#and it leaves a shitty bitter sour taste in my mouth

[kleptoballs]

Its like l'm mourning the loss of something precious to me. The fact that you weren't always mine.

[mrsdarkandyandere7]

(Dark!) BNHA: Toxic Relationship

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

Female Reader

Boys -> Hawks + Bakugo + Dabi + Deku

Reaction: Moments from your toxic relationship with your Pro-Hero boyfriend.

WARNINGS: Toxic Relationship; Abuse; Manipulation; Non-con.

AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback.

Let me know if you like this reaction format or what 🙂

–

Hawks

“Y/n is a real clutz, y’know. Can’t even walk on even ground without tripping over her own feet.”

Your cheeks flame with humiliation as the camera pans to the crowd that laughs heartily at the demeaning words, as if Keigo had dropped the funniest joke they’ve ever heard. 

“That’s adorable.” the woman laughs, “Maybe it has something to do with the fact that she has no quirk? I believe you said she is quirkless, right?”

Keigo chuckles, nodding as he crosses an ankle over his knee.

“She sure is. Can’t even imagine what type of quirk she’d have, she’s just not the type.”

Your hand grips the remote tighter. What does he mean by that? Does he think you’re not good enough to have a quirk?

You consider turning off the TV, but fortunately the interviewer changes the subject. They casually speak about the current stance of heroes and their struggles on fighting off criminals and villains.

Keigo is charming as usual, delivering answers that are a perfect portrait of responsibility with a sprinkle of humor. He’s good like that, even though his previous answers left a bitter taste in your mouth.

Somehow, they end up reaching the topic of hobbies and free time. 

“Going Pro Hero leaves little time for myself, so sadly I don’t really have much time for hobbies. Wish I had.” he says humbly. “My girlfriend has lots of them, though.”

You inhale sharply. Not again. 

For your misfortune, the woman gets interested.

Perhaps because it’s an exclusive interview and her network channel gave her orders to squeeze every drop of information they can get on Hawks’ personal life. 

“What type of hobbies? She looks like she’s a great cook.” she tries to guess, but Keigo bursts laughing, holding his belly in an exaggerated mannerism. 

“Nah, cooking isn’t really her department. Burned eggs and half-cooked pancakes are more her style. She doesn’t even-”

You change channels in a heartbeat, bursting in tears at the low insults.

You’re not that bad. Sure, you’re not amazing at cooking, but never once did Keigo complain when he eats the food you diligently make after he returns from patrols. 

And now he slanders you on national television? 

And the worst part? It’s not even the first time he’s done this. 

Dabi

“There’s nothing to eat in the fridge.” 

“There is.” 

“There isn’t.” 

You stop writing your notes, swallowing back an annoyed sigh, already aware of what was happening.

“There is food in the fridge.” you repeat, “You just have to cook it.”

Dabi looks at you, unimpressed. 

“No shit Sherlock. Maybe you can do it for me.” 

“You serious?” 

Meeting his arrogant smirk, you huff. 

“Dead serious, babe. Not like you’re busy anyways.”

Your mouth drops at his audacity and you open your arms to indicate the mess of books, papers and pens in front of you. 

“I’m studying, Dabi. Can’t you see that? Grow up and cook for yourself, yeah?” you snap your attention back to your books, but your mood has already turned sour. 

You pretend to scribble down a few words when Dabi walks to you slowly. He peeks into your annotations, snorting. 

“That handwriting is kinda shitty.” he mocks you. “Besides, what exactly are you even studying for? You’re not exactly cut out to be a doctor, y’know? Not enough brain cells in you to become that.” 

You glare at him, angrily swatting away the hand that condescendingly tries to pet your hair. 

“You’re such an asshole, Dabi. Maybe if your life revolved around something other than your stupid daddy’s issues, you would actually get a job. Not like Endeavour is worried sick about you, not when he’s got Shoto.” you spit the words venously.

Not the nicest words, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to bother. 

A dark shade crosses Dabi’s face, his amused expression turning colder. You’d be lying if the sight didn’t ignite some fear in you.

“Is that so?” his crooked smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “And why would I need a job - or Endeavour, by that matter - when I have you?”

His hand reaches for your shoulder and there’s an edge in his eyes that immobilizes you. You shouldn’t have mentioned Endeavour. 

“I’m not with you because of that bitchy attitude, you know. I like my girl to know who’s in charge. Respect is really important in a relationship and your behavior is making me really upset, baby.” his tone is scaringly soft, and his hand travels to your neck.

You hold your breath when the staples on his hand scratch against the delicate skin of your throat. “So, if you need me to remind you of your place, I’ll gladly help you with that.”

His fingers heat up at a low temperature, not enough to actually burn you but it doesn’t stop the lonely tear that slides from your eye, the only sign of the chilling terror you’re feeling.

He leans forward, kissing your forehead before sliding his hand away. 

“Are we understood?” 

The nod you give him is shaky at best, but Dabi smiles nonetheless. 

“Now, how about that food you’re gonna make me?”

Bakugo

“I have to wake up early tomorrow.”

Besides a low hum, Bakugo doesn’t acknowledge you much, too busy French kissing your neck.

His hands head for your ass, provoking a wince in you when he gropes it with unnecessary strength, your left ass cheek being kneaded like it’s dough.

Katsuki uses his grip on your ass to push your hips forward even as you complain again. The thin fabric of his sweatpants does nothing to hide the hardness that shamelessly rubs against your thigh. 

“Katsuki.” 

Once again he gives no sign of hearing you, rolling his hips with more urgency and you barely catch the tired groan that almost rolls away from you.

The clock on your side reminds you that despite the early hour, you’ll only have 6 hours to sleep. 

You really have to sleep and if you’re being honest, tonight you’re not feeling sexy or horny enough to sleep with your boyfriend. 

But that doesn’t make you feel any less awkward when Bakugo’s movements turn more vigorous and needy, humping your naked thigh as if he’s fucking it while you remain as alive as a statue. 

“Fuck, this isn’t enough.” he growls against your skin, and your heart skips a beat when his hands reach for your shorts, tugging them down halfway until you panickedly grab his wrist, wiggling your body away from his.

“Seriously, Kats, I’m not in the mood tonight.” you say, quickly pulling back your shorts. 

“You fuckin’ serious right now?” he growls through gritted teeth, still hovering above you. 

Crossing your arms over your chest, you timidly nod. 

“Maybe we can do this tomorrow? It’s just that-”

“Yeah, whatever. Not like you haven’t used that stupid excuse on me before.”  

Your eyebrows raise with surprise at the bitter tone on his voice as he gruffs, pushing himself off you. 

“I’m not making up excuses.”

“The hell you aren’t.” he looks at you, angry. “Every time I try to start something, you turn into a damn nun. Always too freakin’ tired,  too busy or not in the mood.”

He scowls, spiky blonde hair falling to his eyes. 

“All you have to do is open your goddamn legs and let me do the rest, and you can’t even do that.”

His words hit a sore spot and he turns his back on you, settling on the distant side of the bed after delivering strained punches to the pillow to soften it up.

“Maybe I go after those Dynamite's groupies that are always throwing themselves at me. Since you never want to fuck anymore.”

You’re left too stunned to speak, sadness blossoming at the cruel meaning of his words and it’s a struggle to swallow the tears. 

He wouldn’t really, would he? But your mind lingers on the disturbing thought. He’s popular with girls, even with his angry mood.

Bakugo is tall, muscular and not even the ever present scowl in his face is able to contradict the attractive facial features he’s been blessed with. Meanwhile you’re just mediocre, if even that...

Your insecurities strike back, taunting you. 

Your hand reaches for his arm before you even realize it, and you’re mildly surprised when he doesn’t shake you off. 

“The hell you want now?”

Pulling on his arm until he finally turns to the side, you kiss him. 

He groans against your lips, allowing your hand to rest on the warm plane of his chest and you let it slide lower until it touches his clothed member. 

Neither of you speak a word, but you feel Bakugo smirking against your lips while he practically shoves your shorts down. 

You allow yourself go limp underneath him, letting your boyfriend fuck you in the way he wants to. Holding back a tired sigh when the fluorescent numbers on the clock mock you. 

You really have to wake up early.

Deku

“Are you serious, Izuku?” 

The tall hero jumps, eyes widening almost comically when he realizes you’re standing on the bedroom’s doorway and not cleaning the kitchen, like he clearly assumed you to be. 

“I wasn’t- The phone-” he stammers with his words, plowing your phone onto the bed with a bit too much force.

Crossing your arms, you flash him a frustrated glare.

“You promised me you wouldn’t spy on my phone anymore, Izuku.” your stern tone has him frowning and Izuku practically sprints closer to you.

“I wasn’t spying! I was just- just checking the time.” his words aren’t convincing enough for you to actually believe in him. 

You squint your eyes at him, dodging his grabby hands with a nasty slap, despite the hurt expression on his face.

“Izuku.” 

“I wasn’t! C’mon, you gotta believe in me.” 

You don’t. 

“Even if I did go through your phone - which I didn’t - why would that be such a problem?” he complains, dragging his voice. “Do you have something to hide or what?”

You point a warning finger at him.

“Don’t you dare. This isn’t about me. You’re the one who went behind my back because you’re just too insecure to fully trust me.”

He shakes his head, emerald eyes turning feverish. 

“You’re being dramatic, of course I trust you.”

“You don’t, stop lying.”

“I do trust you!” his voice rises in volume.

“No, you don’t!” you scream, voice breaking before you crumble in tears. 

You’re exhausted. Of arguing, of dealing with Izuku, of everything. When did things turn so frustrating, so tiring? Why does he always have to ruin things for you?

Izuku curses under his breath before rushing to you, engulfing you in a comforting embrace as you cry on his chest. 

“You don’t. You never will and I know that.” he stays silent, not contradicting you this time. 

He lets you cry on his chest, his hand gently caressing your hair as he mutters apologies. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry.” Izuku hugs you harder, arms tightening around you. “I’ll do better, okay? I promise, I will.” 

And like a fool, you accept his promise - even if you know it’s meant to be broken.

[darling-i-read-it]

Not Today

Eddie Munson x fem!reader, past Billy Hargrove x fem!reader

Word Count: 1.3k 

Warnings: spoilers for s3 and s4 of stranger things!, grief

Author’s Note: i miss billy :( this is me coping :(

Summary: You used to date Billy before he died. Now that Eddie, your friend who you have a crush on, finally knows how he really died he’s finally able to comfort/annoy you adequately. 

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director/creator

(not my gif)

Billy would’ve hated Eddie. That was probably what attracted you to him. The fact that if Billy were still around, he would’ve picked on Eddie. He probably would’ve made fun of his silly game and his stupid hair and his shitty car. He mostly would have hated that Eddie couldn’t give two shits what Billy thought of him. He would’ve tried to get under his skin for months and probably wouldn’t have been able to do it. 

Would’ve, could’ve, should’ve. 

Billy’s gone now. And he wasn’t coming back. 

You still had one more year of high school without him. He had been a year older than you when he came, endlessly holding it over your head. You were his age now though and you were only gonna get older. You tried to shove the thought out of your head as you sat down beside the rowboat. 

“You look about as good as I feel,” Eddie muttered. He held the side of the rowboat tightly. His knuckles were white. You looked over at him, toying with the walkie. You glanced at it, making sure it was still on, making sure that the batteries weren’t gonna run out. 

“I get nervous when I’m idle,” you admitted. 

“Well at least the town isn’t out to get you,” he said, chuckling nervously. “You’re the perfect poor widow. They love you.” Your look turned sour. 

“Widows were married. We were in high school.” Eddie ducked his face a bit and instantly felt bad for even mentioning Billy. Everyone knew that you took it hard when he died in the mall fire. The two of you had been bound to either make it to marriage or break up in the ugliest way possible. 

Unfortunately for you, neither of those options really ended up coming to fruition. 

“Plus, they just feel bad. They all pretend to like Billy like he liked any of them.” You waved your arm away, trying to change the subject. “Regardless, at least you know it wasn’t a mall fire now.” You shrugged. 

“You could have told me you know. In the club.” 

You had joined Hellfire your senior year in a desperate attempt to get the popular kids to stop trying to suck up to you just because Billy was gone. 

“Told you what? That my boyfriend died because he was mentally attached to some sort of monster?” you questioned. 

“It’s not the most unbelievable thing ever.” 

“Eddie.” He shyly smiled and shrugged.

“He was kind of a monster in his own right.”

“I don’t wanna talk about Billy anymore,” you muttered. “I stayed back here so you wouldn’t get attached to some monster.” 

“You stayed back here because Steve Harrington still doesn’t trust that I didn’t kill Chrissy,” he said, voice slightly breaking when he said her name. He cleared his throat right after, trying to cover it up. 

“He knows you didn’t kill Chrissy,” you said. “But I am staying for the benefit of everyone. We all feel safer with someone around us.” “They get a big group and you just get me. Hate to say it but clearly I can’t protect you if Vecna comes knocking.”

“You have experience now. Just pull me down by my ankles,” you offered, half joking. He stood up quickly, almost falling over in the process. You grabbed his knee just to keep him up straight and then let go quickly, not wanting to be overbearing. 

“You’re the one with experience. Throwing fireworks at otherworldly people? Unheard of in my campaigns.” 

“Maybe you should think about adding them. It’s effective.” 

The sun had set over the horizon. The most you could see of Eddie was his outline in the darkness. You would rather that then keep the light on in fear of being found. It was chilly, the slight rock of the water leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. 

Because it was so dark you could see the headlights coming in the front as clear as day. Eddie ducked down immediately and you slid off the chair you were sitting on. You breathed quietly, looking from between the door and Eddie’s wide eyes. 

The fear that crept into your heart was familiar. 

Whether were teenage boys or Vecna outside, you felt an equal amount of paralyzing fear. Not for you. For Eddie. 

Either of those options would kill him. And you hadn’t really realized it until that very moment but Eddie had become a lifeline since Billy died. He was kind to you without ever really worrying about before either of you had met. He was a fresh start in an old town. 

You grabbed his hand. He had been staring out the window, mind racing but his eyes shot right back to you at the touch of skin on skin. 

“Come on,” you whispered. He didn’t have time to answer you before you were dragging him along. You grabbed the walkie and tossed it in the boat before practically shoving Eddie inside. 

“We can’t exactly be sneaky about this,” he whisper screamed. 

“You got a better idea?”

He shook his head and got inside. You both started to row aggressively, watching as you escaped the boat house and outside. You could see Jason Carver at the edge of the shore, still looking mildly confused. 

“We can go to skull rock,” Eddie said. 

“You go there often, Munson?” you asked, desperately rowing. 

“Oh yeah,” he said breathlessly. “All the time. Take all the D&D obsessed girls there.” 

You could see Jason trying to get into the water and you just forced yourself to move faster. 

-

You had been trying the walkie but no one was answering. They must have been out of range. You would move out soon, eventually when you thought it was safe but you had no interest in going out there with Eddie right now. 

You were sitting under the rock together, drenched still from the night before, hungry, tired, and thirsty. But alive. 

“You should just go with them when they show up,” he whispered, still shaken. You were staring at the ground. You grabbed his hand and shook your head. 

“I’m not gonna let the monsters get you,” you whispered with your whole chest. He looked at you and though he couldn’t see your eyes all that well, he knew you meant it. You put your head on his shoulder and breathed evenly. You couldn’t save Billy. But you had a chance to save Eddie. 

“Don’t worry about me sweetheart.”

“I think I’m gonna if that’s okay.” 

He kissed your forehead and you closed your eyes. 

The Upside Down wasn’t taking anything else from you. Not today. 

Stranger Things Tag List: @dpaccione, @karasong, @elisaa-shelby, @purple-flamingo, @trinswhimsys, @valentina-luvs-u, @demigirl-with-problems, @chaotic-fangirl-blog, @mads-weasleyy, @alexxavicryy, @secret-obsessions-21-blog, @mystic-writings, @plumes-de-nuit 

[silversatoru]

the thin line between hope and despair

yelena x gn! reader

synopsis: you’re in love with yelena, and she feels nothing for for you. constant hook-ups and faded morals = very messy feelings

tags/warnings: nsfw, some smut?, angst, unrequited love, one-sided feelings, fuck buddies

word count: 2.5k

a/n: for my my sweet bby girl @brandmeyelena <3

Yelena knows what she’s doing with you isn’t right — on so many fucking levels. Taking advantage of your utter desperation for her over and over again when she knows damn well that she couldn’t care less about you. It wasn’t fair, especially for you, but she just couldn’t really find it in herself to feel sorry for someone so pitiful. You were so willing to devote yourself to her in exchange for mere crumbs of her affection, and it was pathetic. You left a sour taste in her mouth, a taste of sorrow and complete wretchedness, but you were also the perfect distraction. The perfect relief from all of her stress and all of her responsibilities with the volunteers. She was tired, and you were just so damn desperate to make her feel better — so how could she refuse? The answer was simple, she couldn’t.

That exact thought process is what landed her here today, with her fingers around your throat and your eyes rolled back into your head. She knows you love it too, being used like this — the way your cheeks grow flushed and your eyes get foggy when she cuts off the circulation to your brain. But she doesn’t do it for you — Yelena enjoys these things just as much as you do, her power hungry ego being fervently stroked by dominating you like this. Pinning you underneath of her and giving you orders made her feel in control — and that was perfect, because god knows she isn’t in control of anything else in her life right now.

Get down, she’d hiss at you, pointing to the floor with her long, slender index finger. Your pathetic frame would sink to your knees instantly, wordlessly doting to her every command. She’d lean back on her shoulders, her hips propped on the edge of the bed, and give you an expectant look. You know what to do. Do it, her voice would snarl, her empty eyes swirling with hunger. You’d feverishly obey, launching yourself forward and graciously opening your mouth for her pussy. You were dedicated to your craft, taking your time and ensuring that your tongue consumed every inch of her. Yelena’s head would fall back and, raspy, wet noises gurgled from her throat. She was entirely consumed by this twisted bliss — and she was a horrible monster for letting you do these things to her, but she felt far too good to care.

So now here you were, your tongue buried deep inside her while you worked desperately to make her feel better. She was quieter than usual today — the only things to leave her lips were small groans and half-assed insults. Things like the occasional “faster” while she pulled your hair, or “stupid slut” when you weren’t doing things quite right. The slander only made you work harder however, and honestly anything that came out of the blonde woman’s mouth was music to your ears. You stared up at her with rose-colored glasses, living in a delusional world where you truly believed Yelena cared about you.

It was a dreadfully fucked up dynamic — this relationship the two of you had, if it could even be called that. One of you lived in a terrible fantasy of what could be and the other was practically incapable of feeling human emotions. It was truly only a matter of time before the world started burning around the two of you.

A very short matter of time.

Yelena was spasming underneath of you now, warm juices and shaky convulsions racking through her body and into your mouth. You drove your tongue deep against her contracting walls, your eyes squeezed shut. A disgustingly sticky mixture of her fluids and your own saliva dripped down your chin as you finally pulled away, a bitter taste hanging on your tongue.

And Yelena was always quick to leave, she never stuck around any longer than she had to. She came, she came, and then she’d pull shitty excuses out of her ass as to why she needed to leave so soon. Those reasons more often than not consisted of one person — Zeke Yeager. Whether or not there was something romantic between the two, or if she was just highly devoted to him, you could never tell. You weren’t even sure if you wanted to know, honestly, because the answer might just break your heart.

Why don’t you stay tonight, Lena? You looked over at her as she pulled her trousers up her long, gangly legs. You craved something deeper with her, something more than just occasional casual sex — but it was really too bad that she didnt reciprocate those feelings at all. Sorry, there's a meeting tonight. I have to go. She’d respond, her voice dull as she carelessly brushed you off and slipped on her boots.

Will Zeke be there? Your voice always got low when you talked about him, but you made intentional efforts to hide the jealousy in your tone. Of course he’ll be there, he is the leader, she’d state dully as if this was obvious, and maybe it was, but it still made your chest ache.

You spend a lot of time with him lately, even outside of meetings, you’d state your observations out loud for the first time. Confrontation wasn’t something you enjoyed, and you certainly weren’t any good at explaining your feelings either. But your heart was starting to nag you lately, and you needed to voice your opinions before it was too late.

We’re preparing for a war, her eyes grew incredibly narrow, try not to make such selfish accusations right now. The words were like daggers of guilt stabbing between your ribs. Yelena had a way with words — a shiny silver tongue that always made you believe what she said without a doubt. You started to believe that you were being selfish — after all the war was very real and Yelena was very involved, that's probably all it was.

You’re right, I’m sorry. I just wish you were around more. Your voice was much quieter now, shame and remorse churning in your stomach -- maybe you would have been better off not saying anything at all.

