#So time to take a breath & recognize my dumb brain loves to be a lying asshole | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gifsbysimplysonia · 1 year ago

Note

The "I need to explain why they're fucking!" meme comes to mind every time I write anything.

As someone in this club, thank you! Cuz I enjoy the context and I LOVE words, especially when they are written as beautifully and emotionally as these are.

As always when I post a fan fiction reaction, ahead there be

So just to preface, I have no idea who this character is lol I don't play the video game but @savemefromanepicoftimewasted has been reblogging a TON of (excellent) fan fiction about these video game men and cuz I love reading (smut *cough*), I have been reading a lot about these dudes. So if I say anything wrong or offensive, apologies in advance.

Wars are exhausting. You know fighting for something can empower people. Fighting against something usually just depletes your strength. But waging a war against yourself… Now that is pure hell.

Whoosh. That's what my breath did cuz this is how this story STARTS. I'm aware that the main male character is some kind of military so I thought that's where this was headed, but it's actually about the main female character. And it was like, ohhhhhhhhhhhh so relatable content!

He came into your life like a walking myth, swept you away, and you only laughed as you went. It was fun at first. He was supposed to be your savior, the solution to all your problems. If a man like him found you attractive, perhaps it was the world that was crooked and not you.

OOF. Again, relatable content. We think that the approval and/or love of someone ELSE is going to be the gift that frees us from the shackles of our own self imposed prisons, and when it doesn't happen? WHAT A MIND EFF!!!

Perhaps it was his eyes that seemed to worship you, that seemed to look past your every flaw. Perhaps it was the hands which never seemed to get enough of your skin. Whatever it was, it was too much. And at the same time, never enough. The day has finally come to let him go.

NOOOOOOOOOOOO! So, my bestie absolutely HATES when in fic, one characters makes a decision for their partner, and that seems to be what she's doing here. I'm not good enough for him so let me remove myself from the equation. I GET HER cuz my dumb ass is the SAME WAY. But having a bestie who is always telling me WHY that's bad, I also see how it's completely unfair to her partner.

You think yourself heroic. It's like it should be: it's only right that you finally release him to someone better than you. But inside, the noble feelings twist and turn and curl around your throat and stuff your stomach full of ice - the kind they fill glasses of mojito with. The drink you'll always remember him by because he teased you about it: that you wanted an ice-cold summer drink even in the middle of winter. Now you feel cold all over, and wish he could warm you like he used to.

And then there's this! Her own pain! She doesn't WANT to do it, but she thinks she's taking a hero's path. So now on top of her own pain, which has been present her whole life, the source of comfort and love she HAD is now removed? *SOB*

But he's not yours. He never was: he was just on loan to give you a taste of what it would be like to have a man like him. That taste should be more than enough for a lifetime. You should feel grateful.

It honestly feels like someone cracked open my brain and is looking inside because her rationalization for all this is EXACTLY what I'd be telling myself, which is why this hits so close to home and has me all frowny and hugging my pumpkin pillow wishing it was her.

You put your heaviest armor on. It protects weak and soft flesh because you can't meet him all bare.

THIS LINE IS SO BEAUTIFUL!!! And again, hits me right in my heart. My bestie likes to say that I am a crab cuz I wear a hard shell to protect my squishy insides and I'm like NO I HAVE NO SQUISHY INSIDES. Lying through my teeth. But she at least recognizes that she does and that she can't expose herself cuz if she does, she can't do what she thinks that she needs to do.

The man is a vision, and he settles for a peasant. It should be against the law, but it's not…

*cries*

"I need to talk to you." Your voice comes out neutral, and it makes you more confident, if only for a second or two. He lifts his chin: already knows what's coming, because he's not stupid. You've been shutting down for weeks, and he hasn't done much about it. But when the thunder rolls in, he doesn't flee. Probably because he fears nothing.

So I love this because it lets me get my first glimpse at HIM, up close. She's been speaking of him as if he is a god, larger than life, so much better than her. But knowing that he's SEEN what is going on with her and "knows what's coming?" I am comforted because it means he pays attention.

She says the words and all he says is OK and I SCREAMED into my pumpkin pillow cuz I was like NOOOOOOOOOOOO I THOUGHT YOU WOULDN'T LET HER GO!!! I don't know why, maybe it was just a hope, but I thought he was the type.

Your lip starts to tremble, and he notices, as per usual. Nothing escapes this man, except perhaps the true reason for your anguish. "Hey. Hey." He comes to you and hugs you like it's the only thing that matters: to comfort you when he sees you're about to cry, no matter how crushed he's feeling himself. The sudden warmth, the intimacy after weeks and weeks of pain is knee-buckling. "Is there anything I can do to change your mind?"

OMG I WANT TO DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE because he obviously loves her!!! He tried to take the responsibility on when he asked if she wants to break up cuz of his job, but she says no. And now he wants to know if he can change her mind so HE REALLY LOVES HER but she is so starkly determined to do this because of how she feels about herself and it's AWFULLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL :'(

"What do you need me to do? I'll do anything," he tries with a parched throat, then swallows.

I am SO genuinely distraught, like

MAKE IT STAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHP!

He asks if she found someone else, and my gal is OFFENDED?!?! But, gurl, like, what should he be THINKINGGGGGG???

Jesus, this is just humiliating. "I'm just not your type." "What the hell are you talking about," he mutters, the impending fury giving way to momentary surprise.

Oh boy. Now that it's on the table, I feel like a storm is brewing within him.

"I just…" A tear escapes down your face as you finally break for him. "I'm fat. Okay? And ugly. And–" "Stop right there." The look on his face is just… It's priceless, you suppose. "Bloody fucking hell…"

Yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyup! Here it comes!

"And you never thought to ask my opinion?" "Would you please stop yelling," you whisper and blink back some putrid tears. His mouth is snapped shut, his head pulls back just a little as he realizes what he's done. "Sorry," he says with a half-whisper, and you catch the strain in his throat. You've never seen him cry, but now his voice is suddenly thin and frail. "I'm sorry."

So this is super difficult for me cuz I wanna shake her and be like, gurl. You're making this decision for him, you're in the driver's seat right now upending his world, he is ENTITLED to his own pain, anger, and raised voice. And even though that's all true, she asks him, and he obliges and APOLOGIZES which is WILD to me because HI, HE LOVES HER!!!

"Can I touch you?" You don't really want him to do that, but you feel pity for the man. He's trying to find a way through this mess, and you want to help him. "Yes," you whisper, and he immediately comes and takes you in his arms again. Hot tears disappear into his shirt, and you sniff a few times. He feels so good, so safe, even when you're about to lose him. His hold tightens around you, and the kitchen is silent; the whole world is silent. You don't know if you're being put to a grave or if you're in a deaf womb, waiting to be reborn.

This character comes across very in charge so for him to stop and ASK shows me just how sensitive he is to the situation and to her. I wouldn't have asked lol

And it kills me how poetically this story is written. I HATE ANGST, y'all, but when it's written this well, I have to see it through to the end. I mean ... You don't know if you're being put to a grave or if you're in a deaf womb, waiting to be reborn. Fckin beautiful.

"Have I said or done something? To make you feel this way?" Then the blade is turned against himself. The man desperately searches for a culprit so he can deal with them.

Ah, so it's something they have in common. Trying to make it their own fault *smh*

"Can't believe you wanna break up because of this," he finally says. You've chipped his pride, the ego that lives off of pleasing the ones he loves: the few chosen ones who he wants to give his whole life to. "To me, you're perfect," he then says, and you simply… You stop breathing. "You're like… my dream woman. Ever thought about that?"

The way I absolutely cannot BREATHE. This man ... he seems to be someone who doesn't open up a lot? So for her to be someone he trusts to do that with AND to show emotion to? I GET that it hurts him beyond telling that he feels like he could have contributed to these feelings. I have, like, 5 people I'm close to but if I EVER feel like I've failed them or not shown up for them, I take it SO HARD. Poor Simon :(

And then I know she's not gonna believe him about being exactly what he wants cuz I wouldn't either lol

"Never occurred to you that I might find you fucking beautiful?" "Stop," you whisper, because it's too much to take in. He sounds so serious, so sincere. "No, I don't think I will." He pulls back a little and cups your face. Brushes away a tear, looks at you with so much love that it physically hurts; you feel like it's a lance that slowly drives through your heart. "How about I kiss every part I love about you?" You let out a soft little whimper. Fuck, that you want him to…

HERE is what I've been waiting for! A REFUSAL to accept what she's giving him and PROVE HER WRONG. GOOD ON YA, SIMON.

