#RELENTLESSLY bitching about him ''abandoning'' and shitting on him for not doing it on your terms. fuck you ESPECIALLY for pretending like--

[isa-ghost]

ok no i need to get smth outta my system rq, dont rb this or i’ll block you

[mr-president]

i think one of my favorite o’saa character moments (other than the confession booth scene ofc) is the bookstore scene bc there it becomes incredibly apparent how close-minded someone supposedly seeking enlightenment can be, especially regarding emotion/compassion

i say this bc it a) shows just how much of an sad pretentious bitch he actually is (karin LITERALLY calls him a “sad man”) and b) it serves as criticism to those in academia/scholarship in an “apply your politics/philosophies to people sort of way”

like, he criticizes a fucking bookstore as a method of “escapism,” as if the fictional world writers create is completely removed from reality, when in fact fiction and stories have always been a tool to help people understand their reality better. fiction can be raw escapism but it often helps us understand our emotions, other people/cultures, and what’s wrong with a little escapism if it even helps you a little bit? that’s not to say he’s wrong—if you want to understand the world then perhaps it is best to see it for yourself—but o’saa doesn’t consider how not everyone had the same options he did, has his willingness to abandon everything in pursuit of a greater goal.

o’saa wants so desperately to understand the world better than anyone else that he completely forgoes the fact that emotions are just as much a guiding factor in the world as any “magic”/science he studies to further his understanding of it. what he views as “reality” is just one aspect of it; yes, gods do in fact control the world and influence it, but that’s only on the most macro scale. but the mundane, arguably, affects peoples lives even more, and isn’t it worthy to understand that as well?

the confession booth scene shows that he’s capable of understanding the emotions of others, but the bookstore scene reveals that there’s a level of elitism to his beliefs and philosophy.

in other words, though he’s a genius, o’saa lacks compassion.

this can be said for a lotta the enlightened souls that we’ve seen actually—nas’hrah’s a complete bastard, valtei can suck my balls, and enki’s a bitch. only nosramus is quite friendly, and he’s also the only one to figure out true enlightenment on his own.

anyway back to o’saa and the bookstore. all of the other playable characters call him out on his bullshit because stories have the power to help people, change them, or even save them. o’saa, in his mad quest for enlightenment, hasn’t really changed as a person, has he? he himself says in his intro that ever since he left home, he hasn’t felt a genuine emotion. that allows him to see how religion manipulates masses of people, to relentlessly pursue enlightenment without worldly ties—

but the bookstore scene shows that you kinda need “worldly ties” to achieve enlightenment because as nosramus said, the world is constantly changing and enlightenment is not one sudden change. rather, it is continuous, and you have to consider everything.

and i like to think that in that moment, getting shat on by his party members about his shitty literary opinions, he maybe realized something like that.

he doesn’t have a nosramus to anchor his pretentiousness like enki did, but i think a lotta the themes of funter (fear & hunger: termina) is how relationships formulate and change people.

o’saa didn’t need nas’hrah, he needed someone to tell him that he’s a stupid pretentious little shit and to stop drawing himself as a mary sue. and then be his friend anyway and listen to his batshit insane conspiracy theories (that are true).

tldr; he’s like me when i was 11 basically.

[lilyliveredlittlerichboy]

hm ok i know it was ages ago but i still wonder which way my ex is spinning the story tbh. i mean i know some of it?? he is portraying me as abusive and predatory. why? cus i lost my shit with him a bare handful of times? cus i didn't continue to treat him like i worshipped the ground he walked on, after he abandoned me and got married to someone else?

abandonment.

i built my life around him, accommodating him, caring for him. that's on me, yeah. ive learned since to not do that so much. but i was in my early 20s, still very young, when i met him, i didn't have a solid grasp of myself, much less my boundaries; which i could not set or enforce. in fact, a lot of my ex's behaviour was aimed to erode my boundaries. he needed to be included in everything. he needed to have my attention, constantly. if i wasn't giving him attention in the ways he wanted me to, it was always my fault.

so then he took off for a month and during that time left me adrift.

and I've been afraid of changing

cus I've built my life around you,

and then when i tried to be in contact during that month, he shot me down and accused me of guilt tripping him... for doing exactly what he wanted me to do literally the entire rest of the time.

when he got back, it was the perfect storm. he was married, had had a taste of the life he wanted to live. a life that didn't include me, at all, he had made that very clear in his behaviour towards me during that time.

he said he didn't owe me anything.

that was the moment i decided that well, in that case, I didn't owe him anything either.

and the months following that were awful, as he found ways to punish me for this. interspersed with joy the likes of which I'd never felt before - as I decided to come out of my cocoon and move on a little bit myself. as i fell in love with my now feyonce, i, too had a taste of the life i wanted.

and with my ex blaming me, bitching about me loudly where i could (& had to) hear, whining about how he just wasn't a priority to me anymore, somehow i felt disinclined to invite him into my new life, my newfound joy.

it turns out that if you tell someone that you won't be taking their needs into consideration anymore, that you don't owe them anything, they might end up not wanting to make you the number one top priority in their life anymore. huh. fancy that.

he punished me for it relentlessly for about 9 months before finally leaving.

in his side of the story, i had abused him.

had deliberately kept the relationship unequal (even when i actively empowered him to get his own income. even when i encouraged him to have his own life, pursue his now wife, pursue other friendships and relationships).

i had enabled his drug addiction (which he already had when he met me; it was medicine for him you see. if id pushed him to give it up that would have been held against me just as much)

had been violent (once grabbed his arm during an argument. and then when he was married and i found out that his WIFE thought we weren't sharing a bed/room anymore, i told him to get out of my room. i threw his clothes in the hallway once. SO VIOLENT)

I'd insulted his wife by calling her ugly (he called her ugly first and i routinely got punished for disagreeing with him)

i was a nonce (we were both adults when we started dating)

I was disrespectful of his boundaries (his boundaries were "i don't wanna hear about 🐻" and then "you violated my boundaries by not telling me you were going out to see them", his boundaries were "you gotta look after me and help me out even if im being an absolute shithead to you in the process" and "you can't talk to my friend, our mutual housemate" and "you can't rant about this situation on twitter" and "you can't go to see your partner for a park date". yeah)

possibly he's also saying i stole his cat or even cut him off from seeing pictures of him (he left malibu in my care willingly, acknowledging and admitting i was gonna be a better cat parent for him. i never said he couldn't approach me for pics and even now wouldn't shut him out if he asked)

anyway

yeah this post about boundaries got me thinking about him again for some reason. my life is so much brighter without him in it and i regret nothing??? if he wants to see pics of the cat he's more than welcome to ask for them. i would be happy to share. Malibu is so happy these days. a confident, loving, playful little boy. he's in excellent health and loves to chase string and he loves his sister so much. he loves 🐻 so much. he's so happy.

that's my takeaway from this. my cats are happy. they love my partners and they love me. that's all i need. t b h.

[peachbear88]

The Greatest Love Story

A/N: Inspired by this lovely image I saw. I'm making this into a high school angst AU that takes place in like the 1900's. For the record, I know Steve isn't a bad person but this is an AU and I need one of those... You know, guys for this story so.... Yeah! Sorry! BTW, the second poem is not written by me, it's written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning and I stole some quotes from Shakespeare.

Warnings: Angst, homophobia, swearing, character death.

Word Count: 3.2k

Pairing: Yelena Belova x Reader

----------

You scale the ancient wooden stairs of your small school. avoiding eye contact with anyone. The stares you receive from others are painfully obvious as you speed walk towards the library, seeking shelter from the judgmental glances from your peers.

"Hello dear," the kind librarian greets you as you walk past her towards your corner of the library.

You don't respond, quickly ducking behind the massive shelves, hoping to spend as much time as possible in your safe space before the classes start. Placing back your old books, you scan the shelves, until a particular title catches your eye.

"Love Poems by Women?" You murmur, flipping through the worn pages.

----------

A giant dusty book lands on the librarian's desk, making her look up.

"May I take this out?" You ask, your tone emotionless, cold yet tentative. The librarian smiles gently at you handing you back the book.

"Of course dear. Happy reading." You give her a small, thankful smile before dashing out of the library door. The halls are partially empty, save for the kids that skip class, hanging around in the hallways and dark alleys after school.

You duck your head, avoiding eye contact as you pass the group leaning against the lockers, most importantly, the hazel eyed beauty that could snap your neck in half, Yelena Belova.

"Hey!" Your head snaps up. Big mistake. You lock eyes with the famed blonde and you drop your head immediately, a faint blush creeping up your cheeks.

"Y-Yes?"

"Look at me when I'm talking to you." She snaps. You peek at her from the corner of your eye, her sleek dress pants catching your eye.

"Interesting outfit choice," you note before you can stop yourself.

"What did you say?" She demands and you gulp, backing away.

"N-nothing." She slowly steps towards you, backing you into the lockers.

"Get to class. And don't ever let me see you again идиот (idiot)." You hurry down the hall towards your classroom, tripping in the process as you repeatedly look over your shoulder, watching as Yelena turns back to her friend group.

---------

"She was cute," Natasha points out as Yelena reclaims her spot leaning against the lockers. "Why do you feel the need to tease her so relentlessly?" Yelena rolls her eyes, grabbing the flask of vodka back from her sister.

"She's annoying. I don't like her." Natasha smirks.

"Sure. Whatever you say."

---------

You let out a sigh of relief when the bell rings.

Your classmates flood out of the classroom, jostling each other aside in their rush to get home. You quickly sprint out the door, eager to get home, safe and sound when a hand grabs you by the arm and pulls you into a dark alley behind the school.

"Hello there girly..." A deep voice says. You gulp. The boy steps into the light to reveal Steve Rogers. One of those people that take pride in hurting others, a bully, your tormenter.

"W-what do you want?" He smirks, stepping closer to you.

"Well, a little birdie told me that someone had an encounter with a specific blonde this morning." You flinch when he grabs you by the throat, pinning you to the wall. "You wouldn't happen to be... I don't know, one of those dykes would you?" Your eyes widen and you shake your head vigorously as he laughs. "Oh man," he sputters, choking through his laughter. "Wait till the school gets ahold of this-"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence because a fist connects with his face, sending him reeling backwards.

"What the-" A strong hand wraps around his throat, pushing him backwards till his back connects with the wall.

"Listen to me you маленькое дерьмо (little shit), if you ever even think about coming near her again, I will sneak into your house at night, gut you like the fish you are and paint the school with them." Yelena warns in a surprisingly calm voice. Steve's eyes widen and he nods his head frantically until she lets go.

"Crazy bitch!" He spits, backing away quickly. You shuffle your feet, looking down at the ground as she watches him run.

"T-thank you." You mutter, not daring to look her in the eye. She sighs.

"This better not become a daily thing Y/L/N." You nod feebly. "Get out of here." You quickly pick your bag back up and sprint out of the alley, leaving Yelena by herself,

---------

"I'm home mom!"

"Welcome home sweetie!" Your mom pokes her head out of the living room.

"How's your book going?"

"As great as a woman writing a book can be." She chuckles forcibly. There's an awkward silence before she continues. "Your father came by today." She pauses as you swallow, feeling like something lodged itself in your throat.

"And what did he want?" She frowns at your tone.

"Sweetie, I know you don't like him but he's still your fa-"

"I don't have a dad," you growl, picking up your bag. "My dad died when he chose to abandon us." She watches as you climb up the stairs, sighing and rubbing her temple.

---------

You flop onto your bed, dropping the thick dusty buck onto the bed. You spend the rest of the afternoon reading through the poems until your mom calls you down for dinner.

It's an awkward dinner, quiet, only the sounds of dishes, chewing and utensils filling the room.

"I'm going to bed." You say after washing the dishes, not bothering to wait for a response.

That night, you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of your room.

"Love poems by women." You mutter, an idea popping into your head. You quickly sit up, flicking on your lamp and pulling out the book and a pen.

----------

"Good morning dear," the librarian greets you like she does every morning.

"I'd like to return this book." You reply coldly, passing her the book once again. She smiles gently at you.

"I hope you enjoyed your reading." She says while passing you, returning the book to its original shelf.

-----------

"Hello hon, can I help you with anything?" The librarian asks the dirty-blonde haired girl.

"No, thank you." The girl sends the librarian a tight lipped smile before returning her attention to the shelves. A ripped leather cover catches her attention. Love Poems by Women. She smiles, pulling the book from the shelf. Flipping open to the title page, a neat cursive catches her eyes.

Love flows between beings Gift from the gods Curse from the demons The missing part of every person Destined to be opposites Love is flexible Yet some seek to objectify love Love is not for the weak willed. - Aristophanes

The blonde haired girl hums, pulling a pen from her jacket's pocket and discreetly writing in the book, right next to the poem.

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

Terrible.

That's the only way to describe your day. You received your essay back, ecstatic to see that you had received an A. Steve on the other hand had absolutely flunked. Instead of dedicating his time to studying, he decided to beat you up as a way of taking out his frustration.

You ended up limping out of the women's toilet, your leg flaring up whenever you moved, tears threatening to fall from your eyes.

"Hi sweetcheeks," the librarian murmurs, her eyes trailing down your injured leg.

"'Ello." You quickly duck behind the shelves, pulling out the book you were looking for. Your brows scrunch together in confusion as you see a messier scrawl next to your handwriting.

Reality hits hard

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

- Orpheus

You smile letting a light laugh slip from your lips. A sweet titter revealing the little girl underneath your cold, traumatized exterior.

Quickly, you grab your pen from your pocket and begin scribbling.

-----------

The air is knocked from your body as your back makes contact with the floor.

"Listen here dyke. I don't like you alright," Steve growls into your ear as Tony cracks his knuckles. "So here's what's going to happen: Everyday you're going to meet us here and," he pauses, cracking his neck. "Help us relive some stress." He smiles wickedly before punching you in the stomach, making you double over in pain.

Your eyes flutter shut as they deliver blow after blow 'till they finally stop. You tentatively open your eyes to see Yelena tackling Steve to the ground as Tony stares at them, eyes wide.

"I. Told. You. To. Leave. Her. Alone!" She screams, pummeling Steve with her fists. He groans, unmoving. You watch in terror as Tony picks up a trash can lid, sneaking up behind her as she punches Steve in the face.

"Watch out!" You scream, taking Tony as well yourself by surprise. She looks up to see you slamming into Tony sending him flying into the nearby wall of the alley.

He crumples, unconscious.

"Are you okay?" You mumble, limping towards Yelena, who's clutching a blood gash on her arm.

"'M fine,' she grits out. You shake your head, grabbing her wrist. She flinches but doesn't push you away.

"You're not okay. Let me help you." You plead. She stays silent and you quickly take her silence as a yes, leading her to the front steps of your home. You rummage through your back pack, finding a large wrap of bandages that you kept after your daily beating from Rogers and his friends.

She winces as you wrap her wound swiftly.

"Gentle!" She growls and you stare back at her defiantly.

"Well maybe if you would stop moving, it'd hurt less!" You retort and she shuts up, staring off into the distance. You dab the cut with a small bit of alcohol before wrapping the bandage all around her arm.

"Thank you." She whispers, giving you a small smile. Reaching out, she gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear as you flinch back. You quickly, shovel the bandages and medicinal alcohol back into your pack, not noticing the hurt look on her face.

"No problem. The least I could do since you saved me." You reply bluntly, swinging the bag over your shoulder and slipping through the door.

"Wait-" She sighs as the door slams shut in front of her.

You exhale, leaning against the door as you try to catch your breath.

-----------

Yelena sighs exasperatedly, tugging at the collar of her dress shirt.

"What's wrong little sis?" Natasha smirks, plopping down next to her.

"I got hurt and Y/N patched me up." Natasha jumps up, eyes wide.

"You stained your new shirt?" She groans shaking Yelena violently. "God I'm going to kill you!" Yelena grabs her sister, stopping her.

"You're missing the point!"

"Oh yeah? And what's that?" Nat challenges, flopping back down on to the couch.

"She patched me up!" Nat's eyes widen.

"Oh. Oh." She inches closer to her sister, nudging her playfully, much to Yelena's dislike. "So are y'all like," she winks at her sister insinuatingly. "A thing?" Yelena scrunches her brows in confusion.

"A thing?" Nat rolls her eyes, sidling closer to her.

"Yes. A thing. An item? Lovers?" She shrugs, missing the way Yelena blushes.

"In her dreams," Yelena snorts, leaning back into the couch.

"If you say so..."

-----------

"Morning pumpkin!" The librarian chirps.

The blonde girl ignores her, breezing past her towards the the shelves at the very back, peeking over her shoulder quickly before pulling an old, leather bound book from the shelf.

She flips the leather cover aside to reveal the title page. Next to her messy, distorted scrawl was a neat, distinctive cursive once again.

Speak low if you speak love

- Aristophanes

She smiles gently, chuckling as she shakes her head.

"Shakespeare of all people," she whispers, her accent thickening. Pulling a forgotten pen from the shelves, she begins writing,

-----------

The highlight of your day became going to the library and reading the little messages scrawled in between the margins of the book by Orpheus. Like:

If music be the food of love, play on

Or

Her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love.

They made you smile on a daily basis, sometimes even eliciting a rare light laugh.

"Good morning sweetpea." The librarian greets you, not expecting a response. To her surprise and yours, you muster a small smile and a wave.

"Hello." You can feel the librarians shocked eyes following you as you round the bookshelf corner to find Steve, eyes wide, mouth open in shock as he stares down at something in his hands.

Your heart plummets. A book with a soft leather cover, yellowed pages. The book of poems.

You lunge for it but he step sides you swiftly, raising the book above his head.

"Speak low if you speak of love huh? I'm not surprised you know Shakespeare, you're such a nerd." He sneers, waving the book above his head.

"I-I don't know what you're talking about." You stutter, backing up. He grabs you by the collar of your shirt, lifting you into the air.

"Don't fuck with me!" He growls, dropping the book and kicking it to the side. "Who's Orpheus?"

"G-Greek hero. Musician." You stutter and he slaps you, hard. You can feel your cheek swelling under his fiery gaze.

"Don't even try me. Who. Is. Orpheus?"

"I don't know, I swear!" You mutter, wincing when you accidentally bite your cheek.

He drops you, watching as you scramble to your feet, backing away.

"This isn't over you little shit. I'll be back for you," he warns, giving your book one last kick for good measure before storming out of the library with Tony and Bucky on his heels.

You fall to your knees, silently sobbing as you crawl over too the book, dusting it off and hugging it to your chest.

Yelena sighs, her heart breaking as she watches you curl around the book protectively, lying on the floor.

-----------

"Where are you going?"

Yelena turns to find Nat, leaning against the school stairwell doorway, watching her.

"Just up to the roof. Need some fresh air," she lies, avoiding Nat's gaze. Nat lifts Yelena's chin up, staring into her eyes, boring into her very soul. Yelena squirms under her gaze until she finally lets go.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay." She smiles sadly at her little sister. "Just-" Her voice cracks as she pats her sister's shoulder. "Don't do anything stupid."

"Don't worry. I won't." She gives Nat a brief hug before hiking her pants up and starting up the stairs.

-----------

"Ah, well look who decided to join the party!" You look up from the ground to see Yelena, your eyes clouded with pain.

"No..." You croak but Steve pays no attention to you.

"Come to save your love Yelena?" He sneers, dropping you to the ground. "Or should I say... Orpheus?" Your eyes widen as you watch him advance towards her, pushing her closer to the edge of the roof.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She deadpans and Steve chuckles.

"Sure. If you won't admit, I'll just have to settle for destroying you from the inside out instead." He grabs her by the arm. "I haven't forgotten what you did to me." He points at a long thin scar along his jawline.

You watch as Tony sneaks up from behind Yelena, striking her with a metal bar. She crumples, falling to her knees.

"Hold her." Steve directs and Bucky dutifully grabs you by the arms. He holds Yelena's chin in between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look at him. "Now you watch as I destroy the one thing you love the most." Tony tosses his the metal bar and Steve prepares himself before swinging it like a baseball bat.

There's a sickening crunch followed by your scream as the bar makes contact with your ribs.

"Stop!" She struggles, her eyes never leaving your broken body as he hits you over and over again. "Please! Leave her alone!"

Steve smiles evilly, locking eyes with her before swinging the bat again. Another scream. Blood trickles down your face from your nose.

"Is that right? Did the famous Yelena Belova just beg me?" He smiles cruelly before pushing you down on your back, his foot on your chest. You scream as he increases the pressure, your broken ribs digging into your lungs.

Yelena screams, kicking Tony's legs out from under him before punching Steve in the jaw. She grabs the iron bar before it hits the ground, clobbering Bucky in the stomach before kicking Steve in the stomach.

"ты сука (you bitch)!" She steps on his face swiftly, taking satisfaction in the groan of pain he emits before turning to you, gently cradling your face.

"Wow... That was pretty badass," you mumble and she laughs, tearing up. You reach out, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Don't cry." She frowns.

"I'm not crying."

"You are too." You smile, wincing in pain. "I didn't know you knew Shakespeare."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let this happen." You frown, caressing her face, forcing her to look at you.

"Hey, hey. It's fine. Don't worry. I'll be fine." You attempt to smile reassuringly but it comes out as more of a grimace. "Listen, if I don't make it-"

"Don't say that! You can't leave me!"

"Shush, listen you thickheaded poet. If I don't make it, go back to the book." You instruct her. She frowns but you can her off. "Promise me."

"But-"

"Promise me."

"I promise..."

"Good." You smile at her, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, your eyesight blurring. "Wait for me okay?" Your eyes flutter shut.

"No! No Y/N! Come back!" She shakes you roughly, sobbing when you don't respond.

----------

Yelena watches as your body is carted off under a white sheet. Nat stands to the side, watching as her sister stares off into the distance, all life drained from her body.

Go back to the book.

She stands, slowly trailing towards the library, her eyes bloodshot, cheeks caked with dry tears.

"Hi dear," the librarian greets her, discreetly wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. "What a shame. She was a lovely girl."

"She really was the best." Yelena agrees quietly, giving the librarian a small, comforting pat on the back before moving to the back of the library where she finds the book, lying on the floor.