We’re busy. You have to understand where I’m coming from here. It’s hard for me to make time right now, she’d continue to spew nonsense into your impressionable ears. She didn’t like that you were starting to question her, not at all. She’d say whatever you needed to hear to keep you around at this point — she didn’t plan on losing her little fuck-toy anytime soon. If you needed a little affection to keep you complacent, then she’d just need to put on a little show for you.

Come here, I’m sorry, her tone grew softer, but not at all sincere. You helplessly sunk into her spindly arms, and she pulled you tight to her chest. Just hold on until after the war, okay? Once we make the world a better place, we can do whatever you want.

More false hope, false promises, and false reassurance. The war would be brutal, you’d probably die at some point in a terrible event of collateral damage. You’d die and then Yelena would never need to fulfil her empty promises -- it was that easy, and you’d never know the difference.

That sounds nice, you’d smile, your heart warming at the idea of living in a free world with Yelena by your side. You fell ignorantly for her words, missing every single warning sign and every single red flag. Maybe if you’d noticed the subtle darkness in her eyes, the strain in her tone, or the way she hugged you a little too roughly, you could have saved yourself from the ensuing heartbreak. Or maybe if you had realized that with you being a scout and her being a follower of Zeke, it was unlikely that the two of you would ever work out. But you stupidly refused to consider any of these things, and it was going to cost you your heart.

That fateful memory was a few months ago, and now the both of you were in Marley, anxiously waiting for Eren’s plan to unfold. You were partnered with your friend Connie, his lips twisting into a thin line as the two of you hid in the shadows on top of an industrial building. You were incredibly capable with your 3dm gear, and even more capable with the new gun technology, but you were practically useless with your head in its current state. You watched the streets with fervent eyes, dashing them up and down nearby alleyways and hoping for any sign of Yelena. The attack hadn’t even started yet, but not knowing her whereabouts made you incredibly uneasy. She was probably wherever Zeke was, of course, but you liked to think that wherever she was, she was worried about you too.

Yelena was hiding in plain sight, dressed in a traditional Marleyan Army uniform with fake facial hair wrapped around her chin. She did as she was ordered, trapping two of the titan shifters in a large hole and then retreating back to her position. She was focused solely on her task, and on Zeke and how she could ensure his safety, and honestly, the thought of you hadn’t crossed her mind once tonight.

When Eren’s attack came, it came suddenly and violently -- and it was like nothing you’ve ever seen before, or at least not since the colossal and armored titans attacked so many years ago. Before you could even take in the horrifying scene in front of you, Connie was grabbing your hand and ushering you to run, the two of you taking off with your 3dm gear. You couldn’t stop your eyes from wandering as your body swung through the air, frantically searching the streets for the tall, blonde woman who owned your heart. But maybe you should have paid less attention to finding her, and more attention to where you were going.

Connie’s shrill scream shook you to your core, and at first you didn’t even notice the array of guns pointed right at the two of you. A group of Marleyan soldiers were lined up atop a building, every single nozzle of their firearms preparing to shoot at you and Connie. Your friend shot his gear downwards, swooping underneath the scope of the guns and shouting at you to follow him. And you tried, you really did, but you were horribly distracted and accidentally shot your gear into the very edge of a building. The hook crumbled the corner of the building and was unable to secure itself, sending you hurling to the ground beneath you. Your breath was wiped clean from your chest as you smacked against the ground, dust and dirt filling your lungs. Connie was forced to swing up onto a higher building, narrowly avoiding the bullets and unable to come down after you. Your bones ached as you peeled yourself off the ground, looking up just to see pieces of rubble hurling towards you. What the FUCK, Eren? You silently cursed out that irresponsible titan boy, scrambling to avoid the giant chunks of building that were quickly getting closer.

You thought you’d made it, your heart beat gushing in your ears as you launched yourself towards another building, only to be knocked back down by a slab of broken concrete. Pained yelps squeezed out from your throat as your body fell helplessly back to the ground. This fall did a number on you, your ears ringing and your head pounding with a dull pain. The large piece of rubble had crashed into one of your legs, rendering your leg immobile and absolutely crushing your gear. Connie couldn’t help you, not when saving you guaranteed his own demise — you needed to do this on your own, unless-

“Yelena!” You called out to the towering woman who was stumbling towards you. Her arm was wrapped around an injured Zeke, and she was working hard to carry him to safety. Levi must have rocked his shit again, you’d have to thank him for that if you made it out of this alive.

Yelena stopped momentarily when she saw your mangled leg, but not even an ounce of concern crossed her determined face. She looked you up and down, and then glanced down at Zeke as if she was weighing her options.

“I’m sorry,” She shot you a horribly unsypathetic look, dragging her gaze away from you and hurrying off with the injured blonde boy.

It was so simple, so short, and there wasn't the smallest hint of remorse in her voice. Your brain couldn’t process how easy it was for her to leave you there, your mouth hanging open in a small “o”. You would give your life for Yelena, and she didn’t even blink when you were faced with certain death — and that’s when it all started to set in. The delusional facade that you’d imagined between the two of you was shattering, small pieces of glass memories crashing and crumbling around you. The cruel owner of your pitiful heart felt nothing for you, and it had taken this long for you to finally realize.

All of the days and nights the two of you spent entangled in each other's arms had meant nothing. All of the time you spent with your lips locked against hers and her large hands caressing your body had been devoid of anything more than lust for her. Terrible embarrassment washed up inside of you as you recalled all of the sinful things you did for this cold-hearted, unfeeling woman.

Your motivation to fight was gone, your eyes locked onto Yelena’s tall figure as she ran further away and out of view. She’d picked Zeke over you again, she always did, and she always would. She practically worshiped him, like he was some kind of fucked up, twisted god. You weren’t sure why you ever thought you could compete with that.

In the midst of your complete breakdown, a firm arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you into the air. Connie had come back for you, cold air stinging your face as the two of you shot up to the safety of a tall, nearby building.

“Fuck, y/n, stop being so careless! And I hope you’ll finally give up on that lanky bitch after she walked right past you like that,” he let out an exasperated breath, slumping behind a large brick wall.

“Sorry… thank you,” you mumbled, “You really shouldn’t have risked your life like that”.

“No, but that’s what people are supposed to do when they care about each other. Is it finally sinking in, that she's been using you for the past year? I tried to tell you so many time-,” He continued to ramble on in frustration.

Every one of his words poured salt into your already burning wounds, tears beginning to leak from your eyes. Yelena didn’t care about you, she never did — she’d never even sacrificed time for you, never mind compromising her or Zeke’s safety for you. And you were stupidly ignorant to ever think that she saw you as more than a toy she used to pass the time.

[toosicktoocare]

Prompt:  this might be too vague but how about sick dick or jason (your pick, i'm fine with either) hiding it from bruce on patrol bc things are really bad between them at the moment

Catch me flying with the typical Jason is still A+ Bitter at Bruce

With the recent rise in aggravated incidents in Crime Alley, Jason’s been forced to share his patrols with the bats, an idea he violently fought against until Alfred stepped in, the calm, steady voice of reason, and insisted it was necessary for his safety.

Monday he had Dick, and things were... okay. Dick’s face is plastered beside the definition of “handful,” but he knows how to respect Jason’s patrol strategies, following wordlessly and only helping when needed. On Tuesday, Tim proved similar to Dick, his maturity blossoming. Though, he asked more questions, weirdly curious about Jason’s lingering effects of the Lazarus Pit. Jason answered each, hoping his short, clipped replies would hush the replacement because his head was starting to pound along each question.

Jason wasn’t surprised to see Damian on Wednesday, but he was definitely annoyed. He had woken up with a splitting headache that seemed to bleed down to his muscles, pushing against them. He thought, at first, it was a migraine, but the pain in his head was different and accompanied with a flushing fever heat that colored his cheeks. He said nothing to Damian, and Damian merely scoffed and disappeared to navigate Crime Alley areas alone. Jason let him, going off on his own as well, and they met up to one-word debrief before parting ways for the night.

When Jason shoots his grapple hook to the edge of a rooftop on Thursday, he expects to find Dick again. Maybe Cass. What he doesn’t expect is to see the unwanted, annoyingly familiar, brooding shadow of Batman standing atop the roof, arms crossed, mouth flat.

Jason’s stomach drops, and he stumbles his landing, catching himself with a hushed curse. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Bruce sighs, fingers visibly digging a little harder into his arms. “Language, Hood.”

“This is my territory,” Jason spits back. “I’ll say whatever the fuck I want. Why are you here? Doesn’t Batman have bigger things to do?” Saying ‘Batman’ aloud leaves a sour taste atop Jason’s tongue, a bitter word that plays with the dull burn of the Lazarus Pit.

Since Jason’s return to Gotham, Bruce has been trying to reconcile, but Jason’s not willing to forgive and forget. He’ll try with the others, more so because they are annoyingly persistent, but not with Bruce. He can’t wrap his mind around forgiving Bruce for letting him die, for letting the Joker continue to breathe while he took his first last breath.

“I want to be here.”

“That’s fucking gold,” Jason rolls his eyes and turns away, absently coughing into his fist as he scans his rapid departure. The coughing’s a new development, only just testing his lungs when he woke this morning, but the headache’s remained, a steady, pulsing thump that his repeated consumption of pain killers can’t seem to touch. He doesn’t need a thermometer to know he’s running a fever; he’s got the inconsistent jumping from boiling hot to freezing cold to supply that for him.

“Jay-”

“Code names, Batman,” Jason growls before he shoots his grapple hook to a rooftop adjacent to them, moving along the sudden pull of weightlessness until his feet are thumping atop the next roof. He breaks out into a run, falling into a pattern of leaping over smaller gaps and grapple hooking over larger ones, all to ditch Bruce. His muscles are trembling from the sudden exertion, but he feeds off of the pain, pushing himself harder and harder when he hears Bruce not far behind him.

He only stops when he hears a woman scream from below, skidding to an unsteady stop and peering over a roof edge just as Bruce lands heavily beside him.

“Muggers.”

“No shit,” Jason grumbles, already bracing to leap off the building. “Do me a favor? Stay the fuck out of my way.” He jumps to the sound of Bruce’s strangled “Jay,” ignoring it as he grabs a fire escape to soften his fall. He lands strategically between the two muggers and a young woman.

“Today’s your lucky day, gentlemen.” Jason smiles sharply under his mask. “I’m in a really shitty mood, so I’ll make this quick.” His fist moves on its own, and he allows the aggravation to bleed to a dull rage that pushes his punches, plants his feet, and pulls his dodges. In just a minute, the two muggers are unconscious at his feet, and the woman’s running from the scene, stopping only when Batman drops to the ground in front of her and talks her into staying to give a statement to the GCPD.

Jason’s already shooting back up to the next rooftop, and his lungs quake against a bursting fit of coughs the second his feet make a rough landing. He coughs into his helmet, his chest shaking, but he forces a steady breath when Bruce drops beside him. Though, it takes more blinking then he expects to clear his wavering vision.

“Do you plan on following me all night?” Jason questions, tired and far too hot under his suit. “I don’t need my territory associating the Red Hood with Batman. I have a reputation, and you’re going to fuck that up for me.”

“I’m here to help.”

“You can help on the East side of Crime Alley,” Jason mutters, a few, weaker coughs slipping past his lips. “I’ll handle the rest.” He drops to a landing below him, leaping over to the roof of a convenience store, and his legs buckle on the landing. He falls to his knees, his vision swimming faintly, and he unconsciously taps into the deep-rooted burn of the Lazarus Pit when Bruce drops beside him, one hand frozen mid-reach toward Jason’s back.

“What part,” Jason growls, coughing hollowly around each word, “of fuck off isn’t clicking in that empty skull of yours?” He’s shaking despite the heat gripping at his bones, and he clumsily undos the lock on his helmet, sucking in a ragged breath when his burning face is exposed to the cool wind.

“Jay?”

“Jesus Christ, B,” Jason spits out, forcing himself to his feet and slapping Bruce’s hand away. “Just fucking go.” His throat’s burning, and his head feels oddly heavy despite the absence of his helmet. The skin across his face is so hot it’s practically itching, and he rips at his domino, squeezing it in his fist when Bruce frowns deeply at him.

“Jason? What’s wrong?”

Jason laughs, and his laugh gives way to a few, chesty coughs that rattle his lungs. His vision is graying at the edges, and he hastily rubs at his eyes. “What’s wrong is I’m tired of you and the fucking peanut gallery clinging to me like fucking leeches!” He’s faintly aware that he’s breathing too fast, and he’s impossibly hot. He swipes at his eyes again, but his vision only darkens. He’s fading, and yet, his body is mingling with panic.

He feels Bruce slip and ungloved hand across his forehead, and he tries to jerk away from it, but Bruce keeps him in place with his other hand wrapped tightly around his arm.

“Jason, you’re burning up. Why didn’t you say?”

Bruce’s classic growl, Jason thinks, is wavering? He’s not sure because his ears are ringing. “Because it’s not your fucking busin-” Jason stops, his mouth forming a round ‘oh’ right as his vision goes black.

***

Bruce catches Jason as he falls, and he swallows back the panic threateninng to cripple him as he taps his comm, rattling off his coordinates. “Who is closest?”

“I am,” Dick chimes in after a moment. “I can be there in five. What’s up?”

“I need to get Jason back to the manor. Do you think you can cover the Alley alone tonight?”

“Of course, but what’s up, B? Is Jason okay?”

“No,” Bruce whispers, smoothing a shaking palm to Jason’s burning forehead. “But he will be.”

***

Jason’s entire body feels impossibly heavy, so heavy that he struggles to open his eyes, mind briefly flicking toward panic at the unfamiliar surroundings.

“You’re at the manor.”

The ceiling suddenly makes sense his mind, as does the voice at his side. He drags his gaze to see a Bruce sitting in a chair at his bedside. He frowns, briefly glancing to the IV in his arm before turning back to Bruce, a silent question in his eyes.

“You fainted on patrol. You were running a fever of 103.3 degrees, and you were dehydrated.”

Shit. Jason knew he was sick, but he hadn’t realized he let it get that bad. He wants to talk, even opens his mouth to, but Bruce holds a single hand up, shaking his head.

“Save your strength. You’re on the mend, but not as quickly as we’d like.” Bruce slips to his feet, his eyes colored in dark pain that Jason catches onto.

“I’ll give you some time to yourself now that you’re awake, but I’ll be back, and you are just going to have to deal with that.”

Jason’s mind is fuzzy, confused, pained, but he feels a fraction lighter along the knowledge that while he blacked out, he woke back up this time, safe, alive. He stares at Bruce’s back headed to the door.

“B?”

Bruce stops, and he whips around, one brow arched.

“Thanks. I guess.”

“Of course, son.”

Bruce leaves, and Jason decides that, just for tonight, he’ll take muted comfort in the single word that carries an impossibly heavy amount of weight.

Son.

[bisluthq]

If you think she’s crappy in everything, why did you Stan in the first place? Just because you think she is fruity and you wanted to tuck her?

No. Let me explain why this is such a huge deal for me: the main reason I like Taylor is her songwriting and the extraordinarily firm morals she appeared to have on artists’ rights. I love listening to her talk about the music industry, like her pieces with Zane Lowe are some of my favorite bits of reporting on this (not in like a lmao way in like I genuinely can’t get enough of them talking). I also love how transparent she is with her songwriting processes when she’s in long form interviews. Like yeah she’s “pinned” songs on people before but when she’s on tape she talks extensively about how everything comes together and it’s so cool and so interesting. I also love her ability to smash awards records, set firsts, and like outsell everyone. I adore her icon status. Her interviews with Lloyd Webber and McCartney? UNPARALLELED QUEEN SHIT.

When she called out Scooter and Scott and decided to re-record? Iconic. Take your fucking shit back. And she did it so publicly and righteously, with so much indignant anger and for me like... wow that takes guts. That’s impressive. Damn.

Which is why I historically liked Taylor more than any other artist working right now. Because yeah all celebs are a bit shitty, and a bunch of good music gets made, and lots of people are cute and funny and have sweet relationships. And honestly? Taylor is shittier than average and has annoying fans. Like yes she seems smart (not about media interpretations but otherwise) and she’s funny and she seems sweet. But she also lowkey stands for nothing right and has flubbed allyship and feminism repeatedly.

But none of that mattered to me because Taylor had her issue. She was allowed to fuck up on all that other stuff because there were two things I was confident she’d never do - fudge credits or cheat with awards, particularly the Grammys.

And yet that’s what she did.

So don’t try twist this into some saga about relationships or her sexuality. I honestly don’t care about that. Y’all appear to a lot tbh. There’s a lot of projection and parasocial vibes and an absolutely rabid obsession with her love life. But for me, Taylor’s appeal HINGED on this songwriting icon queen shit thing. Because she’s not my friend. And she won’t ever be. She was, however, impressive as fuck and I had no choice but to stan.

Fudging credits - which is what happened here regardless of whether he was in the room or whatever, like there was a 9 month lie - is antithetical to what I liked about her. Cheating on Grammys - which is what happened here because the website is literally lying - is antithetical to what I liked about her.

The issue is how this was handled. As a huge fan of Joe I’m pleased he has a Grammy. Good on him. But I am VERY bitter over how they did it and it does leave an extremely sour taste in my mouth.

If there’s an explanation I’d love to hear it.

But I don’t think there is, I think she thought her boyfriend deserves a Grammy and she went out an organized one. That’s deadass what I think happened and tbh I think y’all think that too.

And honestly? Yeah then I don’t get the appeal. And I can’t get over the Brauns LITERALLY PULLING THEIR KIDS OUT OF SCHOOL BECAUSE OF HER DERANGED ASS FANS SENDING DEATH THREATS or her dragging Calvin for keeping a secret they agreed on or her misery on the day of the Grammy announcements and Rep’s snub. Those things do not marry in my head with going “lmao let’s just leave you off to win” or “oh baby but I think you really deserve it 🥺”.

They don’t marry but they kinda do. Like she really does seem to be a spoilt brat throwing her toys out the cot and then crying “SEXISM!!!” over it. Which is fine like that’s how a lot of people see her. This isn’t like a fringe opinion. But because I really like watching longform stuff with her I really didn’t think this was the case. And yes I’m like ACTIVELY disappointed and it does weird me out that people aren’t and it 100% ties back to me saying I don’t think y’all are fans of her like the vibe is to stan her dumb annoying marketing and project oneself onto her and not to like... actually focus on her.

The fact that the immediate response to her being called out for like high nepotism and cheating and shadiness is to go “you don’t like her relationship” or “you don’t like her being straight” is TRULY FUCKED. Like she genuinely has the most annoying fans and the most insidious marketing I’ve ever encountered and like yeah I’m very disappointed and y’all flabbergast me.

[sanders-semantics]

Lies (like fire in my throat)

Also on Ao3!

Tws: self depreciation, food mention, mention of manipulation. Please tell me if you find more!

For Janus, lies came in flavors. Each person had a different flavor. That flavor, just like their name, was a kind of identity: unique and hard to replicate exactly. Small ones could be hard to pick up, but the worst ones were unmistakable.

Virgil’s were a saltiness that burned the roof of his mouth and lips.

Logan’s tasted sour, like they had been left in the heat for too long, festering with no one to notice they were there.

Roman’s were spicy and made him want to cough. They slashed their way into his lungs, clawing at his throat. They hurt physically more than anyone’s.

Patton’s were sickly sweet, like he had used too much sugar to hide the burnt truth.

Remus’ were slightly better than the others, possibly because he rarely lied. They were strong and metallic, something that should never be tasted, yet here they were in Janus’s mouth.

But the worst, even against Roman's, were his own.

One lie at a time wasn’t terrible. It was a twinge of bitterness, always at the tip of his tongue, waiting for an opportunity to escape. Those were white lies. They came easily and without guilt, ready to defend whenever they were needed. He was used to them, and he even welcomed them, especially when he knew that they were only for protection.

Both those were the simple ones.

White lies and sarcasm were shallow, one-off things.

It was always the webs that got him; the messy, uncomfortable traps of mangled truths and desperate lies that made him want to gag. Each word coated his throat in something so vile that it made him want to retch, but he knew he couldn’t. That would ruin the lie, and then it would have all been for nothing.

Janus had always found it ironic that he could barely stomach the biggest lies. Even if his tasted the worst, the others’ still put up one hell of a fight, too, and it could annoy him to no end.

Like at the trial.

Roman had wanted — obviously — to go to the call back. And it wouldn’t have done Thomas any harm. Janus was sure of it. It would have been good for Thomas, good for Roman, good for all of them. There was no use of Roman lying to them all, then, since the lie would have ended badly. And it had.

The burn had started off almost nice. It was so rare that Janus actually had to taste Roman’s lies that it was surprising, but not bad. The burn brought

Roman down to Janus’s level a little, and he privately relished someone actually agreeing with him, even if he knew it was fake.The burn felt good.

The burn meant he was getting his way.

But then it changed.

The verdict was passed, and that little twinge turned into a raging fire. He couldn’t help but scream in frustration because it wasn’t fair. Roman had been agreeing with him, right? Everything was going right, everything was going to turn out fine.

