ready.

Lou would insist on making her coffee even if Debbie insisted she didn’t want breakfast. And she would sneak something to snack on in her bag, of course. She’d use the time Debbie was in her office prepping for the day to go over her own work and shower, breathing in the scent of Debbie’s shampoo that still lingered. And she’d greet Debbie in her office, switching from dutiful girlfriend to dutiful teaching assistant with a refill coffee in tow. And they could teach. Side by side. Their own little secret. Eyes twinkling. Only them knowing.

Maybe, just maybe, it was possible for someone to have it all. Maybe it was possible for Lou to be truly happy.

There was a pep in her step and stars in her eyes as she swung her duffle bag over her shoulder, trying to balance the flowers she’d found for Debbie with her backpack and the spare key Debbie had given her to let herself in, bursting in with a sloppy stumble due to her pile of goodies, laughing at herself as she fumbled her way into the living room, looking around for Debbie, only to find her sitting on the couch staring blankly at the wall with tears streaming down her face.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Yours, Mine, and Ours [7] Finale

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), trauma, violence, general sadness and shittiness.

This is dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You must face change.

Author Notes: I got another old series tied up and I’m editing the last chapter of another one as well. I’m trying to clear some stuff out as best I can.

A special thank you to everyone who reached out to me over the last few days. And extra thanks to @lokislastlove​ for always encouraging me.

Please let me know what you think, like and reblog <3 love ya

Masterlist

Bucky knelt beside you as your ass throbbed in pain and your head thrummed. He touched your arm gently with his metal hand, his other on your cheek as he cradled your face. You met his blue eyes but he quickly lifted his head and glared across the room.

“Don’t fucking move or I’ll hit you again. Harder.” His snarl was so harsh and deep, it made you shiver. He turned his attention back to you as he helped you roll over and sit up, “Are you okay? Careful…” he backed off the bed slowly as he guided you to the end of the mattress.

You clung to him and glanced over at Steve as he spat blood onto the floor. His eyes darkened and his nostrils flared as he looked back but he made no move towards you, his head lolling just slightly as he sat straight. 

You let Bucky usher you to the door as he turned back and searched around the floor. He huffed and took off his jacket instead, draping it over your shoulders.

He pointed you through the door and followed, snatched the throw from the back of the couch and offered it as he urged you on. You found your purse where you dropped it and stopped to grab it, groaning at how your body ached. You continued to the door as he opened it and followed you out.

You were silent as you descended, cloaked in his jacket and the thin blanket. You came around the building and neared your car. He kept away from you but hovered as if you might keel over.

“I can’t drive,” you let your purse dangle weakly from your hand.

“I’ll take you back,” he said softly, “and then you don’t have to see me ever again.”

You nodded and rounded his car. You opened the door and slumped into the seat, your purse on your lap as you hung your head. It was over. You knew it was. You thought there would be a way to hold onto Steve, to find the man he had been, but he assured you that that Steve was gone. Everything you had was lost.

The engine turned and you barely noticed the blur of the city as it passed outside the windows. You fought against the wave of grief that swept over you and leaned your head back.

“You said I’ll never see you again,” you croaked, “but you saved me.”

“So? I did all those other things too,” he gripped the wheel and sniffed, “I’ll keep my distance. I started all this. I never should’ve-- I’m fucked. I try to act like I’m not but I am.”

“Bucky…” you said weakly.

“Don’t. I know it’s the truth and I know everything that happened to you is because of me. Steve’s an asshole. I don’t know what changed in him, but I’m worse,” he sighed, “I’m gonna resign. I’m gonna… look into rehab or therapy, whatever they got for me. I can’t stay near you or Steve. I can’t do any of it.”

You nodded and rubbed your hands together. Your body hurt but your soul hurt worse.

“No, I’m going,” you said, “I’m leaving. I’m not a hero like you or Steve. I don’t matter. And I can’t stay with him. I can’t even stay close because I know he won’t stay away. Right now, he’s getting up off that floor and you can’t tell me he’s not coming after us right now.”

Your voice cracked and you muffled it with a corner of the blanket. You hunched over as suddenly you felt nauseous and you held in a retch. Your body shook but you kept the sickness in and murmured.

“Please, just get me back,” you begged.

“I will,” he vowed, “I’ll make sure you get out and I’ll make sure he doesn’t stop you,” you heard him gulp between his words, “and after, if you ever need me to knock him on his ass again, I’ll be there. No strings, no expectations, we don’t even need to talk.”

You crossed your arms and leaned against the door, watching the pedestrians and other cars. You could only think of everything that needed to be done; grab what you can, email Tony, go back and get your car and drive without stopping.

“Shit,” you sat up as you neared the compound, “I forgot my phone.”

“Good,” Bucky said, “he’s tracking it. Get a new one.”

👥

Bucky closed the yellow taxi door and watched the cab pull out into the swell of New York traffic. She’d packed the remnants of her former life in a single backpack but he could see, she didn’t even need that. He backed away from the curb and tucked his hands into his pockets. His chest was tight and heavy. He was guilty but he didn’t feel sorry for himself. He felt sorry for her.

He was almost thrown off his feet as a hand gripped his arm and swung him around. Steve was white with anger as a vein popped out in his forehead. His lip was split and his nose bruised from Bucky’s fist. The men faced each other in mutual detest. He never expected to look at his oldest friend that way and feel it so succinctly.

“Where is she?” Steve growled.

Bucky shrugged and shouldered past him, “gone. Far from us.”

Steve followed him and stopped him before he could pass through the door. He shoved him back against the façade of the building but Bucky hardly felt it. He just stood, staring at the man he didn’t know any more, and lifted a brow.

“You gonna beat it out of me?” he asked, “then you’ll have to kill me.”

Steve’s eyes searched Bucky’s and he growled under his breath, “all you had to do was follow the fucking rules.”

“I never liked those rules. I only wanted to be close to her. It was selfish. It was abuse.”

“She liked it,” Steve snapped.

“No, you told her she liked it and she loved you so much, she believed you,” Bucky’s voice turned raw, “she loved you and you threw it all away.”

“You ruined it,” Steve accused.

“Fuck you,” Bucky snarled, “you deserve to be alone.”

“I’ll find her,” Steve curled his fingers into a fist and puffed his chest, “I know exactly where she’s going. She won’t get to her car before I do.”

“No, she will,” Bucky pushed away from the wall and grabbed the front of Steve’s shirt and pinned him, “you won’t make it past me.”

Steve narrowed his eyes and his lips thinned. He gripped Bucky’s shirt in kind and the pair rolled against the wall until they stopped in a bitter stalemate. They stared each other down as their soles scuffed on the pavement and grunted almost in unison at their opponent.

“You won’t keep me from her forever,” Steve said calmly.

“She’s not the only one leaving, Steve,” Bucky hissed, “and I won’t feel bad at all when you wake up one day and realise how lonely you are.”

👥

Your new apartment was mostly empty but it was yours, unlike that seventh floor box Steve had made your cage. It was far from him, far from Bucky, far from everyone you ever knew. You knew you couldn’t hide with your parents or your sister or even those distant university friends who you knew would have your back. You had to be alone. It was your fear of that which got you into all that mess.

You didn’t see Bucky again but he did get a message to you. He left a gift for you at a safe house on your way out of the state. New identification, an unopened cell, and a wad of cash. It wasn’t atonement but it was what he could give you. You kept driving and exchanged your car at the stateline. You kept on until you felt as if you were in an entirely different country.

You took a job at the grocery store as a cashier. You remembered when you were a child and your mother had the same position. She went back to school and made you promise you’d never end up in the same boat. If she could see you now…

If you could see her.

You dropped your bag on the side table as you entered and turned the lock on the handle and the latch above, the deadbolt over that, and hooked the chain last. You clutched the pepper spray you kept up your sleeve and searched the single bedroom, the living room, the kitchen, and the bathroom. Your paranoia was your only companion.

You kept the curtains drawn day and night, even those stolid nights when you couldn’t sleep for the thick sweat that coated your body. Those nights came more often and even during the day, you found yourself suffocated in fits of unbearable heat. And at night, you were trapped by the dreams of the past.

You sat and opened up the novel you kept on the coffee table. When you’d been with Steve, you never had much time to read between his need for attention and your work. Your relocation was freeing in more ways than one. 

You laid back and wiggled, still in your stiff grocery store uniform and lost yourself in the fantasy adventure of a young warrior. It was a fight you could control; that you could win.

👥

Bucky held the position and breathed out slowly. His muscles vibrated as he strained and slowly lifted his leg, the toes of his other foot firmly planted on the mat. He turned and outstretched his arm and leg to the ceiling and inhaled. He let out another breath as he reached the next position then returned to downward-facing dog.

He pushed himself back to sit on his knees as the noise of the lapping lake reached his ears and sent a cool breeze over the dock. He pulled his legs out from under him and bent his legs as he leaned his sweaty arms over his knees. He looked out at the glistening water and listened to the noise of birds and critters.

Peace. He couldn’t call it that. Exile, more like. He didn’t trust himself to be near people. His therapist visited once a week and he attended daily video sessions with him. One of his tasks was to find hobbies and to face himself. Yoga was both of those. It cleared his hand and ate up his time.

But then he found himself wishing she was there. He knew she wasn’t in some serene lake house, she didn’t have all the support offered by SHIELD and Stark, she didn’t have anyone. He did what he could, what she would accept from him, but there was nothing he could give her in that life that would ever be enough.

Then he felt awful about those thoughts. She was never his to have.

He stood and walked up the dock and the dirt path to the house. He climbed up onto the large deck and through sliding doors. He poured himself a glass of water and added a slice of lemon. He took it with him as he went to the bedroom where he slept alone, where the shadows of trees loomed over him in the night and swayed like the wraiths of his remorse.

The white cat hopped up on the bed and twirled in expectation, in demand of his attention. He scratched Alpine’s head as he neared and got a nip when he pet him a little too long. The moody feline retreated to the corner of the bed and watched him with his pale blue eyes. The creature was his only friend now.

He took a deep gulp and sat on the edge of the bed and set the glass down. He slid open the drawer of the hand-crafted night table and dipped his fingers inside. He pulled out the pink fabric and held them in his metal hand and stroked the dainty elastic. He should get rid of them, like he had the rest, but he just couldn’t. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t. He would never forget about her.

👥

You pushed the boxes and cans over the scanner and onto the next belt so that they were carried down to the end of the counter. You smiled as you asked the usual questions and waited for the customer to punch in their pin. You waved on the next in line as the former bagged their goods and you kept the distant tune playing from the low speakers in your head.

The routine was your only comfort. It was easy. Even when you got those fussy customers, the ones with the expired coupons or the wrong flyers, it was simple work. You rang them through and saw them off without concern. Their tantrums were not the worst you’d faced in your time.

When it was your time to clock out, you stopped by the café in the same plaza as the grocery store and ordered a tall iced tea. You came out with your purse on the arm that hid the pepper spray and made your way to the end of the pavement and around the corner to the street. 

At the first corner, you turned off onto a small side street then cut through to the park and passed the memorials and statues set along the winding path. It was a longer walk than your normal route but you took it once a week. You liked to watch the ducks but you had to avoid the geese.

You sipped from your straw and smiled at a dog as he passed with his owner and looked over at the kids laughing on the monkey bars. Your uniform tented in the heat of the summer sun but you pressed on, refreshed by the fruity tea.

When you emerged from the park, the grit of the small town returned. The chipped bricks of your building rose above you and you unlocked the front door after a struggle with the ancient keyhole. The door closed heavily behind you and you headed up the dingy stairs.

As you got to your apartment, you went through the usual to-do; lock, search, and settle in. Two months, maybe three, it felt so long ago and yet it felt like only yesterday. You couldn’t help but feel watched, followed, and you knew that sensation would follow you for the rest of your life. But if it was only ever a thought, you could be okay.

👥

Steve didn’t know what to do with himself at first. First, his girl left and then his best friend.

In the early days of his solace, he told himself it wasn’t true. They’d be back. They couldn’t live without him. They would apologize because they betrayed him. They would realise that he wasn’t the villain. He wasn’t wrong. He busied himself with his missions and waited.

But after two weeks, he saw no signs, heard no tell, nothing. He tried to follow her trail but there wasn’t anything past the state line. He asked where Bucky went but Stark wouldn’t tell and SHIELD kept that information classified from all, even him.

Then, he felt bad and he lingered on those questions that tugged at his mind. Was he wrong? Was he the bad one? Had he really hurt them? Did he deserve it all? He felt awful and fell through on a mission and no one asked any questions. No one knew the reasons for the sudden departures and the downcast captain.

Then he was mad. He was breaking things. He was growling and shouting in frustration. He ripped a door off its hinges and punched a hole through a wall. He paid for the repairs but was told in no short terms to leave the compound. He was all too happy too. He still had that apartment and it wasn’t too bad being in his own space.

But it made him think of her. And as he thought of her, he missed another mission, this time without telling anyone. Phone calls, emails, knocks on his door, they all muddled together in the haze of his thoughts.

He remembered those days, decades ago when Bucky had been his only friend. When he was a boy, when he still felt young, when he still felt like him. He remembered everything that came after and how he fought to save the only man he ever admired. Then everything he’d made him do. He didn’t make him do that, he gave him exactly what he wanted.

Then she made his chest squeeze. He thought of the first time they met. He didn’t think much of her but she somehow won him over with her kindness. He recalled the realisation of how much he liked her, he wasn’t even reluctant enough not to think it was love in that instant. When she saw the loose stitch in his glove and pulled it away like it was nothing. She remarked on the little fix as ‘perfect’ and he couldn’t help his doofy grin and the line he spouted after, ‘not as perfect as you.’

And as he thought of her, he conjured all those hopes he had for them. The life he made for them in his mind. He was going to give it all to her but he just wanted a little fun first. That wasn’t so bad. He could still give it to her and that was all she wanted after all. She wanted the Steve she knew. She wanted the nuclear family and white picket fence. He wanted that too.

When the papers came to announce his dismissal from SHIELD, it felt like freedom. He didn’t care about saving the world anymore. He got out of bed these days and worked out, went for a run, and came back as he went about his own work. As he searched through the servers they tried to block him from and overrode the new restrictions. They always thought he was some clueless idiot from the past.

He could still have that life. All he had to do was find her. He smiled at the screen as he went over everything he had so far. The whiff of her blew out at the stateline but now he could go wherever he wanted without a leash. He could find her if he only tried a little harder.

👥

Steve gave notice on the lease and traded in his car for something with better mileage and more space. He sold everything that was his life before and headed out on the road with a new lease on life. He wasn’t the Captain anymore, he wasn’t the saviour, he only wanted to be one thing; a husband, a father, hers.

When he reached the state line, he stopped for a while at a motel and asked around. He had her picture and everyone was all too eager to talk to Steve Rogers. He found her car at a used dealership and got the plates and make of the one he’d switched her for. That was a start.

Then he moved on, stopping along the way for a day here and there to relax. He had time. He had confidence again. He did this everyday, this was her first time, she couldn’t outrun him forever. He had the skills and the savings to get him a lot further than she ever could.

He drove through several more states before he hit another block. A second car traded but the dealer was not as talkative. That meant he had to break in after dark and that was time he didn’t feel like spending on some stubborn bitch. But he got it done and moved on.

Then there was a week of doubt and desperation. What if he was wrong? What if this was all a part of her plan? Maybe she was smart enough to lead him in the wrong direction. Maybe Bucky was helping her. Maybe they were together. That thought made him livid.

He took off in the opposite direction but ended up with nothing but desert heat and rural nothingness. He turned around and assured himself that neither of them were smarter than him. He returned to the same point and slowly pieced together the clues until he was sure enough to keep on.

He was getting close. He could sense it. He pulled out his phone and opened those videos he’d taken from Bucky and the pictures of that day they’d made a mess of her. His hand was nothing compared to her and even if he came, he found himself dissatisfied. He ended up cursing only to start again a minute later.

That night he started in the bed then ended up in the shower and before he could get out of the bathroom, he was gripping his dick as he leaned on the counter and muttered her name over and over. He was impatient. He needed her soon or he was going to go mad.

He hardly slept as he tossed and turned in the hotel room. He checked out early but pulled over on the country road to get off again. It made him angry. She should be the one fucking him, he shouldn’t be using his own hand. He shouldn’t be alone. She should be there with his dick down her throat as he drove them to their suburban paradise.

He passed another city sign and spent a day running circles without a catch. He pressed on through the night, not wanting another motel bed, and pulled in at a station just outside a small town. He gassed up and chewed on jerky as he set out once more.

On a whim, he stopped in the small town and stopped for a meal at the local fish and chip place. It was unusual for the area but the fries were crispy and not overly salted and the fish breaded perfectly. He kept his hat on and his face down. He didn’t need to be recognized although his poor disguise seemed to draw attention.

“Louise,” the voice chimed with the bell, “gosh, I’m so sorry, I almost forgot.”

Steve looked up as his heart fluttered. He saw the green uniform shirt and black pants and at first, he was ready to deflate. But the way she walked, and her face, the way she glowed and smiled at the woman behind the till, he knew it was her. He’d found her.

“I am so stupid! I keep forgetting everything,” she counted out the money from her wallet, “I’ve been craving this all week and I’m halfway home and I’m like oh my god,” she chattered on, that way she did when they’d first met.

“Not at all, darlin’,” Louise handed her the parcel of fish and chips, “you go on enjoy.”

“Thank you!” she sang sweetly and scurried back through the door.