"It's gonna take all night, though. Wanna be as thorough as possible." "Simon–" "Love. I want you. Thought I'd made it pretty clear, but apparently I haven't. If you only knew how much–" He sighs deeply. The man is frustrated with his shortcomings, thinks that this is all his fault. You cry a tear or two just for the sake of how absurd it all is. "I don't want you to go. I fucking love you. Everything about you."

*screaming into the pumpkin pillow again*

"I love you too," you whisper back, and the warmth that starts to bloom in his eyes is an entire sun on its own. It's hope, and you believe him, almost believe him. "Then I'd say it's a bloody bad idea to break up." You chuckle while few more tears push through to the surface. "Simon…" You sigh and look back up at him, your armor falling to the floor too. "I feel like a wreck." You allow him to see the pain, all of it. His breath is sharp as it hits him, but he still doesn't waver. "Then let me help you."

Thank GOD. He's getting through...

"You don't even let me touch you anymore." It's a filed complaint, but also heart-rending, soul-wrenching longing.

THIS IS AWFUL! Dude has suspected for a long time now that she was with someone else and just LET her be with someone else?!?! Liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiike, I wanna run into traffic.

"I'm so sorry," you say with a strained little breath. "I swear it's nothing like that. I just… I feel like a mess." "Never seen such a gorgeous mess." He speaks on your skin, the kiss on your forehead feels like an absolution. Then you notice it's not only his words which try to assure you. He's growing harder by the minute against your stomach, just from a simple hug. Just from being pressed against you like this, after weeks of dry, bitter longing.

He is so damn SWEET. And to know he's missed her this much just makes me melt.

And why does he always have to use that voice when he calls you a good girl or his girl, that sultry smoke that makes you want to swoon until he catches you and carries you to bed? The man seems to be a mind reader as well, because he sweeps you off your feet and does exactly that: carries you to your bed which has mainly seen silent tears and painful sleep last months. "Poor thing doesn't even know how lovely she is."

I am a puddle because he's so gentle and caring but also sexy at the same time, to remind her HEY YES I DO WANT YOU IN THIS WAY TOO which is SO IMPORTANT to battling self esteem issues that involve body image.

He moves to kiss you, and it's been – what? Weeks since your last kiss? And even that was only a quick peck, nothing like this… Wet, and desperate; a devouring. It makes you clench around nothingness, and you finally surrender.

It's about time!!!

The rest of this story is really passionate, intense, LOUDLY INTIMATE smut. SO SO SO SO recommend. I was sweating and silently weeping by the end of it cuz the ending to this one?

He spoils you right away with a kiss. You surrender to his treatment with happiness: happy tears, even. The medicine to your anguish has been the exact opposite to what you had first tried, what you had originally thought. The true remedy for your sickness is mercy. Perhaps some spoiling… And love.

I don't like religion but there's something about this story that invokes the feeling of it ... worship and a longing to be closer to something you don't quite understand but you know that you need, that's inherent to your heart and soul. It's like Simon was her strength but she didn't realize it so as she separated from him, the demons were able to crawl up into her brain pan and whisper and make her doubt and encouraged the estrangement. But as soon as she opened herself back up to his affection and love and touch ... she felt whole again.

GUH.

Again, don't know this character and HATE ANGST but this story is a masterpiece. SO incredibly well done, @kneelingshadowsalome Thank you SO MUCH for creating and sharing, and of course to Krista for reblogging / the recommendation. The talent jumps off the page in all of these gorgeous, emotion invoking, vivid words and I am in absolute awe. Thank you again.

Hi !!!! I’m sorry if this is bothering you and if so you can totally ignore this but…

I’ve been thinking about how Ghost would react to reader gradually pulling away from him because she gained some weight and is self conscious and ashamed and doesn’t want to be seen by him, so sculpted and beautiful… but of course he’s feeling low because he wants to be close to reader and so he asks and she finally explains it to him (ready to be broken up with…)…. And I’d love to read your take on it !

You can make it female or gender neauteal I don’t really care !!!! Thank you anyway ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Wildflowers Grow in Ruins

(Ghost x F!Reader, word count: 5 k)

Summary: Reader tries to break up with Ghost because she thinks she's not good enough for him.

Tags/warnings: FLUFF, soft sensual smut 🔞, hurt/comfort, light angst, Jealous!Ghost, Soft!Ghost, self-loathing & self-body shaming. Good girl talk/praise kink. Reader is female and wears a skirt for smut plot purposes.

A/N: I hope you like this take & I hope you don't mind that I tweaked this request just a little bit!) Also: JFC I'm wordy. The "I need to explain why they're fucking!" meme comes to mind every time I write anything.

Wars are exhausting.

You know fighting for something can empower people. Fighting against something usually just depletes your strength.

But waging a war against yourself…

Now that is pure hell.

It started somewhere in your youth. You thought adulthood would take it away; that reason and tolerance would take it away. You were supposed to feel more confident in yourself, more positive about life. And for a moment, you thought you might just succeed.

But standing beside a god of war is no easy feat.

But then you got soft: you started to gain pounds. Meanwhile, he became even more magnificent. It reminded you that it had all been just a dream.

The day has finally come to let him go.

You think yourself heroic. It's like it should be: it's only right that you finally release him to someone better than you.

But inside, the noble feelings twist and turn and curl around your throat and stuff your stomach full of ice - the kind they fill glasses of mojito with. The drink you'll always remember him by because he teased you about it: that you wanted an ice-cold summer drink even in the middle of winter.

Now you feel cold all over, and wish he could warm you like he used to.

You would forsake all the mojitos of the world to keep him. You would renounce the whole drink if it came to that; if you could make him yours.

So why is it so hard to let go?

The key on the front door turns, and your heart shoots up your throat: you're supposed to settle this thing once and for all. You're supposed to let go of him today.

And still, when he arrives, you can't find the courage to say what you need to say. The words are stuck in your throat, but tears are not. He should already be a memory, but you find yourself suffocating on memories as you cry. You've learned to do even that in silence, like the rest of your suffering.

You take a few deep breaths, wipe the tears away, shove the rest of them down your throat – you save them for later, later, when he's far away and you can finally curl up and cry your heart out without no one there to look. Fucking later.

Good.

Great.

You put your heaviest armor on. It protects weak and soft flesh because you can't meet him all bare. Then you step forward with the knowledge that you’re a thoroughly wounded guerrilla while he is a seasoned, well-rested veteran. The fight is nowhere near even, but it's ok. You are not meant to be in the presence of immortals anyway.

The man looks at you warily as you finally enter the room. That haunted look has followed you for some time now as the distance between you has grown.

It should be easy, what is about to come, because he hasn't touched you in weeks. You haven't wanted him to.

Or you have… But it's not easy to have his hands on you when your body is only a vessel you hate. How can you even think about pleasure when all you think about is how it must feel for him to caress something as awful as this?

The man is a vision, and he settles for a peasant. It should be against the law, but it's not… so you figured a some time ago that you should simply find the strength and grace to do ii: do what's right.

"I need to talk to you."

Your voice comes out neutral, and it makes you more confident, if only for a second or two.

He lifts his chin: already knows what's coming, because he's not stupid. You've been shutting down for weeks, and he hasn't done much about it. But when the thunder rolls in, he doesn't flee. Probably because he fears nothing.

"Go ahead then," he says, equally as neutral, equally as icy. Got his armor on, too.

This should be easy…

It's really not, so you decide to rip the band-aid off in one yank.

"I think we should go separate ways."

The following inhale from across the room pierces the air like a bullet. You can hear his breaths gain depth and speed all the way to where you're standing.

"Ok."

It doesn't look or sound like he's ok. If anything, he looks like he's trying to process the sudden storm.

"Ok…" His eyes are on the floor as he rubs the back of his neck. Then he starts to pace around the little kitchenette you've shared for almost six months, just before you started gaining weight.

He stops to look out the window, then turns to you, and the hurt in his stare comes through like a thousand needles pushing through skin.

"Is it because of my work?"

"No."

"What is it then?"

Your breaths are getting out of hand, too. He looks like a lost, tired creature in an abandoned animal shelter for a moment, and it breaks your heart. It squeezes the organ inside a flaming fist until it shatters like it has never been nothing more than ice.

