#choo choo all aboard the angst train

[museqmeg]

Get wrecked vashmeryl nation... fic wip for @vashmerylweek

[beans-and-shet]

I can’t lose you

[kemendin]

I keep checking actual game dialogue to make sure I’m not going overboard with the angst here and I’m pleased to report that Quinn IS in fact a dramatic, self-punishing little guy and while I want to shake him a little it also feels very in character so. All is well.

[katethewriter]

Just Come Home

the sequel to Wish We Could Be Like That

Pairing: WandaNat x Reader

Words: 4.5~

Summary: Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Inspired by the song Where's My Love by SYML

Warnings: bad words, bad writing

A/N: 4 days, a few tears, and a new laptop later, I'M BACK! So sorry for being MIA, thank you all for being so incredibly patient with me. Remember how I said this was gonna be a 2 part fic? Yeah, I got a little carried away, so it is now a 3 parter. Hope thats ok with everyone :) I hope you enjoy

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Part One - Part Two - Part Three

The sound of an alarm rips through the silence. The endless string of high pitch beeping pulls three bodies out of the depths of sleep.

The first movement you are aware of is behind you. Careful not to jostle you or Wanda, Natasha  sits up. You whine against the loss of the warmth.

You lift your head from its place on Wanda’s chest and peak over your shoulder. “Tasha?’ you call out softly, only half awake.

“Shhh,” the Russian tries to replace the warmth by pulling the blanket up over your body, but you don’t want a blanket. You want your girlfriend spooning you from behind like she was two minutes ago. “I’m going on my run,” she whispers. She runs her fingers through your hair, hoping to coax you back to sleep, which you desperately needed. Last night had been emotionally draining for everyone, but especially you.

“What time is it?” you ask sleepily.

Nat looks over her shoulder to the clock on the bedside table, “a little after 4.”

A long sigh escapes your lips, “ok.” Just as carefully as Natasha, you extract yourself from Wanda’s arms. You press a kiss to her forehead before turning to get out of the bed.

Your girlfriend stops you before you get even one leg over the edge of the bed. “Where are you going?” she asks.

“Back to my room, time to go,” your sleep fog brain forgetting the events of the night before.

Natasha gently grabs your shoulders and guides you back into a lying position on the bed, “lay back down.”  She lays you on your side facing her. You feel a set of hands wrap around your waist possessively. Apparently, Wanda was not too keen on losing both of her cuddle buddies, even in her heavily asleep state.

“But Steve will see,” you remind her, but Nat has a reminder of her own.

She strokes your cheek and smiles warmly, “we don’t care about that anymore. Remember?” She leans down until her lips find yours. She kisses you soft. Your own tired lips try to keep up, but you have to admit the exhaustion is getting the better of you. Wanda’s arms wrap around you tighter, almost daring you to try and leave her embrace.

When Nat pulls away from the kiss to smile down at you, she’s satisfied that you are well on your way back to sleep.

The Russian presses a kiss to your cheek, “I love you.” She then reaches over you to kiss Wanda’s cheek as well, “I love you.” She leans back down to your eye level one last time, “go back to sleep.” She stays there a minute, softly stroking your cheek until she is certain you won’t try to get up the moment she steps away.

Natasha then stands to change from her pajamas into a running outfit. She only makes it a few feet from the bed before your voice stops her.

“Tasha?”

When she looks back at the bed, she is pleased to see you still fully relaxed, eyes closed. “Yes?”

You smile sleepily, not even opening your eyes. “Love you too,” you mumble before falling back into unconsciousness.

Natasha stands there for just a moment longer. She just can’t peel her eyes from the two of you wrapped up together. She’s not entirely sure what she had done to deserve the two of you, but she’ll be forever grateful. Quickly and quietly, she dresses and slips from the room without disturbing either of you.

The next interruption comes in the form of a ringing cell phone.

You recognize the ringtone to be yours and groan at the thought of having to leave the comfort of Wanda to answer it. Instead, you just let it ring.

When it finally stops ringing, you sigh in relief. You can call whoever that was back later. There is no way you are leaving this cocoon of warmth anytime soon.

At least that’s what you thought.

The room is quiet for less than thirty seconds when the ringing picks up again. Now you have no choice but to extract yourself from Wanda’s grip to reach for it. Your phone rests right beside the alarm clock. One glance tells you an hour and a half has passed since Natasha left for her run. You grab the phone and when you see the contact name come across the screen, you answer immediately.

You bring the phone to your ear, “Good morning Fury.”

“And a very good morning to you, agent,” his voice drips with sarcasm.

To avoid waking Wanda with your conversation, you roll out of the bed and walk into the bathroom. You close the door quietly behind you, “so, what’s up?”

“Gas prices,” he quips back at you, “we can discuss that and your new assignment when you report to my office in say 15 minutes?”

He says it like a question, but you know damn well that it is not. “Yes, sir,” you barely finishing agreeing before he ends the call.

You set the phone on the counter and look at yourself in the mirror. The light catches on the chain around your neck and the two rings hanging from it. A smile stretches across your face as you relive the moment they gave it to you just the night before.

Slightly giddy, you make your way to Nat and Wanda’s closet to find something to change into, since you can’t exactly walk into your boss’s office in your pajamas.

Once you are dressed, you pad over to the side of the bed where Wanda is still sleeping soundly. Careful not to wake her, you lean down to press a feather light kiss into her hair. “I love you,” you whisper.

With one last look over your shoulder, you exit into the hallway. Heading immediately to meet with Fury.

~Cold bones, yeah that's my love.~

Back from their morning run, Natasha turns down the hallway with Steve at her side. They talk quietly, heading to the common area to eat breakfast. They’re halfway there when a flash of blonde hair walking in the opposite direction catches Nat’s eye.

“I’ll catch up with you in there,” the redhead says to Steve, before hurrying to follow her sister down the hall. “Hey,” she calls out, "Yelena." The blonde widow stops and turns to her sister.

“Don’t worry,” the younger woman quips, “I won’t tell Wanda about your little side piece. Though it looks like she already knows.”

Natasha catches up, coming to a stop in front of her little sister. She is fuming mad but keeps her cool. The older woman slightly glares at her, “first: do not ever call Y/n that again.”

“Ok,” the blonde shrugs, “which do you prefer: side chick, mistress, the other woman, homewrecker-“

Natasha takes a step towards her sister, “she hasn’t wrecked anything.”

“Really?” Yelena cocks her head to the side, “where’s your engagement ring?” Natasha reflexively looks to her hand and the empty space her ring used to be. She then crosses her arms.

 “Yeah, I noticed that. What happened?” Yelena taunts, “did Wanda find out about your little booty call in the bathroom?”

“Are you done?” the older woman asks as soon as Yelena finished speaking.

Yelena takes a deep breath to calm herself. Her attitude gives way to something close to sisterly concern, “look you are an adult. You can make your own choices, even if they include cheating on your fiancé, who up until Y/L/N started poking around, you were very much in love with. You were happy with Wanda, really happy. I just don’t understand why you’re throwing that away for her.”

Natasha clenches her jaw. She doesn’t want to slap her sister, but if she keeps talking about one of the loves of her life this way, she might not be able to control herself. “Are you done?” she asks again, voice as calm as a glassy lake.

The blonde rolls her eyes and nods.

“Good,” Natasha begins, “for the record, I am not cheating on Wanda-“

Yelena quickly interjects, “I saw you last night Natasha! You were practically swallowing her face-“

“If you had stuck around for longer than three seconds, you would have seen that Wanda was in there with us.” She pauses for a moment to let that sink into her sister’s head. “I’m not cheating on Wanda. Wanda and I are both dating Y/n. My engagement ring,” Nat holds up her left hand to further display the lack of a ring, “is hanging from a necklace on Y/n’s neck. Wanda’s is right next to it.”

“You’re both with Y/n?”

The older woman nods.

Yelena stands there for a moment still trying to wrap her mind around the new information. “How long have you been together?”

“Remember that two month mission everyone went on but me, Wanda and Y/n?” The blonde nodded. “Since then.”

"Is it serious?" Yelena asks, "it must be if you gave her your rings. Right?"

Natasha smiles, "yeah, its serious. I love her. We love her."