Yelena,

I believe that we are the greatest love poem ever written. I love you always,

Y/N

A choked sob escapes her lips as she stares at the page. You knew. You knew the whole time and you didn't even say anything. A pair of soft arms wrap around Yelena's stomach as she lets go of the dam, her cries echoing throughout the library.

"I'm sorry..."

I'm sorry...

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Taglist: @username23345 @musicinourlips @gingerbreadcookieforlife @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @trikruismybitch @ima-gi--na-tion @nicole-rayleigh-hot @olsensnpm @peabrain112

[amjustagirl]

Chapters: one. ~ two. ~ three. ~ four. ~ five. ~ six. ~ seven. ~ eight.

Wordcount: 2.9k

Summary: Being with Miya Atsumu is like chasing a storm - equal parts exhilaration and danger. After all, it’s impossible to tame a storm

Masterlist link here 

AO3 link here 

Author’s Note: And we’re at the final chapter! Thank you so much for going on this wild ride with me, and I’m rly excited to hear what you guys think - so please, drop me an ask, a note, a comment, anything!!! 

It takes time and effort to rebuild a home wrecked by a storm, and reconstruction efforts aren’t necessarily smooth sailing, especially at the start - after all, he’s still the same Miya Atsumu, arrogant and brash and foulmouthed and hyper focused on volleyball, and they both have baggage from years of regret and pain to work through. But he has determination to spare, and she loves him too much for her own good, so they start from the very foundation and work their way up, step by step, one day at a time. 

‘I’ll kill ya if ya ever hurt her again’, Osamu threatens darkly when she and Atsumu break the news to him. 

‘Go find yer own girl and stop being sweet on my wife damn it! ’ Atsumu growls, but the kiss he presses to her forehead when she smacks the back of his head for being mean to his twin is achingly sweet. 

‘Ugh, soppy. Get yer shit outta my house!’ Osamu scrunches his face in mock disgust. 

Both brothers are surprised when she beats Atsumu at flipping Osamu off. 

Atsumu moves back home (he’s not even going to hide how happy the sound of that makes him), and they mark the occasion by slipping his wedding ring back on his finger and eating take-out pizza on the living room floor. 

Her burly brothers turn up on their doorstep with a glint in their eyes and too much teeth in their smiles, determined to drag Atsumu off for a couple of drinks and what she assumes will be a very unpleasant chat. She’d insisted on patting them down to make sure they’re not packing any knives - ‘what do you take us for, little sis’, they’d protested - but she’s not taking any chances, and begs Osamu to join them, ‘please ‘Samu, I don’t want to be a widow right after I decide not to divorce his ass’, and he agrees despite grumbling that he might as well be Atsumu’s glorified babysitter at this rate. 

She’d woken up in bed the next morning to find the space beside her empty, but the living room crammed full of those four silly men. Atsumu and Osamu share a single futon between them, snoring back to back. There are faint bruises on Atsumu’s cheekbone and telltale scrapes on her own brothers’ knuckles, but otherwise they all seem relatively unscathed. 

She bends over, tracing her thumb along the contour of Atsumu’s jaw, and he stirs, eyes half lidded with sleep. 

‘Hey darlin', I’ve come home’, he tells her, warmth flickering in his smile. 

‘Welcome home, 'Tsumu’, she says, tucking the blanket under his chin and he hums in contentment, falling back asleep. 

His nightmares of brown envelopes and harsh neon lights distorting her face slowly fade, and he dreams instead of weeknight dinners and weekend picnics at the park, relishing the quiet domesticity of grocery trips and laundry loads, and delighting in home games with her and Shino cheering him on.

Some piss poor excuse of a gossip hound corners him after a match to ask him about whether he regrets leaving for Milan since his season ended in injury - and he freezes when the reporter slyly adds ‘especially since we all knew it’s a move that required you to leave your wife and daughter behind ‘. His manager is about to intervene when she sneaks up on him to slide an arm around his waist, apologising to the reporter that ‘she’s just so excited to give her husband a congratulatory kiss!’ . 

Sakusa and Meian have to join forces to pull Atsumu back from punching the reporter when he grins shark-like, thinking he’s spotted easy prey and asks her whether she felt abandoned in Japan due to his move - ‘pardon me Miya-san for my unwieldy choice of words’. 

‘Not at all’, she says without missing a beat, and Atsumu wonders if he imagines the flash of a knife in her smile. ‘I’ve always supported my husband in all his endeavours. It was a joint decision that I should stay in Japan to ensure our daughter has some stability in her life.'

‘She’s good’, his manager tells him when the reporter slinks away with his tail between his legs. 

‘Yeah - I don’t deserve her’, he answers with a rueful smile. 

When he tries to thank her that night, she levels him with a look that could knock a grown man (i.e. him) off his feet, but her voice is gentle and her words are soft. 

‘Don’t thank me’, she says. ‘Just be a better husband and father, ok?’ 

He’s not ashamed to admit that he actually cries. 

He learns to tell her he loves her at least once a day. She starts to smile back cheekily and reply ‘of course’. 

The game is in between sets when the skin at the back of his neck crackles with nerves. From the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of Osamu sprinting right into the stands. Then his ears pick up on his little girl’s scream - ‘mama’  she cries, her shrill voice ringing above the confusion rippling through the crowd and his legs move of their own accord, leaping over the barrier into the audience, as he snarls and shoves his way to her usual spot. 

He thought he’s had his fill of nightmares to last him a lifetime. He’s evidently wrong. 

She lies crumpled on the ground, head resting on Osamu’s lap. Her lips are pale and her eyes are closed but thank god - thank whichever deity’s listening - her chest still moves with her breath. He’s not quite sure what happens next - he knows he dives to his knees and pulls her towards him but everything else is a blur until her eyes flutter open and she groans. 

‘Darlin’, can ya hear me? Can ya tell me where you are?’ he asks, forcing his voice to remain calm. 

‘Tsumu? Why are you here? Aren’t you in the middle of a game?’ she murmurs, confused. 

‘Fuck the game’, he snaps. ‘Are ya feelin' ok?’ 

‘Something hurts, Tsumu’, she rasps, eyes glazing over. He can feel the chill of ice seep into his spine. 

'Yer fine, yer fine, yer going to be fine' he mutters, over and over and over again, willing her to sit up and tell him she's fine, she's ok, she'll just shake it off - but light starts to shutter out of her eyes and frost creeps up his throat. 

‘I need a medic!’ he shouts, voice cracking on every word. ‘I need a medic, now!’

‘Tsumu’, he hears his brother interrupt urgently. ‘Tsumu, she’s bleedin’. 

He’s never been more grateful for Osamu when his twin turns to yell for an ambulance and yanks Shino away with him. The little girl is kicking and screaming for her mama but he knows she would kill him if he lets their little girl be traumatised from seeing her mama lying in a pool of blood on the floor. 

He can’t breathe - not even when the medics finally come and whisk her off to the hospital, his mind hardly able to process anything, terror still coursing through his veins when the doctors press brown envelopes full of forms into his bloodstained hands for him to sign so the relevant procedures can be carried out. 

‘Don’t!’ Osamu says sharply, when he drops his head into his hands and starts to whimper about how he’ll die if he loses her again and what the fuck is he gonna do, ‘Samu, if she doesn’t make it out alive – ‘she’s stronger than ya think, don’t ya dare give up on her like that’, and he promptly shuts up after that. Time in the waiting room passes agonizingly slow, seconds feeling like minutes, minutes stretching into hours, and he would have drowned from the weight of his despair if he weren’t anchored in place by his twin’s hand on his back.

His breath rushes back into his lungs when the doctors later tell him she’s fine,  they carried out the standard operation - but she doesn’t look fine, doesn’t seem fine, is very clearly not fine when they wheel her out, huddled into a ball with her head between her knees, like her world has just collapsed into itself. She doesn’t even look up when he sits beside her, the bed dipping under his weight. 

‘I’m sorry’, she eventually says, voice barely a whisper, and he fights the urge to break down into tears – because ‘Samu’s right, she’s so much stronger than he thinks. They'd been talking about trying for a sibling for Shino for some time now, since they've both grown up with brothers of their own and can't imagine life without them. But the doctors tell him that it’s just bad luck - the baby was never going to survive, and her collapse was probably exacerbated by stress, overwork, perhaps even fatigue from her skipping lunch for work and dinner to rush to his match.

‘Don’t be. It’s not yer fault at all’, he manages to pull himself together to reassure her, but she just stares blankly at the wall. 

His grandmother calls when they find out the baby they lost would have been a boy, and he fails her again when he’s too late to snatch the phone away before the old lady’s poison drips into her ears and traps her in a deadly fog. He’d cursed the old bitch out relentlessly, but the toxic words fester beneath her skin and she fades into a ghost before his eyes. He desperately tries to stop her spiral into frozen silence, but he’s away for games more than half the time, hands tied behind his back by the stranglehold of contracts and commitments he has no choice but to fulfil. 

He’s never been so thankful before when the season finally ends - but he is, at least this time, so he can talk her into taking two weeks off from work. They drop Shino off with her indulgent grandparents, and drift down the coast on the back of her bike. She doesn’t try breaking any speed limits - and he knows he should be happy about that, but there’s no spark in her eyes, no smile to answer the wind - there hasn’t been, not since she collapsed. 

(not since they lost their child)

He buys her mochi at every town, but she picks at it listlessly, just like she does these days when Osamu tries to tempt her with his latest creations. He insists they stay at  ryokans, traditional inns with onsens attached, hoping the heat from the water might chase the chill from her bones, but colour does not return to her cheeks. There are shadows beneath her eyes, and she seems to wilt under the vibrant red and gold of autumn leaves. 

They go for a walk after dinner one night, tracing a path along the shore. He’d been talking non-stop the entire trip to mask the gaps left by her silence, but tonight he falls quiet, allowing the hum of the waves to wash over them. Her hand is cold in his, so he wraps his jacket around her shoulders and hopes the warmth from his body bleeds into hers. 

She comes to a standstill, feet sinking in the sand, and tilts her head to face him. 

‘Tsumu?’, she breathes, a question in her eyes. 

‘I’m here’, he says, a prayer in his heart. 

There is a lighthouse on the cliff just a few miles ahead, illuminating the shadows of the waves. The faintest reflection of light pools in her eyes, and he stills as she lifts her gaze to meet his. 

‘I know’, she says, offering him the smallest of smiles. 

He interlaces their fingers together firmly, and tugs her towards shelter, as a storm brews over the horizon. 

That night she tucks her head under his chin, and he holds her until she falls asleep, cradled in his arms. He keeps slumber at bay by counting her breaths, and only falls asleep himself when the storm breaks. 

'Why did I wake up to a blonde octopus wrapped around me', she mumbles, voice heavy with sleep. 

'Nah. More like a seahorse, cos I'm not letting ya go, sweetheart', he replies, tightening his grip on her waist. 'Ya got a problem with that?' 

Her only response is to burrow herself deeper into his chest.

'Guess not', he chuckles fondly, nuzzling his nose into her hair, hope blossoming anew in his heart. 

Time turns their wounds into scars and they heal together, one breath at a time. 

She stays away from their first few matches when the season begins again. The press is coerced into passing over reports of her collapse by the dual forces of the MSBY press machine and their legal team, but they are forced to ride out the gossip generated in internet forums by a fringe group of deranged fans. His teammates treat her like she’s made of glass - even Bokuto dials himself down a notch, all save for Shoyo, who slips her his mother’s number, telling her gently that the six year gap between him and Natsu wasn’t deliberate, and that she would find a sympathetic ear in the older woman. 

He knew he was right to anoint Shoyo as his favourite wing spiker - not only does he fly high enough to answer the demand of every single one of his sets, but his sunniness drags her out of the fog into yoga classes and meditation practices, and slowly but surely he watches her bloom again. It’s a powerful combination - Shoyo-kun’s friendship and his mother’s gentle conversations, Osamu’s cooking and her love for Shino, capped with his determination to show her he loves her and prove that he’s here to stay.

‘It’s like Kintsugi’, she tells him, with a wide smile. ‘All of you poured gold into the cracks of my heart and made me whole again’. 

The years pass. 

Shino turns seven – a very respectable age for his very best girl, he tells her (I'm your only girl, Papa, Shino informs him archly), and obliges her demands of a bicycle in MSBY colours and volleyball lessons, forcing all his teammates to turn up for her birthday party, volleyball themed of course. The look of unadulterated joy on his princess’ face is worth every ounce of effort to put up with Sakusa’s complaints at having to turn up for a kiddie party full of loud noises and far too much candy, and the sweaty afternoons spent hand painting the bicycle black and gold. 

The day Atsumu discovers his first white hair makes her thank her lucky stars that she’s immune to his nonsense by now, because the wailing and gnashing of teeth she has to put up with makes ‘Samu offer her his couch as refuge. She slaps tape and salonpas on his aches and pains, and points to the deepening lines on her face when he complains about his age. 

‘Those lines aren’t wrinkles. If they’re caused by laughter, it doesn’t count’, he reasons laughingly. She’s left befuddled by his logic and shakes her head.

Meian Shugo retires, and Hinata throws a party to celebrate in his honour, cramming the entire MSBY team and assorted friends into his penthouse apartment on a rainy Saturday night. Osamu’s hired to cater the food but remains as a guest, shooting a smirk at him when Shoyo drags her off to dance during his favourite song, twin flames burning bright in the night. 

‘A hundred yen for your thoughts?’ she asks, when Shoyo returns with her breathless but wreathed with smiles. 

‘Was just wondering when you were gonna save a dance for this old man’, he teases. 

‘Oh?’ she says with a laugh. ‘Thought you said your back hurt, and you didn’t want to move?’

‘Meh - I was hoping you’d forget that’, he says airily, then frowns when he notices there’s no drink in her hand. 

‘Not drinking tonight, sweetheart?’, he asks, curling his fingers around her empty hand. 

‘The doctor warned me not too’, she answers, her smile growing impossibly wider. He blinks in confusion when she leans on to her toes to whisper into his ear - then oh. 

‘You’re pregnant?’ he repeats, unable to trust his ears, eyes filling with tears when she bites her lips and nods. 

‘Are you happy, ‘Tsumu?’, she asks, her face alight with hope. 

There is so much he wants to say to her, starting with thank you loving me enough to give me another chance all those years ago and ending with I love you, so ridiculously much – because he can never say it enough, she’s given him more than he deserves – her heart, Shino, a happy home and now the promise of another child. 

But there's salt and water welling up in his throat, and it’s all he can do to choke out a shaky ‘of course’, before gathering her in his arms, warmth pooling in his eyes, love overflowing in his heart. 

They stay that way for most of the night, entwined in each other’s arms, so drunk on happiness and love and warmth that they don’t even notice the storm clearing and the moon rising in the clear night sky. 

[sunnypogue]

coho!rafe + the video (blurb)

big thanks to scout for helping me map this out!!

warning: NSFW. 18+, some dubious consent issues with the video. (it’s necessary to note that rafe sending this video to himself without consent is NOT okay. like a very big violation of privacy. however, this is fiction, so...just know I don’t condone that shit in real life!) also, please use protection. xx.

--

“Bro, watch your fucking elbows!”

“You watch your elbows, fucker!”

Your head darted back and forth as the teammates shot insults at each other from their respective sides of the beer pong table. You were supposed to play the winner, but at the rate this game was going, you wouldn’t be playing anytime soon.

“Hey,” A hand rested on your shoulder, voice grabbing your attention, “we up soon?”

You shook your head, “Dumb and dumber over here have been arguing about the rules for the past 10 minutes. I don’t think they’ve sunk a cup yet.”

Your pong partner laughed, “Well, just yell when someone loses. I’ll be over -”

“Cameron! Get your ass in here, Matty just said we couldn’t shotgun these claws in one go!”

Rafe’s head turned towards the kitchen, where his defense partner (and resident dumbass), Luke, was holding two jumbo mango White Claws next to his head.

“Oh, fuck you Matty - shit, Y/N, come film this.” Rafe grabbed your arm, dragging you behind him. “I need proof so I don’t have to keep chugging shit at parties to prove my idiot teammates wrong.” 

You watched with a wry smile, your phone camera capturing as Rafe stabbed the cans with his house key, before shotgunning the seltzer, Luke finishing immediately after him, letting out a huge burp.

“Oh, fucking gross, Luke.” You yelled, ending the recording.

“Alright - fuck this! Someone come play Jonesy in pong with his fucking weird ass rules.” A voice boomed from the other room, where the now defunct BP game was happening. “I’ve never had someone talk about elbows so much, you fucking boner.”

You made eye contact with Rafe, grinning as he wiped the remnants of white claw off his lips. 

“Pong?” You mouthed, pocketing your phone, before making your way into the living room, Rafe close behind.

-- 

A few hours later, you were posted up on the couch, one of the stragglers at the hockey kickback, listening to Matty and Jonesy debating the merits of wearing a cage versus a bubble. Bored, and a little drunk, you pulled your phone out, intending to thumb through your instagram stories to drown out the sound of Matty yelling about how a bubble made you look like a “fucking bitch boy,” when your phone was snatched clean out of your hand.

“Hey!” You yelped, swinging an arm out to grab your phone, which now sat comfortably in the palm of Rafe’s hand.

“Hey!” He mimicked. “Gimme your password, I need to airdrop that video to myself.”

You rolled your eyes, “Okay, turn it around.”

Rafe pointed your front camera at you, letting FaceID flick your phone open. “Thanks.”

You waved a hand dismissively, standing up from the sunken-in couch. “I’m gonna pee, just don’t go anywhere with it. Stay here.” You gave him a pointed look before wobbling your way to the upstairs bathroom (the only one that was bound to have toilet paper at this rate.)

Rafe took your spot on the couch, fumbling through your phone with drunken accuracy (or at least, that’s what he’d say when you found out he posted a selfie to your insta story), trying to locate the video you had taken earlier. He maneuvered his way to your “Videos” tab, eyeing the most recent one. However, the finger holding the phone accidentally touched the top of the app, sending the screen to the very top of your extensive video collection. Rafe groaned, going to thumb his way back down, when he noticed the screencap of a particular video, nestled at the top corner of your phone. 

If anyone asked, he clicked on it to confirm that his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, that he wasn’t seeing things - because there was no fucking way this was on your phone.

When the video loaded to full screen, Rafe almost dropped the phone. Apparently, his eyes weren’t deceiving him. You had a video, a full, one minute, twenty three second video, of (whom he was assuming was) yourself, bent over someone’s bed, getting fucked by someone with a massive fucking cock. 

Rafe’s thumb hit play before his brain could stop him. He watched, wide eyed, as this random dude fucking railed you, cock practically splitting you in half. Watched as he held your hands to the base of your back, watched as you took it so fucking good.

And then a voice broke his reverie.

“Cameron, dude - you good?” Jonsey leaned over, apparently finished with his bubble v. cage argument. “You’ve been staring at that phone for like, a while.”

Rafe jumped, turning the phone over on his knee. “Yeah, just airdropping something. Service sucks in here man.”

He waited until Jonesy’s redirected his attention elsewhere, before he turned the phone back over, airdropping himself the video of you getting railed.

You returned to the couch minutes later, a sleepy smile on your face. “You get it?” You asked, extending your hand for the phone. 

Rafe slid it back to you, “Yup - thanks.”

--

A couple nights later, Rafe was on his bed, head propped up by a couple of pillows, the video of you pulled up on his phone. He had watched it so many times, it was practically burned into his memory - the sounds of you taking it, the way you tilted your cunt to get it deeper, the way you would respond when he’d smack your ass, or pull your hair - it was addicting, seeing you like this. Rafe had never thought he’d see you, his sweet, little friend, getting fucked within an inch of your life.

It made him think about all the ways he’d fuck you - better than whoever the fuck took the video than you. Rafe thought about it constantly - fucking you in the shower, hiking your leg up to spread that sweet little cunt, fucking you in the car, pulled over on the side of an abandoned road, bent over the side of the passenger seat, hands holding on to the center console as Rafe fucked into you, door open. Rafe thought about fucking you the same way you were fucked in the video, relentlessly pounding his cock into your cunt, pulling you back onto his cock when you were close to finishing, spanking you when you begged to come - just filthy.

Rafe was so lost in thought, he didn’t hear the knock on his door, or the small creak as his door opened, or the little voice going, “Rafe?”

Rafe didn’t notice anything until you were standing at the foot of his bed, looking at him quizzically. “What are you doing?”

Rafe jumped, phone flying out of his hands. “Nothing - nothing. What the fuck are you doing here?”

You rolled your eyes. “I texted you that I was coming to grab my accounting book. I still haven’t read for class tomorrow.” You looked around the room, trying to eye the massive red textbook. “Why are you so sweaty? It’s like, 50 degrees out.”

Rafe shrugged. “It’s hot in here.”

You gave him a look. “No, it’s not, but okay weirdo.” You moved to grab his phone, now laying face up at the foot of his bed, screen dim. “Sorry for scaring you. Here’s your - ” You stopped, registering what was paused on his screen.

Rafe grabbed the phone from your grasp, realizing you may have seen a bit too much. “The book is over there.” He pointed at his desk, attempting to deflect.

You just gaped at him. “Is that - fuck, was that - ”

“It’s not what it looks like.”

“Was that me?” You finally finished your sentence, arms crossing in front of you. “Was that - where did you get that?”

Rafe slowly stood, holding his hands in front of him as if to not startle you. “Look, I’m not proud of this but - ”

“How did you get that?” You whispered, still in shock. “I thought I deleted all of those.”

Rafe looked down at his feet, sheepish. “I accidentally saw it on your phone when I was airdropping shit at Matty’s last weekend. I - I don’t know why I airdropped it to myself, but fuck. I’m fucking glad I did.”

You looked at him. “Rafe, what the fuck! That’s so fucking embarassing for me - delete that!”

Rafe grabbed your wrist that was reaching for the phone. “Why the hell is that embarrassing for you? Y/N, that is literally the hottest fucking shit I’ve ever seen. You - you’re fucking gorgeous, you know?”

You matched Rafe’s heated gaze, staring at him as he kept his grip on your wrist. “I’m literally getting fucked by my ex in that video, Rafe.” You bit your lip, cheeks flushing from remembering the contents of that particular video. “How the hell is that hot for you?”