Your lip starts to tremble, and he notices, as per usual. Nothing escapes this man, except perhaps the true reason for your anguish.

"Hey. Hey."

He comes to you and hugs you like it's the only thing that matters: to comfort you when he sees you're about to cry, no matter how crushed he's feeling himself. The sudden warmth, the intimacy after weeks and weeks of pain is knee-buckling.

"Is there anything I can do to change your mind?"

His voice is soft, so soft… The tears rush forth now; there's no way of stopping them. What the hell can you even say to a question like that? That you wish he could grab a magic wand and turn you into someone gorgeous, the woman he deserves?

His embrace feels good, kind of. It also feels smothering because your self-hate makes you want to disappear from existence entirely. His eyes are equal to physical touch, a probing scan that sees every little flaw, not to talk about massive faults, the ones which make you feel like you're simply disgusting. His touch only reminds you how you must feel like to him: soft, too soft, weak.

And he must hate weakness.

"What do you need me to do? I'll do anything," he tries with a parched throat, then swallows.

It's fucking horrible. This isn't going at all like you had imagined.

"It's not about you," you struggle out of his hold, and he lets you go with reluctance. You have to basically fight your way out of a bone and steel prison. Why would he even want to hold a pathetic woman who's on the brink of ugly crying on top of everything?

"What do you mean?"

He's slightly breathless – and restless as fuck. He's usually so calm; nothing can get to him, nothing can rattle the tower of raw strength. Now you've not only pierced some invisible armor; you can hear pieces of it falling on the floor.

"Have you found someone else?"

What the…

"No." You put as much weight on that word as you possibly can. To imagine that he thinks you are cheating… Fucking cheating on someone like him. "Jesus Christ…"

He takes a deep breath and sighs deeply, sighs out relief, perhaps. Then his razor-sharp stare fixes on you again, and you can see the fear turning into something akin to concern. You suspect you have to tell him the truth, otherwise he will dig it out of you.

"I'm just…"

Jesus, this is just humiliating.

"I'm just not your type."

"What the hell are you talking about," he mutters, the impending fury giving way to momentary surprise.

He gets intense sometimes. This time, the ferocity is born of barely concealed distress. He's broad and magnificent, even in despair. He’s just so fucking fine… The perfect man, someone you had never even imagined yourself with. Pulled down to the world of puny mortals, evidently stressing about losing one.

Losing you.

"If you have someone new, you can just bloody well tell me."

"It's not that. You don't understand–"

"Try me."

"I just…" A tear escapes down your face as you finally break for him. "I'm fat. Okay? And ugly. And–"

"Stop right there."

The look on his face is just… It's priceless, you suppose.

"Bloody fucking hell…"

He looks at the floor, then runs his fingers through the short cut hair on top of his head. You've yanked those blonde strands more times than you can count, nearly every time he's been between your legs, and you miss it – you long for it, like fallen angels long for heaven.

And if there was a time this man was rendered speechless, you would say you were witnessing that moment right now. His brows knit together, then he looks up at you again with blaring disbelief.

"You're serious?"

"Yes."

"This is the reason you wanna break up?"

Ugh.

"Yes?"

His voice grows rougher with every question until it resembles thunder, and you suspect this is the commanding tone his soldiers are used to hearing.

But you're not: it's gravelly, harsh, and betrays the feeling of having been insulted. You feel even more devastated with yourself – it appears you can do nothing right.

"Where has this… idea even come to your head?"

"I don't know."

"And you never thought to ask my opinion?"

"Would you please stop yelling," you whisper and blink back some putrid tears. His mouth is snapped shut, his head pulls back just a little as he realizes what he's done.

"Sorry," he says with a half-whisper, and you catch the strain in his throat. You've never seen him cry, but now his voice is suddenly thin and frail. "I'm sorry."

He takes a step, then another, places fingertips on the counter as if to take the faintest support.

"Can I touch you?"

You don't really want him to do that, but you feel pity for the man. He's trying to find a way through this mess, and you want to help him.

"Yes," you whisper, and he immediately comes and takes you in his arms again. Hot tears disappear into his shirt, and you sniff a few times. He feels so good, so safe, even when you're about to lose him. His hold tightens around you, and the kitchen is silent; the whole world is silent. You don't know if you're being put to a grave or if you're in a deaf womb, waiting to be reborn.

"Now I don't know who's said this shite to you but ugly is the last fucking thing I'd call you," he declares above you. As if it was some bully whose fault it is that you were this way, a bully he could deal with with his fists or a gun. If only things were that easy…

"Have I said or done something? To make you feel this way?"

Then the blade is turned against himself. The man desperately searches for a culprit so he can deal with them.

"No," is the only thing you can say because it's true: he has never done a thing to make you feel like you weren't good enough; quite the contrary. But then again, he doesn't have to. It's enough that he exists and resembles a god.

"Then why do you think you're not my type?"

"Because you're so perfect," you hear yourself wail, no, cry into that shirt that smells of sweet safety and familiar musk – his scent, another thing you have missed like it's the only way to heaven.

"That for sure ain't true."

"But it is."

He seems to have the utmost difficulty in grasping what the issue here is. You can almost hear the wheels turning in his head with a rusty, laborious creak.

"To me, you're perfect," he then says, and you simply… You stop breathing. "You're like… my dream woman. Ever thought about that?"

It can't be true, even if you vehemently, desperately want it to be. You reach out to his words like they're precious food after years of famine. Like they're sun and spring rain after being buried in the cold, dark soil whole winter.

"No…?"

"Never occurred to you that I might find you fucking beautiful?"

"Stop," you whisper, because it's too much to take in. He sounds so serious, so sincere.

"No, I don't think I will."

He pulls back a little and cups your face. Brushes away a tear, looks at you with so much love that it physically hurts; you feel like it's a lance that slowly drives through your heart.

"How about I kiss every part I love about you?"

You let out a soft little whimper. Fuck, that you want him to…

It would also be uncomfortable as hell. To try and let him love you and your body, which you have grown to loathe.

"It's gonna take all night, though. Wanna be as thorough as possible."

"Simon–"

"Love. I want you. Thought I'd made it pretty clear, but apparently I haven't. If you only knew how much–"

He sighs deeply. The man is frustrated with his shortcomings, thinks that this is all his fault. You cry a tear or two just for the sake of how absurd it all is.

"I don't want you to go. I fucking love you. Everything about you."

For the second time this afternoon, your lower lip starts to tremble as if this was some stupid, romantic movie. He can be so soft when he wants to, more romantic than the soft-spoken gentlemen in Jane Austen's novels. It doesn't even require any effort: underneath the cynical surface, there's fiery emotion, so powerful and raw that it almost bleeds out of him. Fuck… Does he even know what he's doing to you?

"I love you too," you whisper back, and the warmth that starts to bloom in his eyes is an entire sun on its own. It's hope, and you believe him, almost believe him.

"Then I'd say it's a bloody bad idea to break up."

You chuckle while few more tears push through to the surface.

"Simon…" You sigh and look back up at him, your armor falling to the floor too. "I feel like a wreck."

You allow him to see the pain, all of it. His breath is sharp as it hits him, but he still doesn't waver.

"Then let me help you."

The arms around you gain more strength, and you're crushed against a chest made of power. He tries to turn shit to gold, and threatens to succeed. You allow yourself to soften in his hold. How good it feels to be supported – no, loved.

"You don't even let me touch you anymore."

It's a filed complaint, but also heart-rending, soul-wrenching longing. You have evaded him for weeks now – hell, this shit began months ago and has escalated gradually, stealthily, until the moments together were a rarity, the space between you was full of frost; and not the crispy, happy summer drink kind.

"I thought you'd found someone else. Could've found out if that was the case in minutes, but honestly, I didn't wanna know."

Oh my God…

Has he lived with a growing suspicion and dread all these months?

That would explain why he has avoided you too…

He has allowed you to go to your supposed lover, has given you space to be alone and without too much attention. The man has shielded himself from pain.

Jesus fucking Christ.

"I'm so sorry," you say with a strained little breath. "I swear it's nothing like that. I just… I feel like a mess."

"Never seen such a gorgeous mess."

He speaks on your skin, the kiss on your forehead feels like an absolution.

Then you notice it's not only his words which try to assure you. He's growing harder by the minute against your stomach, just from a simple hug. Just from being pressed against you like this, after weeks of dry, bitter longing.