Yelena runs through the past months in her head. All the little things she saw. The things she misinterpreted. After a minute of silence, she speaks up again, “why didn’t you just tell us you were together?”

“We were worried how everyone would react. We didn't want other people’s opinions to ruin what we had," Natasha feels a very familiar guilt overcome her again, "but that nearly happened anyway.”

“I may not have understood it right away, but I would have respected it at least,” Yelena admits, “I wouldn’t have been so harsh on her.” The younger widow thinks for a moment, “well, I still would have been harsh, but it would have been the ‘don’t you dare hurt my sister’ talk instead-“

“Yeah, you will not be giving Y/n that talk,” Natasha interrupts. When her little sister tries to protest, she shuts her down, “No. You lost that privilege when you decided to take your frustrations out on her rather than talk directly to me with concerns for my relationship.” The older widow tilts her head, raising her eyebrow, almost challenging Yelena to fight her on this.

The blonde quickly nods, “that is fair.” She quickly reflects on her relationship with Y/n over the past few months. She had rapidly pushed away a very close friend and treated her like an enemy for a reason that she now knows is not even based in truth. Guilt begins to eat at her from the inside, “I was pretty shitty to her. I don’t even know what to say.”

“An apology would be a good place to start,” Natasha suggests.

Yelena nods in agreement, “she hates me. Doesn’t she?”

"I can't speak for her," Natasha smiles slightly, “she might not forgive you right away, but I think she’ll be happy to have her friend back. Don’t worry, you’re at a higher standing than Clint at least.”

“Clint? What did he do?”

“Hey Nat”

The sisters turn to see Wanda approaching them.

When she is close enough, Natasha leans over to place a kiss on her girlfriend’s cheek. Wanda smiles tightly. Her eyes narrow and cut to Yelena for just a moment before she turns to Nat.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” The witch takes a step to move, but Natasha’s hand on her arm stops her.

“She knows,” the red headed widow nods in the direction of her little sister.

Yelena ducks her head a bit sheepishly, “I’m sorry. I never would have acted the way that I did if I had known.”

Wanda keeps her features cool, “I’m not the one you owe an apology to.”

“I know,” she nods, “I’m going to apologize as soon as I see her.”

The witch observes her future sister-in-law for a moment longer, before nodding curtly. She then turns back to her girlfriend and fixes the redhead with a similar icy stare, “now, you…” Her stern tone informs Natasha that she is in trouble, but for what she can’t fathom at the moment.

“Care to explain how I have two girlfriends and still woke up alone?”

Natasha stares at her for a moment in shock. That was not something she expected Wanda to say, especially since when she left the room, Wanda was very much not alone in the bed.

“In my defense, Y/n was still in bed with you when I left for my run,” Natasha holds her hands up in mock surrender. “You sure she wasn’t there when you woke up?”

Wanda tilts her head, “I think I would have noticed our girlfriend in the bed with me.”

~She hides away like a ghost.~

The common area is full when Natasha and Wanda enter. They immediately do a quick sweep of the room. Their eyes quickly scan over every face, but don’t find the one they are looking for.

They had already peaked into your room to see if you went to get dressed there, but the room is empty. The gym, living room, and the study you like to hide in to do paperwork all come up empty. They even come full circle, going back to their room just in case you had managed to get back there with out passing them. Everywhere they checked got them no closer to you.

“Where is she?” Wanda wonders out loud. Natasha can only shrug her shoulders.

“Hey Wanda and Nat!” Sam calls from a table, “where’d you two disappear to last night?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Anybody get lucky?”

“Hey!” Steve quickly calls out. He moves to cover Peter’s ears, “there are children present.”

The annoyed teen instantly pushes the super soldier away, “I’m not a kid!”

The two red heads walk further into the room. “Yes, you are bud,” Nat shakes her head jokingly when he hangs his head in defeat.

“Has anyone seen Y/n this morning?” Wanda asks looking around the room for someone to tell her where her girlfriend is.

The team looks between each other, waiting for someone to answer but they all just remain quiet.

Kate finally speaks up from her spot next to Yelena, “I haven’t seen her since last night.”

“Come to think of it, she disappeared about the same time as you two,” Sam offers. That gains the attention of half of the room. They quietly look between the couple and Sam trying to sort out if there was something more to that piece of information.

Wanda and Natasha look at each other for a brief second. A silent conversation that ends with a small nod of the head. This is as good a time as any.

“Yeah, she came home with us, but we haven’t seen her since I woke up this morning.”

The whole room goes quiet at Natasha’s words. They look between the two of them as their brains calculate. Had she just confirmed what Sam had suggested? What did she mean “came home with us”?

The silence hangs heavy in the room. Everyone but Yelena tries to read between the lines. Everyone thinks they understand, but no one is brave enough to ask out right.

Just then, Tony walks into the room with his usual post party pep. Two steps into the room and he can feel the weird energy in the room. “Woah,” he exclaims as he goes to pour himself a cup of coffee, “what’s going on in here?”

Truthfully, none of them freaking know.

Bucky is the one to finally answer him, “Y/n came home with Nat and Wanda last night-“

“Oh good!” the billionaire turns with a smile, “we’re telling people now!”

Everyone turns to Tony, even Wanda and Natasha’s jaws drop in shock.

“Wait,” Wanda breaks out of her shocked state first, “you knew?!?!”

Tony looks at her like she asked him if the sky is blue. “That you two and Y/n are an item?” he asks, “yeah, just because we weren’t here those two months doesn’t mean the security cameras weren’t. Thank god you're finally public, you three are not as sneaky as you think you are."

Everyone looks back to the red heads. Nat’s cool composure remains collected as ever, while Wanda’s cheeks turn a deep shade of red.

Tony shrugs playfully, “for what its worth, you make a very cute couple. Wait, not couple-“ He thinks for a moment, “what is a three person couple?”

“Threesom-“ the word barely makes its way out of Kate’s mouth, before Nat fixes her with a glare that has her shrinking in her seat.

Stark continues to think out loud, “not a couple, a trio? That sounds lame. Couple… couple… three person couple…”

“A throuple?” Peter asks quietly.

Tony sends Peter a thumbs-up, “throuple, I like it.” He fully takes in the room, and notices the topic of discussion is missing. “Speaking of, where is your lucky number three?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Nat sighs, “we haven’t seen her since I left for my run this morning.”

“Have you asked Friday?”

Silence is enough of an answer for Tony. He looks up with a smug smile on his face, “Friday?”

“Yes Mr Stark?” the robotic voice echoes through the room.

“Where is Y/n right now?”

There is a breath of silence while the AI searches for the answer. “Agent Y/L/N left the compound in an unmarked SHIELD vehicle forty five minutes ago.”

Your girlfriends lock eyes as worry twists in their stomachs.

Where would you go? Why would you leave without saying goodbye?

~Does she know that we bleed the same?~

From the backseat of an unmarked transport car, you look over the file in your lap. When you entered Fury’s office for an unknown reason, you weren’t sure what to expect. But the last thing you would have suspected is to be thrown into an undercover mission effective immediately.

This never happens. Well, never is a bit extreme, but its rare enough that you have never known to worry about it. You had never thought to say goodbye before you enter the meeting. 9 times out of 10, they give you at least an hour to prepare. They typically give everyone time to say goodbye to loved ones (if you had any) before being shipped off to who knows where.

Unfortunately, they believe you to be single, with no family left to notify of an extended absence. They didn’t know that you had two very important people you needed to see, hug, kiss. Another consequence of this damn secret you’ve been living for so long.

Your hand finds the piece of jewelry hidden under your shirt. Your fingers trace the shape of the rings, pressing them against your sternum.

Maria Hill sits in the back seat next to you. You try your best to listen as she quickly relays as much mission prep as she can in the 40 minute drive across town.

It’s a pretty involved undercover mission from what you gather. One of the city’s most notorious organized crime rings seems to be rapidly growing in numbers and strength. Your informant says that there has been a recent shift in leadership. The increase in activity directly correlates the rise of the new boss.

Your job is to go undercover, pose as a supplier for the group. Build trust, rapport and learn the agenda of this new crime boss.  

