#exhilarated and terrified in about equal measures

[aaaaaaaadhd-studying]

27/01/2023

aough okay it is Very Late and I don’t think I’ll be doing very much more tonight, but here are some tasks, both outstanding and completed:

Admin & misc.

Duolingo (Spanish) (Japanese)

meeting with lecturer

create and send out survey for next DnD session

voting paperwork

update my calendar (also got the preparation/planning sorted for an event in March that I’m really looking forward to)

Creative Writing Class

type up Snowdrops draft

fiddle with The Calf draft

read A Disaffection

Ecotheory Class

Bates text

Bates lecture

Wordsworth text

finish translating Erlkönig

[its-avalon-08]

HI! i know you are on brk, so do write this whenever you want, take all the rest you need carlos x norris!sister

age gap of about 3 years

angry lando, secret dating, angst then fluff

im backkkkk!!!!!!!!!!!! im so thankful for all of the adorable messages, thank sm for the support, without you i would not be able to do this! p.s get ready for post spams because your girl had too much ready!!!!

give me a chance (cs55)

✦ pairing - carlos sainz x norris!sister!reader

✦ genre - angst, fluffy ending

The tension in the motorhome kitchen was thicker than the stale coffee Carlos was reheating. You, Lando's younger sister by three years, fiddled with your phone, stealing nervous glances at Carlos. He nursed his mug, a self-conscious hand brushing over the small, purple mark blossoming on his neck. It mirrored the one blooming on yours – a secret souvenir from a stolen kiss in Monaco the previous weekend.

"We should be more careful," you whispered, pushing the stray tendril of hair that kept escaping your ponytail back behind your ear.

"Yeah," Carlos agreed, his voice low. "But seeing you in that dress..." He trailed off, a blush creeping up his neck.

A laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. The memory of you slipping into the tiny hotel balcony, the twinkling lights of Monte Carlo sprawling beneath you, still sent shivers down your spine. Just as Carlos leaned in for another kiss, the door swung open and Lando burst in, interrupting your stolen moment.

"There you two are! Let's go, debrief's about to start."

Relief washed over you, momentarily eclipsing the disappointment. Keeping your relationship with Carlos a secret had been stressful, but Lando finding out was your worst nightmare. He was fiercely protective of you, the age gap somehow making him feel more like a brother than a sibling. He'd never approve of you dating a teammate, especially someone older.

The following days were a tightrope walk. Stolen glances across the paddock, whispered jokes in between briefs, unsupervised moments – it was exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure.

Then came this morning. Lando had been glued to his phone all breakfast, oblivious to the way your hand instinctively brushed against Carlos's under the table. But just as your fingers intertwined, Lando looked up, his gaze landing right on your neck. His eyes widened, then flickered to Carlos, who was sporting a matching mark.

The silence stretched, thick with dawning realization.

"What the…" Lando finally sputtered, his voice a strangled whisper.

Then, a volcano erupted.

"Y/N! Carlos!" Lando slammed his phone on the table, the clatter echoing off the metal walls. "What is this?!"

"Lando, it's not what—" you began, but he cut you off.

"Don't you dare lie to me!" His voice was laced with a fury you'd never heard before. "You two? Since when?"

Carlos opened his mouth to speak, but Lando wasn't done.

"I can't believe this! You, Carlos? You're supposed to be like family!"

"Lando, please," you pleaded, standing up. "We can explain."

"There's nothing to explain!" He threw his hands up in the air. "This is a disaster! You know I wouldn't have approved!"

"That's exactly why we didn't tell you," Carlos said, his voice surprisingly steady. "We were afraid of this reaction."

"Afraid? You should be ashamed!" Lando glared at both of you. "This is unprofessional. This makes things awkward. This messes with everything!"

And with that, he stormed out of the motorhome, slamming the door behind him with a force that rattled the entire vehicle.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

You looked at Carlos, his expression mirroring your own – a mix of guilt, fear, and a stubborn determination to fight for what you had. You knew this wouldn't be easy, but one thing was clear – the secret was out. And the real race for your relationship had just begun.

The slam of the door echoed through the motorhome like a thunderclap, leaving behind a silence that vibrated with tension. You stared at the empty doorway, tears stinging your eyes. They spilled over unchecked, tracing a warm path down your cheeks.

Carlos reached out a hand, hovering hesitantly in the air before settling on your shoulder. "Y/N," he said softly, his voice laced with concern.

You turned to face him, tears blurring your vision. "What have we done?" you choked out, the question a ragged whisper.

Carlos flinched. "We… we just tried to be happy," he defended, his voice strained.

"But look at what it's done," you sobbed, gesturing towards the doorway. "Lando's furious. This is exactly what we were afraid of."

"We can talk to him," Carlos insisted, his jaw set. "Explain things better."

"Explain what, Carlos?" you snapped, a spark of anger igniting through your despair. "That we broke his trust? That we jeopardized everything for a few stolen moments?"

The anger in your voice seemed to take Carlos aback. He recoiled slightly, the hurt flickering in his eyes a fresh wound.

"That's not fair, Y/N," he said, his voice low. "We both knew the risks. We both wanted this."

"Maybe I shouldn't have," you mumbled, the words tasting like ash in your mouth.

The weight of your words hung heavy in the air. Carlos's eyes widened, a flicker of pain crossing his features. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Maybe this whole thing was a mistake," you said, your voice cracking. "Maybe we should have just—"

You couldn't finish the sentence. The regret in your voice, the implication that you wished you'd never let things go this far, ripped through Carlos like a punch to the gut. He felt a lump form in his throat, his own tears threatening to spill.

"Y/N," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Don't say that."

But you were already shaking your head, tears streaming down your face. "I can't do this anymore, Carlos," you said, your voice breaking. "This is tearing everything apart."

Without another word, Carlos turned and walked away. His broad shoulders slumped, his steps heavy with unspoken hurt. He didn't look back at you, and as the door to his room slammed shut with a dull thud, you sank to the floor, the weight of your words crashing down on you like a tidal wave. You had just broken his heart, and in that moment, you weren't sure if you had broken yours too.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Regret, a bitter taste on your tongue, pushed you to find Lando. You found him on the balcony, overlooking the bustling racetrack, a world away from the storm brewing inside you. The sight of him, usually your confidant, now felt daunting.

Taking a deep breath, you approached him hesitantly. "Lando," you choked out, hating how shaky your voice sounded.

He turned, surprise flickering across his face before it settled into a guarded expression. "Y/N," he said simply, offering no invitation to sit.

You stood awkwardly, fiddling with your fingers. "Lando, I…" The words stuck in your throat. "I messed up. Big time."

The anger you'd seen in him earlier had morphed into a wary curiosity. He crossed his arms, waiting for you to continue.

Taking another deep breath, you launched into a monologue, your voice trembling. "It started with his eyes, Lando, the way they crinkle when he smiles. And his smile, oh God, his smile makes my heart skip a beat. And then there are his hugs… warm and safe, like a place I can always go home to. And his kisses," you whispered, the memory sending shivers down your spine, "like fireworks, Lando, exploding with a kind of magic I've never felt before."

Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision. "I love him, Lando. I never knew I could love someone like I love Carlos."

As you spoke, a figure appeared in the doorway, frozen in place. It was Carlos, his face a mask of pain, each word a fresh blow to his heart. But he couldn't tear himself away. He needed to hear it all.

You continued, your voice thick with emotion. "I panicked, Lando. I thought this would ruin everything, for you, for the team. But all I see is broken trust and a pain I caused the man I…" Your voice broke, a sob escaping your lips.

Lando watched you silently, his initial anger replaced by a flicker of understanding. He took a slow step towards you, his expression unreadable.

Then, to your surprise, he pulled you into a tight embrace. You buried your face in his shoulder, your tears soaking into his shirt.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "It's okay. You love him, I get it."

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours. "Just… promise you'll take care of each other. And promise me you won't keep things from me again."

A choked laugh escaped your lips. "I promise, Lando. I promise everything."

Suddenly, you felt a warm presence behind you. A tear slipped down your cheek as you turned to see Carlos standing there, his eyes red-rimmed, a tear tracing a similar path down his own face.

He didn't say a word. He simply walked towards you and pulled you into his arms, his embrace a silent promise. You buried your face in his chest, tears streaming down as the weight of the last few hours lifted.

Lando stepped back, a small smile playing on his lips. He watched for a moment, his heart heavy but strangely at peace. "Alright, lovebirds," he said, his voice gruff. "Let's not turn this balcony into a waterfall."

You both pulled away slightly, but Carlos kept his arm wrapped around you, his touch a warm anchor. You looked up at him, his eyes glistening.

"Thank you, Lando," Carlos said, his voice thick with emotion.

"Just don't break her heart," Lando warned, a hint of his usual playful banter returning. "She's the only sister I've got."

Carlos nodded solemnly, his gaze fixed on you. "I won't," he vowed, his voice a husky whisper.

And you, nestled in Carlos's embrace, knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you wouldn't face them alone. You had love, forgiveness, and a newfound understanding – a foundation strong enough to weather any storm.

[luxxid]

dumbification w scara?? <33

"𝐒𝐋𝐔𝐓 𝟒 𝐔!"

his fingers mauled your messy cunt at an inhumane pace, his smirk grew wider as he caught sight of your contorted face, and his thrusts increased in intensity, intensifying the pleasure and pain as you succumbed to his domination. his fingers expertly moved in and out of your body, pushing and pulling in a rhythm that seemed to bring you closer and closer to the edge. His skillful fingering brought pleasure and pain in equal measure, and you felt yourself accepting his power and control.

"hah, such a dirty bitch for me." he degraded while he scratched your walls with his sharp fingernails filling you with masochism. you ached for his touch, savoring the pain of his domination as much as the pleasure his skillful fingering provided. his words and actions caused a rush of adrenaline to course through your veins, heightening your senses and intensifying the pleasure and pain of his touch.

electric shocks were sent to your poor, little pussy every time you squirmed or tugged on his hair without his permission. his strict control over you was further underscored when he made it clear that any disobedience would result in further painful punishment. his dominance was clear - there was no room for disobedience and no way to escape his punishing grip.

as the pain and pleasure intensified, you felt yourself growing closer and closer to the edge. his words, his touch, the electric shocks all driving. unbeknownst to you, your lover had other plans for you. you should have known better, especially since it was scaramouche we were talking about. with each passing moment, you felt your resistance fading away and your desire rising even higher. you were in the grasp of something larger than yourself, and it was both terrifying and exhilarating.

scaramouche however, with a mischievous glint in his eye, slowly pulled away, leaving you just a whisper away from the sweet release of pleasure, he had been edging you closer and closer to your climax, teasing you with the promise of pleasure, only to pull away at the last second. with each tantalizing withdrawal, you felt your anticipation grow, until you were nearly begging for the satisfaction you craved. with a smirk, he leaned in and whispered "I'm the one in control here," sending shivers down your spine. you knew he meant it, and it only made you crave his touch even more.