"Miss your taste," he murmurs to your skin, his voice like sand wrapped in burning velvet. "The sounds you make when you want it hard."

Oh God–

"Miss your smile when we go to shower after."

"Hmh…"

"Don't wanna live without that smile."

You don't have to.

God, you don't have to…

"How about we make a deal," he draws fingers down your chin, coaxing you to look up at him. His eyes are stripped from the cold distance that greeted you just moments ago: now they are filled with warmth that spreads to your chest and belly and bones. You drink him in like summertide.

"You come to me every time you feel bad and I'll make you feel good. Alright?"

"...Ok."

He tilts his head a little to the side, not entirely satisfied with your shy little answer.

"Come on. Make me believe it."

"It's a deal," you say with more grit to it, even if you're nearly crying again, this time from relief.

"That's my girl."

Oh fuck…

He knows exactly what strings to pull, the good girl talk being one of the things that instantly makes your legs feel like jelly.

And why does he always have to use that voice when he calls you a good girl or his girl, that sultry smoke that makes you want to swoon until he catches you and carries you to bed?

The man seems to be a mind reader as well, because he sweeps you off your feet and does exactly that: carries you to your bed which has mainly seen silent tears and painful sleep last months.

"Poor thing doesn't even know how lovely she is."

He sounds amused in the face of your darkness: sees it in full and still doesn't fear at all. He's ready to battle your demons for you, and you feel like shaking: from his touch and that voice, from the stress and loneliness that starts to release as he lays you down on the bed.

He looks so different from the man that has haunted this place for the past months, the complete opposite of the reserved soldier retreating into the shadows.

No one can fake such fervor.

You try to accept it: accept the fact that even if you hate yourself, he does not. For some reason, he adores you. His breaths hit your face hot and urgent, and he can't keep his hands to himself anymore. They wander over your waist and hips, they even risk to steal a feel of your breasts, and then he groans in your mouth.

"I've missed you. Fuck, I've missed you..."

You taste notes of burning leaves; tobacco, his only weakness. You fantasize on the thought that you might be another weakness, too.

"Remember when I fucked you in my office?"

"I've missed you too," you utter softly in between the kisses that threaten to turn into a sloppy mess. "So much..."

He smiles at that, and it makes you weak, even when lying down like this.

"Yeah…?"

"You were so loud I had to put a hand over your mouth."

His voice is thick as he laughs a short chuckle. Your inner walls clench again at the sound, you throb among the warm syrup surrounding you.

"Never seen you so wet. Almost dripped all over my gear."

"It's that stupid mask you wear," you hear yourself breathe like you've just been underwater. Feel yourself throb some more, feel a burning sensation in the nether areas from the scorched desert turning wet again. You want him so much that it actually hurts down there.

"Knew you'd like it. That's why I kept it on."

If this man keeps talking, your underwear is going to be utterly ruined. And of course he does; of course he continues to pour more love in your ear.

"Everyone looked at you like you were a queen," he grunts in your ear, sounding almost… pissed.

"Don't be ridiculous," you try to form sensible words. It's only a faint breath, really, but he huffs at your modesty.

"You don't have eyes in the back of your head, love."

Wow… He is a bit pissed.

Had they checked your ass out when you visited him?

It was the first and, what you thought, the last time you got to visit him at his workplace… but you never would have guessed the reason for him not asking you to visit again would be jealousy.

"Don't worry. I put those fuckers in their place after you left."

Whoa.

Ok…

First, he had fucked you senseless in his office – a highly inappropriate move for a man in his position – then got jealous because some soldiers had checked you out as you left with his cum practically dripping from your cunt.

You put yourself in his shoes for a moment: he's had to live with thoughts of you running to some other man's arms when he's not home, and then watch you waltz around his workplace after making what was supposed to be the last effort to make him love you… When he has loved and adored you this whole time, has watched the sway of your ass with the rest of those home-deprived, horny soldiers, thinking you had fallen out of love and were on your way to go see some other guy.

Had he invited you there to try and win you back, too? By showing himself to you in all his puffed up, masculine glory? A desperate man in a skull mask, hoping to get love from you…

There's so many misunderstandings; they rip your throat. A sob escapes, and he stops his caress.

"Love… Tell me to stop if you–"

"No. No, I don't want you to stop."

Your request comes out with such demand that he hesitates only a second or two. Then he moves on top of you and tugs your skirt up. You don't even have time to realize what is happening before he has worked himself out of his pants.

He's hard and heavy between your legs, and your eyes go wide as you realize he's not going to bother to take your briefs off. He just slides a hand under the skirt and draws the fabric aside, and the fat tip of him is pushed in the middle almost clumsily. It's hot, and slips down to your opening with ease.

Oh f–

"Been jerking off to you nearly every night at the base," he says just before he pushes himself in.

"Uh–...."

Your thighs spread wide as he fills you slowly, inch after inch. The sound that leaves him is starved: a dry, painful sigh. He's been waiting for this for god knows how long, and you're just as hungry to take him in. He seems endless, the way he finally works himself fully inside, spreading you even wider as the thickening base of his cock reaches its end.

"Thought you were getting railed by someone else while I only get to fuck my hand."

"Oh god…"

There's really nothing else to say as his balls press against you, heavy and taut. He's not going to last long.

"Yeah. Imagine that," he admits, breathless like you.

You look at him with what must be the most helpless stare of longing in your eyes. Then he moves, and you want to grip him to keep him inside. The first thrusts are divine, they're pure heaven, and your head sinks deep into the pillow as you try to get enough air, try to not scream from pleasure already. Somehow, all you are able to utter is a desperate little whisper.

"Simon–"

His cock is good enough to bring tears to your eyes. You're starving too, you're pulling him in with fierce hunger, and he groans, then nearly falls forward, his weight pressing against you, swallowing you, until you feel like you're an idiot for thinking that you're too big. The thickness of his chest rubs against you as he makes love to you with passion that echoes the first times you did this.

"Just wanna adore you, love." He's panting desperate somewhere above you. A god and a man, both furious and gentle. "I wanna adore you. Just like this."

You answer him with what must be those sounds he told you about, the sounds you make when you want it hard.

You want him to fuck you, to wreck you after weeks of loneliness and hate. To love you until you break into a million pieces.

"Simon," you whisper. "...Love me."

He halts, huffs in your neck. It's almost a sob. There's so much emotion and desperation in the air that it could be scooped up and sold in the streets.

"Always," he rasps in your ear, then moves to kiss you again. "Always."

The promise echoes around you, it coats your lips as he loves you with all he has. It's been so long, and he feels so good that you nails dig into his shirt, his shoulder, you try to hold onto him even though he's the wave that rocks you.

"You feel that?" He goes deep; he's out of breath and desperate, even more desperate than you. "That's love. You feel it, yeah?"

"Yes," you sob in his shoulder, tears trying to escape your waterline as you're going dumb from the pure sensation, the sensuality of it all.

"That's it, love. That's a good girl," he turns to your neck and gruffs in your ear as you whimper and moan. "Always such a good girl."

Shit…

"I, I'm gonna…"

Your legs wrap around his middle, your muscles twitch and your hands reach and grab – they claw and yank and tug everything they can: his back, shoulders, shirt, something sturdy to keep you from drowning in a glorious orgasm.

He laughs in your neck and continues to grind you through your climax even when you're shattering, sighing, moaning, writhing under him. He just laughs, the man who never laughs: from witnessing you respond to him calling you a good girl.

Fucking bastard…

Lovable, infuriating bastard who knows you to your core.

You're an overstimulated heap by the time he comes as well, not long after you, but long enough to make you feel like you're only a tender bunch of nerves. Your legs have fallen to the side, he has open access to take what he needs: you, your love, all of it.

His whole middle goes tense as he cums, he groans and swears somewhere deep into your neck, rolls his hips over and over again like it's a must that his balls press against you with every thrust that shoot his load.

Then he falls slack, nearly collapses on top of you, reminding you of what it feels like to be small under a giant like him. You're throbbing together, you're full and fulfilled, and he is still lodged deep inside you, panting and broken in a sweat.

"Jesus Christ…"

He sounds dazed.

Relieved.

"Should've done this weeks ago."

You laugh at seeing him so done – a man in love, torn by jealous yearning, finally taking what's his. You stroke his neck, his back – it's so good to have him finally there… So close, with no barriers in between.

"I should've talked to you weeks ago..."

"Yeah. You should have."