Your partner on this mission is already in place preparing for the shipment drop off that will give you a way in to the group.

Flipping to the next page of the report, you find the key information of the organization you are infiltrating.

They call themselves The Tracksuit Mafia.

In your opinion, they look like they belong in a intermural basketball league for seniors.

“… here we are.” Maria’s voice pulls you out of your concentration on the file. She nods her head in the direction behind you.

The car pulls up to what looks like an abandoned office building. From the backseat, you take in your surroundings. This is definitely on the rougher side of the city. On the complete opposite side of the city from the compound, crime in this area runs rampant, specifically organized crime. Which makes sense, since that is the objective of your mission.

Before you venture in, you take advantage of the last time you will be face to face with a member of SHIELD.

“Can you do something for me?” you open the file and search for a blank sheet of paper. You write out a quick message. Once finished, you fold the page and hold it out for her to take, “can you give this to Nat or Wanda?”

Curious, she looks between the note and you. She’s waiting for a further explanation, but its a bit too complicated to get into right now.

“Please.”

After a short pause, she nods and takes the folded the paper. She tucks into her pocket.

“Thanks,” you slightly smile in appreciation. Then, you look up the building with a sigh. This is your home for the foreseeable future, “eighth floor?”

Maria nods, “your partner is already up there. He can answer any questions you may have. Anything you may need is already up there. Weapons, clothing, enough food to last about a month, until you are brought in to organization. Biweekly check ins.“ She nods towards the building, “he has all the information regarding that. Any questions?”

“Probably, but I can’t think of any at the moment,” you tuck the file securely into the small bag that had been packed for you. You go to open the door, but Maria’s hand on you shoulder stops you.

“Last thing,” she holds out an empty hand, “you need to turn over your phone.”

You furrow your eyebrows, “why?” You remove your phone from your back pocket.

“No contact, for your own safety,” she takes the phone from your hands, “burners are in the bag. All the necessary numbers are saved under aliases.”

As you watch her tuck your phone into the same pocket as your note, your heart drops. If it wasn’t bad enough that you didn’t say goodbye, now you have no way to speak with Wanda and Nat.

And there’s nothing you can do about it.

“Good luck.”

“Thanks,” you open the door and step onto the sidewalk. With your bag hanging from your shoulder, you enter the building.

As far aesthetics go, the inside is no better than the outside. Most of the fluorescent lights are out. A layer of dust coats a receptionist desk like snow on a roof. You bypass the elevator and go straight for the stairs. In the slim chance that the elevator is still functioning, you still don’t trust it at all. 

The stairway echoes with the sound of your footsteps on the metal steps. When you reach the eighth floor, you pause in the middle of a long hallway. The building some how seems much bigger than it looked from the outside. Maybe that’s just a product of the utter lack of people.

Down the hallway to your right, you see light peering from a doorway into the hall. You take two steps towards said door. A movement behind you causes you to freeze and slowly reach for the gun strapped against your waist. You kick yourself for not clearing the building as soon as you came in.

There are two possibilities. This could be your partner making sure you’re an ally or your partner could have been made, leaving you to deal with whoever is behind you.

The unknown person moves again. This time you quickly draw your weapon while you turn. On instinct, you point your weapon, aim focused on the head.

Both of you hold. Getting a real look at each other for the first time since you entered the building.

After realizing who it is, you lower your weapon, and he does as well. Then the identity of your partner really sinks in for you. The person you are going to spend the next couple months with. You curse in your head.

Shit.

~Don't want to cry, but I break that way~

Two hours, almost three.

That’s how long its been since you left the compound without telling anyone. Four hours since you were last seen sleeping next to Wanda. It doesn’t help that you haven’t answered a single call or text.

Wanda paces back and forth in their shared bedroom. She walks from one wall to the other over and over again.

“Lyubov, you need to sit,” Natisha sits on the side of their bed. Her leg bounces as she tries to channel her nervous energy.

“I can’t,” the sokovian counters. “Where did she go? She didn’t even say goodbye. What if something happened to her? We need to be out there looking for her.”

The widow stands from the bed and walks into her girlfriend’s path. She places her hands on the younger woman’s shoulders. “Hey, look at me. She left in a SHIELD owned vehicle,” she tries to soothe. She is just as worried as Wanda is, but she’s trying to keep the situation in perspective. “She walked out willingly. She wasn’t taken or forced. That’s a good sign. Right?” she waits for any confirmation from Wanda.

The witch nods, and Natasha wraps her arms around her.

Wanda sinks into Nat’s embrace with a sigh, “why won’t she answer her phone?”

“There’s most likely a good explanation for it,” she runs her hands up and down her girlfriend’s back, “its too early to assume the worst.”

Knuckles hit the outside of their door three times.

Natasha breaks the hug to answer the door, and Wanda follows close behind. Opening the door, she finds Maria Hill standing in the hallway.

“Hey,” the brunette greets the two. She holds up a small sheet of paper between them, “Y/n asked me to give you this.”

Wanda reaches around Natasha to take the offered paper, “thank you.”

“No problem,” Hill smiles politely before she exits down the hallway she came from.

Wanda walks back into the room unfolding the page as she goes. Nat closes the door and moves to read whatever is on this page.

They both recognize your handwriting. Eyes dance back and forth as they quickly scan every line.

Sent out on a last-minute assignment. I'm so sorry I couldn't say goodbye. There wasn’t a chance to find you. I don’t know all the details. Not sure how long I will be out. I’ll call soon as I can. I love you -Y/n

This is that “good explanation” Natasha mentioned. Though it doesn’t really make them feel any better. If its not bad enough that you left out on a mission without saying goodbye, but they have no idea how long it will be before they see you again.

A sadness falls over them. The three of you had just worked through everything that was putting stress on your relationship. All three of you were excited to finally be together without all the strings, but now that has all been paused for an undetermined length of time.

Their hearts drop in defeat.

Part Two

Series Master List

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[rocksandmirrors]

Then it comes to be the soothing light at the end of your tunnel

Was just a freight train coming your way

[blindmagdalena]

Eat Your Ego, Honey ( Ch 6 )

homelander x oc 18+  escort services, sex work, voyeurism, stalking, Homelander in general. see ao3 link for detailed tags. chapter index. check out the playlist!

chapter summary: Homelander spends the morning after their first date musing on what a life with Layla will look like. Unfortunately for both of them, he's quick to voice his fantasy, which clashes hard with her grounded sense of reality.

additional chapter tags: somnophilia, cunnilingus, attempted sexual coercion, accidental injury, gaslighting, physical restraint.

With Layla fast asleep in his arms, Homelander is left to his own devices for the rest of the night. He could sleep, he supposes, but he doesn’t need to. He can go days without. Currently, he finds he simply doesn’t have the desire to be unconscious right now. He wants to savor every moment of this.

She’s here. In his home. In his arms. He inhales deeply, floods his senses with their mingled scents. The lingering warm vanilla of her perfume, the woodsy spice of his cologne, and the heady smell of sex. Amidst it all, he also picks up the distinctive rubbery smell of latex: the condom. Before last night, he can’t recall the last time he used one. He only had the box because it had been packaged with the lube.

He never cared to use them. Didn’t think he needed to until…

Homelander drifts in and out of his thoughts, stubbornly pulling back every time he feels a bristle of anger or grief. In one fell swoop he lost his girlfriend, the mother of his child, and his son. Stormfront may have survived Ryan’s rage, but he knows now that she was gone from him from that moment onward. She only cared about her agenda, not him. Left him alone for his fucking birthday.

Fake or not, what kind of girlfriend kills herself right before your birthday?

By far, the worst part of it all was Ryan. In targeting Becca, Stormfront had alienated he and Ryan from each other, pushed him into the hands of William fucking Butcher. Now he had no idea where his own son was, or if the kid even wanted anything to do with him. 

He never should have let Stormfront interfere. Homelander could have made things work. He was making things work, regardless of Becca’s misgivings, because Ryan needed his mother.

He still needs a mother.