Steve stood slowly and left his tab on the table with a thoughtlessly generous tip. He adjusted his cap and headed out the door slowly. She wasn’t moving as fast as she made her way down the street. She swung the tied parcel from her hand and he noticed how her hips swayed. There was something different about her, something he liked.

He kept the same pace, sure to hang back so that she didn’t notice him. She led him through a park and she stopped to smile at a party of ducks in the small pond. She carried on over the small bridge and he sat on a bench when she looked back. She didn’t seem to notice as an older couple passed him and he hid behind them.

He got back up just as she was at the exit. He trailed her back to the streets and to an old brick building with an iron sign above the front door. She let herself in and he stood outside with a smirk.

“Perfect,” he said to himself as he backed away and strode down the sidewalk, “always so perfect for me.”

[etherrreal]

“resentment”

Pairing: oikawa x fem!reader Genre: angst Summary: you used to love oikawa’s determination, his drive, his willingness to give his all and sacrifice everything to get the things he wants. now those are the same things that make you resent him. WC: 6,700 Warnings: lots of angst, explicit language, reader’s kinda petty but so is oikawa, relationship isn’t toxic or anything but it could def be better A/N: shoutout to @shadowkunoichi​ for this request! your ask gave me enough serotonin to last for the rest of the week <3 it’s also important to note that the moment i saw oikawa’s smug ass face on screen my brain and heart immediately went “this the one” so here’s some pain ft. my favorite setter -Dawn

The first few times Oikawa cancels your dates for extended volleyball practice, you tell yourself it doesn’t bother you. You’re disappointed, of course –you barely see him enough as it is, despite living together for three months, despite dating for a total of eight– but it’s not the end of the world. It’s just another compromise you have to make, and it probably won’t be the last.

That’s what relationships are about, anyway, you remind yourself firmly, whenever the silence of your too-big for one person apartment starts to get to you. Compromise.

You’re no stranger to compromise, either. You can’t be, not when you’re dating a pro-athlete. You know better than anyone how talented Oikawa is, how admired. He’s worked so hard, and you’re so proud of him. You may not know much about sports, but you do know that your boyfriend has an amazing career ahead of him.

And while the selfish part of you would like to keep him all to yourself, you also know it won’t always be possible, and you tell yourself you’re okay with that. You love Oikawa, and you support every single one of his dreams, even if doing so means you have to eat dinner on your own sometimes.

It won’t always be this way, you tell yourself. It’s just for now. And it definitely doesn’t mean he loves you any less.

That’s what you tell yourself.

It helps that he’s always sorry about it. You hear it in his voice whenever he calls you to tell you he won’t be home until late, see it in the guilty way his eyes search for yours through the screen when he FaceTimes you to let you know you shouldn’t wait up for him. He’s even more torn up about it than you are most of the time, blowing your phone up with apologetic voice notes and text messages with too many emojis.

[pretty (annoying) boy 💙 ]:: babe 😔😔

[you]:: yes baby?

[pretty (annoying) boy 💙 ]:: 😔😔😔😔

[pretty (annoying) boy 💙 ]:: 😩😩😭😭

[you]:: oh boy

[you]:: you’re not gonna be home in time for dinner, are you?

[pretty (annoying) boy 💙 ]:: i don’t think so 😩😔 we have that game coming up so we’ll be practicing all night

[pretty (annoying) boy 💙 ]:: i’m so sorry baby ☹️☹️ but i’ll have to miss dinner again 😭😭

[you]:: it’s fine, i’ll just find someone else to share my chicken with

[you]:: speaking of, u have ushiwaka’s #? i wanna see something

[pretty (annoying) boy 💙 ]:: STOPPPP 😭😭 i’m sorry!!!

[you]:: allegedly

[pretty (annoying) boy 💙 ]:: stop 😭😭 i mean it!! i love you pls don’t hate me 😩☹️

[pretty (annoying) boy 💙 ]:: i’m really sorry babe ☹️☹️

[you]:: if ur apology doesn’t include dollar signs then i don’t wanna hear it

[pretty (annoying) boy 💙 ]:: check ur email

[you]:: ??

[pretty (annoying) boy 💙 ]:: 👀😇

You check your email, and sure enough, there’s a gift card there to your favorite clothing store, along with a note that reads “financial compensation for putting up with me <3 also if u ever share chicken with ushiwaka i’ll cry and then die so pls don’t.” It makes you laugh so hard you forget about being upset with him in the first place.

[you]:: i was joking!! u didn’t actually have to send me anything u weirdo

[pretty (annoying) boy 💙 ]:: i know 😇😏😘

And when he does make it home that night with an apology on his lips, a bouquet of flowers, and a promise that he’ll make it up to you, it’s hard to do anything else besides forgive him. Because you know that no matter how crazy both of your schedules are, no matter how lonely you might feel without him at your side, he loves you more than anything, and you love him as much in return. And for a while, that’s enough.

Until it isn’t.

You’re thankful to have successfully made it through your first year of grad school with just a caffeine addiction and minor bags under your eyes, but not having to attend your classes or meet with your professors over the break means you’re at the apartment a lot more. You still have your job, but it’s becoming harder and harder to ignore Oikawa’s absence.

It’s not just dates he’s missing anymore. It’s family events, outings with your friends, getaway trips the two of you planned weeks in advance.

You know it’s not his fault. He has things he wants to accomplish, goals he set for himself long before he met you. The Olympics are coming up, and he needs to be ready. You can’t blame him for staying late to get in some extra practice, or for having to attend events with his teammates and his fans instead of you.

You can’t blame him for any of it, at least not without feeling selfish and unsupportive, and somehow that just makes it worse.

It takes you longer than you’d like to admit to build up the courage to talk to him about it. You almost don’t want to bring it up at all, but after weeks of missed dates and apology bouquets, of waking up without him and going to sleep before he gets home, you crumble. You don’t think you can keep grinning and bearing it anymore, not without starting to resent him.

You confront him while he’s sitting at the kitchen island in the middle of your shared apartment. It’s rare he doesn’t have a game on the weekend, even rarer he gets to spend the afternoon with you. It almost makes you reconsider –will this ruin your time together?– but you hold fast. You know that if you don’t bring it up now, then you probably never will, and you’re not sure you can take that much more silent heartache.

Oikawa, for his part, does well to listen as you speak. He watches you intently, pretty brown eyes soft and searching, as you tell him about how neglected you’re feeling, how lonely.

You know he’s not doing it on purpose. You know he’s meant every single one of his apologies, and that this is what you signed up for when you agreed to be in a relationship with him. And you love how driven he is, how determined he is to succeed.

You just...you miss him. That’s what it boils down to in the end: how much you miss him. You miss him now more than that time he left to spend a month back home in Japan while you stayed in Argentina, despite the fact that you’re in the same country this time, despite the fact that you share the same apartment. It shouldn’t be possible, but it’s true.

“I know your career is important, and I would never try to get in the way of that,” you tell him, quietly, tiredly. There’s an exhausted air around you he’s never seen before, the kind of whispered sadness that breaks his heart. “But sometimes, Tooru...sometimes it feels like I’m dating a ghost. And I’m not mad at you, or angry, I’m just...lonely.”

You finally look at him, and the emotion in his eyes startles you. He’s actually tearing up –“you’re such a crybaby,” you like to tease him when his eyes water during sad movies, but you always comfort him anyway– and it’s enough to make your eyes fill with tears, too. He looks so sad, so broken, like knowing he’s hurt you –even if it’s been completely unintentional– hurts him too.

He’s quick to stand and walk over to you, wrapping his arms around you tightly. You return the embrace, resting your head against his chest while one of his hands moves to cradle the back of your head.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers into your hair, and you can tell by the way his voice shakes that he means it. “I know things have been crazy lately, but that’s no excuse for leaving you here alone. I never want you to feel like you’re anything besides the most important person in my life. I love you so much, and I promise I’m going to fix this. Things will get better, I swear.”

And in that moment, you believe him. You trust him, after all, and you know he doesn’t make promises he can’t keep. So you let him mumble reassurances into your hair, let him kiss your breath away and shower you in the affection you’ve been missing for far too long.

It’s so easy to get lost in it, lost in him. Too easy.

He’s always been like that; charismatic and witty, magnetic and charming. It doesn’t help that he’s totally gorgeous, too. You knew, from the moment you met him, that if you ever let yourself fall in love with him, you’d be in trouble. It’s why you never took any of his advances seriously, at least not in the beginning.

But he was able to chip at your resolve with every teasing smile and playful wink, every reverent touch and whispered words meant just for you. He let you get to know him; the real him, not that flippant and perfect pretty boy facade he presents to the rest of the world, and so of course you fell for him, because how could you not?

Oikawa is stubborn and prideful, exhausting and even sometimes petty, but he makes you feel like you’re the strongest person he knows. He looks at you like you’re the only one he’ll ever want to see. He makes you laugh and keeps you on your toes, and you know right away –before you moved in together, before you told him you loved him– that you will never love anyone the way you love him, because no one else will ever be able to compare.

That’s why it’s so easy for you to believe him now. Because you know he loves you and that you love him, and the two of you are determined to make this relationship work. So when he promises that things will change, that he’ll be more present from here on out, you believe him.

It’s the first promise he’s ever made to you that he doesn’t keep.

For every event Oikawa does bother to make it to, he misses two more. Your parents, who adore him, wonder why they never see him anymore. Your friends start to ask if you even still have a boyfriend. You find yourself asking the very same thing.

You stop inviting him to events at your university and lunches with your friends. You don’t want to set yourself up for disappointment anymore, and you figure it’s easier to just save yourself from the inevitable. The apology gifts he gives you start to feel hollow, empty, just like your apartment. You stop opening them, letting them pile up in the corner of your living room. Eventually, he stops giving them to you.

You’re not sure if you’re thankful for that, or if it upsets you even more.

The Olympics get closer each day. Oikawa’s practices become more intense and even longer than they already were. There are so many things he needs to do now: games to play, meet and greets to attend. Sometimes if he’s out too late he just doesn’t come home at all. The team sets him up at a hotel, and he stays there for the night instead.

It gets harder to catch his scent on his pillow where it lays beside you in bed, untouched and forgotten. It should hurt you more, but it doesn’t.

There’s an event being held back in Japan, promising a night of drinking and dancing and schmoozing. All the investors and international players and coaches will be there, and you promised a while back to be Oikawa’s plus one.

The vindictive part of you wants to cancel on him, just so he knows how it feels, but you decide you can put your pettiness aside for a few nights if it means free booze and food and a comfortable stay at some ridiculously fancy hotel. You wonder if that’ll be enough to fill the hole he’s made in your heart.

Besides, you want to remind him that you’re the kind of person who keeps your word, even if he’s not.

The flight is long and exhausting. So is finding your hotel and forcing yourself to get dressed, but you get through it. Oikawa looks unfairly stunning in his suit, but you try not to notice. He arrives at the party with you on his arm, wearing a silky gown that matches his tie and jewelry that glitters whenever it catches the light.

You’ve barely talked to each other the whole way here, but at the party, amongst his teammates, old rivals, and friends, you’re the perfect couple. You smile, laugh, and dance exactly when you’re supposed to. You play your role so well that no one notices how numb you are, not even Oikawa, even though he’s supposed to know you better than anyone else.

Maybe that’s why you find yourself at the open bar. Oikawa’s off mingling with god knows who, swamped by dozens of people who are always seeking his favor, trapped in his orbit. They praise his hard work, his tenacity, his determination. Once upon a time, you would’ve done the same.

But things are different between you now. What used to be Oikawa’s endearing stubbornness is now an outright refusal to meet you halfway. His determination to be the best has become an inability to compromise; his passion has become obsession. It’s strange to think how all the things that used to make you love him now just make you resent him.

But the liquor here is free and flowing so you knock it back like water, and it’s almost enough to make you forget your heartbreak, your anger. Almost.

All the drinking eventually sends you to the bathroom. You touch up your makeup as best as you can and wash your hands with one of the several different soap options, exiting the bathroom noticeably drunker than you were when you went in.

You’re off-balance enough that when you run into what feels like a brick wall but is actually just a tall, broad-shouldered man, you stumble and nearly fall over. He reacts quicker than you do, catching your elbow and steadying you back on your feet.

He asks you if you’re all right and you reassure him that you are. You swear you’ve seen his face before, but you’re too tipsy right now to bother to remember where.

“I appreciate the help,” you say sincerely, patting his shoulder. “But I promise I’m okay. Thank you again, really.”

He gives you a look like he doesn’t believe you, and he’s proven right approximately five seconds later, when you turn on your heel to leave and nearly fall over again. Once more, he’s there to catch you.

You try to convince him that you’re okay; you’re just a little bit tipsy from all the champagne earlier, but he guides you to one of the stupid velvet couches in the hallway and makes you sit down. He tells you to stay there and wait for him, and you want to protest but he’s already gone before you can make any real sort of argument.

When he returns, it’s with a bottle of water, which you sheepishly accept. He stays with you as you drink it, and your vision and stomach start to settle. You thank him again for all his help. He tells you it’s no big deal, and when he introduces himself as Ushijima Wakatoshi, you laugh so hard you almost spit water all over yourself.

Ushijima raises an eyebrow at you. “Is there something about my name that amuses you?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” It takes more effort than it should, but you’re thankfully able to force yourself to stop laughing. Talk about ironic encounters. “It’s just– I’ve heard of you before.”

“Are you a fan of volleyball?”

You resist the urge to snort, sending him an amused smile instead. “Something like that.”

The two of you chat for a little while, and it’s a surprisingly pleasant conversation. You quite like his company, and you appreciate how he’s willing to keep an eye on you solely out of the kindness of his heart, just to make sure you’re really okay. It’s hardly necessary anymore –the water’s doing a great job at sobering you up– but it’s a nice distraction from the reason you started drinking in the first place.

Or it was, until you start to hear that very same reason calling your name from somewhere down the hall. His voice gets closer and closer, and you shut your eyes, bracing yourself.

“What the hell?”

You open your eyes and suddenly Oikawa is in front of you, eyebrows drawn together and lips pulled into a deep frown. You can only imagine what you look like to him right now, low-eyed and tipsy and sitting on a couch next to his oldest rival.

You can already see the anger in his eyes, the suspicion. He’s jealous, and it’s absolutely ridiculous because he has no right to be. Not after ignoring you for so long. Not after reminding you over and over again that when it comes down to it, you’ll always be second place to his career.

You haven’t been flirting with Ushijima, but now you wonder if maybe you should have. There’s a bitter part of you that wants to hurt Oikawa as much as he’s hurt you, even if it’s only for a moment.

Ushijima seems completely oblivious to the situation, which you’re sure just infuriates your boyfriend even more. He’s described to you in great detail how one of the things he finds most frustrating about Ushijima is how completely and utterly unbothered he is by everything.

“Oikawa,” the man closest to you greets, standing up. “It’s good to see you.”

“Ushiwaka.” The smile your boyfriend directs to his old rival is tight-lipped and void of any of its usual warmth. Oikawa’s gaze settles on you next, eyes narrowing even further. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Come on, let’s go.”

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is plain, dull, as you tilt your head at him mockingly. “Do I know you?”

“Stop being cute.” The way he practically snaps it makes it clear he doesn’t think you’re being cute at all. In fact, he actually looks pretty pissed, and you almost smile at the realization. As petty as he can be, it’s clear you’re better at this than he is. “It’s getting late. It’s time for us to leave.”

Ushijima’s gaze slides over to you. “Do you know him?”

But you’re not looking at him. You’re looking straight at Oikawa, at the tenseness of his shoulders, the way he’s on the verge of fuming. Apparently, just the idea of you being alone with his oldest rival is more concerning to him than the fact that you’ve barely spent any time with each other in the past two months. It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

“Of course.” You stand, closing the short distance between yourself and Oikawa. “He’s my boyfriend. My loving, devoted, perfect boyfriend.”

You place the hand that’s not holding your water bottle against his chest, perching on your toes to deliver a sweet kiss to his cheek. When you pull away, the stain of your lipstick remains, and you wonder if he can feel the resentment in it.

“I just forget sometimes, is all. You know, since we never see each other.”

You don’t bother to examine the look on his face. You can’t find it in yourself to care anymore. You turn to Ushijima instead, offering a tired but genuine smile.

“Thank you again for your help, Ushijima. It was a pleasure to officially meet you. Have a good night.”

You turn on your heel and walk away, down the hall and past several magnificent paintings, past any apology you would normally be ready to offer. It’s petty and deliberate, the kind of reaction you didn’t think you were capable of before this, but it’s all you have left. Oikawa doesn’t care, hasn’t cared for a while actually, so neither will you.

You don’t know what he says to Ushijima or if he even says anything at all, but you do hear his footsteps when he runs after you. They slow as he gets closer, but you don’t stop walking, don’t turn back to look.

“Are you fucking kidding me? What– what the fuck was all that back there, huh?”

You stop. Slowly, you turn to look at him, but you don’t say anything. You just stand there, watching, waiting, feeling absolutely nothing as you do.

“‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’” It’s a poor imitation of your voice, but the intention is there. “So what, I don’t spend enough time with you and suddenly it’s okay for you to flirt with someone else?”

You laugh without humor. “That’s what you’re stuck on? The fact that I had a conversation with him and not the part where I said we never see each other? You truly have a gift, Tooru.”

The frown on his face deepens, but the anger in his eyes softens a little, replaced by a hint of guilt. There’s regret there, too, over not keeping the promise he made to you. You would be more moved by it if you weren’t so completely infuriated right now.

He closes his eyes, letting out a sigh. “I’m not going to have this argument with you. Not here.”

“Where should we have it then, hm? In the lobby? At the hotel? We’re damn sure not having it when we get home, because you’re never fucking there!”