"shcara! please!" you whined like a brat, your fingers combed through his hair roughly as you pulled on it. it wasn't fair, you had been so good to him, and this is what he rewards you with. he laughed, his hands pinned you down by your hips, "you want it, you have to wait," he said, his voice low and husky in your ears as he teased you, edging you closer and closer to the edge.

his lip twitched as he chuckled, his grip tightening as you squirmed underneath him. you could feel your heart rate rise and a heat start to swell inside you, and you knew that if you waited just a few more seconds, you'd get what you desired. his gaze locked with yours and a spark of electricity seemed to pass between you, sending a thrill through your body that you could not ignore.

"earn it slut," his eyes were demanding and passionate, and you could feel the same intensity radiating from his body. his gaze ignited a fire within you that you had never felt before, and you could tell that he felt the same way. you wanted to give in to the passion, but you wanted to make sure that it was something that was earned, not given away. you wanted to savor the moment, and you knew that no matter what happened, this would be a moment that you would always remember.

[niriaveil]

thinking about the trope, "person A fell first, but person B fell harder" and applying it to my da ships

jessamine/alistair: i think alistair fell first (jessamine was a stable rock for him to lean on, she had no issue taking charge and control of where they went, had no qualms about being the one to speak to everyone when needed; but mostly, she gave him space - and time - to grieve. she was cold and angry, but she never was that way to alistair; exasperated at times, yes, but always gentle with him. it did things to his brain.) but jessamine definitely fell harder (it was the damned rose, of all things. his shy smile, the pink on his cheeks and ears; the way he said "something beautiful" as he stared at her. jessamine was always used to superficial love, surface love - had to be aware of it as a cousland and scouting out potential suitors - but the genuine way he talks to her, the way he takes her hand and cups it around the rose. she realizes how badly she wanted this, the real love.)

mercedes/fenris: this one is definitely harder. i think mercedes fell first (unknowingly, of course, until she caught herself listening for fenris specifically in the hanged man; always finding herself smiling or laughing at his humor, catching herself glancing at him, catching his profile in the candlelight and going, "oh no.") but fenris definitely fell harder (after much inner debate, monologue, and introspection. she's a mage, of course. can you blame him for being wary, for guarding himself against her? mercedes is nice but mages always act nice and he'll not fall for a scheme again, not when he finally has his freedom. so he stays wary over the years, until he finally realizes that her kindness is genuine, that despite all his accusations in the beginning, she stands besides him because she wants to, and the realization that he has this unwavering support is... exhilarating and terrifying, in equal measure.)

relihn/dorian: oh, easy. relihn fell first, head over heels. he's not immune to suave, charismatic men - let alone one who boasts so proudly of helping invent TIME MAGIC. dorian is smart, he's charismatic, he's funny, and relihn loves his wit. (don't mind the weeks where relihn struggles with his realization that, oh yes, he does indeed truly only love men - a horrifying thing to accept when you're expected to marry a lovely woman for your noble name. but he realizes that he cares more for his happiness than a fake marriage with a woman he couldn't care for, so he falls easily.) dorian... takes a while longer, but he isn't immune either to relihn's sarcastic nature, his do-good attitude, and his stupid self-sacrificial tendencies that will only end up breaking his heart, sooner or later. but dammit. he's always had a soft spot for the heroes, hasn't he?

[mathlann]

7 and 10 for Casimira?

From this ask meme!

7. Was there a defining moment in their life that influenced their Conviction?

Not really! Cas' particular split of Iconoclast/Heretic mainly comes from being from a planet that is a hotbed of Imperial hypocrisy. Particularly, the combination of her being part of the native culture of Iocanthos in general and growing up in a band where their founder/greatest hero was both Vervai/Planetary Governor for years and an open Heretic kind of closed off any chance that she would be anything close to genuinely pious. So long as her and her peoples' needs are (mostly) met, her taxes (or equivalent) are paid on time, and she's not currently morphing into a mutated flesh bag, all else is up for negotiation and she carries that philosophy with her when she becomes Rogue Trader.

10. How do they feel about becoming Rogue Trader? How easily do they take to being the head of the von Valancius dynasty?

It's both exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. On the one hand, going from "backwater barbarian woman whose life depends on a rare flower slaughter-harvest going well" to "one of the most powerful people in the Imperium" feels great because all of a sudden she'll never want for anything in her life. She gets to boss around fancy Imperium nobles and they have to do what she says and it doesn't matter if they think she's a hick because she can like, kill them, if she wants. On the other hand, she got ripped away from her family and thrown into space, had her face practically remade to look presentable for a woman's she's never heard of, only for that lady to die and for Cas to inherit her interstellar Protectorate all within like, a week. So there's a lot of strain in her early period as Rogue Trader because she's grieving, space is scary, she doesn't much like anyone here and everyone is yelling at her about something. (Not so) surprisingly, the Lower Deckers/People of Footfall/the Poor are the first people to warm up to her and her decisions around them is what builds her internal sense of competency as Rogue Trader.

[thesokovianaccords]

like thread through a needle - a preview

#steggyweek22 - day six (very belated) - multiverse/what if?

it’s the return of the peggy!cap fic...sort of...a preview of it, anyway

will I ever finish this? somewhere in the multiverse probably

I found this snippet as I was organising my files and had to add it back in immediately - there are so many little bits and pieces floating around of this fic that will be turned into a cohesive narrative. someday.

“I think it’s my turn to get some answers, don’t you?”

“You’ve been asleep, Agent Carter. For almost seventy years.”

“I worked that out for myself, thank you very much. I do still know how to read a newspaper. How about you tell me who you are, how I got here, and what—”

“Ma’am, are you gonna be okay?”

“Sorry, yes. It’s just, the last time I was here, this was a dance hall. I, uh—I had a date.”

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

“They used to hold concerts here, you know.”

Peggy’s phone slips through her fingers at the unexpected voice over her shoulder, clattering down six or seven concrete steps before coming to a stop. She swears, shifting to retrieve it, but before she can move, a tall, blond blur skids past her. 

“You’re ridiculous.”

Steve grins up at her. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I figured you heard me coming.” 

“That’s a terrible excuse, darling. Especially if you broke my phone.” 

He bounds up the steps and slides in next to her, pressing a kiss to her temple as he wraps an arm around her shoulders. “Nope. Still good as new.”

“Good.” Peggy relaxes into his side, her head falling to his collarbone. “Tony would never let me hear the end of it if I broke another one.”

Steve snorts and slips the phone into her pocket. “What’s your tally?”

“Seven. I threw my last one at a senator--who completely deserved it, mind you—but Tony threatened to cut me off phone access. And I’ve finally gotten used to this bloody thing. I still don’t understand how on Earth you get anything done with yours.” 

“It’s very user-intuitive,” Steve retorts without much energy, the old argument familiar between them. “Are you okay? I think this is the first time I’ve snuck up on you. Ever. Like, even before the serum.”

“Avenger business, yet again,” Peggy says, wincing at the reminder. “We made very little progress with the Security Council, and there are rumors of a shake-up at State. Everyone is on edge. No one was in a conciliatory mood, so Tony and I basically sat there to be yelled at while everyone else tried and failed to work their contacts for support and information. Plus, I really hate being in New York. Tony and Pepper always try to make us feel welcome at the Tower when we’re there, and it was good to see everyone, but it’s—well, it’s not my city. I’m not sure how else to explain it.”

“Well, you spent the whole time in Manhattan. Of course you were miserable.” 

Peggy turns in his arms to catch Steve’s adorably disgruntled expression. “You haven’t lived in Brooklyn for over fifty years.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” he says, raising his eyebrows. 

“Brooklyn was never invaded by aliens, so I suppose you have a point in your favor there.” 

“But it’s still New York.” 

“But it’s still New York.” Peggy threads her fingers through his free hand with a slight smile. “I’ve lived a lot of places, Steve. And some of them have been better than others, but I still feel like I haven’t found home yet.”

“I know you’ll figure it out, Peggy,” Steve says, brushing his lips across her knuckles. “We’ll figure it out.”

Peggy bites her lip at the conviction in his tone, the absolute confidence he has in her. It has been a long time since someone has had unshakeable, unconditional faith in her—not because she carries the shield or wears the star-spangled uniform, but because she is Peggy Carter. It is exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure, and she has missed it more than she knows how to express to him.

She squeezes his hand and, as the murky waters of the Potomac meander along in front of them, she blurts out, “I like the Capitol.” She winces as soon as the words left her mouth. Not at all what she has meant to say.

“What?” Peggy looks over to see him staring at her, bewildered at her non-sequitur. 

She clears her throat and glares at the river, as if it can give her the words she is looking for if she can only bend it to her will. “I—I like the Capitol, is what I said. I like all of it, actually. The Capitol, the White House, the Lincoln Memorial. These steps we’re sitting on. You know, I actually attended one of those Sunset Symphonies here when we came to Washington for meetings. I sat two steps down, right on the edge over there, as the orchestra played. This was the original Watergate, as a matter of fact - the complex is named after these steps.”

“The better Watergate, too,” he sighs. “Sorry, Peg, but I don’t get it.”

Peggy purses her lips in thought. “When I was catching up on the world—on everything I missed—they told me about the Watergate affair, of course. And my first thought at seeing the name was not President Nixon, or the scandal, or the cover up, or everything that came after. Instead, I saw the National Symphony Orchestra playing Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. It was comforting, in a way. I was learning about a particularly dark period in American history and yet there it was—something familiar, something I knew. And a good memory, even.” She clings tighter to his hand in hers, squeezing his fingers twice. “I don’t have many of those touchstones these days, my darling. I can’t help but hold them close when I find them.”