Homelander refocuses on Layla’s sleeping face. She’s even sweeter asleep than she is awake, features soft, unguarded. She’s relentlessly patient, something that had initially frustrated him. He hadn’t been able to rattle her disposition at all during their first session, though he had certainly tried. She’s kind, she cooks, she even sings. Sure, she drinks a little excessively, and her “profession” is a can of worms to deal with all on its own, but overall…

He can’t help but smile faintly, stroking her cheek the same way he had that very first night he visited her in her home.

With a couple of minor adjustments, she would make a hell of a mother.

It’s a nicer thought to fixate on than any of the others. It carries him through the next several hours, taking him away from the sorrow of heartsickness and the losses he has unfairly endured again and again and again. Instead, he imagines what a home shared between the three of them would look like. A large kitchen, naturally, one that would blow her little condo’s setup out of the water. An oversized bath for the two of them to lounge in. She would have everything she could possibly need at her fingertips.

Ryan would have his own room. Big, with bright windows and posters on every wall. Baseball, dad’s movies, shelves for his trophies. Trophies that he earned himself, not just cheap little statues to create the illusion of a childhood. He would have everything that Homelander should have had.

Eventually, Layla stirs. He loosens his hold to let her adjust, watching as she rolls onto her back, the blanket sliding down with her movements. His gaze drifts down, and he’s possessed by a wicked little thrill at not only the sight of her bare breasts, but the bruises that mottle her flesh. He marked her thoroughly with his lips and his teeth last night, a myriad of them blossoming from her chest all the way up to her neck.

“Oops,” he whispers, playful and without remorse. That changes, however, when she adjusts her legs and visibly winces in her sleep before settling back down. Watching her for a moment longer, he follows the trail of bruises back down, adjusts his vision to look through the blanket covering her. Her hips are darkly marked as well, veins erupted beneath the skin in the shape of his hands. Her thighs, too. He can only imagine the state of her hips and pelvis, her cervix. He had been rough with her by human standards, but she had wanted it. Fuck, had she ever wanted it.

He should still apologize, and he knows exactly how he wants to do just that. He dips down to press a kiss to one of the marks atop her right breast, and then another between them. He kisses her nipple, savors the feel of her goosebumps beneath his tongue as he drags his tongue over it. Though she shivers under his touch, she doesn’t wake. He grows bolder, sucking her nipple into his mouth, eyes falling shut.

This feels like thievery, like snatching the proverbial forbidden fruit straight from the tree. It thrills him as much as it unnerves him to take from her without permission. Throughout his life, indulgence has been the most heinous cardinal sin. Deprivation has always been his virtue. He was never given enough of anything, lest he become a gluttonous beast with no carrot to chase, and no stick strong enough to beat him.

Denying him didn’t weaken his appetite. Instead, it turned his hunger boundless. He’s never had enough. He doesn't know if he ever will, or if it’s even possible. After a lifetime of unending yearning, he wouldn’t know what satiation would feel like even if he had it.

He keeps himself weightless to prevent the bed from dipping too much with his movements, lightly hovering as he slips down beneath the blanket, kissing his way down her sternum.

Her legs are splayed well enough for him to gently shoulder between them, arms slipping under her thighs, hands grazing lightly over the bruises shaped just like them. She smells divine, like seasalt vanilla ice cream, the smell of sweat and sex and her favorite moisturizer lingering on her skin, which is soft in his hands. She cares for her body the way a craftsman does their tools, keeping them polished and pristine.

It drives him wild to see her undone, blemished, ravished. It’s proof that she has given him something rare, that her rules don’t apply to him anymore. These marks belong solely to him, even if she doesn’t. 

Yet.

Settling his weight between her legs, he uses two fingers to spread the lips of her pussy apart, closing his eyes as he leans in, dragging his tongue from cunt to clit. There aren’t words for how she tastes because there isn’t anything else like it. Good pussy is a meal in a league all its own, and hers is some of the finest he’s ever indulged on. 

He gives a rumbling sigh against her, moving his tongue in leisurely figure-eights. He could—would—do this for hours if she could withstand it. He closes his lips on her clit and sucks gently, rubbing at it with the tip of his tongue. The pattern of her breaths change, her heart jumps, but she isn’t awake yet. She makes an exquisite noise in her sleep that goes straight to his cock, which has begun to harden against his soft bedding. He makes a matching sound low in the back of his throat, nuzzling into her cunt while he grinds his growing hard-on down against the bed.

Layla’s legs move, closing in on either side of him. He can hear her waking up, feel it in her pulse. A noise of confusion first, disoriented, followed shortly by the sweetest of breathy moans.

“Oh, darling,” she breathes, tangling her fingers gently in his hair. Her grip is weak with sleep, nails scraping deliciously along his scalp. It sends shivers trilling up and down his spine like a xylophone. He relishes just how pleased she sounds with him, how she pets his hair while her clit flutters against his tongue.

Last night's frenzied urgency is absent here. The drags of his tongue are languid, the slight roll of her hips loose and without much rhythm. It’s slow, intimate. He loses himself in it enough that her orgasm sneaks up on him, the smell and taste of oxytocin hitting him in a rush.

Homelander moans against her, plunging his tongue into her to feel the quiver of her velvety walls. He hurriedly shoves his hand down between himself and the mattress, lifting his hips just enough to jerk his cock. It’s a treat to come like this, with her hands in his hair and his mouth on her pussy. He sucks at her clit, milks her of her aftershocks while he pumps himself to release, luxuriating in the sharp little gasps she’s giving, how her fingers tighten in his hair.

He comes with a low groan, the sheets below him soaking up the brunt of the mess. She tugs his hair, and he obligingly crawls up her body, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

She looks radiant beneath him, dazed with both sleep and pleasure, her eyes soft, lips set in a gentle curve. It feeds something carnal in him to have done this to her, that she would look at him like this–with love–because of what he has done for her. She has no idea that this is just the beginning. Will she ever be able to fathom the lengths he’ll go for her if she’ll just give him what he needs?

“Good morning,” he purrs, his own voice a low, pleasure-soaked rumble.

“Very good morning,” she says through a giggle, cupping either side of his face. She kisses him lazily, meeting his tongue with her own, licking the flavor of herself from his mouth. He sinks his weight down atop her, slipping his arms underneath her, happy to kiss her until she breaks to breathe. “Insatiable,” she accuses, carding her fingers through his hair.

He beams down at her, gently bumping his nose against hers. He kisses her again simply because he can. Because he’s allowed to. “You would be too if you were me.”

Layla laughs softly. The sound of it warms him to his core. He watches her blink the remaining sleep from her eyes, smearing what’s left of her makeup as she rubs her face, stifling a waking yawn into her hand. He tucks her hair behind her ear, endeared by the way she leans into his endeared by the way she leans into his palm. He's so enraptured by the eager way she touches him, he forgot how good it can be when someone seeks his touch.

People flinch from him far more often.

They kiss again and again and again. It feels like an exploration, each of them mapping out the feel and pattern of the other. She tilts her head one way, and he goes the other, following her in this dance that he would prefer never ended. As always, she’s the first to break for reprieve. He allows it, nuzzling into the crook of her neck instead. He follows the line of her neck all the way up to her ear with his lips and gentle, grazing teeth. He barely resists the urge to bite. Intimacy is the only vice he’s ever struggled to not grip in his teeth and swallow whole. 

“How did you sleep?” She asks, running her fingers through her hair, down his neck, his back. He sighs his pleasure.

“Great,” he lies smoothly. No sense in getting into the nitty-gritty of things. He did have a great night.

“Good,” she says, stretching her arms out across his back until they each give a satisfying little pop. He shifts, lifting himself onto one arm so that he can once again admire not just her, but his handiwork. He brushes his fingers over the bruises that are smattered across her chest.

“You hurt?” He asks quietly. He wants to be proud of them, he wants to love them unconditionally, but first he needs to know they haven’t cost him something in her eyes.

“Mm-mm, mostly just sore,” she says, twisting and curling his short hair between her fingers. “Very bruised, inside and out,” she says, to which he has the decency to look sheepish. “Do you have ibuprofen?”

“Uhh.” He racked his brain, trying to think of where he might have something as utterly mundane and useless to him as painkillers, but he came up empty. “Nnnnope. It’s, ah… Never come up,” he says, to which Layla chuckles.