"Are you going to punish me?" You giggle a little – the flirt is light and frees your heart further from its recent jail. He moves to look at you with all the tenderness there is. It's too much... His love is too much. But you won't run from it anymore.

"Nah. Think I'm gonna spoil you some more."

He spoils you right away with a kiss. You surrender to his treatment with happiness: happy tears, even.

The medicine to your anguish has been the exact opposite to what you had first tried, what you had originally thought. The true remedy for your sickness is mercy. Perhaps some spoiling…

And love.

#simon riley #ghost #fan fiction #feedback

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disgruntledspacedad · 4 years ago

Text

The Rules of Engagement (1/5)

part one of the The Better Love Series

pairing: Javier Peña x fem reader

summary: (slow-burn, sexual tension, angst, a little bit of h/c in later chapters) He’s a DEA agent. You work for Centra Spike. Peña’s not your boss, exactly, but you’ve been fwb long enough that certain people are starting to think of you as An Item, and that just won’t do.

words: 6.3k

warnings: 18+ - drugs, violence, language, alcohol, eventual smut.

a/n: at the end. @tiffdawg, I finally did it.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

MASTERLIST

Your alarm buzzes, and you roll over groggily.

0615.

Goddamn. You flop a pillow over your head, blocking out the early morning sun, and wonder if three hours of sleep is any better than no sleep at all.

Somehow, you kind of doubt it.

The alarm blares again, a failsafe you’d been wise enough to set up after round two had led you to the shower. You gather your still-damp hair, wincing at how gross that feels, and elbow Peña in the shoulder.

“Morning, sunshine!” You toss your soggy pillow onto his face.

He grunts pathetically, cracks an eye just enough to send you a sliver of resentment, and lifts a middle finger vaguely in your direction.

You’re completely unsympathetic. “Not my fault this time, Peña.”

He curses you in Spanish as you flick on the lights on your way to the kitchen. Coffee is your first order of business.

You’re not sure exactly when Agent Peña became a fixture in your apartment. Oh, you can nail down the general timeline pretty well - a night out with the Search Bloc boys had ended with Peña coming to your place, and things had unfolded naturally from there. The sex was good. Very good. You’ve always had a high drive, and Peña is a man who can deliver. You’re pretty creative, and he’s fairly open minded, and neither of you seem to care to make things complicated with Labels and Conversations. Somewhere down the line, wild nights out evolved into even wilder nights in, and then, before you knew it, you’d let Peña borrow your spare key when he’d left his wallet on your coffee table.

That had been at least two months ago. The sex is still good, and Peña is still leaving his shit everywhere, so neither of you bothered to say anything about it.

It works. That’s all that matters.

You’ve just sat down with your drink in your hands as the doorbell buzzes. “What the fuck?” You glance at the kitchen clock. It’s not even 0630.

The doorbell buzzes again.

You eyeball the gun that Peña has left lying on the kitchen counter. Nobody should be looking for you this early in the morning.

“Hey!” Somebody is knocking now, and shouting, and ugh, you recognize that voice. You leave the gun where it is - somewhat reluctantly - and slam open the door with a ferocity that sends Steve Murphy stumbling into your kitchen.

“Good morning,” you say serenely.

“Good morning to you, too, Ears,” Murphy grimaces up at you.

“That’s not my name,” you remind him for the thousandth time. Not that it will make any difference. Ever since you’d made the mistake of introducing yourself as Centra Spike’s new liaison by saying, “I’ll be your ears,” the Search Bloc boys had leapt at the opportunity to tease. You’re pretty sure most of them don’t realize that you have any other name.

Somehow, it irks you more coming from Murphy.

“What are you doing here?” you ask as politely as your temper allows. Murphy has never been your favorite person, and your caffeine definitely hasn’t kicked in yet.

Murphy rights himself, fixing you with a glare that doesn’t threaten in the slightest. “I’m looking for Javi,” he says. He has the audacity to glance around your tiny living space, as if he’d come with a search warrant.

You fold your arms across your chest, suddenly aware of your too-thin nightshirt, and lift a brow in Murphy’s direction. “And what makes you think he’d be here?”

Murphy pins you with an ‘I see right through your bullshit’ expression. “Call it a hunch.”

Right on cue, footsteps clatter down the kitchen stairs. Murphy smirks. You don’t bother to hide a sigh.

Fuck.

“What are you doing here?” Peña echoes you unconsciously. You try not to cringe at the smug glance Murphy throws your way.

Instead, you turn to glare at Javi, and oh god.

His shirt is buttoned all wrong, hanging lopsided and displaying half his chest, if he’d just given up at the top.

Subtle.

Murphy apparently doesn’t have the stones to address it, because he waves a manilla folder in front of Peña’s face. “Special delivery,” he says, dropping the file on your coffee table with a smack.

Peña dives for it, brow furrowed. Whatever he sees must be good, because he snaps his head up to stare at Murphy. “Where did you get these?” he asks, thumbing through the pages.

“My contact in Medellín.” Steve rests his hands on his belt ever so casually, as if daring Peña to question him.

Peña does. “Since when do you have a contact in Medellín?”

You wonder the same. Partners are usually aware of each other’s informants, unless it’s that kind of contact. Isn’t Murphy married?

“Not important.” Murphy shuts him down quickly.

“Verdugo,” Peña breathes.

You shoot a questioning glance at Murphy. In the three months you’ve been in Colombia, your Spanish is rapidly improving, but Murphy has been here longer, and some things are still beyond you. “Butcher,” he translates with a grimace. “Or executioner. One of Escobar’s top sicarios.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Lovely.”

Peña glances up, surprised to hear you speak, as if he’d forgotten that he’s standing in your living room.

Murphy doesn’t acknowledge you. “He’s in Medellín, Javi.” He stretches, then makes for your front door. “I’m gonna turn in for a bit. Late night.”

Peña grunts, settling on your sofa with the file as Murphy sees himself out.

You sidle up behind him, curious. He knows you’re there - your hair is falling over his shoulder and you’re doing nothing to stifle your breathing, but Peña’s only acknowledgement of your presence is to shift his body ever so slightly to the left, unspokenly granting you access to the file.

You bite your lip, pleased and a little unnerved at the implication. You suppose that Peña wouldn’t be Peña unless he’s breaking the rules. He certainly has a reputation for it.

It hits a little differently, though, knowing that he’s committing a felony just to satisfy your curiosity. And on your fucking sofa, too.

You shake the butterflies away. Peña is flipping through a series of grainy photos, each showcasing the same guy. Somebody, Murphy probably, has circled his face in red ink, and there are further notes in the margins, written hastily. Landmarks, you guess. Peña is reading too fast for you to decipher much, but you spot a map of what you assume is Medellín in the shuffle. It is similarly annotated with scrawling red ink.

Peña flips through the file once, and then again, slower.

You brace yourself on on your forearms, glancing at the clock. You aren’t expected at the embassy until eight - you can afford to be patient.

Whatever this is, it’s big.

Deciding you’ve gleaned all you can from the file, you turn your attention to Peña. He’s leaned forward on your sofa, arms on thighs, lost in thought. Every muscle is tensed, as if he could spring up at any moment, his gaze is narrowed, his brow furrowed in a way that tempts you to lick it.

The thought startles you. You aren’t a goddamn animal.

Are you? Your mind drifts to Murphy, smirking with his arms folded in your kitchen like he could see through your nightshirt, right into your fucking brain.

A stone sinks in your chest. Landing this position with Centra Spike had been your first big break in a lifetime of frustrations. You’d joined the army fresh out of school, angling to be an analyst with the special forces. The good ol’ U. S. of A. had gladly foot the bill for your education in exchange for you signing your life away, and you’d chugged through a mind-numbingly boring double major of mathematics and computer science, all on the sage advice of your recruiter.

The reality of active duty was a kick in the fucking teeth. The brass had taken one look at you - a wide-eyed, idealistic woman with a big hair and bigger goals - and promptly slapped you with a desk job. You’d spent three more years rotting away in a forgotten back corner of an office building in Kuwait, filing reports and delivering messages. Occasionally, they’d throw you a bone and hand you a code to rewrite. Your commanding officer got all the credit, and you were just a glorified secretary.

By the time your contract was up, you’d been sidelined, interrupted, passed-over, underestimated, scoffed, and just flat-out ignored enough to be thoroughly fed up with military life. The glass ceiling in the U.S. Army is raised just high enough to suffocate its victims slowly, and you were sick sick of being stifled.

