#PSA don’t drive a stake in anyone’s heart

[thatsbelievable]

[magpiedminx]

From above :    PSA on Britney Spears and the #FreeBritney movement for anyone that needs or wants more information on what is going on with her. It’s a fucking rabbit hole, so buckle up. A little backstory first. Britney was a child star starting at the age of 4 years old on Broadway, and then worked her way to the Mickey Mouse Club, and eventually the solo career we know today. Her career has been on autopilot her entire life. If you look back at her music, she’s been telling everyone for years she’s too controlled and treated as a product if you listen to the lyrics of most of her hits. Examples include: Lucky, Overprotected, My Perogative, Circus, Piece of Me and Gimme More. Her music videos, social media posts, tour props and photoshoots regularly show her in a cage or in chains. If anyone has ever seen videos of her when she was younger, you’d know her REAL singing voice is very similar to Christina Aguilera’s. Her record label didn’t like it, as they were both on the Mickey Mouse Club and about to release their debut albums at the same time. So they had her voice retrained to sing in the baby voice we all know today because they believed it to be more iconic and would create a brand and career for her instead of her real voice. It’s unhealthy, and it’s been destroying her voice over the years, thus why she is known for lip syncing. She wanted to make an acoustic type pop album in 2006 titled Original Doll and reinvent herself using her real voice. The album was shelved and cancelled once her label realized she would be singing in her real voice. She isn’t allowed to sing live because she will either fail terribly, or she’ll have to sing in her deep voice that she isn’t known for. Her entire career she has been treated like a product meant to sell. Now, for the real tea. Everyone remembers the 2007 meltdown. Everyone. Leading up the meltdown Britney was going thru a public divorce, had two children under the age of 2 at the time and was VERY much the focus of the public. We all saw her on every magazine cover. We all also saw the photo of her with one of her kids on her lap while driving. Go on YouTube once and look up ‘Britney Spears paparazzi’. You’ll watch her be chased and followed by hundreds of them, even trying to get into a public restroom to photograph her, videotaping her in tears asking them to leave her alone, and even filming her thru the windows of an ambulance while she was naked being taken away for her final mental health hold. After the public meltdown, shaving her head, locking herself in her home with her children, speaking in a british accent on regular basis, wearing the imfamous pink wig everywhere, and shopping naked, she was hospitalized twice. After the hospitalization, her father petitioned the courts to be a TEMPORARY conservator to her until she was mentally stable and for only one years time. 2 months after her hospitalization she did a guest appearance on How I Met Your Mother. 6 months after her hospitalization, she drops the Womanizer video and starts to promote her new album Circus with its worldwide tour that grossed $131.8 million. If she’s so unwell, why did she start working right away? Her father after one year petitioned the courts for the conservatorship to become permanent due to her ALLEGEDLY having EARLY ONSET DEMENTIA in her TWENTIES. It passed and has been that way ever since. For 12 years to be exact. Now for everyone that doesn’t understand what that means let me break it down for you. Britney Spears is a now 38 year old woman who is not allowed to do the following without her fathers permission or he can legally lock her up in a mental health facility: • drive a car • vote • get married • have children • spend HER OWN MONEY • see how her money is being spent • see her children (she has 30% custody of both of her boys due to her dad assaulting one of her sons) • leave her home • hire her own lawyer • have any control over her career • speak about the conservatorship publicly • do interviews that aren’t scripted and all final cuts are approved by her father as well • use a cell phone without being monitored • use social media unmonitored • contact ANYONE without being monitored or having them extremely vetted. (Iggy Azalea allegedly had her house searched for drugs top to bottom when they collaborated on a song together) • go shopping • go for a walk • get Starbucks A conservatorship is meant for people with mental health issues or decaying health. Most likely grandparents or people with actual dementia etc. They are meant for people who literally cannot take care of themselves. If she is so unwell that she isn’t mentally capable of doing anything for herself, why is she still working? Since the conservatorship began 12 years ago she has: • released 4 albums • done 3 worldwide tours • did a FOUR-year Vegas residency • was a full time judge on X-Factor • released multiple perfumes and a lingerie line • made $138 MILLION DOLLARS or so A YEAR In January of last year, Britney was placed in a mental health facility for 3 months after being seen driving her car to In-N-Out with her boyfriend without permission and for refusing to take the sedating medications her father has doctors prescribing her to keep her under control. She testified to a judge in documents that she was held there against her will by her father. After it was leaked to the press that she was there against her will, the Free Britney movement picked up speed causing a judge to open an investigation into the impact and legality her conservatorship has on her life. Britney’s mother Lynn was also liking and commenting on Free Britney posts saying she agrees that Britney is trapped by her father. Britney’s team had Twitter disable the Free Britney hashtag, and regularly threatens any celebrity that speaks out using the hashtag with a lawsuit if they don’t remove their support for the movement. She was seen shortly after leaving a hotel thru the front door (99% of celebrities park underground to avoid paparazzi unless they WANT to be photographed) stumbling while carrying her shoes, and out of it. Her team used that moment to justify to the public that she needs this conservatorship. She is not allowed to have any say in the hiring or firing of anyone on her team. Every year she pays $1.1 million dollars in fees for the conservatorship to continue, including paying her father a solid $100k+ salary and paying a lawyer she isn’t allowed to choose. She is allowed an allowance of around $1,500 a week for bills, shopping and essentials. Her net worth is $250 million. So, when everyone sees her on Instagram walking up and down her hallways like it’s a fashion show. That’s all she is allowed to do. She has NEVER had control over her life. I don’t care if you personally like her or her music, NO ONE DESERVES THIS. All this woman wants is to see her children, make the music she wants to make, and go get a frappuccino in her car. She is a light of sunshine in this world, and we must protect her at all costs. So please, do not make fun of her, support the Free Britney movement, and send good vibes her way. She has a court date this month to review the conservatorship and decide if it is abusive or will continue to be in place. There are so many details to this that i left out that would make this post entirely much longer than it is, but a simple search will show you what else is out there. Spread this far and wide. ❤️ Free Britney Edited to add some important links! Here’s a google doc of info https://docs.google.com/document/d/17jeZV78SCwgQGsOkad0H0PA8jqjgRsxgSqD9f_f1yAk/edit Petition by Danny H: https://petitions.whitehouse.gov/petition/conservatorship-and-civil-liberties-britney-spears Screenshots of leaked emails, voicemails, and other helpful links: https://www.businessinsider.com/inside-britney-spears-conservatorship-freebritney-movement-2020-2 https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2019-09-17/britney-spears-conservatorship-free-britney https://www.forbes.com/sites/trialandheirs/2019/05/15/making-sense-of-the-britney-spears-conservatorship-and-freebritney/#5ce808c94b74 Jayden going on Instagram live reporting they were being abused by his grandfather: https://theblast.com/c/britney-spears-son-jayden-james-instagram-live-video-free-britney This is a news article from USA Today about her father’s child abuse allegations filed by Kevin Federline. He reportedly had an altercation with Sean in September 2019: https://www.google.com/amp/s/amp.usatoday.com/amp/2362531001 Source from the opposing view pointing to the success of her conservatorship and that fans are wrong, I think it's weird she has made no formal appearances to contest the conservatorship in court but she said (link above) we were not being told the truth and the media is being manipulated: https://www.usatoday.com/story/entertainment/celebrities/2019/10/24/britney-spears-why-does-she-still-need-conservator/2288009001/ There's a lot of money at stake to keep her in this situation. Just seems too convenient that she can't care for herself considering her net worth, and considering the fact her male counterparts of equal stardom with public mental health battles have never been under this much control. This is an issue and question of abuse in conservatorships at large. Unfortunately, the princess of Pop has somehow become the poster child of this type of crisis. While conservatorships can be beneficial when the best interest is at heart, we can't ignore the fact there are companies that profit enormously from people with disabilities by keeping them under extensive legal control. Are they providing the best care? If Britney has been too unwell to care for herself these past 12 years, why would she be made to work tirelessly? World tours? Vegas? X-factor? Her perfume line? Why not let her rest? Here's a good excerpt from Forbes, it's just not clear what is going on, but my initial gut thinks there is something that is not right. "In this case, Jamie Spears did not have legal authority to force Britney into treatment or to take psychiatric medications. But that doesn't mean that Britney's reported claim that she was held against her will is wrong. Rather, because Jamie has so much control over Britney's life through the conservatorship - including decisions like whether to get married, to perform or live in Las Vegas, or even if she can drive a car - he easily could have refused to grant consent for Britney to do any number of things unless she agreed to his request to enter the mental health treatment facility. In other words, Jamie could have indirectly forced her into treatment even if he could not explicitly sign her in against her will. But, even if Jamie Spears did so, he may have done it out of an earnest believe that Britney needed the treatment. TMZ previously reported that Britney was not doing well and her old course of medications stopped working, necessitating heightened treatment." Take what you will from this, but here are a few petitions to reinstate her rights in August is here - http://chng.it/CMfngqyMBj https://www.change.org/p/team-britney-freebritney