“No, of course it wouldn’t. it’s alright, I think I have some in my… purse,” she says, pausing as she looks around. Her clothes are scattered from one end of the room to the other, but her purse is– “Shit, I left it on the balcony.”

“I’ll have it brought up,” he says, leaning down to give her a quick peck on the lips before he lifts up, a slight pep in his step as he makes his way over to his phone: a landline. He’s always had trouble keeping track of a cell phone. “Could I have some water, too?” She calls out after him. “Roger!” He affirms cheerily. He whistles softly, making a pit stop by his fridge on the way to his phone. It’s lucky she only asked for water, as it’s the only thing his fridge is stocked with. He snatches one of the bottles neatly lined up inside, and tosses it absently while he calls to have her things retrieved. Once that’s settled, he makes his way back to his bedroom. She’s sitting up now, his dark comforter draped loosely over her lap. She’s fixing her makeup in the mirror to her right, swiping her fingers beneath her eyes. He watches her lick the pads of her ring fingers to wipe away the dark smudges at the corners, endeared. It’s such a simple, domestic little moment. 

She stops when she notices him staring, and smiles at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, shrugging slightly. His tone is soft. “Admiring the view.”

“You’re sweet,” she says, running her fingers through her dark hair to tame it. “Corny, but sweet.” “Always gatta humble me, huh?” He says as he advances, offering her the water bottle. She takes it, eagerly twisting off the cap to take a sip. He slides back in next to her, watching the way her throat works as she swallows. Everything she does is captivating in a way he never would have cared to notice before. Things he would normally find annoying she somehow makes delightful.

“If humbling is what you need, I will gladly provide it,” she says, her smile turning sly. 

Of that, he has no doubt. “What I need-” he begins, leaning in close. “-is more kisses.”

“Mmmm. Lucky for you, I’ve got a fresh batch,” she says, kissing him once, twice, thrice in quick little pecks.

“Christ, woman, don’t waste them,” he growls playfully, taking hold of her face and catching her in one slow, firm kiss.

She laughs against his lips. It’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever felt.

They luxuriate with one another a while longer. Homelander makes a call to the kitchens when Layla inquires about food, but he still isn’t ready to let her out of his bed. Everything is too perfect, too good to let go of. He has the decency to wrap a sheet around his waist when he grabs their breakfast–and her belongings–from the door, but he’s quick to abandon it to climb right back in with her, serving her meal on a silver platter.

“We’re going to have to get up eventually,” she says, taking a bite of the toast. He knows that. They will. He intends to invite her to his birthday celebration tonight, after all. It’ll be better if he doesn’t show up alone. The world is nowhere near forgetting about his most recent failed romantic endeavor.

He resists the urge to lick away the bit of jam that catches on her bottom lip, to interrupt her from her meal, to selfishly claim her every second for himself, to kiss her until she forgets all about that stupid piece of toast, and cares only to satiate her hunger on the taste of him. “...Hello?”

Homelander blinks, realizing he had gone radio silent staring at her mouth. He meets her gaze, and smiles. “What?”

Layla quirks a brow. “We’re going to have to get up eventually,” she repeats, taking another bite of her meal. “You sure you’re not hungry?”

“I ate,” he says, his grin sharpening wolfishly.

“Very funny,” she says wryly, though she can’t hide genuine amusement. She looks good like this. Domestic, even. He really could keep her this way, pampered and cared for. He can offer her more than money, more than mind-melting sex. He has real power in this world. He has so much more to offer her than anyone else could ever hope to. He could give her a real life. A family.

“I have a son,” he says, gauging her response carefully.

She shoots him a look of surprise, lowering the mostly-eaten toast to her plate. “You do?”

“Yeah. He’s, uh… We’re living apart right now,” he says, the words falling awkwardly from his tongue. “Things are complicated.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says gently. Normally, he finds those kinds of condolences sound empty. Rehearsed. Layla always sounds genuine to his ears, the furrow of her brow carrying sincere concern. He wants to lean into it, coax more of that earnest care from her. “Is he with his mother?”

“No, no, she’s gone,” he says dismissively. “That’s a whole mess. I haven’t really had the chance to, uh, to talk to him about that.”

There’s a dash of befuddlement seeping into Layla’s sympathetic expression. “Was… Who was his mother, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“No one,” he says, tone sharper than he meant to let it be. Things would be so different if she’d just let him raise his own son. “I mean, not… Not anyone you’d know, not anyone significant.”

“She is significant, though,” she corrects him, lips curving into a slight frown. He doesn’t like the turn this is taking: this was supposed to be a pleasant revelation. “She’s your son’s mother.”

“Yeah, yes, sure, she was. She’s dead now,” he says, trying to move on from that. “But what I meant was that she wasn’t, you know, in the news or anything,” he says, skating around any potential inferences she might make, lest she assume he’s referring to Stormfront or any other woman he’s publicly associated with.

Her frown deepens. He wants to choke back everything he’s just said and start over. He wants to go back to her sweet, pacifying sympathy. Not this uncomfortable, critical look she’s evaluating him with. It makes his skin crawl.

“Right,” she says. He hates that tone, the one that tells him he’s anything but right. It tells him she has much more to say than that, and that he wouldn’t like any of it. He bounces his fist on his thigh, agitation creeping up. This isn’t how this conversation was supposed to go. “You haven’t talked to your son about it? Was it recent?”

“Pretty recent,” he says, irritated now. “But that’s really not… that’s not the point. I have a son,” he says again, splaying his hands expectantly, as if he can restart the conversation with that. This is her chance to give a more enthused response.

She doesn’t. “Why haven’t you talked to him?”

“Jesus Christ, I just told you that it’s complicated,” he snaps, though he regrets the slip instantly. Her expression smooths out, cooling to detached nonchalance. Panic begins to set in alongside his frustration. “Don’t–don’t look at me like that,” he spits, exhaling roughly. He pushes his hands through his hair, and tries desperately to recalibrate, holding his hands out to her. “You were supposed to be excited.”

“Excited,” she repeats, tone even. He can’t stand how apathetic she’s turned.

“Yes, excited. I want you to meet my son,” he says, trying once more to extend this olive branch to her.

That gets a response. Her cool indifference falters, brows furrowing. “I don’t think that’s appropriate,” she says, some of that gentleness sinking back into her voice, but he doesn’t care for the sound of it this time around. Or maybe it’s less her tone, and more the words. He’s not sure yet.

“What do you mean appropriate?” He asks, features pulling into a tight, unhappy pinch.

“You–” she begins, pausing to let out a breath. She closes her eyes briefly, and then takes his hands into her own, pulling them down into her lap, bringing their faces closer to one another, leveling him with direct eye contact. “You need to talk to your son. That much is clear,” she says, squeezing his hands. He squeezes hers back.

“That has to happen first. As for me, I’m…” She hesitates, licking her lips. “Your son is grieving. I’m the last thing he needs right now. What he needs is you.I don’t know what complicated entails, but your priority cannot be introducing a strange woman to your child right now.”

“You’re not a strange woman,” he says with  a defensive edge to his tone. “You’re my–we’re–”

“We’re not anything right now,” she interrupts softly. “We’re barely a notion. One date doesn’t mean–”

“No, no. Stop it,” he demands, voice dropping low. He tightens his grip on her hands. “Don’t blow me off. You like me. There’s something here.”

“Yes, but–” She tries to twist her hands out of his grasp. “Let go of my hands, please.”

“No.” “You’re hurting me, John–” “Don’t! Do not fucking ’John’ me.”

“Why? Why not?!” She snaps, louder than he had been. It startles him enough that his grip on her hands eases. He blinks several times. He’s never heard her shout. Almost didn’t think she was capable of it. “You gave me that name! So why not?!”

“Because it’s not a fucking name!” He yells back, escalating right along with her. “It’s nothing! It means nothing! It’s-it’s a fucking–a goddamn placeholder. It was just more convenient than a string of numbers, alright? I don’t want to hear it right now.”

Her heart is thundering in his ears. Her bones feel brittle in his firm grasp. He could snap them without a thought. He immediately loosens his hold. Her expression is fractured by anger, fear, and perhaps worst of all, pity. It’s cloying, a far cry from her usual benevolent sympathy. He wants nothing to do with it. 