Rafe pulled you closer. “Because I’ve never seen you like that - you’re always so reserved around me. To see you unedited, raw - just fucking taking it like that. How would that not be hot for anyone?”

You blushed, looking away. “I - I don’t - ”

“I’d like to see you like that, in person, if that’s alright with you.”

You gaped up at him. “What?”

Rafe grinned, teeth nearly glittering in the dim light of the bedroom. “I’d like to fuck you. Better than your ex. Is that alright with you?”

You found yourself nodding - you weren’t sure what world you were currently existing in, but if it was a world where Rafe Cameron (aka the boy you had been harboring a crush on since you met him freshman year) wanted to fuck your brains out after watching a video of your ex-boyfriend fucking your brains out - well, you weren’t complaining.

You let Rafe pull you in for a kiss, let Rafe slide your sweatpants off, let Rafe slip his cold hands under your sweatshirt (causing you to squeal, not expecting the temperature change). Rafe let you tug his shirt off, let you run your hands over his defined shoulders and arms, let you palm his cock through his boxers. It was soft, sweet and exploratory.

Until it wasn’t.

When Rafe tweaked your nipple, you responded by sinking your teeth into his bottom lip - just enough to bruise. He pulled away, a glint in his eye, hands going to slide your sweatshirt off, leaving you completely naked. 

“You wanna play that game?”

You slipped your thumb between your teeth, biting down softly as you walked to the edge of his bed. You went to bend yourself over the mattress, forearms propping your chest up, hair swept over your shoulder. “Why don’t you come over here and find out?”

Rafe growled, taking two steps over to where you were positioned, before sliding his cock out of his boxers. He grabbed his length, jacking it a couple times as he rubbed the head against your clit, leaving a trail of precome in its wake.

“You want it, baby?”

You nodded, leaning back into his cock. Rafe tutted, pulling away completely, smiling when you let out a soft whine. “Words, honey. You gotta tell me.”

You turned your head, looking Rafe dead in the eye. “For fuck’s sake Cameron, get in me.”

Rafe laughed, tapping his cock on your cunt a couple of times, before slowly sliding in, letting you get used to the stretch. You groaned, walls clenching around his length, hands gripping the bedspread as you let your body adjust. Rafe kept his long, slow slide going, until he was balls deep, pelvis snug up against your ass. He was still, just for a moment, before rolling his hips, letting his cock nudge up against your g-spot. You moaned, head dropping to the comforter. You hadn’t felt this full - well, since your ex.

“You good, babe?” Rafe asked, chuckling a bit at your reaction.

“God, Rafe - fuck me.”

Rafe leaned forward, prying your hands from the comforter, tugging them gently behind your back. He swatted at your ass twice, loving the way you tilted into the sensation, before grabbing your hair, pulling you up just enough to get your chest off the bed. 

“This okay?”

You nodded as best you could with his hand in your hair. “I swear to God, Rafe, if you don’t move right now I’ll - ”

“What? What are you gonna do?” He taunted.

You whined, rolling your hips against his cock, which was still stuffed deep in your cunt. “Rafe, please.”

Rafe chuckled under his breath. “Fuck, I could get used to hearing that - hold on, pretty girl. I’ve got ya.”

[exosmutfactory]

Need

gif not mine 🌹

| (🎶) for listening pleasure | 

The Night

— Pairing: You & Baekhyun

— Genre/AU: smut, angst, fluff,

— Word Count: 1.8k

— Rating: 18+ (M)

— [ Contains: Breeding kink, hair pulling, use of the word bitch, squirting, etc. Shit gets real okay don’t @ me ]

❥ It’s finally here after a short spell of writer’s block that had me worried for a second. Anyway, stay safe and happy, folks

ღ♥ღ♥ღ♥ ღ♥ღ♥ღ♥ ღ♥ღ♥ღ♥

You didn’t think he’d notice.

You had a habit of turning exceptionally red on those rare occasions where neither Baekhyun or you had a condom on hand and he came inside you. There’s just something about the closeness; the feeling of his warm evidence of desire painting your walls. Claiming you as his in the most primal of ways. Leaving you just a bit more breathless and eager to hurry home for - hopefully - more.

-Yes you are a kinky shit but you honestly didn’t think he’d notice such a thing with how busy his schedule is. So when he invites you over one night, you look at the date on your phone in confusion. It’s one of those days where he has a “meeting” to attend - a day that would be usually known as “off limits”, so why is he sending you details to an upscale hotel room a quarter to midnight?

Sighing a little to yourself, you throw off your typical friday night lounge wear and put on more appealing attire; combing down your rebellious hair before heading out to your destination.

The hotel’s exterior is nothing compared to the interior and you know the attendant out front is giving you the side-eye as you make your way to the elevator. Paying him no mind, you select the designated floor, fiddling nervously with a hole in your ripped jeans. Once the metal doors open, you hurry on to room 04, snorting inwardly at the familiar number. Baekhyun has always had a thing for this specific numeral. It has something to do with his good luck at work, apparently.

You knock politely on the door; the fleeting thought of adjusting your shirt that has slipped off your shoulder short-lived when a panting Baekhyun in “full meeting” attire throws open the door. Burgundy blazer, white graphic tee and snug black jeans leaving you breathless; the sweat on his brow causing worry to join the anxiousness - and, admittedly, unwarranted arousal - swimming in your gut. The furrow between your brows adding on to your heartbeat pounding furiously in your ears, “Baek-”

He’s tugging you in the room before you can finish, caging your body against the slammed door and crashing his lips roughly to yours. “Hey baby,” He murmurs, swallowing your gasps, “I’ll explain in a minute. Lift your cute little butt for me.”

Feeling his tight grip on your ass, you whimper against his lips; quickly moving to wrap your legs around his waist. You clutch onto his blazer, trying not to scratch the fabric with your nails as he carries you over to the king sized bed in the middle of the room. The obvious bulge pressing between your legs making you gulp; thighs tightening at the constant pleasurable friction.

Baekhyun sets you down at the edge of the bed, stepping out of reach of your needy thighs much to your disappointment.

“Baby,” His sensual timbre halts your impatient thoughts, your gaze zeroing in on the knowing smirk on his handsome face. Dark brown eyes locked on yours while shrugging the alluring colored blazer off his broad shoulders, “Remember that meeting I told you about?”

You hum non committedly while leaning back on your palms, too distracted by his increasing display of skin.

Baekhyun tsks mid pulling off his graphic tee, “With the neighboring leader?”

Your eyes trace over his physique , admiring the way his tucked-in shirt draws more emphasis to his irresistible hips before his words register in your hazy mind. A tick in your jaw he’s quick to recognize. The memory of the fight you had two weeks prior over him having to seduce a woman in charge of the mafia a few towns over always left a bitter taste in your mouth then and is not abashed to leave one there now. “And?” You nearly snap, crossing your betraying thighs.

“She proposed marriage to form an alliance.” He states; dropping the ball so nonchalantly that all you can do is sit there with a hot burn to your cheeks. A familiar stinging sensation forming behind your eyes. It is known to at least a third of the corrupt side of the world how you and Baekhyun came to be. A single dance in a well tucked away club back in your hometown kickstarting your involvement in the world of your Mafia Lord boyfriend. You’re no one compared to the promise of backup in any upcoming territorial rivalries that frequent his doorstep nowadays.

“She wanted marriage,” He continues, letting his t-shirt fall to the floor to join the discarded blazer before stepping back to you on the bed, “And all I could think of was you.”

You don’t look up to meet his eyes, not even when a finger is placed under your chin. But something in his voice… Your steely red-faced expression collides with his open pink-cheeked one.

“All I could think about,” He murmurs, a finger curving around your jaw; blunt nail scraping across sensitive skin as his brown orbs never stray from yours, “Was you laying under me with a ring on your finger and my name on your lips.”

You gasp, you can’t help it as he brushes his thumb over your lips. Pushing it past your parted pillows and eyes darkening at the way you immediately suck on it like you were made for it.

“My pretty girl,” His voice has deepened; scorching in lust and making your toes curl. Breath catching in your throat when he pins you to the bed, growling in your face. “Greedy for my cock like a bitch in heat.” 

You bite hard on your lip. Complexion taking on a vibrant red hue as he runs his nails up your denim-clad thighs. “I know how much you love it when I come inside you.” He chuckles humorously, quickly wetting his bottom lip as you let out a whimper. “Your pussy practically begs for it.”

“B-Baek,” You breathe, feeling way too hot in your warm clothes and under his toned skin.

“Tell me, would you like it?” He tilts his head, fingers painstakingly popping the button to your jeans and pulling down the zipper, “Being filled up with my cum. Fucked so good that your stomach swells with my baby?” 

A whine is ripped from your throat when his hand sneaks below the waistband of your jeans, Baekhyun’s breath hitching and pupils blown as you arch needily against his cold palm. His lust-filled eyes meet yours once again, “You’re fucking drenched thinking about it.”

“Baekhyun,” You clutch onto his bicep, nails digging into the rippling flesh as he hisses at the pain, “Please.” You watch desperately as a muscle works in his clenched jaw; a foreign glint in his eyes causing a shiver to go down your spine just as he roughly tugs tight denim off your legs. The rush of cool air on your heated skin pulls a gasp from your lips seconds before he slams his mouth back onto yours.

“Who am I to deny you,” He grunts, choosing to rip off your soaked lace panties instead of taking them off, “When you ask so prettily.”

He’s got your shirt pulled over your head before you can comment. A strangled cry falling from your lips when his cock slams into you; setting a brutal pace. “Always so wet for me,” He says gruffly, pinching pebbled nipples through the thin fabric of your matching bra. Another hard thrust pushing you further up the bed with a shout, “So fucking tight around my cock.”

The headboard bangs ruthlessly against the wall. Wet sounds of skin slapping on skin filling the room along with choked moans and stifled groans. Baekhyun slides his hands back down to get a bruising grip on your hips, angling your body to hit that spot that leaves you quaking for more. A tight knot is beginning to form in your lower stomach just as he abruptly pulls out, landing a sharp slap on your sensitive cunt. Your startled yelp making a dark chuckle rumble through his chest.

“Roll over,” Baekhyun gives you a smothering look. Eyeliner adding on to the intimidation as you wiggle under his stare. Quickly following his command at the arch of his brow.

You bite down on your lip as he pulls you up onto your knees; swaying your hips back and forth until he lands a solid smack on your ass. “Move again and I’ll fucking leave you here.” He hisses in your ear, pinching your throbbing clit until you whimper out a reply. His hands on your hips pull you back onto his waiting cock; the angle making him able to hit your sweet spot without fail as you claw at the sheets in abandon. 

“Taking my cock so well,” Baekhyun groans, fucking you harder. Grunting at your tight walls clamping down on him. “Are you close, baby?”

You’re too blissed out to respond; eyes fluttering with every slam of cock into your spot; every slap of his balls to your clit. Yelping at the burn of your hair being pulled and tilting your head back to meet the hypnotizing gaze of your boyfriend. Lips parted at the way his wet hair dangles in his ablaze eyes; red lips pressed into a thin line.

“Answer me.” He snaps, tightening his grip.

“Y-Yes!” You cry, tears brimming your eyes as he shoves your head to the bed; keeping a tight grip on your hips while you pant for breath.

“I’m gonna breed you so fucking good,” Baekhyun grunts; hips snapping relentlessly against your tender ass. Slender fingers roughly rubbing your clit making your vision spiral out of control as his steady rhythm takes on sloppy thrusts, “Come for me.”

Your body needs no coaxing to slam head-first into an earth-shattering orgasm. The spray of wetness across your thighs and the sheets below barely registering in your high-hazed mind as Baekhyun fucks you through it. His moan of your name brings you back to the privacy of the bed right as he’s painting your walls white. The hot bursts of cum pulling one last whimper from your dry lips.

You loosen your grip on the messy sheets when Baekhyun starts leaving fleeting kisses over the back of your shoulders, sighing heavily through your pants of breath.

“Good girl.” He hums against your skin, slowly sinking deep into your pounded walls as you let out a gasp. “Don’t you waste a drop of my cum, okay?”

Wiggling restlessly on the damp sheets, you whimper at his hand flexing around your hip; stilling for his leisure thrusts with a meek whisper, “O-Okay.”

ღ♥ღ♥ღ♥ ღ♥ღ♥ღ♥ ღ♥ღ♥ღ♥

🌹 Part 2 |  Prequel: ◤Off The Rails◢

ღ♥ღ♥ღ♥ ღ♥ღ♥ღ♥ ღ♥ღ♥ღ♥

[moonboohoo]

BOOK: DREAM; IN THE STARS

CHARACTER: IWAIZUMI HAJIME X READER 

SUMMARY: IN WHICH A GIRL NEEDS TO REPAY HER SINS BY BEFRIENDING WITH A VOLLEYBALL PLAYER.

WORD COUNT : 2270 

*LOWERCASE INTENDED. 

1. Prologue 

(ACHROOUS)

DEF : colorless; achromatic. 

TW: physical and mental abuse, self harm and suicidal thoughts. 

                                                                            16.6.1979

MARIGOLD SYMBOLIZES PAIN AND GRIEF ㅡ broken youths remained broken, toxic family relationships and insecurities, close friends leaving/backstabbing them, and they sew their hearts over and over again till it bleeds, and put bandages on their hearts and told everyone that they're doing okay (i wish you could give me your heart juice, i need love!)

and you - you were one of the broken youths as well.

you couldn't wait to be alive again, you couldn't wait to move out of your parent's house so that you could live in peace! you didn't have an exact plan of where you're going, and you couldn't just wander around the streets because nasty things were going to happen to you if you stayed in this town for even a single second - everyone hates you here.

you didn't know why you were born in the first place, your parents were abusive to you and you didn't know why you were holding on for so long. it was so painful to the point that you just wanted to scream your lungs out but you restrained yourself from doing so. you couldn't breathe properly the moment when you're standing outside your house. you hoped that they went to other places again without telling you, and even just a few hours could actually spare you from unwanted circumstances.

you've learnt that crying, pleading and begging was pointless, you didn't dare to push your father away when his leather belt hit on your skin. your father used violence as a way to beat the imagination out of you and keep your light from shining too brightly;

"failure, obey the rules, keep your voice down, if you are not careful, you will be abandoned..."

every time he beat you, one or a combination of those messages was meant to enter your flesh, like splashing cold water on your burn areas over and over again; as a reminder for you to meditate on and pray through tears.

because broken youths were meant to be broken, and you have lived a miserable life.

you could feel your neighbors staring at you whenever you walked down the streets, you forced yourself to shrug it off whenever they gave you a look of disgust, pointing behind your back and started to gossip about your parents, which they almost killed your classmate's mother. it was said that the tongue was sharper than a sword, there was no doubt of that. a sword wound may heal, but the wound of someone's words breaking your heart might not. you were enraged, you didn't choose to live with them. why did you need to bear the responsibilities even though you clearly knew that it was not your fault? why did you keep running away?

the summer sun beat upon your back relentlessly, forcing beads of sweat down your forehead. summer weather was driving you crazy, and yet you're trying to run away from a bunch of girls from your class. your body, and especially your hair were covered with sticky liquid as they threw eggs on you - you bite your lip when a small rock hits your head, and you could hear the shouts and sadistic laughter behind you. without thinking, you quickly went to a small alley and hid beside a trash can. your body started to tremble when you heard footsteps approaching you. you kept holding your breath, thinking that it would help you to be more quiet.

"i didn't see her coming here, himari." one of your ex-classmates - aiko,  told her as she snorted with laughter. "are you sure? i think we saw her -"

"don't you believe me? mari chan?" her childhood friend asked her innocently, the red-haired female shivered as aiko called out by her nickname, a hint of sarcasm going right over her head. himari rolled her eyes as she asked her other friends to follow her to another street, as she was determined to hunt you down. "that bitch stole my money, how annoying! i'm so going to beat her until she's begging me to stop!"

you clenched your fist, and your nails dug into your palms. your blood pressure skyrocketed, she made several false accusations of you and people actually believed her. you tried to explain, you hoped other people would think rationally and voiced out their opinions - you wish they could tell himari that everything was just a misunderstanding. you hoped that everyone could give you a chance to clear yourself, but you knew that it wasn't going to happen.

you took a deep breath and tried to calm yourself down. after that, you stood up and noticed a crumpled piece of paper beside you. you hesitantly took the paper and read it, you have nowhere to run and the only good hiding place, for now, was your house.

"(y/n), run now. i will try to distract them." - aiko

you're on the brink of tears when you see this little note that aiko wrote for you. you thought everyone in this town was cruel, one of your neighbors witnessed the whole situation when you're running away from the girls, your eyes pleading him to save you, maybe he could invite you over to his house and wait until the sun sets, or maybe told the girls not to chase you again because you didn't do anything to them - but he didn't, he didn't even try to save you, you saw him quickly went back to his house and shut the door. at that moment, you could feel your heart shattered into pieces, why were they doing this to you?

you sighed loudly, putting the note inside your pocket. you were crying when you're running towards your house, you didn't feel like going back and yet this was the only solution for you to get rid of the bullies. your legs get really wobbly when you're standing outside your house, staring at the wooden door. you took a deep breath before you went in, you pushed the door open a crack, the smell of cigarette smoke lingered around the house. there were clothes scattered around the dirty floor, candy wrappers so old that turned into dust on the table, and a half-eaten bacon cheese sandwich lay on the chipped blue plate, accompanied by two empty beer cans. your mother was sitting on the sofa, taking out a cigarette from the pack and placing it on her lips, you waited for her to remove the cigarette from her lips as you wanted to inform her that you're back. she turned around and saw you standing there, and her face immediately darkens to a deep red and you knew that she was angry.

"(y/n), where is my food?"

"shit. I must've dropped it when I was...getting chased by the girls..."

just when you wanted to explain, your mother stood up and shoved you away, getting her keys and purse while glaring at you. "you can't even do a simple thing right! what are you?! an idiot?!" she let out a groan of frustration before opening the door.

"just die already." her words stung harder than a slap across the face.

you really wanted to cry right now, but you knew that it was impossible to cry when your father was going to come back after an hour. he will hit you with his belt again if he saw a single tear in your eye,

"why are you crying? you should be happy that i'm your father ! why are you crying?...why..."

damn it, you didn't want to experience it again. you get new bruises and scars every day, and what if your father used boiling water to splash all over your body? you really didn't want it to happen, it was too...overwhelming for you.

you quickly went to your room and shut the door, wrapping yourself a blanket and stared at the wall blankly. the light from the sun shone through the window, but instead of feeling hot, you felt yourself shivered slightly when you thought about those bullies and your parents.

"i've lived enough, i'm so scared...i'm so tired..."

you put the blanket aside as you took out a blade from your drawer and put it on the table. you're trembling, you're struggling to breathe, you're so dizzy to the point that you wanted to bang your head against the wall and screamed - you wanted everyone to listen to you, well, at least giving you a chance to explain yourself, but you never got the chance to voice out your feelings, because they never cared about you, not even one bit. what's the point of living? you didn't have any friends, and your parents treated you badly, so why? why are you still living?

you laughed bitterly, and you didn't hesitate to cut both of your veins. you laid on your bed as your head started to spin. you didn't hurt, you thought you would be actually hurting, which you didn't. that was okay, because you're not a fan of hurting. everything seemed distant and unreal, you had no desire to move. moving didn't seem to be an option anyway. you closed your eyes shut as you could feel yourself dying. but letting go was a relief, right? your breathing was getting slower and slower, your heartbeat - was your heart even beating? you couldn't feel it at all, maybe it had stopped. you didn't mind at all, you've been suffering since you're a child and now it was time for you to rest. the memories floated in and out of your head, as vivid as if you're living through the experience all over again.

suddenly, a light came. you saw something, something at once beautiful and terrible, and you knew it had come for you.

"(y/n) - san."

"(y/n) - san."

you heard someone calling your name, was it a dream?

death wasn't supposed to be like this, isn't it? and now you're standing in your room, looking at your body with pure amazement. you thought they're going to take you somewhere else, like going to a sort of tunnel, with a bright light at the end of it, and angels will be there to greet you. but now, you were still standing there in a fixed position. there was no tunnel, no line of people waiting to greet you.

"(y/n) - san, are you alright?" you turned around and saw a guy who was holding a folder, his blue coloured eyes looking at you with concern. "i know this sounds really awkward but... no angels are coming for you, (y/n). i will be taking you to the afterlife now." you covered your mouth as your face turned red due to embarrassment.

"how - i didn't say anything!" "i have the ability to read minds, (y/n) - san."

you took a good look at him, he was wearing a black grim reaper cloak and a pair of black shoes. he has black messy hair and slightly thick eyebrows, you could already sense that this man didn't like to talk that much. you sighed and looked at your body again, you could see blood staining on your bedsheets and the blade was on the floor. you winced slightly when you looked at your appearance once again, slightly disgusted by the fact that your mouth was opened wide and your hair was oily and sticky.

your father suddenly burst into your room, and you reacted instinctively in hiding behind the grim reaper's back. your whole body was trembling, you gripped on his cloak as your eyes glued shut, not wanting to know what happened next. "mr.gr-grim reaper, can we go now?"

he chuckled softly and faced you, "yeah and - by the way, just call me akaashi."

───

NAME : (Y/N)

BORN : 1961

DIED : 1979

sin: committed suicide.

[juderoths]

what’s poppin , el here. i’m 21 & from the uk.  i go by she/they. this shit got erased cause my laptop died so heres a shitty summary i’ll write a better one someday i apologise in advance. but anyway heres my himbo child,  J U D E  &  if you would like to plot with him, give this a like.  tw  for  abandonment  &  learning  difficulties

⌜ZETHPHAN SMITH GNEIST, CIS MAN, HE/HIM⌟ welcome to chatsworth academy, JUDE ROTH. it says here, that you are TWENTY, in SECOND year and that you’re here for your ATHLETIC skills? is it true high school you were voted most likely to WIN THE LOTTERY AND LOSE THE TICKET , well, that’s interesting.╱ awkward love poems scribbled on toilet paper , late night phone calls with his family after feeling homesick , a bin full of energy drinks ╳

STATS

full  name  :  jude  roth

age  :  twenty

hometown  :  berlin  ,  germany

gender :  cis  man  -  he / him

sexuality  :  heterosexual

BACKSTORY

karl zimmerman met eudora roth on a business trip while she was waitressing yada yada yada. BOOM. dating. then BOOM babies. specifically : jude & mona.