[whitewitchdani]

Infinitely Different: Chapter 11

Read Chapter 10 Here

Word Count: 3,640 (oops)

Pairing: Winchester!Sister Reader x ???

Warnings: language, angst, canon typical violence

A/N: Chapter 11 is here! And it’s really long (sorry not sorry). It’s worth it I promise. PSA if it is in italics, it happened in the past! I hope you guys like it! Let me know what you think and let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 

Infinitely Different Masterlist

You reluctantly heeded Stefan’s advice and set off for the Mikaelson Manor. The whole time you were praying that Klaus wasn’t there, and that your stomach would calm down enough that you wouldn’t throw up from nerves. You rarely got nervous anymore, so the feeling was foreign. But from what you had heard Klaus was a force to be reckoned with, and a hunter showing up at his home looking for his brother would probably not be received well.  

Men, relationships, love; you had no experience with these things. You had one boyfriend in high school and Dean ran him off fairly quickly. After that, it was a lot of lonely nights and a few racy ones in the cheap motel rooms of backwater towns across the continental U.S. 

It was unfathomable to you that these two men could want anything to do with you. You, Y/N Winchester: a rugged hunter who drank too much, was covered in scars, and had enough family issues to make Dr. Phil cringe. Although, if there was anyone who could understand the struggles of the life you led, it would be those two. 

You had allowed Stefan to drive your car back to the boarding house, with the promise of death if she had even the slightest ding, so you could walk your way to the Mikaelson Manor. It was a decent distance from the falls, but you didn’t mind. You needed the time to think and walking through the woods always gave you a sense of calm and clarity. 

Your mind wandered to Damon as you trudged through the woods of Mystic Falls. God, why did he have to drop this bomb on you? It came out of nowhere! You hadn’t even talked in the two years you’d been away. But then again, was that the reason why? You shook your head, this is not what you thought would happen when you became friends with these people. The Damon you knew then was extremely different, until the day you saved his life.

“Stefan this is a really bad idea. Your brother hates me.”

“Damon doesn’t hate you. He-”

“He literally said ‘I hate you’ to my face the last time I saw him. Which was when you had the bright idea to tell him I was a hunter.” 

You paced around your small apartment above the bookstore you worked at in the town square of Mystic Falls. Stefan was sitting on the couch while you paced in front of him, contemplating the best way to get you in on this plan, because he needed everyone.

“There’s a rogue pack of werewolves headed towards Mystic Falls, Y/N. It’d be suicide for a group of vampires to take them on alone and if they reach town it’ll be a bloodbath. We need you.”

You sighed. You knew he was right. “I had to pick this town to move to. You do know I moved here to stop hunting, right? ”

He smirked, “Picked the wrong town for that, Y/N/N.” Slinging his arm around your shoulders, you left your apartment and got into your car parked in the square. 

“Yeah I got that when your brother tried to eat me and I almost staked his ass,” you deadpanned as you drove toward the boarding house. 

“Hey, he wouldn’t have killed you. Probably.”

“You showed up just before I pulled the stake out of my jacket, so you’re lucky I didn’t kill him. I still don’t get why you were so calm about me being a hunter.”

“The fact you didn’t kill me on sight and let me talk to you. Most hunters wouldn’t have done that. I mean you still threatened to kill me but look at us now, six months later and the best of friends.”

You smiled, Stefan really was your best friend; something you had never stayed in one spot long enough to have. “Yeah, yeah. I’m still debating on whether or not to kill you since you guilted me into helping you and your brother.”

Stefan sighed, “If you really don’t want to help Y/N I’m not gonna make you. But something tells me that even if I would’ve left without you a few minutes ago, you would’ve shown up here sometime tonight. You’re a hunter, saving people is hardwired into your DNA.”

You glanced at him as you pulled into the drive of the Salvatore Boarding House. It was strange how well he was beginning to know you; at this rate he’d know more about you than your brothers who you’d lived with since you were 6. “Do you know how annoying it is when you’re right?”

He broke into a big smile, “I do and I enjoy it. Come on; let’s go find Damon. Alaric should be with him and the four of us together should be enough to take down this pack.” He explained as they walked to the front door. 

“I maintain my opinion that bringing me on was a bad idea Stefan. Damon may just use this as an opportunity to kill me.” 

You stepped inside the entryway of the boarding house and Stefan turned to look at you, “That’s not going to happen. We need you, Y/N. And I trust you to have all of our backs, just like we’ll have yours.”

“Speak for yourself.”

You both spun around to see Damon leaning on the doorway to the parlor. He gave you a smug smile and you turned to throw a bitchface to Stefan. His brother was going to kill you.

“Damon, stop. She’s here to help.”

Stefan followed his older brother’s retreating form into the parlor and you followed suit, finding Alaric in there as well. You had only met him a handful of times, but he was a former hunter and that instantly gave you two a sort of bond.

You smiled and sat next to him, “Hey Ric.”

“Hey Y/N. You get roped into this too?”

You laughed, “Always. You may have hunted mostly vamps in your day but I hunted everything, taking out my fair share of werewolves so apparently I’m needed. Stefan didn’t really give me a choice in the matter, he guilted me by appealing to my inner hunter morals. Rude.”

He laughed, “Sounds like Stefan.”

“Okay you two can we please discuss how exactly we are going to save our lovely town from the pack of dogs that are determined to roll through? Or Y/N did you come here solely to piss me off?” Damon half-joked as he plopped on the couch across from you and Ric, laying sideways with his feet on the armrest.

You rolled your eyes and stood, “Maybe both, asshole. But I digress; it’ll be fairly simple. Ric and I will have guns with silver bullets; you and Stefan can rip hearts out like I know you love doing so much. Everyone just needs to watch each others backs, wolves are smart.”

“That’s it? That’s your plan?”