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

@captaincarter: I have been reliably informed that many of you would be interested in more information about my experiences with the Howling Commandos. 

@captaincarter: So I’m excited to announce that I’m partnering with the @Smithsonian and @HBO to live-tweet their upcoming docuseries “Howling Commandos”

@captaincarter: You can tune in beginning this Friday at 9:00pm and follow along using the hashtag #HowlingCommandosHBO - join me, won’t you?

[terrence-silver]

Can you do a lil list of situations and the types of kisses Terry gives in those? Kinda what you did with the pet names ♡

― The kiss of hate; Okay, ever watched The Godfather when Michael Corleone plants the Kiss of Death on Fredo? Yeah, well, that. As I always mentioned, skewed social conventions aside and the fact he lacks a healthy sense of personal space, in the heat of intimidation, loathing, anger, gleefulness and wrath, Terry might just grab an opponent, hands on either side of their face, be it a business rival, a competitor, a judge who tried to indicate him or merely someone he doesn't particularly like, and he'll just forcefully, roughly yank them to him and plant one them. It is a peak way of saying, I despise you and I've won, now go fuck yourself. You can't do anything about it, same way you can't do anything about the kiss.

― The kiss of seduction; Whenever it comes in handy, whenever someone needs to be swayed for whatever purpose, this kind of kiss comes into play, and Terry has used it as a weapon, as a way to persuade people into things, get them doing things they otherwise wouldn't do, get them agreeing to things that otherwise aren't beneficial to them, manipulate them, distract them, put them off balance, shake their resolve or simply get them into bed if he feels like it. Literally, whatever. And no feelings need to be involved whatsoever when he does it. It is infinitely fascinating the amount of things people are willing to agree to if you merely get a bit physical with them. Consider it a form of bribery.

― The kiss of friendship; John undoubtedly received a great, great, great many of these. On the cheek. On the forehead. On the mouth. Kick pecks? Terry's profoundly, overtly affectionate and touchy-feely with those he cares about and a kiss doesn't always have to be sexual? Or does it? A kiss is just a kiss. John, being the gruff, more conventional one could've begrudgingly shrugged these off as "Terry, c'mon stop, don't be ridiculous." meanwhile, the likes of Margaret would roll their eyes back in the 80's and retorted with a prompt "Mr. Silver, we're here to work. So, I implore you ---" This kiss is warm, playful, teasing, almost childlike in nature, possibly followed by a hearty laugh, giggle or cackle on Terry's behalf.

― The fake kiss; Terry deals with a lot of people he doesn't like or even care for even when he pretends he does. Fake friends. Fake associates. A fake social circle. Fake relationships. You name it. There's a whole bunch of masks he wears and has worn all through life with various goals in mind so it stands to reason a whole bunch of fake tactical affection will be involved. Fake, performative tactical affection he's in charge and control of when it needs to be applied to keep his target recipient and so they'd have the incentive to keep serving their purpose until he needs them. It is a detached, strategic thing and it is entirely possible that the kiss of hate involves more passion and emotion then the fake kiss.

― The kiss of pain; Terry's a dyed-in-the-bone sadist, and there's infinite ways to torture and assault people and straight-up biting into someone's mouth is one of those. This one is about his sexual gratification through suffering as much as it is daunting, frightening and even humiliating your mark in the case consent is lacking or extremely dubious. It is about having power over them. It is about attacking. He gets a kick out of seeing someone, bleeding lip, torn flesh, eyes riddled with tears, terrified for their life like they just encountered a rabid, wild dog that might just maul them. It is in equal measure funny, exhilarating and arousing to him. Especially when people don't expect it. It's that element of surprise.

― The kiss of love; The rarest of all kisses Terry could possibly give and he'd be most hesitant with this one if he truly cared for someone, because this kiss is vulnerable, exposing, honest, genuine --- regardless if it is rough or gentle. This kiss signifies a weakness. This is also the kiss a beloved one would wait for the longest and once it happens, it is peak intimacy for Terry, despite his propensity for debauchery. It is something almost life-changing. He might've never even had one of these in his life, so he'd thread with extreme caution. To him, it is the equivalent of an animal baring its neck to somebody and once he bares his neck, there's no going back. That person is his. They belong to him, through thick and thin. They've been claimed.

[amikye]

It’s Pride month and since I’m on my way to a parade, I might as well write something about my lgbtqia+ journey.

When I was in high school, I learned about what all the aforementioned letters stood for & what they meant. Now, I say this, but it was the late 2000’s/ early 2010’s, so the way things were explained wasn’t the most illuminating. At this point, I figured that I was either straight or bisexual, as I had had a few crushes on boys, but wouldn’t mind being in a relationship with girls either. Looking back, I realize that the majority of these “crushes” were more squishes or gender envy. They happened in elementary and middle school. I didn’t have a crush all throughout high school. Yep. For four years, as most of my peers were going around talking about who was cute/ who they’d date, my answer was consistently that I wasn’t interested in anyone.

This continued in college, until I met someone who I immediately felt with my entire body that he was a good person. Once again looking back, it was definitely a squish, but at the time, I just knew that I wanted to be really close friends with him (the literal definition of a squish…). He was also in a relationship, which helped cause it made him unattainable romantically, but still available for friendship. And interestingly enough, the more I got to know him, the more I realized that while we had some interests in common, we weren’t really that compatible.

My second year of university, one of my friends mentioned off-handedly that she had explained to someone who asked her out that she was Demi-sexual and thus not likely to be attracted to him for at least a while. This piqued my interest, but only very briefly, as the conversation moved on.

Later that year, around the beginning of the second semester, I came across a Buzzfeed video that was called something along the lines of “Asexuals Answer Your Questions”. As I watched it, I began to realize that I related to a lot of the things they were saying. This led me to a rabbit hole of research, going through AVEN discussion boards, YouTube, and more. And everything I found kept making more and more sense to me.

It was exhilarating and terrifying in equal measurements. I finally had a word to explain why I was never interested in what the majority of my peers seemed to care about. It wasn’t that I had thought I was broken, as I know many aces do before they discovery asexuality. It was just that I didn’t understand why everyone else cared so much about hook-up culture. And now that I had this explanation, I wanted to scream it to the rooftops. At the same time, the thought of actually telling anyone scared the heck out of me.

Fast-forward to today and while I’m not out to everyone in my life, I also don’t try to hide my sexuality (or rather lack thereof). It’s something that’s always been a part of me and is an intrinsic part of who I am. I’ve had a fair share of aphobia, but the people who truly matter to me don’t care, which is what’s important. I’m in a qpr with one of my best friends and am overall mostly satisfied with where I am in life.

There’s more to my identity in terms of how I fit into the lgbtqia+ community, but my asexuality is the most important aspect of that part of my personality to me. I might write another post/ two on those other aspects another time. For now, happy Pride!

[laurensprentiss]

Jouska [Hotch x Reader]

Chapter 17:

Warnings: None, really. Mentions of painkillers, more fluff. Emily Easter egg. HUGE plot twist at the end... this is the beginning of the end for these two. Sorry!

———

Virginian weather is notoriously unpredictable.

It’s why you get stuck in a downpour by the time you get back to your apartment. Hotch opens the car door for you and as you attempt to run inside, he pulls you in close by your arms, huddling close to you as the rain hits your skin.

You shriek over the sound of the thunder. “What are you doing?! It’s pouring down, let’s go!” You tell him, fighting to keep your eyes open.

“Do you remember the day we moved you back into your apartment?” He asks over the sound of rain. You pull away, attempting to go inside but he holds you close. “Do you remember?”

“Yeah, why?”

“It was raining like this on that day, too. Do you remember?”

You laugh. “Yes! Can we go inside now?”

His eyes soften. “I remember looking down at you from that window,” he points upstairs. “And thinking you were so beautiful. I knew even then that you were going to be a massive part of my life.”

You blink at him through the rain, heart warming at his sincere words.

He wipes the water from your cheeks and pulls you in for a kiss, and as soon as his lips touch yours, you forget all about the way your clothes stick to your skin and how uncomfortably cold you are. He ignites more than enough warmth within you. His kisses are slow, deliberate, and you can’t help but reach for his shoulders to keep you steady.

His forehead touches yours when he breaks the kiss.

“What was that for?” You ask.

Because I love you.

He shrugs. “What? I can’t kiss my girl?”

Your breath hitches.

His girl?

The tone in his voice makes your heart flutter. Makes it easy to see yourself falling even deeper for him, to see something worth having with him. You know in your soul that this moment, here and now, is one you’ll carry for the rest of your life.

———

He promises he’ll call you from work as he leaves, finding it impossible to tear himself away from you.

His forehead rests against yours and he holds you flush to him, arms around your waist when he mumbles, “I wish I didn’t have to work. But Barnes says he needs to discuss something with me.”

He’s still reeling from his earlier realisation, the prospect of telling you just how much he feels for you is terrifying and exhilarating in equal measures.

Because maybe, just maybe, you feel the same.

You interrupt his thoughts. “It’s okay, really! I have to go see Em anyway, she got discharged today so I thought I’d bring her some lunch.”

“Sure?”

“I’m sure.” You reply.

He hums, snaking his arms around your waist. “Tomorrow night,” He begins, kissing your neck. “I am going to take you on a real date.”

“Oh yeah?” You reply, wrapping your arms around his neck, carding your fingers through the hair on the back of his head.

“Mhm. 8pm.” He continues, travelling up towards your earlobe. “Flowers, nice restaurant, dinner, drinks. The works.”

“And why would you do that?” You chuckle.

Because he’s fast coming to realize that he can’t not tell you how he feels anymore.

He allows himself the grace of knowing that maybe you’ll need more time to reciprocate the extent of his feelings, but he’s okay with that. As long as he gets to say the words that have been heavy on his chest for a long time.

“Because you deserve nothing but the best. This feels special.” It feels like the beginning of the rest of his life, he thinks. “I wanna do this right.”

Your heart flutters. “Then let’s do this right.” You reply with a small smile.

You tilt his head to capture his lips between yours, his lips soft and warm, the two of you seemingly falling into a quick rhythm. His hands travel down your back to grab a handful of your ass as he deepens the kiss, his tongue licking into your mouth.