KARL IS A MAJOR DICKHEAD. turns out the dude was already married with kids. and also richer than he made out. eudora found this out and went to his wife with this. as you may have guessed, both women dumped the man on his ass. don’t let the door hit you on the way out, karl. hate him.

eudora, the angel that she is, let him visit for mona’s sake cause she was a lil baby gremlin at the time. but nooooo mr business is everything over here had to go fucking ruin things again. he stopped visiting, he stopped the money. he fucked off like the lil piss baby he is.

money was tight for ages after this. his sister was often sick and constantly in and. out of hospital. his mum was working relentlessly. jude was struggling with dyslexia. but the three of them had each other. it wasn’t much but they loved each other SO fucking much.

fuck school. that’s all i’ve gotta say. being a kid with learning difficulties at a shitty school is never fun. but sport helped him through that a lot. he felt his PE teacher was the only person who hadn’t given up on him yet. 

college was out of the question for him in his mind. he’d pick up some job somewhere, probably at the local tech store fixing phones. he didn’t see himself making any money doing sport which SUCKED ASS. but, he’d rather help out at home than waste money on some degree that probably won’t mean shit cause the unemployment rate is so high for graduates.

but by some miracle, a rep of chatsworth was at one of his football games at school and he was approached with an offer. what jude didn’t know was that his lil piss baby father was the one that arranged it, cause the bitch felt guilty. the dude he swore he’d never get any help from getting into a prestigious college. not a dick move, but also dickish at the same time

don’t get me wrong. jude felt like a fish out of water his entire first year at school. it was only at his mother’s insistence that he accepted.

I HAVE PLANS TO FUCK THIS UP THO. turns out his half siblings also go here. basically their mum was a model & karl had become a CEO eventually. so obviously they got in. he didn’t really talk to them in first year so didn’t know them. but jude doesn’t know they’re his siblings but they’ve recently discovered that they’re his siblings. and they know about their father’s role in getting him in. it’s all very confusing i know. i like convoluted plots like that.

EXTRAS & HEADCANONS

you can find his pinterest here & playlist here (will put in links later cause neither is finished)

my guy is a soft jock himbo with slight fatherly abandonment issues. he doesn’t like to admit how much it affects him. just wants to prove he can do shit without help ya know. 

fluent in both german and english, but speaks with a berlin accent

no common sense

honestly just wants to chill 

bin is always full of energy drinks

he’s on the football team and on the runners

surprisingly good with tech. will fix ur phone if u need it. when u break ur phone like three times a week it comes in handy

he’s a hopeless romantic. will write love poems at 3 am on toilet paper cause he’s misplaced actual paper

has always had an unhealthy obsession with parkour

calls his family up at least once every couple of days

hufflepuff. nuff said.

CONNECTIONS

gonna keep this short and sweet cause i’m a broken human being right now, but i’d love to see like his number one ride or die, best friends, crushes (dude loves people), unrequited CRUSHES cause i’m an evil bitch like that, sport team mates, someone who tutors him, frenemies, enemies (maybe in the form of elitists at the school) tho he tries to keep it to none if ya get me he doesn’t like having enemies what’s the point why not get along, comfort buddies, buddies that just comfort and shed tears together (he makes for a great cuddling pillow), and of course, his half siblings cause i’m a sucker for pain. but, honestly i’m open to anything you throw my way. 

@chatsworthinfo​​  

[whyisnicole]

Show Me Your Darkness - Chapter 3

Hi guys! I just wanna say thank you so, so much to everyone who checked out chapter 1! I really, truly hope that you like it, and lemme know what you think!

PLEASE NOTE TRIGGER WARNINGS: Do not read if you are sensitive to suicidal tendencies or suicide in general. This fic contains themes of torture, depression, and language. It picks up but please be cautious of these things <3

"I'm just sayin', YN, you know I've got the room. I think you and Alex would make quite the nice pair of… roomies, hmm?"

 You give a humor-filled scoff and your friend, Alex, flips a not-so-sarcastic sarcastic "fuck you" to the red and black clad buddy that you've somehow unwillingly, yet gratefully, acquired.

Your days following HYDRA had been anything but easy - but you weren't the kind of person to simply lay down and die. Literally.

 Not only had you managed to free yourself from the imprisonment of a never ending life-sentence as some foreign army's personal test subject, you'd discovered exactly what it was that made you so damn special. You had the power of manipulation - the power of control. Whether it be emotions, matter, life itself, or the body-sized black wings that you could expose or tuck away at any given time, you finally were able to be the one in control.

 There was only one side effect:

  You couldn't stay dead.

  Whenever you would die, you would come back within a matter of minutes, and you've had more than a fair share of time to test that fact. You'd been low after escaping the taught hold of your previous prison; after all, who wouldn't have been? You never truly remembered a time where you had anything, but now you were all on your own. Simply some freak with giant wings who was brand new to her powers - which meant you couldn't control the fact that you could control everything…

And you couldn't handle it.

 You did everything you could.

 Pills.

Asphyxiation.

Slicing and Dicing yourself until you couldn't move.

Throwing yourself off from any height you could find.

 You basically gave Wade Wilson himself  a run for his money, and unsurprisingly found that nothing ever worked.

 You'd always wake up again, gasping for breath and remembering simply closing your eyes, praying they wouldn't ever open again. But they always did.

 It was during one of your famous drowning attempts that you'd met a girl named Alex.

 You were standing on the edge of some bridge, no cars passing, no life in sight; just the sound of rushing water beneath your swaying form. All alone, enjoying the quiet serenity and brief peace that was brought to you… Until you heard her. Some chick, bounding towards you and stopping a good thirty or so feet away, screaming out to you, desperately trying to get your attention. You remember her dark features illuminated under the soft light of the street lamp. You remember her standing at a far enough distance yet she was still all too close. You remember the panic in her troubled eyes and the way the wind tussled and whipped around her shoulder length curly black hair as she held her worn jacket close to her body in an attempt to shield herself from the nipping breeze.

 And you distinctly remembered telling her to stay away. 

 You had told her to stay back,

"You need to leave."

     "I can't do that…"

"Forget you ever saw this and Just go!"

  That you hadn't wanted to hurt her like you hurt everybody else,

"You don't know what I've done!"

    "It doesn't matter!

"Yes it does! And if you don't back the fuck up, turn around, and get the hell out of here, then you're just gonna be another victim of me!"

  But did she listen?

Fuck no.

So you didn't listen to her telling you to back away and rethink whatever problem it was that you were facing.

You slightly believed her when she said that you could get through this, but only because you knew, deep down, that you'd live. But you were just done with the conversation.

 So you did what you'd grown to do best and simply just left…

You jumped.

Feet leaving the pavement as the harsh cold graced your face, and the sensation of tranquility, of freedom coursed through your body.

 You felt the smack of the water and a moment of old, but then nothing.

 Until you felt everything again.

 You jolted awake, spewing water from your lips as you felt the rhythmic pounding on your chest come to a sudden halt.  

 Alex.

 That stupid, idiotic badass had climbed down and catapulted herself into freezing water to save your ass that didn't even need saving.

From that day on you knew you weren't getting rid of her anytime soon, and you'd grown to be beyond grateful for that.

 Since the nearly five years that you'd been introduced into each-others lives, you'd learned a lot about one another. You'd learned what made each-other tick, what made each-other happy, mad, sad, and all of the in-between's, and you'd learned each-others secrets. You'd learned everything about what went into making you guys the people that you are now. She knew what you were, and you knew that she was an underestimated genius that could give the best of the best a run for their money - even if she did do some stupid shit now and then. 

And you'd also learned that people suck.

 You have a small group of close-knit friends that you considered to be more like a family than anything else.

You have a place to lay your head and the best roommate and friend that you could ever ask for.

And you'd also discovered that you do indeed have a purpose. You still struggled with the belief that you're just some freak - some strange phenomenon that doesn't deserve to see the light of day after doing what you've done and being capable of doing the things that you can do, but that's where your new found family came in. Always there to pick you up and dust you off during the worst of times, as you had learned to do for them as well.

 You were set.

 "Well that's very sweet of you, Wade," Said Alex, bringing you back to the present conversation; "But I think we're quite set here. Nobody to bother us, nobody to try and get me to hack into all the extra channels on their TV, nobody to relentlessly be shot down time after time by YN…"

 Wade gasped in mock offense at the painfully hilarious rejection from Alex.

You'd be lying if you said moving in with Wade didn't appeal to you, but you hated to take. And, while you knew you could trust him with your life, and that he would never ask anything for crashing at his place, the "Friendly Neighborhood Deadpool" was fun to watch when he was determined and constantly rejected.

 And, besides that, you were content. All you wanted was a place to crash with your most trusted friend, and to be able to fulfill your purpose. To be able to do good with the hand that you've been dealt.

And you had that. 

 Was it some random, abandoned government-owned home?

Yes.

But was it just you and Alex?

Yes.

 And though you wouldn't mind having a third roomie, you knew that Alex and Wade would probably kill each-other if they didn't have at least a nightly break. And you were comfortable. You'd never ask for anything other than livable, and you'd never ask anyone to inconvenience themselves for your pleasure. 

It just wasn't you.

 "How dare you?" Wade gasped, hands against his cheeks as he feigned disgrace.

You and Alex can't to anything aside from burst out in laughter as Wade simply stood up and shook his head.

 "Alright, alright you two. You've won this round. But don't pretend like I'm stupid, I know why you two want your own place… And just remember, I'm more than okay with bringing the party back to my place. Last thing I'd mind is joining in with Steph and Lena."

 Wade returns the friendly fire and is simply met with a chorus of "Piss off, Wade" and "Fuck you, Pool" as he makes his was out of the run down home.

 "I'm just sayin'," he says behind his masked smirk.

"But seriously, you need anything, you call. Got it, missies?" He questions.

 As annoying as he was persistent, Wade truly does care and was always going to be there for both you and Alex. You knew that you'd not only gained a sister, but an overly-nosey and annoying protective older brother. The night you'd met Wade was just as intense as the night you'd met Alex.

It was roughly two years ago after a late-night mission had gone south for you that the red spandex wearing vigilante had caught the tail end of your fight with a neighborhood trouble maker that did a little more than steal a candy bar here and there.

 You'd heard and seen evidence of this particular asshole dealing around in the matter of underground drug cartel operations, and you'd finally gotten a hold of his whereabouts.

 You knew it was stupid and risky, but he'd slipped from your grasp before and you couldn't let that happen again.

 You'd been working with a "team" - that team consisting of yourself, a blind badass who went by the alias of "Daredevil" as opposed to his day name of Matthew, and some tough guy named Frank with a vengeance and skillset that you never wanted to find yourself on the wrong end of. His given name of "The Punisher" was there for a reason after all…

 At the time, you were just working with them to simply get the case over with, but little did you know that those two gents would quickly become a special part of your tight-knit, dysfunctional family.

 But they were lagging, and you were ready; just not as ready as you thought.

 It had been a couple of years ago, and you still hadn't mastered your technique yet, and not much has really changed, you've just gained a lot of practice and experience since then.

 You'd managed to off the crook, but you'd taken a hell of a beating at the same time. And, while you couldn't technically die, it still hurt like a bitch.

 That's where the red-suited anti-hero named Wade Wilson, or "Deadpool", came into the picture.

Apparently the asshole you'd dispatched was on more than just one or two hitlists.

Wade had been hot on his tail, but managed to stumble across a beaten and bruised chick with wings, and the lifeless form of the prick he was targeting.

 It was when Wade was scolding you about your techniques and making his classic witty remarks  while carrying you home as you bled out in his arms that you knew you'd gained another accomplice...  

 And you were all the more grateful for him in the long run.

  "We know, Wade. Thank you." You smile, giving him a small nod.

 "Yeah, now get lost and go make a difference. Don't die too much." Alex sasses.

 "Wouldn't make a difference!" Wade returns as he tries (and fails) to make a graceful and "cool" exit. He's never gonna learn that he's really better off walking away instead of trying some new trick that he swears he can master after watching one of those fail compilation videos. 

 He never masters it.

 Ever.

  "God, will he ever learn." Alex scoffs, tossing her head back and exasperatedly throwing her left arm over her face - her right one laying next to her, hand gently clasped around the neck of a bottle.

"Must you ask," you smile, "At this point I think your answer is pretty well clear."

 The two of you share a laugh and Alex takes a short swig.

 "Well," she says as she tosses the bottle outside of the half-way boarded up window in the run down living room;

 "It's getting pretty late. I think I'm gonna head to bed. You gonna go do your thing?"

 You take a moment to ponder before giving an affirming nod.

 "Yeah, I'll go patrol for a bit. Check some things out, make sure nothing too crazy is going down tonight." You sigh, groaning as you pull yourself up off of your dingy pallet on the hard cement floor.

 "It's Hell's Kitchen, Y/N. Crazy is a side effect here." Alex's scoffs as she cleans up her sleeping area a bit - dusting off the blankets and fluffing her pillow as much as possible before taking a seat on top of the freshly-made little nest atop a mattress stationed against the corner of the living room.

"I can't correct you there."

A sigh escapes your lips as you pull off your plain white, short sleeved V-neck, and slip on a long sleeved black one instead; followed by a zipped up olive cargo jacket and black knee high lace-up boots.

 "That's cuz' I'm always correct." Alex retorts, a smirk painting her features bright.

 "Yeah, yeah. Be home later. Stay safe and don't wait up." You smile, bidding Alex goodnight as you slip your phone into one of the zippers of your jacket and slide out the front door.

 "Wouldn't dream of it."

 Alex smiles as she switches off the lantern sitting in-between your pallets, her glowing dark brown skin no longer illuminated by the soft yellow light. Tying her hair into the most perfected messy bun New York has ever seen, she wiggles herself in between the scratchy yet comforting blankets. Bidding you a silent goodnight, she whispers a quick prayer for protection and a safe night for the both of you before shutting her eyes and drifting to sleep after about half an hour of tossing and turning.

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

Tags:

@eridanuswave

[gingerwritess]

Hi darling! Can you write Loki creating illusions were he got hurt badly just to see the reader worrying about him, then making funny of her later? Agnst on the beginning, then fluffy and funny on the end?

this was supposed to be for april fools day but i thought yesterday was still march whoops

warning: descriptive injuries, blood

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The apartment door crashes open and a limp Loki falls face-first through the doorway, actually dripping blood onto your carpet.

“What the HELL—”

You’re up in a flash and the god reaches a weak hand towards you, trying to pull himself closer to you but giving up with a grunt of pain when his shoulder pops out of its socket.

Loudly.

He grabs his shoulder and lets out a yell, rolling onto his back as you scream, too—“Arms don’t bend like that, Loki!!”

“Help me,” he hisses, his eyes screwed shut in pain, “for the love of everything, mortal, help me.”

“I-you—Loki, your bones!”

He doesn’t ask for help, like, ever.

And you’ve never really seen the god in pain, but these oddly bent limbs and gashes across his chest dripping blood all over your floor seem to be pure agony as he writhes—

“ARE YOU GOING TO JUST STAND THERE AND WATCH ME DIE?”

“Sorry, sorry!” You spring into action, snapping your gaping mouth shut and bolting to the kitchen, shaking hands rifling through cupboards: you need water, some kind of cloth, oh my god that’s a lot of blood, bandages, pain medication??

How do dosages work on Asgard?

“Loki, how much do you weigh?!” You shout and nearly drop the bowl you just filled with water.

“Is that REALLY important right now??”

“Just answer me!!” In your panic you drop the bottle of pills, sending little orange tablets flying across the kitchen. “God fucking damn it, answer me right now!”

“Somewhere over five hundred pounds, I don’t want to talk about it—” he cuts himself off with a near scream of pain, making you jump with a start and scream, too.

“WILL YOU STOP SCREAMING? I’M RIGHT HERE, DIPSHIT!!”

Fuming and shaken beyond belief, you haul all your stuff back out to the living room and dump it on the floor next to the writhing god. He’s snapped his mouth shut after your last explosion, now just whimpering and clutching his out-of-place shoulder with one hand, the other holding tight to something bleeding on his stomach.

“Okay, okay, okay…” your trembling hands hover tentatively over his body, not sure where to even begin. “Just keep breathing, Loki, stay alive for me, okay? Keep breathing, I—I’m gonna try to help you, I promise.”

He nods weakly, teeth gritting together and eyes screwed shut, and he lifts a hand to gesture at the injury to his abdomen: this one first.

“Got it, how can I—your shirt, can you roll over at all?” You scramble to undo the buckles and straps of his armour to little avail. “Forget it, I’m cutting it off you, give me a knife.”

Loki cracks an eye open and huffs a tiny laugh, lifting a finger to point to his belt under his cloak. “Always trying…always trying to get me naked, you naughty little sausage.”

You really want to slap him right now.

Blood loss seems to be taking its toll on him, his pained whimpering ceasing and being overridden by slurred words and weak touches, his eyes drooping as you find the dagger and slice his shirt open.

“Now is not the ti—oh my god, you were stabbed?!”

There’s a hole in his stomach, just under his ribs, a clean slice through his entire torso.

You know, minor injury.

“I made a monster mad…” he slurs, patting his bleeding wound almost proudly and wincing in pain each time.

“Don’t do that!”

“Pain is nice, though.” He cracks a weak smile, sending you a bloody thumbs up before going back to tapping the open wound. “Reminds…reminds me I’m…reminds me I’m alive…”

“Hey! Eyes open!” You grab his face and give him a little shake, your heart dropping to the pit of your stomach when he limply falls to the floor, unconscious. “Loki, no no no, wake up right now!”

His head lolls to the side and drops out of your hands with a loud clunk.

“LOKI!”

You drop the washcloth in water and quickly press it onto the stab wound—oh god, the gaping opening goes through him. Like, straight through his body.

What the hell am I supposed to do now? Your hands are shaking so badly that you’re pretty sure you’ve only made the bleeding worse, and the white cloth trying to stop the blood just turns bright red as it continues to soak up the never-ending flow.

Eyes start to sting when you try to keep a somewhat clean cloth applying pressure to his side and reach for his hand with the other, bringing it to your lips. “Loki, wake up, wake up, please…”

Something pokes you in the chin and you glance down at his hand.

“WHAT THE FUCK—”

His middle finger is snapped at the top knuckle, just completely going sideways, the actual bone sticking out from under a flap of skin.

On the bright side, your blood-curdling scream wakes him back up.

Chest heaving, you throw his mutilated hand away from you and grab his face again with one hand, the other still trying to stop the bleeding. “You idiot, you’re never allowed to leave the house ever again, understood? Now stay. awake.”

He laughs and pokes your tear-ridden cheek, completely delirious from blood loss. “I’m gonna die happy,” he mumbles, and a thick trail of blood starts trickling from the corner of his mouth. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Shut up, you’re gonna be fine, just keep looking at me!” You scramble to keep his head supported in your hands, but he’s heavy and limp with dead weight. “Loki, you look at me right now, don’t you dare close your eyes.”

“It’s okay, my love, it’s alright…”

“Stay awake, you hear me?” You furiously swipe away the tears clouding your vision, leaving a dark streak of his blood along your cheekbone. “Stay with me, Loki, you’re gonna be just fine, you’re gonna do something magical, right? You’re gonna heal yourself, I know it.”

He’s…dying. In your arms.

On some random Monday morning, out of the blue, came stumbling through your door and now he’s dying in your living room. Life really is a bitch, huh?

“Loki!” You slap his cheek a couple times when his eyes start drifting shut, his head rolling onto your lap. “Loki, you stay awake or I’m gonna kill you…”

“I know this is…is unexpected,” he murmurs, voice thick with blood. “But now you’ll be b-better off.”

“You are such an idiot,” you sob, abandoning the blood-drenched cloth—it’s not exactly helping anymore—and pulling him into your arms, clutching his broken form to your chest. “Where did this even come from? And like hell I’ll be better off, don’t you leave me!”

“My own stupidity.” He laughs and a splatter of blood bubbles from his mouth. “Look at me, darling, quickly.” That broken hand reaches up to weakly cradle your tear-stained cheek, and Loki coughs up a lungful of blood one more time. “I love you like I’ve never loved before.”

“STAY WITH ME, LOKI, I SWEAR TO GOD—”

The god blinks, a slow and deliberate engraining of your image in his mind, and smiles up at you with bloodied lips. “I’ll see you again, my love.”

“You’ll see me right now, you idiot, cause you’re not dying, you idiot, idiot…”

The cool, stuttering breaths against your arm stop falling.

“Loki?” You choke and shake your head—this isn’t real. This is some sick dream. “Loki, stop fucking around, come back.”

Silence.

“Oh my god, Loki, this isn’t funny—”

“Well, it is a little funny.”

Your head snaps up at the sound of that bastard’s voice to see him lounging against the doorway, hands in his pockets with a stupid little grin on his face.

“Idiot?” He asks, pressing a hand to his heart in mock hurt. “I died, my dear, and you called me an idiot approximately five times. Thank you for the lovely sentiment, I love you too.”

The broken body in your arms sparks and fades into nothing, and you slowly get to your feet, the look in your eyes nothing short of murderous.

“That…was a joke?”

Loki shrugs, that proud smirk still plastered over his lips. “Of course. You married the god of mischief, darling.”

Your jaw tightens and Loki swallows, the smirk fading slightly when he sees how, erm, not funny you found his little prank to be.

“Oh shit.”

You barrel into him in an instant, your shoulder connecting with his gut and he crumples to the floor, laughter bubbling from his mouth when you start relentlessly smacking at his arms, chest, face, anywhere you can reach.

“That—wasn’t—funny,” you seeth, emphasising each word with a good poke to the stomach. “You little fucktard, I’m gonna kill you for real for that!”