But then that lie.

Roman saying that it would be better to go to the wedding was so wrong and so unnecessary. It wasn’t protecting anyone, except maybe Patton, though it had harmed him in the long run, too.

The pain was for absolutely nothing.

Janus’s pain, for one, but also Roman’s.

It was only hurting them.

Why couldn’t they understand?

Didn’t they see that he was trying to help them? He was self preservation, after all. He was supposed to help. It was his job, his function. It was his purpose.

But then they were all yanked out of the courtroom illusion. Janus let out a strangled scream, partially in anger and partially in agony as he waited for the fire to die down. As soon as he could speak again, he had tried once more to change their minds, once more to make that lie go away because it wasn’t protecting anyone. But Roman had decided, and so had Thomas, so there was no going back now.

He knew that it was going to end badly.

He felt it deep in his bones, deep in his scales. But he could do nothing as the fire roared in his throat, only giving him time to speak when he  breathed through it the best he could. And so he waited for it to die down.

All lies eventually lost their taste. The biggest ones took longer, but only because the biggest ones always got brought back up.

So he waited for it to fade.

It never did.

Janus had barely made it to his bed when he collapsed onto his nest of blankets, pillows and plushies. They made a protective bed, a shelter from the cold of the subconscious that seemed to find a way into every nook and cranny of his and Remus’s prison.

Prison.

The others would never call it that,  but that’s what it was. Maybe not for Remus, since he also had reign of the imagination, but it was surely Janus’s. And even if he wasn’t physically forced to stay there, he still had his obligations to Remus. Neither of them were welcome on the other side of the mindscape.

Still feeling the burning agony,  Janus wondered if he really wanted to be with them, anyway. It was their lies that were tearing him apart, after all. It was their lies that made him writhe, tangling himself up in fabric.

This was their fault.

He had wanted to help, and this was what he got in return?

His mind turned back to not even an hour ago. He had given them his name, something he had never actually expected to do, and they rejected it.

They rejected Janus. A little part of him told him to be logical, that it wasn’t all of them. It was only Roman that had laughed.

Roman, who had, more or less, been on his side just a few videos ago.

Roman, who had always hated him.

Roman, whom Janus had manipulated.

But hadn’t he done it for a good cause?

He had just wanted to help, and that had seemed like the best way to achieve his goal of protecting Thomas. He hadn’t expected for Roman to take it so hard. He truly hadn’t. Janus was simply doing what his instincts told him to do.

So was it really their fault? He had no idea anymore. He just wanted the burning to leave him in peace. He could guess that if Roman would just admit that he regretted not going to the call back, then it would finally fade. But Janus doubted that would quickly— this was Roman he was talking about.

Roman, who was angry.

Roman, who had fallen apart.

Roman, who hated him more than ever.

Janus would not be getting mercy any time soon— no, he had to atone first. He had to pay.

He could almost hear Roman’s voice.

His throat was still burning when a loud pounding came from his door. It was erratic and harsh and unbelievably loud, even if it was muffled by the surrounding fluff. Janus made a low sound that only managed to bring tears to his eyes.

It hurt.

He knew it was Remus from the knock, and he knew that he wouldn’t care if he got a response or not. He would barge in anyway, regardless of the answer.

He was right.

In a matter of seconds Remus was at the foot of the bed, bouncing violently on his heels. Janus didn’t bother to look up.

“What’s up, Snakey-Doodle-Dandy? Your little meeting with the Prudes not go too hot?” he asked, voice rough like he had been crying. If he could see him, he guessed that his eyes would be even redder than usual. It took much of Janus’s willpower not to open his mouth and comfort him. He knew that leaving him even for a little while was risky, but he had still made the choice to go.

Looks like Roman wasn’t the only one making harmful choices.

Looks like he had messed up Remus, too.

He had managed to mess up both Creativities.

He had only been trying to help.

Suddenly, he felt a sob tear through his body, forcing him farther into the nest. He barely repressed a scream at the fire that bounced up worse than ever, which made him cry even harder, which made the pain even worse.

And fore a second he forgot Remus was even there. He let himself fall deeper into his bed, finally giving up what dignity he had left. Then he felt something.

He jumped, not expecting it, but he soon realized it was a hand. Sometimes even Janus forgot how gentle Remus could be when he really wanted to.

It was rare, but not unheard of.

He let Remus rub slow, soft circles between his shoulders and down his back, and he noticed with relief how it never dipped anywhere near his waist. It stayed up, trying to soothe his crying. He heard quiet whispers that he couldn’t process but loved nonetheless. He loved how the bed creaked beside him and how a warm body pressed against his.

He loved how every once in a while a finger would swipe some hair from his face as it plastered to his forehead. He loved how he felt his normal clothes melt away, quickly replaced with a T-shirt and sleeping pants.

Eventually he calmed down, but he couldn’t say how long it took. He doubted Remus would know, either. But he finally found himself lying in the mass of fluff, with Remus curled around him, and he would be lying if he said he wanted to get up.

There was a long time of Janus leaning against him silently. The fire had faded slightly when the sobs quieted, but he knew that one sound would set them off again. So for now he was content with letting Remus card through his hair, and he didn’t have the energy to ask where his hat was.

It was Remus who spoke first.

“So, uh, I’m guessing your throat hurts?”

Janus nodded without opening his eyes. Remus made a low sound. Was it a Roman lie? You said those were kinda’ spicy or something,” he said.

Forcing a deep breath, Janus nodded again.

Remus was quiet while he puffed out his cheeks, and Janus could almost laugh.

Almost.

He didn’t dare to, though,

“Would some honey help? I mean, I can’t really make any. You know anything I conjure turns out pretty shitty, and you can’t really make anything solid, but I could go up and steal some,” Remus suggested. “It’ll be like a secret spy movie! Except the honey’s the spy and I’m the kidnapper, which is way more fun anyway.”

Remus did eventually go get honey, returning with both the food and a myriad of new ideas and stories, some much more gruesome than others. But Janus listened to them all as Remus fed him spoon after spoon, and dreamt of them when he finally fell asleep on his chest.

[thegreatestofheck]

By Dawn pt. 3 ☼ John B Routledge ☼

find parts one and two here!

word count- 3.6k  warnings - Light swearing, that’s about it synopsis -  John B meets a mysterious girl at his court ordered group therapy. After spending weeks trying to get to know her, he slowly realizes that she’s a tough nut to crack. But then one day, she leaves him a cryptic message…the night before she goes missing. With the disappearance of his father still so raw in his mind, John B refuses to lose anyone else. And he will stop at nothing until he finds her. taglist - @simonsbluee @parkerpetertingle​ @kaelyn-lobrutto24​ @hopelesswritingxd​ a/n - I really hope you like this! I know this fic isn’t as popular as some of my others, but I’m really excited for where this is going! I’ve got ideas planned out in my head and I’m really hoping that it’ll all make sense! Let me know if you want to be added to my taglist. Stay safe, stay healthy, and stay groovy out there folks!

John B said very little the next day. His mind was fixed on Gwen, but not in the same way it usually was. When he thought of her, it left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he had no idea why. 

“Dude, are you okay?” Pope asked. “You’ve been spacey all day.” 

John B looked up from his cheeseburger and up at his friend. Pope dipped a fry in his milkshake, waiting patiently for an answer. 

“Do you ever get a feeling that something is wrong?” John B dropped his hands to the booth beside him. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I dunno.” He scratched behind his ear, thinking about how exactly to phrase what he was trying to say. “Last night Gwen was being really...strange and ever since she left, I’ve just had this bad feeling.” 

Pope swallowed, giving himself time to mull over his answer. John B wasn’t really expecting much, but when he needed a reality check, Pope was always the guy to go to. 

“It’s Thursday, right?” John B nodded his head. “Then you have group tonight. You’ll see her there.” 

“You’re right.” 

“I’m sure you just ate something bad yesterday. Nothing to worry about,” Pope told him, shoving a few more milkshake covered fries into his mouth. John B nodded his head slowly, turning to look out the window. 

Pope was probably right. It was only a few more hours until group. He would see Gwen there like he always did. So why wasn’t the bad feeling going away? 

“Hey,” Pope said, pulling John B’s attention back to the present. “If something is wrong, we’ll figure it out. Together.” 

John B nodded again. He wanted to believe his friend, he really did. But he had been trying to convince Pope, Kie, and JJ his dad was still out there for months, but none of them really believed him. No one did. Except Gwen. If something did happen to her, would his friends really believe him this time? 

He had been planning on going out on the boat with the Pogues, but he wasn’t feeling it. The constant twisting in his stomach was making him sick. He didn’t want to eat anything, didn’t want to do anything. He just wanted to sit around and call Gwen. But when she first gave him her number, she had asked him not to call her during the day. He didn’t want to push her boundaries that she had set up. Still, not calling her took all of the strength he had in his bones. 

“What should we do?” Kie asked, watching him through the window. JJ sighed and ran his hands through his hair. 

“Leave him?” JJ offered. Kie slapped his chest with the back of her hand. 

“He was like this the first few days before....” Pope trailed off, but Kie knew what he was talking about. She lowered her head. “It didn’t stop until Peterkin finally told him that Big John was missing.” 

Kie let out a heavy sigh. 

“What did you guys do then?” She asked, looking at her two friends. JJ and Pope both shrugged. Kie rolled her eyes and pushed the front door open. She sat next to John B on the couch, but he didn’t even recognize that she was there. 

“John B,” she said, her voice set at a whisper. John B paled and shook his head, so she didn’t say anything else. 

“It’s still a few hours before group,” he told her, putting his hands over his face. “But I’m so worried-” 

“Hey.” Kie put an arm around his shoulders. “Everything’s going to be okay. She’ll be at group tonight.” 

“You promise?”

“I promise.” 

***

John B waited outside, like he always did. Even before the sun had set, the night was cold. He wore his red hoodie, hands shoved into the pockets. A few of the other members waved as they walked in, some even said hi. But Gwen’s car never pulled into the driveway. 

He checked his watch every few seconds until the clock struck 8 o’clock.

His heart stopped in his chest. Gwen was never late. She was always pushing the clock, but she was never late. In all the weeks he had known her, she never pulled up later than 7:59. And Allison Preacher told John B that Gwen had never missed a meeting. 

Something was definitely wrong. 

Hands shaking, John B pulled out his phone. His first instinct was to call his dad. He froze for a second, his thumb hovering over his dad’s contact. Shaking his head back and forth, he found JJ’s number and called. 

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” he begged, his legs bouncing up and down. All he got was voicemail. “Shit!”

He tried to suck in a calming breath, but it wasn’t helping. Squeezing his eyes together, he told himself that she was just stuck in traffic. Right. Traffic...on the cut...at 8 o’clock at night. 

There was some simple explanation as to why she wasn’t there, he just had to calm down. That’s what Kie would tell him to do. 

That only last for a minute before John B pulled his phone out again to call Pope. He didn’t pick up either. 

“Damn it!” 

It was 8:05 when John B pushed himself away from the brick wall and started toward his car, a flurry of nervousness. His hands shook as he slid into the front seat. 

He knew something was wrong and he still did nothing. If something had happened to Gwen, it was on him. 

John B finally called Kie. Hers went straight to voicemail. 

“Damn it!” John B slammed his fist against the wheel of his car. The horn blared for half a second before he pulled his hand away. Pressing the heels of his palms against his forehead, John B tried to suck in deep breaths. He would be no help to Gwen if he was panicking and disoriented. 

Jamming his key into the ignition, John B tore out of the school parking lot, his hands still shaking. As he barreled down the road, he glanced at his phone, wondering to himself if he should risk calling her. He wasn’t entirely sure where he was driving to yet, but there was no way he was going to sit in group for two hours and listen to all those kids prattle on about how shitty their parents are. 

Finally, John B couldn’t stand it anymore. He picked up his phone and found Gwen in his contacts. He listened to it ring. With every second she didn’t pick up, John B’s heart rate increased a hundred fold. 

“Hi, this is Gwen. I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone-”

John B threw his phone against the passenger seat with a frustrated cry. He pounded a fist against his steering wheel once again. He could barely see the road through his bleary eyes, but he somehow managed to make it back to the Chateau. What he was going to do once there, he had no idea. 

Storming out of his car, he made for the house. 

“JB?” 

John B froze where he was, turning toward the hammocks. All three of his friends were there, now sitting up or lifting their heads to look at him. Looking at them left a sour feeling in his stomach. 

“I tried to call you,” he said, ashamed of the way his voice broke. Kie was out of her hammock almost instantly. JJ almost fell out as she climbed out. 

“My phone’s dead,” she said as she got closer. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you at group?”

John B’s chest heaved as he sucked in rapid breaths through his nose. He ran a hand through his hair, turning in a circle as if Gwen would just be there when he got back around. 

“Gwen didn’t show,” he said, finally meeting Kie’s gaze again. 

“Ah, shit,” JJ mumbled, kicking the tree he stood beside, hands shoved in his pockets. 

“That doesn’t mean anything’s wrong,” Pope said as he took a step forward. 

“She’s never missed group before,” John B told him, his smoldering gaze fixating on his friend. “Not once.” 

“Hey.” Kie placed a hand on John B’s arm, bringing his attention back to her. “I’m sure she’s fine. Maybe she got sick.” 

“She was fine last night.” John B couldn’t breathe. He felt hot, sweat beading on his forehead. 

“Just sit down-”

“No!” John B took a step away from them. “No, I have to find her.” 

With that, he turned and ran back toward his car. 

“John B, wait!” Kie ran after him. Pope and JJ hung back. By the time Kie caught up with him, he was already in the front seat. “Let us come with you.” 

“Us?” JJ asked. “This sounds like a him problem.”

“JJ-”

“No! I mean, he’s been spending all of his time recently with her, ditching us every chance he gets.” John B could see the anger in his friend’s eyes. He’d known JJ since they were like eight. They had their fair share of arguments. 

“JJ, stop it!” Kie snapped before turning back to John B. “We’ll help you.” 

Kie pulled the sliding door open and climbed inside. Neither Pope nor JJ moved. 

“Well?” She gave her head a little shake, tightening her jaw. Pope eventually took a step toward the van and climbed in after Kie. JJ waited a little bit longer. He huffed and kicked a rock before clambering into the back with the others. Kie slid the door shut. 

“Where are we going?” She asked John B, who tightened his hands around the wheel. 

“I have one idea.”

***

John B pounded his fist against the wooden blue door. His heart tightened when he saw how much it gave way beneath the force of his hand. He shook away the nervousness and waited for a response. Kie stood right behind him, Pope and JJ standing at the bottom of the stairs. 

The moon hung low in the sky. John B shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, bouncing up and down ever so slightly. Crickets chirped in a bush nearby. The breeze rustled a series of wind chimes almost like music to the owl’s song. 

Then the door opened. An old, wrinkled woman stared up at John B, her eyes pinched together. 

“Who are you?” She asked, her voice gravelly. 

“Um, my name’s John,” he said, glancing over at Kie, who was trying to smile. “I was just looking for Gwen.” 

“Gwen?” John B nodded his head a few times. The woman’s scowl deepened into a glare. “I don’t know a Gwen.” 

John B was taken aback. His eyebrows furrowed together and he pulled his hands from his pockets. Looking over at the house number, he double checked to make sure that he had gotten the right house. There was no doubt about it. Every time he dropped her off, this was the house that Gwen would walk into. 

“No,” John B said. “This is her house.” 

“Young man, this is my house.” The old woman had a strength in her voice. “Now, get off my porch before I call the police.”

Without another word, she slammed the door shut on his face. John B’s lips parted. 

“Are you sure you have the right house?”

“Yes, Kie, I’m sure.” 

“What do we do now?” Pope asked. John B put his hands on his head, turning toward them. He shook his head slowly. He could talk to Allison, but she would still be in group for another hour and who knows if she would even tell him anything. 

“Let’s go back to the Chateau,” Kie suggested when John B didn’t say anything. “Rest for the night and then regroup tomorrow.” 

“What if she doesn’t have until tomorrow?” John B asked. 

“What do you mean?” Pope put a hand on the wood railing. 

“I mean, if she was kidnapped, they say the first 24 hours are the most critical,” John B said. 

“We don’t know if she was kidnapped, John B,” Kie said, putting a hand gently on his arm. “You need to sleep. You can’t help her if you’re sleep deprived.” 

John B let out a heavy sigh, but let Kie lead him down the stairs. 

“I’ll drive home,” JJ said. John B barely heard him. He climbed into the back of the car, Kie sitting beside him. 

“I shouldn’t have let her leave last night,” he said absentmindedly as he stared at his hands. 

“From what you’ve told us about Gwen, I doubt you could have stopped her from leaving if she wanted to.” 

John B put his head in his hands and let the silence drag on as JJ drove home. 

***

Pope, Kie, and JJ all stayed the night. They fell asleep promptly, but John B couldn’t close his eyes. He knew that Gwen was out there, somewhere, he just didn’t know where and he wasn’t sure how he could get to her. 

Eventually, he was tired of trying to pretend he was going to sleep. Sitting up and tiptoeing around his friends as they slept on the ground, John B headed out for the dock, grabbing a beer on his way out. 

He sat there with his legs dangling just over the water, nursing on the beer bottle. He pulled out his phone, hoping to see that Gwen had called him back, that she could just smooth things over and confirm that everything was fine so the sick feeling in his gut could finally go away. 

But he had no such luck. With a heavy sigh, John B opened his photo album. Pretty much every single picture from the last few weeks was of Gwen. John B flicked through them, remembering the night each on was taken. Her smile was so genuine, like she didn’t have a worry in the world. But then he got to the last picture, the one from last night. And his heart dropped. 

He hadn’t seen it the first time he took the picture because he had been far too worried then, but he saw it now. 

A tear rolled down her cheek. Just one. From the smile on her face, one might have thought that it was a tear of joy. But her smile went no farther than her lips. There was a haunted look in her eye, shimmering behind a layer of tears. 

Whatever had happened to her, she knew it was coming. Could it be that she had just moved and refused to tell him? But that didn’t explain the house issue. No, it had to be something else. 

John B went to his contacts and scrolled until he found her name. He hesitated calling her again, but part of him knew that she wasn’t going to pick up. He called her anyway. 

The dock creaked underneath the weight of someone walking toward John B as the phone rang. With a heavy sigh, JJ lowered himself to the ground beside John B. He glanced at his friend, but said nothing. 

“Hi, this is Gwen. I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone.” John B closed his eyes, listening to the sound of her voice. If he kept his eyes closed and pictured her in his head, he could almost fool himself into thinking she was here. “I’ll try to call you back as soon as I can. Thanks, bye!” 

John B waited for the beep. He might even leave her a message, maybe. Having his life long best friend there beside him gave John B at least a little bit of strength. 

He waited for the beep, but it never came. John B scowled, catching JJ’s attention. 

“Booker?” John B’s eyes widened and he turned toward JJ, who scowled at him in response. John B took the phone from his ear and put it on speaker. “I recorded this just after I left your house for the last time.”

He listened to her laugh to try and cover the break in her voice. Realization dawned on JJ as he listened to the message. 

“There are things about me you don’t know and I think it’s a good thing that I keep it that way. If you’re listening to this, I don’t know how much longer I have. People are after me, bad people. Please, if you’re listening to this, don’t call the police, don’t go to my house, don’t try and find me. Just...look at those pictures and remember me, okay? You’re one of the only people that will.” She paused. John B swallowed a lump in his throat. “I know I told you this already, but you gave me so much in these last few weeks than you could possibly imagine, so, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.” 

Another long silence followed. John B wondered if she was going to say anything else. But the line went suddenly dead. 

John B stared at his phone as it ended, feeling like a thousand bricks were laid on his chest. He struggled to find a breath. 

“It sounds like she’s in trouble for real,” JJ said, breaking the quiet that fell over them. “I’ll help you find her, man.” 

John B nodded his head, letting out a single, shaking breath. He really couldn’t believe what he had just heard. He had been right about Gwen. She was in danger and maybe those people who were after her already had her. 

“We need to wake Kie and Pope,” John B said, his mouth dry and the beer by his side forgotten completely. “They’ll want to hear it.” 

“Yup.” JJ pushed himself to his feet before offering a hand to John B. He pulled his best friend up onto his feet and the two of them headed back to the Chateau. 

***

“...from the bottom of my heart, thank you.” 

Pope had his head in his hands and Kie was staring at John B’s phone. It was the third time. 

“Play it again,” Kie said, eyes narrowed as she looked at the phone. JJ tapped the back of his head against the wall, his eyes shut. He was sick of hearing the same thing over and over again. 

“You heard it,” John B said, voice tight. “She knew she was in trouble before she even came to my house. Someone was after her and now she’s gone!”

Kie screwed her mouth shut tight, pressing her lips together into a fine line. 