Being recruited by the CIA for analyst work in the hunt for Pablo Escobar had been pure, dumb luck. Right now, you might just be a liaison, but this is your shot. Your last one, probably, and you’re not willing to give it up just to get laid.

Not even for the best lay of your life.

Peña slaps the file shut with gentle smack, startling you from your thoughts. He reaches for his boots, moving with a single-minded determination that you’d find sexy if it weren’t so damned inconvenient.

“Peña.”

He doesn’t react, just gathers his badge and keys from the end table as if you aren’t even there.

“Peña.” You say it louder this time.

“Hmm?”

“Javi!” You call his name without even realizing it, and it works. His head snaps up, eyes wide, staring at you as if he’s just now seen you for the first time.

You have his undivided attention now.

“Yeah?” He blinks, all wide brown eyes, and fuck it all, you can feel yourself flushing under his gaze.

You swallow hard, push past the strange flutter in your chest. “We’re getting too predicable.”

His brow furrows. “Come again?”

You decide to take the high road, but you can’t stop your lips twitching at the obvious joke that he’s left himself open for. He’s quick to follow your though process, though - his eyes sparkle with laugher, daring you to call him on his blunder.

Shit.

You press on. “This,” you start, grimacing. He’s still looking at you, and his expression is warm. Flirtatious. “What we’re doing…” Goddamn, your face is aflame. “I mean, we’re not exactly subtle.”

He draws back, expression shuttering instantly. “Don’t worry about Murphy,” he says firmly. “He’ll keep his mouth shut.”

The ‘if he knows what’s good for him’ is clearly implied.

“It’s not just Murphy,” you press. You can’t exactly put into words what it is that you're trying to make Peña understand, you just know it's important that he does.

“What are you suggesting?” He’s standing now, still holding the file against his chest, as if to defend himself with it.

You shake your head. “I think,” you say slowly, trying hard not to catch his eye, “that we need to cool it.”

Silence. You can feel his raised eyebrow.

You step forward. You’re focusing hard on finding the right words without revealing too much, but your hands are desperate for something to do. “We need to stop fucking around.”

There, you said it.

“Oh?” There’s something amused in his tone, but you shrug it off, still refusing to look at him.

“Yeah,” you answer hotly. “Isn’t this fraternization? Shouldn’t we be worried about our careers, or some shit? We both have a lot to lose here.” You glance up, emboldened by your speech. “Do you want to catch Escobar or not?”

He’s looking down at you, not taking you the least bit seriously, expression damn near indulgent.

Indignation sets a fire in your chest.

“You think you can just quit me, cold turkey,” he asks in a voice as smooth as silk.

Goddammit, he’s mocking you.

“Absolutely.” You look him firmly in the eye, former awkwardness forgotten, more determined than you’ve ever been.

He huffs directly in your face. “You won’t last a week, Ears.” He cups your cheek in his hand, skimming your jawline with his thumb. “I know you, remember.”

Oh, the bastard. “You think you can go longer?” You counter, stepping into his chest. You’re pissed now. Peña is a well-known man whore, and you know, know, that you are exactly his type.

He laughs now, openly and genuinely amused. “Longer than you,” he says, glancing down at where your hands are absently fiddling with the buttons of his shirt.

Oh, fuck.

“I’m fixing you, you absolute asshole,” you hiss, beyond grateful that you’ve yet to undo his last cockeyed button. “Unless you want to show up at the office all freshly fucked and lopsided.” You hold up the hem of his shirt, clearly displaying his mismatched edges.

“Oh.” At least he has the grace to look abashed.

“Yeah,” you swallow dryly, suddenly aware of how close he his, smelling of coffee and cigarettes, sex and the scent of your own bedsheets.

Goddamn, you want him already.

You push it all away, patting him condescendingly on the chest. Two can play this game. “Just looking out for your career, Agent Peña.”

He sighs somewhat theatrically, but you can see the conflict warring in him.

“Well, then, Ears,” he says after a long moment. He rebuttons his shirt properly this time, fingers working quickly. “Guess I’ll see you around.”

You meet his gaze evenly. “Guess so.”

The door shuts behind him, and you sink to the sofa. It’s still warm from where he’d been sitting.

Oh fuck, what have you done?

♠

You’re not watching, you’re not, but you can’t help but notice when Peña comes swaggering into the office at ten am, wearing those sunglasses and those fucking too-tight, dark wash jeans, chugging a cup of coffee like he knows that his exposed neck is a weapon.

You make eye contact through the glass, just for a moment, and he winks at you.

You smirk back, a plan forming in your mind.

This means war.

♠

You retaliate by letting your hair curl wild over your shoulders and squeezing yourself into a leather skirt that is just barely work appropriate. The Search Bloc boys bombard you with whistles and winks and catcalls all day.

It’s worth it, though, to see Agent Peña’s eyes go wide and blinking, to watch him swallow so hard.

“Fucking tease,” Murphy hisses as you glide past his desk.

You flip him off in response.

♠

Your apartment feels strangely empty.

It’s Saturday afternoon. Search Bloc is investigating a tip in Medellín, and Centra Spike doesn’t need you in today. You briefly consider going out, but that would involve changing out of your sweats, and besides, aside from the Search Bloc guys, you really don’t have many friends in Colombia.

You sit down on your sofa, drawing the coffee table toward you, and deal yourself a hand of solitaire. The cards had belonged to your dad before he passed them down to you, and they are comfortable in your hand, worn soft with age. There’s a trick to shuffling a deck this old, and something comfortable in the practice.

The hand you deal is a losing hand.

Frustrated, you stomp down the stairs to the little pharmacy below your flat. “Hola, Emilio!” you wave to the older man working the counter. Emilio doesn’t speak much English, and your Spanish is improving slower than you’d like, but you mostly manage to communicate just fine.

You make your way to the little display of liquor bottles and ponder it for a minute. There’s nothing remotely recognizable on the shelves, but you’re not exactly committed to buying anything, anyway.

There’s nothing more pathetic than drinking alone.

A presence at your shoulder makes you jump. It’s just Emilio. He smiles at you, and reaches for a bottle of clear liquor whose packaging reminds you a little too much of antiseptic hand spray for comfort. He presses it into your hands. “Guaro.”

“This is what I need, then?” you ask him. “Este? It’s good?”

“Guaro.” He’s nodding and grinning, rattling something in rapid-fire Spanish that you’re far too slow to translate. The enthusiasm behind it is hard to miss, though.

“He says it’s good and strong. Respect it, and it will respect you.” Emilo’s daughter winks up at you. She’s bent over, stocking shelves, and you’d missed her, distracted as you’d been by your conversation with Emilio.

You smile gratefully. Ana must be home from university this weekend. You’ve only met once or twice, but she’s kind, and doesn’t mind translating for you. You think you might have been friends, if she was around more.

“Gracias,” you tell her, and mean it. “Aguardiente,” you sound out slowly, frowning down at the bottle. “Sugar water?”

“Something like that.” Ana rises, leaving the box of chicharrones on the floor. “You’ll find that most of the locals just call it guaro. It’s a staple in Colombia. Hard to find anywhere else, and even transporting it between cities is dangerous.” She rolls her eyes and shrugs, as if to say, ‘what’s new?’

“But it’s just liquor, right?”

“Yeah, I think so. Alcohol, sugar, anise…” She shrugs, and laughs. “Simple, but there’s something magic about it. You don’t want to go too hard with this. Sit down and have a small glass with a lime. Slower is better.”

You frown. Anise. It jogs something in your memory, some long-forgotten fact…

“Trust me.” Ana is at your elbow now, pinning you with an earnest stare. “It hits hard, and fast. Papa wasn’t lying.”

You laugh. “Is that the college experience speaking?”

“Oh, yes. Seguro.”

Ana follows you as you take the bottle of guaro to the register. “And how are your classes going?” you ask as Emilio rings you up.

Ana grimaces, shaking her head as she cuts her gaze to Emilio. “It’s good to have a little break,” she admits.

You sympathize with that. You hadn’t cared too much for the tedium of higher education either. Emilio hands you a little paper bag, and you wave goodbye to him with a smile. “I’ll have to catch you when you’ve got a free weekend,” you tell Ana as you head toward the stairs that lead to your flat. You hold up the liquor suggestively. “You can teach me all about how to respect this guaro.”

Ana laughs. “What are you doing this evening? We close up at eight.”