You don’t mean to scream at him, but that’s what comes out. You’re not sure which one of you is more surprised by it. Oikawa stares at you, wide-eyed and stunned, as if you’ve just slapped him, and you stare back, breathing hard. You’re so focused on each other you don’t even notice you have an audience until you hear a new, familiar voice speak.

“Hey.” Iwaizumi steps between you, concerned and cautious.

He’s the only one here, thank god, but his appearance reminds you that this is definitely not the time or the place for any of this. You shouldn’t care who overhears you, but as angry as you are, you’re not selfish enough to air out your relationship’s problems in front of all of Oikawa’s friends and colleagues. You still love him, after all, even if it’s hurting you to do so.

Iwaizumi casts a wary glance between you and his best friend, almost like he’s preparing himself to play the unwilling referee in what seems to be an inevitable fight. Any other time, you might’ve laughed at the look on his face, but not now. “Everything okay, you two?”

It’s not. It hasn’t been for a while, and right now Oikawa’s looking at you like he’s finally realizing that too.

The car ride back to the hotel is eerily silent. You and Oikawa share no words, no fleeting glances; you don’t even sit close enough to touch each other, not even accidentally. The ride up to your floor is spent in a similar fashion, a cold distance settling between you that’s never been there before.

Or maybe it’s been there for a while, and it took you screaming at him in the middle of a party for the two of you to notice it.

Miraculously, you make it into your room in one piece. The two of you remove your coats and shoes in that same suffocating silence. You make it to the bedroom without exchanging a single word, and he takes a seat on the bed while you sit in front of the vanity and begin removing your jewelry.

Another long stretch of silence later, and then he’s meeting your eyes in the mirror to ask, “Can we talk?”

You consider telling him to go fuck himself instead, but somehow you bite down the urge.

“About what?” You take off your necklace, a pretty golden chain with your birthstone on it that he got you for your birthday. “About how I wasn’t flirting with Ushijima? Because I wasn’t, if that’s what you’re still so torn up about.”

“I know you weren’t,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. It’s a bit longer than you remember; that’s how long it’s been since you’ve really gotten the chance to look at him. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“I do. You were jealous.” Your earrings are the next to go, another gift from him. He’s scattered himself into so many pieces across your life; you’re not sure how you’ll ever be free of him, or if you’ll ever want to be. “But you had no reason to be. I would never do that to you.”

“I know.” He looks down, fidgets with his fingers, meets your gaze again through the mirror. His tie is loosened around his neck, making him look disheveled in just the way you like. “I’m sorry.”

“Great.” Your tone is short, clipped, as you finally remove the last of your jewelry. “Is that all?”

“Please don’t do that. I’m trying to have a conversation with you here, so that we can fix this. I mean, don’t you want to talk about everything, especially after tonight?”

“I’ve already said everything I needed to say, Tooru.” You break your gaze from the mirror, turning to glance over your shoulder at him instead. “You know exactly what the problem is, just like I know you won’t do a single thing to change it. You can’t, because my feelings –our entire relationship– all of that stuff’s always going to come second to the things you want.”

The frown from earlier is back now, this time paired with a hard look, like he can’t believe you’re questioning his commitment, even though he’s given you dozens of reasons to do so. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” You rise to your feet, a dry, humorless laugh escaping your throat as you do. “Tell that to the countless dates you’ve missed. Tell that to the bed you hardly sleep in anymore, to all the times I’ve fallen asleep without you and then woken up only to realize you still weren’t there.”

The words feel heavy and bitter on your tongue, your anger growing the more you think about everything you’ve endured over the past few months, all the different ways he’s managed to disappoint you.

“There’s nothing untrue about it, Tooru. You just don’t care about me the way I care about you.”

“Are you seriously going to stand there and tell me I don’t care about you?” he demands. “Of course I care. I love you, dammit. How could you ever think I don’t?”

“How couldn’t I? God, have you seriously not heard a single thing I’ve said this entire time? I’m practically in this relationship by myself, and you’re doing absolutely nothing to change that!”

“You think I like having to leave you on your own so much? You think it doesn’t break my heart seeing the look on your face every time I have to tell you I can’t make it to all the things I want to be there for?” He’s on his feet now, hand jabbing at his chest, like if he could rip out his heart and show you the scars there, he would. “Because it does, okay? It makes me fucking miserable, but what else am I supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to be there, Tooru!” You don’t know when you started crying, but you are. You’re yelling too, hands shaking, voice raw. “You’re supposed to be there when I need you, not make stupid promises you can’t keep! And even if you can’t be there all the time, you’re at least supposed to try!”

“I am trying! I’ve been trying this whole time, and you know that!” He sounds as exasperated and raw as you do, waving his arms around, red-faced and distressed. “You knew what my goals were before we started dating. I never hid them from you. You knew exactly what I wanted, you knew how hard I would have to work, how hard it would be for us, and you agreed to be with me anyway! You promised me you wouldn’t let it come between us!”

“Well, that was before I knew how fucking impossible it would be!”

There’s nothing productive being exchanged between the two of you anymore. You’re just screaming at each other. You call him obsessed and self-absorbed; he calls you needy and demanding. He tells you to grow up and stop asking for so much, and you tell him he’s chasing a pointless dream.

You’re not trying to compromise with each other, or trying to make the other see your point of view. You both just want to hurt each other, and you do.

You’re crying by the end of it; so is he, but you both refuse to admit defeat. It’s one of the many things you have in common: your stubbornness. You’re out of breath and hurting and there’s a small part of you that just wants him to hold you, but at the same time, you can’t stand the sight of him anymore.

You storm out of the room before he gets the chance to, looking back to catch him throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. You throw yourself onto the couch and opt to sleep there for the night, because you know that if you don’t, you’ll probably end up strangling each other.

Oikawa, for once, is wise enough not to follow you, but there’s a quiet voice inside your heart that wishes he did.

You wake up the next morning with a stuffy nose and a migraine. The price of crying yourself to sleep, you suppose. Your appetite is gone but you know that if you don’t eat anything soon the pain behind your skull will only get worse, so you force yourself to stand from the couch.

You step on something hard, eyes widening at the indignant noise of protest it lets out in response. You lose your footing almost immediately, toppling over onto the carpet. It’s everything you can do to throw out your hands and avoid smacking your forehead against the coffee table.

“What the fuck, Tooru?” You scowl when you realize it’s not a random object you’ve tripped over, but rather your own boyfriend, who for some inconceivable reason is laying on the floor beside the couch. “It’s bad enough we spent last night fighting– now you’re trying to kill me, too?”

“I could say the same thing to you!” Oikawa exclaims, returning your scowl with equal exasperation. He’s rubbing at his chest, a pout tugging at his lips as he groans. “You just stepped on my chest. I could have died.”

“Oh, bite me, drama queen.” You roll your eyes, preparing to stand up again, but then you notice the dark circles on his usually flawless skin, the messiness of his hair, and the fact that he’s still wearing his suit from last night, though the tie is gone and the first few buttons of his shirt are loosened. “...did you actually sleep out here? On the floor? Why didn’t you just sleep on the bed like a normal person?”

“I couldn’t.” He pouts even more, and when you nudge his leg with your foot, he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “It didn’t feel right without you. It never does. But it felt even worse after last night.”

It melts your heart, you admit. Just a little. But it’s not enough to make you forgive him or to forget your argument, and right now he’s looking at you like he knows that too.

Still, you feel the urge to remind him, “I’m still pissed at you.”

“I know. I’m really sorry. Not just for what I said last night, but for everything I’ve done before that. I never should’ve made you feel like you’re asking for too much, because you’re not, it’s just…” He takes a shaky breath, leans his head back against the couch from where he sits beside you on the floor. “...it’s hard.”

He turns his body slightly so he’s facing you fully. He starts to reach out a hand towards you, almost like he wants to cup your cheek, but he seems to think better of it and lets his hand drop down between you. You almost smile.

His eyes are hesitant as they meet yours, apologetic. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you, either.” You fiddle with the straps of your gown where they’ve slid down your arm. You were so exhausted and upset after your fight with him that you didn’t bother to change out of it. “...do you really think I’m needy and demanding?”

“Of course not,” he answers easily. “Do you really think I’m chasing a pointless dream?”

“Definitely not. Your dream isn't pointless, Tooru, it’s amazing, and it’s one I know you can reach.” Your hands brush where they rest between you. He tenses slightly, like he’s not sure you’ll want to touch him after everything, but you slide your fingers through his and watch as he lets out a quiet sigh of relief. “I was just angry.”

“Me too.” He squeezes your hand, and you let him pull you a bit closer to him, let him press a kiss to the back of your palm. “I don’t want to fight with you. And I definitely don’t want to disappoint you anymore.”

“I don’t want to blame you or resent you anymore, either.” You inch closer and he lets you rest your head against his shoulder, resting his own against yours in return. A clock ticks on the wall behind you. For the first time in a while, it feels like the two of you are back in sync. “So what are we gonna do about it?”

It’s the million-dollar question, it seems. And it’s the one that, after weeks of heartache, of missing each other and blaming each other at the same time, he finally has the answer to.

When you return to Argentina together, everything changes. Oikawa’s determination goes back to being something you love, now that he’s putting it towards making sure the two of you get to spend time together. He’s at the apartment more; does his best to get to dinner on time, to attend outings with your family and friends, and to meet you halfway at fancy restaurants and magnificent museums and shower you with his undivided attention.

It’s not perfect. He’s still busy, so he can’t be with you all the time, but the effort is there. You see it now more than ever, and it’s all you’ve wanted.

It doesn’t last.

You spend three blissful months together, both of you putting in an equal amount of effort to make it work, to understand each other and support each other, even when it seems impossible. But Oikawa’s schedule becomes more and more unyielding as time goes on, and it’s not long before the cycle of absence starts all over again.

If you had to really pinpoint the beginning of the end, you’d say it’s the night of your presentation. The research project you’ve spent countless hours working on has finally been completed, and tonight you’re going to share it with the public; this thing you’ve struggled with since you entered grad school, this thing you’ve put your blood, sweat, and tears into, both metaphorically and literally.

It goes incredibly well, as your professors and mentors reassured you it would. Your classmates, friends, and parents are all there, and they get to watch and glow with pride as the room erupts into applause once you finish your presentation, knocking the whole thing out of the park just like they knew you would.

The only one who isn’t there is Oikawa, despite you telling him about this ages ago, despite it being written on the calendar hanging on your fridge. You know he texted you with some excuse, but you don’t bother to check which one it was this time.

It should hurt more. It should make you want to shout and scream, to sob and cry, but it doesn’t. The anger you felt before, the fury and heartbreak; it’s not there anymore. It’s gone. You’re not sad or upset or disappointed. You just don’t feel anything at all.

Your friends offer to take you out for the night to celebrate, but you politely decline. Instead, you make your way to the apartment you share with Oikawa, finding it emptier than it’s ever been before.

Months ago, you might’ve cried. Now you do nothing, say nothing, feel nothing. It’s just numb.

By the time Oikawa does make it home, you’re already packed. You’re sitting at the table, waiting, still as a statue. He greets you in a flurry of brown hair and frantic movement, an apology you don’t care to listen to fast on his lips. He whirls by you so quickly he doesn’t even notice your bags stacked next to you.

“Shit, baby, I’m so sorry! I know I’m late, but I’m here now and I promise I won’t be going anywhere for the next few–…”

It takes him a few moments, a couple of double-takes, but finally, he registers the silence around him, the sight of you at the table, surrounded by your things. For once, he has no idea what to say; you see it in the way he looks at you, the way he freezes, wide-eyed and almost afraid.

“My research presentation was today,” you start. “It went great. They’re going to publish it in a journal.”

You watch his face crumple right before your eyes, watch the way his shoulders slump. He looks more defeated now than during any of his previous losses, and so, so incredibly guilty.

“But I thought it wasn’t until–...but it was, wasn’t it? Oh, god. I– I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“I know you are.”

You stand up. The smile you send him is tired and a little sad, but it’s not bitter, at least not anymore. You’re past that now. You’d like to think you both are.

“I’m so proud of you, Tooru. You work harder than anybody I’ve ever known. I just know you’re going to reach every single one of your dreams.”

You mean it, too. Oikawa has an incredible future ahead of him. You’ve always known that. Once upon a time, you believed you might be a part of it, but not anymore.

“...but I also know that I can’t be with you when you do. I can’t– I won’t be second place for the rest of my life.”

He’s incredibly stubborn, and this time is no different. He tries to change your mind, tries to convince you to stay, but it’s far too little and far too late. Too much has happened between you two, and you just don’t have it in you to be disappointed anymore.

You love him. You do. You always will, and you tell him so, too. But just because you love someone, you remind him softly, doesn’t mean you’re meant to be with them. You love him enough to let him go, and you’re hoping he loves you the same.

“But you promised you’d stay,” he whispers, more heartbroken than you’ve ever seen him over all of this, over you. “You promised we’d figure it out. And now...now you’re just giving up on us?”

You place your keys on the table. The clock in your– no, his kitchen ticks along. It matches the slow, broken beating of your heart. He’s run out of time, and you’ve run out of chances.

“That’s just it, Tooru. I have nothing left to give you.”

This time when you leave, you don’t look back.

Written by: Dawn

[venfx]

magnus fic roundup

as tma comes to a close, i thought i'd post some of my favorite fics to come out of this fandom. most of these are classics, listed in no particular order.

A Weather In The Flesh by @cuttoothed​ | 3K | S1-S4 | Jon/Martin | Complete

"There is a span of years where Jon doesn’t touch anyone other than the occasional hand shake. It’s not so bad. He’s never been someone who’s needed physical affection."

Jon has never been any good at making people want to stick around.

↳ this is such a well-done exploration of jon’s character and his relationship with touch, and i’ve re-read it at least five times. sweet and sad and phenomenally well-written.

in the chillest land and on the strangest sea by imperfectcircle, singlecrow | 20K | Safehouse, S1-S4 | Jon & Daisy, Jon/Martin | Complete

Jon remembers a statement he read years ago given by a Jesuit priest, who said that the shortest prayer he knew was, just, fuck it, as in fuck it; it's in God's hands. He takes Daisy's hand and trails on after her.

or; hope is a thing with feathers.

↳ hey, you wanna fuckin..... feel things? read this.

The Magnus Institute vs the 21st Century: a series of emails and IMs by shinyopals | 26K | Series | S3 | Pre-Jon/Martin | Complete

The Magnus Institute hires a Data Protection Officer. He sets about diligently booking in meetings, writing policy documents, and training all the staff in the importance of confidentiality. Now if only he could get hold of the Head Archivist, who seems to have vanished again...

(Jon is only trying to save the world, but apparently some people think he should still be doing his day job.)

↳ i’d be surprised to find people who haven’t read this series, but it’s the definition of “the magnus archives is a workplace comedy”. also, alasdair stuart has actually read some clips of this on Twitch, so that’s a fun bonus.

Bell, Book, and Candle by yellow_caballero | 102K | Series | S3 into S4 | Jon/Martin | Complete 

In accordance with the Ride or Die Pact of 2009, Jonathan Sims can call upon Georgie Barker at any time for aid with no strings attached. Despite their rocky history, their childhood friendship, and Jon’s barely recovered alcoholism, this pact is sacred and must be upheld.

Georgie Barker may regret this. She may regret it when she discovers that the world is full of monsters and eldritch gods and dickhead managers. She may regret it when a punk rocker who should be dead collapses on their doorstep, a teenager again who needs their help. She may regret it when her stupid ex-boyfriend starts selling his soul for knowledge and the ability to keep his new family safe.

But she probably won’t. Georgie isn’t scared of anything - not a Clown’s apocalypse, not the apocalypse that Jon is destined to begin, and not Jon’s own loss of humanity.

Maybe she should be.

↳ if you’re looking for an everyone-lives-no-one-dies-happy-ending fic that also happens to be massively chaotic, look no further. 

The Reverb in These Holy Halls by @wolftraps​ | 98K | AU, S1-S4 | Jon/Martin | Complete

Undoing the apocalypse would have been enough for Jon, if all his people survived. Without them, Jon's only recourse is making it so it never happened in the first place. He's going to do better this time.

↳ quintessential time travel AUs. plot-wise, i feel like these can be difficult to write, but op does a fantastic job of tying things together in a way that makes sense. plus, it’s just fun to read.

jon sims v the nhs by @thoughtsbubble​ | 12K | Series | S3 | Complete

Joan Bright has a new patient. He's carrying an old tape recorder and is covered head to toe in scars. Jonathan Sims looks dangerous, but Dr Bright has dealt with all sorts of atypical individuals. She has no reason to be nervous.

Right?

↳ if you’ve ever thought “hey, jon should probably go to therapy”, then 1) you’re absolutely right and 2) this is... probably what would’ve happened. prior knowledge of The Bright Sessions is not required. also, apparently, this fic is written by the showrunner of The Underwood Collection? wild.

Family, Found by Dribbledscribbles | 9K | S4 | Complete

It’s Basira who catches onto it.

The collective shift that seems to come over them when heading in or out of the Institute. Not just the oppressive sensation of being observed, their every move catalogued for the voyeuristic cravings of some unseen Eye(s). That feeling remained with them even when they left the Institute these days, but it was always stronger inside its walls. That wasn’t the change. Nor was it the point.

The point was: making life worse for Jonathan Sims.

↳ i think being part of the avengers fandom circa 2012 has given me permanent found-family-trope brainrot, but you know what. jonathan sims can have a little happiness, as a treat. 