“John B, you can’t ignore the part where she told you not to look for her,” Pope said, lifting his head. 

“Yes, I can, actually.” John B leaned against the table, snatching up his phone. “She’s in danger and she needs our help.” 

“John B....” Kie spoke slowly, as if preparing herself what it was she had to say. “There is a chance-”

“Don’t say it,” John B said, holding up his hand. The thought had already run through his own head a thousand times over. There was a chance that she was already dead. But he refused to believe it. 

“Where do we start?” JJ asked. He didn’t care if Pope and Kie were in on it. John B needed his help and he wasn’t about to turn his best friend down. 

“I think I have an idea.”

John B nodded his head. For the first time since last night, the unsettled feeling in his stomach was gone. The danger was far more real than it had been before, but at least he knew. Knowing the worst was better than not knowing at all. 

Gwen had to be out there somewhere and wherever she was, she was probably terrified. 

***

With a gasp, Gwen shot upward. The cold water ran down her back, soaking through all of her clothes. It chilled her to the bone almost instantly, the shivers sending painful tremors all throughout her body.

The cold made it hard to breathe. Like the ocean itself was pounding against her, her lungs screamed for air. 

“Gwen, right?” 

She jumped, her teeth chattering. There was a stinging pain on her left cheek, a dull ache in the back of her head. She could almost remember what happened that landed her where she was, but she could barely think back to a few seconds ago without a horrible migraine. 

“That’s your name, right? Gwen?” The voice said again. 

She tried to blink the blindness out of her eyes, but it wasn’t really working. She couldn’t place the voice, but she was worried that if whoever was talking to her asked again, she would be in for a world of hurt. 

“Yeah,” she ground out through her teeth before smacking her lips. “I’m Gwen.”

“See, I find that hard to believe.” The voice was becoming clearer. It was a man, that much she could tell. 

“Why’s that?” Gwen groaned. She went to lift her hand to rub the migraine out of her head, only to find that her wrists were bound, probably to the chair she was sitting in. 

“Because I happen to know who you are.” Gwen’s stomach clenched. “And I happen to know your real name, Dawn.” 

Gwen lifted her head, her vision finally coming to. Sitting in a chair in front of her was a young man, his hair plastered perfectly against his scalp. She didn’t recognize him, but if he knew her real name, that meant he knew exactly where she was coming from. And Gwen knew exactly what he wanted from her. 

“Shit.” 

[pergaias]

soon we’ll be home ; pt. i

umm here i am with more writing ? 

here’s a short story i wrote based off of almost home by mxmtoon, innocent by taylor swift, and never grow up by taylor swift ; um, i personally adore it - maybe i’m just biased, but i love the emotions and descriptions in this :))

i hope you love it as much as i do !

word count ; 2470

When I was eleven years old, all I wanted to do was grow up.

They told me that I wouldn’t want to - being a child is … it’s the time of your life, Mama promised. She wore spicy-sweet citrus-blossom perfume and always-smudged eyeglasses that hung on long beaded strings. Mama was glittering smiles and woolen cardigans and a tired, sad sort of energy, like coffee that had been left to go cold.

Mama made a lot of empty promises.

And because of it, all I wanted was to grow. To me, growing up meant laughing with friends, going to bed past midnight, driving in a bright-red sedan - eleven-year-old me had an extensive vocabulary, even if I didn’t know how to properly apply it - kissing boys and wearing dresses and lipstick. Things that I couldn’t have back then. Things that I thought were only attainable if I was grown. 

Why - why did I want it?

The coffee shop was filled with a droning buzz, the hum of university students up too late with too much caffeine in their systems. There was nobody coming to place orders, so I was leaning on my elbow on the bar, the smell of coffee and caramel syrup thick in my nostrils. No shouts of Emmie! As my friends - if they could be called that - barged in, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, scarves caught with snow.

Growing up had hurt. The realization that I wasn’t a child, that there was no place of retreat that I could go back to, that no one would comfort me or stroke my hair or hold me as I cried myself to sleep. It was easier in my lunch box days - when I believed in everything.

And everybody believed in me. 

There was a tinkling, and the coffee shop doors open. My eyes snapped wide, and a group of people sauntered to the counter, coats dusted with snow and cheeks high with color from the cold. Strangers in red and green and gold, stories in their own rights.

I wondered what they were waiting for - it was obviously something more than a hot cup of coffee on a late, snowy night.

A mocha for the girl, extra whip. Green tea for another girl, who was picking at her chipping gel nails. Americanos for the two boys who were holding hands. A peppermint special - sorry, love, pumpkin spice is still on the menu. Oh, yes, I’ll take that.

My hands shook as I wrote names and orders onto cardboard coffee cups, the scent of tea and coffee and spices almost overwhelming for a moment. Growing up was like Mama’s candied orange peels, mostly bitter but sweet if you looked for it.

And I - well, I was too tired to look for it.

Vega was in the back, her colorful highlights barely visible under a black knit cap. Vega had a septum piercing, a tattoo, and a girlfriend at home. She was the kind of person Mama - and Papa, for that matter - would have told me to stray away from on the street, but the kind of person I secretly admired nonetheless. 

Curvy, brunette Emerson Quinn-Whitley, the girl with the fake friends and shattered dreams and eyes the color of the coffee she made for minimum wage on a late shift, admiring an almost-delicate petite girl who did what she wanted when she wanted it, a girl with dyed hair and emotionless, luminous fox’s eyes, lips stained red with the blood of her conquests.

I shook the thought away. Vega was nice enough - Asian American, scholarship, hard worker, girlfriend at home, etcetera etcetera. I handed her the orders and leaned on my elbow again, my backpack full of shattered dreams, sleepless nights, and the sexy promise of an all-nighter.

Vega filled the orders, her thinly-plucked brows pressed tightly together in concentration as she drizzled something onto another something. The thought of why why why why why nagged me almost as much as the homework did. Why did I want to grow up? Why did I?

Because you were impatient, a sour part of my conscience nagged. Because you hated the rules your mother imposed on you, reminded another. Because you were waiting for Neverland, a different part sighed. A wistful picture painted behind my eyelids of a castle waiting for me to be queen, which slipped away like a tear down a cheek.

They didn’t tell you that all the love you give might not be enough. Was it when I had that epiphany that I grew up? A thousand possible moments, snapshots, memories, tinted dark like Polaroid photos. 

The chatter in the room crescendoed as Vega finished with the group’s drinks, her usually brooding expression firmly in place as she pressed a pumpkin-spice-not-peppermint-mocha into a girl’s mittened hands and shooed her out the door.

Bad vibes, Vega mouthed at me, hazel eyes twinkling. Vega liked witchy things - crystals, detox tea, chunky jewelry and drapey black dresses. Vega had personality - you could see it on the rings on her hands, the swoop of her black, color-streaked bangs, the hand-painted night sky on her bookbag. 

I tapped my fingers against the counter, counting minutes - seconds - until . . . what? Would a prince drop waltz through the glass door and offer me his hand? Would a fleet of owls - no, crows - no, how about peacocks, those sound cool - appear out of nowhere with summons for me, the lost heir, who had family and promise and a story, far far away?

If I wanted to grow up, this wasn’t it. I didn’t want to sit on a high stool behind a cash register, the smell of burnt coffee pressing in on me, the insufferable buzz of students doing homework droning on over the music playing slow and low in the background?

Our other employee, an unpleasant dudebro who went by Albie - his name, I had discovered, was Alberto de la Cruz the fourteenth or something - had chosen today’s coffee shop playlist. I had no idea who he was trying to drive mad first with the rapping; Vega and I, who bitched about his taste in everything from music to cars to girls - and one time, interestingly, tomato sauce, or our customers. They came here for cool beans and caffeine and classic rock or indie music, not Billboard’s Top 100 Rap Failures.

“Almost closing time,” Vega remarked, idly brushing an eyelash off of her cheekbone. She was tired - I could see it in the hunch of her shoulder and the tone of her already-husky voice.

I turned away from her as my head rushed to make excuses as to why I noticed that. Vega is dark chocolate and spellbooks, old bookstores and flickering chandeliers. 

“Yeah,” I said, my voice as droning as it was tired. “If coffee could power me the way it powered them -” I gestured to the students starting to slowly pack up their laptops and notes, their hours of free wifi, heat, and shitty music coming to an end, “I would have foreseen sleep in my near future.”

Vega cackled. She didn’t have a laugh - she cackled, wheezed, snorted. It was equal parts entertaining and annoying, especially when you were working with scalding-hot espresso and your coworker started honking like a demented goose next to you.

“That was a good one, Quinn-Whitley,” she barked, a gleam in her eyes. She was emotionless when she made coffee, and only talked to me around closing time and during lunch. I liked to think that I was the only one who got to see this side of her - probably high, very very gay, and incredibly enthralling. Vega was a story that I wanted to read.

I half smiled, preemptively untying my coffee shop apron and haphazardly hanging it on a hook. As much as I disliked working at the coffee shop - which had, ironically, been a vaguely romantic, soft sort of fantasy when I was younger - it was comforting, in a way. Comforting in the way the smell of coffee brought you back to when you were nine and your mother had a mug curled in her hands, staring out the window as rain pattered on its panes.

The last of the coffee shop’s patrons gloomily filed out, coats turned up to block out the wind, and Vega and I silently closed up, making coffees for each other, muttering don’t tell Carney - Carney was the shop owner - pressing day-old muffins into each other’s hands, Vega rolling her eyes as I hastily stuffed another bite of pastry into my mouth.

Leaving the coffee shop was routine. I’d scuff my boots along the lightly-snowed-over pavement, Vega would put her headphones on and tune out the world, and I’d drag her out of the way if she veered into some poor unsuspecting soul’s way.

“Vega!” I exclaimed, dragging her across the street. Her eyes were closed, her dark-red lips moving along with the song, completely blissed out. Or maybe she was just that sleep deprived.

Vega and I had the same student housing building, but other than that, I knew nothing about her - not really, but I wasn’t a stalker-watcher-psychopath or anything - yet Vega wasn’t heading to the gothy, romantic brick building. I described too many things as ‘romantic’ nowadays.

Growing up had been romantic, too - the idea of being on my own, making my own decisions, getting taller and more voluptuous, as if my flat-chested boyishness of sixth grade was the root of all my problems. ( Spoiler alert, Younger Emmie - they weren’t. )

“Vega,” I said again, pulling at her coat sleeve. Her eyes were half-closed, her headphones firmly over her ears. I was getting exasperated - every night as we walked back, she zoned the world out. It was admirable - I was paranoid and hyperaware of everything around me, the opposite of slim, petite Vega in every way.

But she opened one of her luminous hazel eyes, lashes dark against her cheeks, and beckoned me forward. Towards the river.

“Come on, Emerson!” she laughed, and I was stunned. Vega Zhao was dark chocolate and mysterious smiles, dark loose dresses and the fringe of a woolen scarf. She didn’t laugh or smile wide or drag me down an icy street to an equally icy river.

“Vega - what?” I said weakly, still holding onto the sleeve of her crowlike coat. She rolled her eyes. Beckoned me again. Didn’t take her headphones off.

She had always been strange - the brooding, emotionless expression. The personality in her clothes and makeup and hair, but not in her unless we were on break. Vega was a mystery, a novel that was still being read.

And I think I had gotten to the plot twist.

She carefully clambered over the low stone wall over to the rocks that made up the riverbank, me a few moments behind her like a beanie-bedecked, anxious shadow. It was late, I was tired, my homework a constant thought in the back of my mind. 

Vega was taking her dark coat off now, revealing an equally dark shift dress over a short-sleeved white shirt. She slid her headphones off now, stuffed them into the coat pocket, reached for my hand. “Come on, Quinn-Whitley!” she repeated, as if she were inviting me to a bakery - or better, an alternate universe where my essays were already written - and not to an icy river.

“Vega,” I said hesitantly, trying not to blush as she took my hand. “What - what’s going on?”

Vega’s eyes only glowed, luminous hazel, like the harvest moon at its peak. 

“You don’t believe in fairy tales, do you, Emerson Quinn-Whitley?” she said, her husky voice taking on a strangely melodic quality.

“What did fairy tales do for me in the end?” I snapped, my voice surprisingly sharp. There was bitterness behind that statement, so much that my tongue could almost taste it. My once-golden dreams crumbling away when Mama left, when Papa’s hand made a claw on my shoulder. When nights reading in bed dissolved into studying in tears, screaming into my textbooks because I wasn’t good enough.

Vega’s eyes darkened, almost sadly. And then she waved her hand over the ice-frozen river and stepped in. Winked at me, held out her slender hand invitingly, and disappeared.

“VEGA!” I screamed, reaching out. But it was like she was there and gone, like she’d slipped away in a moment in time. Somehow, between blinks or heartbeats or breaths, she simply vanished. 

The water still glowed where she stepped in, gold and amber and almost warm. Emerson, Emerson, Emmie! it seemed to call. My mother’s voice on the day of the first frost, Emmie, I can smell the pumpkin spice in the air! My father’s gruff baritone, grudgingly admitting Emerson, you - you did well.

And then Vega. Quinn-Whitley. Step in the goddamn portal. Live a little, Emerson.

I stepped back from the shimmering water, fear holding me back and fatigue making me question everything in front of me. 

Do you believe in magic?

You don’t believe in fairytales, do you?

Soon we’ll be home, Emmie. Soon we’ll be home.

A cacophony of voices. Everyone I had ever loved, gone. All gone. Were they ghosts? Was this river a swirling cumulation of every broken dream, every shattered hope, every happy memory that faded in time like the fading of bright autumn leaves?

Soon we’ll be home.

But where was home, my home? I was Emerson Quinn-Whitley with the divorced parents, the mother who was glittering smiles and woolen cardigans and coffee left to go cold, the father who was the smell of brandy and ice-chip eyes and bear hugs that filled you up like hot cocoa. I lived at a gothic-romantic dorm with three roommates and a mountain of homework. Where was home?

I didn’t know that growing up would come and meet me. Wishing on a star, waiting for a glorious daydream to take me away into its world of glittering gowns and sequinned smiles, a world where all my worries melted away.

I crept closer to the patch of water where Vega vanished, and first it was like a mirror - my round face with its worried eyes and smattering of freckles - and then like a birds-eye view of some other place. Vega in her white shirt and black dress, trees with leaves the color of pumpkin and spice. 

Behind me, a group of drunken strangers passed the river, wearing red and green and gold. I wondered what they were waiting for - a shooting star, a cab driver to take them away?

What was I waiting for? I liked to think that I’d grown away from the fairy tales that I had lived by when I was a child. But maybe everyone had to be a child sometimes.

I took a deep breath, briefly closed my eyes, and stepped in. 

Soon we’ll be home. 

[fenrir-to-comte]

Arthur’s route vs Isaac’s route and how each one handled the “bite”  (My hot take)  Okay so spoilers under the cut

This is a rant?? I guess it could be called a rant. I am really just discussing the circumstances between Arthur first biting us as MC and Isaac first biting us.

Let me just start out by saying that I also 100% have a bias towards Arthur (as seen with my blog name) so if at any point I swing too hard into my bias feel free to call me out. 

SO! Let us begin. 

I am currently on my second play through of Isaac’s route and I have done Arthur’s route three times I believe at this point. 

Starting Arthur’s route is always a struggle for me because I absolutely hate hate hate (!) how he acts towards us. I get what Arthur was trying to “prove” by intimidating us, but explaining an action does NOT excuse it. And there is no excuse whatsoever for Arthur biting us like that, and I will stand by that for the test of time. I think though that Arthur owning up for his shitty actions is actually handled pretty well though. He truly sees where he messes up, and he earnestly apologizes to MC without expecting her to be okay with him. Once ARTHUR reaches out and owns up, the two are able to form a relationship based on a mutual respect where Arthur treats MC with respect. 

Isaac’s route just leaves a bitter taste in my mouth in terms of how they handle the bite. 

I will once again say ARTHUR WAS 100% IN THE WRONG FOR BITING MC AND IF YOU AS A PERSON CANNOT GET PAST HIS ACTIONS (WHICH IS 100% YOUR RIGHT) THEN THAT IS A OKAY!!!

But I think Isaac was just as irresponsible (if not more so) for biting MC and should 100% be held to the same standard. The thing is that Isaac doesn’t really get held to the same standard?? Which bothers me to no end to the point where I can’t enjoy him as much as I could. 

So

We literally start Isaac’s route with him flat out attacking us because his thirst is just too much for him to control, and his thirst is worse than the other suitors. That is all fine and well, and Isaac clearly feels bad and works at apologizing. What gets me though is when Isaac actually BITES MC. 

1. Isaac at this point pretty much knows how he feels about MC.

2. He also knows that love causes bloodlust to increase. 

3. He also knows that he needs to eat and drink 5 times during each day (normal circumstances holding) to handle his bloodlust.

4. The day that he attacks MC he ate and drank NOTHING. NOT A DROP. 

This combination is just flat out irresponsible. There is no excusing the recklessness on his part. Not only this but once Isaac bites MC, he pretty much drains her dry. MC even said that his room looked like a MURDER SCENE. Isaac had NO control over the situation even though he HAD THE MEANS TO DO SO. Not only that. Isaac literally leaves MC in the pool of her blood ( At least Arthur had the decency to take her to her room after he was the complete and inexcusable attacker ). MC then wakes up not well (!!!) because she pretty much almost died (!!!!!) and Isaac straight up doesn’t even consider her circumstances. HE wants to have this deep conversation explaining/excusing his actions (!!!) and MC physically CAN’T handle it at the moment. Isaac then sees this as rejection (WTF??) and MAKES MC WALK TO HER ROOM ON HER OWN AFTER HE COULD NOT HANDLE HIS BLOODLUST AND ATTACKED HER. MC even makes a point to say how she doesn’t know how she made it to her room because she was just SO weak. Not only this but Isaac completely ignores MC trying to reach out to him after everything like he somehow is the one that got hurt worst??? After this MC reaches out to him about the ball, they kinda discuss things at the ball, but MC once again kinda takes the blame for the situation?? UM NO! MC HAD TO BE THE ONE TO REACH OUT TO ISAAC WHEN HE 100% HAD TO BE THE ONE TO OWN UP TO HIS GROSS ACTIONS. The route kinda chalks it up to both MC and Isaac being at fault where that is not the case in the slightest. 

-Sidenote: MC never really vocalizes her consent for Isaac biting her even though she kinda weirdly does in her head after Isaac already bit her-

Isaac AND Arthur are the only ones to blame for their irresponsible actions. Both hurt MC and crossed a line (A huge one at that), and both need to be held accountable. 

I feel like Isaac was not held to the standard he should of been. Not in the slightest. Unfortunately, this kinda (completely) sours my liking for Isaac :////

(Honestly, I wish both routes didn’t have to have the bite like that. It really doesn’t sit well)

OKAY! Rant over for those that stuck around til the end!!! My DMs are open for anyone if y’all wanna discuss stuff with me! I live for these kinda talks! 

[akfanficlove]

“What if I remember?” - #SeblaineWeek2020

Written for Seblaine Week 2020 – Hurt/ comfort

Sebastian had proposed. A week later, he was in an accident, Blaine not knowing if he’d make it and remembering the day he went back to Dalton, met Sebastian again and – in the end – fell in love. This hurt so much when I was even just writing it but I love how it turned out.

 He remembers. He knows it happened, yet he can barely believe it. Why is he silently sitting in an uncomfortable chair next to beeping machines when he wants to scream at Sebastian to finally wake up? The hand that’s holding his boyfriend’s for dear life is sweaty. No, wait, not his boyfriend’s – his fiancé’s. It can’t be, it’s only been a week since Sebastian went down on one knee during their vacation in Paris.

Paris, where Sebastian had lived as a child and where he spent six months as an intern in college. Paris, where they wanted to go together after graduation, then after getting their first jobs, then after Blaine’s first show closed on Broadway.

Finally, 2 years after Sebastian had returned home to San Francisco, they finally went there and it was everything Blaine had dreamed about. They were strolling down the Seine late at night, eating crêpes and kissing under the Eiffel Tower, just like Sebastian had promised. And then, on their last night, Sebastian had insisted they’d go to this little restaurant in Montmartre that’s a cute café by day and a funky bar by night, even though they were both tired, so why exactly couldn’t they just order room service and go to bed?

Blaine knew why when Sebastian took his hand, his palms sweaty and shaking a little. “Blaine Anderson”, he said, “you are the most ridiculous person and a pain in my ass. But every day I wake up next to you and for a moment I am so in awe that you are still with me.”

His voice trembled a little and Blaine’s eyes started to fill with tears because, no, he couldn’t mean that, this couldn’t be… “You are stubborn and you drive me insane when I know there’s something bothering you but you brush me off like it’s fine. I hate it when you sing in the shower before I had my morning coffee and hate even more how I could never ever hate it when you’re singing because it’s beautiful. You have this smug smile when you know my arguments are better but your puppy eyes will make me give in anyways and we really need to talk about you not using them for evil purposes like having dinner with your strange public school friends you insist you like.”