“You got a better one? I’ve been a hunter for years Damon and the best thing you can do is know where they’re going to be and show up as prepared as possible.”

Damon huffed and rolled his eyes, especially when he saw Stefan and Alaric nodding along with your plan. 

“Seriously? You guys too?”

“She’s right, Damon. There’s no point in planning, only preparedness.” Alaric told him with a clap on the shoulder. “I’m gonna go back to my place and get a few things. Stefan, you wanna come?”

You looked at the youngest Salvatore wide eyed, pleading him not to leave you alone here with his brother. But by the look he was giving back, he wasn’t listening.

“Sure. You two behave while we’re gone; don’t kill each other. I’m pretty sure the maid’s sick of cleaning up blood.” He gave you both a sarcastic smirk and followed Alaric to the front door.

You scrambled on Stefan’s heels to stop him before he left, “Are you mental? You stay here, I’ll go with Ric.”

“No, I’m going with Ric and you and Damon are going to stay here and attempt to become civil with each other. We can’t fight together if we don’t trust each other.”

You shrunk under Stefan’s reprimand, “I’ve tried, Stefan. I don’t know what else to do.”

He hugged you and walked to the front door, “You’ll be fine. We’ll be back in a little while.” With a smile he walked through the front door and left you alone with Damon. 

You sighed and turned back to the parlor. You could do this; there was no reason that Damon should intimidate you. He’s just Stefan’s asshole brother, a vampire like any other you’ve encountered. 

As you walked in, you saw that Damon hadn’t moved from his spot on the couch. You took a deep breath and walked past him to the bar, pouring yourself a healthy serving bourbon and downing it before pouring another one and turning to face Damon. Fuck it.

“You know, I don’t get what your problem with me is. I’ve never actually done anything to you except exist in your presence.” You downed your drink and held up your hand when he went to speak, “Mm, and it can’t just be the fact that I’m a hunter, or used to be, whatever. Because so was Alaric and he’s your best friend. He trusts me, Stefan trusts me, so, Damon, what’s your issue?”

He smirked, “Don’t mistake the fact that we haven’t set you on fire in your sleep for trust.”

You rolled your eyes, “Whatever, Damon. Don’t talk to me. Don’t trust me. I don’t care. But do trust that when we go to face those werewolves tonight that I will have everyone’s back, everyone’s. Including yours, even if you don’t have mine.” You slammed the bourbon tumbler down and stormed from the room.

Later that evening you and the three men were creeping through the woods of Mystic Falls searching for the rogue werewolves trespassing in your town. Stefan was at the front of the group, followed by Alaric, while you and Damon brought up the rear. 

You were a few miles out from the Lockwood Mansion when Stefan raised his hand to stop the groups advance, “Shh, listen.”  

You all stopped to listen for whatever it was Stefan had heard. You and Alaric didn’t hear anything, being human, but Damon’s vampire hearing picked up what Stefan’s had.

“They’re here, about a half mile east. They must sense the werewolf presence at the Lockwood’s.” 

“Let’s split up, flank them. Hopefully taking them from two sides will give us better odds. Stefan with me, Ric you and Damon come from the left and we’ll come from the right. Meet in the middle and kick some ass.” You said with a smirk. 

Cocking your gun, you and Stefan set off in the direction of the werewolf encampment. Damon and Alaric hung back, giving you both a few minutes to get around to the other side to get into position.

When everyone was in place flanking the encampment, you held steady. Counting seven wolves total, you were fairly confident in your group’s ability to take them down with little issue. You and Alaric were both seasoned hunters, and Damon and Stefan were both extremely fast, even for vampires. 

Looking to Stefan, he nodded. You then looked over to where Alaric and Damon were making eye contact with Ric who also nodded. It was showtime.

You were the first out of the shadows and the first to take down a wolf with a silver bullet straight to the heart, no issue. You heard another gunshot behind you followed by a thud. Turning, you saw Alaric already moving on to his next target. Stefan already had his hands in the chests of two wolves, and his brother was in an identical position to your left. This was going smoother than you had anticipated.

You had spoken too soon, of course, as an unknown eighth wolf came barreling out of the darkness towards Damon whose hands were still in the chests of the two other wolves. 

“DAMON!” you screeched and ran toward him.

The dark-haired vampire turned, dropping the two hearts to see the wolf running straight for him. Before he could even react, he felt himself be shoved out of the way and to the ground. When he looked up, ready to rip Stefan a new one for stealing his thunder, his eyed went wide and he, surprisingly, felt himself start to panic.  

Instead of Stefan he saw you on the ground grappling with the wolf that had tried to attack him. You were holding your own but this man was twice your size, and a werewolf. He was frozen as he came to the realization that you threw yourself in the line of fire to save him.

A scream cut through the night as the wolf’s claws sliced down your right arm. Damon was shaken from his inner dialogue at your pain and scrambled to his feet in an attempt to come help you.

Suddenly, both you and the wolf stopped moving. The three men standing in the woods didn’t dare to even breathe as they waited to see what would happen. After a few seconds, the wolf rolled from on top of you, landing on his back beside you with a knife handle protruding from his chest. Stefan, Alaric, and Damon all three let out a collective sigh.

You laid there panting, “You know, I really appreciate, my aunt Ellen, sewing that, knife sheath, into my boot.” You took a few seconds to attempt to calm your breathing, “Comes in handy more often than you’d think.” You looked up at the three men standing over you with a smirk.

Alaric reached out his hand and you grabbed it with your good one, hoisting yourself from the ground. “You’re crazy, you know that? You tackled a freaking wolf twice your size.”

You bent and plucked your knife from the wolf’s chest, “Won though didn’t I?”

“How’s your arm?” Stefan asked abruptly. 

You hadn’t really noticed it or him and Damon hanging back, but you looked down to see your right arm covered in blood thanks to the four claw marks down it. You ripped the bottom of your already ruined shirt and wrapped it the best you could.

“It’s fine. We should take care of these bodies and then get back. I’m gonna need to stitch these up.”

“Go, take Ric with you. Me and Damon can get it done quickly.” 

You nodded and linked your good arm with Ric’s. Now that you had acknowledged the wound on your arm and the adrenaline was wearing off, you were exhausted and hurt all over.

Ric helped you up to the room you typically stayed in at the boarding house when you got back. “Do you need any help?”

“There’s a duffle on the bed and inside there’s a black case, grab it. It’s my med kit.”

You walked into the bathroom while Ric fetched your kit. Peeling off the shirt you had on slowly and painfully, you stood in the bathroom in your bra cleaning the marks. When Ric came back, he handed you the bag.

“Thanks Ric, I got it from here.”

“Are you sure? You’re going to give yourself stitches?”

You let out a small laugh, “Ric I’ve been stitching up my Dad and my brothers since I was 6. When I finally started hunting, Dad was either too busy or drunk to care and Dean sucks at it so I did it on myself most of the time. I’ll be fine.” You both turned when you heard the front door slam downstairs. “Go see how they’re doing, make sure they got everything done okay.”

He smiled and squeezed your good shoulder, “Just holler if you need anything.”

You nodded and watched as Ric left the bathroom. Looking in the mirror you took a deep breath, grabbed the bottle of bourbon you nicked on the way upstairs, first took a healthy pull, and dumped it on your arm. 

You bit back the scream that threatened to spill out from the burn, replacing it with a stream of expletives that would make even Dean blush. How your hand was steady enough to thread the needle you’ll never know, but you did it and started on the first gash. 