Road to Damascus by @titanfalling​ | 107K | Series | S4 | Jon & Tim | Complete

n. an important moment of insight, typically one that leads to a dramatic transformation of attitude or belief

Or, in which Tim becomes an avatar for the end of all things.

↳ tim dies and then he doesn’t. there is catharsis and world building. just....read it.

Come, Change Your Ring With Me by @backofthebookshelf​ | 29K | S3 | Peter/Jon, Jon/Martin, Peter/Elias | Complete

The Lukases demand the Archivist marry into the family, and the Institute relies on them too much to say no. Peter is smug. Elias is fuming. Martin is suffering. Jon thinks this might be tolerable if only Peter would hurry up and leave him alone already.

OR, the soap opera we call an Archives revolves around Peter Lukas this time.

↳ superb evil-bastards-in-love content, feat. martin pining, tim being obnoxious, and jon being... well, tired, mostly. i will literally never get tired of how op writes peter. 

creatures that i briefly move along by @dotsayers​ | 16K | Series | AU, Post-S4 | background Jon/Martin 

Mr Sims was so weird, was the thing. Miss Grant always said calling people weird was rude, and Anna sort of agreed, but she didn’t know what other word to use to describe Mr Sims.

He’d only been in with the class for a few days, really, and half of that he just sat at the back listening, but that didn’t stop her from making a swift judgement. 5BG had had student teachers before, back when they were 3ST, and they’d been uniformly normal.

Mr Sims was… actually, Anna had a better adjective. He was interesting.

↳ i just.... love teacher!jon fics. this series delivers. 

Once Bitten by @apatheticbutterflies | 1K | S4 | Jon & Daisy | Complete

Jon Sims has always been a jumpy kind of guy. Nervous. Twitchy. Daisy used to think it meant he was guilty. Turns out he was. Just not of what she’d thought.

Daisy learns how to peel an orange.

↳ daisy and jon’s relationship is an example of an instance where i’m happy to say “fuck what you wrote mr. jonny ‘chocolate torte of tragedy’ sims, i want them to be friends”.

pins and needles by mutterandmumble | 13K | S1-S4 | Complete

He’s got a reputation to uphold anyways; an uptight, rigid reputation that dictates the way that he interacts and functions and is such an integral part of him that he can’t let go of it anytime soon. He likes his safety nets. He likes his contingencies. He likes his privacy, and everything around this place right down to the walls seems to have ears, so he’ll stay tight-lipped up to and beyond the threat of death.

He’s good at that.

In which Jon takes up embroidery and bumbles through life the best that he can.

↳ out of all the introspective jon pieces i’ve read (and there are many), this one stands out. maybe it’s the symbolism or the characterisation, or maybe it’s the fact that i have an embroidery kit lurking in the back of my closet along with a hundred other half-pursued hyperfixations. whatever. this is excellent.

sleeping in by @ivelostmyspectacles | 5K | S2 | Jon/Tim | Complete

“Who are you trying to convince?”

Jon gives up, letting his head sag against Tim’s shoulder. “I don’t know.”

aka Elias gets tired of Jon and Tim's bickering, sends them away for a "team-building" weekend trip, and is sure to book them a room with only one bed

↳ this has everything you’d need from a “oh no there’s only one bed” fic. someone please get these men therapy.

if you try, sometimes (you get what you knead) by @ajcrawly​ | 3.5K | S1-S4 | Jon/Martin, Tim/Sasha | Complete

It starts with an abundance of boeuf bourguignon and ends up as a team tradition.

Food and love in uncertain times.

↳ more found family fic, this time with a diverse og!archival staff and food as a metaphor for love. hurt in all the right ways. made me hungry in the process.

[smol-and-grumpy]

What I Want Most - Five

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Dean’s life has been all work and no play lately. When Gabe, his friend, coerced him into tagging along to a club, he couldn’t say no as Gabe has been pestering him for a while now. What Dean didn’t expect was that he’d meet his match in that club in the form of a stunning woman with underlying daddy issues.

Warnings: Daddy kink (by now, this is a given), rivalry in the office, office sex, semi-public sex, blow job

Word Count: 1924

Beta’d by: @deanwanddamons​​​​​ <3

Series Masterlist ~ SPN Masterlist

In the morning, Dean’s in their office, touching up his own presentation for tomorrow. He steals a glance at the clock, it’s almost 8.40 AM. It’s almost time for her presentation and Y/N’s still not here. 

He wonders if he went too far.

Well, she still has about ten minutes before she has to be in the meeting room to set everything up. And if she’s not going to be here, he’ll make sure to waltz in there and bring up a sorry excuse to steal some time. He’s not a monster after all, it was just supposed to be a little prank. 

Last night, after she fell asleep, Dean manipulated her alarm, setting the alarm later than she wanted to get up. Like, not too late that she’d miss the meeting, but late enough so that she won’t have a lot of time to get herself ready. 

He set his own alarm and placed his phone under the pillow so he would wake up as soon as it started to vibrate. He did get up. Sneaked his way out of her apartment and left her there, still sound asleep.

Dean’s typing away at the email, it’s 8.47 AM now. 

Three minutes until he has to save her ass. 

That cute little sweet ass, though. 

A minute later, the door opens and she’s looking at him. Her hair’s put together but there’s no trace of makeup. She also wears glasses, god and he didn’t even know this about her but fuck, she looks super cute with her glasses. These, paired with her being angry, is really what his librarian dreams are made of.

Maybe he could ask her to role play it once. 

But yeah, maybe he could ask when she’s not mad at him anymore. 

He ignores her, stares meticulously into his screen.

Walking in, she drops her laptop bag and pulls out her laptop wordlessly.

Dean risks a glance up, sees her staring at him. Her eyes are narrow.

He smirks, “You look worse for wear. Had a rough night, sweetheart?”

“Fuck you,” She mumbles and proceeds to walk to the door.

“Well,” Dean starts, but stops because she turns around and sends him a glare.

“I hate you so much right now,”

The door closes with a bang. 

Oh well, this went super great. He doesn’t know if he should be scared that she’s so fucking mad at him or prank her some more because she’s so cute when she’s mad.

  Oh my god, Y/N absolutely hates Dean fucking Winchester.

He made her late but he at least set the alarm early enough for her to be able to make it. But still... that doesn’t mean that he deserves a fucking medal, though.

The presentation went well, so at least she has that, but she’s still mad at him so if he wants to get his dick wet, he can find someone else. She’s so fucking done.

Back in the office, she is glad that Dean was out at another meeting, so at least she has a breather. 

Dean showed up thirty minutes later with a cup of coffee for her and she doesn’t know but she has a very hard time trusting it. So she looks at the coffee and up at him. 

“What?” He asks because she still hasn’t said a word, “You think I want to poison you or something?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” She shrugs and returns to her screen and types something on her keyboard.

“Jesus Christ, Y/N!” He growls and squats down next to her, “I’m sorry, okay? I thought a little competition is healthy. A little prank here and there. I wouldn’t do anything that would jeopardize your career in any way,”

“I almost missed my meeting,” She said drily, trying not to look at him.

“Yeah! There you have it. Almost!”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say, but it doesn’t make it sound any better,”

“My god,” Dean threads his hand through his hair, “You know what? I’m done apologizing,” He walks over to his own desk and sits down, “They are singing your praises. I was in the elevator with one of the execs who was at your presentation. So, even though I made you late, I didn’t make you miss it,”

“It still doesn’t make it right, Dean,”

“Whatever,” He snorts and she can tell that he’s moping. He probably feels guilty.

Maybe she’s being too harsh. He played a prank, she played a prank, and he was right, it didn’t do a lot of damage but still…

 *

 It was about two hours of silent treatment later that she got up to walk over to the folder cabinet in search of a folder she needed, but she couldn’t find it. The space where it should be is empty. 

Turning around, she sees that Dean’s using it. He’s probably working on the same thing as she is, which is due in the afternoon. 

Y/N sighs and goes back to her desk, deciding to work on something else until he’s finished, but after thirty minutes have passed, he’s still hogging it. 

“Jesus, are you done with the folder? It can’t be so hard to find the two numbers in there that you need, can it?”

He rolls his chair to the side to be able to look past his screen at her, “You need something, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, that damn folder! You’ve been hogging it for way too long,”

Dean cocks an eyebrow, “You want it?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I want your pussy but that’s not something I get tonight, do I?” He chuckles, “Sometimes we don’t get what we want, baby,” Getting up from behind his desk, Dean picks up the folder and walks over to her, “You can be glad I have a conference call with England now,” He sets the folder on her desk and walks back, nodding at her as he places his headphones over his head.

He’s probably trying to make peace and ugh, it’s almost impossible for her to stay mad. Damn him and his look and the way he talks and walks. 

While Dean dials himself into the conference call, she quickly picks out the numbers she needs and returns the file back to his desk. He’s still listening in to the call but tilts his head up to smile at her. His teeth are showing white, the crinkles around his eyes are deep and god, he looks so cute with all the freckles on his face. 

Returning to her seat, she listens in as Dean speaks. He’s really good at what he’s doing, and to be honest, she doesn’t even know if she’d have a chance against him. It’s a little disheartening thinking about it. 

Y/N has to remind herself that it’s not really his fault. It wasn’t him who decided that he has to fight for a position that’s rightfully his. And he’s been helping a lot. At least, he did with the presentation she was having today. So, when it comes to him as a person, and when she puts the office rivalry aside, he is a good guy and she should definitely cut him some slack.

After finishing her report, she sees that the conference call should last another ten minutes. With a grin, she lowers herself under her desk and crawls over to where Dean’s sitting. Dean’s legs are spread and he drums on the floor with his shoe. He doesn’t know that she’s down here, but he will soon. 

Placing her hands on his thighs, she can hear him mutter something and can feel his body go stiff. 

“Yeah, I’m listening,” Dean mumbles.

With a chuckle, she skids her nails along his thighs, until she reaches his belt buckle and quickly undoes it, trying not to let it clink too loudly. Her fingers work on his button next, pulling the zipper down after. 

Her hand goes inside his pants, takes out his dick that’s still soft but it twitches in her fist and it slowly starts to grow at her touch. Dean shudders when she breathes warm air against it. 

“Jesus,” He whispers, “No, I’m sorry, just stubbed my toes,” He says above.

She has to chuckle at that and then she sticks her tongue out, licks a broad stripe from the base to his tip. Dean doesn’t make a sound, but his legs are slightly trembling. He’s probably trying to keep himself together. 

Sucking in the tip of his cock, she lets it out with an audible popping sound. The taste of him is strong in her mouth. She absolutely loves how he tastes, it makes her mouth water some more. 

The more precum is leaking out of him, the stronger his scent is and it fills her nose, clouds her mind. It’s fucking intoxicating. 

Y/N takes him in her mouth again, bobs her head up and down and tries her best not to make too much of a sound. Dean’s saying something, but she doesn’t listen. She’s so into it that her mind tunes out all the other sounds and senses. All she feels and tastes is Dean. 

With one hand she jerks him off where her mouth can’t reach in this position. With her other hand, she cradles his balls in her palms, giving them some attention and there might have been another moan. 

Humming around his girth, she gobbles him down, sucks a bit harsher at the tip before she swirls her tongue around the underside of it before she takes him in again. It seems like Dean is close because his balls are jumping in her palm and he tries to fuck up into her mouth. 

“Alright, thank you for your time, bye,” He finishes the call and she can hear how strained it sounds. 

“Fuck,” Is the next thing she hears before she feels a hand on the back of her head, holding her down on his cock while he pushes his hips up to meet her mouth. He thrusts a couple of times and then she hears the familiar growl, feels the warmth of the cum flooding her throat and mouth. 

She swallows it all down, licks at his tip and sucks at it again, making sure she catches every last drop. She cleans his shaft too, swirls her tongue around. When she finishes, she smacks her lips and Dean rolls his chair back, looks down at her.

He reaches out, his thumb caressing her cheek, before they brush over her lips, and she bites at it, making him chuckle, “Baby,” Dean’s still trying to catch his breath, “Fuck, was that to tell me you’re not mad at me anymore?”

Y/N nods.

Pulling her up by her arm, he places her into his lap and kisses her soft and gentle, “I’m glad. I could also fucking eat you up right now, but we know that’s not possible,”

“Well, you don’t know if you don’t try, right?” She grins.

“Don’t fucking tempt me. Otherwise, neither one of us will have a job by the end of the week,” He kisses her cheek before he nuzzles his face into the crook of her neck. She feels him breathing in the scent of her skin, “I’m sorry about this morning, okay? It was just a silly prank,”

“I know,” 

“Does that mean daddy can take you home tonight? Reward you for the good girl you are?”

She grins with a nod of her head.

Six

Please share your thoughts with me, I’d love to hear your feedback.

[love-and-monsters]

Vampire Transformation

M monster X GN reader, 3045 words.

You’ve been experiencing some strange changes in your behavior recently. Can this strange man really make sense of it for you?

You opened your eyes and stared up at the ceiling. For the past few nights, you had been completely unable to sleep.

Nothing had worked. You’d never had any problems with insomnia before. If anything, you’d had the opposite problem; getting out of bed in the morning had been a nightmare. You’d blacked out almost the instant your head had hit the pillow and you’d stayed that way until your alarm went off in the morning.

But in the past week, you’d grown restless the instant the sun vanished from the sky. It was like the sun going down flipped a switch in your body and you were wired. Not only were you not tired, but you were borderline restless. Lying in bed was tantamount to torture- minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness and the energy buzzing inside you made it feel like your skin was crawling.

Every night, the restless feelings got worse until, driven by some odd instinct, you left the house and headed out into the night.

Luckily, you lived in a fairly large city, and in a decent part of it. People wandered the streets at all hours of the night and day, which mean that you were completely inconspicuous. Driven by some odd instinct, you just meandered through the streets, waiting until morning so you could actually collapse.

“Good hunting.” You whirled around. A man was standing uncomfortably close to you. How he’d gotten there without you noticing, you had no idea. But he was there and he fell into step next to you as if you’d invited him to do so. “Didn’t realize there were any others on this turf. You’ll want to stake your claim if you don’t want anyone encroaching.”

You stared at him. Was he in a gang? He was wearing a white button-down and black dress pants with a dark jacket slung over his shoulder, which wasn’t what you considered gang style. He was also incredibly pale, almost glowing in the dark, and quite slender. Nothing about him struck you as a gangbanger. But you couldn’t think about anything else he could be referring to.

“I think you have the wrong person,” you said as carefully as you could manage. The man lifted an eyebrow at you, clearly disbelieving. He seemed to be waiting for you to suddenly go ‘Just kidding!’ When you didn’t, and the silence stretched on, the faint smile he’d been sporting slipped from his face and he gave you a more piercing look.

“You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” he said. His voice was softer, and there was a note in it that vacillated between amused and horrified.

“Uh. No,” you said. “Look, I think you have the wrong person. I-”

The man burst out into deep, chesty laughter, even throwing his head back. “I do not,” he said. “But I think I may be a little premature in my questioning. I’ll have to wait a little bit. Until I see you again.”

He didn’t so much vanish as he simply melted away into the night. One moment he was there, the next he’d just simply faded into the shadows and he was gone.

You blinked and swung your gaze back and forth, wondering if he would suddenly pop out of the shadows again. He didn’t return after a few minutes and the buzzing energy inside you prompted you to keep moving. You trotted along the streets.

The instant the sky started to lighten, the switch inside you that had been driving you to move an be outside flipped back the other way. You’d already wandered back to the area your apartment was in, but you still had to practically drag yourself up the stairs and into your bed. The instant your head struck the pillow, you were out.

You were out for nearly two hours before you managed to claw your way back to wakefulness. You only just managed to write out an email to your professor, telling her you weren’t going to be in class that day, before sleep sucked you back down.

You knew it was night when you woke up because your mind was sharp, no longer fogged with sleep. Not only were you focused, but you were hungry. Not a normal hunger, but something that was sharp and painful. It felt like there were shards of glass inside you cutting your stomach to shreds. It was the worst hunger pangs you’d ever experienced.

For a few minutes, you fumbled through your refrigerator, but there was nothing inside that appealed to you. You tried a few bites of your usual favorites, even digging up the pint of ice cream you’d been saving from your freezer. None of it was appealing. Your stomach, ravaged by hunger as it was, turned when you tried to eat a carrot.

The energy of the night was burning through you again and you staggered outside. The urgent need to move, to patrol, blazed in you almost stronger than your hunger.Something was wrong with your head. It was getting harder and harder to focus. It felt like the moments before you fell asleep- your consciousness blinking in and out. You weren’t going unconscious, but it was like your higher thinking was just fading away for a moment, so you were only a bundle of instincts.

You were so hungry. You were starving. Drool welled in your mouth. Food. Eat.

Something delicious wafted near you on the air. It was rich and savory and wonderful. Your conscious mind flickered for one moment, then blinked out. Instinct ruled your mind. You half vanished into the shadows of an alleyway and crouched.

The scent passed by you and you lunged. Your hands landed around his throat and closed with almost crushing strength. He couldn’t make a sound as you pulled him back, slammed him to the ground and plunged your teeth into him.

Thick, coppery liquid welled in your mouth. It was delicious, like biting into the best steak you’d ever had. It filled and soothed the awful pain in your stomach. Little whimpers welled in your throat as you drank and drank.

“I did think I’d find you here.” Someone tapped your shoulder with a foot. “Come on, let him go. You’ve terrified the poor man.”

You released him, spinning to snarl at the intruder. Some distant part of your mind recognized him as the person who had spoken to you the night before. The rest of you recognized him as an enemy. You bared your teeth and a terrible snarl rippled out through your chest.