Blaine gasps half-mockingly, half self-conscious (Sebastian might have a point about him using that method to get his way).

“All of this should have me running for my life as fast as I can, yet, you are in every way said puppy – one look, one smile and I’m done, Anderson. Actually, thinking about leaving you kind of leaves me shaking with fear because I might be able to survive without you but I would hardly call that living, so I’d really rather not.” Sebastian actually blushed and Blaine was about to yell “yes, I do!” before he even heard the question.

However, Sebastian got down on one knee, holding out a small velvet box with a beautiful simple silver ring with a row of very small black diamonds and asked Blaine to marry him right there in a little restaurant in Paris. It sounds cliché and cheesy but Blaine likes cheesy and he likes Paris and he likes the ring and, hell, yes, he wants to marry Sebastian! For a fraction of a second there’s an image in his head of the boy he used to love, the boy he thought he would marry one day and in another lifetime or universe maybe he would, would have proposed with a big romantic gesture and a moving speech, but here and now, he kissed Sebastian as he slid his finger through the ring.

At home, they threw a little get-together a few days later to break the news to their families and closest friends, both of them still basking in actually doing this, taking this next step together. They wanted to officially tell their fellow ex-Warblers, Blaine’s public school friends Sebastian pretends to dislike (although he knows Sebastian has a soft spot for Marley, likes playing video games with Sam and Sebastian’s relationship with Santana, founded on a deep respect for each other’s wit and snarky banter, Blaine will never understand) and a few other friends on a bigger party next saturday.

 Next saturday seems so far away right now. He doesn’t really know what happened, couldn’t listen to what the doctor told him a few hours ago when he stormed into the hospital after a call that began with “Mr. Blaine Anderson? You are the emergency contact for a Mr. Sebastian Smythe. I’m sorry to inform you that there was an accident…”

Everything is a blur now. He went where they told him to go. He moved when the nurses needed some space to change Sebastian’s IV-drip. He laid his head in the crook between Sebastian’s head and his shoulder, held his hand carefully, unable to say anything but “Please don’t leave me…”. He’s been like that for hours.

 It’s getting late and visiting hours are long over, one of the nurses obviously feels sorry for him, that’s the only explanation he has why he’s still allowed to be here. He really must look as awful as he feels. His whole body hurts when he moves to get up, not wanting to go but not wanting to cause any trouble for the lovely nurse who let him sit with Sebastian a little longer. He kisses Sebastian’s forehead. He knows, Sebastian doesn’t like this, feels like a little kid when he does it, and maybe Blaine does it on purpose to make Sebastian finally wake up. He remembers fragments now, that the doctor said something about “potential brain damage” and “we just need to give him a few hours, maybe a day or two” and Sebastian “being lucky”. He really wants to believe her, has a deep respect for doctors after seeing some of his friends like Wes and Jeff suffer through med school. So, he hopes she’s right and reluctantly let’s go off Sebastian’s hand.

 Turns out, going back to their apartment was not a good idea. Everything around him is Sebastian and when he’s finally in bed, the only thing he can think about is What if?

 What if Sebastian doesn’t wake up tomorrow?

What if he wakes up at night, now knowing where he is, what happened and looking for Blaine?

Or what if he wakes up not even knowing who Blaine is? What if what they had is gone now?

 Something in Blaine’s stomach doesn’t feel right and he needs to get it out one way or the other. He runs towards the bathroom and makes it just in time before he throws up his breakfast and some of the shitty coffee he had at the hospital. For the first time since the call, he allows himself to break down into tears. He sits on the cold tiles of their bathroom floor, grabbing his curls when the sob’s ripple through his body.

What if Blaine goes back tomorrow and they tell him, Seb will never wake up?

What if they ask him to decide to turn off the machines or believe in wonders?

Oh dear god, what if he actually dies?

 Usually, when Blaine is upset, he finds comfort in Seb’s arms and a solution for whatever problem in his analyzing way of thinking. Blaine gets up, washes out his mouth to get rid of the sour taste and makes his way back to the bedroom. He falls down on the mattress and curls up into a ball. He reaches for Sebastian’s pillow and hugs it tight, smelling the faint smell of the cologne he knows Blaine likes, and why? Why did it have to be Seb? Why now? Why doesn’t he wake up already?

Silent tears stream down Blaine’s face, memories flooding his brain: Sebastian laughing because Blaine’s very small mom was hugging him so tight when they told her about the engagement. Sebastian in Paris, the Eiffel Tower, the parks, the ring and his smile. Tears he tries to hide every time they watch “Moulin Rouge” or a Disney classic. Date nights in the park for the 4th July, sitting on a blanket watching the fire works explode over the Golden Gate Bridge. Little moments like them holding hands all the way back to the hotel with their National’s trophy. Their first kiss a few days later when Blaine burned his tongue on scalding hot coffee, Sebastian being there to soothe the ache. All the way back, Blaine’s first day back at Dalton, not officially attending classes yet but in his uniform anyway to try how it would feel. He remembers. He remembers Sebastian starstruck-expression and the hand on his back. He remembers the warmth that was partly because he was so excited to be back and partly because something stirred in his belly he didn’t dare name yet, not back then.

It’s that warmth he craves now. That warmth he wishes he could give Sebastian. He falls asleep with tears drying on his lashes, his body on Sebastian’s side of the bed. He sleeps restlessly but when he does, he dreams about that day at Dalton that changed everything.

 It’s 7 a.m. when he slowly wakes up, feeling even more exhausted than when he fell asleep. He just wants to shower and go back to the hospital. Before getting up, he looks at his phone, a little anxious to see a message from the hospital there telling him bad news although it’s a ridiculous thought. They would’ve called if something was wrong, right? Yeah. But they would’ve also called if Seb had woken up, a bitter voice in his head tells him.

After the shower and getting dressed he dials the hospitals number where they tell him visitors were not allowed sooner than 8:30 which leaves Blaine with one more hour to ki– to spend. What he wanted to say is a bad, bad word. A bad, bad word he purposely doesn’t use, afraid he might jinx something. Blaine huffs. Sebastian would so make fun of this, of how Blaine behaves when the doctor’s prognosis was that he would be fine and Blaine wishes more than anything for Sebastian to come home and make fun of him. He’d gladly take a life full of rolling eyes, half-smiles and shaking heads if it meant that Sebastian would just be fine. He loves this man and no God would be cruel enough to take him from him, right?

 Blaine sits down on the couch, completely ready with his shoes on and watches to clock on the wall on the left side of their TV tick. He unlocks his phone and scrolls through his pictures.

There are a lot from Paris, one of them in front of the Louvre – it didn’t stop raining this whole day. One of Sebastian in a small café with a French newspaper and an espresso. One of him kissing Sebastian’s cheek out of a sudden and Sebastian’s eyes wide in surprise from when they finally made it up the hill to Sacré-Cœur and enjoyed the view.

Then there are other pictures. Sebastian with his arms slung over Hunter’s and Beat’s shoulder on the night of their housewarming party for their offices of the advertisement agency the founded together. Sebastian, Kitty and Marley dancing on Sam’s birthday party last year, his boyfr– his fiancé’s tie undone and probably too many buttons of his shirt open to be appropriate. Yet, they seemed like they didn’t have a care in the world. A picture of Sebastian and him hugging in front of a huge poster of Blaine’s face on Blaine’s opening night on Broadway. It’s the look in Seb’s face, so proud, so in love, so excited that has Blaine’s heart breaking a little and makes tears sting in his eyes. His thumb brushes over their faces. “Seb, you can’t leave me now…”, he whispers although no one’s there that could hear him.

How he made it to the hospital, he has no idea. His whole body aches and it’s getting worse the closer he gets to the room door. When Blaine opens it, he actually stops breathing, only to let it out in a deep sigh when he finds Sebastian in exactly the same position as he was yesterday. “He looks so fragile”, Blaine thinks and he wants to do nothing but hold his boy in his arms. Maybe that’s why he dismisses the chair and lays down next to Sebastian, curled into his body, careful not to accidently pull out the IV-drip. How often he had found himself in almost exactly this position when they were cuddling in bed after an orgasm or when Blaine’s had this awful cold last winter. Blaine cups Sebastian’s cheek and stroked lightly. During the 5 days of the cold when he thought he might actually die, Sebastian kept him company in bed when he could, took a few days off of work to take care of him, brought him soup and water and tea and advil. And he sang to him, Blaine remembers, the memory might be a little fuzzy but he remembers his soft voice in his ear grounding him. So Blaine starts singing softly, if only to help Sebastian ground himself:

 “I still love you

I still want you

I still need you

After all.

For better or worse

Sickness and health

Till death do us part

After all.

Please don’t leave me…”

 It must be hours since Blaine has arrived. His voice is starting to get hoarse, his face is wet from tears Blaine couldn’t stop from falling and he feels exhausted. When the song is over, he burries his face in Sebastian’s neck and breathes in before getting up. He needs to go to the bathroom and even though he’s not hungry, he knows he should get something to eat. Before he turns to leave the room he leaves a lingering kiss against Sebastian’s forehead and mumbles “I’ll be right back…”. He walks towards the door.

“You know I hate it when you do that, B.”

Blaine stops in his tracks. He’s afraid to turn back around. What if his brain is playing tricks on him? What if he’s sleep-deprieved and going crazy?

“Makes me feel like a child.”

Blaine turns. Deep green is looking at him. There’s a crocked smile on a beautiful face and Blaine rushes back to the bed and grabs this handsome face. He doesn’t feel the tears of relief but he feels the chains that suffocated him burst in his chest, suddenly it’s easier to breath again. He doesn’t hear himself whisper his name again and again in awe. But he does feel it when Sebastian turns his head a little and winces but kisses his palms.

“Hey…”

Blaine blinks. “Hi… oh my god, Seb, you scared me so much!” He launches himself into his fiancé’s arms with an “I love you” but scrambles to his feet when he hears him groan in pain. “Shit, I’m sorry, Seb, I’m so, so sorry. Wait, let me get a nurse or a doctor, fuck, you must be in so much pain and I– I’m just so glad, you’re awake…” He wipes tears and snot away with the back of his right hand. Sebastian is awake. He’s awake.

Sebastian just smiles at him. “It’s okay, B, I’m okay, I’m fine. I don’t need a doctor, not right now.” He grab’s Blaine’s hand. “Why don’t you lay down again?” He scoots over and Blaine obliges, raveling in the feeling of Seb’s finger’s lacing through his curls. He’s awake.

“Oh, Blaine?” – “Mhm?” – “We have to postpone the party. I am so not giving Hunter the satisfaction of showing up with bruises on this usually perfect mark of beauty…”

Blaine just rolls his eyes and hugs Sebastian tighter even though he hears him hissing in obvious discomfort. Good. That’ll teach Sebastian to never, ever scare Blaine like that again. “I swear to God, Seb, if you ever scare me like that again, I’ll burn your French vintage-writing desk without batting an eye.”

[katsukikitten]

Meal for one

You groan silently as you slide agaisnt the kitchen counter. The microwaves hum the only sound. Your body screams as you reach for your water and you snarl at the audacity of the bottle to be placed so far away.

Training was getting harder and longer. Especially now that your third year was quickly approaching. Lucky enough to still be with your friends, well more your family now, that was class 1A. You had been late to dinner tonight, well more like every night since your second year ended, you were studying and working your ass off in training to try to keep up with your amazing peers.

One more so than the others. Not that he would notice.

At least not anymore.

You are so lost in thought that it takes you several seconds to realize that the microwave is counting down from five.

You try to catch the microwave just before it ding but sadly the sound seems to echo in the overly sized kitchen as you growl to it to shut the fuck up.

When you remove your meal with unsated anticipation, eager to eat as you haven't had the chance all day. Your stomach growls audibly as you set the burning hot container on the counter.

You pull back the flimsy film all for your mood to sour.

Your little meal for one was cooked far too long, it needed only three minutes but you hit eight by mistake in your haste. And it didnt help that the display on the appliance only half worked.

You stared at the sorry shrivelled up pieces of chicken in the now mushy brocolli and fought back your frustrated, exhausted, borderline giving up on this whole hero thing tears.

All you wanted to do was eat your pathetic meal and get some rest before the new semester started tomorrow.

Was that too much to fucking ask?

The universe seemed to think so.

"Oi." His voice calls behind you and you stiffen.

The voice of the boy, well now becoming man, that you've been avoiding since that accidental and very drunken kiss at the beginning of the summer at that party that Mina just had to fucking have.

"Why are you making so much damn noise? I can hear you all the way in the living room." He growls and you sigh.

The two of you could have been called friends.

ONCE.

But no longer.

Suddenly you're brought back to the party.  The loud music of the memory competes with the heart beat in your head as you see his perfect face.

The room spins, you giggle placing your lips so quickly onto his after confessing.

"I've always wanted to fuck you Katsuki-kun. But not that one and done shit either."

He stiffens beneath your lips, pushing you harshly and you stare at his face.

Contorted in horror and rage.

You really fucked it all up.

You tongue your cheek damning your brain for being such a glutton for punishment.

"Yea yea I know this fucking extra does it all wrong all the time." You bite trying hard to control your voice. You slam your meal into the trash as deep red eyes follow your movements.

"You cooked it to trash it? You idiot." He spits and you grip the counter top to keep yourself from encircling your hands on his throat.

"Yea, that's how I eat now. Burn it to fuck all and then have sleep for dinner." A bitter laugh escapes your lips before your voice betrays you.

You clear your throat, keeping your head down while burning tears spill onto your cheeks as you start to make your way past the muscular hot head. Youd sell a part of your soul to have Toru's quirk right about now.

Sadly you do not and Bakugou grips so tightly onto the crook of your arm you'd think he was apprehending a criminal.

You make the mistake of giving him a harsh glare out of instinct, eyes still rimmed with defeated tears. You watch as his eyes narrow to slits.

As if he could see into that fucked up head of yours.

He pulls you back harshly and slams you against the counter top. The handles to the lower cabinets bite into your ass and you half yelp before gripping onto his arm tightly.

"Bakugou." You growl so lowly you feel him tense, "I'm not in the mood."

"Nether am I." He stares into your soul for a moment more before he lifts you light as a feather onto the countertop, he forces your legs open so his body can fit arms trapping you on either side.

So close that the sides of his thumbs dig into your thick thighs and hips.

He looks you over in your next to nothing training outfit of a sports bra and too tight too short shorts.  He takes silent note of your skin tone and how it is lackluster when normally you glow after a work out. His eyes find the deep bags beneath your own next before he sucks his teeth at how far you've let your body down.

Pushing it to exhaustion and not even fueling it properly.  He butts his forehead to yours angrily and with enough gusto that a bruise begins to form on both yours and his third eye chakra.

"Ow what the fuck?!" You rub at it harshly.

"Dont. Fucking. Move." He says as he backs away, eyes glued to you before he turns his back to rummage in the fridge.

He makes quick work of starting some sort of PROPER meal for you as you sit by the stove top, for once obeying his command.

Though you'd do anything to take back that kiss and have your normal rapport of teasing back. Your blush is delayed as you realize how close he made himself to you, at how close his lips were and you feel the ghost of his thumbs in your hips.

You swallow your desire as his horrified face flashes in your mind. You distract yourself easily as you watch him saute the chicken perfectly slowly adding the vegetables before adding the bean sprouts last. He opens the cabinet to grab a fresh plate only to be greeted by an empty shelf.

"Fucking really?" He hisses staring at the overwhelming pile of dishes in the sink. You begin to ease yourself down from the counter to wash a plate.

It's the least you can do considering he made you a whole damn meal at 1130 at night. Sacrificing his favorite movie for your shitty sake.

Your movement alerts him and he whips his head faster than you've ever seen him before.

"Didn't I tell you not to fucking move?" His expression matches his tone, dark. You hoist yourself back onto the counter  before placing your hands up in surrender.

He grumbles as he cleans and dries your dish and utensils before finally plating the dish with such meticulous detail that it should be served in a restaurant instead of to you. You sigh reaching for the fork and reluctantly take a bite.

You moan from the delicious melding of flavor before your scarf the whole meal down.

You're so absorbed in your meal that you almost forget about Bakugou even as he moves around the kitchen to clean his mess. You dance as you eat, taking bite after mouth watering bite. You pout audibly when your fork scrapes agaisnt an empty dish.

"Heh." The sound pulls you from your bliss and you're met with a staring Bakugou. Suddenly you are hyperaware of the whole situation.

Katsuki didn't cook for anybody and you couldn't remember the last time he had cooked for just you. You shrug it off as you think of something clever.

"So what do I owe you for the meal?" You tease leaning closer to him as he watches you.

"A kiss." He retorts with a cruel smile as you look away.

Cheeks burning with rage and embarrassment.

"I..." You swallow your pride, "I'm sorry okay Bakugou?"

"What?" He snaps.

"I said I was sorry Bakugou don't play deaf."

"Not that." A hiss, "What is my name?"

"Bakugou." You say slowly as if he were dumb to which his eyes narrow.

"Try again, Y/N"

You glare, dumbfounded, you hadn't spoken to him majority of the summer. Hell youd barely been in the same room as him and so suddenly he wants you to say his name?

"Katsuki." You offer dryly after his stare does not let up. He gives you a look as if expecting more. You snarl before biting out.

"Katsuki-kun."

"That's not how you normally say it but I guess I can still reward you." He produces your favorite chocolate, the kind that's hard to find and your eyes widen.

"Ah so I did remember right." He teases as you reach for it. He pushes agaisnt your stomach until you stop leaning on him to get that damn sweet treat.

"Please Katsuki-kun?" You allow that old softness into your voice that you only reserved for him. He stops for a moment, making good work at hiding the heat creeping on his cheeks as a mean smile sets on his kissable lips. He positions himself back between your legs, your knees rest slightly onto his hips.

"Open wide." He says placing a single square onto your outstretched tongue. When you moan from the melting chocolate and close your eyes he bites his lip.

He had almost forgotten all about the sparkle in your eyes, the way your voice said his name like a prayer and the sounds that you made.

He swallows thickly as you hold out your tongue for more.

He pushes thoughts of you like that on your knees away. Biting the inside of his lip and damning you for kissing him that day.

For opening the flood gates on what he was so desperately fighting against.

"This time close your eyes and keep your mouth shut."

"Why?"

"Just do it." You obey and wait eagerly for more chocolate. You do not feel him shift beneath you and you grow impatient and a little self conscious as you worry he is staring at you despite only a few seconds ticking by.

Suddenly you feel warmth on your lips as his have captured yours and you cannot help but moan against him as his hands squeeze onto your thighs. He nips at your bottom lip for entrance to which you oblige. His hands work up and down your frame before one finds the hair at the nape of your neck, fisting it to deepen the kiss.  Your hands fly for his shirt, desperately moving beneath it to do what you've always dreamt of doing.  Running them along his chiseled chest.

You kiss for awhile, long enough that by the time he is done you're both panting, adoring swollen lips.  You flush.

"Ba.." He gives you a look and you clear your throat, "Katsuki-kun what was that for?"

"For dinner dumbass." He says kissing you a final time before leaving you in the kitchen by yourself.

Your fingers fly to your lips and you think about how he tastes much sweeter than any chocolate you've ever fucking had.

[bagels-and-seagulls]

You still have any thoughts about the enemies to lovers au? We left off at a pretty fraught moment

what a fraught moment indeed. i thought i could take after druck and just leave everyone hanging for news, but unlike druck, i actually came back bis bald wtf does that mean bitch anyways

more enemies to lovers au

Sara sends Matteo a voice message early in the evening, and it takes Matteo an hour, two beers, and a joint to work up the courage to open it. 

“Hey, Matteo. I- uh, I just wanted to say, that like, I was really shitty when I- well, you know. And I wanted to say that I’m sorry, and that I wasn’t thinking about- about you and like, what that would do to you. And that was- just really shitty I guess. I hope you can forgive me... Okay, that’s it. Bye.” 

She sounds sad, like she was on the verge of tears almost, and Matteo felt something mean and angry sink into his skin that made him want to scream, made him want to throw something, and say some choice words that wouldn’t be appreciated by anyone involved. He wanted to send something back that was loud and biting that said i don’t believe you, that said fuck off, that said oh, now you’re sorry?, that said you’re only saying it because David’s got involved. what about me? why weren’t you sorry when it was just me? why am I second place to my own feelings?

He didn’t though, send any of those messages. He left her on a read, even though it took all of his power to not send something back that gave her the message that he wasn’t interested in her apology, not now, not when he didn’t think there was anything genuine in it. 