This is why you had left hunting. You saved people and that was so important to you, but you couldn’t take the constant beating to your body anymore. Having to sew yourself back together at the end of the night just wasn’t worth it. 

You had finished the first claw mark and were about to start the second one when you looked up into the mirror and gasped. Damon was standing in the doorway of the bathroom.

You spun to face him, “Jesus Damon, you scared me. How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to tell you that you could’ve used the rubbing alcohol that’s downstairs instead of jacking my bourbon.”

You spun back around, avoiding eye contact. “Sorry, habit. I don’t think I’ve ever used real rubbing alcohol to clean a wound before.”

He hopped up to sit on the counter, “Yeah, Ric came downstairs bitching about your medical choices. Did you really sew up your Dad when you were 6?”

You looked at him sheepishly before starting on the next gash, hissing when the needle first went through, “Yeah. Um, after Mom died John took me in. Sam didn’t know how to sew and Dean was old enough to hunt with him so that left it to me to fix them up if they came home hurt.”

Damon shook his head as he watched you stitch the claw marks, “Your Dad sounds like a grade A douche.”

You laughed, “John was, something else for sure. But he was my Dad and I mean, he didn’t have to take me when Mom died. He did though and taught me how to hunt. But everything else in my life I learned from Dean. He raised Sam and me.”

Moving onto the third claw mark was difficult, for some reason it was more tender than the others. You were afraid you wouldn’t be able to stitch it up yourself, but you were damn well gonna try. You pushed through and started but had to stop a few stitches in, tears streaming down your face. 

Damon hopped down from the counter, biting his wrist and holding it out to you, “Here. It’ll heal you and you won’t have to deal with this bullshit.”

You looked up at him with a confused expression. It was quiet for a few minutes, and you were silent long enough for the wound on Damon’s wrist to heal back up.

“Well? I’m not gonna sit around and bite my wrist for you all morning.”

You shook your head, “No, it’s fine.”

“Come on, you’re seriously going to put yourself through this? Just take a little drink and it’ll heal.”

You slammed the needle down and turned to him, “Why are you even offering? Two hours ago you threatened to set me on fire in my sleep. Now you’re having a heart to heart with me about my dad and offering to heal me? You should be getting a kick out of watching me suffer.” A tear slid down your face as you turned to finally start on the last gash.

As you sewed you felt him walk up behind you. Looking up into the mirror you locked eyes. There was something different about the way he was looking at you. Gone was the ice-cold stare of contempt and in its place was one of sorrow and regret.

“You saved my life tonight, Y/N. You literally threw yourself in the line of fire in order to protect me when I’m stronger than you. You could’ve died protecting someone who has done nothing but treat you badly. Why?”

You sighed, “It’s what I do, Damon. You may be a dick, but you don’t deserve to die. Plus I like Stefan, I’d hate to see him upset over your death.” You smirked at him and he returned it. “I told you earlier that I would have your back and that’s what I did. I wasn’t lying when I said you could trust me. Hunting is just something I do, it’s not who I am, at least not fully. Most other hunters don’t like me because I don’t kill on sight.”

“I was wrong about you. And I don’t say this very often to anyone, ever, but I’m sorry.” 

You finished the last stitch and cut it off before turning to him with a smile, “Thank you, Damon.”

He returned the smile and went to leave the bathroom when he turned on his heel, “I almost forgot, you bleed on a room you gotta keep it.”

You scrunched your forehead, “What?”

“Yeah you bled on the bathroom of this bedroom so it’s yours now. So if you wanna, you know, move in here instead of living in that apartment you can. This was totally Stefan’s idea by the way.”

You smirked, “Sure it was. I’d like that. I’ll start getting my stuff tomorrow.”

He nodded and went to leave when you stopped him, “Hey Damon?”

“Yeah?”

“Make sure to tell Stefan I said thank you.” You said with a grin. 

He smiled back and left the bedroom. You looked around the room you could call yours now; it was bigger than your entire apartment. So much had changed in the past few hours but you felt happy, happier than you’d felt in a really long time. Maybe ever. 

Life with the Salvatore brothers was never dull, but you wouldn’t trade it for the world.  

Read Chapter 12 Here

Tag List:

@lovesamwinchester @winchesterxtwo @waywardrose13 @assass-is-here @winchesters-favorite-girl @captainam-erika-trash @hunterplushy @bee-wrecker @letmebeyoursforever @colie87 @m-blackshy-m @impala-baby-winchester @sassy-and-classy-cowgirl @vxidnik @theroyalbrownbarbie @fandooomqueenforyou @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @evyiione @artsyicon @cinnamonrollsforlife @crowleyshenchmen @spunky-89 @so-get--this @henrietteoaks @lidiamiota @mypage-myfandoms @capsofwinchesters @putyourherohaironstefan

[gldngrl7]

Karamel Fic: Edging Toward Synchronicity (3/8)

Title: Edging Towards Synchronicity

Author: gldngr7

Rating: Explicit

Began: March 11, 2017

Chapters:8

 Feedback:  Encouragement and constructive criticisms are always welcome.  Flames are destroyed with my freeze breath.  Intentional Anti hate is taken as encouragement and a challenge to up my game.

 Author’s Notes:

I’m not even kidding around anymore.  This story is about a journey to intimacy and that intimacy includes heavy elements of BDSM, Dominance/submission, and Daddy-kink.  If you know you’re not into that or interested in seeing more, walk away now.  Kid gloves are off, folks.

Dedicated to my fam member @mon-kai-el and dirty bitches squad (aka The Dark Side) whose dirty talk showed me that I could take the kid gloves off.  Stay thirsty, my friend.

For those of you who care…there is in fact a plot.  And it moves forward and everything!

PSA:  If there are any Babysubs out there who read this and think, ‘this is me’ and you don’t know what to do.  If you want to talk, message me.  It’s important that you know this:  THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH YOU!  Not a damn thing, and don’t ever let anyone tell you differently.

Tagging: @mon-kai-el, @actualpuppychriswood, @pwettypwita, @contygold86, @karamelizedlove, @kelbottumbles, @starcrossed-comets, @emarasmoak, @fangirlintheforest, @ships-sailing-in-the-night, @lostin-the-desert

       Oh, I know you're feeling insane

            Tell me something that I can explain, oh

                 I'll hit the lights and you lock the doors

                     Tell me all of the things that you couldn't before

       Don't walk away, don't roll your eyes

             They say love is pain, well darling, let's hurt tonight

                    If this love is pain, well darling, let's hurt, oh tonight

 --OneRepublic – “Let’s Hurt Tonight”

Chapter 3/8

The ear-splitting whistle of the teakettle cuts through the comfortable silence between them, causing Mon-El to recoil noticeably and kick starting Kara’s drive to tend to his psychological wounds.  Rushing back to the kitchen, she steeps two bags of chamomile, while adding several lumps of sugar to his cup.  She stirs his tea until the cubes lose their shape and become a grainy sludge at the bottom of the mug.

When Kara hands the steaming mug to Mon-El, he takes an immediate swig without regard to its boiling temperature, seeking the sweet comfort of sugar to combat the acrid taste that lingers on the back of his tongue. Thankfully, the bitter tang is already somewhat diminished, so the blast of sugar hitting his taste buds helps to erase the bizarre and unwelcome flavor.

He downs the cup in three gulps and takes it to the sink to rinse it out. “I think you’re right,” he says. “I think I’m going to take a hot shower and maybe call it a night.  It’s been a long day.”