Still laughing, Loki brings up his hands to half-heartedly block your attacks, catching your furious punches with fingers wrapped around your wrists. You try to fight, to pull your arms from his grip with a huff, but he yanks you down into a searing kiss and locks an arm around your neck—you’re stuck.

“That was extremely funny,” he mumbles against your lips, locking you in place with a solid arm as you try to squirm away from him. “You look so precious when you worry.”

“You’re a—mmph, you’re a sick fuck.” You’re refusing to kiss him back, but he won’t let you move from where your mouths are pressed together.

“Such endearing names,” he dreamily sighs, kissing your pouting lips a couple more times. “I can truly feel the amount of love you hold for my sorry, broken heart…I love you too, my beautiful ‘sick fuck…’”

“YOU FUCKING IDIOT, LET ME GO—”

“…I love you more than the stars may light the sky, my exquisite idiot…”

“I HATE YOU—”

Loki pushes himself up, breathless and red in the face from relentless kisses and never-ending laughter to wind his arms around your waist, pulling you tight against him and smashing his lips to yours.

“Idiot,” he grins into the kiss, somehow squeezing you even tighter. “I hate you too.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

hope you enjoyed, feel free to send me ideas!

loki tags: @bluediamond007 @himitoshi @drakesfiance @destiel1597 @dangertoozmanykids101 @archy3001 @jcalpha1 @yzssie @skullvieplu @forthesnakeofdragons @skulliebythesea @wegingerangelica@storiesfrommirkwood @agarwaeneth @adaliamalfoy @laurfangirl424@paradisaicsam @fitzsimmons-is-forever @ladylokimischief @katelinwrites @tarynkauai @polaristrange @loavesofmeat @canadian-ravenpuff-multishipper @lou-makes-me-strong @holyn0vak @chocolatealmondmillk @swtnrholland @kenzieam @jessiejunebug  @catticas @the-republic-and-face-of-texas @doralupin01 @whitewitchdown @atomiccharmer @falconfeather23435 @babygirlicecream  @avengrcs @vethrvolnir2 @bookgirlunicorn @wabisabigrl @myhealingstar @khaleesi-marvel @ei77777 @spacecrumbs @scarlettrosella@rocks-are-pretty-odd @confessionsofastrugglingteen  @easilydistractedwriter @arttasticgreatnessoftheawesome77 @fluffyllamaswearinghats @milktearose@lcyouinhell @h0tshotholland @dontmesswithmemundane @southsidesarcasticwriter @helnik-s @lilith-akemi @fire-in-her-veinz @unlikelysamwinchesteronahunt @mischievousbellerina  @kcd15@mellowgirl01 @lokislilcaribbeanprincess @allthingzhiddleston @scorpionchild81 @lokixme @vast-ish @blue-automne

[thedyingmoon]

💜 This I Promise 💜

***

LIX. Choice

***

YOU FUCKING BITCH!

You're worthless.

Do not show your face ever again!

You,... fucking liar!

I will never abandon you,...

"Look at you, three." Kenny drawled. "The man who sold himself and the woman he loves in exchange for knowledge. The man who drove away the woman who loves him dearly. And the woman in the middle of it all,...

... how very, very interesting,..."

Kenny observed with mild interest as the two younger men kneel on the floor before (F/N). Poor creatures who couldn't do anything against him in fear that the woman they love would be murdered if they so much as move a single toe.

(F/N), on the other hand, was as calm as the calm before a storm. Maybe she's keeping it all in?

He scratched his temple as he gazed at her.

"No complaints now, Princess?" he told her with the annoying amusement in his old, yet playful, eyes.

Slowly, (F/N) gave the man  she trusted once a look of utter disdain.

"There is no need to spill blood this time, Kenny." she said, her tone deprived of that cheerfulness it once had the last time they met. When everything was still okay.

"And why?" Kenny still asked, even though he knew the answer all along.

"The people need these men. I, on the other hand, am not needed." she simply said. "I' am,... nothing. Trash. Useless. Kill me instead." she had accepted her fate just like that.

And it didn't amuse the men even the tiniest bit.

"NO!" Levi bellowed, still on the floor and trying not to tackle Kenny. "Don't lay a single finger on her! Kill me! KILL ME INSTEAD!"

"No." argued Erwin, who was also on the floor and struggling not to do anything but speak. "It is I who started all this. If I didn't intervene with (F/N)'s life in the first place, this wouldn't have happened. A lot of people died because of me, and now I will she's going to die because of me. Kill me."

"NO! DID YOU NOT HEAR WHAT I SAID?!" (F/N) screamed in anger at the top of her lungs, getting tired of all the shit that's happening to her all over again. "I SAID I'M USELESS! WORTHLESS! I NEVER DID ANYTHING TO HELP HUMANITY AND I' AM A FUCKING COWARD!"

"You're not a coward, (F/N)!" Levi retorted. "Listen to me; I'm so sorry I - "

"SHUT YER FUCKIN' TRAP UP!" Kenny roared as he fired a single shot that made them all silent. He brought his gun down and inhaled sharply in a strong effort to control his temper. Then, he turned to (F/N), a vein seemingly popping angrily out of his temple. "Didn't I tell you that I didn't want to kill you?"

"Then, what madness is this?!" (F/N) screamed at him. "If you're going to kill me, just get on with it and set them free!"

All of a sudden, as Kenny was distracted with (F/N), Erwin stood up and ran towards the man to disarm him. However, Kenny's reflexes was too fast, even for a seasoned Soldier like him. In the blink of an eye, Kenny turned, pointed his gun towards Erwin, and shot him in the right arm at the exact momnet before he could be disarmed, sending blood splattering all over the floor and unto Levi, whose eyes widened with fear.

(F/N)'s fear escalated completely as Erwin fell to the ground, writhing in pain.

"Erwin!" (F/N) strained too hard to escape, but she was met with the muzzle of Kenny's gun just inches away from her face.

"Now, if you truly wish to all die here, then be my guest." Kenny warned in a low tone full of dangerous and murderous threat. "That man had it coming for him. If you don't want the other one to get hurt badly, then sit back and obey like a dog."

"Let them go, please!" (F/N) pleaded, her stupid tears already starting to fall down her face. "It is me you want. I told you! Kill me now! Kill me and set these men free!"

"Oh? Are you sure about that?" Kenny said then turned towards the two men. Upon seeing his stupid nephew as he hesitantly helped the suffering Erwin, a thought crossed his mind. A thought so interesting that it made his blood boil in excitement. He turned back towards (F/N) and the girl noticed something sinister playing in his cold, steel - blue eyes. "How about this, then?"

Kenny walked away from (F/N) towards Levi who was still on the floor trying to stop Erwin's bleeding with his hand. Then, he grabbed Levi's hair and pulled it so hard that his head jerked.

"TCH!" Levi clicked his tongue helplessly, knowing that he couldn't fight back, for Kenny might really (F/N) for real.

Then, the older man smiled as he pointed the gun at Levi's temple. This earned an extreme reaction of fear from (F/N). Her eyes widened and she struggled even more to escape.

"NO! DON'T KILL HIM, PLEASE! I BEG YOU!" (F/N) cried, begging Kenny even though she knew it was useless.

"Oh?" Kenny drawled, both amusement and murder dancing devilishly in those eyes of his. "From what I deducted, this man in particular,..." Kenny pulled Levi's hair even harder to make him look up. "... has caused great suffering towards you."

"If you want to kill me, then do it." Levi whispered to Kenny savagely. "I know you. You've shed too much blood than I could ever see. If it's bloodlust you're looking for, then do it already!"

"But, I don't want to kill you, either. What's the fun in that?" Kenny let go of Levi's hair, making the younger man fall just beside Erwin. The Commander noticed this and gave Kenny an angry look.

"Oh, you going to say anything?" Kenny asked Erwin calmly as he stalked his way back towards (F/N).

"I know,... what you're up to." Erwin muttered, then winced in pain at his slight movement.

Levi's eyes widened as he looked at Erwin.

"Hey, what are you blabbering about now?" he asked the Commander, but he was ignored.

"If you're going to kill anyone, do it to me!" Erwin bellowed. "DON'T MAKE HER DO IT!"

"Oh? You catch up fast." Kenny said as he loosened (F/N)'s binds.

(F/N) couldn't quite catch up with what's happening around her as she was forced out of the chair by Kenny and was made to stand up. And when Kenny gave her his gun, it finally dawned upon her.

With eyes wide as saucers, she looked at all the men in the room, then at the gun in her hand.

No, this can't be happening,...

"YOU SICK BASTARD!" Levi screamed at Kenny.

Kenny just laughed really hard at this as though it was the best piece of entertainment he had ever seen. Then, he took another gun from his holster and pointed it towards the men.

"Now, you decide, Princess." he said calmly. "Or I'll make the choice. Murder one, just one, and I'll set you and whoever you spare free. Then, I'll never bother you ever again. I promise that."

"And what if I don't choose one?" she asked, still shocked of what's happening.

"Then, I'll kill all of you. I'm actually being generous here. I'm even letting you make the choice." Kenny dralwed lazily. "Now, choose. Which one will you kill? Is it the man who misled you and gave you a false identity or the man who hurt you to the bone? Which is it? Oh, but it doesn't matter, right? They're both liars, after all!"

(F/N) held the gun firmly and looked at the men who both hurt her. But, seeing them in such a state just hurt her feelings.

But, Kenny was right. They're both liars.

Is there no other way out of this mess? There is no justice with her spilling anyone's blood, and Kenny would just kill all of them if she tries so much as point the gun towards him.

Is there no way out?

"Come on, Princess, I'm losing my patience here!"

"(F/N), listen to me." Levi started. "If,... if you kill me, that's fine. He's right, I hurt you terribly, and there is nothing in this world I could do to atone for all of my sins against you. I'm sorry that I hurt you. And please, believe me when I say that I love you. I want you to live a long and happy life away from pain. So, please, point that gun towards me and end my life now,..."

"(F/N), listen,..." Erwin almost coughed his own words. "Forget all of this and just kill me. I was the one who manipulated you. I' am a sick bastard who used you to gain knowledge and power. I' am the one who deserved to die. Kill me now."

(F/N)'s tears fell down her face relentlessly as her shoulders dropped helplessly.

"I - I can't,..."

"What is that?" Kenny strained to hear her words, his gun still pointed towards the men. "I can't hear you - "

"DON'T MAKE ME DO THIS! I CAN'T KILL THEM!" (F/N) screamed at Kenny, her tear - stained face ripping the men's heart into pieces.

"And why is that, huh? Oh, I know,..." Kenny grabbed (F/N) by the collar and almost lifted her up the ground with just one hand. "You both love them, don't you?!"

"DON'T HURT HER!" Levi shouted. "(F/N), kill me and set yourself free!"

"I CAN'T!"

"AND WHY NOT?!" Kenny bellowed as he dropped (F/N) to the floor and grabbed her by her hair. He pulled so hard until Levi and Erwin could see her forehead. Until they could see the ugly stitches that marked the pain that started all this misery. "Those are some ugly stitches, Princess. I wonder where you got them, eh? Oh, I know!" Kenny pointed his gun towards Levi, his fingers playing with the trigger. "YOU caused it, DIDN'T YOU?!"

"No, he did not,..."

"Aww, stop lying to me, sugar. You know he was too blind for his love towards his dead girlfriend that he did this thing to you. How evil of him to do that to you!"

Levi's blood ran cold as he was reminded of that night many months ago.

Of that night when he broke his teacup unto her forehead.

It tore his heart apart just thinking of that painful night, but one thing certainly unnerved him,...

... how did Kenny know about the details of his life? Was it because of that spy, Rodrick Pauls, he sent to woo Petra and use her to kill him?

No, Rodrick Pauls was a member of Sutherland's cult. There was no way he was connected to Kenny. Unless, there was a missing piece here,...

"Isn't that fact not enough for you to kill Levi?" Kenny asked (F/N), still pulling hert hair. "Or perhaps, you wanted to kill the former Commander?"

"I-i can't,..."

"Then, I'll just kill all of you - !"

"(F/N)! POINT THE GUN AT ME NOW!" Erwin roared. "I ORDER YOU!"

"NO!" (F/N) screamed.

"What now? You can't kill him, too?" Kenny said with a raised eyebrow. "And here I thought Rod was a playboy. Didn't know there was female counterpart of him,..."

"I can't! I can't kill them! Please, I beg you, Kenny! Kill me now!" (F/N) cried, dropping her gun to the floor.

"(F/N), Kenny is right." Levi said all of a sudden. The calmness in his tone made (F/N) look up at him. Right then and there, he did something that (F/N) didn't really expect.

He smiled at her.

He smiled at her.

And the sight stabbed her heart over and over again like a cold knife.

"(F/N), do you remember the first time I saw you?" he asked her calmly. "It wasn't exactly filled with happiness. I hurt you, slapped you hard enough to give you an ugly bruise. But, what did you do? You still held unto me in the hope that I will accept you. But, I didn't and I even hurt more. Humiliated you. Bullied you. Hurt you to no end. Then, I lied to you and disgraced you. Do you remember that? There is nothing in this world that could heal that wound I dealt to you last night. I' am a sinner, and there is no repentance for people like me."

(F/N)'s eyes widened in the realization that Levi really wanted her to kill him because he thought that he would never forgive her.

"Erwin, on the other hand, may have hurt you, but that was just to protect you. He deserved you more than I do. He'll even give you the life you deserved. Now, grab that gun and point it towards me. There is no regret for killing a person such as me." Levi said as the smile on his face slowly vanished. "Do it, and you will be free from all this pain."

"I don't have much time, Princess! Do it now!" Kenny screamed angrily and impatiently.

(F/N) grabbed the gun with shaking hands and looked at the men for one last time. Erwin was on the floor was steadily losing blood, if she don't act now and fast, he will definitely die of bloodloss.

Levi, on the other hand, was as calm as he ever could be.

She was about to point the gun when she saw Levi's smile once more. His lips opened and out came the words that she would never, ever, forget,...

I will never abandon you, even after death. This I promise,...

(F/N) smiled upon realizing what Levi just said to her. A single tear rolled down her flushed cheek as she stood up. Kenny smiled; she had made her decision.

She raised the gun, her finger on the trigger,...

... and pointed it against her head,...

***

~ @levi4mikasa , @yepps , @chocolate-mmilk , @nerdyphantomlady , @shewolfofficial , @unhappysap , @super-peace-fangirl , @fangurl-ontgeside , and @emilyackerman78 . 💜

***

💜💜💜

***

[crossbows-and-moonshine]

Blood in the Water (Sequel to Such a Softer Sin) Chapter 21 [COMPLETE]

Last one my lovelies. I’m sorry if this ending isn't good enough for you or this whole story has been a letdown, I’m not as happy with it as I was with Such a Softer Sin, but there we go. It's not over for these three yet, the third one will be on its way eventually when I’ve dealt with my other fics.

In the meantime, thanks for sticking with me.

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

Lila fisted Murphy's hair, tugging harshly and making him groan into the kiss as he ravaged her mouth, exploring every inch with abandon, like it was the last time he would ever get the chance. She was straddling him on the couch, it was a little awkward since her pregnant belly was quite big now at just almost 9 months pregnant with twins. But they made it work, they always did. Some things between them had changed over the course of the pregnancy, one of them being their sex lives. Lila was a horny little thing most of the time but she was also fussy as shit. They didn't fuck her at the same time much anymore, she would instead seek each brother out individually for what they could offer her. Connor had always been more in control, slower, somewhat gentler, which was ironic since he was the harder hearted brother, but he was tender with her, more so now she was pregnant. Always muttering how beautiful she was as he fucked her, making her feel good about her growing body. Murphy, on the other hand, had always been a little more passionate and firey with her, and it only seemed to increase with their babies in her belly. When she needed a good hard fuck, one where she couldn't walk for a little after, Murphy would be the one she went to. The twin who would whisper deliciously naughty promises in her ear as he gave it to her good. They never got jealous if she saught the other one of them out, they knew her hormones were crazy right now and they each offered her something different. As long as she was happy, then so were they. If it wasn't broke, then don't fix it right?

Lila had become so self-conscious now, she felt like a whale, and the boys had done everything in their power to help her with it. To them, she was a vision, she was even more beautiful than she was before and they hadn't thought that possible, but it was. Things eased up a little after one of her sobbing fits when her pants wouldn't fasten, oh how she had cried. Murphy felt for her, he felt for her so much that before his brain even realised what he was doing, he had admitted that her being pregnant turned him on a little, that it was like some kind of primal urge inside was deeply satisfied with their babies in her belly. He had been mortified at admitting such a thing, and Lila had been shocked, but soon enough he was balls deep inside of her and had her screaming so it all worked out for the best he noticed.

Connor was in the kitchen working on the food, Murphy was supposed to be helping him but it appeared he’d become distracted by their girl and her hormones once again. Lila had been teaching them how to cook without burning the place down, and so far, they were doing alright much to everyone's surprise. He glanced over, smirking to himself as she moaned, grinding down on his brother as he nipped at her throat. He fucking loved to watch her when she was like this, like watching something utterly fascinating unfolding right before his eyes. She gasped and suddenly her eyes went wide, both her and Murphy glancing down between them. Connor raised a brow amused as he sipped his water, wondering why they were both shocked, surely they had expected the boy to have a boner.

“Did ye just...piss on me?” Murphy asked warily, making Connor choke on his mouth full of water. The thought of Lila pissing on him almost had him on the floor with laughter, that would be fucking amusing. It wouldn't be the first time she had issues with her bladder, she did have two babies pressing on it after all. But after the first time she had done it whilst unloading groceries, she had locked herself in the bedroom for hours on end crying out of shame. The twins had sat down outside the bedroom door as she wouldn't let them in. They didn't think it was that much of a big deal, shit happened, but she was mortified. The boys didn't give up though and Connor ended up telling her about the time Murphy pissed himself in McGintys when he’d had one too many. Of course, the dark-haired boy looked to his brother with a horrified scowl, his ears burning bright that he had told her, but it got her to unlock the door so he let it go.

Lila looked scared though now, sat in Murphy lap as he looked up at her almost accusingly and Connor furrowed his brow for a moment.

“I think my water just broke,” she muttered, her body tense and unmoving. There was a brief millisecond where it got so silent, the twins' eyes as wide as Lilas now, they could practically hear crickets chirping in the background. The gravity of the words she just said hit them hard.

“The babies are comin’?” Connor asked tensely from his spot in the kitchen, none of them seemed to be able to move for a moment. But as soon as her eyes went to him, nodding with her big wide eyes, that was it. All feelings shelved as he went into plan mode and he darted off to the bedroom. They had been prepared for the babies coming early, they had learnt at the classes they had attended that twins often tended to be somewhat premature, so Connor had a bag already packed with everything in it.

Lila got up on shaky legs, Murphy helping her as he stood, looking still in shock that this was it, it was time. A sharp pain ripped through her belly that seemed to resonate throughout her entire body and she cried out, doubling over as she clutched her stomach.

“What? What is it?! Connor! CONNOR!” Murphy practically shrieked, almost hysterical as Connor rushed into the room with the bag over his shoulder.

“What's wrong?” he asked panicked, looking from his brother to Lila who was still hunched over tearfully.

“What the fucks wrong with her?” Murphy asked sounding like a terrified boy and Connors' heart ached for him for just a moment. Connor walked over, stroking her back soothingly.

“Contractions ye fuckin’ twit, if ye listened in class ye’d know,” Connor chided lightly, paying more attention to comforting the girl in pain.

They had attended every class they could to prepare themselves for all of this yet nothing seemed to be able to prepare them for the reality of it. Connor had once again been a sponge, eager for knowledge. His brother took great delight in ribbing him over the fact Connor had even brought a pad and pen and took notes. Lila thought it was adorable though, it reminded her of how eager to learn he was when he quizzed her about trying for a baby, or when he was learning to drive. Murphy, of course, had listened somewhat, it wasn't that he didn't want to be there, but the boy didn't have the best attention span. Instead, he was more interested in attaching the breast pump to Connors nipples or juggling with the model fetuses. It had lightened the mood of the group attending the class and made more than a few people chuckle, it was like being back in school. But now he was paying for it since he felt so un-fucking-prepared.

Connor had them in the car in a flash, Murphy in the back with Connor driving. He wanted to hold her, to comfort her, but his task was driving so he tried to focus, glancing at her in the rear view mirror when he could to check she was okay. She cried out again as another contraction hit her and she grasped Murphy’s hand, squeezing so tight he yelped.

“Fuckin’ hell, I don't think I’ll have a hand left when she’s done,” Murphy whined, locking eyes with his brothers in the mirror.

“Fuckin’ shut it ye big baby. Think o’ the pain she’s in, it’s worse than that,” Connor scolded once again. Murphy blanched though, he wasn't exactly wrong. So he let her squeeze the shit out of his hand, even if she broke a few fingers along the way.

By the time she was in the hospital bed, the staff bustling around her, she was dripping in sweat, her head dizzy from meds they gave her that clearly weren't working because it still hurt like a bitch.

“I can't do this,” she sobbed helplessly and the boys looked to her feeling their hearts constrict. She was in so much pain and nothing could have prepared the pair of them for how much it would hurt them to see her like this.

“Sure ye can sweetheart, yer almost there,” Connor soothed as he placed a sweet kiss on her forehead.

“That's easy for you to say, you don't have a baby coming out of your fucking vagina,” she snapped, glaring at him. He blinked at her, willing himself not to laugh at how adorable she was when she was angry, he knew she was only being like this because she was hurting and that thought made him sad.

“I know we don’t love, but we’re here for ye,” Murphy chimed in from her other side, stroking her cheek and making her look at him and she exhaled a breath, calming down.

Another few contractions later and she was pushing, the doctors telling her not to stop, she was almost there, and as she squeezed the boys hands until they were blue, she heard the cry of a baby fill the room as she slumped back in the bed. She felt dazed, a mixture of the drugs and the tiredness and the boys couldn't take their eyes off where they had taken the baby to quickly clean them up and wrap a blanket around them. It wasn't lost on them the colour of the blanket when the nurse returned. None of them had known what they would be having. On the morning of the scan where they should have found out, the boys had bickered so relentlessly; Murphy saying they were girls, Connor that they were boys, that when the sonographer asked her if they wanted to know, she said no. The boys had been mortified, begging and pleading but she stuck her ground.