The man chuckled. “Ooh, scary. Come on, get up.” He tapped you again with the toe of his shoe. You twisted back to look at the enemy and your prey scrambled out from underneath you. “Sorry about her. She’s a newbie, you know. Always hard training the new recruits, you know?”

The man made a motion to bolt out of the alley, managed to get to his feet, then swayed and collapsed. “Blood loss. Poor guy. He’ll be fine, probably. As for you…” The man rounded on you. You gave another deep snarl, making it as threatening as you could. “Look, you’re not as threatening as you’re trying to be by half. Chill.”

He crouched in front of you. His eyes roved over you for a moment. “You’re only about halfway through this, and it’ll get worse before it gets better. Calm down.”

There was a sensation like your mind was being turned inside out and you were suddenly very aware that you were crouched in an alleyway, human blood dribbling down your chin, the collapsed body of a human you’d tried to eat lying behind you.

“Oh my god.” Your voice was high and thin, almost on the edge of breaking. “Oh my god. What the fuck is happening to me?”

“There you go!” The man clapped a hand on your shoulder. “You’re back. Now let’s get the hell out of here. That guy’s gonna wake up and we’re not going to want to be around when he does.”

You were in such a state of shock that you simply allowed him to pull you to your feet and tug you down the street. Blood was still sticky on your chin, but the way he swept his arms around you and held a hand up close to your mouth made it look like he was trying to protect a bleeding cut. It at least seemed to quell any suspicions.

The man hauled you off to a small apartment tucked into a little alcove. It was shabby on the inside, full of the musty smell of dust and with moth-eaten furniture. The man seated you on a couch and fetched a damp cloth. “Wipe your face off. When you eat in the future, don’t dribble it all over your chin. It’s wasteful and really gross.”

You mopped at your face, wiping away the sticky trails of blood. You couldn’t stop shaking. “What is happening to me?”

The man grinned, revealing long, slightly curved fangs that nearly touched his lower lip. “You’ve becoming a vampire. Didn’t you guess that already?”

“I can’t be,” you said flatly. “I’ve never been attacked.”

“Misconception.” The man turned and started to rummage in his small refrigerator. “I mean, not a total misconception. It’s kind of right. Most humans that are turned are bitten. Just not all of them.” He emerged from the refrigerator holding a bottle, the sort people used at the gym for carrying protein shakes. It was full of a thick, pinkish liquid. He thrust it at you.

“What is that?” you asked. You took it cautiously and sniffed at it. It smelled sweet. “Is it blood?”

The man rolled his eyes. “No. It’s a smoothie.” You gave him a skeptical look. Was that sarcasm or something? “I’m not kidding. Just drink.”

You took a sip. It was incredibly thick and berry flavored, though you couldn’t make out any individual fruits. Something about the sugar cleared the remaining clouds in your head. “Vampires drink smoothies?”

The man gave a short, sharp bark of laughter. “No. Not exactly. You’re not really a vampire yet. I don’t know why, but fruit smoothies can soothe the edge of the bloodlust for a little bit. Something about the sugar content or something, I don’t know. Milkshakes are pretty good too.”

“I’m not a vampire? But you just said I was,” you said uncertainly. The man shrugged.

“I said you were turning into a vampire, not that you’re one right now. Name’s Marcus, by the way. I, if you haven’t already guessed, am a full vampire.”

You took another slurp of your smoothie. “But I didn’t get bit by anyone?”

“No. See, vampires don’t just reproduce by biting. We can also reproduce. And sometimes, we reproduce with humans. Usually, it’s not a big deal. Have a little half vampire, usually they grow into a big full vampire and join their parent as a creature of the night. But sometimes, little half vampire looses their vampire traits when they get older. Instead of going with their vampire parent, they grow up as a human. Probably marry a human and have a bunch of little human kids. And then those little human kids grow up and have more human kids, so on and so forth. But the vampire DNA keeps getting passed on and sometimes, if there’s enough of a push, the vampire traits can emerge.”

You pulled the pieces together. “I have a vampire in my family tree?”

“More than one, probably. It’s more common to have that side emerge if there’s a push from both sides of the family. It’s a genetic hiccup, or a throwback. For whatever reason, you have enough vampire in you for that bit to assert itself. By the end of the week, you’ll be a full vampire.”

You stared at him, swallowing hard. “In a week.”

“Yes. Roughly.” Marcus sat forward a little in his seat and gave you a smile. It was clearly intended to be friendly, but the enormous canines just didn’t allow it. “And I am going to help you.”

You weren’t entirely sure how it happened, but within two days, you were patrolling the city with Marcus. The smoothies were no longer taking the edge off your bloodlust and Marcus, after teaching you as much vampire lore as you could stand, decided that practical learning was also important.

“This is my territory,” he said, trotting down a street. “It covers five city blocks, which isn’t the biggest territory, but there’s a lot of competition in the city. But at least it has enough humans in it.”

You looked around. Marcus had kept insisting that all vampires could sense where their territory ended and another’s began, but you couldn’t sense anything. All you were really aware of was that everyone who passed you smelled really good and the electric lights were piercingly bright.

“All right?” Marcus asked. You squinted up at him. The streetlight behind him haloed his strong facial features in a shimmering light.

“It’s bright,” you complained.

“The lights? Your eyes will get a little more used to it when the changing settles down. For now, I have a pair of sunglasses somewhere.” He patted the pockets of his long coat. It swooshed around him when he moved and looked appropriately vampire-esque.

Your gums itched and prickled and mild aches suffused your body. You slumped against a wall, grimacing. There was an unsettling feeling in the pit of yours stomach, and you were pretty sure that wasn’t just nerves. Something in you was changing.

“Here you go!” Marcus slid the glasses onto your face, somehow managing not to poke you in the eye. You readjusted them carefully. They were easy to see through, even at night. “Are you okay?”

You realized that, over the last few minutes, you had been leaning more and more heavily on the wall for support. Your knees felt a little like jelly. “Um. I don’t feel very well.” Your gums were pulsing and waves of alternating hot and cold flooded your body.

Marcus took hold of your shoulder and gently pushed you into an alleyway. “Sit here for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

He bolted off and you placed your head between your knees. Things seemed to be squirming under your skin. You were flushed, but chills worked their way over your body. It felt like you’d come over with a sudden and terrible bout of the flu.

Something thumped to the ground in front of you. A delicious smell wafted up to you and the pulsing in your gums sharpened to a painful throbbing.

“Drink,” Marcus said. One of his hands slid down your back and he lifted the body he’d dropped in front of you to your mouth. You lunged forward, biting into the soft flesh and gulping the blood that spilled forth.

You were much neater this time, gulping down almost every drop. After only a few delicious mouthfuls, Marcus detached you. “You’re shivering,” he said. You were, and the squirming of your innards was only getting worse.

Marcus leaned you back against the wall. “Hey, I was slightly off in my timing,” he said. His voice was pitched oddly, like he was trying to be soothing, but he was barely suppressing panic himself. “You’re making the full shift to vampire now.”

Your eyes popped open and you stared wildly at him. “What?”

Marcus ignored your obvious panic and hauled you up into his arms. Carefully, he swung you around and onto his back. “Hold on tight,” he said.

It was not easy to hold onto the back of a vampire going at full speed. Motion sickness made your head spin and you squeezed your eyes shut and buried your face into the back of his neck. His smell was stronger than you’d ever smelled it before, sort of earthy and pleasant. You found yourself breathing deeply.

With a jerk, Marcus dug his feet into the ground and came to a stop. You clung to him, startled, until his hands worked your fingers loose from around his neck.

You in the middle of a sparsely forested area. Still in the city, from what you could hear. A park, then. Marcus offered you his coat and you slipped it on. “Wanted to get you away from people, somewhere relatively quiet. You’ll be disoriented for a moment when you wake up. It’s better to be somewhere like this.”

“Wake up?” Your voice was slurred.

“You’re going to pass out. But it’ll be all right. I’ll be right here.”

You felt like you were falling asleep rapidly. A tingling numbness crept up through your legs, then your arms, crawling toward your neck. Your eyes opened once, to see Marcus smiling gently down at you. Then they fell shut and you fell into darkness.

The first thing you were aware of was the smell. It invaded your senses, permeated your brain. There were unpleasant scents far away, some appealing ones that made your mouth water, and, close by, the earthy smell of dirt and wood and, closest of all, a pleasant, slightly earthy, slightly spiced scent.

You opened your eyes. It was bright. Really bright, almost daytime bright. But you could see, beyond the trees, that the moon was still out. You ran your tongue along your teeth. Your canines were extended and they itched a little.

“Feeling okay?” You turned your head. Marcus was leaning over you, a slight grin on his face. The moonlight seemed to make his skin glow and there was something mesmerizing in his eyes. “Woah,” you said. Marcus grinned.

“I could say something similar,” he said. “Hungry?”

Your stomach twisted and you nodded. “Starving.” Marcus tugged you to your feet.

As he led you out of the park, you became more aware of the territory boundaries. You could sense them, somehow, like glowing lines along the ground. It made you a little unsettled.

“You’re not kicking me out, are you?” you asked. Marcus grinned, canines glinting.

“No. I like you too much for that,” he said. “Now, let’s go. We’ve got some hunting to do.”

Together, you ran off into the night.

[xaphrin]

Horns

Break My Baby - KALEO

Part One - Horns

Damian ground his teeth together and watched Raven dancing on the stage.

She was bathed in shadow and neon lights, completely inverted (he suspected that she was using her powers for a little help), and looking like a promise of darkness. Every single eye in the place was turned to look at her, fascinated with the way she moved along the pole. Not like she was showing off, not like she was dancing, but more like she was offering far more than dirty sex. The low, sultry hum of the music seemed less overtly sexual, and more a subtle taste of sensuality and sin. Raven was the kind of dancer that made you think less of hot and quick sex, and more of slow, long fucking. Rough. Raw. Emotional.

Damian shivered and ducked into a booth in the back, pulling the cap low over his head and adjusting the dark glasses over his eyes. Next to him, Kon looked like he was struggling to pick his jaw up off the floor.

“Did you know she could move like that?” Pause. “Did you know she had tits?”

Damian rolled his eyes and looked over at Kon. “We’re patrons, Kon. Act like it.”

“I am but that’s… that’s Raven.” He ran a hand over his face, looking confused and frustrated. “I don’t… I want her and that’s weird, right? Like super fucking weird. That’s our friend and our teammate, and I… I don’t know? Wanna take her out? Buy her a drink? Put money in her underwear?”

No. Damian clenched his teeth together, trying to quash the possessive feeling surging through his veins. He shared one kiss with Raven. That didn’t mean she belonged to him, or that they were anything other than friends. Except he knew what her kisses tasted like, and how her skin felt under his fingertips, and how her touch burned him. He knew all of that, and yet he had to keep telling himself that he didn’t want her. 

Raven caught his stare, her eyebrow lifting only slightly as they locked eyes. She folded herself into something complicated and sultry, and turned away from him, the curves of her body stark against the colorful lights sliding over her. He watched the sway of her hips, the subtle movement of her arms, the bounce of her breasts… it was too much. With a muffle curse, Damian dug into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, needing something to look at that wasn’t her. He scrolled through his email, hoping to find anything to keep him from thinking of her.

It felt like centuries until the song ended, and Damian finally felt someone hover next to the booth.

“Hey.” 

He glanced up to see another dancer smiling sweetly at Kon and him. “Hello.”

“Rachel said you two requested a private dance from her?” She held out her hand for a credit card and Damian slipped it to her with an annoyed sigh. The dancer gave him another sickly-sweet smile and disappeared for a moment, leaving Damian feeling on edge. When the dancer returned, she motioned for the two of them to follow her. 

Raven was tucked in a back room, far from the main floor, bent over and stretching out her legs when Kon and Damian walked in. Damian felt his feet stutter beneath him at the sight of Raven’s tight, round ass encased in too-short shorts, raised in the air. He stared at the long line of her legs, ending in high, shiny heels, and felt a fire burn in the pit of his stomach. It had been two weeks since he’d last seen her like this, and he didn’t realize how much she affected him. He wanted her, in a way so physical it burned him.   

Kon muttered a curse and looked away, his face burning red. “Jeez, Rae. Put that away.”

She stood up and laughed, but didn’t respond to Kon’s comment. Instead, her eyes flicked to the dancer behind them. “Thanks, Christy. I owe you one.”

“Don’t mention it, hon. I’ve been there before.” She winked at Raven and made her way to the door. “I’ll keep the sleezebag away from the room until you’re done. You’re safe here.”

Raven waited until the other dancer was gone before she kicked off her shoes, sighing with exhaustion. She flopped onto the sofa in the corner and grinned at the two of them. “Christy thinks you two are my boyfriends, by the way. And we’re sneaking away for a dirty, lover’s tryst.”

Kon grimaced and stepped back, casting wary glances at Damian. “I mean. If I was going to do it with a guy, I could do worse than Dami, but still. I feel like I have better taste.”

Raven laughed, the sound soft and musical. “Ouch, Kon. You didn’t have to burn him like that.” A moment passed and her expression turned serious. “We’re still on for next week. One of the other dancers let me know that the owner has been frantically calling people, and it sounds like he must have picked up on my powers over the last few weeks. I’m going to be the next victim, just like we planned.”

Planned? Raven had planned this? Damian felt his back stiffen, and icy cold panic flooded his veins as he realized what Raven meant to do. What in the world was she doing? Putting herself in danger like this? His eyes narrowed and he turned to her, his voice a low warning. “Raven…”

“Don’t start, Damian. Kon and I already talked about it with Cy and Star, and we have a definitive plan.” She waved him off, looking nonchalant, but he could see the unease in her. She might have had the rest of their teammates fooled, but not him. He knew her too well. “I’m fine. I trust everyone to keep me safe, and as long as we follow the plan we set out, I’ll be fine.” 

“You talked about it with Cy and Star? With Kon, and not… me?” Damian felt his anger surge through him, hot and painful. He wanted to reach out and shake her, remind her that what she was doing was reckless. She was going to get hurt, or worse. “You… Raven.”

Her eyes flicked to his before looking away, pretending to be more interested in healing a bruise on her thigh. Something she got from dancing on the pole. “If I had told you what I wanted to do and what our plans were, you would have talked me out of it. This isn’t something we could afford to ignore, Damian. I have to do this.” 

“Of course I would have talked you out of it.” Damian stepped forward, his voice a low growl. “Because it’s rash, and stupid, and dangerous! You’re letting yourself get caught by this… madman, who wants to control you, and sell you. And you’re just letting him. You’re letting yourself be kidnapped and sold. Tell me, how am I supposed to react?”

“Not like this. You’re supposed to trust the decisions I make. I’ve been here for over a month now, and I know how vulnerable these girls are, and I know how much they need my protection. So, yeah, I am putting myself in danger to help them.” Raven stood up and set her hands on her hips, glaring at him. “Because since this place opened, there have been ten other girls who have been kidnapped and sold, and we need to find them. I owe it to them.”

“This shouldn’t be a one woman crusade. You should be smart about this.” Damian raked his fingers through his hair, feeling like he was losing control. What was she thinking? How could she have thought this was a good plan? How could she have just barged head-first into putting herself in danger, where he couldn’t protect her? “How could you think that this is okay?” He whipped around and stared at Kon, gritting his teeth. “And you. You just let her talk you into this?” 

Kon threw his hands up in defense. “Raven was very convincing and she created a good plan. We all think it’s sound.”

Damian turned back to look at her, still growling. “Raven…” 

“Don’t try me, Damian.”

Kon’s eyes darted between the two of them before he took a step back, inching towards the door. “You know, this sounds like maybe you need to talk this out together…”

Raven snapped her fingers, black sparks flying from her fingertips. “Kon. Stay.” 

“Kon. Go.” Damian turned and looked at him, feeling like everyone within a mile radius could feel his fear and his rage. “Get out and go back to the tower. I need to talk to Raven alone.” 

Kon’s looked as though he was going to protest, but something in Damian’s stare stopped him. He knew better than to fight with him when he was like this. Kon slowly slunk towards the door, looking apologetic. “Sorry, Rae. Leader out-commands you. Ah… good luck, you two?” 

Damian waited until the door closed behind him, and he turned back to Raven, still glaring at her. “You can’t possibly think this is smart. You’re letting him see your powers, letting yourself get caught, and you don’t know what he does with these girls or where he takes them. You only think you know.” 

Raven stepped up to him and growled, poking a finger into his chest as magic cracked between them. “I am aware. But what do you want me to do, Damian? Ignore what’s happening? Pretend I don’t see it? I’m equipped to handle danger, these other girls aren’t. They’re just girls trying to live their lives. At least I know how to fight, and at least I have a team on my side.”

Damian sunk down onto the sofa and glared at her. “Raven.”

“You’re not talking me out of this.” 

He felt the words fall before he could stop them. “I can’t lose you.” 

“That’s not your choice, Damian.” Her expression softened and she reached out to run her fingers through his hair. “We put ourselves in danger’s way every day.”

“That’s not what this is about.” He stood up and stalked over to her, crowding her space until her back hit a wall. He could smell something sticky and sweet on her, oil and glitter and magic. It felt like his head was going to explode, and all he wanted to do was pull her close and tell her everything about how he felt about her. With another growl, his hand slammed into the wall next to her head and he leaned over her. “I can’t lose you, Raven.” 

She blinked, and slowly, with far too much caution, she lifted herself up on her tip-toes and kissed the line of his jaw. It was innocent and tender, and it broke down every one of his defenses. She pulled away and met his eyes with determination. “Now you know how I feel everytime you race off on a mission with your father.” 