Kara nods, sliding up onto one of the stools that sits under the kitchen island and takes a sip of her tea.  “It’s not every day a person becomes a superhero,” she comments after swallowing the hot liquid.  “It’s going to get harder for a while,” she continues.  “I just want you to be prepared.  My first few months weren’t exactly smooth sailing.  I made more than a few mistakes, and the media—Cat—covered them all.  But the people can be forgiving when you show them that your heart is in the right place. Just know that…I’m here for you for…whatever you need.”

Mon-El considers her words, her advice, and recognizing that she’s talking about more than just weathering the trials and tribulations of being a superhero.  He wonders just how long he can compartmentalize the increasing amounts of stimuli racing through his brain, without seeking help.  Curling his hand into his fist, he knocks his knuckles against the wooden surface of the kitchen island.  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he promises.  “Here’s to hoping they take it easy on me.  Gods know I’m nowhere near your league.  I’m not half the person you are, Kara.”

He walks away, leaving her speechless, her heart plummeting with sadness. Logically, she understands that survivor’s guilt can wreak havoc on a person’s self-worth—having had a singular experience with her own version of it.  And in the beginning of their acquaintance, she had steadfastly refused to look beyond the fear that driving his survival instincts to see the good in him, buried deep though it was.

He is from Daxam, a culture that raised the act of deliberate ignorance to an art form so duteous it made the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel look like a kindergartner’s finger painting.  He grew up inside all of that, within the court of the Crown Prince no less—the belly of the beast—and, so in the beginning she expected arrogance, entitlement, and stubborn resistance to the assimilation to an entirely new culture. And while it’s true that the dregs of that existed, she sees now that letting go of one’s culture and the throwing off of one’s upbringing is an undertaking much more easily discussed than accomplished.  Even after thirteen years, Kara herself has yet to accomplish the feat.

Kara mentally castigates herself.  She could begin by ceasing to refer to the Prince’s Court as ‘the belly of the beast’ even if only in her own head. That is merely the Kryptonian gossip of her hazy childhood memories talking, and already those types of thoughts have translated into action.  Daxam and Krypton are long gone, and it is time both of them put their pasts in the rearview mirror.  For Kara that means letting go of the things she learned about Daxam in her formative years so that she can stop associating them with the man she loves.  As his lover—his mate—she must stop punishing him for any actions long past from which he clearly wishes to disassociate.

For Mon-El, putting his past away will be a much more visceral experience, she fears.  She will have to use every tool in her shed to help him through it, if his breakdown this evening was any indication.  Finishing her cup of tea, an idea strikes while she’s rinsing out the mug and setting it out to dry.  She hears the music from the radio in her…their…bathroom turn on, and Kara whispers her gratitude to Rao because the extra noise should serve her purpose.

Digging into her purse, she retrieves her phone and flips through her recent calls before pressing ‘send’.  Eliza’s warm voice answers on the first ring as though she has been awaiting Kara’s call.

“Kara, honey, is everything all right?” she asks, and Kara cringes when she checks her watch and sees how late it is.  It must worry her mother when the phone rings this late.

“I’m sorry,” she winces, “I wasn’t paying attention to the time.”

“It’s fine,” Eliza replies.  “As long as you’re okay.”  Kara is practically invulnerable to harm and still her adoptive mother worries for her. She cringes at the realization and thinks that if Eliza gets this worried about Kara, then thoughts of Alex’s well-being must keep her up nights. Almost by instinct, Kara’s hand drifts down her belly, and she marvels at the mere concept of being a mother and what that might mean.  Tossing and turning each night over imaginary scenarios of her child in danger?  Could she handle it?  Was she strong enough for that?

“Honey, are you still there?”

“Still here,” she answers, quickly shaking off thoughts that are too premature to be entertained seriously.  “I was hoping I could talk to you about something.”

“Is it about what we talked about before?  Have you—“

“Not yet,” she interjects.  “It’s about the other thing.”

“Ah,” her mother sighs.

“I asked Mon-El to move in with me,” she begins.  Kara cringes slightly.  She hasn’t taken a moment to consider what her mother might think of her recent decision to cohabitate with her boyfriend.  “I don’t think it has been good for him, living in the DEO.  As long as he was there he was never going to make this place his home.  Not when he has to live under a curfew and be treated like a threat,” she rationalizes, providing reasons that she hopes her mother will be able to find acceptable from a logical standpoint.

“And because you love him,” her mother counters, taking Kara by surprise. “Because that’s the only reason that matters, honey.”

“Yes, of course,” Kara replies.  As if she could fool her astute mother otherwise!  Just as Eliza had understood Mon-El’s masked interest in Kara during their Thanksgiving get-together, Eliza had probably comprehended the depth of Kara’s feelings long before she had.  Confessing her feelings aloud now, for the first time, makes them seem somehow more real and raises the stakes even higher.  “But something happened when we got back to the loft tonight.  He had a...” Kara grasps for the right word that doesn’t make it sound like the man she loves needs a padded cell, before recalling the word she heard Eliza use on multiple occasions when discussing her.  “An episode,” she says.  “He was back there…seeing things.”

“First of all…are you okay?” Eliza asks anxiously.  “Did he say anything or do anything to hurt you?”

“No,” Kara denies.  “Of course not.”

“Good.  People don’t know what’s happening when they have trauma-induced flashbacks.  It’s a fugue state, Kara.  It’s so real, he could lash out to protect himself or say things…not intended for you.”

“I’m fine,” she assures her mother.  “I’m worried about him though.”

“Of course you are.”

“It’s just that…I told him that I could help…that I know what to do. But the truth is, I don’t.  I remember being where he is but not how it got better.  Not really. I just remember you and Alex being there…all the time.”  Kara’s emotions en masse well within her: fear for Mon-El, anxiety over being what he needs, being enough, and gratitude that she has someone to talk to who has walked this path before.

“I knew when we adopted you that, with your history, re-entry would be difficult for you.  I talked to specialists and read books about dealing with post-traumatic stress.”

“What should I do?”  Kara breathes, a lump rising in her throat.

“Don’t push him to talk about it,” Eliza answers.

“Okay,” she says, disappointed.  “We’ll call that strike one.”

“It’s okay,” her mother reassures her.  “Don’t push him to talk, but let him know, in no uncertain terms, that you are there to listen if he does want to talk,” she advises.  “When he opens up…try to avoid making promises like ‘it’s going to be okay’. Being ‘okay’ isn’t always what people with survivor’s guilt want—not right away.  They often see the guilt and the reflection as something they deserve for having the audacity to survive.  Try to avoid casting judgments on his actions.  It’s a rare individual who can be their best self when under that kind of duress.  Most of us wouldn’t hold up under scrutiny in the kind of situation he faced, without warning and without the mental training or acclimation to that kind of stress.”

Kara’s mind races as she commits her mother’s words of advice to memory. “But it sounds like it’s my job…to do nothing?”

“Oh that’s not true, honey.  Do things with him you normally do together.  Encourage him to socialize, to be active.  Find activities that work for both of you.  Building camaraderie can work wonders.  Why do you think I always made Alex take you with her when she went to hang out with her friends?  Or that time I signed you up for soccer, so you could be part of a team.”

“That was a disaster!”  Kara exclaimed.  “I broke Jenny Sauer’s nose, and she had to miss the eighth grade dance.”