You already know where this is going with the telltale pool of warmth in your belly. He swallows your whimpers as you push him off you gently, the both of you panting a little for breath.

He chuckles breathlessly against your lips, eyes still closed. “I’m gonna go before-”

“-Yeah.”

The door is almost closed behind him before he pulls you back to him, planting another tender kiss against your lips before taking off.

You’re left bewildered, the ghost touch of his lips on yours still lingering. You giggle to yourself, hating the noise you just made but you can’t even find it in you to care.

You pack up lunch into a Tupperware, stop off at a french bakery to pick up some fresh bread and Emily’s favourite macarons before making the drive to Ambassador Prentiss’ estate.

You enter through the North entrance, bidding a quick hello to Tom, the on duty guard. You knock on Emily’s door, entering anyway when there’s no reply. There’s wincing coming from her bathroom so you drop the bags on the ottoman beside her bed and rush in to where she’s trying to adjust her sling.

“Here, let me help.” You pull the strap taught against her.

She sighs in relief. “Thanks. I just couldn’t reach it.”

“How do you feel?” You ask, leading her to sit on her bed. Her bruises are still angry and blue, but the split lip seems to be healing and her eye’s opening a little better now.

“Been better. The painkillers are wearing off though, stuff’s good.” She laments.

“Yeah, tell me about it.” You mutter, handing her a sandwich and some soup once she’s situated. Her face lights up when she sees the macarons you put on her vanity. “You take your other meds?”

“No.”

You look around her bedroom for the bottles when she motions over to her nightstand. “How about you? How do you feel?” She asks, taking the pills and some water from you.

“Still sore, I guess.” You take a seat opposite her on her bed, crossing your legs on her comforter. “These bruises aren’t going away though.” You peer at yourself through the mirror, tracing the handprints on your neck.

She watches you expectantly.

“...What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

She takes a bite of her sandwich with her good hand, and mumbles through her food, “I’m sorry, I guess I just don’t know why you’re traipsing through here acting like you didn't just sleep with your bodyguard.”

You flinch. “Lower your voice! If your mother hears, I swear to God…”

“She’s in the South wing - in her office. Spill.”

“Spill what? Where do I start?”

“Oh shut up, I can tell you’re dying to tell me! How did it happen?”

You concede and shuffle in closer, “Well. He dropped me off home and I guess we were both just waiting for the other to say something - but neither of us did.”

“So how did you end up-”

“Don’t interrupt.” She holds her hands up defensively. “He hugged me goodbye and left but I caught him as he was leaving in the hallway. I told him I didn’t want him to leave.”

She clutches her chest. “Then what?”

“I don’t know... next thing I know he’s kissing me and… well, you know the rest.” You tell her coyly.

She narrows her eyes. “How was he?”

“Honestly?” She nods excitedly. “Amazing.” You breathe. “Literally the best I’ve ever had, you don’t understand Em, his hands?”

Her eyes widen in glee. “Stop it!”

You continue talking while you eat lunch together, realising it’s the first time you’ve talked without a looming threat since she returned from Rome. You feel the lightest you’ve felt in a long time, hopeful even.

Your mind wanders to Hotch.

Being in his arms feels safe, it always has. From the day you met, he’s been by your side, been the person who had your back through the worst year of your life.

And now you had him.

You actually had him.

Emily notices the faraway, blissful look on your face. Thinks she hasn’t ever seen you like this. You were kidnapped almost a week ago and she almost died but you still look the happiest she’s seen you in years.

Her room telephone rings then, and when she sees the number, she rolls her eyes. “Yes Mother?” She asks bluntly. “No, Mother, I haven’t. We’re having lunch... Yes she’s here.” Your ears perk up. “... No, I haven’t asked her yet… Yes! Okay fine, I will. Goodbye.”

Your ears perk up, “What do you need to ask me?”

She sighs. “Well… Mother has an assignment in Rome. She’s flying out tomorrow morning - and I’m going with her.”

Your heart sinks. “Do you have to go? It’s so nice having you back, I thought maybe you’d stick around for a while.”

“I don’t have to go. But I want to.” She winces as she climbs on top of her bed again. “Since the accident, she’s been a lot less ‘Ambassador Prentiss’ and a lot more ‘Mom.’ I think she may want to make up for the last time and maybe it’ll be different now.”

“Hey.” You grab her hand to stop her picking her cuticles raw. “What happened in Rome? I was busy with school and everything but I remember things were never really the same after that.”

She sighs. “Another day. I promise. But I think I’d like to recuperate there, maybe travel for a couple of months before I figure out my next steps.” You see the hope in her eyes. “Mother and I would love it if you joined us - that’s what I needed to ask.”

“Wow.” You breathe. “That’s a lot to take in. I’m happy for you and your mom, I mean I’m sorry it took a near-death accident, but I’m happy for you.” She scoffs as you squeeze her hand. “And I’d love to come with you, I really would. I loved Italy as a child but - I think I have some things to work out here.”

She grins. “Yeah? Like what?”

“Like a date tomorrow night.”

“That’s amazing, love. I’m happy for you, you know? You deserve this.” She cradles your face. “But if you do change your mind, we’re flying out of this airfield at 9am.” She scribbles some details on a notepad and tucks the paper into your pocket. “Just in case.”

———

“Hey, sweetheart, sorry I didn’t call. Can you meet me at my place in an hour? I have some great news.” You peer at your phone, the screen obscured by the fast emerging sunlight after the earlier thunderstorm.

You place a hand over the screen to block some light out when a hand taps you on the shoulder.

It’s base instinct at this point, a year-long stalker will do that to you, but you gasp and drop your phone behind you. Before you’ve had a chance to retrieve it, a woman outstretches her hand with your phone in it.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you,” the blonde explains defensively. You get a better look at her. She looks wide-eyed and a little skittish, but she seems nice enough.

“That’s alright - thanks.” You reply, taking your phone from her. “Do I know you?”

She wrings her hands nervously. “No, I don’t think so. But I know you, I saw you on the news and in the papers. I was wondering if we could talk.”

You pull your bag further up your shoulders. “What are you? A reporter or something?”

“No! No, no. I’m actually - you know Aaron right?”

You frown. “Yeah?”

She stumbles over her words like she’s unsure of what to say. She takes a moment and you can see the gears turning in her head as she formulates the words in her head.

“I’m Haley.”

———

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[rainboq]

Purity Through a Prism

Chapter 30: Spelling it out

Preview: All four of her friends just kind of look at her. She could probably hear a pin drop if it wasn’t for the clack clack clack of Alice drinking from her bottle.

Dana glances over at Stella, the two sharing a guilty look as Kate’s hands worry at the little metal cross like it’s the only thing still tethering her world. Just saying it aloud had been terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure, and she felt so much lighter for having gotten it all off of her chest. Even if Chloe is no doubt furious with her, at least her friends can talk to her about all the insane thoughts she’s been having and all the insane things that have happened.

“Kate…” Dana starts, cautiously.

“Everyone thinks you two are dating already,” Alyssa states flatly.

The air is practically driven from her lungs as Kate just gapes at Alyssa, struggling to find any words. “W-what?”

“We, um, thought you were. Dating, that is,” Stella meekly admits as she stares at her shoes. “And that you just weren’t ready to tell us yet.”

“What?!” Kate repeats, a little louder, trying not to panic. Oh no, what if this somehow gets to my parents? “Oh my Lord, what? Is that really what people have been saying about me?”

“It was mostly the Vortex Club,” Jasmine adds, “I don’t know how many people took them seriously, but I know I had my suspicions.”

“W-what? What suspicions?”

Dana sighs, rubbing her temples for a minute before giving Kate a sympathetic look. “I actually kinda called her out on this at your birthday party and she told me nothing was going on, but it was kinda hard to believe.”

Jasmine moves across the room a bit to put a reassuring hand on Kate’s shoulder. “You just… get so happy every time you’re even talking about her.”

“And you’re constantly spending time together, alone,” Alyssa contributes, still somehow deadpan. “I mean you even got her to drive you around for Meals on Wheels, and she let you drive her truck.”

“And like,” Stella jumps in, still staring at the floor, “You just looked like you were super obviously crushing on her. I saw you two at the party: when you came in, you were basically clinging to her arm, and when you were dancing, you were practically grinding on her. We all just assumed there was something going on.”

“And you just admitted that you’re crushing on her like crazy,” Dana finishes, “Even if you didn’t really know it yet.”

(x)

[riversofmars]

Happy December 18th! Can't believe it's just one week till Christmas!

All I Want For Christmas (18/25)

“Liv, are you okay?” Helen asked softly and touched her hand to Liv’s arm when she noticed the frown of confusion on her friend’s face and how she had to steady herself against the mantle piece beside her.

“I’ve… suddenly come over quite dizzy…” Liv answered weakly and shook her head to clear it. The warmth of Helen’s hand on her arm drew her focus.

“Too much wine?” Helen retorted, amused and Liv chuckled apologetically:

“I’m alright, really, just… feel like I’m forgetting something… probably doesn’t matter…” She lost her train of thought when Helen ran her fingertips down her arm.

“Do you want to, maybe…“ Liv looked over to her, speaking before she could think better of it. It wasn’t exactly the most eloquent invitation to dance but judging by the way Helen’s eyebrows shot up, she seemed to understand nonetheless.

“Sure, why not.” Her surprised expression turned to a smile so bright that for a moment, her words didn’t even sink in for Liv.

“I mean, everyone else is…“ she carried on, blushing as she did so, but Helen interrupted her by taking her hand.

“I already said yes,“ she chuckled softly and pulled Liv along with her onto the dance floor.

“Are you leading or am I?“ The med-tech asked nervously as they came to stand in front of each other.

“Depends… are you a good dancer?“ Helen teased and Liv huffed:

“Well, we’re about to find out.“ She raised their intertwined hands up and placed her other hand on Helen’s hip, trying her best not to be too self-conscious about her actions. “I’ve danced with women before so how about I lead?“ She suggested, as boldly and confidently as she could manage.

“What makes you think I haven’t?“ Helen retorted playfully as she stepped a little closer and put her hand to Liv’s shoulder.

“I, uh…“ The med-tech stuttered, growing nervous and jealous at the idea of Helen dancing with another woman. She scolded herself in the privacy of her own mind. She had no claim to her. If she wanted to dance with another woman, she was more than entitled to.