His stomach lurched, and Damian didn’t know what to say. 

“But… I always trust you to come back.” She reached up and tangled her hand in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer to her. “Trust me on this… please.” 

He sighed and pressed his forehead to hers, breathing her in. “Raven…”

Raven leaned up and pressed her lips to his, kissing him as though she needed him to breathe. It was desperate and needy, like she wasn’t quite sure how she had survived without him before, and he could taste her want with every pass of her lips and tongue. Her hand tightened in his shirt and her other hand handled in his hair as she bit at his lower lip and pushed herself into him. She pulled and tugged, trying to make the space between them disappear until there was nothing but them. Fire burned where they touched, and Damian let himself go up in flames with her. 

She pulled away, gasping as her eyes met his. A moment passed, then two. 

“Come back to the safehouse with me tonight. We need to talk.” 

Talking was the last thing on his mind. 

[twilightfansofcolor]

Black!Bella (New Moon edition)

wc: 1.7k

So the summer is here and Bella is on cloud 9

Without a doubt one of the best summers ever

When her leg healed up, Charlie took her hiking just like when she was little, or they’d go to La Push to look at the tidepools or they’d just go to Seattle to visit the aquarium

Sleepovers with Jessica and Angela where they’d stay up watching Studio Ghibli movies, binge watching the Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar YouTube channels, giving each other makeovers and giving each other recommendations about skin care products

Long conversations with Renee about college

Renee thinks Bella should try a school in New York

Charlie wants her to go an HBCU

She never told Charlie that she filled out applications for NYU and a school in Louisiana that she liked, and that she was expecting to hear back from them soon

Bella and Edward would spend hours at their favorite bookstore chain in Port Angeles looking through the summer releases

They went there so much they were offered membership cards where they’d get 15% off every purchase

Sleepovers with Alice where Bella would constantly ask her what she saw in that C*nfederate 

Bella’s first few weeks of school fall around the same time as her birthday

She doesn’t have that many classes with Edward or Alice which she finds odd since Forks High is a small school

 Bella’s birthday is pretty much canon

Renee gave her a gift box of her favorite Godiva chocolate, makeup and skincare products while Charlie got her a Nintendo Switch with a few games so they could play against each other on Mario Kart.

The birthday party is still the same and ends in disaster 

Edward starts distancing himself from her, and so does Alice

Alice doesn’t wait for her outside her art class so they could walk to physics 

Something is wrong, Bella can feel it in her bones even though Angela and Jessica tell her that it’s probably nothing

Bella is bracing for whatever is coming. Could it be Victoria seeking revenge and Edward doesn’t know how to tell her?

Something worse, much worse

Bella listens to him tell her that they have to leave Forks and it takes her a minute to realize that the Cullens have to leave town without her

“In the hospital, you said you’d stay!”

“As long as it was safe for you, and after what happened at the party, it’s clearly not safe for me to be around you, Bella.”

Edward kisses her on the forehead one last time before he leaves, probably forever 

Charlie isn’t home from work so she just works on dinner in a daze with the television volume up as loud as she can stand it, NCIS blaring from the living room

Charlie confronts her when he finds out that the Cullens left town and that’s when she just cries, acknowledging it for the first time in hours

The following weeks after his departure are touch and go. 

She goes weeks without getting her hair braided, and just keeps it in a bun/poof 

Bella doesn’t wear makeup no matter how many times Charlie tries to entice her with the Vogue YouTube channel

“C’mon Bella, you love Saweetie,” Charlie said as if she were a toddler again, trying to get her to eat Cauliflower 

It isn’t until Charlie calls her mom that she snaps out of it and Renee tells her what she needs to know

“Bella, I know you’re going through a hard time, but you have other things you need to be worrying about. It hurts, I know, but moping around ain’t gonna bring him back, and you’re not the first person to be dumped. You’re getting ready to graduate high school in less than a year, and you need to start thinking about your future.”

Renee had never spoken to her like that before but she realized her mom was right, she did need to start thinking about her plans for the future

After giving herself two more days to cry it out, Bella gets right back to business

She’s blasting Flo Milli while she gets ready for school, gets a new wardrobe and is now tutoring kids in school and La Push for some extra cash

Which is how she runs into Jacob again

She helps him with biology which turns into Charlie coming home and finding the two of them watching Guy's Grocery Games and arguing about which contestant they think is getting the boot next

Not that he’s complaining. He’s secretly hoping they’d get together

One Friday night in February, Bella invites him to the movies with a few friends from school

And it starts to go downhill when Jacob threatens Mike, who got sick halfway through the movie

Jacob reveals his feelings for Bella but she has to reject his advances

She loves Jacob, he’s been so sweet to her, but she cannot handle another relationship when she’s barely over the first one

When Bella calls him on Saturday morning to apologize, he doesn’t pick up the phone or answer any of her texts but she thinks nothing of it, chalking it up to him being sick

The next time she calls, she calls the house and Billy tells her Jacob is feeling better but that he’s not up for visitors, so she takes matters into her own hands

She spends the entire morning parked outside his house waiting for him

Bella doesn’t recognize him, he’s a lot bigger, his hair is shorter and his usually warm brown eyes look cold

Jacob tells her to go home and not to come back and Bella knows that Sam finally got him like he did Embry and he proceeds to tell her how he’s not good enough for her like the Cullens and alludes to the fact that he knows the Cullens’ secret

“You’ve been lying to everyone. Charlie… but you can’t lie to me, Bella. Go home. Or you’re gonna get hurt.”

She just stands there in the cold rain, getting soaked from head to toe, and she can’t tell if she’s crying or if it’s just the rain hitting her face

She has a strange dream involving a brown wolf the size of a horse, Jacob, and surprisingly, Edward

Bella confronts Jacob again, this time almost getting into it with Paul who turns into a wolf right in front her

Embry and Jared take her back to Sam’s house where she meets Emily

Bella and Emily get along well, and she finds out Emily is from the Makah tribe in Neah Bay, but she’s an elementary school math teacher’s assistant at the tribal school

She’s relieved when Jacob comes back to the house, safe and free of scratches and they walk along the beach and catch up

Bella is just happy that her friend is back and she vents about what’s really been bothering her: the encounter with Laurent, saying that Victoria is still looking for him

“You don’t have to worry about them. We took down the one with the locs easy enough.”

It doesn’t register for a minute so she just stands there, trying to make sense of it. “Y-you… killed Laurent?”

At this point, Bella is crying with tears of joy, her mascara smearing with tears and Jacob just holding her

Their friendship is back to normal in no time and pick up right where they left off

Bella has to remind Charlie, Angela and Jessica several times that she’s not dating Jacob 

Not that she hasn’t thought about it

It would be so easy, and both of their dads would be happy, and she wouldn’t have to lie like she does with Charlie and any of her friends

One day they’re just driving around, goofing off when she sees a group of kids jumping from the cliff

She’s getting her phone out to dial 911 before Jake stops her and tells her that they’re just cliff diving

Jacob offers to take her sometime, maybe when it’s warmer out, promising they’ll start at the lower level

It’s dark when they pull up to her house and Bella starts to invite him in for dinner when she notices a familiar car parked down the street

Bella remembers everything about that car, the quiet engine as she sat in the back seat while his C*nfederate brother drove them to Phoenix, the feel of the leather seats as she slept.

They go in anyway, and Bella is surprised to see Alice sitting on the couch reading a magazine, but she needs Bella’s help because Edward is in trouble

The audacity. The sheer fucking audacity

“I haven’t heard from you in almost a year. You avoided me in the halls, you blocked my number and my email, but now when you reappear from thin air I’m supposed to help you? What do I get out of this?”

Alice insists that Edward needs Bella’s help, that she can’t do this without her

At this point Bella knows that Charlie put a tracking device on her phone, and she’s not going to risk it

Jacob begging her not to go, and she really doesn’t want to go either

Instead she writes a quick letter telling Edward not to do what he’s thinking of doing just because they’re not together, saying that she’s happy with how her life is and she gives it to Alice to pass along

Despite EVERYTHING that happened, she wants him to be safe, so Bella gives Alice the letter

“What does this mean? Would they come back?” Jacob asked after Alice had left.

Bella knows what would happen if all of the Cullens came back: more young Quileute kids turning into wolves, and she doesn’t want that to happen, but she can’t stop it from happening either

“I really have no clue, but that’s their decision, and I have no hand in that game.”

It takes three days before the Cullens return to Forks, and she’s facing Edward again one day in the woods behind her house

Bella just tells him everything she’s been feeling since he left and more

“There isn’t any hope for us, there probably never was, and we can’t pretend any of this never happened, Edward. You know that. We can’t go back to normal, because it wasn’t normal in the first place. You were right the first time, and I should’ve listened.”

It goes without saying that Bella is going to keep the secret, but she’s also going to move on with her life, and wants Edward to do the same

Alexa, play “Clean” by Taylor Swift

[sailtoafarawayland]

The Things We Don’t Say (modern AU - Actors)

Summary:  No one is perfect, and sometimes, two people are just so perfectly flawed that those pieces fit together and make something beautiful. When sparks fly between two leads of a new hit show, is there a happy ending in sight, or will their own mistakes overshadow any chance they had at something worth fighting for.

Rated: Explicit    

Warnings:   This is a joyfully Captain Swan story, but there are a few warnings. It does start with Emma/Neal and Killian/Milah. I don't write non-CS, so there won't be any sexual anything happening 'on screen', so to speak, between those couples, but I won't guarantee there may not be a mention. This story contains numerous episodes of cheating. If any of these things make you squick or are not your bag, carry on.

AO3 - FF 

- or read below the cut - 

As always, let me know if you’d like to be tagged for further updates. 

Tag list: @xarandomdreamx @jrob64 @wefoundloveunderthelight @teamhook @tiganasummertree @pirateprincessofpizza @lfh1226-linda @kmomof4 

Chapter One

Emma scrolled through the email her manager had sent detailing the new role she was being offered. It was something fresh, something different from what she normally focused on—no hint of a police procedural in sight—and based on the tone, it sounded like they were very interested in getting her signed for one of the leads. She stretched her legs out along the couch, digging her cold toes underneath the pillows in search of some warmth, only to yank them back when she encountered something both crinkly and wet.

“Dammit, Neal! What the hell is this?” she growled, glaring at the brown sludge coating her foot.

She leaned forward, careful to angle her toes away from any other surface, and peeled the throw pillow from the couch. Smeared across the white fabric and the expensive leather was what looked like the remainder of a milky way bar, the wrapper still clinging to the puddle of caramel and chocolate.

“You have got to be kidding me. Neal!”

The only response she got was the sound of something hitting a pan full of oil in the kitchen, the apartment filled with the sizzling hiss of something frying. Dropping her phone and forgetting all about the email she’d just been reading, she hobbled down the hall into the bathroom to clean up, wondering how in the hell to get out a chocolate and caramel stain. Why he couldn’t just learn to clean up after himself was beyond understanding. Sometimes it felt like she was living with a teenager who never wanted to grow up, and she couldn’t help but long for the days when her apartment was clean and didn’t smell like whatever weird odor it was that Neal always brought home—grease and cigarette smoke, maybe.

Her foot finally clean enough to be walked on, she headed into the kitchen to get some paper towels only to be greeted by what looked like every dish she owned spread out on the counters and island. Every surface was dusted in flour and drips of batter, measuring spoons leaving trails of oil and sugar across the floor and counters alike.

“Oh my god,” she cringed, knowing the mess would be left for her. “What are you doing?”

“I was wondering when you’d get off the phone,” Neal poked, giving her a quick glance over his shoulder before motioning proudly over the mess that just seemed to get worse each time she looked at it. “I’m cooking.”

The casual way he always stabbed at her phone use was exactly what she didn’t want to hear right now. Maybe she wouldn’t have to spend so much time working if he bothered looking for something himself. He’d had a recurring role on a family comedy when they met, but he’d been fired not long after, and for the last six months, Emma was pretty sure he hadn’t even gone to any of the auditions she’d mentioned. In fact, she wasn’t even sure if he had an agent anymore. 

“When was the last time you had a Milky Way?” she asked, choosing to ignore his snide comment. She just wasn’t in the mood.

“That’s a weird question. I don’t know, maybe last week? You didn’t pick any up the last time you ran to the store.”

Emma nodded, her lips drawn tight as she tore paper towels from the rack and returned to the living room, pulling what she could of the melted mass from the couch and thinking she’d need to resort to Google to get the rest out. Her anger bubbled with every sticky string of caramel that wrapped around her fingers. Why couldn’t he go to the store on his day off? He only had seven of them. She stomped back into the kitchen, hitting the garbage can a little harder than necessary and tossing the mess of chocolate and paper inside.

There was just enough room in the overload sink—what had he used the colander for—that she could wash her hands.

“There’s leftovers in the fridge. What was so important that you had to turn the entire kitchen into a complete disaster?” she questioned, already adding up how much time it would take her to wash and wipe everything down.

She’d be lucky if she was able to get back to her manager before tomorrow as requested.

“You remember that travel show we watched the other night?” he prodded, his eyes glued to the pan as it hissed on the stovetop, a spatula held ready in his hand. “You mentioned you hadn’t had good churros since that trip to Mexico, so I thought maybe I’d make you some.”

The anger that had been just about to boil over slipped away to that place far enough below everything else that she could just go back to ignoring it.  

“Neal,” she sighed, suddenly more exhausted than anything else. “Thanks.”

“Of course, Ems—anything for you.”

In the living room her phone blared to life, the dark tones of The Imperial March echoing as it vibrated across the coffee table.

“Work calls,” Neal sniped, a trace of resentment running beneath the pleasant smile he fixed in her direction. “Wouldn’t want to keep Regina waiting.”

It was amazing how quickly that anger came right back to the top of everything, and she found her feet pushing her as far away from Neal as possible, snatching her phone from the table and forgetting entirely about the couch as she stormed into the bedroom.

“What?” she hissed, slamming the door behind her and clenching the cell like it was something she wanted to crush. “What is so important that you couldn’t give me a few more hours, Regina?”

The other end of the line was silent, as if Regina had either hung up, or was waiting for an apology. Well, she wasn’t getting one—not today.

“Is there something you needed, Regina?”

“Are you okay?” Regina asked, not as a friend, but as an employee that was curious to know how soon she would have to contact Emma’s PR team and inform them a mental breakdown was imminent.

“I’m fine. It’s just a bad time. I got the details you sent. I just haven’t read through everything yet.”

“Well, that explains why I haven’t heard from you. Honestly, I thought you cared more about your career than that. I was quite clear this was urgent. Don’t take your time with this one, Miss Swan—they want you, but they can’t wait much longer.”

The line went dead after Regina had delivered her scolding and Emma sighed, dropping to the bed and rolling onto her back as she flicked back into her email and started again from the top. It was an interesting premise with even more depth than she’d originally thought—a new series that centered on the mental health of a man who had developed delusions after a car accident that took his brother, leading him to believe everyone in the hospital was a character from a fairy tale world—but then she got the part that Regina really focused on, the money.

“Holy shit!” Emma gasped, double checking the figures and thinking how she’d never seen such a good offer—not for someone in her bracket. It was unheard of. “I guess they really do want me.”

It wasn’t until she read through the rest of the itinerary and details that she wondered if the big paycheck wasn’t recompense for the filming location and duration—the middle of Nowhere, Maine, as if Maine wasn’t already considered the middle of nowhere.

She read everything twice before she shot Regina a quick text.  

E: I’ll take it

The message had only just sent and there were already three ellipses following. Emma could practically hear her manager’s smug response.

R: I knew you would. I’ll be in touch.

There should have been nerves fluttering in her stomach, or at least a solid pit of dread at the prospect of having to walk into the kitchen and tell Neal, but there was nothing. It was a big decision to move across the country for what could be a long-term role, but it was still her decision to make.

Hopefully, he would be happy for her, he would understand that this had the potential of lifting her out of her rut and providing great income for the foreseeable future. There were some great names attached, veterans of the industry that were looking to branch out into a new genre.

She was excited for the first time in a long time.  

She didn’t need to feel guilty, at least that was what she told herself as a niggling pang of guilt worked its way into her chest.

It would be good to break it to him gently though, to put a good spin on it.

The minutes ticked by and she finally realizing she couldn’t put it off any longer, she wandered into the kitchen, her arms crossed in front of her as she looked for him, but the apartment was empty. The stove was turned off and a plate, probably the last clean one, was waiting on the counter with a pile of golden churros perched on top of a greasy paper towel.

Next to it was another torn paper towel with a note scratched onto it in sharpie.

The boys called and I’m heading out for a few beers. Don’t wait up. Enjoy the churros.

She waited for the anger to bubble back to the top, but there was nothing—no anger, no guilt, just a deep, hollow nothingness that grew and yawned as she fingered the scrap of a note transparent with oily fingerprints. Feeling like maybe this job had come at the best possible time, she picked up the plate of churros and walked over to the trash, watching them slide in with the rest of the garbage.

[pandawriterstuff]

Pineswallow Ranch

Monty, at only eleven years, three months and four days, had been to many parts of the world, traveling with his mother. She was a corporate lawyer, and was called to all corners to use her intelligence and skill at finding the exact information that was needed to crush the competition.

Monty, being a little boy, was, of course, not wanted in either the board meetings or the more secretive dealings that were necessary when people were not as cooperative as they needed to be. Long days of nailing bottom lines and ferreting out inefficiencies exhausted his mother most dreadfully, and so when she would collapse in their suite, begging Monty to not chatter quite so loud because Mother’s head ached, and wouldn’t he like to watch a nice movie with her? quietly? it was perfectly understandable and he would always do his best, cuddling up with her as they watched musicals and cartoons.