“That little snot had it coming,” Eliza snaps protectively. “After the mean things she said to you, she’s lucky I didn’t break her nose!”

“Mom!”  Kara gawps, shocked by her adoptive mother’s uncharacteristic outburst.

“I’m sorry, but that girl brought it on herself,” Eliza defensively justifies.

“She was offsides, and it was just trash talk. She didn’t mean anything by it.”

“A mother doesn’t distinguish.  The point is, Kara, that you began building a life again, to make attachments here beyond Jeremiah, Alex, and myself.  I remember that you started sleeping better after that.”

“I remember too,” Kara echoes, her mouth lifting in a half smile. There’s a moment of silence on the line that lasts long enough for Kara to wonder if the call has dropped.

“It takes a toll, honey,” her mother finally says, her tone one of uneasy warning.  “You should be aware of what you’re getting into.  In many ways…leading them out of the dark is just as hard on us as it is on them.  But you can’t give up,” she cautions.  “He won’t get better overnight—that will never happen—but if you keep being there for him, keep loving him, eventually you’ll look up one day and realize he hasn’t had a flashback in a while or didn’t flinch during the last thunderstorm, and it will feel like it happened overnight. You have to be patient,” Eliza added. “And know that there will be setbacks.”

“It was so scary,” she admits, letting down her guard a little bit more.  “It was like he wasn’t really here with me.  I didn’t think I would be able to reach him.”

“But you did, and that’s what matters.  He’s been repressing for a long time.  You never really did that.  For you…there was always the thousand-yard stare—the haunted look in your eyes—right from the start.  But when you had episodes you were nearly impossible to reach.  I’m afraid I didn’t provide enough of a connection for you, enough of a lure to draw you back to reality.”

“That’s not true,” Kara claims, catching the strains of hurt in Eliza’s voice and wishing to alleviate it.

“It’s all right, Kara,” Eliza reassures.  “I was under no delusions then.  We got there eventually, but we had to survive the worst of the fallout first.  Unlike our situation, you have the advantage with Mon-El, honey.  He would do anything for you, if you only ask.  I have no doubt that includes trying his hardest to get well.”

“I just hope that doesn’t hurt more than help.”

“When you fall in love with someone, Kara, their pains become your pains and their joy, your joy.  The joy part is easy,” Eliza finishes, leaving Kara to draw her own conclusion about the painful parts of a relationship.

“I’m beginning to see that,” Kara acknowledges.  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all of your advice.”

“Anytime, honey.  What’s a mother for?” she breezes with a chuckle as though happy just to be of help.

“Mom?”

“Yes, Kara?”

“We’re still getting there.  More and more all the time.”

“I love you, Kara,” she says softly.

“I love you, too.  Talk to you soon.”  She finishes exchanging her farewells with her mother and ends the call.  She plugs her phone into the charger on the back wall of the kitchen counter for the night, then wonders what to do next.

  ****

 The tea helped to relieve the bitter taste that resided in the back of his mouth from the onset of his vivid waking nightmare.  But it did nothing to ease the lingering tension that still plagues his larger muscle groups.  His thighs and upper back twitch and tremble in unpredictable intervals. He’s anxious to escape the laser-like scrutiny Kara focuses upon him, as though she expects him to shatter to pieces at any moment.

Perhaps he might, and he silently prays to every god he’s ever heard of that if it does happen, it won’t happen in front of her.

“But she’s the one you’ll need!”  Ral groans, frustrated.  “You’re going to want her to be there when you break.”

Mon-El closes the bathroom door behind him and turns to find Ral sitting on the counter, his legs dangling a foot from the ground.  Mon-El opens his mouth to speak and then throws a glance at the door.  There’s a radio-box on the counter; he’s heard Kara listen to the box when she showers sometimes.  Mon-El examines the device and finds the power symbol so prevalent on the technical devices of Earth and presses the accompanying button.  The radio-box blares to life, playing a song by someone named Ariana that he recognizes from the larger radio-box at the bar.  It used to play a lot – back before the attack by Cadmus – on Friday nights when spirits were high and patrons wanted to dance. Mon-El turns the volume up two more notches.

“Yeah, her super hearing won’t be able to cut through that,” Ral smirks.

“She doesn’t eavesdrop,” Mon-El tells Ral…and himself.  “Now…why?”

“Why, what?”  Ral rejoins. His eyes widen, his eyebrows climbing his forehead, perhaps a little too comically for the tension of the situation.

“You said I’d want her there.  Why?”  Mon-El demanded through clenched teeth.

Ral shrugs.  “I don’t know.”

“You don’t--?  I thought...”

“You thought…what?  That I know everything?  Don’t be an idiot; I’m not Bask sitting on the throne of Val-Or.  I don’t know all, Brother.  I know what you know.”

“But you said...” Mon-El trails off, his mind trying to weave his conscious mind through the maze created by his subconscious.

“You don’t want to go there, my friend.  Not yet,” Ral warns.  “It’s best if these things happen on their own timeline.  Stick with what you already know.”

“Like the waking nightmare?”

“It’s really begun now,” the hallucination declares, his face growing sadder.  Ral shrugs, resigned.  “You can avoid sleep if you like.  It’s up to you.  But the memories will come anyway now.  A dam has been breached.  Let’s pray to the gods what comes next is a slow leak and not a flash flood.”

“Memories?”  Mon-El asks, his brow creasing with confusion.  “That’s not how it happened.”

“Isn’t it?”  Ral answers cryptically.

“But you put me in the pod,” Mon-El reminds his step-brother.  “You put me into the pod and then went back for her. To be with her.”

“Hmmm,” Ral hums, his answer refusing to commit one way or another to Mon-El’s assertion.  “I did say that, didn’t I?”

Mon-El swallows, trying not to choke on the emotion that threatens to overwhelm.  “Was there ever a girl?” he asks.

“Maybe,” Ral answers.  “Probably? But if there was…I never made it back for her.”

“Gods,” he moans, dropping his chin to his chest as his mind flashes to the memory of Ral’s death.  He could see it, hear it, and smell it as if he was there, but it is still too unreal to be believed, like a mirage that fades away when he gets too close.

“You won’t feel it yet,” Ral promises, placing a hand on Mon-El’s shoulder as he leans against the counter.  “But now you know.”

“Why?”  Mon-El inquires.  “Why have you hidden this truth from me?”

“Because…sometimes truths are meant to be delivered in their own time. When they’re ready to be heard and not a moment before.”

“Truths?” Mon-El ponders, a sliver of fear lancing his heart.

“A single truth would be so simple, wouldn’t it?”  Ral answers with a question, his hand gripping at Mon-El’s shoulder as if it’s tethering him to the same plane of existence.  “And you and I both know that life is rarely simple, no matter how much we try to change ourselves to make it so.”

“Why can’t I just…go on?” Mon-El asks, rubbing his temples.  His head hurts, pounding like the clang of metal on metal.  “What’s wrong with forgetting that day?”

“Because then there will always be a part of you missing.  Whether you remember everything or not, even now it’s shaping who you are…who you’re becoming.  As much as you tell yourself that the man who pulled that car from the edge of a bridge exists because of Kara, that’s not entirely true.  And soon you’ll know why.  But don’t worry about when it will happen.  I’ll make sure it happens at the right place at the right time. Leave it to me.”

Ral vaporizes the second Mon-El blinks – there one second and gone the next. “Great,” he sighs, unable to shake off the overwhelming feeling of encroaching doom.  It’s just him and The Weeknd in the bathroom now.