“I’m joking, that would have landed me in jail in all likelihood,” Helen retorted softly, with no small measure of regret in her eyes and instantly, Liv felt bad for her jealous thoughts.

“I’m sorry…“ She mumbled.

“It’s okay,“ the linguist smiled, seemingly far more concerned with the here and now. “You lead,“ she nodded encouragingly so Liv didn’t waste any more time. Helen moved backwards and Liv marveled at the ease and grace with which she fell into the rhythm of the music.

“My dad only ever taught me the basics so I wouldn’t embarrass myself at graduation,” Liv explained awkwardly, immediately feeling inadequate but Helen didn’t seem to care, if anything, she was eager to pull her along. Liv moved her hand to her back as they stepped closer together, waltzing to the soft tunes.

Helen rested her face against her head, nuzzling into her soft hair and the med-tech wondered if this, perhaps, was the right time to bring up how she felt about her. She had started this holiday off assuming her affections were entirely one-sided but now she just wasn’t sure anymore. There had been too many instances - lovely, enchanting moments - that forced her to rethink everything she had thought she knew about their relationship. It was exhilarating, the very thought made her feel hot, giddy and delirious, but it terrified her in equal measure. Doubts remained. Doubts that tied her tongue for fear of making a mistake, getting it wrong, and messing up the wonderful friendship they had. A friendship that allowed for hand holding and slow-dancing, as it seemed. Helen relaxed into her, her hand long since moved from her shoulder to her neck and was idly running through her hair at the back of it.

“Liv…” Helen’s breath brushed against her cheek as she uttered her name and a shiver ran down Liv’s spine. The med-tech closed her eyes and tightened her grip around her. She didn’t want this moment to end, not for anything, not even for Helen’s soft interruption. She would happily exist in this moment forever, as the world shrunk to the feeling of Helen’s body against hers, her hand in her hair and warm breath against her neck.

“Woah!“ A voice exclaimed, one that most of them had heard at one point or another, whether they realised it or not. There was a snap of electricity, like a thunderclap, and everyone whirled around to see a blonde woman standing in the middle of the dance floor. She shook out her shoulder-length hair and pale blue coat, checked on her limbs and touched her hands to her face. A wide grin spread across her face. “Okay, yes, brilliant, I made it!“ She grinned excitedly. “Hello all!“ She looked around the room into confused, stunned faces.

“What-” Helen blinked, stunned, while Liv struggled with her disappointment from yet another missed opportunity.

“It’s you, from the mirror!“ The Doctor exclaimed as he recognised her.

“Sorry, no time for explanations, you’re all in terrible danger!“ The blonde countered before any of them could say anything else. “You mustn’t forget, you have to get out of here!”

There was another thunderstroke, overwhelming their mind and senses.

“Helen, you okay?“ Liv grabbed hold of Helen who sunk against her.

“Yeah, sorry, just took a funny turn…“ The linguist mumbled as she caught herself, trying to shake off the dizziness. Liv realised that she didn’t feel much better, she felt nauseous and the beginnings of a headache pinched behind her brow.

“River, where’re our guests?“ The Doctor asked, drawing their attention, and they all looked around.

“What are you talking about, they’re right-“ River started but stopped when she realised it was just the four of them. They remained in the ballroom, dressed up and standing in pairs, but all the other guests had disappeared.

“Amy? Rory?“ River called out, unsettled. “Vastra, Jenny, Strax, anyone?“ She looked around but there was nothing, no trace of them and no response.

“What about the blonde woman?“ Liv asked, equally as confused.

“What woman?“ River retorted.

“I’ve seen her before, in my mirror…“ The Doctor didn’t know what to make of it, his mind was swimming, conflicting thoughts and ideas battling for dominance but wrapped in a silky blanket of Christmas comforts.

“And I heard her voice before, in the corridor when I was coming to find you,” Helen recalled, desperately trying to hang on to the memory that was already blurring.

“And the fountain, when we were skating, someone was trying to break through the ice, what if…” Liv couldn’t finish the thought, it was slipping away.

“Something is going on here, you can’t deny that any longer,” the Doctor focused on River who stared into the space where only moments ago, her family and friends had been.

“I’m not denying anything. My guests just disappeared in the middle of a party!“ She snapped, more sharply than perhaps necessary but the Doctor didn’t mind, quite the contrary, at last they all seemed to have reached the same conclusion: Something bad was happening in this place.

Somewhere in the distance, the clocks rang midnight through the otherwise empty manor.

“Is that the time?“ Helen asked, confused.

“This is what happened earlier. We have been losing time, Liv and I, when we went investigating in the night and then, we ended up at mid-day,” the Doctor spoke hastily, he was beginning to realise that time was of the essence.

“Why didn’t you say anything before now?“ River frowned and Liv interjected:

“We did, at dinner, remember?”

“Oh yes, you did, didn’t you… I forgot as well… how did I… but it’s all slipping away again…” Helen found herself agreeing, unsettled.

“And then, once it’s gone, you just don’t think to mention it, you can’t,“ the Doctor carried on. “It’s like we keep forgetting about what’s going on. Every step we take towards a solution, we forget about it.“ He balled his fists in frustration as he tried to focus his mind on not only retaining the information but seeking a solution while they were present minded enough to do so. Already, he felt the soft orchestral Christmas tunes tearing into his mental defences. “Quickly, write it down!” He decided. This was not the time when he would come up with a solution, the memories were already slipping. They needed to give themselves a leg up on the next attempt. “It seems like our brain is making connections, subconsciously, so the memories aren’t gone, just hidden from us. Whenever something new happens, we remember other things… note down what you remember that’s odd, before it disappears from our minds completely again.“

“Have you ever experienced anything like this before?“ River asked as they looked around for something to write on.

“I have some ideas. It’s like things reset, put us back on track, on track for the Christmas we’re meant to be having. If this is a trap, it’s a quite pleasant one.“ They rushed into the adjourning drawing room for pens and paper as the Doctor kept talking: “It must be this place… a perfect island of Christmas that seems to take care of itself, how else do you explain the lack of servants?“ He started taking notes on a pad as River handed out writing utensils from a bureau.

“But to what end? I was the one that brought you here, I…“ River watched as the others started making notes of their experiences here that didn’t add up while she, herself, had nothing to add.

“Were you?“ The Doctor asked, looking up from his notes.

“Of course, I told you, I wanted to spend Christmas with you,” River retorted bewildered but he carried on:

“This version of me, though?“ He asked. “Wouldn’t you rather it was one of me that already knows and trusts you, that can give you the romance that you want and…“

“You were the one I last met…“ The professor replied slowly as she tried to make sense of his question. She struggled to think as suddenly, memories of decorating the Christmas tree flooded her mind.

“Right, okay, that’s a start, take that down, what is the last thing you remember doing before we got here?“ The Doctor pressed on and River blinked, confused:

“I don’t… take it down where?“

“On the piece of paper, write it down, we must try to keep on to our memories somehow,” the Doctor could tell her mind was slipping already and he pushed the pad and pen into her hand. River pressed her eyes shut, trying to gather her thoughts and as her world went dark, so did everything else around them.

[hope-to-hell]

A Possession, part three: Dissolution. August Walker x Henry Cavill. Warnings for the entire fic: possession, dubcon (possession-related; our hero never asked for this), mentions of past torture (prior to story events), some degradation, praise kink. Roughly 6k words altogether. Section heading titles largely pulled from whatever music I was listening to at the time. This is it: the last chapter. A little smut, a little angst. Nothing lasts. Part one is here, part two is here

—-

Shake, shake

—-

Somehow, impossibly, you make it more than a week without touching him. And somehow, you figure out a way to exist in the same space. Thank god for quarantine, at least, so you have an excuse to stay at home, to keep this weirdness out of the public eye.

Walker turns out to be a surprisingly competent cook, but hesitates when you ask what his favorite foods are. And despite everything, it’s so hard to shake the feeling of being a host, of providing for your guest, however uninvited he might be. So you make a grocery order and start in on the best dishes you know: pies and roast lamb, hamburgers, risotto, whatever comes to mind when you think of meals you’ve enjoyed. He eats them all dutifully, but it’s not until you hit upon rainbow trout in parchment that you get your first real sigh of pleasure. Huh. You would’ve pegged him for a red meat kind of guy.

And everything you do, everywhere you go, he’s there, watching. Considering. Ten feet away.

It’s like this. One evening he braces one hand against the wall of the shower and drops his head in a pose you know so well. You don’t mean to look, but Christ, he must want you to. Must, because he draws open the shower door to stare straight at you from under his sopping curls as he fists his cock. Must, because he kicks his legs apart to press hard behind his balls with his other hand. Must, because he hisses your name like a curse when he paints the bathroom floor white. And the whole time his eyes are locked on yours.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he says again, and somehow you find the voice to answer.

“Wouldn’t mind isn’t good enough. You’ve got to tell me you want it.” And you have the satisfaction of seeing August Walker poleaxed, however briefly. He hmms a little, thoughtfully, and brushes past you into the bedroom, water droplets shining on the curve of his ass. His gait hitches as he approaches the limits of separation, and you hurry to follow, clean enough to get by for another night but feeling filthier than you have any right to. And when you slide carefully under the covers, he inhales deeply, like he’s scenting you. He smiles, victorious, in the half-dark as you lie there with both hands fisted in the sheets just like you have for days, but now you know exactly what he looks like when he comes.

Fuck.

He escalates, because of course he does. He waits until you’re soaking up sunshine in the kitchen window, then presses in close to cage your body against the counter. He brushes scarred fingertips down the side of your face, and it’s like your mind has been ripped straight out of your body. You feel him touching you, and fuck. You feel him touching you. It’s the strangest sensation, touches doubling and echoing. Licking into his mouth and tasting your own tongue, pulling him in by the hips and feeling matching bruises rise on your own body. And from the way he surges against you, he must feel it too.

Remember. Your nerves are my nerves. You want me to say it? Here it is, directly from my mind to yours. I. Want. This.

This is the part of the movie where it fades to black, where the last thing the audience sees is the lovers, entwined, maybe a flash of light on a naked thigh. This is the part where the music swells, climaxes, spills into silence.

This is the part where the next scene is either a soft, affectionate embrace or a hasty exit from the bed, a quick redressing and an angsty downtempo tune, maybe a walk in the rain.