But it meant that despite having been to many more parts of the world than the average eleven year old, he had seen almost none of it. Hotel rooms, airports, lobbies, and far more drop-in daycare centers than he cared to remember were where he’d spent the bulk of his existence.

It was lonely, a lot of the time. But it was what he knew. And he had Mother, and his lessons, and even a few email friends he’d managed to keep in touch with.

But Monty had started to think that maybe it wasn’t enough. Of course, by the time he’d realized that, Mother, always ten steps ahead, had not only realized that this was a problem, but had found a solution. Or at least what she thought was a solution. Monty was not at all sure.

“Your Uncle Keith lives in a rural town, but they have some of the highest test scores in the county, so you won’t have to worry about falling behind. And he has horses, Monty, a whole stable of them, and I know you love to ride.” Monty, currently not speaking to his mother, was sitting on the balcony of yet another hotel suite staring down at the unnaturally blue water of the pool, lips resolutely shut.

His arms weren’t crossed, because Mother would say he was pouting if they were, and he wasn’t pouting.

Even though he would have very good reason to if he did. His mother was sending him away. “I am not going to keep talking to your back, so if you’re going to be this stubborn I’m going to go inside and finish packing. When you calm down we can decide what to get for dinner and pick out something to watch.”

“I don’t want to watch anything with you.” The words snapped out of him, possibly more hard and vicious than words ever had before, and Monty heard his mother’s intake of breath, heard the way it caught a little. It didn’t matter, because he wasn’t sorry, his hands clenching down on the cast iron arms of the chair, cold against his fingers. He wasn’t sorry, because she should be the one who was sorry, and she wasn’t-or maybe she was, and still wouldn’t change her mind, and Monty thought that might be worse.

“Okay, then.” The balcony door shut slowly, as if she were waiting for him to change his mind, to run to her, but Monty just stared down at the pool, willing his eyes to stay dry.

He slumped, his head sagging down, once he heard her footsteps padding back across the hotel room that had been his for a week now and into the main part of the suite. Now he felt guilty, as well as angry, and it was an unpleasant combination that made his stomach feel like it had a stone in it. Monty couldn’t say Mother had been entirely wrong in her earlier arguments, that traveling around the way she did kept him from having so many things other boys did; a school, a bedroom, classmates and friends. Having a pet of any type was impossible the way they traveled, or even most large possessions. He’d never even had a real first day of school, though he’d dealt with schoolyard bully types a few times anyway.

But he didn’t want to leave Mother, didn’t want to leave the only thing he knew to go live in a tiny town with an uncle he hadn’t even seen in three years!

Not even for horses.

*****

Three days later, when they arrived at Uncle Keith’s ranch, Monty wished he hadn’t spent so much time being upset with Mother. He hadn’t really expected to, after all. Ordinarily when he was angry or displeased about something his feelings would calm with time, and sometimes he would feel foolish for being so upset over something that truly did look better in the morning-or as Mother liked to say, with thought and contemplation. But each morning Monty would wake up feeling just as sour and small and confused as he had the day before. It is hard to not be angry as well when you have a jumble of feelings like that stretching from your toes to at least up to your eyeballs, and easier to let yourself than trying to figure out some other way to feel about it.

But now they were here, standing outside the sprawling ranch house with the startling steep mountains behind them, and horses of all colors in a paddock near a real barn. It should have been amazing, awe-inspiring, but his mother would be leaving in a few days and none of it was. Mother’s hand found his shoulder, squeezing lightly as Monty looked around, not sure if he wanted to be interested in the rock and herb garden arranged around the wide front porch or not. “Your uncle’s probably inside, getting lunch ready. Let’s go knock, shall we?”

“Yes, Mother.” Only Monty didn’t move, leaning slightly into her touch, and after just a moment he found himself swooped into a tight hug, Mother’s cheek pressing into the top of his head, and he gripped her back just as tightly, wishing they could get back in the rental car and drive to a hotel, to anywhere, as long as he got to stay with her.

“Well, hey now! You got here earlier than I was expecting!” The loud voice broke up Monty’s reverie, and he turned his head to stare at the tall man in a red and blue flannel shirt that looked like something Superboy would wear as Conner Kent, slowly pulling away from Mother as she laughed.

“I think you might have forgotten to look at a clock, we’re here at noon, exactly as specified.” Monty studied his uncle, not sure if he should speak up or not. It had been almost three years since he’d seen his mother’s younger brother, though he knew his mother emailed him a lot, and sometimes she’d tell him a story about something that happened on the ranch, or tell him Uncle Keith liked a drawing or story of his she’d shared. Right now he seemed like a stranger. A stranger Monty was supposed to live with for at least a year.

‘Only a year to start out with,’ Mother had said, ‘and if you don’t like it we’ll figure out something else.’ As though that were a short period of time. Maybe, Monty thought, looking at the llama patterned socks Uncle Keith had worn out onto the porch, it was to an adult, but when you’d only been around for eleven years, three months and one week a year was a very long time indeed.

Adults never seemed to think about things like that. It was exceedingly frustrating.

Looking up again, he saw that Uncle Keith was giving him an indulgent sort of smile, having caught him in his examination, and Mother gave him a nudge in the direction of the porch before he could regroup. “I hope you guys are hungry, I’ve got chilli heating up and grilled cheese ready to toast on the griddle. C’mon in, just take off your shoes or Miss Maisie will never let me hear the end of it.”

Letting Mother push him lightly towards the porch, Monty cast another glance at the corral, his eyes lighting on a horse whose coat was like snowfall speckled over dark loam. As he stared, the horse’s head turned and for just a moment Monty would swear they locked eyes, his breath leaving him in a gasp. It felt like the horse knew him better than anyone ever had or ever could in that moment.

Perhaps, he thought, as his feet reached the porch steps and Mother chided him to remember his surroundings before he fell, there might be a few perks to living here.

Part 2

[ghost-in-the-hella]

51. “You make me feel alive.” with PriceMarsh.

My apologies for taking so long to finish this! For whatever reason, Kate POV seems to take me extra long to get my head around. Better late than never, I hope!

CW for implied cutting, implied suicidality, referenced canon drugging and sexual assault (the Vortex Club incident), and referenced homophobic and emotionally abusive parenting.

---

“I’m a bad influence on you,” Chloe says, and for a moment she’s so beautiful in the moonlight that Kate doesn’t catch the sadness in her voice. 

“What?” Kate says when it registers. “No, you aren’t.”

Chloe stares at her unblinkingly, cigarette raised so that her face is wreathed with smoke, and gives her a look like she’s somehow proving her point simply by existing.

“You aren’t,” Kate repeats more firmly. “What, you think nobody’s ever smoked in front of me before? I do all kinds of community service. Plenty of people have smoked in front of me.” 

“Okay, but did they smoke in front of you after sneaking you out of the dorms past curfew, and did they commit petty crimes before they lit up?”

Kate rolls her eyes and shakes her head softly. “I still say you’re not a bad influence on me. I didn’t vandalize anything.”

“Mm. You did let a persona non grata delinquent into the dorms and then sneak out with her so she could tag public property, though.”

“True, but…” Kate kicks her feet gently in the air as she thinks. The metal of Chloe’s truck bed is cold and hard beneath her thighs, but right now it’s more comfortable than her own dorm bed. She hasn’t felt safe sleeping there since she woke up on the floor after the Vortex Club party she can’t remember. The gross comments that keep popping up on her whiteboard don’t exactly make it feel like home, either. “I asked you. I don’t think you’re the bad influence there.”

Chloe mock-gasps. “Kate Beverly Marsh! Are you suggesting that you were a bad influence on me??”

“Maybe,” Kate teases, and this feels better. Chloe’s moods tend to turn on a dime, and Kate’s never quite sure how to handle them. They’ve only been hanging out for a couple of weeks, and although Kate’s learned to recognize Chloe’s sorrow she hasn’t learned how to comfort her. Chloe wears that hard, tough, punk persona so proudly; offering her a hug feels like it would be a transgression. But when Chloe’s joking around, Kate feels much less out of her depth. Most people don’t expect Kate to have a sense of humor - “good little church girl” that she is - but Chloe’s proven herself to be an exception. Chloe’s an exception to a lot of things. “I did ask you to help me break the rules.”

“Because you wouldn’t know how to break them on your own, goody-two-shoes,” Chloe teases with a chuckle.

“I’ll have you know I was a rule-breaker before I met you, thank you very much!”

Chloe flicks the ash from the end of her cigarette onto the damp, sandy asphalt of the beach parking lot. “Really,” she deadpans. “Kate Marsh, rule-breaker.”

“Yes.”

“Sure we’re talking about the same Kate Marsh?” She holds a hand over Kate’s head (mercifully, it’s not the one holding her still-smoldering cigarette). “‘Bout this tall? Literal human marshmallow? Goes to church every Sunday and volunteers at the soup kitchen?”

“Yes!” Kate laughs.

“Okay.” Chloe shifts her position abruptly, reclining with her shoulders propped against the wall of the truck bed and dangling one leg off the edge of the tailgate while the toes of her other dirty boot stop just shy of touching Kate’s thigh. Kate wishes she were as comfortable anywhere as Chloe seems to make herself everywhere. “There’s obviously a story here.” She gestures melodramatically with her cigarette, luminous red embers and pale blue smoke - almost the color of her eyes - against the colorless dark of the night sky. “So spill, Katydid. Illuminate me.”

In her head, Kate scrambles frantically to find something suitably rebellious to tell Chloe. She’s sure she must have done something interesting at some point in her life, but with Chloe’s eyes on her and the way that Chloe’s biting her lip as she waits she’s having a very hard time thinking about anything else. “I… Sometimes I stay up really late. All night, even.”

Chloe looks like she’s trying not to laugh. “That’s it? Kate, that’s… That’s not even breaking any rules! You’re eighteen; you can stay up as late as you want!”

“My parents are really strict about bedtimes,” Kate says a little defensively. “Right up until I moved into the dorms, they would do room checks every night to make sure my sisters and I had our lights out and were sound asleep.” A sneaky little smile tugs at her lips and she drops her voice into a conspiratorial tone. “But there was a creaky floorboard between their room and mine, so I would listen for it and then I’d pretend to be sleeping when they’d check on me. And once they were gone, I’d stay up reading or texting my friends or watching movies.” Kate can hear how boring this sounds, so she hurries to add, “Movies my parents wouldn’t let me watch. I would sneak them. Horror movies, violent stuff. Things like that.” Not only horror movies, Kate doesn’t add because she doesn’t want to tip her hand even though she knows - she knows - that Chloe likes girls, too; she hasn’t forgotten how Chloe used to look at Rachel Amber. But she suspects that Chloe never had to sneak around her mother to watch Imagine Me and You or Saving Face or - God forbid - But I’m a Cheerleader, and she’s not sure that Chloe would understand how incredibly criminal it had felt.

“Pfft! I’ve been doing that shit since I was a kid. With my old friend Max, even, and she was almost as much of a goody-two-shoes as you. Man, after we sneak-watched Jaws she wouldn’t so much as stick a toe in the bay for the rest of the summer. Total chicken.” She grins wickedly. “Nice try, though. And I’ll definitely have to remember about the horror movies. I’ve got some that’ll knock your socks off, guaranteed. So what else you got, Cup-Kate?”

Kate chews on her lower lip for a moment before blurting, “I cursed at my mother.”

Chloe actually laughs at that. “I did that this morning. And again this afternoon. I do that literally every day.”

“I called her a…” She balks. She knows that Chloe curses all the time, but somehow she just can’t make herself repeat the word even though it felt so good to say it and watch her mother’s face turn livid. “A bad name. She grounded me for a week.” Grounded is an understatement. But Chloe doesn’t need to know about Kate getting her mouth washed out with soap at the ripe age of seventeen. She doesn’t need to know that Kate’s mother took away her phone and computer as punishment and proceeded to read her most personal texts and emails before grilling her relentlessly about them until her father came home and put a stop to it. She definitely doesn’t need to know how much Kate cried and begged for forgiveness that week.

Something in Chloe’s face makes Kate feel like she knows it all anyway. “Sounds like she probably deserved whatever you called her.” Chloe nudges Kate’s thigh gently with her boot. “And hey, if you ever want someone to go call her names so vile you’ve never even dreamed of them, much less let them soil your lips, just lemme know. I’ll do it for free.”

Kate can’t hold in a giggle at Chloe’s offer. It shouldn’t be funny, she knows. But it is. She shouldn’t think Chloe’s offer is sweet, but she does.

Chloe smiles and stubs out her cigarette, which is by then burned down to the filter. She hauls herself back up into a sitting position, the toe of her boot still pressed lightly against Kate’s thigh. “Okay, so we’ve got cursing at your mother what I’m assuming is a whopping one time in your life despite the fact that she probably deserves it way more than that, and you staying up to watch horror movies past your bedtime. Not exactly sounding like a hardened criminal, there, Kate. Sounding more like a complete and utter cinnamon bun, if I’m honest.”

“I, um. I drink wine every week?” It’s a weak stab and Kate knows it, but it’s all she’s got left unless she wants to delve into much more personal territory that she’s in no way ready to talk about.

Chloe rolls her eyes. “Doesn’t count as breaking the rules if it’s literally part of church.” She wags a scolding finger. “That’s cheating.”

Kate seizes the opportunity with both hands, a victorious grin spreading across her face. “Which is breaking the rules! Ha, got you!”

Chloe scoffs. “Uh-huh. Very clever, Marsh. Still not disproving my cinnamon bun theory, though. You’re going to have to try harder to scandalize me.” There’s a lift to Chloe’s eyebrow that feels like a dare. Or maybe it only feels like a dare because Kate really, really wants it to be one. 

Both of Chloe’s eyebrows shoot much higher when Kate answers her challenge by leaning in and kissing her.

Kate wants to do this forever. She wants to press harder, dig deeper. But she’s never kissed anybody before and she suspects she’d do it terribly if it were much more than a peck, and if this isn’t something Chloe actually wants then pressing would only make it worse. So she holds her lips against Chloe’s for a couple of incredible, terrifying seconds, and then she pulls away.

Chloe blinks slowly, looking dazed. Kate isn’t sure whether that’s a good sign or a bad one. “Okay, wow, that… Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“...Does that mean I can do it again?”

Chloe lets out a laugh, fragile and amazed. “Holy shit, Kate.”

Kate wants to kiss her again, but Chloe hasn’t answered her question. Her stomach twists suddenly. “Oh my God, I’m such an idiot; I’m so sorry.” She puts her palms on her flushed cheeks. They feel impossibly hot; she can’t even imagine how red they must look. “I should have asked first. I’m so sorry.”

“It… yeah, that was definitely breaking the rules. I’ll give you credit for that one.” Chloe laughs a little shakily. “Kate Marsh, rule-breaker.”

“I shouldn’t have done it; not like that. Oh, Lord, I’m no better than those… those creeps who--” Kate can feel the warm feeling kissing Chloe gave her slipping into a cold spiral that seizes her chest and pumps ice water through her veins.

“Don’t even.”

“I didn’t even ask, or warn you, or anything; I just--”

“Dude, chill. It’s fine. I liked it.”

“You’re probably still-- I shouldn’t’ve just--” Kate blinks as Chloe’s words sink in. “You liked it?”

Chloe nods. “Yeah, I mean… It took me off-guard, for sure. Asking first would’ve been better, no doubt, but it’s not like I haven’t been wanting you to kiss me for, like… a week, at least.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. It was nice.” Chloe rubs the back of her neck, frowning. Her face slips back into that space Kate hasn’t learned how to navigate, the one that shows she’s thinking too hard and feeling too much. “Uncharacteristic, though.”

Kate's heart sinks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means… Hell, I don’t know. It means maybe I really am a bad influence on you. It means maybe my step-dick is right and I’m just a no good delinquent dragging you down with me.”

“Chloe Price, you are not a bad influence on me!” Kate touches her shoulder. Chloe won’t turn and look at her, so Kate touches her chin and turns her head until she has to meet her eyes. The look in Chloe’s eyes makes Kate’s heart hurt. “You’re the best possible influence on me.”

Chloe laughs again, but it’s a broken sound. Kate never wants to hear her laugh like that again. “Not fucking possible,” Chloe tells her. “You’re, like… the best person I’ve ever met. And I’m…” She waves a hand to gesture at the whole of herself.

“You’re a good person,” Kate insists. “You’ve lived through bad things, and they’ve hurt you. But you’re a good person.”

“I’m a high school dropout with no job and no prospects. I smoke, I drink, I do drugs, I swear, I spit on sidewalks, I--”

“You don’t judge me. Why should I judge you?”

“I’ve sold drugs,” Chloe plows on, “I’ve hurt people, I’ve started fights just because I was angry and I wanted to hurt someone…”

“I’m not saying that you’re perfect. I don’t expect you to be perfect. But you are a good person. And you’re a good…” Kate takes a steadying breath. “You’re a good friend. You don’t treat me like I’m some fragile little flower that’s been sheltered from the world, or like someone who needs to be sheltered from it. All my life, people have tried to control me.” Kate clasps her hands in her lap, fingers wrestling with each other anxiously. “My family, my neighbors, my church, my friends… They all expect me to act a certain way, to talk and think and feel and believe exactly the same way that they do, and they don’t care what I want. They don’t care what I think or feel or believe. But when I’m with you…” Kate feels something wet slip down her cheek and wipes at it absently. “Chloe, when I’m with you, I can be who I want to be. I can be me. I can break the rules I want to break and follow the rules I want to follow and you don’t judge me either way. You make me feel alive. You make me want to be alive.”