He’s spent too long here without taking the shower he claimed he was after when he excused himself from her stifling scrutiny.  Opening the glass door of the shower, he spins the dial for hot water until it will turn no more and waits for steam to fill the chamber while he disrobes.  His clothing comes off piece by piece, his body moving like that of a weary old man as though he’s aged a century in the last day.

The buzz of the electricity he absorbed in the early hours of this morning, which had sustained him throughout the day, has long since dissipated, perhaps in part due to the waking nightmare…memory, he relived.  He feels his body’s need to rest pressing in on him with all of the inevitable inescapability of a stasis sleep taken before a deep space jump.  He can no longer afford to avoid sleep.  If Ral is correct, the memories and visions will come whether he sleeps or not, and he’d rather avoid being in the thick of things when they do.  Sleep it is, but first the shower to help him ease the tension wreaking havoc on his body.

Stepping under the spray, Mon-El feels the heat of the water but not the sting. How he misses the sting!  The feeling of water beating down on him, hot enough to turn his skin the color of the Daxam sunrise.  Breathing the steam deeply into his lungs, he savors the heated exhale of it, feeling more cleansed with each breath.  But still the muscles of his back, along his spine and shoulders, twitch in an annoying manner as though he is a rebellious puppet on strings that refuses to dance to its master’s tune.

After being shot during his incarceration by Cadmus he’d felt like this, albeit to a lesser extent.  His blood had pumped through him so fast, soaked up by his jeans, that it set his heart to racing.  For hours after they had made their escape and were returned to the DEO, he’d shivered without feeling cold, teeth chattering while his wounded leg twitching painfully.  Adrenaline, the physician had said, explaining that during traumatic experiences the system floods with the chemical, telling the body it’s in danger and attempting to provide it with the physiological tools needed to protect itself. Even once safety is reached, the chemical remains in the blood, oftentimes for hours, even days afterwards. It also has the added ‘benefit’ of searing memories of traumatic events into the mind like a slaver’s brand upon the skin, making them easier to recall and in greater, richer detail.

Taking a few minutes, he soaps up one of Kara’s fluffy, frilly sponges and hits all the important spots with the suds, until he feels quite overtaken by foam.  This isn’t the utilitarian all-in-one soap provided in the showers at the DEO, he is certain from its purple hue when in the bottle – so he refrains from lathering his hair.  He could take care of that tomorrow.  Ready to rinse, Mon-El shifts until the pulsing stream of water beats down upon the top of his scalp, where the dull throb of his headache stubbornly refuses to be shaken loose.

Water easily defeats the delicate bubbles, sending them retreating down the hard exterior of his body and legs until they’re circling the drain at his feet.  After a moment, he drops his chin to his chest so that the scorching stream of water funnels at the base of his skull and to his neck before planing down his powerfully built back.

Senses still on heightened alert, Mon-El hears the bathroom door click open over the sound of the radio blaring Justin Bieber’s ‘Let Me Love You’, feels the breeze of cooler air entering the room.  He keeps perfectly still as she opens the glass door the bare minimum to admit her and slips inside the shower stall.  The space wouldn’t be enough for the both of them were there any concerns in regards to personal space.  Luckily for them, there are not.

“Hey,” he says, acknowledging her presence without turning around.  Her hands brush against his hips with a feather light touch, an entreaty, before gliding up his back to rest on his shoulders.

“I thought I’d join you,” her voice whispers.  “You don’t mind, do you?”  Kara leans into him so close the front of her legs brush against the back of his thighs.  Her belly lays flush against the compact muscles of his ass as she places open-mouthed kisses on the tension-riddled path of his spine.

“How could I mind this?”  Mon-El pushes away from the wall and presses his back more firmly against hers, wrapping his other arm around until it lands on the back of her thigh. He turns his head to the side until he can almost feel her breath on his cheek.

With her lightest stroke, caressing him is like caressing granite. Even in the face of her loving touch, every part of him is unyielding, and Kara knows that’s not because he wants it that way.  “You’re so tense,” she observes.

“I know,” he says, disturbed because the hot shower has seemingly had no effect on the state of his body.  “I’m sorry.  It must be from the...”

“Can I help you?” she asks, tentatively.  “Will you let me help you?”

“How?” he sighs, unsure that anything can help at this stage.  He wonders if he’ll ever be able to relax again or if this apparent state of heightened alert is his new normal.

Taking hold of his wrist, she removes his hand from her thigh and directs it elsewhere.  “Place your hands on the wall,” she instructs.

“Am I under arrest, officer?” he jokes.

After a delicate snort that brings a smile to his face, she says, “You’ve been watching too many cop shows.”

Mon-El does as she instructs, admittedly a novelty when they’re both naked, unsure of what to expect.  The feeling of her thumbs digging into his trapezius muscles was nowhere on his list of possibilities – but it should have been at the very top. Her x-ray vision is unable to discern individual muscles, and yet she’s able to locate the knots beneath his impenetrable skin with pinpoint accuracy.  The pressure she applies would crumple titanium, but instead it’s slowly loosening the knots of restrained emotion, to which his muscles seem desperate to cling.

“Gods, Kara,” he moans, the dissipation of tension feeling so good and her hands on him feeling even better.  In fact, it feels so good he can’t keep the words, “Don’t stop,” from slipping out.

“I won’t,” she promises.  Proving her vow, her thumbs move lower, to his middle back, applying their heavenly pressure to his lats.  “Is this helping?” she asks, hopefully.  Even without looking, he can practically see her biting down on her lower lip in that way she does when she isn’t certain about something.

Mon-El’s breath catches as she finds a particularly nasty ball of tension and goes to town on it.  “You have no idea,” he groans, relishing the pain she provides, as if it’s resurrecting him from the stupor he’s been in for the last half hour.  “Harder,” he begs.

“Really?” she clarifies.

“Yes, harder.”  When she complies, his breathing shifts to a heavy pant, and he bites down on his lower lip with a grimace.  He’s going to bruise, at least for a few hours, but he doesn’t mind in the slightest. She spends a few minutes working her way back up his back to his shoulders before spearing her hands into his hair and massaging his scalp from the top of his head to the junction point at the base of his skull.  When her hands glide down his now relaxed back, signaling that she is done, Mon-El declares, “Kara Zor-El, have I told you lately that you are a goddess?”

Peppering his tended back with kisses, Kara slides her hands around his waist and upward until they come to a rest on his chest, over his heart.  Mon-El removes one hand from the wall to cover them, lacing their fingers together.

Kara’s unoccupied hand drifts down from his chest, past his abdomen until her fingers find the light trail of fur that leads exactly where she wants to go – but doesn’t.  She caresses his shoulder blade with the tip of her nose and brief brushes of her lips before placing a series of open-mouthed kisses there.  “Would you like me to take care of the front now?” she asks, delicately twirling her fingers through the hair on his lower belly.

Her innuendo—her presence—has his body stirring at the speed of light.  His cock twitches in anticipation, already at half-staff since shortly after she joined him. “So what are you waiting for?” he inquires, his voice lowering to a rich challenge.

“You know,” she replies.

Mon-El reaches for the hand on his lower belly, grasping it as he spins around to face her and places her hand on his shoulder.  Grabbing her hips, he tugs her flush against his body and backs her up until she is sandwiched between the hard planes of his body and the cool tiles of the shower.  His lips swoop down upon hers, taking, drinking, mining for the taste of her, before she has even a chance to protest.  Not that she ever would.