Leonie messaged him, too. Twice over instagram of all places, even though he vaguely remembers that he has her number from when Sara’s phone died one time they were out and Sara demanded that he text Leonie with some slurring in her words to meet them at some place and was able to rattle her number off from the top of her head. 

sorry for outing youi would take it back if i could

Matteo did respond to those because there was something chilling taking over his hands and his fingers, making him start to shake all the way down to his knees, and red was blurring the edges of his vision, filled with rage and frustration and something else entirely. Disbelief, maybe. Insult, most likely. 

fuck off, he types out fast and sends it, seeing that she reads it immediately. He watches her start typing, and then stop, and then start again. 

can we talk? She asks, and starts talking again. i kno that sara wants to talk

And Matteo starts messaging back so fast that he wasn’t even looking at the letters anymore. 

i dont give a fcuki have nothing to say to uor heru had months to apolgizur only doing this bc of davidand i dont give a shit about ur insincere apologiesso jsut fuck off and leave me alone

He opens his chats with David and ignores the sweet and smiley messages that had been sending each other over the weekend, when they looked at today filled with promise and hope for starting something that would end up tasting like a hot fudge Sunday or marshmallows melted by the fire. He starts typing out some messages, but deletes them just as quickly to start something else, just as bitter and sour sounding as the last one, until he settles on the movie was good too bad u werent there.

And David comes online as soon as he hits send, and it takes him a second to start typing. 

can I come over? 

For a second, Matteo almost wants to say no, he can’t, that he didn’t want to see him right now, just to be a little bit of a jerk, but there was another part of him that wanted to fight right now, wanted to scream a little and make a scene with someone there to watch, wanted to show his anger in more than a couple of texts with bad spelling. So he sends his address and throws himself into his chair and lights up another blunt while he waits. 

It doesn’t take too long for David to get there, not long at all, and after a few minutes, Hans is pushing his door open to stick his head in. “Butterfly, there’s someone here to see you?” He asks with a sad little smile like David might have already spilled the reason why he was here, and for some reason, it makes Matteo angrier, makes his hands start shaking just a little bit at the thought that David is telling his business to everyone in hearing range. 

“Yeah,” he says through gritted teeth, and Hans frowns a little bit. 

“I’ll be right across the hall, okay?” He says like it’s a question, though it was more of a reminder and walks away, leaving the door open enough for him to see David standing there behind him with his hands shoved in his coat pockets and his shoes still on. 

“Hey,” David greets as he pushes the door closed behind him. 

Matteo doesn’t say anything, just stares at David and takes a drag of his mostly finished joint. 

“So, I, uh-” 

“Talked to Leonie and Sara? I know,” Matteo interrupts. “They messaged me. Apologizing.” 

“Leonie says you told her to fuck off,” David says with a tilt of his head, and it looks like he’s trying desperately to keep his face neutral, even though Matteo was making no such attempt. 

“Yeah,” he says and takes another drag. “I don’t want her fucking fake apologizes.” 

“They’re not fake,” David responds, still trying to keep his face blank, though his mouth kept quirking to the sides like it was getting more difficult.

Matteo scoffs and gets up to stub out the joint in a mug with the others. “Yeah, right,” he starts. “If they were sorry, and I mean for real, they would’ve fucking reached out months ago.”

David looks like he was feeling a little defensive all of sudden. “They just didn’t understand-”

“Oh, don’t give that bullshit! They understood just fine what they were doing, and the only reason that they’re even fucking saying sorry now is because you got involved. They’re not fucking sorry for what they did. They’re sorry that you’re mad at them,” Matteo interrupts and throws an arm out towards him. 

“Well someone had to get involved,” David spits out. “And you weren’t going to do anything about it.” 

“Fuck you,” Matteo spits out. “This was none of your fucking business. You had no fucking right to get involved. You weren’t even here when this happened!” 

“Sorry for giving a shit then! Jesus!” David throws his arms out, and takes his hat off to tug at the strands of his hair. 

“If you gave a shit, you would have asked what I wanted before you went out- fucking- I don’t know,” Matteo says and scratches at his face. “Airing my dirty laundry or some shit.” 

“I didn’t air your laundry or whatever,” David argues, looking a little less angry and a little more tired. “I went up to them and asked if they sent the video. And they both were like of course not, we wouldn’t do anything like that. And I said that’s good because it’s a fucking shitty thing to do and that I felt awful all week because of it and that I had to leave my last school because some asshole outed me and, fucking, ruined my life there. I told them it fucking sucks when someone tells something that you weren’t ready to tell and how about the kids there laughed at me, and stared at me, and asked me shitty fucking questions all the time. And that, you came over when the video came out and were there for me and are really sweet to me. And it’s good to have people support you.” 

And Matteo looks at him for a minute, trying to read the way that David was holding his gaze like he was serious, and exhausted, and something else mixed in there that seemed a little sad. “You said all that?” Matteo asks. 

“A little more eloquently the first time, I hope,” David says with a shrug. 

“Oh,” Matteo says, feeling like he was simmering out a little bit.

“I didn’t tell them to apologize or anything,” David says, stepping closer to Matteo and reaching out to gather up his hand that was still scratching along his jaw and down his neck as Matteo was trying to look at the puzzle now with a new piece. 

"Oh,” Matteo repeats, and David sways closer just a little bit. “I still-,” he starts and stops again. 

David hums and starts playing with Matteo’s fingers so they have something to do instead of creeping into his hairline and tugging. 

“I still don’t want to talk to them,” Matteo breathes out. “I’m not ready to... to forgive them. I guess.” 

“That’s okay,” David says quietly, and Matteo leans into his space to rest his face against his neck. “That’s okay, Teo,” he repeats and wraps an arm around Matteo’s back. “You don’t ever have to be ready if you’re not.” 

“Sorry for yelling at you,” Matteo says. “I just feel.. I don’t know.”

“I get it a little. I feel I don’t know sometimes, too.”

“And what do you do? When you feel like that?” Matteo asks and hugs him in close. 

David cards his fingers through Matteo’s hair, and it feels too nice for this moment, it feels like something out of, feels like they were being sprinkled in powder sugar even though the words they were just throwing at each other were dosed in gasoline, just ready to ignite at any moment. “I run away, just try to escape the whole world and never come back.”

“I don’t want to run away anymore,” Matteo mutters and clenches onto David’s elbow. 

“I don’t either,” David responds, running his nose down his side of Matteo’s temple. 

Matteo sighs into it. “We were supposed to go on our first date,” he says. 

“Yeah,” David says, and Matteo can feel the movement of his lips on his cheek. “How about we just take a nap now and try again in the morning?” 

“A new leaf.” 

[angrylizardjacket]

Run to Paradise {Nikki Sixx} Part 21

21. you look like a man you’ll never meet

Summary: They all have houses! The tour is over! Lola and Nikki fight about what is and isn’t a shitty father! 

Warnings: uh, drinking and drugs and blowjobs in ikea but not explicitly. arguments about shitty parents.

ragtag bunch of misfits: @starlalove @toofasttofallinlove  @xrosegoldwolfx @obsessivesky  @trpwthme @lovehelpmewrite @colsons-crue  @marvelismylifffe  @lilytalebi @glitterdreamsz  @freddiessmallnipples @crazysaladchopshop @inthebackofmycarlaytheirbodies  @dramatique-moi  @missqueeniewrites @calspixie  @aryssav @catsoo12  @sweetshutter @silvertonguedserpent  @shamelessobsessions @lavenderbones22  @keepcalm-and-beyou @scarecrowmax  @nicholeh7 @unknownoblivion

{masterlist}

Three houses. No license. Three different sets of emotions and feelings that can pass for love. More money than her family ever had locked in a safe in the back of her closet with her piano score books.

When they get back from tour, the four of them clear out what little shit they care about from the apartment. Vince doesn't even bother coming to collect anything.

"If I've left any shit there, burn it."

Tommy, after hearing that, follows his lead, but he comes along for nostalgia, if nothing else. Nikki collects a few stashes of drugs and cash that he'd left behind in case of emergency. Lola collects up the porn magazines and piano sheet music she'd left in the closet, along with a folded up piece of paper that Tommy snatches the moment it catches his interest. His expression turns amused as he unfolds it.

"You have got the weirdest fuckin' spank bank, Lo," he turns the photo to Nikki, who laughs, though Lola's expression sours considerably and she tries to awkwardly get the picture back, "seriously, in with all those nudie mags you've got a fuckin' photocopy of a burnt picture of an old, Hawaiian dude?" He squints at words written on the back, reads out the first of two names; "Oh, Maleko Fields, sounds saucy, or is he Kaitlin?" Lola actually flinches at that, but he doesn't seem to notice, "Either way, I've gotta hand it to you, that's an extremely specific-"

"That's my dad, you asshole!" It comes out as a growl, and Tommy's face falls. Lola grabs the old picture back, carefully refolding it and tucking it into the front of one of the piano books.

The three of them are looking for places, but they crash on Vince's sofa until they find ones they like, though it doesn't take long. They're not exactly picky, just wanting something gaudy, with a good view, and a pool, and more bathrooms than any of them rightly need. Lola doesn't care much about how the house is decorated, but she calls up Doc the morning after she and Nikki are given the keys; she wants a piano, and she wants him to put her in touch with whoever can give her the gaudiest, most expensive piano known to man.

"I want Elton John to have fucked on it, I want those keys diamond encrusted, I want Freddie fucking Mercury to have done coke off of it, I want the Piano Man piano!" She announces, standing in the sparsely decorated living room, hand on her hip, looking out the window, already feeling herself getting bored of the conversation and wanting to explore the balcony and the view beyond.

"Are you fucking high? It's not even nine," Doc grumbles. It's a Sunday, Lola doesn't even consider for a second that she might have woken him up. If you pay enough money, anyone will get up when you ask, real estate agents and band managers alike, is how she reasons it.

"Of course I'm fucking high, and I've got a house of my own and cash to blow; I want what Johann Sebastian Bach had! I want Tchaikovsky, I want Stravinsky, I want fucking Gershwin!" She demanded, getting louder and more dramatic with each name she rattled off.

"If you yell one more composer at me, you're fired." Doc cuts her off, before yawning, "listen; you guys are coming in next week to start work on the new album, right? I'll get a number for you by then if you promise to make sure they're here on time."

"On time?" Lola actually laughs. Doc sighs, and gives her an hour leeway, but they come to an agreement.

Nikki's still asleep on the mattress on the floor of their new bedroom, but Lola's strung out body clock had her up at four in the morning, and she hasn't been able to get back to sleep. She watched the sun rise over the LA skyline on one side of the house, lost track of time watching the ocean from their balcony on the other side while drinking a bottle of spiced rum, swam naked in their brand new pool, and tried to make a list of all the furniture they needed to buy, but just ended up writing sofa and underlining it five times as she lay on the plush carpet of the living room.

The photocopy of the photo of Lola's father sits on the kitchen island, staring silently at the ceiling; Nikki calls it creepy when he wakes up. He laments for a moment about not having a fridge before pulling a beer from the case they'd opened the night before in celebration.

"Why is it burned?" He asks, cracking the can, "and why haven't you finished the job?" He snickers and takes a loud, obnoxious sip. Lola gives him a shove, glaring down at the picture for a long moment.

"Because he's fuckin' out there somewhere, and what if I forget what he looks like?" She turns, raising her eyebrows at Nikki expectantly.

"So you keep it around so you know who to burn when the real thing shows up?" He asks, and Lola scowls. "Why don't I know shit about your parents?" Nikki asks bluntly. Lola takes the drink from his hands and begins to gulp it down, but he steals it back, and ends up getting beer all over both of them in the struggle.

"I'm not gonna burn my dad," Lola, beer covered and strung out at midday on a Sunday, speaks in a tone that Nikki can't quite identify. Her hand comes up to scratch at her shoulder blade, and he's not even sure if she's aware that she's doing it. "He was great, okay? When he was around he was great. When - when he comes back, I wanna show him that I'm better, alright? That - you know what? Fuck it, I don't have to explain shit to you, Nikki." Her whole face scrunches up and she picks up the photo.

"If he was such a great fuckin' guy, why'd he leave? Great dads don't fuckin' do that-"

Lola pushes Nikki had enough that he actually falls on his ass, and there's tears in her eyes.

"I get that you're dad's an asshole, Frankie, but-"

"Shut up!" Nikki snaps, scrambling to his feet, expression furious, "you fucking bitch, that's not my name-"

"Don't talk shit about my fucking dad!" Lola steps up to him, her hands braced against his chest, but he catches her wrists before she can shove him again.

"He sounds like a fucking dirtbag!"

"You're the dirtbag; don't take your daddy issues out on me!" Lola doesn't fight his hold, just glares up at him as tears begin to flow down her cheeks. Nikki's mouth is pressed into a thin, unhappy line.

"A dirtbag with daddy issues, and mommy issues; a slut with no standards, no taste, and good hair?" He laughs but it's bitter; he won't let her go, still holding her to him by her wrists. Lola's still crying, face twisted and angry, but she doesn't step back or try and escape his grip, "we're two sides of the same fuckin' coin, Kaitie, and I know from shit dads. If your fuckin' dirtbag dad wasn't there when he could have been, when he should have been, then he's shit." His grip on her hands tightens just a little. "No exceptions. Burn his picture."

The damn bursts and Lola actually wails, presses her forehead to Nikki's chest. He doesn't hug her, his expression is stony as he tries not to think too hard about the moment he found himself in. He'd made Lola cry.

"You look just like him anyways." He's not sure what he means by that, and he's not even sure if Lola registered it.

"I hate you." He hears her sniffle quietly.

"You'll get over it."

It's the worst fight they've had in a while, and Lola pins her father's photo directly to the living room wall out of spite. She stays with Tommy for a few days, but Nikki still doesn't touch the picture.

With Tommy, she actually goes grocery shopping with him, as strangely domestic as it is. They take turns pushing the cart too fast down the aisles while the other rides on the front until Tommy loses control and Lola ends up winded and crushed against the cereal boxes. They try to cook together and almost start a fire, and end up eating pizza that first night Lola stays at the house. Tommy's sofa is excessively big, and they could easily spread out in space of their own, but they enjoy being tangled up with each other while Invasion of the Body Snatchers plays on his brand new TV.

If she never wanted to go back to Nikki, she knows she probably wouldn't have to. They haven't even been living together officially for two days and they're already fighting. Her body clock is fucked, and she contemplates her life at five in the morning, watching the gentle rise and fall of Tommy's chest with his breathing as he sleeps soundly.

She loved Tommy, and she knew he loved her, and the same could be said for Vince, and even Mick, though to a much lesser extent. The point is, if she wanted to keep running from herself, she'd never lack accommodation, she'd never lack love, in one way or another. Doc had once told her that she was very easy to love, when she wanted to be, very easy to be endeared towards when she wasn't spitting acid or starting a fight or kicking up a stink. Even Doc himself admitting to being rather endeared to her, though he clarified that 'it's like the love you have for a rescue animal, a stray you nurse back to health and give to a shelter'. She's smacked him angrily, and told him she was a person. Doc agreed, but his words had stuck with her.

Very easy to love. Very hard to like.

When she gets back to her house, it's almost six, almost sunrise, the house is still mostly empty, and Nikki's awake. The picture's still on the wall, and he's sitting on a deck chair on the balcony with a bottle of Jack for company. The sun rises on the other side of the house, but he's fixated on the ocean.

"His name was Maleko, and my mom's name was Irene."

"I didn't-" he seems confused to see her there at all. But Lola's quick to cut him off.

"Shut up, I'm telling you about my parents," Lola grabbed the bottle from him, sitting cross legged on the cool tiles right by him, looking out at the ocean.

"Why?"

"Because I've know you for years, and it's weird that I haven't told you about my family, okay? You were right." She tipped the bottle back, swallowing hard.

"You look like your dad," Nikki's voice is softer this time, though it's neither positive nor negative, and Lola snorted a laugh.

"Yeah, it was the only part about me mom liked after he left." She inhaled sharply, passing back the bottle, "like I said, his name was Maleko, but from what I can remember, he went by Leo, and I don't know why he left, but he's not a damn dirtbag, okay? He was kinder than my fucking mom ever was, and-" she clenched her jaw, pausing for a moment to search her jacket pockets for her cigarettes, before lighting one, "and listen, I just wanted him to be proud, I just wanted him to smile again, because I swear that motherfucker was made of sunshine." She angrily wiped a tear from her eye before it spilled.

Nikki was quiet for a very long time, didn't know what to say, still up from the night before, and drunk as all hell. He reached out and scratched at Lola's scalp gently, in liu of a reaction. She just laughed.

"Why- why 're you back?" Nikki asked finally.

"Do you like me, Nikki?" She counters with, and Nikki hums a little, still scratching her hair.

"Of course, you're one of the few assholes I can put up with for more than a few days at a time," it's not the highest compliment in the world, but Lola's beaming nonetheless.

"I think I like you too," she snorted. Nikki's stopped scratching her head and is raising the bottle of Jack to his lips, frowning.

"Did we go back to the damn third grade? What's gotten into you?"

The house is undecorated because Nikki says he didn't have the patience to not go into a homicidal rage in IKEA. He won't admit that it felt weird to be buying furniture for their house without Lola. It's decorated mostly in blacks, or dark chestnut wood, and the bedframe is strong enough that Lola won't break it if she's tied up to it, and Lola buys a frame for her father's photo. They buy a new sofa, and Lola feels the strangest, most irrational twinge of guilt, like she's betrayed the sofa they pulled off the curb all those years ago; she tells Nikki and he smirks, offers to buy a box cutter and slash the sofa up to make it feel like home.

"Or we could just fuck on it until it's got just as many stains," he grins, it's all sharp teeth and the promise of a bigger bite.

"Now you're speaking my language," she smirks back, and she grabs his hand, pulls him behind a display bedroom set with a particularly large cupboard. She sucks him off before some underpaid assistant can interrupt them, and he repays the favor in the store's bathroom, and somehow this is the strangest situation they've ever gotten each other off in. Clubs, pubs, hotel pools, closets at TV studios, parks, alley ways, any number of places on tour that Lola honestly doesn't remember - they've got nothing on a furniture store where they're deciding on furnishings for their shared house. Lola doesn't want to think about why that is, so she just enjoys the moment.

It seems like no time at all before they're back in the studio, and so when they're not working, they're drinking, and partying, and using their mansions the way LA mansions often found themselves being used; for parties.

Tommy's out every night in LA, still looking like he could walk on stage at any minute, but he has a few starlets calling him up every so often. If he's not at clubs, he's with the Vince at a strip club, and sometimes Nikki's with them, though Lola's there about as often as Vince. Vince himself got his heart caught on a woman he meets at a club named Sharise, who is lovely and loud and beautiful, and she calls Lola 'sweetheart' without making it sound condescending, even when she's coming out of Vince's mansion and Lola's coming in, both fully aware of the situation at hand.

"I'm pretty sure she doesn't actually know my name," Lola sits on Vince's marble countertops in her underwear, eating grilled cheese in the afternoon. Later, Tommy and a few other guys Lola sort of knows will be around, pregaming before they hit the town. Maybe Sharise will come by, maybe she'll bring friends; Lola likes when she brings friends, finds she likes getting ready to go out with girls, sometimes even more than getting ready with the band.

Back in the present, with Lola on the counter, Vince laughs where he's mixing a bunch of spirits in a fancy glass and calling it a cocktail, even though it seems closer to molotov rather than anything you'd be able to find at a bar.

"Sorry, baby, do you want a formal introduction?" He asks, and offers the drink to Lola to try.

"Needs more Captain Morgan," Lola wrinkled her nose after a hearty gulp, handing it back, "and yeah, maybe, I don't know; you seem pretty serious about her."

"Why've you gotta keep drinking like you're broke, at this point I'm begging you to get better taste," Vince took back his drink with a faux wounded expression, holding it to his chest before he took a tentative sip. Lola's eyes shined with amusement.

"Believe me, lover boy, you don't want me to raise my standards in any way, shape, or form." Her leg comes down from the counter, dangling by the cabinets, and she leans back onto her elbows, cheeky smile on her lips as she poses, a challenging look in her eyes.

"Ouch," Vince snorts, but he's clearly not hurt by her words as he leans in and kisses her. When he pulls back, however, he's more contemplative than Lola's used to seeing him, and he sips his drink again before letting his thoughts form words; "I mean, yeah, Sharise-" he pauses, "there's just something about her, dude, she's hot and sweet and fuck, she's got a real bite to her-"

"Of course, you wouldn't like her half as much if she wasn't at least a little bit mean to you," Lola teased.

"Watch it, it's the only reason I keep you around anymore," Vince fires back with a smirk, and though they both know it's not true, Lola plays along.

"Oi! I also give fantastic head."

Sharise is going to be around for a while, and she and Lola get along well enough, so Vince will walk that tightrope as long as he possibly can.

Lola splits her time between houses, between her partners, although occasionally Tommy will spend the night with her and Vince, or her and Nikki, though Nikki's never been one to take the initiative the way the others would. Both Vince and Nikki's places have a piano, while Tommy has a keyboard in his studio, and Lola finds herself playing more and more.