Kate’s fully crying now, so it takes her a minute to realize that Chloe’s crying, too.

“Shit,” Chloe says, and she’s half-laughing as she cries. “Shit, shit.” She mops at her face. “You, I… Fuck, I can’t even… Shit, Kate! You’re… you’re fucking perfect. Jesus.”

Kate wants to correct her: Chloe is the one who’s perfect. She’s a perfect mess with her tangled blue hair and the dark circles beneath her eyes, her chipped nail polish and chapped lips and bony elbows and scarred forearms. Her stained clothes, her dirty boots, her bra strap slipping down her shoulder, the stink of cigarettes hanging around her in a constant fug. Her mascara running with her tears, the way she’s smiling through them and looking at Kate like she’s some kind of miracle. She’s perfect, and Kate wants to kiss her again. She wants to press the knowledge of how perfect Chloe is into her flesh with her lips so that she believes it.

But they’re both still crying, and the moment just doesn’t feel right. So instead Kate asks a question she’s been wanting to ask since they met: “May I give you a hug?”

Chloe nods rapidly, and her smile brightens. “You’d fucking better.” She opens her arms, and she welcomes Kate home.

[sarahwroteathing]

English 284 (1)

Word Count: 1495

Summary: Your proposal to teach a new class combining art and literature is accepted... under one little condition. (College AU)

Warnings: Language

A/N: We’re doing impulsive writing again because it worked well the last two times. Oof. Here we go again, folks. Image is of a painting mentioned in the chapter: “Ophelia” by Sir John Everett Millais. (Source)

Steve’s Perspective .

“Fellas, it’s happening!” you said, shoving the door of the lab open with your hip, laptop balanced precariously in your arms.

“Seriously? I changed the code yesterday! How did you get in here again?” Tony complained, letting his head fall forward onto the table with a dull thunk while Bruce scoffed.

“You changed it to my birthday, smartypants. Besides, my ID is still authorized on the card reader. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you enjoy my company.” 

You pulled a spare chair over to the table where Tony and Bruce were working, planting your own laptop primly on a stack of battered notebooks. Bruce’s probably. Tony abandoned paper ages ago. 

Despite the token protest, Tony was actually your closest friend at work, a pairing that completely baffled your colleagues. The specific brands of eccentricity displayed by English professors and Engineering professors didn’t tend to mix well. But the Dean of Studies, Pepper Potts, had recommended befriending Tony on your first day, and his quick humor and ostentatious confidence had effectively drowned out the imposter syndrome that plagued you during your first semester teaching. You’d met Bruce Banner only a few days later, and sharing lunches in Tony’s lab in the basement of the Engineering building had solidified into sacred tradition by the end of your second week. 

“Did you hear back about the new course proposal?” Bruce asked.

“Yes! I got the email notification on my way over here, but I haven’t opened it yet. Tony, tell me your wife isn’t going to break my heart.”

“We don’t talk about work at home. But I read your proposal, and it sounded… Well, I wouldn’t take that class, but it sounded like something Pepper would be into.”

You squirmed anxiously in your seat, logging into your email with a deep breath. You’d worked on this course proposal for the better part of a month, editing and re-editing the syllabus at least a dozen times. You had titled the course “The Painted Word.” A full semester class studying famous myths, plays, poems, and novels and the works of art they inspired. 

The idea formed when a picture of Sir John Everett Millais’s “Ophelia” i had sparked a lively debate among the students in your Shakespeare seminar. You’d spent the next week researching artistic representation of iconic characters and stories, and when you’d given a few of your classes the soft pitch of the course, you’d acquired more than enough signatures on the interest form to issue a formal request with the Dean of Studies. Being met with such enthusiasm had lulled you into a sense of security and excitement. In your mind, the course was already set in stone. Which is exactly why the email on your screen landed like a gut punch. 

“She said no?” you asked faintly, your eyes scanning and rescanning the first sentence. “While I appreciate your enthusiasm and the care and attention you put into your work, I do not feel that I can approve the course as you’ve submitted it.” 

You blinked owlishly but made no move to intervene when Tony snatched your laptop from its place in front of you. Bruce rolled his chair to read over Tony’s shoulder, and they wore twin expressions of puzzled displeasure which would have made you laugh if not for the current state of your professional goals. 

“She didn’t say no! It’s conditional approval,” Tony corrected, his expression clearing as he reached to roll your chair closer to him. “Look.”

I’m intrigued by the course description you’ve laid out here, and it certainly has no equivalent in our current course catalogue. I think we would be remiss to limit the course to the English Department and encourage you to consider an interdisciplinary approach with the Art Department. If you’re willing to collaborate with one of their professors so that students can benefit from the expertise of both relevant disciplines and gain credit with either department, I’d be happy to approve the course for the spring semester. I’d recommend getting in touch with Steven G. Rogers. He has taught a number of interdisciplinary courses during his time here, and I believe he would be a helpful resource for you. 

“She doesn’t think I can handle this on my own?” you asked, running your hands through your hair in frustration. “I have a Ph. D, dammit! I don’t need a babysitter.” 

“I’m sure that’s not what she meant,” Bruce said, reaching around Tony to squeeze your shoulder. “She just wants to open up the class a little more. You know the college has been pushing for more interdisciplinary classes.”

“Who the hell is Steven G. Rogers, and why does she think the sun shines out of his ass,” you muttered grumpily, determined to hold onto your bitterness just a little longer. 

“The sun couldn’t possibly shine out of his ass with the stick he keeps up there,” Tony said mildly, shocking a laugh out of you.

“Oh, God, tell me I won’t be stuck teaching with a stuffy old grump for a whole semester.”

“I’ve never had someone ask me to lie to them before. This is a weird feeling. Takes the fun out of it, almost.”

“He’s not that bad,” Bruce protested. 

“How do you both know this guy? I’ve never heard of him before in my life. This is - ” 

You broke off with a sigh, reclaiming your laptop and searching the faculty directory. 

“Why does this stupid website never have any pictures,” you complained, scrolling through his profile. 

“Be grateful. It would only make it worse for you,” Tony said with a smirk before smacking your hand away from the keyboard. “Wait, wait, wait! Does that say ‘Gentle Yoga?’ What the hell does that mean?”

“Yoga but in a sweater? On a pile of pillows and he braids your hair after?”

Tony snorted and started to respond, but you clapped your hand over his mouth immediately.

“Shut up. I heard it as soon as I said it. Don’t make it worse.” 

“It’s just low impact yoga. Lighter stretches. For people who don’t feel comfortable or able to do standard level yoga. We usually get a few students with sports injuries or disabilities.”

You and Tony both turned to look at Bruce, staring in silent shock for a few moments before speaking.

“...Did you say we? Why did you say we?”

“Bruce, do you have something you’d like to tell me?”

Bruce rolled his eyes, pushing up from his seat and crossing to his bag on the other side of the room, very pointedly ignoring you and Tony who were frantically scooting after him in your rolly chairs. 

“Bruce!” 

He had pulled out his phone and was typing something, but he pivoted to block your view when you tried to peek.

“I’m texting Steve to see if he has any open spaces in his teaching schedule next semester. You’re welcome.” 

“Why do you have his number?”

“Because we take turns teaching gentle yoga, which I’m pretty sure you’ve already figured out at this point, so drop it. And Tony has his number too by the way.”

“What?”

“Judas.”

“I thought you said he had a stick up his ass?”

“Well, the stick is sometimes useful, okay? And he’s not the worst person I’ve met. After a few whiskeys, he even approaches fun.” 

You let out an incredulous laugh, abandoning your chair to pace the length of the lab. 

“So you’re saying I should give this guy a shot?” you asked, massaging your temples against the stress headache that was starting to creep in. 

Bruce’s phone chimed quietly.

“He says he has an open space. Should I put in a good word for you?”

You wandered back towards your laptop, looking wistfully over your syllabus. 

“What are the chances this class will still be recognizable after his input?” you asked mournfully.

“You can change your mind and say no if you disagree with him. Find someone else,” Bruce said with a shrug. 

“And he’ll pull his weight?”

“He’ll pull all the weight unless you strongarm him out of it,” Tony said with a laugh. “Look, Pep knows what she’s doing. If she thinks you two would work well together, she’s probably right. Her last recommendation turned out alright, didn’t it?”

“You keep trying to lock me out of your lab,” you pointed out half-heartedly, but you gave a nod to Bruce who immediately started typing. 

“Yeah, well. Gotta keep you on your toes.”

“He said to send him the syllabus and let him know when you can meet to talk about it,” Bruce cut in, tucking his phone back into his bag. 

You let out a deep sigh, nerves already fluttering to life in your stomach at the thought of having to pitch this class to a colleague again. 

“What are the chances this turns into a huge disaster?” 

“I’d say about 50/50. Either way, it’ll be entertaining.”

“Tony!”

“What? She asked!”

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

Alright guys, what do we think? Are you into it? Excited? How do you think the meeting will go? Do you wanna read more? Let me know! Asks, reblogs, and replies make the world go ‘round!

Part 2

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[massivedrickhead]

I was wondering if you’d do a bechloe prompt where one of them has a miscarriage? Lots of angst please!

I hope it’s angsty enough for you... 

I also think this might work for today’s prompt for bechloe week - Hospital - so I’m gonna tag it. If you disagree let me know and I’ll remove it.

Read on AO3

Trigger warning: miscarriage 

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

When they returned home from the hospital, the silence was deafening.

And that sounds cliché to say, but it’s the only way to describe it. 

For a house that was usually so full of noise, so full of life, the silence was colossal. It was dominating. Devastating.

“Is this real?” Beca asked, a tone of bewilderment in her voice. Because surely this couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be real. Not after they’d waited for so long. Not after they’d gotten so close.

Chloe didn’t reply, and they didn’t speak again for the rest of the night.

Beca managed to shower before she crawled into bed. Washing away the blood and the smell of the hospital. Her hand kept gravitating towards her stomach. Desperate to feel something. A kick. A shove. A wriggle. Because maybe they’d made a mistake. Maybe they’d gotten it wrong. But no. Every time her hand touched her stomach, she knew. 

When Chloe finally made it to bed, Beca had already cried herself to sleep. 

Chloe faced the wall, their backs only a few inches apart, but there might as well have been an ocean between them. Chloe knew she should comfort her wife. Turn over and pull her close. Whisper reassurances. But she couldn’t. For the first time in her life, Chloe didn’t know what to say. There was nothing she could say to make this easier on either of them. And she didn’t want to rest her hand on that spot on Beca’s stomach, the place she had so often found herself drawn to these days , because she knew it would make it seem real. Acknowledging what they’d lost would make it real, and Chloe needed to pretend for a little bit longer.

When Beca woke the next morning, she had roughly twenty seconds of contentment. Sun was peaking through the curtains, warming their bedroom. She could hear birds outside, and the neighbour’s dog barking. 

And then she remembered, and she was pinned to the bed by wave after wave of grief. With each breath she took, the pain got worse. Wordlessly, she reached out to where Chloe should be, but the space beside her was empty. She could hear movement in the house. The constant opening and closing of doors, the banging of cabinets, but nothing else. No music, no singing. The silence was still alien to her, but she’d get used to it. 

While Beca remained paralysed in bed, Chloe began gathering up the things they’d bought in the last few weeks. Diapers, clothes, soft toys, bottles - all of it went into the nursery. Still half-painted. Forever half-painted. They never did decide on a colour and now they wouldn’t need to. 

When Chloe was finished, their house looked the same as it had done almost five months ago, with one exception. Chloe hadn’t been able to bring herself to remove the photograph of the scan from their refrigerator. She closed the door of the nursery and vowed not to open it again.

She could not go through this again.

Over the next few days, Beca and Chloe existed like ghosts in their home. Not speaking, not touching, just drifting from place to place.

Beca stayed in bed mostly. The aftermath of what had happened had left her physically drained and made moving difficult and painful, and she didn’t have the emotional energy to fight through it.

Chloe found she couldn’t keep still. She would go for a run on a morning, out of the house before Beca had woken up, and would spend the rest of her day cleaning, tidying, answering work emails.

When they happened to pass each other in the hall, in the kitchen, leaving the bathroom, they left enough room between them so they didn’t touch. Neither knew if the other was doing this deliberately.

Neither even really noticed it was happening.

Any fear about what would happen to them and their marriage was buried beneath layers and layers of unrestrained grief.

When they spoke it was for purely practical reasons.

“Can you pass the milk?”

“Do you need anything from the store?”

“Is that your phone or mine?”

They were both used to the silence by now, and wouldn’t have noticed if it changed.

When Beca heard Chloe speaking on the phone to Aubrey or her mom, Beca couldn’t make out the words she was saying. 

She couldn’t focus on anything but this loss. 

Somewhere deep down, she wanted Chloe. She needed her. There were moments at night, when Chloe would be lying beside her, both turned away, both feigning sleep, when Beca would get the urge to turn over. To seek some comfort. To reach out and touch her the way she used to. 

But she was always too scared to make the first move. She didn’t know if Chloe blamed her for what had happened, and she was too afraid to find out. 

The doctor had assured them this was no one’s fault. Sometimes, these things just happen. But Beca couldn’t help but shoulder the blame. 

Sometimes she clung to that feeling, the way focusing on a paper cut might distract you from a stubbed toe, but it would never last long. A paper cut might distract you from a stubbed toe, but it couldn’t distract you from shotgun wound in the stomach.

For what it’s worth, Chloe didn’t blame Beca. Not for a second. Not once.

But Chloe knew she hadn’t made any effort to comfort Beca since that night at the hospital, and that had brought about her own guilt. She’d held her hand as the doctor explained what had happened, but somewhere along the way, she’d let it slip away, and hadn’t reached out to take it again.

She was scared of reaching out now, in case Beca rejected her. Telling her it was too little, too late. She couldn’t cope with that pain as well.

So they carried on existing this way for over a week.

Beca kept refusing to answer her phone and Chloe kept telling everyone who offered help that it wasn’t a good time. 

They were two ghosts drifting around their home, lost in their own grief.

Until Beca’s body gave out on her. 

She had been sitting on the sofa, ten days after the loss of their baby girl, staring into space. She had been sore for days, her back, legs and stomach aching and cramping. It made it difficult for her to sit in one spot for too long, and soon found the pain building again. She tried to push herself up from the sofa, but couldn’t manage it. Her body wasn’t cooperating, and the soft cushions of the sofa were offering no resistance. Her fists just sank deeper into them as she tried to push herself up harder.

“Chloe?” She called, the name feeling strange on her tongue. When had she last said it? 

She heard the sound of fast approaching footsteps. The sound of Beca saying her name had broken through whatever thoughts she had been lost in.

“Beca? Did… Did you need something?”

“I can’t get up,” Beca said, jaw clenched against the pain. Chloe could see her arms shaking at the effort. “Can you help me?”

“Yeah,” Chloe said. Beca allowed herself to relax and fell back into the sofa. “Grab my arms,” she said, her hands holding Beca’s forearms. Beca nodded, and did, her chest suddenly feeling tight at the feeling of her wife’s hands holding her. “Ready?” Beca nodded again and Chloe pulled her up, supporting her when it looked like her legs wouldn’t. “Okay?”

“Thanks,” Beca said, not wanting to let go. “Can… Can you help me get to the bathroom?”

“Of course,” Chloe said. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Beca said. “I’ve been aching really bad since… But it’s never been like this before.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you’ve been in pain?”

Beca left the question unanswered. Chloe wasn’t really expecting one.

“Give me a shout if you need any help?” Chloe said, closing the door behind her, giving Beca some privacy. 

She hadn’t thought much about it, but now she realised now how much she’d missed hearing Beca’s voice. How much she missed the feeling of her. How much she missed her. 

She heard the flush of the toilet and the sound of running water, and then Beca came hobbling out of the room.

“Were you listening to me pee, creep?” The lightness in her voice took them both by surprise.

“Just trying to make sure you could get off the toilet with those old arthritic knees of yours,” Chloe replied.

For the first time in ten days, they became truly aware of each other’s presence.

Tear filled eyes met, and they saw their own pain reflected back at them. 

“Come lie down with me?” Beca asked, her voice a fraction of what it had been a moment ago. 

Chloe nodded, and followed Beca into their bedroom. 

They lay side-by-side, staring up at the ceiling, their hands millimetres apart, but still not touching.

“Do you blame me?” Beca asked.

“No,” Chloe replied, honestly. “I’m sorry I haven’t-”

“Don’t,” Beca said, cutting her off. “Don’t be sorry. I haven’t either.”

Beca took a deep breath, and reached out to take Chloe’s hand. The contact almost made her cry.

“I miss you,” Chloe said, threading their fingers together.

“I miss you too,” Beca replied, blinking back tears.

“And I miss her,” Chloe said, swallowing hard as they both continued to stare up at the ceiling.

“Me too,” Beca said, her voice breaking now. “I miss her so much. I miss feeling her move inside me. I miss her little kicks. I even missed the way she liked to lie on my bladder.”

Chloe let out a teary laugh. “What do we do?” She asked after a small silence.

“I don’t know,” Beca replied. “But I don’t want to do it alone anymore.”

“Me neither.”

And then Beca turned over, arms reaching out, searching for the comfort only Chloe could give. Chloe pulled her in close, arms wrapping around her, lips pressed against her hairline. 

And they cried until they fell asleep, wrapped in each other’s arms for the first time in ten days.

The next morning they woke up and they continued to grieve, and morn. They continued to shut the world out. To eat less than they should. To avoid talking about it. To cry. They continued to struggle to cope with their loss.

Only now they did it together, and it made all the difference.