This is the part where he starts to rise, where you wrap your hand around his wrist and whisper, “stay.”

—-

Untethering

—-

It isn’t clear, at first, what’s happening. A little extra hair in the drain is easy to explain away; you’ve got two people sharing the shower now. Same with the bruising that appears on his arms, his back, his ribs, because for all he grips at you, you give back in equal measure. And if he takes a little longer in the shower than before, if he seems to spend an awfully long time just leaning back and letting the spray hit him, well, maybe he’s finally relaxing a little.

It’s days and days of rutting against one another, of watching in the mirror as he takes you apart. And he loves it, that grinding ache in his fingers as he presses them inside you. He loves it, and you know because you feel it; you feel an answering ache in your own hands and a twinge in your cock that’s almost but not quite unlike anything you’ve felt before (it’s close, so close, to the first time, when he was still just a voice in your head).

Somehow, it’s still a surprise when he shakes you awake and hisses, “Get inside me. Now.” And when you reach for him, a little hesitant because you’ve had each other in nearly every way except this, you taste something strange and metallic, chilly on your tongue. He’s anxious, desperate. The metallic taste increases in its intensity as he surges at your mouth, licking into you with savage competency.

“Are you—“ are you sure is what you want to say, but he’s pressing lube at you with one hand while trying to tear your sleep pants off with the other, and it feels like he’s got half a dozen hands roaming all around you, and it’s unfair because he knows exactly what this does to you, exactly how you respond to every touch. It’s overwhelming, and soon you lose that peculiar metallic taste in the static that sparks hot down your spine and right into where you swell and pulse with the sudden desperate need of him.

And you want to watch his face, watch those eyes shine in the darkness, want to rub your face against his as you open him but he’s turning away, over, hitching a knee under himself and reaching blindly back for your hand. “Now,” he grits out in a voice like the bottom of a dry well. And it’s too soon, has to be, before he’s demanding two and then three fingers and then “godfuckingdammit, that’s enough. Get in me already.”

And when you press into him it’s, fuck, for a moment your vision whites out and you are nowhere, hurling aimlessly through a great expense of nothing, and it’s simultaneously the most terrifying and exhilarating thing you’ve ever felt. Is it like this for him? Can’t be, he’s always so controlled, so precise. It’s impossible even to think like this,

I’ll think for you. Don’t worry, just act.

so you don’t think, and when you return to your body it’s to find yourself draped over him, clinging, rolling your hips like a ship in a storm. Desperation doubles back and builds on itself until you feel as though if you don’t come right now you will die. And you don’t want to die, but you also aren’t sure what the rules are, so you try to withdraw and that’s when his hand closes around your wrist, hard and tight and don’t you fucking dare.

And that’s it, that’s all it takes, his touch and his blessing, before you’re spilling inside him in long shivering pulses. And even then, even when he clenches so tight around you it’s like he’s pulling all the blood from your body, he doesn’t let you go.

You stay with him, in him, until you soften and slip free, and when you wrap an arm over his belly he lets you. He feels warm, as relaxed as he ever gets, and most of all relieved. “Better?” you ask, and in return he twists his neck, rolling his shoulders back till he can reach to kiss you. It’s soft, but almost mathematical in its precision. And he still tastes like metal.

—-

Waves and light (how bold I was)

—-

He’s stopped sleeping. In the night you reach for him and find the bed cold. He’s there, of course, ten feet away, staring out the window. He’s all hard muscle, luminous in the moonlight, a demigod or an avenging angel. He turns and tilts his head, and you can see his breath hang frosty in the air. You wake in the morning to find him still standing at the window, and for a split second you could swear the light passes right through him.

He’s stopped sleeping, and he hovers a little closer than he used to but he doesn’t touch, not until you sigh and tell him to “get over here. C’mon. I don’t have to touch you to know you’re worried about something.”

So you enclose him in the circle of your arms, bump your face against his scars to feel that little spark, that staticky sensation from nerve damage, to feed him the pleasure that touching him brings. You breathe softly, saying nothing, until he relaxes by degrees.

He smells like blood, but then again he always does. Chaos and death are embedded into every fiber of his being. If he were to shed his skin, to slither pink and naked into the world as a man reborn, maybe it would be different. But he is who he is, and you are who you are, although tangled like this it’s sometimes hard to tell the difference. One of you sparks a slow-burning arousal, the kind that takes hours to come to a head if it does at all, a slow soft yearning. You sigh into it, nuzzling at him a bit, feeling your stubble scrape across his cheek. Like this, you can almost forget who and what he is.

And he hears you, huffs a little. What I am doesn’t matter anymore, not outside these walls. And I—

He sucks in a breath, harsh and wet, sucking air up from your lungs. It burns, scraping bloody up your throat.

Metal again. And pressed against him like this, you can catch the echoes of fear, of a strange sort of dissolution. Light through greasepaper, snow drifting through broken windows. Shoulders straining against his jacket. Blood and bone and a lonely valley. Trying to breathe but the shards of his ribs dig into his lungs—

Oh.

Oh fuck. You realize, then, that he’s dying, pulled back to that moment. None of this mattered in the end; all it did was delay the inexorable march of fate. You can almost see it happening, scars brightening and blooming into wounds, bruises rising where he hit the ground. And you hear it too, the slow scrape of metal across the floor, the heavy tread of boots and a soft susurration of fabric. She’s here.

And it’s strange: you’d expect her to revel in this, finally capturing this soul that’s eluded her for so long. But it’s almost like she’s trying to be comforting. Things fall apart. Entropy comes for us all, in the end. And you got more time than most.

Listen, I don’t want to you have to go. His fingers tremble against yours, coppery fear blooming heavy on your tongue.

I’m not unkind, you know. It’s just the way it has to be. Think of this as a gift. Better than falling apart piece by piece, isn’t that right?

Is it? Maybe, with more time, you could figure something out, maybe if he took just a little more, a few of your years, you don’t need that much time, you could spare him that—

No. Hey. We. We had a good run, didn’t we? Just, remember me. Please.

He’s terrified, pulse rabbiting in his chest, fingers clutching yours as the scythe descends. And you feel it when the connection breaks, tension dissolving as he fades, the cruel hard core of him pulling free from your chest. Your hand is your hand again, grasping at nothing. He manages a smile, almost, shimmering through a film of tears. Hey, listen. I—

And then he’s gone, nothing more than motes of dust in the air, as you blink hard, trying to pull him back into your sight.

—-

Epilogue (the last thing inside the box was)

—-

You see him sometimes, a flash of cold eyes in the crowd or a particular way someone has of standing. You listen to the wind, and watch frost crawling up the windows in winter, and you miss him.

You return to the world, you smile and wave and show your teeth. It’s not a real smile, not quite, but you’ll get there. You always have.

You bake trout in parchment, and American biscuits, and you eat alone.

On a wintery afternoon you climb aboard a packed train, mercifully anonymous in the crowd. Your bare hand brushes against a stranger’s. You feel a spark, pins and needles, like a waking limb.

[contrariian-archive]

@lumbermint said: he stands between percy and laura, grasping each of their hands in his own. there was nothing better than sunshine and spending the afternoon with their favorite girls. ' i'm thinking ice cream. it's sunny, and honestly? we deserve it, '

        PERCY’S TAKEN THE DAY OFF, something she does as often as she can to spend time with her daughter—and, as of late, with monty. if anyone asked, she’d say it’s because of their kindness, the warmth with which they treat laura.

         laura, who is practically skipping on his other side, who at the mention of ice cream gasps and says  ‘ yes !  can we please, mommy ? i want a twist—ooh, or mint chip—please ? ’

       she’s glad for her daughter’s overflowing excitement, if only because it lets her stop focusing on how her heart races every time she gets this close to monty. they make her giddy in a way she’s not used to anymore, that flutter of affection that leaves her putting on old love songs in the morning and writing poems about them late into the night. she had, at some point, unconsciously discarded the idea that she would ever be with someone again; she’d assumed that finding someone she could trust, someone who would be good with laura and understand how important it is to her that she be a good mom, would be impossible. that all fate had given her was felix, and she just had to be okay with that.

       it’s exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure to realize that she was wrong.

      ‘ miss laura... ’  she trails off, pairing her warning tone with a fond smile to make it clear that she’s only teasing, even before she finishes her sentence:  ‘ when have i ever said no to ice cream ? ’

       laura cheers, dropping monty’s hand so she can run a few paces ahead and execute a halfway-decent cartwheel in her triumph, rambling all the while about the possibilities of sprinkles and waffle cones. percy allows herself to lean closer to him, her head almost but not-quite resting against his shoulder. her breath goes shallow, her pulse jumps, but she doesn’t mind. if she’s honest, she’s missed it.   ‘ thank you, ’  she says. it’s breathier than she intended, but she plows on anyway:  ‘ for... just... thank you. ’

[the-odd-job]

Up in Flames chapter 15 - Suckerpunch (Ashes Part 2)

Warnings: Major Character Death, Chose Not to Use Category: Other Fandom: Transformers Relationships: Megatron/Sunstreaker, Megatron/Sideswipe, Sideswipe & Sunstreaker Characters: Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Wildrider, Drag Strip Additional Tags: Dubcon, Mechpreg, Sticky Words: 4105

( Previous )

Driving. As exhilarating as flying could be, for a grounder nothing rarely beat driving. Even Sideswipe, as much as he enjoyed heights, wouldn’t have wanted to switch his wheels for wings. It was enough that he could facilitate short-term flight with his jetpack. That was all he’d ever asked for.

Sunstreaker didn’t fear heights any more than his brother did, and he enjoyed well paved roads as much as he did.

They were all sporty vehicles—namely, him, Sideswipe, Drag Strip, and Wildrider of all mecha—and it was a true race as they tore through the roads at utterly reckless speeds. The artificial limitations on their engines were done away with in favor of chasing Wildridre and Drag Strip and being chased by them, because the Decepticons for sure didn’t bother even pretending they were normal Earth vehicles. 

No normal Earth vehicle, definitely not ones of their respective alt-modes, could reach the speeds they were going at.