“I don’t want to fight with you,” she says, tone level, but not indulgent. He badly misses that quality.

“Then don’t,” he says ardently. “Can’t you just stop thinking about everything so much?”

Layla’s eyes fall shut. She takes in a slow, calming breath, holding it a beat before she exhales. It gives him hope that they’ll recover from this. She tentatively pulls her hands away, and this time, he lets her. However, he feels a bubble of anxiety in his gut when she slips out of bed, and begins picking up her clothes. “What are you doing?” He asks apprehensively, standing.

She pulls her dress on, smoothing her hands down the front of it. “You’re right. I do like you,” she says, stuffing her undergarments into her purse. “But I can’t talk to you right now. Not here.”

He scoffs nervously. “You’re leaving?”

“I need some time to process,” she says, confirming his fear. 

His anxiety spikes. Everything was perfect. How did this happen? “Don’t be fucking childish,” he says, advancing on her. “Talk to me.”

“I’m upset,” she says plainly. “I don’t feel comfortable here right now. I want to go home. We can talk once we’ve both calmed down.”

“I am calm,” he shoots back, frustrated. “You’re the one making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Okay,” she says, but she doesn’t stop gathering her things. He watches her sit and slip her shoes on. 

“Is that really all you’re gonna to say?”

“Yes.”

That single word shoots a lance of pure fury through him like no other, but this seething anger comes with a sense of helplessness. He doesn’t know what to do. “Don’t leave.” He tries to make it sound like a command instead of the plea that it is.

“I promise it’s better that I do,” she says, standing up. “Before either of us say or do something we can’t take back.”

“No,” he says, firm and simple. No.

She doesn’t look swayed. If anything, she looks tired. Exasperated, like he’s nothing more than a petulant child throwing a tantrum. “You don’t get to say no to me here. We’ll talk later, okay?”

Homelander lunges. He catches her face between his hands, and kisses her with everything he’s got.It’s a desperate move. Maybe she'll taste that in the way he presses his lips to hers, feel how much he wants her. How much he needs her. She takes hold of his wrists, makes a muffled noise of protest, but he doesn’t let go. He can’t let go.

“Stop,” she manages to get out, pressing hard against his chest now. “Jo–Homelander,” she stresses, but he’s certain he can turn this around. If he can just remind her of how good things were a minute ago, how good he can make her feel, how good he can be for her, then she’ll stop this. She’ll stay.

The harder she pushes against him, the tighter he holds her. She twists, but he doesn’t want her to speak anymore. The more they’ve said, the worse things have gotten. He kisses her like he means to suffocate her, fingers digging in behind her jaw, mouth stifling hers. He can hardly feel her lips anymore, she’s drawn them into a thin line, gritting her teeth behind them. He steps closer, feels her bump into the bed behind her. If he can just–

Something shifts, and Layla makes a distinctly pained noise. The sharpness of it snaps Homelander out of it, has him letting her go like he’s been burned by the touch of her. Both of her hands go to her mouth, where she’s been hurt. She touches the inside of her bottom lip, and her fingers come away bloody. He’s split the skin against her bottom teeth. Her eyes are horribly glassy, and when she looks at him, she looks…

Disappointed.

Stricken, he reaches for her. “I’m sor–”

She sidesteps his touch, dipping to snatch her purse up from where she had dropped it. She hurriedly throws her coat on, covering up all the marks he had been so proud of just this morning. 

“Layla! Layla! Would you just–would you just stop? Please!” He follows her to the door. She’s practically running from him. He catches her wrist, easily stopping her in her tracks. He could keep her here if he wanted to. It would be so easy.  “Please don’t leave me. It’s…” He holds her wrist in a loose but unopening grip, gesturing helplessly with his free hand. “It’s my birthday,” he whispers, strained.

It’s not. He doesn’t know when his birthday is. Everything he’s ever known has been a sham. His life is a fucking joke.

Tears roll freely down her cheeks. He can smell the salt in them, smell her blood, see traces of it between her lips.The copper tang of it makes his stomach churn in a way blood never has.

“Happy birthday, Homelander,” she whispers back, pulling out of his grasp, and turning towards the door.

His hand falls limply to his side. The door to his penthouse opens, it closes, and just like that, he’s all alone. His eyes prickle hotly with tears, a tremble running through his core. He stands there a long while, feeling naked and vulnerable well beyond his nudity.

Something has just been taken from him. He had it, and now it’s gone. That contentedness. It had been bundled warmly in his arms this morning, only to be ripped away with such abrupt violence, it left him shivering cold.

“Fuck,” he whispers, pushing his hands into his hair, squeezing it until his scalp starts to ache. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” He roars, catching a nearby vase in his hand. He hurls it across the room with such force that it explodes in every direction upon impact, and a particularly large piece cracks into the center of the mirror hanging on his wall, fracturing it into a web-like pattern.

Homelander stares numbly at his ugly, fragmented reflection.

Just us now.

He closes his eyes, sick of his own tear-stricken face.

I hate you. Chapter Seven.

[boysbeloving]

KinnPorsche the Series Episode 5

for KinnPorsche Week 2022 (September 27th: Day 2: Favorite episode)

[staykimchay]

reading through the two page timeline plan for my 30 chapter the last of us kimchay au fic and cackling to myself like an evil villain bc I have so much angst and hurt comfort and slow burn planned

[decafdino]

Seven sentence sunday!!!!

Guys i did it!!! its actually seven this time HALLELUJAH

Without further ado, another snippet of my sequel coda, Fermata:

Carlos isn't sure TK even heard him, until he says, "Lexi told me she found you face down."

"What?" he asks, the statement catching him completely off-guard.

"In the park," TK expands, "you were passed out in the grass, asleep. She said it looked like you'd fallen over and just decided not to get up."

"TK, please, come here," he begs. He has a sinking feeling he knows where this is going, but he's sure that if he could just get ahold of his fiancé, he can stop the storm before it starts.

"But you didn't fall, did you?"

i can see the end of this fic, and idk if yall are going to like what i have in store >:) probably because I'm thinking about leaving it on a cliffhanger

𝄐

[x-theskyatdawn-x]

I AM *SCREAMING* RN

[ignitionxbomb]

send me   ‘ you can’t keep blaming yourself… ‘   for my muse’s reaction. || @heterochromatica​ asked:

"You can’t keep blaming yourself…"

Katsuki had been outside training; he was back at the 1-A dorms, he was pushing himself harder to get stronger. He needed to protect Izuku -- he needed to make sure that damn nerd didn’t have to solely rely on himself. And he was pissed off right now because that dumbass had gone off on his own. 

First, it was All Might’s forced retirement ... then when his childhood friend needed him by his side while he was in a hospital bed, the blond wasn’t there for him. And now the damn nerd had just straight up left the school to go after Crusty, and All For One himself. Granted the pros and All Might were with him -- but All Might and Deku were too damn similar in their reckless, self-sacrificing mindsets. And that was enough for Katsuki to not trust that All Might would be able to wrangle Deku in and keep him from destroying his own body.

If only he had been stronger.

       If he hadn’t been so weak when it counted against Shigaraki.

Katsuki fell backwards to the ground, landing on his butt and clenching his jaw as he felt a stinging pain in his left, heavily bandaged shoulder. 

“fuck.” 

That was the only thing that left his mouth as he heard Todoroki’s voice, making him glance up at the dual Quirked user.

[bossblitzy]

Blank mind Stolas for Blitzo

Send "Blank mind" for a situation where my muse doesn't remember anything || @hazbinxdisaster || accepting

Blitzo used his tail to hoist himself up the rest of the way on the balcony. Entering Stolas' bedroom like that was a tiny bit of a rebellion, one of the last few crumbs of independence that he had to safeguard. It was getting harder to pretend he didn't feel anything, harder to leave the big, soft bed as if the past hours meant nothing. But the longer he could keep up the facade, the longer it could go on. Stolas wouldn't grow bored of him.

He peeked into the bedroom, but Stolas hadn't arrived yet so he seated himself on the balcony railing, watching the full moon with his tail flicking restlessly next to him.

Was it just him, or was the moon unusually bright? Like, really intense?