Your face breaks into a grin. It’s hard making friends in Colombia just with the language barrier alone, never mind that your work with Centra Spike forces you to keep so many secrets. Without Peña around, life here is lonely. But Ana seems innocent enough, and it’s just a drink. “Perfect! I’ll be here.”

You walk up the steps feeling much lighter than when you descended them.

♠

Ana doesn’t stay long. She looks around your apartment, carefully assessing, then nodding as if satisfied.

You let it go.

She teaches you to tap the bottom of the bottle to expel the liquor, almost as if you’re pouring ketchup from a glass container. Looking at the contents, they don’t seem particularly viscous. When you ask her why this is necessary, Ana shrugs. “It’s a mystery,” she tells you, and you write it off as one of the eccentricities of Colombian culture, paying rapt attention as Ana begins explaining one of only three acceptable ways to serve the guaro.

♠

“I’ve got something for you,” you announce brightly, slapping both hands firmly on Javier Peña’s desk and leaning in just a hair too close to be strictly professional.

“Oh?” His face breaks into a slow smirk, and he tilts back in his swivel chair, stretching just enough to give you a good view of those too-tight jeans as he hooks his fingers behind his head. “And what’s that?”

Smug fucking bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. You cool your jets and wink at him, teasing a manilla file for him to see. “We thought you might like this.”

“We?”

“Okay, fine, Jacoby caught some chatter, but I vetted it,” you press on, refusing to let him derail you. This is huge. “It’s Verdugo.”

Peña glances up at you, suddenly intense. “You sure?”

“Well, it’s not him personally,” you admit. “At least, not his voice. But,” You slam the transcript down on his desk. “We caught an entire conversation verifying his presence at a safehouse in Medellín.” You pause for full dramatic effect before going in for the kill. “A specific safehouse in Medellín.”

Javi reverts to Agent Peña instantly, all flirting forgotten as he leans forward on his elbows. “Show me.”

You bend over, noticing absently that your hair is once again falling into his face as you tap your finger over the address. Peña settles in to read the full report as you watch, his eyes darting back and forth over the pages at a rate that is truly impressive. When he glances back up at you, the ferocity of his gaze is startling.

“They’re getting ready to make a move.” There’s something like a spark of hope in his eyes, tiny, but growing stronger as he processes the information you’ve given him.

“Yeah,” you say, throat suddenly dry. He’s looking at you with earnest gratitude, and it tugs at something deep in your chest.

“This is big,” he breathes, and just like that, he’s on his feet, gathering the file, punching a number into his desktop telephone.

“This is Peña,” he says as the call connects. “We’ve got something.”

♠

It’s dark when you finally get home. Claudia Messina, head of DEA operations in Colombia, had cornered you in her office for hours, going over and over the information you’d vetted. You brain is absolutely fried, the victory of the discovery stifled by having to defend your work again and again.

You just need a drink.

“About time!” a voice startles you as you turn to shut the door behind you. You jump, barely suppressing a shriek, and whirl around.

Goddamn Javier Peña with his goddamned spare key.

He’s smirking at you from your sofa, cigarette dangling from his fingers. Any other day, you’d have noticed his presence instantly just from the smell.

“What the fuck?” Your voice is more of a whine than you’d like, but dammit, you’re tired, and dammit, he’s gotten one over on you.

He knows it, too, the smug bastard. “Expecting somebody else?” he asks, sauntering toward you with a devastating smile that manages to be both possessive and suggestive all at once.

“No,” you answer somewhat grumpily. “I wasn’t expecting anybody.”

Given your sulky attitude, you’re surprised to see that his smile brightens a bit. You frown at him, still confused as to why the fuck he is here, and he bustles into the kitchen, clinking around, pouring you a drink.

You sigh and relax onto the sofa. At least you’ll have that.

He comes back, a tumbler of clear liquor in each hand. Ah, so he’s found your guaro. You suspect that he’s helped himself to at least one measure already. He hands you a glass, and you take it gratefully, sniffing at the contents.

He’s drinking it neat, apparently.

“So!” he says, settling beside you on the sofa, close enough that your thighs touch. He pins you with an intense stare. You raise a brow in response, intrigued and a little confused.

He smiles. “Your tip from this morning was a gold mine, Ears.” He eases back, propping his feet on your coffee table in a way that you should probably reprimand him for. He sips, sighs, leans in to bump your shoulder playfully, then settles with his hands at his waist, long fingers fiddling with the glass he’s cradling. “Martinez wants us to go for Verdugo tomorrow,” he tells you, suddenly serious. “Based on your information.”

“Really?” You can hardly believe it. Most of what you do is verify things that others have found, or carry files from Centra Spike to Search Bloc. Same old, same old. Even though you’ve trained for this for years, you’ve never been integral in interpreting and locating a conversation before, especially not for a target as high level as Verdugo.

Javi twists to smile up at you, a real smile. “Really,” he says, pointing a finger in your direction. He watches you fight back a grin. “Go on, be smug. This is big.”

“Wow,” you mouth, somewhat awed that you’ve contributed anything, let alone this, to the hunt for Pablo Escobar.

The reaction isn’t lost on Javi. He sits up, wraps his arms around your shoulders and squeezes gently. “Pretty much. You gave us enough information that we feel confident about initiating a sting in Medellín.” He reaches up with both hands, catching your face at the edge of your jaw and drawing you close. “We couldn’t have done it without you, Ears.”

Ears. Yours are burning at the heat of his touch. You’re acutely aware of his palms cupping your cheeks. His eyes are dark, too dark, and open, looking at you as if you’ve single handled handed Escobar to the DEA on a golden platter.

You suppress a shudder, leaning in to him as he pulls you in for a hug. Christ, his body feels so good as it cradles yours, arms snaking around your back, stubble gritting awkwardly into your cheek, the scent of smoke and liquor clouding you -

You wonder, abruptly, how much he’s had to drink.

“Peña,” you say swiftly, pulling away from him to stand. The way he’s looking at you right now, giddy and awestruck and openly hungry, well, it’s not going to last. You know it won’t. It can’t.

His face falls, as if he’s confused at your sudden rejection.

You shake your head. Peña is just drunk. You guys aren’t like this. You don’t hug and share and hold each other. It was only ever sex, and it’s not even that anymore.

You’re overwhelmed, suddenly and without warning, at how desperately you want him.

Not just the sex, though honestly, you have missed that. No, what you want is -

You shove that thought down, locking it away so deeply that it will never see the light of day.

You cannot have feelings for Javier Peña.

“Ears?” he questions, tilting his head just so, managing to look more sober than he has all evening.

“I just need another drink,” you say as you sidestep him, making your way to the kitchen. You watch him from the corner of your eyes as his gaze follows you. He seems to take your deference at face value - he’s lighter than you’ve seen him in weeks, excited, almost chipper, if you can believe it. The meeting with Martinez must have gone very well. You snort, contrasting his meeting to yours with Messina. The dissonance is enough to wonder, offhandedly, if some not-so-subtle sexism is at play.

You shake off that thought. It’s not helpful, just depressing, especially here in Colombia. Instead, you turn to look at Javi.

He’s still flopped on your sofa, his original drink in his hand, hunched over the stack of playing cards that you’d left out last night.

Your dad had taught you to play solitaire from a young age. There’s a variation for two players, a game which one will inevitably win, but the real challenge is for the single player, in which triumph relies equally on skill and luck. Last night, after Ana had left, you’d played a long, brutal game, ultimately finding yourself blocked, helpless to do anything but shuffle the deck over, and over, and over again.

Losing two games in a row is just shameful, and you’d left the cards on the table, eager to look at them again with fresh eyes.

Javi eyeballs the game with a furrowed brow. You’d managed to make it quite far. Had the cards fallen in any different order, you’d have won easily. Carefully, Javi flicks over one card from the stack, frowns, then another. This one is a red queen, and he plays it eagerly, shuffling the black jack to its new position and opening up another space.

“Hey!” you protest. He glances up at you, bemused, and you shove a newly made drink into his hand as you settle beside him.

“You missed that move,” he explains, pointing exaggeratedly with the pinky finger that holds the tumbler.

You roll your eyes. “I play draw three,” you correct him. You reshuffle the cards to their original places, this time drawing three from the deck: a five of spades on top, Javi’s red queen in the middle, and the ace of spades below both. The top card, the five of spades, has no place to be played, so you flip all three cards into the discard pile and draw three more from the deck.