For a while, for a good, long while, Lola thinks she might be happy. She finds herself taking less pills, if only to clear her head enough to remember how to play her favourite songs, though she's still drinking rum like it's water, and taking more coke than any reasonable person probably should.

It won't last, this feeling, this contentment, she knows it won't last, but right now, she's playing Elton John, watching the sun set over the Ocean, while Nikki applies his eyeliner in the bathroom, and Vince is singing along where he's eating Chinese food in the kitchen with Tommy. Someone rings the doorbell, and she can hear more cars pulling up, and there's a strange, warm pride that fills her chest.

[carmenlire]

Catch My Breath

Warning for references to depression and suicidal ideation

read on ao3

His breath leaves him in a steady sigh that’s as heavy as it is chronic. His face is cast in shadows, mostly green this late but once in a while he slows to a stop and stares unseeing at red.

Work had been a nightmare today. A part of him thinks that it’s always a nightmare while most of him is just glad he’s done for another eleven hours.

Eleven hours where he doesn’t have to think. He doesn’t have to smile at customers who ask questions but don’t listen for the answers, where he feels like he’s always behind no matter how furiously he works, where he wishes he could have one goddamn moment to himself without his coworker demanding he be present for her never-ending, useless diatribe.

He doesn’t have to be present at home.

It’s a comfort wrapped in a threat.

Because at home it’s silent. Away from work, he sometimes wonders that he doesn’t just disintegrate into the nothing he feels on an hourly basis. At work, there are appearances that must be kept but once his shift ends, his strings are cut and he’s starting to wonder how many more mornings he can tie himself back up into a convincing visage of adulthood.

That’s a worry for tomorrow, though. For now, he has the whole night-- a few hours-- to decompress before he does it all again.

Only four more days until the weekend, he tells himself and his eyes glint in a mockery of relief.

The highway isn’t busy tonight. It never is when he works a late shift and he feels alone and a little lonely as he speeds toward home, toward sanctuary.

Flexing his hands on the steering wheel, he thinks about dinner. He hasn’t had anything but coffee all day and nothing sounds good, appetizing, worth a damn.

He hasn’t eaten more than a few cookies in a couple of days but his stomach isn’t hollow. It isn’t anything. He has groceries at home but those need to be prepped. They need to be cleaned and washed and cut and cooked. Jace has him on this asinine diet and all the fast food near him that’s still open sure as hell doesn’t fit his brother’s meal plan.

He can’t find it in himself to give a fuck.

There’s a fast food place a couple of miles from him. He’s never been to the one near his apartment but he has a general idea of where it’s at and nowhere to be.

He lets himself acknowledge that he doesn’t want to go home. He doesn’t want to go straight from work to home again, like he always does, even if it’s what he tells himself he wants. At home, there’s nothing but shadows and loneliness. He knows that if he goes home, he’ll climb right into bed and hate himself a little more for not throwing together a salad or, fuck, a piece of toast with peanut butter.

He knows he’ll hate himself anyway for going through the drive-thru but at least this way, he’s eating.

Everything feels slowed down. It’s felt that way for a couple of months now and he has the wherewithal to know what it means. He knows what it means, that he can’t seem to eat regular meals, that his eyes are always gritty no matter his sleep schedule, that there’s a gaping goddamn chasm in his chest that makes him a little colder every passing day.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why he barely has the energy to go to work, let alone make it to the gym. It’s a no brainer why he feels like screaming until he shatters his own ears but it still takes so much effort to talk above a whisper.

He’s tired and he’s tired of being tired.

An errant thought crosses his mind, that he should be over this. He’s been dealing with this for years now. It’s cyclical. It happens.

It doesn’t mean that he isn’t laid low, that the prospect of clawing his way out of this hole, again, doesn’t leave him gasping for breath already.

Absently, he switches the song. Once, twice, half a dozen times until he finds another slow song that fits his mood. It’s pretentious and he scoffs at himself for the thought, but he’s full of goddamn melancholy. Yearning with the faintest edge of bitterness.

He doesn’t know where this place is but as his eyes scan for a familiar logo, he sees sporadic decorations. It’s the middle of December but he hasn’t felt holly or jolly in years.

He doesn’t like to think about what that says about him.

This time of year is his favorite and every fall, he promises himself that he’ll celebrate properly this time. His December will be a fucking winter wonderland, worthy of a Hallmark Special.

It’s been a lie since he was a kid in high school. He’s never brought it up to anyone, this apathy he feels for the most wonderful time of year, and he can’t help but wonder if this is growing up or if this is just his head playing its shitty, cruel jokes on him yet again.

Finally seeing the fast food joint he’d been looking for, he pulls in and orders. He turns the stereo low and watches the windshield wipers in a daze.

The quiet’s oppressive and just a little mean.

With his food in tow-- and he knows as he orders it, that he doesn’t want it, that he wishes he wasn’t quite so human so he didn’t have to think about such things like whether he ate today or not and what that means for tomorrow’s him-- he starts back toward his lonely apartment.

He has half a thought to just keep driving but he’s itching to get home. He thinks about what would happen if he stayed out a couple of hours, just driving aimlessly around. He thinks about driving to the closest big city a couple of hours away just because he can and because there’s nothing waiting for him in sleep except relief.

The thought sets off a warning bell that he doesn’t let himself linger on.

He takes dull note of the light ahead turning to yellow for a beat or three before it goes scarlet. He watches the cross traffic and thinks idly about how easy it would be to run a light one of these days and have everything go dark.

He shudders a little as another thought follows on its heels about how nice it could be.

Passing businesses and homes in equal measure, he’s struck for the thousandth time that’s he’s alive. It’s asinine but he watches a man crossing the street with his dog, sees a coffee shop employee closing up for the night and it’s all so human, so painfully mundane, that it sets a weight on his chest that’s equal parts terrifying and exhilarating.

His head’s a mess.

His phone lays dark and cold in the passenger seat. He could maybe talk to someone-- wants to talk to one in particular-- but he’d said he had an evening full of grading ahead of him and Alec’s never told his boyfriend about the thoughts that plague him with worrying regularity. They haven’t been together too long, in any case, and Alec’s loathe to tell anyone about his shitty mental health.

Not when there’s nothing to worry about.

It’s not like it was a few years ago, at least. By God, he still has that going for him. He might think about dying with peculiar self-assuredness but he knows he’s nowhere near that imperceptible precipice he hovered on back in college.

As long as that’s true, there’s really nothing to worry about.

The shadows grow long as he turns onto his street and he finds himself sinking, shrinking, trying to melt into the driver’s seat.

He’s a big boy. A grown up. He pays off his credit card every month and manages to eat a vegetable at least once a week and sure, he may want to die, to disappear, to simply fucking vanish with alarming sincerity a few dozen times a day but it’s nothing he can’t handle, nothing he hasn’t been handling for awhile now.

Parking in a surprisingly good spot, considering the time, Alec just sits in the dark car for a couple of minutes as he tries to get the gumption to get out of the car and into the cold. He grabs his food that already leaves a sour taste in his mouth and pockets his phone.

With his head down, he makes his steady way toward the side of his building. He doesn’t see who’s waiting for him but as he looks up and wrestles with his keys, he stops short.

Mouth parting on a silent breath that fogs in the pre-snow air, his thoughts stutter as he sees the one person he’d been aching for all damn day.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey, yourself.” Magnus’s voice is equally soft and as Alec tracks his gaze over his boyfriend, he catalogs the unforgivably informal sweatpants and the hoodie that he’s pretty sure he left at Magnus’s loft last month.

He doesn’t see Magnus returning his onceover with sharp eyes, isn’t aware of the careful breath his boyfriend releases as his concern is validated.

He swallows hard, tries even harder not to look as affected as he feels. “What are you doing here?”

Magnus shrugs, lets his mouth tip into a small smile. “You seemed down when I talked to you at lunch and I finished work early. Thought I’d surprise you.”

Swallowing roughly at sudden lump in his throat, Alec takes a hesitant step closer. It’s only then that he sees the bag Magnus is holding.

Seeing his eyes drop, Magnus’s grin becomes a little bolder and he raises it enticingly. “I have your favorite movie and takeout from that Italian place near me that you love.”

Alec stares at Magnus, not saying anything for a beat or two or six. Magnus doesn’t seem to mind.

No, he just looks back with all the patience of a fucking saint and Alec clears his throat through the sheer emotion rising to the surface. It chokes him. It eases him.

Without thinking too much about it, he closes the distance between them and wraps his arms around Magnus. His own takeout bag knocks against his boyfriend’s shoulder, but neither one pays any attention to it. Alec holds on for dear life and Magnus pulls him closer still.

Alec breathes in Magnus and the ice around his chest thaws just a little, just enough to push him off the edge for another day.

He surrounds Magnus and tells himself just one more day.

He’ll always be able to make it home one more day if Magnus is the one waiting for him. Not his lonely apartment, not the weight of obligation and pretense.

But Magnus, his calm in the storm, his beacon of goddamn light.

He’ll always come home to Magnus.

[imagine-loki]

Till We Meet Again

TITLE: Till We Meet Again

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: 17/?

AUTHOR: marvelgirlonamarvelworld (side blog)

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki being mesmerized by a girl whose eyes remind him of the Bifrost

Imagine that Loki would visit you when you were a child, persuading you into mischief and cheering you up with his magic tricks, you assumed he was imaginary. 

RATING: M

NOTES/WARNINGS: ANGST, mentions of past life-threatening illness, mentions of past trauma (?), language.

A/N 2: really crossing my fingers the format doesn’t mess up. Finally got a computer and am now able to post the whole chapter! Thanks for reading!

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“What. Are. You. Doing?” Luna’s voice was raspy, distant to her ears, an octave lower as her jaw clenched and tensed. Paled-faced and trembling legs, her head became a mess. Felt vulnerable to be standing before Loki and those papers between them.

She recognized Loki shouldn’t even be peering at those documents. Didn’t feel ready for her whole identity and past to be brought to light. Not yet. Not now. Not ever. 

Luna gawked as the god of lies lifted his head to meet her fearful yet hardened glare. She watched him stand right away, his broad posture doing nothing to hide his nerves as his hands rested on the edge of the desk. 

She could read his face as plainly he could read hers; his once cherry lips were now pale blue and his eyes took on the form of those of a child caught sneaking around. But being the god of lies, the master of deceit, all that vanished just as quick.

Luna opened her mouth, but no words came out. She was a gaping fish. Drowning, asphyxiating with all that she wished to voice aloud. “You…” her voice was unrecognizable even to her ears, “You shouldn’t be looking at those papers,” her eyes the fixated on his hand clutching one of the many papers after those seven words were pronounced. “Why are you looking at those papers.”

His eyes drifted to his hand and raised right back to met her eyes. Loki remained silent, his hands still pressed against the edge as if to keep himself from falling due to his weight. He was unable to find his voice, incapable of finding a way to deflect.

The stuffiness of the old unopened room was no relief either, no comfort, no mediator to dissipate the coiling heaviness settling between. No, not at all. Not while the two lovers stood frozen in place as if one were the hunter and the other the hunted. Not when the atmosphere hung with the souls and ghosts of hidden truths and uncovered lies. 

One move made, one step ahead, one slight twitch or tilt of the head, and Luna feared it all would fall like a house of cards. Thus the two stood there, nailed to the ground, with shallow breathing and pulses racing.

“How much do you know?” Luna questioned. Her darkened eyes tried to penetrate through his gaze, to distract herself and glance away to those old forgotten photos and newspaper sheets from Boston. Those same papers which incriminated the Norse deity as to how far had gone his findings. Especially those medical sheets he was gripping and was once obliviously examining in her presence.

“Luna,” Loki rounded the desk, one step in front of the other, his voice tight and gruff as he called for his lover and once upon a time acquaintance.

“I said,” Luna fisted her hands and closed her eyes momentarily, feeling that familiar knot in her throat constricting her words, “how much did you read.”

Loki stood before her, a meager few feet away, hesitant, conflicted. Whatever he knew or uncovered mustn’t have been pleasing and that frightened Luna.

Nonetheless, it was his intrusion that bothered her most; made her blood boil; brought about a burn and ache from her nails digging in her palms and piercing her flesh. Loki had gone behind her back searching for a piece of herself she was yet to even face. To grow enough strength to even remember.

“I can explain.”

“Loki,” Luna growled through gritted teeth and flashed him a warning glare.

Loki fell silent, letting his head lower momentarily before meeting her piercing glare again. “I know enough,” was his only response, his lips remaining pursed, in a horizontal line. “I know enough.”

But just how much was enough?!

“Luna,” Loki said her name again with sorrow shadowing his stare. Yet all Luna could hear were echoes, distant ricochets, ripples of her past slowly coming back to life. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her lip trembled. And her once Bifrost eyes twinkling with rage glazed at the growing vulnerability. Luna felt herself become the prey, the helpless thing forced to a corned with no way to flee. But she swallowed it all, drowned out that wish to run to his arms and confess. Loki went behind her back.

Loki trailed closer, trying to dissipate the gap between them, yet…Luna backed away wearily, heaving, struggling to breathe. Fear was constricting her chest, striking her violently awake as the heartbreaking realization sunk: enough meant anything and everything yet nothing in the same stance. Loki had dissected her to the bone, undressed her just as he would, before making love and claiming her as his own.

And it shook Luna to her core just as much as she felt small before his form. Oh, silver-tongued, liar of all liars, betrayers of all betrayers. He should’ve known better.

“Speak to me,” Loki pleaded. Desperation tainted every word. Luna almost bought his little act. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

And Luna was repulsed. Angered and bitter to watch her hopes be strangled by his curiosity for his findings would only mean her demise, his distancing, starting from zero. Made her realize: who would ever want to be with someone whose identity was one and million other; a missing child, a parentless daughter, a wanted criminal, a con artist, a thief, a grifter, a shitty best friend, the villain of the tale? Nobody.

“Why? You’re asking me why?” Her face reddened and contorted, taciturnly allowing self-preservation and avoidance to take over. His demands were a pure slap, a stab to her heart. “The one asking why here is me! Not you, Loki! What the hell!” Luna raised her voice as an overwhelming itch and prickle nestled on her palms. “Who gave you the right to fucking go behind my back?! How could you?!”

Luna took the second stride forward and snatched the papers from his hands and dissipated them into nothing but a shimmer of light.

She never even once tried to glimpse into Loki’s past, let alone behind his back! She had waited, never once forced her way into his life. Never pressed for him to undress his soul, to let her peek into his heart. 

“Please, calm down,” Loki tried to reason and attempted to step closer again. “I will explain, I promise.”

“Oh, really? Calm down?!” Luna sneered, briskly stepping away from his desperate reaching hand, “And you’re gonna explain what exactly? what?” the girl laughed, scorned, and closed her prickling eyes. She was feeling herself losing her breath, feeling unable to inhale at all. “That you were invading my privacy and searching through my past behind my back?” Luna paused and painfully exhaled, “That while you were investigating me, you were also promising the moon and the stars…and then fucking me to sleep so I wouldn’t suspect a thing? Which one, Loki? Which one?” 

Her voice was a mere heaving whisper as the bitter irony showered her whole existence: the invader became the invaded. Luna was bitterly aware she was at the other end. 

And what if…Loki’s whole plan was this; rack through her past, use what he had to his will and like?

“I trusted you,” her voice broke, achingly dissipated in the awful sour taste of betrayal. “I never asked you to open yourself to me, I waited for you to willingly do it, for you to come to me and you…you…I trusted you.”

Never again, however. That was for certain. Never again.

And those three words seemed to be the trigger, the catalyst of his face becoming a racing wind of emotions. The vocal cords to his mutiny. Luna saw it all in his face, especially saw his mistake.

“Luna,” she staggered back once again just as Loki strode closer. Panic was the host of his eyes, the one speaking to her now. “No please…Luna, dear, please…”

Never again, she reminded herself.

“Don’t.” Her jaw was clenched and felt her muscles pull taut; ready to defend herself, willing to strike back. Yet…her eyes and her trembling lips gave away her sentiment, her fondness, the adoration she still had towards Loki and was yet to lose. But there was nothing to be said, nothing to be explained; this was all bound to happen anyway. Luna was just not ready for it, for their forever to last one split heartbeat.

Never again…the decision was made. Trust was severed.

With such a decision made, her body seemed light as a feather as her feet turned and approached the door. Luna was floating, drifting through a current of clashing sentiment, a whirlwind of daze, a battle between the mind and the heart. Fighting against her own self. Forbidding that weaker side of her to run to his arms and cry and confess it all; narrate to him her life; who she was; the identity stolen from her; the lie she lived in for what appeared an endless forever. But she was just as proud as he was, or rather, as he used to be. Luna could not forget, and forgive…that was another thing.

“I recognize my mistake,” Luna continued her trail heavy-heartedly, “but I also know you better than anybody else on this earth. Cursed will be I because I do. I know you’re the kind to hush and suffer in silence. Never once cry out for help. You’re too frightened to open yourself,” his voice grounded her feet, gave strength to her blind heart, that weaker side which did not wish to leave him at all. “I will not apologize, because I am not. I will never be. If this had to be the way to see you, then so be it.”

Luna turned around, witnessing the world paralyze and lose color before her eyes, and faced the god of lies whose face raised vainly. In ownership of who he was and the trail of red his presence left. And she continued to contemplate him go on, knowing damn well she shouldn’t if she still wished to avoid facing the past.

“Nor will I ever pardon how you were never going to mention you were once ill, dying from your sickness,” Loki did not hesitate to ambush and declare. His glazed eyes, now bloodshot and shadowed, gleamed with his discoveries. “And you nearly did. We almost did not meet.”

Luna bit down her tongue, the fine taste of her crimson blood danced through her throat. Yet she did not respond, didn’t know how to do so.

“I don’t see how’s that of any relevance. It doesn’t matter. It never did,” her voice was hoarse, unrecognizable even to her own self, defensive yet unemotional. Because it did matter. It still did for flashes still sprung to her mind. It mattered. “Why should it now? I’m alive after all.” She scoffed. “Death doesn’t want me.”

Loki clasped his hands behind his back and lowered his head while he paced. A grimace plastered on his face. It seemed to Luna she was in the presence of a wild captive creature; one who was growing anxious and aggressive. She knew he was displeased with her reply. But it was all he’ll ever get from her.

“Because it doesn’t matter,” Loki ridiculed, his tone dry, lacking any emotions but that of disdain. “Because it doesn’t matter.”

Her silent motives, regardless, were a contrast to her claims and his repetitions:

For to voice all failed trials, the lack of aid and rejects, the number of times a needle stuck in her arm as all known cures, drainages and transfusions of blood did not do a thing to better her being were all too painful to recollect. A chapter Luna wished to erase. 

And to this day… it still charred her heart like brasses tortuously burning her inside out, the memory of seeing Richard, the man she once called “father”, sit every single night since that dreaded diagnosis stating her little girl, the child he loved as his own flesh and blood, was withering due to her own poisoned blood. Leukemia, simply called by most and instead of mentioning the severe kind or form. For it would only omen what was to come last. 

“Because it doesn’t matter.” Luna followed Loki’s back and forth, trying to ignore the surfacing ghosts and their hardened sunken eyes drilling holes in her soul. Trying not to panic at their judgmental eyes and purpled-lip sorry smiles. Trying to ignore that itch, that ticking time bomb coiling in her palms.

It pained Luna, oh did it ache to remember how she would sneak right before dawn for another bedtime story, and see him sit there in the dim yellow light, covered in shadows and clouds of exhaustion. His face would always find refuge on his palms before his fingers ran through his locks as the weight of his distress hung under the cloud his blue eyes had become. Yet what hurt most, was the tender smile he’d give her child self every time he discovered her.

It was still vivid in Luna, how he would lift her in the air and sit her on his lap as he continued to read and revise. His soothing voice always making up little white lies any time she wondered about the papers on his hands. And other times, when his responses did not satisfy her little mind, he would quiet it all with a quivering coo. 

“I’m trying to find a way to make you better, sweetheart, so we can go to the ocean with mommy and watch the dolphins dance in the water.” He would say.

And her once chocolate eyes would spark and she would excitedly ask: “What about whale sharks? How do you think they dance?”

His eyes would water every time before he said: “When we go,” then a kiss would bless her crown, hiding his trembling lips, “you’ll see they waltz. And you’ll love the way the starfishes sway their arms against the tide, cheering for their comrades. I’ll make you better, and you’ll see them when we go. You’ll see them…I promise.”

But every night was the same night repeated once over. Tears would stream down his face as all test results would turn out the same, over and over again. That was, however, until one day…by some miracle from the heavens, the blue-eyed would stumble upon a science article, praising the work of an individual and his contributions to successfully recreating some god-damned serum which would change it all.

“You’re lying,” Loki stood in front of Luna, his hands still clasped behind his back as a bitter chuckle escaped his mouth. It did not surprise her to realize he’d seen right through her act. “It matters. As much as it matters to me matters to you. It matters to me what has, is and will happen to you.”