Blitzo shielded his eyes and squinted against the cold, bright light -

-and a heartbeat later it was back to normal. Huh. He turned, crouching down low to the ground. What had he been doing? He couldn't remember. Maybe... maybe he lived here? He got up, and stepped into the bedroom. Then looked down at his red claws. Struggling to recall, if not who he was, then at least what. An imp, yes - and an imp wouldn't live this luxuriously.

The door creaked open and he took an uncertain step towards it, tail curling anxiously around his leg.

[katethewriter]

Man everyone on your account is talking about wish we could be like that which I get because I fucking love that series and can’t wait for part 3 but the supercorp fics chef’s kiss. I mean not only did you’d come over right break my heart, make me cry, and remind me of an awesome song but now it’s all I can think about whenever I listen to the song which is dangerous because I put it on repeat in the car and I cannot stop myself from crying each and every time

Aww anon ❤️ thank you so much! I think it’s just that more of my followers are in the MCU fandom

…also, I’d say that I’m sorry for making you cry… but let’s be real… I drive the angst train 😂

[kaelidascope]

Midnight Menagerie Chapter 19 is LIVE

**SHAKES UH OH DOGGY BAG OF TREATS**

This aint an April Fool's joke folks. This chapter is DARK and I wish I was kidding but I'm not LOL

The second biggest chapter I have ever written for MM is LIVE!

Please please please mind the content warning on this one guys. From here on out, we're getting into the darkest segments of the story. Every negative tag will be relevant. For the sake of spoilers, I'll only label the extremely graphic scenes. ALL ABOARD THE ANGST TRAIN! CHOO CHOO

[mermaidchan05]

Vesuvia Weekly: Putting It Together

CHOO CHOO ALL ABOARD THE ANGST TRAIN

For @vesuviaweekly 's "cooking class" event. The prompt made me think of Asra teaching the Apprentice to cook after they first woke up, which led to... well, all of this XD

Approx. 2600 words.

Featured characters: Asra and my OC Meleia (she/her), with important appearances by Faust and the stove salamander.

TW for panic attacks and flashbacks. But there IS a happy ending, and the flashback doesn't last too long.

_________________

It was amazing, really, how the smallest things had a way of leaving the biggest impact.  

After Meleia woke up with  no memories and very little control over her new body, Asra was forced to take things one step at a time.  They both were.  It always started so simple, a few shaky steps here and there, a few words that Asra recognized… but every change was important.  And it all added up amazingly quickly. Meleia was doing so well now.   

True, Meleia still had her struggles.  Crowds were debilitatingly overwhelming, she didn’t quite have the strength for going out on her own yet, and there was still a bit of a language barrier.  But so, so much progress had been made.

The next step was working on meals.  Meleia was well enough now to start cooking on her own instead of relying on Asra.  He had to admit, he was proud.

And though he would never admit it, he was decidedly nervous.

For their first official cooking lesson, they were starting with a simple dish.  Meleia loved mushrooms. And they had plenty of rice around.  So fried mushroom rice it was.  Asra hadn’t made anything like this in a while, and as far as he knew, Meleia had never made anything like it, even in her previous life.  But it seemed a safe place to start.  It was hard to mess up just throwing things together and heating them up.

Not impossible, as Asra had proven many times over.  But difficult enough to make him assume they were safe.  

But, naturally, got off to a rocky start.  And not due to any fault of Meleia’s or Asra’s.  The stove salamander was simply refusing to cooperate. 

Asra leaned closer to the grate.  “Come on, little one… we really need your help.”

The stove salamander pouted at Asra, then deliberately turned his back on him.  Asra sighed. 

Meleia put a hand on his shoulder.  Asra carefully stood up, making sure not to shake her away.

“What is it?” he asked gently.

He half expected Meleia to need help with something.  Or for her to need some support in standing up.  It was still hard for her to be on her feet for long periods of time…

But she stood tall, more than tall enough for Faust to balance happily across her shoulders.  And she was smiling.  She quickly let go of Asra’s shoulder and nodded towards the grate.

“I… can help,” she said, only slightly haltingly.  “Let me try.”

Asra couldn’t help but beam in pride.  “Of course.”

He stepped out of the way, allowing Meleia to crouch down so she was right near the stove salamander.  And she started talking to the little magical creature, her tone soft and gentle.  She was speaking a language that Asra still didn’t recognize, even after all this time. 

From the very first time she woke up, Meleia had understood Asra perfectly.  But in yet another unexpected side effect of getting an entirely new body, she had apparently fallen back into whatever her native language was.  She was still learning how to speak the common language of Vesuvia out loud, and Asra had only managed to pick up a couple of her unfamiliar words.  But they understood each other. 

And clearly, the stove salamander understood her as well as he understood anybody.  Meleia kept gently coaxing him.  The salamander was clearly a little grumpy about something.  But he wasn’t immune to Meleia’s charms.  In moments, the salamander was carefully stepping into Meleia’s offered hands.

She lifted the stove salamander up closer to her eye level, laughing fondly.  Asra’s heart thudded.  He loved that sound.  Always had.  And she looked so adorable cooing at the salamander.  Even more so when he pressed his sooty little nose against her own.  Multiple times.  The aftermath almost made her look like she had a few extra freckles.

Then Faust tilted her head.  The stove salamander looked back at her.  And Faust twisted so she was looking at Asra.

Messy stove, Faust reported.

Asra flushed a bit.  “Ah… I must have forgotten to dust out the stove again…”

Silly Asra, said Faust.

“Right.  Silly Asra.”  Asra managed another little smile.

It was far from a simple case of “silly Asra.”  Asra hated cleaning the soot out of the stove.  He didn’t enjoy dusting, either.  The dust and soot all over his hands… it brought back unpleasant memories.

But Meleia didn’t need to know that.  So he forged on.

“You keep holding him, alright?” he said, keeping his smile pasted on.  “I’ll clean up.”

“Thank you,” said Meleia, beaming at Asra.

Asra’s heart thudded.  “Thank you” was one of the first additions to her vocabulary after she started picking up the common language of Vesuvia.  And Asra was always moved when he heard it. 

She was really growing in strides.  And that made everything worth it.

Asra cleaned up as quickly as he could.  Meleia was very happy to hold onto the stove salamander.  She laughed when he scurried across her palms in little circles, and kept chatting to him in her native language.  Asra listened as he worked, focusing on the wonderful sound of her voice instead of the horrible feeling of ash on his fingers.

The moment he was done, Asra immediately washed his hands.  He couldn’t even allow himself a little sigh of relief.  He had to smile for Meleia’s sake. 

“There we are,” he said.  “All set.  Are we ready to get started?”

Meleia eagerly nodded.

At first, everything went smoothly.  The stove salamander settled into his newly-cleaned spot and got a fire started.  Meleia diligently followed Asra’s instructions.  And it was rather nice, working close together in the cozy kitchen.  It almost reminded Asra of the way things had been before.

But no.  He couldn’t allow himself to think about that.  Meleia deserved to have a choice in whom she spent time with.  Just like she deserved to choose her preferred food. 

For as long as he had known her, Meleia had never eaten any meat, though cheese and butter and things like that were fine.  As far as he knew, there was no medical reason for it.  Just a matter of preference.  So he had carefully introduced the idea of making a new choice when she first woke up.

She’d stuck with her traditional preferences.  Asra rather appreciated that.  It was good to know that some things hadn’t changed.

Still… he had to be very careful when it came to food.  Nothing triggered Meleia’s memories quite like a familiar smell.  And that made some foods very dangerous.  Asra was lucky that the pumpkin bread they both loved so much hadn’t had the same effect on her as the first time he had made them both some simple pasta with cream sauce….  

She had grown so much.  But there were some risks he simply couldn’t take.

Asra firmly shook his head, trying to stop the spiral of dark thoughts.  Meleia gave him a questioning look.  As always, Asra answered with an easy smile.

“Sorry,” he said.  “Just lost in thought.  And it looks like you’ve gotten the butter and garlic all taken care of.”

Meleia beamed at him.  “Yes.  Ready.”

Asra’s heart swelled with pride.  “Perfect.  Let’s put the mushrooms in.”