“Congrats on a healthy baby girl,” she smiled, handing the baby to Lila whilst she had the chance before the other baby decided to pop out and say hello. She stared at the wide blue-eyed infant in her arms, with her little smatter of ginger hair on her tiny head. A sob left Lilas lips, feeling so overwhelmed at finally meeting one of her children, her daughter.

“HA! I fuckin’ told ye!” Murphy declared proudly from beside him, pointing at his brother with one hand, wiping his eyes with the other. Connor turned his adoring eyes from the baby in Lilas' arms to his brother and squinted.

“Fuck you! We still have another one on the way ye smart ass!” he countered before they started bickering, causing the staff to snort and shake their heads. Lila tuned them out though, all she had eyes for was that the little bundle in her arms. She could never put into words the love she felt at that moment, it was a love like no other she had ever felt and she felt so full of love it felt like she was about to burst at the seams.

She cried out once more, the next baby seemingly ready and the nurse quickly took their daughter, putting her in a little crib so Lila could give birth to the next one. She wasn't sure if it was the drugs or her mind playing tricks on her, but it felt like this one came out quicker, and soon enough after a few pushes, baby number two was wailing. And this time when they handed the blue blanket wrapped baby to the new mother, it was Connor that had a shit eating grin on his face. Murphy just sneered, not even saying a word, he had won too after all. The nurse helped Lila hold both babies, showing her how to do it and the tired girl just blinked at her children, in awe of the fact she was now a mother. The boys watched her, Murphy sniffling and wiping his eyes every second since the tears never stopped. But it wasn't until Connor started swaying on his feet a little next to her that she finally looked up. It was like she knew what was coming before he did and she went to say something when his eyes rolled back into his head and he went limp. Luckily his brother had been there to catch him, hauling him into the chair next to the bed with a snort.

“Really Connor?” Murphy asked wryly to his brother who clearly couldn't hear him.

“I wondered when it would be his turn to faint,” Lila snorted tiredly, looking over as Murphy made sure his brother was comfortable before he moved over, sitting on the edge of the bed. He reached out, stroking each babies head affectionately and Lila felt her heart fill with even more love.

“Do you want to hold one?” she asked, looking at him with her watery eyes, only to find his just as watery.

“Nah, best wait for Connor to wake,” he replied softly, causing the girl to smile to herself. She could never tire of how they both cared for each other, always looking out for the other.

“I’m really proud o’ ye Lila,” he stated, catching her off guard for a second as she blinked at him. He could see just how tired she was and he couldn't exactly blame her after what she had just managed to do. He and Connor had always said women were a fuck tonne stronger than men and this was reason number one. There was no way in hell he could do what she had just done and it only made his immense amount of love for her intensify.

She just blushed a little and ducked her head, looking back at the babies. He reached over, stroking her hair affectionately as he looked at her like some kind of hidden relic.

“I mean it m’girl,” he insisted, making her heart constrict in her chest. She was feeling more than overemotional with everything that happened and this was just making it worse. She didn't have a chance to respond though as Connor groaned and stirred in the chair, drawing her and Murphy eyes over to him.

“Fuckin’ hell, what happened?” he asked warily as he sat up and rubbed his eyes, looking wildly confused.

“Ye passed out ye fuckin’ pussy,” Murphy laughed gleefully, earning a look from Lila that shut him up.

“Well o’ course I did. Our wee babes have just come inte the world and I took one look at them and me brain fuckin’ couldn't cope,” Connor snorted, trying to brush it off but Lila didn't fail to miss the slight blush that swept across his cheeks.

Murphy didn't pass any other snarky remarks though because he could feel just how emotional his brother was, he was fighting his own tears every time he looked at those precious little things in their girl's arms.

“You gonna hold them now?” Lila asked as she glanced from one to another, and without words, Connor knew his twin hadn't held one yet simply because he had been out cold, and he was grateful because this was something he wanted them to do together. Connor stood in unison with Murphy as he reached out and took the little boy, Murphy taking the little girl. Lila couldn't stop watching them, how they stared at the babies with dopey smiles on their faces.

“Hello me wee lass, aren't ye a pretty thing, just like yer Ma. I’ll be fightin’ them off wit’ sticks until yer fuckin’ 30,” Murphy grinned, poking the tiny baby's nose. Lila smiled to herself as Connor huffed out a laugh.

“So...Have you thought of names yet?” Lila asked curiously, stifling a yawn. She had agreed to let the boys name the babies on the condition that next time it was her turn, no matter how many babies there were. They had been over the moon about the idea of getting to choose a name each, especially now since there was a boy and a girl.

“Alanna,” Murphy beamed, his bright eyes on his daughter in his arms.

“Quinn,” Connor stated proudly. The boys looked to each other, sharing a look that said they approved of each name before looking to their girl. Her face was neutral, showing no sign of what she really thought about the names.

“Hm… I don't know. I was thinking more...Joan and Keith,” she said, her face dead serious. Murphy paled a little, shifting a little with the baby as he shot a nervous glance at his brother.

“Joan? And...Kieth?” Connor asked carefully, like he hadn't heard right, but much to their dismay, she nodded.

“Ye can't name the babies that, they sound like old people!” Murphy said horrified, unable to even hide it in his tone. Lila squinted at him and he blanched a little.

“Old people were babies once too ya know?” she huffed, scowling at them. The boys fell silent, looking down at the babies, the names she suggested were awful and they didn’t want to subject their children to grow up with old people names, but she had just spent hours pushing these little souls out of her own body and they were actually scared to argue with her. There was a tense moment of silence before Lila burst out laughing, the twins looked at her warily like she had grown another head.

“Oh my God I’m kidding!” she snorted, covering her mouth a little to quieten herself. Murphy squinted at her playfully as Connor pursed his lips. They should have fucking known she’d fuck about with this, they didn't know why they didn't see it coming.

“I actually really love Alanna and Quinn, I think it suits them,” she smiled lovingly, her eyes glancing from one baby to another. The twins felt the relief sweep through them with a sense of pride they had picked names good enough for her.

Lila relaxed back in the bed as she felt her weak body getting more tired, her eyes getting heavy, but she fought to stay awake just to watch her boys with their babies.

“Get some rest sweetheart, me and Murphy will watch over them for a bit, ye need te get yer strength back up,” Connor said firmly, making it obvious she didn't really have a choice, not that she would fight him anyway. She was far too tired for that. Not to mention, pretty soon the rest of the MacManus clan, Rocco included, would be here to see the babies and she really needed to rest up for that ordeal. She snuggled under the blanket, wincing at the ache everywhere, especially in between her legs. She settled down, closing her eyes with a smile as she heard the boys talking to the babies.

------

Epilogue

Murphy walked in the bedroom, seeing Lila fast asleep on top of the bed, fully dressed. A one-month-old Alanna stirred and squirmed in the bassinet by the bed and Murphy swiftly went to grab her so she didn't wake Lila. Life with two babies had been hard on all three, they rarely got any sleep these days, but they helped each other out, working as a team to make it as smooth as possible. As he left the room and shut the door, he stopped dead in his tracks, glancing down at the cherubic little face of his daughter.

“Fuckin’ hell Alanna, did ye wait for ye Ma te fall asleep te do that? Anyone would think ye hate me,” he whined as he got a whiff of a smell he rather he hadn't.

“Connor!” he called out as he walked into the living room, receiving a scowl off his twin as he shushed him. Connor was holding Quinn as he sat on the armchair and by the looks of it, the little boy had only just fallen asleep. Murphy looked sheepish for almost waking him as he walked over and carefully sat on the couch.

“Yer daughters had a shit again, its yer turn,” Murphy said looking at Connor. Connor quirked a brow with a smirk.

“I like how she's my daughter and not ours whenever ye wanna get outta changin’ her fuckin’ diaper,” Connor snorted amused.

“C’mon! I did it last time,” Murphy huffed petulantly.

“Because I won fair and square,” Connor grinned smugly.

A few minutes later had Murphy grumbling as he changed her diaper after once again losing rock paper scissors to his brother. He knew he would lose, he did every time, it didn't stop him from doing it though. Once she was clean and didn't smell anymore, he picked her up, cradling her against his chest and he went back over to the couch. He glanced over at Connor, his twin was staring down at the sleeping boy with a smile. Despite the fact the babies were now a month old, it still felt surreal that they were there.

“We’re the luckiest fuckers alive,” Connor muttered, still smiling as he lifted his eyes to his brother. Murphy grinned in agreement, he knew they were. After everything that had happened between the three of them, they had always managed to come out on top, even after they fucked up in the worst way with their girl. They knew they were punching above their weight with the girl, she could do miles better, not that they'd tell her that. Now they were a real little family and it wasn't lost on the boys how much the second chance Lila had given them had changed their lives. They were glad she had given that chance, to repair the damage the best they could and spend the rest of their lives paying for what they did. She was everything to them, their soul mate and best friend. And now she had given them the two best gifts they ever could have asked for. She was an angel, just like they had always said, and they were never letting her go.

Taglist; @risingphoenix761 @daryldixonandfrogs @arlaina28 @divadinag @keeperofwonderlandus

[trashpandaorigins]

An Exchange

Rocket said they were going to get Gamora back. He didn’t say anything about how. 

Sequel to A Favor

“You said we were gonna get her back!” Quill sucked a breath through his teeth, shivering in the cold.

“I know what I said,” Rocket growled through gritted teeth. “I didn’t say anything about how.” The humie stepped forward brows knitting in anger. Rocket preparing himself for the fiery words but Drax’s large arm intercepted placing a large hand on Quill’s shoulder momentarily placating the man. The six of them resumed their steely brooding, allowing the wind to take away whatever words they may have uttered.

“Your companion was sacrificed to the Soul Stone,” the thin voice of the weirdo with the red skull intoned. “In order to retrieve her another must take her place. Only then can you…”

“Yeah yeah, we get it.” Rocket waved a paw dismissively. Mantis sniffled, tears nearly freezing on her red cheeks. She stood beside Nebula who’s look of determination spoke for itself. Finally she stepped forward.

“I will…”

“No,” Quill snapped in that voice Rocket learned to recognize as a mind made up. “I’ll do it,” he breathed, looking around at the rest of them. Nebula’s dark eyes flashed, going immediately to a place of anger.

“I can’t let you do that.” Quill leveled his gaze at the cyborg woman.Years of misbegotten fury projected towards her. Born from Gamora’s half-told stories. He clenched his jaw against the cold of the mountain.

“And why not?” He demanded, the woman remained tense in her place like a spring ready to go off. Unwavering in the frigid wind. Her eyes narrowed,

“She loves you too much.”  Quill blinked for a moment his face quickly grimacing into anger once more.

“Well...she doesn’t,” he cleared his throat, “exactly hate you either.” Nebula looked away, fists clenching at her side.

“It doesn’t matter, I’ll…”

“I AM GROOT!” Quill, Nebula, Drax and Mantis followed the flora’s wide eyed stare of horror carved into his face. They turned just in time to see ringed tail pitch over the edge of the cliff.  

“No!” Quill sprung, only to be thrown to the ground as Groot’s elongated arm shot past him, following the raccoonoid down over the edge. “Groot,” he gasped watching with dismay as the flora retracted his empty hand. Nebula poised over the edge, head bent, lips drawn into a thin line. The wind howled, Quil groaned picking himself up off the ground watching. Waiting, hung in suspended horror. It had to work...it had to.

“...Peter?” That voice. Tears pricked the edge of his eyes and he took a breath before turning around. Bracing himself for the possibility of another illusion. Yet there she was, standing before them.

“Gamora!” His arms were around her in an instant gripping her tight. She was here, she was alive and physical and here. He sniffed, throat catching with her scent. He closed his eyes even as Drax’s large arms enveloped around them. Mantis squealed something through her tears but Quill didn’t catch it.

He clung to her, pressing her tight against him as if he could hold her there forever. Before too long, she grew restless, pulling away. He beamed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

“What happened?” Gamora wondered aloud, head still in a fog though Quill’s embrace was somehow bringing her back slowly, like returning to the surface of the water and breathing again. One minute falling, then pain...then...orange light everywhere and now, here she was standing again on solid ground before them. “Thanos! Did he…?”

“Dead.” Drax broke off his hug, Mantis and Groot and the rest of them parting to behold the  cyborg woman. Gamora could only nod, numb. Her eyes slowly taking them all in. Quill, Drax, Nebula, Mantis, Groot.

“Rocket,” she whispered, searching. “Where’s Rocket?” Quill swallowed folding his arms against the freezing wind. Her stomach dropped. “Peter where is he?!”

“He jumped,” Nebula answered gruff, still poised over the edge of the presupposes. Gamora’s knees nearly buckled. I asked him to shoot me, she recalled bits and pieces. He felt responsible.

“Puppy?” Gamora lifted her head, at Mantis’s gasp of joy; looking past Quill to where something shifted between the craggy rocks. It couldn’t be….

“Rocket!” Quill laughed, bounding towards him. “You son of a bitch how...how did you..” Rocket, on all fours curled his body tightly fur bristling,  he bared his pointed white teeth, letting out a low growl. Quill stumbled to a halt hand dropping to his side in defeat. Rocket only snarled once more, his hackles raised staring at them with ferocious fear.

“I am Groot!” Gamora bit her tongue as Groot shoved past them, reaching out a hand towards Rocket. The raccoonoid’s ears twitched, examining the wooden hand.

“Furry friend,” Drax’s bombastic voice broke the spell. “We were afraid you were lost to us! What a relief that you…” Rocket snapped his teeth, scarcely missing Groot’s fingertips. He jerked his head backward and uttered a ferocious chittering sound before turning tail and dashing on all fours in between the boulders. Quill’s large eyes stared back at her, searching for answers she couldn’t give.

---

Back on the Benetar Gamora watched Quill try to contain Rocket, who hadn’t said anything but hisses and squeaks. “What are we going to do with him? Quill’s border line squeaked.

“Let us keep him!” Drax suggested, making no attempts to come any closer.

“Wh...what keep him? Keep him what like a pet?”  Quill grunted, struggling to manage the writhing animal in his arms. The tattooed man nodded with amusement.

“No,” Nebula came forward “That is the last thing he would’ve wanted.” As much as Gamora hated to admit it, she was probably right. The he in question twisted his neck, jaws opening and clamped down on Quill’s vulnerable hand.

“Shit!” He dropped Rocket with a thud, pressing against his wound as the blood dribbled down his arm. “No one help me!” He yelled, dashing after Rocket. Gamora rolled her eyes, s houldn’t he know better then to use sarcasm? Still, she  ran down the metal corridors of the ship after him. Drax, Mantis, Nebula and Groot only stared at each other in confusion for a moment before getting the hint. When they finally caught up, the raccoonoid, or actual raccoon as it now appeared, was backed into a corner between two storage bins. Every hair on his body sticking straight up, tail lashing.

“Let me,” Gamora stopped him with a look. He bit his lip, finally relenting with a grunt and a nod. Gamora crouched down,  a shiver running down her spine beholding Rocket’s face. Foreign eyes, large and dark with no distinction between pupil and iris. His wet nose sniffed experimentally “Rocket,” she whispered, intent on keeping her voice level. “Rocket it’s us...it’s alright. She knew better than to reach her hand out. Rocket only sniffed once more, his ears perked forward in a curious stare, whiskers quivering. She watched as he dropped on all fours again. “That’s it…” she continued, his face unreadable. All those times spent bickering, his relentlessly irritating argumentative rants, the memories continued to come back like waves, breaking upon her consciousness. All the late night hours spent down in the engine room helping him work out the kinks in his cybernetics...realizing they were both not quite monsters. Come on Rocket you are better than this, stronger then this I know you are. She searched for that knowledge in those dark eyes but there was nothing. He only licked at his nimble paws and padded off down the hall with disinterest.

“What did it do to him?” Quill’s voice tore Gamora from her thoughts. “That place….how did he come back..?” The words of the red skull echoed in her mind…. a soul for a soul. No…

“The soul stone requires the sacrifice of one soul for another,” she mumbled, carefully stepping down the hall. “But Rocket...he wasn’t born with a soul...at least not like ours.”

“What are you saying?” Quill’s voice hitched as they rounded the corner, Gamora searched for Rocket’s small form amid the boxes and weapons.

“An uplift Peter,” she sighed. The weight of her return suddenly heavy. “He was uplifted in a lab.” She watched him take it in, the veins in his neck pulsing. A gun skidded across the ground by Rocket’s crawling.

“But...you mean...he’s not…” Quill looked at her with reproach. Gamora shook her head, eyes heavy with exhaustion.

“He is as he was before...before he was given a soul.” Her face twisted in disgust, “as if it was a gift given to him by the grace of those scientist.” Images of Thanos torturing Nebula, the feel of his cold steel and electric devices against her own flesh.

---

The stars gleamed beautifully through the large windows of the Benatar. The galaxy, so vast and infinite. Ever expansive. Unknowable. Like the soul realm itself. She took a breath, leaning against the cool glass. Groot sat across the common area, head hunched over his game. He hadn’t spoken since his last attempt to coax some sort of recognition from Rocket. The low tone of music emanated from their room. He too hadn’t said much. None of them had, all of them tip toeing around the dilemma.

“Rocket!” He climbed up with his paws onto the lip of the bench where she sat. His wide eyes gazing out at the universe before them. She waited for some response, anything. Silence. He only raised his little hands to the window and licked at it. Gamora folded her knees to her chest. Rocket dropped to all fours, and she started as two little leathery paws clutched to her leg. “Rocket?” He only sniffled, eyes blinking with incomprehension. Words rose up inside her, the need to speak on some hope that somehow he would understand.

“You were right, Rocket. I”m not a monster. And neither are you.” He only rubbed his paws together, licking at them. “I just wished it hadn’t taken this…” she shook her head as if the thought could escape her mind. He  had always pushed them away, always argued and cursed. So jaded and guarded. Rocket who hurt people and expected to be abandoned, who stole and drank and hated everything and everyone. He was really the most kind and soft-hearted, most compassionate one of them all. In his own way. “Thank you.” Gamora reached out a hand hesitantly. Rocket scurried down from the bench before she could touch him. He waddled across the common area to where Groot busied himself over his game. Only looking up in confusion as Rocket sniffed at his leg and began to climb. Up his side, around his torso and wound himself around Groot’s neck. Gamora let herself wonder as Groot looked perturbed, but flicked his game off. A small smile cracked on the edges of his mouth as he too leaned against the adjacent window. He reached up, gently stroking Rocket’s head. Gamora smiled, letting her eyes close. Some things never changed.

[madscientistjournal]

Fiction: Disinhibited

An excerpt from the journals of Combat Search & Rescue Consultant Lana McGee, as provided by Myna Chang Art by Luke Spooner

Don’t call me a mercenary. Those guys are pricks. Kidnappers and murderers, the lot of them. I’m not like that. Sure, I get paid for my work, and yeah, I love a good explosion. Who doesn’t? But my job is to save people. Pull them out of bad situations. Bring them home safe.

I’m not an asshole.

“I didn’t think you were, Ma’am.”

Oh shit, did I say all that out loud?

“Yes, Ma’am, you did.”

Wow, this pilot doesn’t look old enough to shave, let alone fly a chopper.

“I shave, Ma’am.”

“You heard that, too?”

“Yes, Ma’am. My CO warned me this might happen.”

“Name’s Lana, not Ma’am. So, they told you about my disability?” Their word, not mine.

“They said you got a piece of shrapnel in your head. War souvenir. Said you blurt out whatever crosses your mind.”

“Yep,” I nod. “Frontal Lobe Disinhibition. Basically, if I think it, I say it. That’s why I’m freelancing now.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Not a merc. Got it.”

Pilot’s quick. And he does shave. Sexy stubble. Yum. Like to run my tongue up that jawline and–

“Due respect, Ma’am, I’m authorized to tell you to shut up.”

I bite my rogue tongue hard enough to draw blood. Damn it, Lana. Stop scaring the cute flyboy.

He flicks his eyes toward me and grins. “Truth is, Ma’am, I don’t scare easy.”

Oh. Well, then. I smile and shift in the seat. “Just to be clear … You wouldn’t mind–”

“Approaching the drop zone, Ma’am.”

I chuckle. His smile turns to a blush. Tease. “Fine, kick me out of your helicopter. Come on, Diamond, we’ve got people to rescue.”

My German Shepherd sits while I attach a jump harness to her K-9 armor. Takes about three seconds. We’ve done hundreds of these short jumps, and it never gets old. She woofs, ready to go.

“Godspeed.”

“You talking to me or the dog?”

“Both of you, Ma’am.”

He maneuvers the chopper over the moonlit compound and flashes a cheeky grin at me again. I try to keep my mouth shut, but as usual, the words tumble out.

“I’m probably gonna lick your stubbly jaw when this mission’s over, Pilot. Diamond might, too.”

“Countin’ on it, Ma’am.”

I laugh and step into the air.

~

The research facility sits on a swath of blacktop, devoid of plant life, a big wart on a bald head. The gate hangs open. I toss a handful of debris at the razor-wire fence, but it doesn’t spark. Looks like the power’s out. Not a good sign.

I was hoping this job would be a quickie: rescue the dashing scientist, secure his peculiar research, get home in time for dinner. Guess I should’ve known better. Anything involving Chase Mathews isn’t going to be easy.

“At least the compound hasn’t been bombed yet, huh girl?”

Diamond doesn’t respond. She’s good like that.

A Jeep sits abandoned near the fence. Wet-looking handprints smear the windshield, and a case of medical supplies has toppled onto the asphalt.

We skirt it, watching for movement, hoping for some sign of life as we approach the entrance. Nothing stirs. I tighten my grip on the MTAR submachine gun strapped across my chest, and we enter the facility.

Lobby’s dark, except for orange warning lights at the guard’s terminal. My NVGs flare in time with the flashes, so I pull them off. Diamond’s night vision is more reliable than the goggles, anyway. She’s the most capable combat partner I’ve worked with; I trust her with my life.

She nudges me. I nod, and she ghosts away, into the darkness. Nothing will get past her. A low growl, five yards to the right, alerts me to an enemy combatant. I bring my MTAR to bear, just in time. Two quick bursts, and the bad guy goes down.