“Stop,” Luna warned, fluttering her eyes struggling to hold back the overgrowing sob pressing her throat. “It’s not your business. Back. Off. Loki.”

“I WILL NOT BACK OFF!” Loki snapped. Red-faced and with veins pronounced on his neck, the trickster heaved and clenched his jaw. His maddened glare forced Luna to flinch swallow all her say. “NORNS, YOU ARE MY BUSINESS BECAUSE I CARE ABOUT YOU CAN’T YOU SEE,” His nose flared and took deep breaths, trying to regain his wits. “It concerns me because you are a part of me now can’t you see that?” His voice lowered the moment he noticed the first tear rolling down her cheek. “Why did you never tell me they were not your real parents? Why did you choose to suffer in silence all along, love?”

Why suffer in silence?! Luna stood before the god, wide-eyed, feeling a child again, small, frightened, shocked at his snap. Overwhelmed to see the ghosts of her past hadn’t withered at all and were now standing behind the god.

Loki had no right to reproach! Luna did try to call for him when it all crumbled down yet he never once answered. Besides, there were many reasons and none mattered.

None were as startling important and frightening as his penultimate question.

“What?” she mumbled, feeling her throat dry and her hands tremble. The itch was becoming unbearable. “How did you…”

A broken smile plastered on his face as a glint of compassion nestled on his softening features, “I still find it hard to believe, how they bought me,” Loki recited brokenly. “How they made me their own.”

Luna’s blood ran cold upon the echo of his voice. That couldn’t be…

Shaking her head and hiding her fear behind a nonchalant smile, Luna averted his eyes. “That could mean anything and nothing at the same time.”

“If I hand discovered their lies, the truth of who I was, how I came to be, maybe they’d still be here. Life would have been different.” Loki repeated the same heartbreaking lines that’d burned in his memory. “We would’ve been a happy family.”

Oh no. No no no no no…

“You wrote this as a young girl,” Loki acknowledged. Suddenly his face had become a puzzle she could not decipher; Luna could not read him any longer, could not see through his layered persona, was unable to even note the slightest of…compassion? Reflected on his face. She was unable to glimpse beyond the cloud of his betray. “What else would one want at that age more than affection and attention, Elise?”

And that stupid nickname…

Her eyes lost focus momentarily and vaguely stared at her surroundings. All of a sudden the library and father’s office seemed much smaller than she remembered. The fine wood and carvings were old and lacking color, missing that glint of elegance. And dust lay omnipresent, it could even be savored. Tasted like time when it was frozen and forgotten…

Trust was severed.

“You…you…read my diary,” Luna concluded as all colors drained from her face and lightheadedness embraced her with cold arms. It was the last straw drawn, the drop that’d spilled the glass. “You read my diary.”

It was hard to come around, but Luna regained her wits just as fast. Loki he…he was many things she refused to believe. It was heartbreaking. One of them being chaos incarnate, a force who left a trail of woe wherever he’d gone. And to witness such upheaval was unbearable, heartbreaking, shook Luna to the bone. She could not stand there any longer, not when she’d fallen victim to this air of calamity Loki carried with him.

Luna raised her head and acknowledged there was no regret on his face nor in his eyes. She’d liked to believe it all was an act, that there was something deep inside his heart. Something, anything. “Now you know it all huh?” Another tear trailed mournfully before dissipating between her curved lips; displaying a trembling smile. “I guess, now you know why I hate my eyes then,” she whispered, unable to raise her voice for the fear she’d break even more. A cloud of blue formed and danced along and over her hands as her eyes watered. 

Luna needed to flee. Had to find a place to breathe and think. Had to be away from him; the intruder who’d pushed his way through her seams.

“Luna…” Loki’s face was a poem of agony and acknowledgment as she spun and bolted out. Yet the broken girl of breathtaking polychromatic eyes did not witness it at all. Did not see the abrupt resurfacing of the Loki she’d come to know, the one she’d fallen for, the prince whose heart was broken but was untainted by avarice.

The walls were caving in as her feet strode at their own accord through the hall. Luna hiccuped and violently wiped away the tears as eyes grew out of the walls and glared accusatorially…funnily enough, though, they were his eyes. His emerald glare ghosted over just like a penitent soul would as Luna made it to the stairs before pausing and turning wearily. 

His aura was calling her, screaming, pleading. She could feel the tugs and pulls; the sudden desperation growing and tainting the walls, his silent cry out. 

“Luna!”

Loki was a few steps behind, and Luna was well aware he could and would outrun her. Yet she continued on down the stairs and onward until her sweaty palms grasped the cold door handle and flung the door open. Alas, the way out! 

Unfortunately, it seemed the world deemed her cluster of revived emotions nothing but a passing thing as her body collided with a semi-solid surface. 

“Well, hello there.”

As if things weren’t already shitty.

Luna’s blood ran cold at the recognition of that voice. Oh, that teasing and sarcastic tone she’d heard and known for so long. Another wolf disguised as sheep.

“Oh…Matt!” Luna stepped back and blurted out, wide-eyed and dumbfounded. Petrified. She was standing before the man she once considered a friend, the savior from her own self. Oh, she’d been so wrong.

The brown-eyed smiled, relaxed, charming, sympathetic. As if nothing happened, as if he was untainted. It was like staring at the sun at midday in the vastest-driest desert. Words alone could not encase the fury and rage flaring inside Luna. Even her tongue had tied at his unwanted presence, not knowing if it’d be wiser to speak or keep quiet.

Luna swallowed her nerves and smiled nervously. “What…Umm, what…hi! How are you? What..what are you doing here?” Luna stammered, holding back her rage by biting down the inside of her cheek as to her luck, Loki’s words maintained her grounded while she spoke.

“I’m okay, I would ask you the same thing,” Matt hid his hands inside his front pockets and shifted his weight to his right leg. The frown and one-sided beam reflecting worry Luna would have long ago believed though not anymore. “You look upset.”

“Oh!” Luna tucked a stray lock behind her ear, “It’s nothing, I’m fine. Just…stressed I guess. Wanna come in?”

“Sure,” his brows raised in unison with his smile.

Luna gulped and meekly stepped aside and allowed her eyes to wander through the small hall leading to the kitchen and living room, hoping Loki hadn’t come down chasing after her. 

“Want something to drink?” Luna proposed while Matt trailed behind. She was relieved to notice there was no sign of the god.

But the fact she could not see him did not mean the trickster was not present. Nope. His aura flared and swayed restlessly. Embraced them, clung to Luna as if to drag her as far from Matt as it desired. 

For while Luna led the traitor to the living room, Loki keenly witnessed it all, with a twisted and starstruck look on his face, all the way from the bottom of the stair; with his shoulder against the wall and his hands balled into fists upon recognizing who the intruder was. He’d seen his face before, on a briefing prior to a mission to be exact.

Just as fast Loki realized, this was worst than he thought.

  “I’m fine, just thought to quickly drop by,” Matt commented with such casualness, Luna almost flung her hand across his face. His hypocrisy made her skin crawl. “When did you come back?”

“Two days ago,” Luna noted dryly, feeling her hands sweat and itch again from the nerves and bottled anger. She shifted her weight to her left leg and cocked her brow upon reaching the living room couch she’d been sitting early on. Right away she leaned and clutched the notepad from the table. “Why? You planning on lifting my time out?”

Matt sighed and lowered his head in defeat. A smile bloomed on his lips. “Luna, you know I couldn’t just allow you to continue on. You know I care about you, you’re my friend, and also my best agent.” He flattered and sat on the single couch. “It would’ve been inconsiderate form my part.”

Bull shit, Luna told herself. It was clear as water all he ever cared about was the gain that would come his way through her. 

“I know,” those two words burned her tongue as she sat on the same spot from before; still clutching the sketchpad. “But I still could’ve gotten the briefcase.”

“Luna, you had almost, if not, your whole body fractured,” Matt retorted and sat on the other couch. “You had a punctured lung and were unconscious for two weeks.”

“You could’ve made a move in those two weeks, now that I think about it.”

“It would’ve been too suspicious,” Matt deadpanned. 

“If you say so,” Luna averted her gaze. “Why couldn’t you intervene after the accident so I could’ve been transferred and treated somewhere else anyway? I’m surprised they didn’t dig deep in me.”

“We could not risk it,” was his only response. It only made Luna’s urges to punch his face tenfold. “And I doubt the blond would’ve allowed it. He’s fond of you.”

“Thor? It’s still no comfort to me,” Luna crossed her arms, “what if I was made? And Thor doesn’t know entirely who I am. You know well my friendship’s on the line.”

Well, it was as good as gone now.

“You wouldn’t have,” Matt reassured with regards to her snark. “Even if you had been made, you would’ve known how to handle it. And for this job, you have to make sacrifices. For the greater good, remember?”

“I know,” Luna muttered. Agreeing with his lies was disrespecting to her.

“Besides,” Matte added, “Thor is head over heels for you. He wouldn’t have believed any of it if anything was said.”

His reminder only added to her rising guilt and overbearing pressure on her shoulders. For her only wish now was to find him and apologize.

“So,” Luna changed the subject, “did you guys get the briefcase?”

Luna noticed as the features of her once friend shadowed and his stance changed. “No.”

It took a brief moment for Luna to gather enough strength to pretend and not laugh on his face. To know she’d outsmarted them, that she was a few steps ahead of the traitors…it was like her much needed cup of satisfaction and victory on a chilly Sunday morning. Her consolation price per se after it all had gone to hell. 

“What?!” Luna shook her head and stared at Matt with fake perplexity. “Are you kidding me? Why not?”

“We don’t know,” Matt leaned forward and rested his shoulders on his thighs as his lips pursed. “By the time we entered the vault,” he paused before proceeding to unveil his obvious loss, “the briefcase was gone.” Again, Luna had the desire to cackle but covered her face instead, before her fingers slid and brushed through her hair. “The weird thing is…we had some of our men working security and they noticed nothing out of the ordinary.”

“What?” Luna narrowed her eyes, feeling her pulse hitch and echo against her ears. “But that’s impossible. I…I…it doesn’t register in my head how we could have lost it when our people were already infiltrated. It doesn’t make sense, so all the shit I went through was for nothing.”

“Believe me,” said Matt, staring blankly at the coffee table, “I’m just as disappointed as you are.” 

Matt’s subliminal comment did not go unnoticed by the trickster god. Loki continued to pry and hide behind the wall shared with the living room and the stairs. That man was disappointed the girl continued to be their loose end. Luna was just as aware as Loki was.

“I can’t understand how it slipped away without anybody noticing,” Matt fell silent momentarily just before raising his head. “Did you see anything out of the ordinary in the last few days?”

Luna fell silent. Her heart hammered deafeningly against her eardrums, bothered her, made her grow anxious. Her cheeks were now cherry red. And the world stilled for a seemingly never-ending minute. 

“No,” she said with her best poker face. “Everything was pretty quiet. I never went any further down than the marketing and financing departments. And let me tell you, Stark spends way too much money on unnecessary press coverages and leisure.”

An airy chuckle left his mouth. “I know, and you did obey my orders too,” Matt added. “You kept yourself pretty busy with that other guy…uh, the one from the whole New York thing,” Matt gestured smirking, “I think you were undercover in Europe when it happened, so you might not remember.”

Luna’s throat went dry, as did Loki’s, upon registering Matt’s implication. Thoughts raced through each other’s heads as a sinking feeling nestled on their stomachs. All of a sudden the brief silence nestling in the room seemed far too raucous and startling than words alone. 

“You mean Loki?” Luna suggested cryptically.

“That one,” Matt beamed. “I always saw him sneak to your room or steal a smile or two from you. Saw some hand-holding too,” Matt smirked and wiggled his eyebrows.

“Oh stop it,” Luna chuckled, feeling her voice pitch and tremble in the process.

Her uneasy laughter reached Loki’s ears as both realized this was bad. But they had been careful not to draw any attention! Besides, Luna had been utilizing her magic to shield herself, and Loki at times, to avoid being caught by the naked eyed and surveillance. Especially that night she snuck to his living space and the vault.

“So, how serious was it?” Matt asked, still smirking and flashing Luna his knowing eyes.

Luna’s cheeks flared, they were warm as if the sun itself had sunk into them. Yet she maintained her face tainted by sheer hypocrisy as her throat burned from the words she was about to say: “It meant nothing.”

No, it meant nothing. It meant more than it. It meant the world to Luna; Loki’s touch and gentle love were her home, where he heart belonged, the oxygen to her lungs…

A shame it all was ruined so suddenly.

“Had to pass the time someway somehow,” Luna couldn’t recognize her voice. She hated herself even more. “Doubt he’ll even remember me tomorrow.”

A pang struck Loki’s heart, cracking the ice ever so slightly, allowing pain and dread to sneak through the cracks. And the prince couldn’t help but exhale shakily and rest his head against the wall. Physical pain was nothing to the tender sharpness of her mouth.

Loki was appalled, completely overwhelmed and aching as he continued to listen to their conversation. To realize the once upon a time sweet girl had meddled with the worst of the worst players was a striking surprise. She was the second most wanted criminal, the face, not even the Avengers had even discovered. And to realize that made his stone-cold heart swell with worry and…pride? 

However, her words, though they held no meaning, had crippled his soul even more. He was sure the girl of Bifrost eyes loved him so.

Then the melody of dings and chimes resonated in the vicinity, drawing both Luna’s and Loki’s attention back to reality. Shutting their minds as they focused on what would be said next.

“Everything all right?” Luna cautiously asked as she studied Matt’s face while he stared at the screen of his phone. 

“As alright as things can be right now that it all has derailed,” Matt aimlessly said before lifting his focus and making eye contact with Luna, his lips pouting in regret. “I know you already have plans and I’m really sorry. But I’m gonna need you back asap.”

Luna’s eyes widened ever so slightly and her lips parted. There was no response from her part. Her mind was screaming, booming with refusal; yet that urge to escape from her surging nightmares stirred her agreeing. That desire of unreachable normalcy drew her.

“Uh…alright,” she finally answered, deciding for the latter. “Let me just run upstairs quickly to put on some shoes?”

Matt nodded and stood before turning around. “I’ll be waiting in the car.”

Waiting for Matt to see himself out, Luna spun on her heels (though not before grabbing the sketchpad) and rushed to and up the stairs. She was quite out of breath once she reached the second floor, and an exasperated growl left her mouth as her legs and inner thighs ached evermore.

Luna strode through the hall, with the sketchpad under her arm, and pushed the door of her bedroom open. With a slight kick and the door closed just as fast. The curtains swayed and danced against the drift of cool air seeping through the balcony. Yet that hint of tenseness and sorrow still clung in the atmosphere. Never withered away with the current.

Making her way to the closet a pair of cold hands gripped her arms and pinned her body against the wall. A painful grunt escaped her throat as a cold nose ghosted over her right cheek, breathing in erratically. She knew it was him.

“Let go, Loki!” Luna growled and attempted to thrash her way out of his painful grasp. Yet the trickster god was stronger than she was. He’d already proven it far too many times in the past.

And somehow this whole situation gave Luna a rendezvous fling. Loki had done the very same thing in the library of the tower. To pin her and cage her intimidatingly. Though the rolls and reason were all far from different.

“You’re not leaving with him!” Loki hissed, incrementing his grip and making Luna bite the inside of her cheek. A little more pressure and he’d break her arms completely. His face was hidden from her eyes, shielded from their close encounter. “I will not allow you to walk out that door with that bastard!”

Luna fell silent, shadows danced and dissipated on her face, as she registered his statement. From their closeness, their breaths percolated. She was inebriated by his familiar scent. She could not glimpse properly his eyes, yet from her limited posture it dawned there was worry reflected in them; they were no longer green-pine but a darker shade of rotting musk. Toxic dread. Of what?

“Watch me,” Luna spat menacingly and thrashed violently but to no avail yet again. She huffed and murderously glared at Loki. “Wasn’t this your plan?! To play pretend?! You wanted me to continue as if nothing ever happened and that’s what I’m doing!”

“They’re dangerous people, Luna!” Loki scandalized and shook her with crazed wide eyes. But there was more to it than that. 

“Don’t you think I already know that you idiot! Have you forgotten I’ve worked alongside them!” Luna barked. “He was my friend. I know him. I can defend myself!”

“You won’t leave,” Loki deadpanned, his tone changing to a much lower and grim; one which made Luna shudder. “I will not allow you to leave me. I forbid it. You. won’t. leave me.”

And there it was.

Luna stared at Loki, almost losing herself in the sea of his glimmering irises. The more she contemplated them, the more his statement resonated and grew louder; violently stroke her chest, and woke her body with an untiring wave of saddening sentiment. Luna understood his worry, especially his misplaced fear…of losing.

She didn’t buy any of it. Loki was a great actor, better than Matt or anybody else. Creator of deceit was he, a liar in all its expertise. And as much as her heart pleaded her to believe, she couldn’t. Thus, Luna straightened her postured and displayed no emotion. No mercy.

“Wanna bet on that?” Her eyes welled again, blue sapphire enveloped her hands as she pushed Loki with renewed strengths. She’d successfully managed to force him away a few steps, his grip had gone away, which was the important thing. “I can leave whenever I say I can leave,” Luna stood her ground and bore her teeth, the lump in her throat, swallowed and diminished into nothing but courage. “You don’t own me. You never did.”

Her defying glare matched that of Loki’s as she trailed to her vanity from where she retrieved a gun, while her comfortable clothing diminished into a white tee and a pair of jeans accompanied by a bomber jacket. 

“What in the Norns do you think you’re doing?!” Loki followed behind, his blood turning to ice upon witnessing her delicate hands handling such a weapon with grace. “Listen to me, Luna!”

Loki received nothing but silence as a response. All he could do was helplessly watch as Luna hid the weapon inside the garment before reaching to pick up the sketchpad that’d fallen to the floor.

“Here’s your stupid drawing. Nock yourself out.” Luna shoved her collection against his chest before sliding away and slamming the door.

Luna was gone. Her footsteps rapidly turned to nothing but distant thumps. She was gone. And such words did not sit well with Loki.

Silence perpetuated heavily as the shadows resting on the corners seemed to come to life, and fed on judgment and guilt, as the dawning of Loki’s own mistakes frighted him to death. The echo of Luna’s words brought clarity to his soul.

“I trusted you…”

Oh, those three words.

Oh, his beloved dove. He had broken her even more. Forced her to walk away from his arms. And now Loki cursed himself for he should have waited for her to reveal it all, instead of opening wounds so mercilessly as he’d done.

Loki ambled to the couch near the balcony and slumped on the plush cushion. His body seemed lighter, cold, livid. He’d been so inconsiderate. A fool! His curiosity, his avarice had gotten the best of him; the call of the past had enthralled his mind and wound up biting more than he could chew as it was. 

Luna, Luna, Luna.

“Luna.” Yes, that’s how he’d known her. That’s who Loki knew, who he knows, who he met. The once child who was named after his mirthful twilight friend. 

Loki shakily exhaled, feeling the embrace of loneliness again. Now her name sounded foreign to him. She used to be somebody else. Someone else’s child. A newborn with another name. 

His eyes drifted to the sketchpad resting on his lap. Right away, he flipped the pages to a random one. He was more than perplexed to find his face imprinted in lead. He was mesmerized, he appeared so much younger, much livelier; his hair was shorter, his smile…brighter, his eyes…glinting with mischief with life…hope.

Noelle, Noelle, Noelle.

“Noelle.” The name trailed out of his mouth. It didn’t suit her. Didn’t have the same melody. Loki didn’t know her, never knew her. That used to be her.

Loki proceeded to flip through the pages, finding lost treasures as he went on. He noticed there were some notes along with some. Most of them were descriptions of memories that’d come to her as mistaken dreams, from back when Luna refused to remember. When she refused to believe. 

His beloved dove. She would forgive him, that slightly irrational side of his mind assured him so. Luna would forgive him, she would come around. Would pardon his intrusion. After all, they only had each other now. They both had lost it all to lies.

Yes. Loki clung to that and ignored his sanity claiming otherwise.

Her drawings were breathtaking. Though there were some he did not comprehend. It made him wish and want to create a background tale for each of these just like he’d accustomed to way back when he was a young prince; however, Loki turned the pages aimlessly until his eyes encountered a drawing which already had a tale. Such he had experienced himself. 

It made a shudder run down his spine as all air vacated his lungs. The drawing was extremely real for his liking. Too…vivid, painful. And although his mind forbade him to, Loki brushed the tip of his fingers along the point of the lead blade And pictured the feel of its sharpness. Imagining the silver blade guarding the coveted and familiar gem while he continued to trace and imagine the coolness of the golden staff against his palm. 

The drawing was no other than his ever-present failure. The present once gifted to him by The Other. His way of reclaiming power.

It was…his long lost scepter.