The sparkling was just about soaring, pulsing its excitement madly, and Sunstreaker had to admit he felt quite a bit of that emotion himself. Not just because of the speeds they were traveling in, but because driving with Wildrider would have been utterly terrifying, were Sunstreaker prone to the emotion. The mech was mad. Absolutely mad, and on the road with him was the last place you wanted to be in. 

But they’d never said no to a good challenge, and when Wildrider had asked if they’d like to go out for a drive with him… Good sense would have said “hell no”.

They had no good sense, apparently. All they’d needed to do to get permission to go from the high and mighty command was take along a fourth mech, and it was only natural to ask another of the Stunticons. Drag Strip, then, because racing the ambitious mech absolutely obsessed with always winning could only go well. 

The plan was fool proof. Give no fucks about any Earth rules and limitations, stick to the well maintained roads because they were all of alt-modes that couldn’t really handle anything else, and fucking drive.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone this fast, this hard, this long. Every curve taken was a death trap, made only more so by Wildrider’s presence. About no one wanting to drive with him, not even his fellow Stunticons? Yeah, that was for a good reason. Anything and everything he could do to harass them into a costly mistake, he did.

Driving at high speeds was a challenge on its own. Doing that while someone was doing their damnedest to make you crash, well, that was on another level. They’d never actually participated in wreck racing before, and while this wasn’t that officially, it was probably real damn close to the real experience. The death traps and ramps were missing, but the murderous competition definitely wasn’t.

Drag Strip hadn’t been too thrilled to come along for that very reason, but the call of showing two Lamborghinis who was the best and the fastest eventually won over the well earned fear of Wildrider. So far, though, nothing disastrous had happened despite Wildrider’s road manners. It wasn’t that there hadn’t been far too many close calls for anyone sane’s comfort, but Drag Strip had had quite a bit of practice at surviving Wildrider, and the twins weren’t bad drivers by any measure. They could handle it.

They burned through rubber and energon for hours. The sun was barely up when they’d left the Victory, and it was well on its downward arch now, when Drag Strip suggested a final finish line to their race. Choose the victor once and for all—or at least, for this particular outing. No doubt there would be a grudging loser who’d want a rematch, no matter who made it over the finish line first.

But so they settled on a particular crossroads coming up ahead as their final destination. Whoever passed it first—that would be crowned the victor of today. 

With that goal in mind, Wildrider turned even more wild, Drag Strip pushed himself to his limit, Sideswipe rerouted more power into his engine, and Sunstreaker… Tried not to have his finish scratched by Wildrider. That, and if they came in enough contact to damage his finish, chances were a painful wreck would soon follow.

No contact was the best course of action, but Wildrider did not make it easy. Whatever was the mech’s obsession with being an absolute terror on the roads, he was very serious about it. If you didn’t know any better you’d think he was trying to kill you. 

Or maybe he was, despite all the reasons why killing Sunstreaker right then would’ve been a terrible idea—mostly centering around the sparkling and Megatron’s retribution if you caused something to happen to it. 

But equally likely it was that Wildrider just didn’t consider those kinds of things, or didn’t give a frag. He had quite a few screws loose already; that really wasn’t a stretch of the imagination.

After another near miss swerve Sunstreaker was at least able to put himself ahead of Wildrider and not have to worry about him sideswiping him off the road—or into the unforgiving rock face that rose up on their left.

Instead he got to worry about him ramming his rear, but the remedy to that was to just be faster.  

Sideswipe was ahead the both of them, neck to neck with Drag Strip, but then he inched past him, slowly but steadily. His brother couldn’t entirely undo his failsafes as Sunstreaker sometimes unwittingly did, but he knew how to push himself to his absolute limit within those constraints, and he did just that now.

All to win the race, despite forcing his engine into redlining. Heat blasted from the vents of his alt-mode, and Drag Strip wasn’t much better off. His field was determination. Sideswipe’s was thrill.

The sparkling was drowning him in that too. He hadn’t raced just like this yet, not with it—if he ever had—but it was loving every moment of it, every close call that sent a zap through Sunstreaker’s spark, and the speed. Wind whipped across his alt-mode as he fought against the atmosphere, and that was enough to bring out the best of his spark—the elementary of what it was like to have wheels. 

Would the little one ever know the feeling? Time would tell what alt-mode it would choose, or if it would go for several like its sire. Moreso it would remain to be seen whether the one or one of the two modes it would choose would have tires, but even if it would… There was still the chance that it would choose to be too large for the kind of physical feats their smaller frames allowed the twins to do.

Racing like this, for example. Maybe it could drive, but you needed to be a comparatively smaller, lighter frame to drive like this.  

Those would be choices it would need to make later. Maybe this experience would influence it though. Who knew.

And it was Sideswipe who made it across their finish line first, hitting the brakes as soon as he did and spinning into a victorious stop. Drag Strip’s engine revved first in exertion, then in annoyance as he too reached the end of their race and braked to a screeching stop that left black tire marks on the asphalt. 

Sunstreaker was the next to reach them, turning sharply out of Wildrider’s way who shot way past the lot of them in his attempt to ram Sunstreaker’s rear. Sideswipe cackled as he transformed back to his pedes, and Sunstreaker couldn’t say he wasn’t smiling when he did the same.

Drag Strip came out of his alt-mode too, his face like a thundercloud. Sideswipe gave him a saccharine smile. “Looks like you still have some improvement to do. I can show you some tricks!”

“You cheated, you damn well did!” Drag Strip accused him, marching over and jabbing a digit in Sideswipe’s face.

His brother had the audacity to laugh at the accusation. Drag Strip growled, and… Then the two were already tumbling across the desert dirt, away from the rock wall framing one side of the road.

You know, the one Wildrider had tried to have him slam against for the past mile or so.

“You’re nuts,” Sunstreaker commented to the mad mech once he drove back from the distance he’d driven to in his excitement.

Wildrider laughed as he transformed. He sounded a lot like a hyena when he did that, and there probably wasn’t even the whisper of an apologetic thought in him. “You’re not exactly the picture of sanity either, Sunny.”

Sunstreaker hmphed, ignoring the jab of a nickname. It wasn’t like that particular one was forbidden territory. 

Primus help anyone who dared utter the ones he wasn’t okay with.

Drag Strip and Sideswipe were… It wasn’t really fighting, more just shoving each other around and sometimes tossing one to the dirt. And bickering. Or, Drag Strip throwing insults and more accusations of whatever manner of things—Sunstreaker was pretty sure he had Sideswipe painted as a criminal mastermind at this point—and Sideswipe doing a good impression of Wildrider with his laughter. His lack of a proper reaction only aggravated Drag Strip further.

On and on they went. Sunstreaker sighed, running a servo down his face as the two tumbled their way towards the sunset. So atmospheric.  

And he was off guard, he knew he was. There had been nothing the whole day to suggest there was any reason to be on guard, so he wasn’t. He didn’t notice anything amiss before the thudding clang of metal hitting the pavement had him glancing to his side in alarm, just to see Wildrider a graceless heap on the ground.

His optics shot upward in the next moment, meeting Mirage’s gaze. “Sorry about this,” the spy said, but before Sunstreaker could do more than rev in fruitless threat, Mirage had already put his spec ops training to good use.

The world was very quick to go dark.

Not for Sideswipe, though, but it was fragging impossible to miss first Sunstreaker’s alarm, then the… Nothing that followed. At once he shook Drag Strip off of him and turned back to the direction of Sunstreaker and Wildrider. It wasn’t hard to recognize Mirage.

It was even easier to make out the sound of a fast approach by aerials that weren’t Seekers. He really wished they had been. Things were far too complicated for Autobots to be considered friends anymore—and complicated enough to consider the Decepticons that instead. 

But now they were quickly getting outnumbered by Autobots, and Sunstreaker was out for the count already. So was Wildrider by the looks of things. That was two against six at best, and that was assuming no other Autobots were inbound.

Sideswipe would’ve taken his chances with them anyway, if Drag Strip hadn’t caught him by the arm. “Don’t–”

“I can’t just do nothing!” Sideswipe viciously interrupted whatever the Stunticon wanted to say, and tried to yank himself free. His spark was spinning wildly in his chassis, strangling him and he had to–

Drag Strip’s hold was surprisingly strong though, and he only yanked back, nearly pulling Sideswipe off his balance.

“That’s suicide!” Drag Strip hissed at him just as the Aerialbots, all of them, landed. Skyfire, too. The Autobots didn’t approach them, and Drag Strip wouldn’t let him approach them– “Or maybe not suicide, but you’ll just fragging get yourself captured too!”

Was that what the Autobots wanted to do? Capture Sunstreaker?

Why the pit would they do that?

What else were they doing? This was looking a little incriminating. Sideswipe growled and he still tried to pull himself free—and Drag Strip still wouldn’t let him. Frustration mounted until he would’ve slugged the fucker across the face if Drag Strip hadn’t continued, “What good are you if you get captured too, huh? You’re tied, right? We won’t know what the frag’s happening to you if they have both of you.”

Sideswipe thought fast, trying and mostly failing at piecing his thoughts together beyond no this can’t be happening! But, he did get the point—point being that he would be the window to everything the Autobots would do to Sunstreaker, if he was with the Decepticons.

Could he really help Sunstreaker if he went with him? He’d just be… Slag, he didn’t know what the Autobots were even planning, but he’d be in the same mess, and maybe there would be nothing he could realistically do about it from the inside–

But if he stayed on the outside…

Sideswipe keened, but he had to… Frag, he had to look at the bigger picture, past the moment. Megatron would never let this stand, not with his sparkling on the line too. He’d blow a hole straight through the Autobots if it meant getting it back, Sideswipe didn’t doubt that.

It would save Sunstreaker by extension.

And this was about saving him, wasn’t it? He couldn’t help his brother right now, not really, but it remained Sunstreaker wasn’t agreeing to this. They were taking his choice away from him, and who knew what the pit they were planning to do next.

Who fucking knew…

“Fuck fuck fuck,” Sideswipe chanted quietly, grabbing his helm with his free servo—but did he have any real choice, if he wanted to do the smart thing?

The smart thing right then wasn’t giving in to his near overwhelming desire to stay with Sunstreaker.

“What about Wildrider?” he asked, knowing his optics were wide, pale, and wild. His spark felt pretty wild too, fighting his processors on what to do—follow his emotions, or follow the conclusion of his thoughts.

He had to do the latter. 