I love this fucking gun. Compact and efficient, with a little kick. Kind of like me.

Diamond circles the lobby, vigilant, then returns to my side. I prod the body splayed in front of me. Scrawny dude, white lab coat. Blisters all over his face.

Or are those pustules? Jesus, that’s nasty looking. Diamond keens and backs away. I follow her lead. A blister-thing quavers and ruptures, spurting out thick goo. Hard to tell in the darkness, but I think it’s green.

I’ll never eat lime Jell-O again. Diamond rubs her head on my thigh; she won’t either.

“Come on, girl. Our dashing scientist isn’t going to rescue himself.”

She snorts her disapproval. Diamond had never liked Chase. She’d peed on his shoes every chance she got. My dog’s smart. I should have listened.

~

We creep down the hallway behind the guard station. Emergency lights flicker, strobing the corridor in snapshots of weirdness.

Flash. Body on the floor.

Flash. Smear of blood.

Flash. Heap of clothing, soaked with green sludge.

I wish the freakin’ light would either stay on or go dark. Vertigo pulses with every disco blink.

Diamond lets out a cautionary rumble, and I pull up my gun, ready to fire. A woman covered in angry boils slumps on the floor, back against the wall. She reaches out blindly, hands grasping air.

My first-aid kit’s in my pack, but I’m not ready to take my finger off the trigger guard; Diamond’s hackles are still up. The woman’s mouth opens and tainted saliva gushes out. Looks like pond scum.

I don’t think my emergency band-aids will do you much good, lady.

She jerks toward my voice, moaning. Spit froths on her lips. Several of her boils burst, popping like firecrackers, loud enough I can hear them over my thundering heartbeat. Syrupy goop, smelling of burnt licorice, oozes from the sores. Her body cants sideways and her shoulder hits the floor.

Nothing I can do will help her now. Maybe we’ll find a miracle cure in the lab. Diamond and I hug the far side of the hallway, avoiding her still-seeking arms. The thick fluids pooling around her body seem to throb in time with the emergency lights, and the cloying odor intensifies as we pass.

I’m not sure what we’ve gotten ourselves into, but I sure hope this bug isn’t airborne. Our combat armor should protect us from physical contaminants, but it doesn’t do anything to block out the stink.

We come to a junction. I remember the blueprints and hang a left. The bulb in this hallway’s dim, but at least it’s not blinking. Unfortunately, the path is blocked by a mass of writhing bodies.

All naked–explains the abandoned clothes back there–dotted with throbbing cysts. Many have already ruptured, leaving curdled trails of emerald slime. I stare, fascinated. The people are fusing together; everywhere the goo touches, their skin melds. Limbs, feet, heads, all merging into one giant blob.

Diamond paws the floor. One of the faces snaps up, focusing its attention on her. We back away. A distorted jaw juts out, leering. It trembles, and a body begins to emerge from the fused clump of flesh, first a shoulder, then a torso. Straining to reach us, it makes a squelching slurp and tears free–an arm, two legs.

The legs don’t match.

My stomach turns. The newly assembled monster stumbles and lurches at Diamond.

I shoot it in the head. It stops, but doesn’t fall, so I pop it again, center mass, where a heart and lungs should be. It totters for a split second before collapsing.

Diamond whines; the rest of the entangled mound of creatures squirms toward us. Maybe the gunfire got its–their?–attention. They stretch and heave, inching closer. Unnatural liquids gurgle and flesh splits as they rip themselves apart, rubbery appendages groping relentlessly in Diamond’s direction.

I flip the toggle on my MTAR to full auto and spray the clusterfuck. No way in hell those abominations are gonna get sticky with my pup. I let up on the trigger and watch for movement, then give them another blast, just to be sure.

I guess a full magazine was enough to do the job, which is good because, damn, that’s a scary pile of monsters. But now the hallway’s coated in weird-colored gore. Not gonna risk going through that mess. Doesn’t matter, though. According to the map, all hallways lead to the inner lab, where the research stuff should be stored.

And Chase. Can’t forget him, the handsome, charming scientist. My ex.

~

Don’t call me a mercenary. Those guys are pricks.

The electronic lock is toast and the lab door won’t open. Something’s wedged it shut. I kick it, hard, but that only hurts my foot.

“Chase? Are you in there?” Hope he’s not glued to the mishmash back in the hallway.

Diamond watches my back while I pound on the reinforced steel.

“Lana? Is that you?”

“Yeah, and I wanna see if you still turn me on.” Damn it.

“Are you infected?”

“I can still talk, can’t I?” Of course I can. It’s my biggest problem.

The door cracks open. He squints at me.

“Why’d they send you?”

“No one else’d take the job.” True story.

Diamond and I squeeze through the door and shove it closed again.

“Did you bring a platoon of Marines to save me?” Chase demands.

I spread my arms. “Just us.”

He groans.

Not as charming as I remember.

“If you’re all they sent,” he says, “they’re going to nuke the whole island, aren’t they?”

“Probably. I figure we’ve got another hour before the bombing starts.”

“No, no, no, it’s too valuable,” he mutters, already ignoring me.

Feels like old times.

His motions are jerky. He grabs a backpack and shoves miniature computer drives and scraps of paper into it.

Definitely not a turn-on anymore. Looks like hell, all bug-eyed and twitchy. Kinda soft around the edges.

He stops and glares at me.

Stinks, too.

“Still the motor-mouthed bitch.”

Oops. “I didn’t mean–”

“Yeah, you did. You’ve always been an asshole. The piece of shrapnel just makes it more obvious.”

That hurts. Gotta admit it. A muffled thud from the hallway preempts my snarky response. Diamond snarls, low and intense. The warning tone sends goosebumps up my spine.

“Chase, what happened to those people?”

He shrugs. “Sample got out. Spread a lot faster than I expected.”

“Sample? The research I’m supposed to retrieve?”

“Thought you were here to rescue me.”

“Yeah, but boss-man said you’re low priority. ‘Get the research,’ he said. ‘Grab the scientist, too, if you can.’ That’s what he said.”

“God, I hate the military,” Chase spits.

I have to agree, at least a little. CO didn’t mention the rest of the research staff. Guess the woman in the hall is zero-priority in his book. I call bullshit on that–I’ll save whoever I can.

“Is there a cure, or an antidote?”

“Why?” he asks, backing away from me. “Did you get any of the transfer medium on you?”

“You mean the green goo? No. But maybe some of the others are still alive.”

He goes back to rifling through the science junk on his desk. “I only make the contagions. Cures are someone else’s department.”

Seriously? “So you’re a full-on mad scientist now?”

“I prefer bioweapon engineer.”

I stare at him. Has he always been this cold-hearted?

Diamond barks, two short yips. That’s a yes.

Chase rolls his eyes and I realize I’ve spoken out loud again. He glares at Diamond.

“Bitch.”

“You talking to me or the dog?”

“What do you think?” He shoulders past me, opening a biohazard safe. Polished steel containers crowd the shelf. They look like those expensive vacuum insulated tumbler thingies. He yanks one out.

“You keep your weaponized slime in a fancy coffee cup?”

He sneers and shoves the container into the backpack. “I can’t believe they sent a brain damaged mercenary to rescue me.”

That’s ‘value-priced consultant’ to you, jerkface. Diamond snarls, exposing her fangs.

“Can you both shut up?” His hands shake.

Wait. Faster than he expected? How did the sample get out?

“A test,” he answers. “Proof of concept for the buyer.”

“You infected those people on purpose? So you can sell that stuff?”

He laughs. “You weren’t very smart, even before the shrapnel.” He zips his pack and turns.

Something’s wrong with his face.

Diamond’s growl modulates into a high-pitched howl–her extreme danger signal. Almost too late, I realize why: Chase is infected. I didn’t see it before. Hard to miss now.

I raise my MTAR. A smudge of emerald gel shimmers on the edge of the safe behind him. “Don’t move.”

He gapes at me, incredulous. “Put the gun down, Lana.”

I shake my head. “You must’ve gotten sloppy with your death jelly.”

“How dare you?” He frowns and scratches at a freshly blossoming pustule on his right cheek. His fingers drip green. “No!”

Diamond moves into a defensive position, guarding me. Chase stares dumbly at his stained hand. He raises frightened eyes to mine.

“Lana, help me.”

My gun barrel wavers. Diamond barks, short and sharp, warning him to stay back, reminding me to follow protocol. Chase reaches out to me.

“Please–” His voice devolves into a mewl. Sanity, whatever’s left of it, drains from his eyes. His face morphs, cheeks melting in a slurry of jade-colored paste. Pus drips from his scalp. He screams and launches himself at me, and for the first time in my professional career, I freeze.

But Diamond doesn’t.

She meets him mid-air, bashing into him with her shoulder. She ricochets off his body, crashing to the floor a few feet from where he lands. Teeth bared, she’s up in an instant, but he’s already charging toward her, crablike, faster than I’ve ever seen him move.

Diamond! Don’t bite him!

I don’t know if I’ve screamed or if she’s read my mind, but she keeps her mouth off him. We slide into a familiar rhythm of charge and retreat, strike and evade. She dodges, giving me a clear shot. I squeeze the trigger. Chase’s head explodes.

Clabbered wet tissue splatters across his desk. Ears ringing, I inch closer and nudge the slack body, but it doesn’t move. His entire head is gone. I doubt anything could survive that, but I give him a double tap, two to the chest, to be safe. Then I drop the gun and rush to Diamond.

You stupid dog. Did the goo splash you? I run my hands over her armor, up and down her legs, check her mouth and her teeth. After examining her doggie armpits for the second time, my panic dissipates. She’s okay; the K-9 gear did its job. She nuzzles my face, and I realize she’s cleaning up my tears. I wrap my arms around her, trembling. Good girl.

~

I call for evac and wait for the thump of chopper blades to split the air.

On a normal mission, I’d feel rotten about failing to bring my target home alive. This time, not so much. I drag a clean duffel behind me. It’s filled with Chase’s notes and computer drives, but not the bio sample. I left that crap behind for the bombs to take care of.

The chopper circles. I flash my light, three quick blinks, and it lands.

“Look, Diamond, it’s the yummy pilot.”

She woofs and thumps her tail.

“Oh, you approve of this one?”

She barks twice; that’s a yes.

“Okay then, let’s go give him a lick.”

Combat Search & Rescue Consultant Lana McGee specializes in the retrieval of personnel and property from high-risk environments. McGee is assisted by a Hero-Class German Shepherd named Diamond. McGee has recently raised her consultation fees, and now charges a premium for any “mad scientist bullshit.”

Myna Chang writes flash and short stories. Her work has been featured in Daily Science Fiction, The Copperfield Review, Defenestration, and Dead Housekeeping, among others. Find her @MynaChang or read more at mynachang.com.

Luke Spooner, a.k.a. ‘Carrion House,’ currently lives and works in the South of England. Having recently graduated from the University of Portsmouth with a first class degree, he is now a full time illustrator for just about any project that piques his interest. Despite regular forays into children’s books and fairy tales, his true love lies in anything macabre, melancholy, or dark in nature and essence. He believes that the job of putting someone else’s words into a visual form, to accompany and support their text, is a massive responsibility, as well as being something he truly treasures. You can visit his web site at www.carrionhouse.com.

“Disinhibited” is © 2019 Myna Chang Art accompanying story is © 2019 Luke Spooner

Fiction: Disinhibited was originally published on Mad Scientist Journal

[the-revisionist]

the tristan chord, chapter 19

Note: Sorry this took so long! 

xix. What time is it in the Milky Way?

  her eyes are closer to me than my own honor ~ Anne Carson

“Are you going to put the tofu in the sauce?” Greg asks.

Wooden spoon poised above a pot of tomato sauce, Caroline hesitates. It is Wednesday evening. She is tired. The day—filled with interviews of teaching candidates, meetings, chatty texts from one lover in New York that she largely ignored and morose ones from the other one who was meeting in Halifax this morning with her solicitor about her impending divorce and Caroline sort-of ignored those too, a toddler who wanted and got, thank you very much, Christmas lights put up in the living room, in August—is fit to burst at the seams. Thus she gazes longingly over Greg’s shoulder at the glass of wine abandoned on the dining room table and is damned if she’s going to ruin her perfect Marcella Hazan tomato sauce—the simmering translucent half-onion poaching in a fragrant bloodbath—with crumbly bits of protein that resemble glue paste falling off ancient discarded wallpaper. 

Helpless, she prevaricates. “Um.” 

“No?” Greg pulls the Labradoodle Pout face. 

“Well, Gillian’s coming for dinner and she likes things that are, you know—” Caroline pauses while attempting to find the most innocuous yet accurate term to describe Gillian’s culinary sensibilities, which are as omnivorous as her sexuality: If she’s hungry and it’s not a lot of fuss she’ll have it, even if it gives her indigestion.  

But then you are an awful lot of fuss, Caroline reminds herself, and so goes yet another theory.

  Greg wastes no time in supplying a descriptor for the woman he takes for thick-headed rube, even though he is too well-bred—and afraid of Gillian—to say in polite company: “Simple?” 

“No,” she retorts defensively. “I’d say her tastes are more classic. Pure. She has a very, you know, refined palate.” 

  Skeptical, he nibbles at a corner of his beard. “Isn’t Gillian the one who ate a chicken kebab she dropped on the kitchen floor?”

“It wasn’t the floor, it was a kitchen chair, and the five-second rule was met.” As a rigorous scientist Caroline knows the five-second rule is absolute bollocks but as an unsparing bitch she will do anything to win an argument.  “And, y’know, Alan and mum will be here too, and they aren’t that keen on tofu either.” 

“Well it’s just sad, I think.” Greg folds his arms. “That they won’t try new things.”

“Have you ever slept with a man?”

“I fail to see why you keep asking me that question.” 

“Just making a point this time. Gillian might try the tofu chips. Especially if she has wine with dinner.” She pauses. “Like, an entire bottle of wine, but yeah, she might.” 

“She’ll probably just wrap them up in prosciutto like you do,” he replies morosely. 

“It’s a testament to the sturdiness and versatility of the chip.” She smiles brightly, considers this a good save. “Hey, I ate the amaranth porridge this morning.” All the more reason to reward herself with wine tonight. Greg’s penchant for randomly assigning certain foods to days—Tofu Tuesdays, Amaranth Wednesdays, Quinoa Fridays—has only affirmed Caroline’s commitment to a parallel schedule of inevitable alcoholism. 

Before walking away, he reverts to the Labradoodle Pout. His courtship of Blackburn Barbie, aka Brigitte, has not been going well and as a result he has been as mopey as Morrissey around the house.  In turn Caroline has ramped up efforts to be kind and supportive or, at the very least, less bitchy—for starters, eating amaranth porridge without complaint. In addition, she consented to doing yoga with him on occasion; her motivation here is purely selfish, because she realizes that keeping up sexually with the likes of Gillian Greenwood may require a level of flexibility suitable to a preteen gymnast, or at least as close to that state as her sad-sack, wine-fueled, middle-aged body can attain. The other day during their marathon post-flood shag session she got such horrid back spasms at one point that Gillian leaped out of bed and started getting dressed because she assumed a trip to A&E was imminent. But a back massage, a glass of wine, and a story about a runaway lamb safely recovered during the storm fixed her up just fine. 

Or maybe it was the timbre of Gillian’s voice as she relayed the tale of the lamb, floating ethereal as smoke above her as she lay face down on the bed, muscles melting under a vigorous work-over: Poor damned thing, she were afraid of the rushing water, y’see, so I had to cross over to the other side, grab her, and carry her—imagine me, wading through a stream, water up to my knees with a lamb across my shoulders, bloody lucky she’s so tiny and I know that creek bed like the back of my hand. When the spasms and pain finally subsided she rolled over, practically into Gillian’s arms, and stared up into those eyes which, at that moment, were the softened green-gray of the hills on a cold rainy day. 

Gillian then smiled and said, better?  

In response Caroline squeaked that she would really really really pretty please like to try that position again. 

Nah, Gillian said. Can’t send you back to Harrogate all busted up. Besides, I’m rather enjoying you naked, helpless, and on your back—and in the 37 minutes that followed, she made absolutely certain that Caroline enjoyed it too. 

But yoga is worth a try, lest she earn a reputation as a pillow queen—and that particular phrase riles up thoughts of Sacha, who is still in New York and whose initial copious outpouring of archly romantic texts at the beginning of the trip has dwindled down to an occasional flurry. Like this morning’s perfunctory check-in: a photo of the sunrise from a penthouse, a snarky recap of a dinner party, asking about Flora and work. Neither texts nor thoughts have led Caroline anywhere closer to a clue on what or whom she really wants. There is a lot to be said for being in the moment, Sacha had once said, and in this particular moment she is making spaghetti sauce and looking forward to seeing Gillian and admitting to herself she has a ways to go before completely fucking everything up, so there is that. For the moment she will settle for occasionally fucking up her back; at this morning’s quickie yoga session her back gave out a mere ten minutes into the routine, prompting Greg to chirp that the first downward dog is always the hardest while clearly under the illusion that his commentary was in some way helpful.

With the sauce at perfect simmer she sprawls in a dining room chair for a moment, drinks wine, smiles at the frosty white glint of the Christmas lights from the living room ceiling that reflect into the hallway, and briefly persuades herself that she is queen of all she surveys when reality so far has only proven that she is nothing more than everyone’s bitch and a pushover for a three-year-old. She knew the moment Greg brought up Christmas plans last night at dinner—a pointless topic of conversation given that she can barely plan an outfit for the following day not to mention that she has her head up her arse about two very different women and if she has to eat quinoa pilaf one more time this month she may go mental—that a seed of holiday longing would be planted in Flora’s attentive, obsessive mind. The child spent the morning relentlessly grilling Caroline about when Christmas would occur and, more urgently, about the appearance of Christmas lights: where lights? when? Which devolved into the terse, repetitive command of lights! as if she were a tiny demented film director. 

So she got the lights. 

Appeasing a child can be easy enough; a middle-aged sheep farmer a far different matter and especially when you take sex out of the equation. She has no idea what frame of mind Gillian will be in when she arrives for dinner. Her one-liner texts from the morning consisted of bitching about parking in Halifax, the lateness of the solicitor, the bad cup of tea she had at an overpriced shop, and then later, her father’s never-ending critique of her driving as she took him to a doctor’s appointment. Over the course of the day Caroline experienced uneasy moments of doubt, fearing that Gillian might yet again reconsider divorce, might give Robbie yet another go. If nothing else, her hopefully-soon-to-be-ex-husband is expert at mining and manipulating the deep well of Gillian’s remorse to his ultimate advantage—performing an emotionally elegant sleight-of-hand that magically strips away her ragged self-esteem under the guise of stalwart support, convincing her that despite evidence to the contrary she fails at everything and possesses nothing but raw, naked vulnerability. A bizarro world version of the emperor’s new clothes, and gaslighting at its finest. She is certain Robbie does not possess enough self-awareness to know what he does; it is precisely in those who lack it that the most craven impulse outs itself with unerring cruelty.

  Meanwhile Lawrence arrives home, glares uncomprehendingly at the living room’s Christmas-in-August décor, and mutters a hit-and-run insult on the way to the refrigerator: “You’ve lost your mind.”

  For an infinitesimal moment she regards him, and then raises her glass in a toast. “Probably genetic, so welcome to your future.”

He rolls his eyes, drops a satchel on a chair. “Our future is the shitshow outside.” He guzzles neon-flavored Powerade. “Gran and Alan are in the driveway shouting at Gillian.” 

“Right.” Caroline sighs and returns to tending the sauce on the stove, poking at the onion softening slowly under its pearlescent dome. 

“Please tell me we’re not eating weird shit tonight,” Lawrence begs.

“Spaghetti.” 

“Thank God.”

The dinner guests plow through the doorway unannounced and without knocking. Gillian resembles a weary, wounded fox pursued by two gabbling old hounds—furrowed, scowling, and wincing as sniping cross-conversations pursue her. She wears one of her better flowery dresses and a matching navy blue cardigan sweater. The color-coordinated ensemble indicates that she asked Raff to pick it out, a task he does routinely, as he recently confessed to Caroline, but also reluctantly: This kind of thing will put me right into therapy, I know it will, he had said.

   Greetings are, apparently, out of the question as Alan and Celia carry on conversing. “What do you mean, the doctor wants to change your medication?” Celia says. 

Alan sighs. “It’s nothing, just a wee uptick in dosage—”

The remainder of the sentence goes unheard because Gillian finally meets her gaze and grins, and Caroline’s besotted brain goes on the blink at this live demonstration of collision theory: The chemical reaction, the charge that always existed between them is different now, the limits of those preexistent bonds are broken and altered into something new and viable and intense, and in the anguished relief and the reliable comfort of mere proximity now runs a strain of undisguised joy. 

At any rate, she is pretty certain it’s not just the fact that she offers Gillian a very generous pour of a very good white.  

As Gillian gratefully downs the vigonier, Alan sighs. “We’ll talk later,” he says to Celia. “Right now we are discussing Gillian—”

The mere utterance of her name brings about a reversion to a perpetual solid state of anger. Nose buried in the now-empty wineglass, Gillian seeks reprieve; she closes her eyes and inhales deeply, as if she can absorb each and every boozy airborne mote of wine. Then: “No,” she replies edgily. She sits the empty glass on the table and its jarring scrape marks a change in mood. “We’re not.”

“If you agree to settlement—” Alan begins. 

“No, I won’t.”  Gillian exhales violently, nods at the empty glass. “That’s all right, then,” she drawls, and then sets her lusty sights on Caroline in such a pointedly restrained fashion that a clandestine current of meaning crackles beneath innocuous conversation, and they both know that this combination of glance and tone will be interpreted by clueless observers in multifarious ways—as an in-joke about the wine or a veiled sarcastic commentary on divorce, present company, life as a whole—except the correct one. 

At least this is what Caroline hopes, because she notices her mother’s eyebrows arch in a curious fashion.   

“Settling would be the easiest solution,” Alan continues, oblivious to how his daughter’s eyes rake over her stepsister. 