He allowed himself to squeeze even closer to Meleia, their shoulders brushing together, while they moved onto the next step in the recipe.  Which was probably part of the reason things went wrong.

The kitchen was small enough as it was.  And Asra had never been one to put things like dishes and mugs away after washing them.  What was the point, when he was just going to use them again the next day anyway?  Far more convenient to leave them near the sink.

The truly unfortunate thing was that the sink happened to be dangerously close to the stove.  So it was probably only natural that Meleia’s elbow bumped into a mug.  And, of course, said mug immediately hit the floor, shattering on impact. 

Asra winced at the sound.  His pulse spiked.  But that was nothing compared to Meleia’s reaction.  Her breath caught.  And she went utterly rigid at the sudden crash. 

Asra immediately turned his attention to her.  “Meleia, are you hurt?”

Meleia shook her head.  She crouched down, moving to clean up the mess.

Asra quickly caught her hand.  “No, don’t touch those.  Not with your bare hands.  Here… I can help.”

Meleia shook her head again, a bit more stubbornly this time.  “My fault.  I… s-sorry…”

“It’s alright,” Asra said gently.  “It was an accident.  And no one was hurt.  That’s what’s important.”

Meleia still looked utterly guilt-ridden.  “But…”

“It’s fine.”  With a flick of his fingers, Asra used a little magic to safely gather up all the broken pieces.   “See?  No harm done.”

“But… Asra…”  Meleia hesitantly reached out a hand.  “Your… most liked?”

“My favorite?” Asra clarified.

Meleia nodded.

Asra glanced at the shattered fragments.  He recognized the pattern, now.  All the air seemed to rush out of his lungs.

“Asra, I… n-not want…” Meleia choked out.  She was near tears by then.  “My fault.  I’m sorry…”

Asra couldn’t respond.  He hardly heard her.  Not over the sound of his own pulse pounding in his ears.  Of his own breathing coming far too quickly.  Of the shards of ceramic shattering further as they clattered to the floor, his magic immediately petering out in his panic.  

He was back, back in a time when Meleia was still gone.  When the world had seemed so broken, so empty.  When nothing mattered but finding a way to see her again.  And it was his fault, it was all his fault… he had left her, fought with her, abandoned her, just so she could fall to the plague.  And then… he had made so many more mistakes.

“Asra?”  

Asra had forgotten how to breathe.  His hands were shaking.  Traces of soot still lingered on his fingers.  It was just from cleaning the grate.  He knew that.  But to his eyes, the soot looked like the crimson-stained ash of the Lazaret.      

And the shards of his mug had become the even more broken fragments of Meleia’s favorite teacup.   

All he could do was stare, eyes wide, hands shaking.  A hollow pit had opened up in his stomach, nearly consuming his entire being.  He felt just like he had back then.  The cup was hers, one that Asra had never dared to use even when it was clean, since it was so special to her.  A memory of her life before Vesuvia.  It had been hers, and now it was gone, and she was gone…

Everything was gone…

“Asra…”

A gentle touch on his shoulder made Asra flinch.  He whipped around… only to see Meleia, staring up at him with eyes wide in concern.  Asra’s heart tore a little more at the look on her face.

She wasn’t supposed to see him like this.

Asra managed to take a breath.  “I’m sorry, Meleia.  I must have gotten lost in thought again…”

Faust somehow managed to scoot across Meleia’s shoulders and transfer herself over to Asra.  She gave him a gentle, grounding squeeze.

Safe, she promised.  Friend here.

Asra took another breath.  He was still far from himself.  Still felt a bit detached.  But it was better.  And Faust was right.  Meleia was there.  That was what mattered. 

Meleia clearly knew something was still wrong.  She gazed at Asra for a moment more, searching his face.  Probably looking for some way to help.  Asra did his best to smile for her.  To show her that he was alright, no matter how far from the truth that may have been.  It wasn’t very convincing.   

Then, slowly, Meleia looked at the broken mug.  And with a little frown of concentration—a look that Asra had always found heartbreakingly adorable—she copied the spell Asra had used.  She gathered up the shards of ceramic and collected them all in her skirt.  Then she sort of… stared at them.  She looked rather forlorn.

“My fault,” she said again.  “I’m sorry…”

“It’s alright,” Asra insisted.  He carefully put a hand over hers.  “It’s just a mug.  Besides, we can fix it.  Here… let me teach you a spell.”

As he had done a hundred times before, he gently guided her through this impromptu magic lesson.  With every word, every gentle touch to guide her hands, his panicked heartbeat slowed.  His breathing grew calmer.  His trembling hands stilled. 

By the time the magic was done, he was nearly himself again.  And the mug was whole.  Almost.  It was put together again, at least, and it would work perfectly.  But there were still some faint cracks.  A little chip had gone completely missing.  And the pattern was ever so slightly off. 

Meleia looked even more heartbroken than before. 

“What’s wrong?” Asra asked.

“It’s… broken,” she said.  “Still.”

“It’s fine,” said Asra with a little smile.  “We can use it again now.  That’s enough.”

Meleia’s fingers carefully traced the now-imperfect pattern.  “All wrong…”

Asra hummed thoughtfully.  “Is it?  I think it’s still beautiful.  It’s different, but that doesn’t make it bad.  There’s a kind of beauty in fixing something, too.  In seeing all the scars.  Now it’s unique.”

“Unique…” Meleia repeated, slowly sounding out the word.

“Yes,” said Asra.  “One of a kind.  And that’s part of what makes it beautiful.”

Meleia slowly picked up the mended mug.  Her gaze was rather distant, and still decidedly sad, as she turned it this way and that.  Asra saw how lovely the new, no-longer-symmetrical pattern was.  But he was sure that Meleia was just seeing the traces of the cracks.

“Broken,” she said again.  “Like me.”

Asra’s heart lurched.  He carefully wrapped an arm around her, pulling her into a gentle hug.  Meleia sank into his embrace. 

“No, Meleia,” he whispered.  “You’re not broken.  I know things have been… challenging.  But you’re doing so well.  And no matter what happens, you are a whole person.  A wonderful person.”

Meleia took a shaky breath.  She blinked back tears.  She leaned against Asra a moment more, nearly snuggling into the hug.  After another few heartbeats, she pulled back. 

And she was smiling again.  It was faint, but it was genuine.

“Asra?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” she said.

Asra smiled in return.  “You’re welcome.  Did I help?”

“Yes.”  Meleia’s smile grew a little wider.  Then she glanced up at the stove… and the probably-a-little-too-crispy mushrooms.  “Try again?”

“Of course,” said Asra.  He got to his feet, taking her hand and pulling her up as well.  “Let’s make this the best mushroom rice dish the world has ever seen.”

Meleia laughed.  And any remaining worry in Asra’s heart faded.  If only for the moment.

Meleia always had a way of making things seem brighter.

The mushroom rice didn’t come out quite the way Asra had expected.  Especially when they wound up spending more time making a game out of tossing the rice into the pan instead of just pouring it in there.  But it was delicious nonetheless.  And Asra was happy that Meleia was feeling better. 

She had never voiced the thought before.  But Asra doubted that this was the first time she had thought of herself as broken.  Asra was grateful that he was able to cheer her up.  And eternally thankful for every moment they shared. 

Maybe, in a way, things really were like the mug.  They were still picking up some pieces.  Still learning how to put everything back together.

Nothing would ever be the same as it was before.  But they could still make something beautiful.     

[myheartalivewrites]

Seven Sentence Sunday

Alright, it's eight sentences, but hey. Here's the promised snippet from chapter 12 of Deep Blue 💙🌊, coming on Wednesday.

Henry feels like a bottomless pit of need, constantly longing for Alex, thinking over their time together, hoping for his next visit, daydreaming possible futures. He can’t seem to stop the fluttery feeling in his chest, the fantasies about spending more time together, about being something real to each other. About someone as bright and brilliant and beautiful as Alex actually loving him. And he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to need so much from someone who’s not willing to give it back. To feel like so much of his wellbeing is resting on a bed of uncertainties. So he sets his mind to it, making his brain put in the effort because he knows his heart is hopeless. Tentatively, Henry tries to pull away. 

All aboard the angst train. Choo-choo, mfrs. 😬