Kara melts into him, her knees losing their will to hold her up. She would slide down the wall into a heap on the tile floor, were his body not trapping her right where she is. With a mind of their own, her hands grip at any part of his shoulders and back she can reach, fingernails searching for purchase as his tongue and lips transfer their focus to the long, sensitive column of her neck.  As if he has every right…he takes her breath away.

His hips tilt slowly, torturously against her belly as he lays ruthless siege to her neck, his cock seeking her wet heat but settling for the satiny softness of her skin instead.  One of Kara’s legs steals around his, her ankle hooking around the back of his calf and traveling up and up until her knee is draped over his hip, opening herself up to him.  Heat races through her, lighting a white-hot blaze under her skin, burning through her self-control like a wildfire.  This has been her endgame all along when she’d decided to join him in the shower, but she hadn’t intended to dissolve into a jellied mass of need and desire quite so soon.  She should know better by now.  “Mon-El,” she gasps, instinctively canting her hips against his, seeking fulfillment.

He knows what brought her here – why she slipped into his shower and interrupted his solitude.  She is afraid for him.  Fears what might happen if she should leave him alone to his thoughts and ruminations, and he can’t say he’s not a little bit afraid as well.  With some degree of difficulty, he tears his lips from the soft divot of flesh where her chest and neck converge.

He leans his forehead against hers, cupping the back of her head with both hands.  “Tell me why you came in here, Kara?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“To distract me?”  Mon-El pulls back, seeking eye contact.  Kara obliges him by tilting her head further back, slackening her neck so that the weight of her head is cradled completely in his hands.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” she confirms.  “But if you want to, I’m always here to listen.  I’m here for you…in any way that you need me. I just wanted to remind you that you’re not in this alone.”  Her own fingers slide up his chest until they frame both sides of his face.

“By offering me your body?”  His head tilts to the side, finding this tactic curious.

“By being what you need,” she counters.  “Aren’t you always worried about being what I need?  If I’m your mate, shouldn’t I do the same, Mon-El?”

He shakes his head slightly.  “Kara, I’ve always wanted to be what you need.  It’s what I work so hard for…but you should know…I have no idea what I’m doing.  I don’t know what it was like on Krypton, but couples on Daxam didn’t have those sorts of relationships.  We were latched to people to consolidate power and gain influence – for most, it was a business arrangement and nothing more.  When we chose to mate with someone, outside of a latching union, it was usually merely a physical bonding.  Neither was based in…based in...”

“Intimacy?”

“Yeah…that.”

Kara’s forehead gathers together, a deep crinkle appearing between her eyebrows.  Part of her wants to place some distance between them, afraid of the answer to the question on the tip of her tongue, but there’s nowhere for her to go.  “Does it bother you?  The intimacy between us?”

“Kara,” he sighs.  “How can you ask me that?  Do I seem dissatisfied to you?  I tell you this only to help you understand.  My culture compartmentalizes these things.  When a man needs the kind of thing you’re suggesting, he doesn’t go to his latch-mate…he finds someone else…someone willing…to use.”

A dark shadow crosses her eyes, and they squint into hard ice-like chips of blue.  “Well, if you found someone else to use, I would kill you.  So that’s never going to happen.  It may have been that way on Daxam, but on Krypton, and on Earth it’s the opposite. Here we promise ‘for better or for worse’.”

Mon-El’s eyes widen.  He’s seen enough of Earth’s entertainment programs to recognize those words and their inherent meaning.  They speak of mating and of choosing a more permanent bond with implications of expanding the familial unit, but he’s never dared dream that she would bind herself to him in such a way.  “Isn’t that from the Earth commitment pledge?”  The question spills out before he can stop it.

Kara’s face freezes.  Isn’t this what they have been talking about all this time?  Choosing and mating?  Isn’t that where it’s all been leading?  Doubt floods her, and her eyes dart away from his.

It’s not easy to miss the uncertainty filling her eyes, and it occurs to Mon-El that while he hasn’t dared to hope for more than what lay between them, her mind has already gone there and planted that seed.  He rushes to assuage her doubt in hopes of putting it to rest. “I just never thought you would want that…with me.”

“Mon-El!” she chastises, unable to believe the abhorrence laced throughout his words and their tone.  Abhorrence for himself.  She knows this, the survivor’s guilt talking—she’s experienced it enough herself to recognize it—but still it hurts her to see it.  “Don’t ever say that!” she instructs.

 “Kara, there are things you don’t know about me.  There are things I don’t know about me.  Tonight, I remembered for the first time that my stepbrother died right in front of me.”

“Sometimes the mind blocks out what it isn’t ready to handle,” she explains.

“Yes, but…what else have I forgotten?  How can I ask you to pledge yourself to me when there are so many unknowns?”

“I know enough,” she insists.

But she doesn’t know enough, Mon-El thinks, not by a long shot.  How does he tell her that he has regular conversations with a dead man?  How does he tell her the truth about who he is, about what his father did to him? How does he tell her the thing about him that made his peculiarity merely tolerated among his people – all but Ral?  How can he bear to see the inevitable disgust in her eyes?

He wishes he could forget those things, block them out like the too-horrible-to-be-recalled circumstances of Ral’s death.  He would gladly trade every last horrific memory of the Fall of Daxam in exchange for forgetting the thing he would cut from himself if he could. “You say that now, but you hated everything about Daxam when we first met.  Everything about the kind of life I led back there.  You should know…I wasn’t just a bystander in that life.  I was a blissful participant—blissfully ignorant, maybe—but blissful nonetheless.  What if...”

“Would you go back if you could?” she questions, almost an interrogation. His mouth opens and closes in surprise, having not expected that question. “Well…would you?”

He considers carefully the almost intentional aimlessness of the life he had there and the emptiness it fostered inside of him.  His duties, the expectations placed upon him that had nothing to do with his desires, as though what he needed meant nothing at all.  He is still building a life here, and there are more than a few bricks missing, but with Kara he feels a solid foundation beneath his feet for the first time in his life.  But for all of its absent pieces, the blanks waiting to be filled in, he is happier here than he ever could have imagined being on Daxam.  Contentment is a feeling for which he has no frame of reference before arriving on Earth and falling for Kara.  “No,” he declares confidently.  “I would never go back to that life.  Even if I could.  My life is right here,” he says, stroking her cheek.

Lifting up she captures his lips with hers, as Mon-El reciprocates with equal fervor; soft lips meeting firm pressure with fiery intent.  The forgotten shower water, slowly losing heat throughout their conversation, finally gives up the last dregs of its tepid warmth turning cold against their skin.  Not uncomfortable but neither is it conducive to their activities.  Blindly, Mon-El reaches behind him, his hand fumbling for the spigot before finally turning it until the water drips to a halt. Reluctantly, Kara drags her contented lips from his, her breath coming in shaky gasp.  “Show me,” she demands, a hint of challenge in her voice.  “Let me be what you need.  Tell me what you need.”

“Just you,” he says.  “No games tonight, okay?”

Kara nods in agreement, reading the vulnerability in his eyes. “No games.  Just us.”

Grabbing the backs of her thighs he lifts her until her legs drape of their own accord around his hips, her ankles locking together as her arms encircle his neck.  Mon-El pushes open the shower door with his foot, lips and tongue tasting hers as he maneuvers them from the crowded room and to the bed.

TBC

 ****