Caroline looks away, bites her lip, gives the sauce an agitated stir that splatters the stovetop. “Glad you like it,” she replies softly.

“There more?” Gillian asks in an undertone that makes her shiver.

“Oh yeah.” Worrying that her quick assent runs a bit too throatily sensual, she clears her throat in such a larynx-shredding way that she sounds like Rumpole of the Bailey straining on the shitter. 

Solicitously Celia fetches her a glass of water. 

Alan reaches a point of shouty exasperation with his obstinate offspring. “Are you listening to me?” 

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Gillian is right there on the summit with him. “Yeah, I am, Dad. But what you don’t get is, is, it’s done. I’m done. I’m not getting back with him, that’s a pipe dream, and I’m not giving him some sort of ‘financial settlement’ either—”

Oh, the finger quotes, Caroline sighs dreamily. How elegantly she employs them. 

“—and if you think I’m going to ask Gary for money you’re out of your f-f-bloody mind, he and Felicity already done enough for me. No, the quickest and cheapest way to get out of this bloody mess of my own making is my way.” Then, despite her best efforts, she surrenders a couple f-bombs: “And if it means I have ‘adultery’ written on my fucking divorce petition and ‘whore’ written across my fucking forehead, well then, let’s just leave it, all right?” 

This effectively silences nearly everyone but Lawrence. “Wow. Dinner might actually be interesting for once.”

Before Caroline can defuse the tension by offering drinks all around, Gillian seizes her by the wrist and, with a gentle tug, leads her out of the room.  “Going to have a chat. Be right back.” 

“Here we go again with the girl talk,” Celia says indulgently, as if Caroline and Gillian are teenagers gallivanting off to talk about boys and jewelry and makeup.

  “Talk some sense into her, Caroline!” Alan barks.

“Someone stir my sauce!” Caroline shouts back as she is led down the hallway, helpless as Richard III with the kingdom falling down about him, sauce probably ruined and the battle surely lost. Did Richard feel this euphoric as he headed for the fall? At the very end, what did he feel other than sheer relief at the inevitable?

  “What is this thing in the sauce?” she hears Celia trill. 

Alan is apprehensive. “It’s not the tofu, is it?” 

Before she can scream no it’s not the bloody tofu Gillian gently shoves her in the bathroom, slams the door shut, locks it, and before Caroline can eke out a word of concern or affection Gillian claps a hand around the back of her neck and kisses her ruthlessly—that all-consuming kiss that she specializes in, the kiss of Don Juan’s reckless daughter. They pinball around the tiny bathroom, collide against the sink, knock a hand towel off the towel rack, and kick the metallic bin that sounds a scuffling hiss followed up with a booming gong. She nearly trips over her own feet but instead plops down right onto the toilet seat, opting to give Gillian credit for steering her there rather than lust-driven clumsy happenstance, which accurately describes her dance style circa 1989 and usually at its most frenzied to Dead or Alive’s “You Spin Me Round.” Then Gillian is on her lap—kissing her throat, biting her ear, fingernails of one hand etching the border of her scalp while the other eagerly cups her breast. She gathers a fistful of Gillian’s dress, the scratchy-soft fabric binds her knuckles and balls into her palm; self-bondage is the only thing preventing her from clawing bare skin with her nails and sliding her hand between those thighs and that is good because they are too close to fucking and the deep, sweet thrumming that rolls through Gillian’s throat drives her absolutely mad and she’s never been like this with anyone else before, no one, not John, not Kate, not Sacha or even some anonymous bint on the dance floor, no one. She has never been ravenous and reckless like this, never before abandoned her carefully considered plans of what love was or how it should be conducted. Love the abstraction, love the reality, dovetail dangerously into the current moment.  

The kisses slow down and in the hunger that lingers between them, like silence seeded into and enriching the adagio of a symphony, Caroline realizes that their burning savor is not from desire or wine alone but running along the familial lines of whiskey. She breathes gentle accusation into Gillian’s willing mouth: “You’ve been drinking.” 

It hardly seems unexpected, this pattern typical of Gillian: comfort sought in a bottle or a bloke. Should be glad it was the former and not the latter, Caroline thinks. So far as she knows, anyway, but then she can hardly demand sexual exclusivity when Gillian has given her free reign with Sacha. Their collision, their chemistry, has not completely broken all the bonds, nor recalibrated all the equations and reactions and networks. It has not—and most likely will not—reconfigure this whole complicated mess of molecules known as Gillian Greenwood, and this tempers Caroline’s disappointment.

Gillian pulls away slightly and squints comically, in the hope that playing up the role of lovable drunk will allay any potential Carolinian outbursts that simmer beneath a beautiful breastbone clad in an overpriced, casual linen blouse. 

“Did. You. Know,” she drawls, punctuating each word with a soft jab at Caroline’s sternum, “that for the past two and half years, ever since they got married, Dad and your mum have been cruelly, cruelly hoarding a spectacular bottle of single-malt scotch in their little love shack, a bottle they got as a wedding present from the bloody vicar?” 

Caroline sighs, groans, buries her face into Gillian’s neck—and inhales the weird manly shower gel that Raff owns and that his mother, out of sheer laziness, uses as well, and it possesses the power of a thousand colognes magnified into one spicy scent, like cheap cinnamon roasting in a toxic gas fire. On an actual man she would find it absolutely repulsive, but on a woman, this woman, it’s an inexplicable turn-on and so she sets to feasting on Gillian’s throat, but careful not to leave a mark. “I did not.”

Distinctly aware that she has offered herself as first course on the dinner menu—at least for the hostess—Gilliam stammers and squirms. “I n-needed to, um, reward myself for today.”

“Speaking of rewards— ” Caroline whispers. She releases the dress around her hand—and herself from the bonds of being good—and slips it between Gillian’s legs, fingers flat along her warm thigh and touching the scrunched elastic boundary of her panties, and then someone pounds on the door with such unbridled fury that Caroline knows immediately that it’s her most troublesome and stroppy child and she is both grateful for and infuriated at the unintentional cuntblock. 

From her comfy perch in Caroline’s lap Gillian attempts an elegant, faun-like leap to safety but instead elaborately and drunkenly staggers, kneels, and twists, inadvertently graceful as if she’s attempting an Orthodox Jewish wedding dance—but for the saving grace of frantically latching onto the sink she nearly ends up face down on the tiled floor. 

“GREG IS MAKING THE PASTA,” Lawrence booms. “AND HE’S STIRRING THE SAUCE.” 

Because Lawrence only pays attention to shouting, Caroline has no recourse to volley back a bellow. Which, given a heightened level of sexual frustration, is easy enough: “TELL HIM NOT TO GET RID OF THE ONION. I HAVE PLANS FOR THE ONION.” 

Whilst straightening and smoothing out her dress, Gillian stares at her suspiciously.  

“IT’S ALMOST READY AND IF YOU DON’T COME OUT NOW YOU’LL BE EATING TOFU CHIPS ALL NIGHT.” 

“ALL RIGHT. WE’LL BE THERE IN A MINUTE.”

“HAVE YOU WASHED MY SHIRTS YET?”

“FUCK OFF, I’M NOT YOUR SERVANT.” 

“BOY YOU’RE JUST REALLY MOTHER OF THE YEAR, AREN’T YOU?”  She hears him stomps away.  

“Mother of the year,” Gillian echoes. Tipsily she giggles, leans against the sink, hugs herself, and Caroline is struck—not for the first time—by the fierce singularity of her solitude, witnessed many a time in crowded pubs, at weddings, during dinners, over cups of tea and glasses of wine, even lying next to her in bed. You cannot fix people. This Caroline now knows. She spent eighteen years indulging John’s fantasy of being saved from himself and those efforts were, in fact, the essence and bedrock of their marriage. But the urge to fix and to save and to make right remains deeply inculcated in her; it is a force that compels and confounds at once.  

Wobbly, she gets up. In two steps she’s in front of Gillian and grips the edge of the sink with both hands, thus penning the shepherdess like one of her ewes. Not that she wants to trap Gillian, but rather retain meager control over not only the situation but also her wandering hands. In response Gillian’s fingers tap the buttons of her shirt, drumming out a subversive Morse code, dots and dashes of defiant desire.  “You going to tell me what happened today?”

“Didn’t drag you in here to talk,” Gillian says, with a tug on Caroline’s blouse. A kiss, a nip of the lower lip, the sweet shock of pain. “There’s nothing to tell.” The lie is followed by a softer, wetter kiss. “It’s shit. It’s toss. It’ll be over soon.” Gillian pauses and there is a sensual wavering of the moment, as a flag in full furl before the wind dies down, all revealed in the microcosmic flutter of her eyelids. “We can talk later. If you like. After dinner.”

“All right.” Caroline is grateful she’s still holding onto the sink’s edge, because her knees buckle. “You look good. Really good.”

Gillian barks out a laugh and gives her a playful push. “You hate this dress.”

“What? No.” Automatically, Caroline straightens with indignation. 

“Called it a peasant dress once, you did.” 

“I did not.” Even as she denies it, she can hear herself saying it while in that cabernet-tinted cloud of repressed emotion that she operated in when they first met.  

With an eyeroll, Gillian shoves her against the bathroom door, bites her neck, her earlobe, runs a wild, unrepentant tongue along the gentle swell of her throat, and hisses “peasant” at her. 

Caroline shivers. “Must’ve been drunk.” 

“Or just being a bitch.” 

“Or that.” She sighs. “So. Shall we? Once more unto the breach, then?”

While brushing back the bangs from Caroline’s forehead, Gillian smiles with undisguised fondness; it’s unnerving, exhilarating, so much so that Caroline is caught deliriously off guard. “Comb your hair first,” Gillian replies. Then, with an exaggerated look at Caroline’s chest: “And calm your tits.”  

As Caroline takes mortified account of over-exuberant nipples, Gillian darts out of the bathroom. She exhales a long breath, brushes her hair, and wills her body into submission. 

In the kitchen Greg has taken over. She sets the table. Gillian gets more wine. Alan and Celia seriously debate whether Alan’s doctor resembles Richard Harris “before he started looking like a drunk.” Lawrence ignores everyone and everything except his mobile. Flora runs amok and takes it upon herself to show the Christmas lights in the living room to Gillian, who reacts with the appropriate awe and outlandish questions that make Flora cackle with delight: Did you put those up yourself, love?  

Dinner starts out pleasantly enough, if only because everyone sublimates a spectrum of frustrations with pasta. Sacha would approve, Caroline thinks—and quickly quashes that thought as she admires her own plating expertise. 

“The sauce is great,” Greg says, and then adds teasingly, “despite the lack of tofu.”

Caroline leans back. “Yeah? Thanks. And thanks for helping.” 

“Your own recipe?” 

“No. From Marcella Hazan.” 

Lawrence, of course, tosses in the first conversational Molotov cocktail. “That another girlfriend?”

Gillian chokes on wine in such an elaborate fashion that it distracts Flora from endlessly twirling—and eventually wearing— the spaghetti on her plate. 

As his daughter violently coughs and wheezes into a napkin, Alan shakes his head. “Always eats and drinks like a convict, she does. Gulping down everything.” 

“Marcella Hazan was a food writer,” Caroline replies patiently to her idiot son. “And she’s dead.”

“Was she a lesbian?” Lawrence drawls mischievously.

Celia sighs. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Spastic fit over and done, Gillian wags a finger at her wineglass. “That’s, um, really, really powerful stuff, Caz.” 

“Then maybe you should stop for the night,” Alan says.

Gillian gives him a disingenuous, snarling smile. “Well, old man,” she begins slowly, “maybe you should—” 

“—have dessert!” Caroline interjects as Gillian glares at her, boldly telegraphing a reproach for preventing her from telling her father to fuck off. 

Exhausted from an afternoon of father-daughter verbal sniping, Celia jumps in rather desperately: “What is for dessert?”

Beaming proudly, Greg pats his belly to indicate that a culinary delight is headed to the table: “Strawberry banana tofu ice cream.” 

The family scatters to the wind: Lawrence scuttles upstairs, Celia murmurs something about biscuits at home that need eating before they go stale and drags her grumbling husband away lest he take up verbal fisticuffs with his surly daughter again, and Greg engages Flora in a game called “A Night at the Races,” where he and Flora run up and down the hallway in a very obvious attempt to tire her out. Briefly Gillian joins in the race until she is reprimanded for running with wine, and then disappears into the living room.  

  All this happens as Caroline cleans up. Afterward she relieves Greg of parental duty and gets Flora in the bathtub, where she is copiously splashed and anointed with suds in the process. Prelude to bedtime includes more running around upstairs, then the reading of a tale involving pandas playing badminton—the lesson implicit in the story involves good sportsmanship but Caroline’s takeaway is that maybe pandas shouldn’t be playing badminton to begin with. At the end of the tale Flora is still awake and demands more panda adventures. So Caroline improvises a story of a panda chemist who creates a magic potion that turns humans into pandas. As she rattles off ingredients for the imaginary formula—lewisite, calcite, phosgene oxime, titanium, feta cheese, pseudoephedrine, monkey brains, eucalyptus oil, banana farts—Flora falls asleep to the litany and Caroline dismally realizes that all her children are bored silly by her beloved chemistry. 

Downstairs she finds Gillian alone, sunk into the couch, shoes kicked off, bare feet on the coffee table and terribly close to a glass of wine. Despite the relaxed pose her restless hands wrestle in the soft, inviting arena of her lap. She stares up at the small, white lights that limn the dimensions of the room and form an unimaginative rectangular constellation around them. Gillian likes starwatching, can rattle off useless facts about the planets, and Caroline swears to God that she heard Gillian say Cassiopeia the other day when they made love—a faint, ardent susurration on her skin. Caroline knows little about stars except that they collapse and break apart and their remnants hold court in the glimmering corridor of a nebula. Perhaps that’s it, Caroline thinks. There is no fixing or handling Gillian—who looks up at her now and smiles. There is nothing to do but gather together her bright broken pieces and keep them safe.  

“This is nice,” Gillian says. “With the lights.”

The glow of the room brings her back to the Eddie confession, the two of them sitting on the sofa in Gillian’s home in front of the fire. In the years since they have sat together in silences ranging widely from the amiable to the charged, and so much has happened since that evening: Deaths and births and marriages and divorces and in the midst of it all is this woman whose presence in her life, whose volatility she cannot contain or really even fathom, remains fixed and constant. 

Tiredness kicks in, the flow of lust runs sluggish in her veins. That and Gillian looks fairly knackered as well, so she doesn’t have to worry about another barely controlled makeout session. But before attempting any gesture that could be viewed as more than sisterly affection by even the most objective bystander, she glances around. “Where’s Greg?”

Gillian stifles a yawn. “Went out, he asked me to tell you. Meeting his lady friend for a drink.” She snorts and says the woman’s name in a wispy falsetto: “Brigitte.” 

Sputtering a laugh, Caroline dives into the couch next to her. “Oh God. He told you about her.”

“Yep. Know everything about her now. Like, for example, she got perfect A levels—”

Caroline snorts derisively. “So did I.”

“’Course you did. I know what kind of wine she likes—”

“What?”

“Fucking chardonnay, Caz.” 

“Is that different from regular chardonnay?”

Gillian grins and leans into her. She takes Caroline’s hand in her own, her thumb presses into the fleshy swale of Caroline’s palm, massaging a sweet pressure point that makes Caroline sag contentedly into overstuffed cushions. “Get this, she cried at the end of Titanic. I mean, I cried at the end of Titanic but only because I’d just wasted three hours of my bloody life watching it.”  

“I fell asleep during Titanic,” Caroline confesses. 

“Smartest decision of your life.” 

While Caroline is content to have Gillian’s head resting against her shoulder and her hand massaged and caressed ad infinitum—as such they sit in silence for several long, exquisite minutes—she wonders if the subject of the day in divorce court should be raised. She hadn’t even known about the event until Alan mentioned it yesterday. Gillian has so many layers of unpredictability that sometimes in comparison other people appear almost logical, forthright, and uncomplicated. Of course, the limitations of her emotional intelligence force comparison with Kate—wondering once again if Kate had untold contradictions and complexities of character, or if Caroline was simply too selfish and self-involved to put forth a real effort of discovery. Think we all know the answer to that, twat, she tells herself. If Kate were alive, would she still be blundering through existence with a wife who was largely unknown to her? Has Gillian, through her own desperate needs, somehow inadvertently brought out powers of perception in Caroline that were otherwise dormant? 

  Sod it, she thinks, and asks cautiously: “Was it bad? Today?”

Gillian groans and, to Caroline’s disappointment, releases her hand and sits up—rather, hunches and hovers nervously over the coffee table. “Same as it ever is. My brilliant history of disappointing everyone. See it on everyone’s face. My dad. Robbie. Even your mum.” She reaches for the wine, stares into the glass. “Maybe someday you’ll look at me like that.” She gulps down the last of it and before Caroline can vigorously deny the claim, plows on. “Let’s begin with the old man, shall we? He cares what people think, my dad does. Remember when Gary gave that interview and ‘outed’ him, so to speak? Well, he’s acting like this is on the same level, it being on ‘public record’ that I’m an adulterer. Like who gives a shit anymore about things like that. Anyone who knows me knows it’s my fault anyway, right? Yeah, I know, you’re gonna say not my fault, shouldn’t have married Robbie, should have embraced a life of lesbianism—”

“I’d never say that,” Caroline replies. 

Gillian squints at her accusingly. “Probably thinking it.” 

“I think that about every woman, really.” 

This, at least, makes Gillian grin for a moment. “But the thing is, I did marry him, I did cheat on him—I did.” She repeats it softly: “I did. And it’s just one more thing I’ve done wrong in a very f-fucking long list and every time he looks at me, I see him ticking off things in that mental list”—her index finger spasms and marks off items in imaginary list written on air—“all the things he knows I’ve done, all the things he suspects, and, Christ, it’s all m-messed up, really messed up—you know why?”

“Why?”

Gillian stares at her with the same sneering incredulousness that, most likely, greeted Robbie when he made the following suggestion: “After all this shit we talked about with the bleeding lawyers today, as I’m leaving he waylays me and says he still wants to get back together. Work it out. He looks at me as if everything about me is wrong, that I am the source of all his misery, and he still wants me. It completely does my head in. Is that what love is supposed to be?” She shakes her head, burrows back into the sofa. “He’s wanted to marry me since he was sixteen—he, he said that to me once. His way of proposing.” 

“He’s not sixteen anymore,” Caroline replies. “And neither are you.” She thinks of Robbie—who never set foot outside of the country until his honeymoon, always wears the same shirt-and-tie combo to holiday gatherings, who still owns a Yorkshire rugby team blanket that he bought some thirty-five years ago and always insisted using it as a throw on the marital bed and then got quite cross with Gillian when she used it as bedding for an arthritic old sheep dog. 

“Even when I was sixteen, I—Jesus, I didn’t want to marry anyone. I mean, I didn’t know who I was. Couldn’t find my arse with both hands. Still can’t.”

  “It’s not love on his part,” Caroline says as she absently tucks hair around Gillian’s ear. “It’s an inability to grow up, move on, let go. He thinks he has some special claim on you, because he was your first—”

Gillian stretches and sits up, moving out of Caroline’s grasp. “He wasn’t.” 

“Wasn’t he?” Admittedly Caroline is unsure of details; trying to establish some sort of shagging timeline with regard to Gillian’s romantic past has always seemed a fool’s quest, or at the very least an effort warranting a first-class historian possessing patience and superior spreadsheet skills beyond her own modest capabilities. 

“I mean—he, he was the first person I had it off with, but he wasn’t the first person I loved.”

“Eddie, then,” Caroline says. Which makes sense. Gillian has never said as much explicitly, but in her stories about Eddie his magnetism, charm, and good looks were easily envisioned and Caroline vividly imagines the façade of his rough, alluring beauty, as if he were some kind of modern Dorian Gray, that overlaid the monstrous, festering piece of shit that he actually was.

Poised attentively on the couch, Gillian tucks her hands under her thighs. It’s a new trick, Caroline has noticed, a move to prevent her from biting her fingernails. Instead she ends up gnawing her lower lip. “No.”

Caroline pauses. “Oh.” She hopes that she has struck the right note of calm interest and not condescending, snotty-bitch surprise.   

“You want to ask, I know.”

“You’ve no obligation to tell me anything,” Caroline says firmly, then continues in a slower, gentler tone: “I can guess, based on things you’ve told me before.”

Gillian says nothing, only frowns and looks away. 

“It was one of those women? From Hebden Bridge?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve never talked much about them. Or—her.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“You were very young.”

This statement of fact, framed however cautiously, lingers as an accusation and puts Gillian on the defensive. Which Caroline did not mean to do, but there was no other way of putting it out there. She rolls her shoulders. “I know what you’re thinking.” 

“You were fourteen.”

“Fifteen,” Gillian corrects absently. She stills her restless hands, her fingers interlock and lace together tightly over her knee and remind Caroline of a puzzle she had as a child, she thinks it was called a bamboozler, where the challenge is careful dismantling followed by skillful rebuilding. Gillian looks up again at the orderly constellation of white lights that bathe them in a Milky Way of memories. It takes 25,000 light years to travel to the Milky Way, a journey that would be an epic mind-fuck of time’s perpetual collision: future, present, past. What time is it in the Milky Way? Caroline wonders. With increasing distance the past entices, always, and Gillian is no more immune to it than Robbie or anyone else. 

“You’re thinking it was wrong,” Gillian says. “That she hurt me, took advantage of me. Maybe that’s all true. Yeah, I guess, I guess maybe it is. But you don’t understand. You don’t know how it felt—how I felt. It was like, like a new world for me and I was the bloody center of it, she made me feel that and—I really, really believed it, all of it.” She pauses. “Including the part where she said she loved me.”

With this crucial piece of the Gillian Greenwood puzzle in place, a design looms large, a pattern discerns itself. Enough so that Caroline requires for the moment no further details, no more components. Even though Gillian adds softly, “And I loved her.”

CHAPTER SOUNDTRACK:

Ella Fitzgerald, “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered”  Cigarettes After Sex, “Apocalypse” The National, “Empire Line” BONUS NONSENSE! Marcella Hazan’s tomato sauce recipe.