“Lost cause,” was all Drag Strip said before tugging at him, his field not much calmer than what Sideswipe felt, though probably for different reasons.

It was clear he was in a big rush to get away. Sideswipe wasn’t, but… Do the smart thing.

Get the fuck away from here before the Autobots could do something to them too.

Get the fuck back to the Decepticons. If he wanted this mess to be cleared somehow… He couldn’t do it on his own.

And he couldn’t disagree that there wasn’t anything more they could do for Wildrider than there was anything they could do for Sunstreaker right then. 

“Yeah, okay,” Sideswipe said, or tried to, but slag his voice was so full of static. His head swam, but he had to keep it together, he had to, he had to…

He could barely pull a single vent without choking on thin air, but he didn’t resist this time when Drag Strip pulled him, and followed the Stunticon through his transformation.

They peeled off, back in the direction of the Victory, the moment their wheels hit the ground.

( Next )

[queencarolinemikaelson]

After a solid number of years: Chapter Nine of care-bear-forbes and the-lonely-hybrid. You can read chapters 1-8 HERE on ff.

//

Caroline woke from her fitful sleep only a few short hours after falling into bed.

She honestly couldn't believe the night she had.

Surreal.

It was the only word for it.

Caroline knew she would have to go in to work at some point, but in that moment, she decided on some self-care. She rose briefly to make some breakfast and a cup of tea, before snuggling back bed to process what she was feeling.

Firstly, there was the opening party of her very own club! It was happening! All those years of planning and dreaming, coming to spectacular fruition. The next goal to focus on was the official first official day of regular trade, which was just four nights away, and there was still plenty to do to make sure they were ready.

Secondly, she met Klaus Mikaelson. Klaus Mikaelson; of all the people to attend a party she threw. That was a thing all to itself! Add the completely insane revelation that Klaus was actually her old friend Nik made it all the wilder.

Nik.

Nik.

Nik, who she had loved and hated in equal measures, who both saved and damned her. She could hardly wrap her mind around the fact that he had been standing as close as two feet from her, mere hours ago.

She never thought her life could share so many plot points with a romantic comedy, but here she was.

Also, how the hell had she not noticed the similarities between Klaus and Nik? Surely she wasn't that dull. She had been blogging him like a maniac for years? Was she just blind, or just stupid?

Though, if the feeling she was experiencing right now was anything to go by, it was just too bizarre to reconcile the two as the same person. She always kept them so specifically apart from each other in her mind, so the connection was never obvious. Add the physical changes one goes through during their 20s, and maybe she was neither blind, nor stupid.

She took a sip of her tea, and let her head fall back onto her bed's headboard.

What on earth could she do with all this new found information?

If she was deeply honest with herself, Caroline knew her instinct was to run. Run away from the big city, back to her country town life. Where she could live away from this dread,and all the emotion being trudged back into her life.

But even as she considered it, Caroline knew she would never be happy if she did – as tempting as it was. She spent too long coming to terms with Nik's disappearance to let to control her life again. She also spent far too long working toward her dream business to walk away, for that matter.

As Caroline took another sip of tea, she realised that was what she kept coming back to.

Her life, her dream; that's what was important now.

She spent too long sifting through grief, too many hours crying, too many days of numbness to just forgive and forget. No matter how long Klaus promised.

The prize of his love may have been sweet, but to be swept up in grand romance… That wasn't who she was anymore.

A deep understanding settled over her, and it was terrifying to finally know what she wanted. To relinquish something she held so tightly, for so long.

But it nestled into her heart resolutely.

xxx

Klaus woke with a splitting headache. His metabolism was good, but it wasn't that good.

He was wrapped in a blanket on a semi-comfortable couch, far from his hotel bed, and Klaus groaned as he remembered his somewhat-drunken, extremely early visit to his sister. He also remembered drinking a little bit more after Rebekah went back to bed, to try and wipe Caroline completely from his memory

Fat lot of good it did him, though. Not only was his hangover worse, but he could still remember every detail of every moment of their conversation.

"Morning!" the cheery voice of his sister sang. "You look like absolute death, Niklaus. What sweet comeuppance."

"Thank you sister," he grumbled, immediately regretting it, as a wave of nausea hit him. "I'm going back to sleep."

"Uh huh, you do that," she smirked, in uncanny resemblance to her brother. "I'll make you something greasy when you wake next time."

Klaus fell back asleep almost immediately.

Why he'd insisted on stirring in the first place, he didn't know.

A few more hours passed before Klaus regained consciousness again. While he felt a damn side better this time, he was still feeling pretty rotten.

"He lives!" Bekah said, who was sitting next to him on the couch watching some trashy show on the television. "How about bacon?"

Klaus just nodded as he sat up, but didn't say anything.

Though, again, why he bothered trying to be awake was beyond him, because now, instead of waves of nausea hitting him, it was waves of utter mortification.

He would never admit it to anyone, but Klaus had imagined a reunion with Caroline many times. But none of them had involved him being slovenly drunk at 3am. How had that happened?

And to tell her he loved her and still did? What was he thinking!

Klaus sat in his humiliation silently, hoping it would relent somehow, until Bekah placed a steaming pile of bacon and eggs in front of him, as well as a very strong black coffee and a glass of water.

"So," she started, and Klaus just knew he wasn't going to be able to dodge these questions. "You met the love of your life."

"I did," Klaus said, forfeiting all pretext. It was Rebekah after all.

"And you told her you loved her."

"Yes."

"And you that you wanted to be her last love."

"I did," he said again.

"Very smooth," Rebekah said sardonically, inspecting her nails for non-existent imperfections. "Though, given the state you were in when you got here, I guess there's more to it than instant happily ever after?"

"I suppose," Klaus said, taking a big bite of bacon to save him having to respond more substantively.

"Oh, Nik," Bekah sighed. "Who even is this woman?"

"She's someone I knew a long time ago," Klaus said carefully, thinking it would be safe to answer that, given that Klaus barely told anyone about Caroline back when he knew her.

"Do you mean that online friend of yours?" Rebekah asked.

"How did you…?"

Rebekah just shrugged, innocently.

"You told me once about her, then told me another time you had a crush on someone who could never know the real you. Plus, you spent so much time on that website when you were a teenager," she replied. "Two and two."

"That's some pretty thin reasoning, Bekah," Klaus said, a bit defensive.

"Perhaps," she replied, coolly. "But your reaction confirmed it."

"It could have been anyone. It could have been Tatia!"

"Oh pish," Rebekah said, dismissively. "Tatia was a witch, and we both know it. All the women you've ever dated are not last love material, Nik."

Klaus shrugged, she was right of course. His track record with woman was visually stellar, but none of them were an epic love.

"Do you actually love her?" Rebekah asked, blunt as ever.

Klaus' cautious silence answered her question better than he could with words. Because the truth was, of course, how could he know he loved her?

Marshalling his thoughts into something resembling coherent, Klaus knew the major takeaway was of course he'd jumped the gun on telling her he loved her. He hadn't spoken to her in a decade. That kind of lack of communication wasn't a basis for love.

But he knew he wanted to try. Needed to try. Needed to see if she was what he remembered, needed to discover if his selfishness had ruined them completely, needed to understand the part of him that really was convinced he was still in love.

"I need to find out I do," Klaus said, for once, incredibly vulnerable.

But, Klaus realised he was always vulnerable when it came to Caroline. She was perhaps the only person beyond his blood that he volunteered his vulnerability to.

Perhaps that was why he cut her out so completely, because his reinvented Klaus Mikaelson was never vulnerable. A weakness like Caroline wasn't something he wanted the luxury of back when. He wanted the luxury of power.

"I best be on my way, little sister," Klaus said, as he pulled himself up from the couch, unable to sit still any longer. "Things to do. I suppose I have to make my way to the airport at some point. Thank you for breakfast, and the place to stay."

"Any time, Nik," Rebekah said, softly. "Good luck with everything."

He pressed a quick kiss to his sister's forehead, and slipped out the door before deciding where to go.

xxx

Two weeks later

Caroline sat in her office, staring at her paperwork.

She had been staring at it for days, really, and the more time separating her from her first encounter with Nik, the less she was able to push him from her mind.

It was now two weeks after the opening party. And nearly two weeks since they begun official trade.

Opening night, much like the party, had been a wild success. They had been at capacity for a few hours, and even had a queue for a while there, on a Wednesday.

And the days since had been exceeding what she had hoped for her first couple of weeks open. While there were some obvious kinks and stumbling blocks, as there was with any new business, Caroline let herself consider the idea that maybe this wasn't the completely crazy, doomed-to-fail venture others thought it was.

They were due to open for in a few hours, and she was excited. It really was exhilarating, running her own business. But, despite the success and excitement, Caroline was really struggling to the find motivation to do the pencil pushing part of her chosen business.

Because all she could think about was him.

In the two weeks since their encounter, Caroline had felt a myriad of things.

While she started off with whole-hearted conviction in what she wanted to say to him, after a few days, and some more lonely nights, she let herself imagine, wonder on all the what-ifs of life with Klaus. The life they could explore and discover together, what being his last love would be like…

Then she got mad. Filled with fury at the gall of him, after a decade to blind sight her with wild declarations of love, and empty promises of forever.

Then she was back to swayed by the romance of it all.

The underlying link connecting all her conflicting emotions was that it took a miracle for her not be consumed by thoughts of him, with work as the only thing that seemed to take her mind away.

But, now with opening day behind her, and a couple of weeks under her belt, apparently even that wasn't enough.

And so, she was back to being frustrated and upset with him.

Who the hell goes around saying I intend to be your last love and then vanishes.

Who the hell has the audacity to show up, after ten years, confessing an unending love, then doesn't even have the decency to provide contact details.

His complete lack of contact since he showed up out of the blue, solidified in Caroline's mind, that she was right. That her resolution to be frank and honest with him was exactly what she needed to do, even as much as she wanted to fall into him and never look back.

So imagine the storm of emotions she felt as someone tapped on the shoulder – hours after giving up on pretending to do paperwork, while gazing upon the second night of her dream – and she looked straight into the eyes of a man who never seemed to be too far from her mind.

"Klaus."

//

This has been such a long time in the making. Review HERE if you feel inclined. I’d love the feedback O:) and I love you all. Watch this space for part ten, which is written! So will not be another three years from now. Woohoo!!

[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.