Javi frowns. “Seems like you’re making it a lot harder than it has to be.”

You sigh. Men. “Single draw solitaire is for kids,” you counter with a vicious smile. “Just for them to learn to play the game. Real players draw three.”

He huffs, “Oh, really?” he’s smirking up at you, eyes sparkling in amusement. “Are you the kind of woman who likes a challenge, Ears?”

He’s just dying to prove you wrong.

“I’m the kind of woman who refuses to cut corners just so I can win a dumb card game.” you inform him sagely.

“Hmmm,” he says, staring contemplatively at the cards. You let him shuffle through the deck twice, each time verifying what you already know - the game, played as it is, is unbeatable.

‘Seems a little silly to me,’ he teases, bopping you on the nose. “Letting your ego get in the way of winning.”

Of course Javier Peña would see it that way. You kick back, letting your feet settle at the edge of the coffee table. “Go on then,” you tell him, siping at your drink. “Swoop in and save my game with your kiddie version, you fucking hero.”

He laughs overtly at that, eyes sparkling, and something clenches hard in your chest. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so open, laughing and flirting and playing stupid games after a long day at work.

It’s nice.

You settle in to watch him work his magic. He’s making plays at an alarming rate - it seems like no time at all before the deck is empty.

You glance at the clock, biting back a sigh. Less than five minutes.

He’s smirking up at you, all mussed and smug, eyes alight with warmth, and suddenly, something swoops dangerously in your belly.

That hair, those eyes, his laugh. Warm skin in the dim glow of the lamplight, his body sprawled over your sofa, just begging to be teased.

You wonder again why he’s here. You’ve made it clear that there’s no more sex, so…

Oh, god.

Glancing back down at him, tousled hair and crooked smile, ridiculous mustache, plopped indelicately on your sofa, you suddenly realize.

Javier Peña had sought you out for your company. For no other reason than that he’d had a good day, and wanted to share it with you.

And oh, oh god.

You’re still so caught up in the sex and your fucking feelings that you can’t divorce that from your friendship, which is obviously important to him. He’s not out celebrating with Murphy - he’s here, in your apartment, with no expectation other than to kick your ass by cheating at children’s card games.

The realization takes the breath from your lungs.

You’re the problem here. Just like with the fucking card game, you’re the one making it complicated.

Javi needs a friend.

Javi needs a friend, and he’d sought you out so that you can just chill together, and all you can think as he shuffles those damned cards is how the callouses of his fingers would catch deliciously against your clit as he dips them inside you.

And, and…

You cut off that dark thought. You are not going there.

Jesus Christ, what kind of friend are you?

“Well, this calls for a celebration,” you say. It’s a beat too late and obviously hollow, but Javi doesn’t seem to notice, and you’ve managed to keep the tremor out of your voice, so that’s a win. You rise, making for the kitchen, desperate to do something with your hands. You find yourself pouring Javi yet another drink - is this his third? Or fourth? You aren’t sure - and making yourself a second, much lighter version.

The last thing you want is to do something stupid.

Javi meets you at the kitchen bar, and you slide the tumbler across to him. He eyeballs it speculatively, raising it and tilting it to view the contents in the dim kitchen light.

“Goddamn, Ears.” He snorts. “Are you trying to poison me?”

The denial falls from your tongue as he tilts back his glass from earlier, his second, - or third? - the one that you’d made. He swallows, pushing the empty glass back into you hand, and stands, catching himself on the edge of the table as if he’d moved too fast.

“Alright?” you ask.

He takes a deep breath, then straightens, slowly letting go of the countertop. “Fine,” he says, cocking a brow at you. “But what is that stuff?”

You laugh. “Emilio, you know, from downstairs, he found it for me. Says it’s a Colombian staple, and I can’t leave without having a bottle at least once.”

Javi blinks one too many times, then giggles. Despite your best effort, you snort at the sound. "Well then,” he raises his full tumblr to your half full one, and they clink awkwardly. “To local rotgut and poor life choices,” he toasts, as solemnly as he as able.

“Salud!” you counter, managing to sound a just a hair more sober. Javi is swaying as he stands, and suddenly, you’re concerned. “When did you last eat?”

He glances at you, tilting his head as if your question makes no goddamn sense, and you sigh heavily. Idiot man.

“Okay, hold off on that one,” you warn him - he looks as if he’s about to toss it back, too. “Let me at least make you some eggs first.”

“Eggs?”

You’re already bustling around your tiny kitchen, pulling a pan from below the stove. “Yeah, moron,” you tell him, unable to stop the grin that catches your lips. “Eggs and salsa. Best food for staving off a hangover that I’ve found so far.”

Javi throws back the rest of his drink anyway, then comes to press his body to your side. “Is that a fact?”

“It’s a fucking science,” you counter, unable to resist slamming your hips into his to nudge him out of the way as you reach into the fridge for the butter.

He wraps his arms around your shoulders, sinking his face into the crook of your neck. “How can I be of assistance?” he purrs into your ear, and suddenly, it’s very, very hard to concentrate on cooking.

“Sit. Down.” You hiss, slapping his butt with a dishtowel. He yowls more than strictly necessary, the drama queen; you’re an excellent towel-popper, but it shouldn’t hurt that much.

Still, you rub his ass in compensation, matching his lecherous grin when he fixes it on you. “Have a seat,” you tell him again, kicking a barstool vaguely in his direction. “And watch the magic.”

♠

Javi cleans his plate enthusiastically. “So what’s the secret?” he asks, mouth full, still staring up at you like your shitty scrambled eggs are the best meal he’s ever eaten.

You snort. “No secret, Peña.” You hold up your stick of butter, much lighter than it’d been before, and toss it back into the fridge. “You literally just watched me cook them.”

He grins loopily.

You shake your head, biting back your own smile. How could a man as competent and independent as Javier Peña forget to do something as basic as eat?

Well, it hardly matters. Even with the food you’ve made, he’s going to have a massive hangover in the morning. Ana had cautioned you several times to go easy on the guaro, and you trust her judgement. Emilio’s shit, in particular, is cheap, potent, and deadly.

Well, he’ll pay for it tomorrow. You shake you head, watching him bumble around the kitchen and drop his dirty plate in the sink. Javi stands at your side, warm and solid as you draw just enough water to let the dishes soak.

He reaches for your dish soap, and you stop him with a hand on his arm. Javi glances down at you, still a little drunkenly, but his eyes are warm, his lips parted just slightly, and you pull away from him as if burned.

“I’ll get them in the morning,” you manage hoarsely.

He shrugs, brushes your shoulder with his hand as he bumbles away, and you take a moment to lean against the sink and calm your racing heart.

God, what is with you lately?

Javi has already crashed on your sofa, shoes kicked off, legs sprawled, grinning lazily in your direction.

You manage not to oogle at him, but it’s a near thing.

Instead, you flop down on his opposite side, allowing your legs to tangle in the middle.

He makes a big show of yawning, tilting his wrist up to glance at his watch. You crane your neck to look at the kitchen clock. It’s only 10:33, but you’re both feeling a little lit - Javi more than you, thankfully - and you both have a big day tomorrow.

You sigh, reaching down to collect the empty glasses and discarded playing cards, slipping Javi’s keys in your back pocket while he’s not looking.

He scoffs.

Oh. You whirl, realizing he’d been watching you all along.

“So, am I staying over, Ears?” He grins up at you, a little tired, but still in an excellent mood.

“You are definitely staying over, Peña,” you tell him firmly, trying not to laugh at the wounded puppy expression on his face as he reacts to your tone. His eyes have gone so wide, pout so pathetic that you can’t help but grin, even as you toss a throw pillow haphazardly over his lap.

That seems to get a rise out of him. He sits up, frowning at the pillow. “I’m on the sofa?” he whines.

“Yup!’ you say happily, enjoying the power dynamic for what it is. Putting Javier Peña in your bed tonight would lead straight to…

Well, you’re both drunk, and even if you weren’t, you’re not willing to give up on your bet. Not with the nasty realization that you’d had tonight, for sure.

Javi must follow your thoughts, because he sobers instantly. “Okay,” he says softly, settling back down and cramming the pillow beneath his shoulder.

You’re kind enough to tuck him in, which really just consists of dragging your comforter from you bed and draping it over his ass and shoulders. His boots are lying haphazardly on the floor - you decide to leave them for him to trip over in the morning - and you don’t bother to cover his feet, knowing that he sleeps with his socks outside of the blanket, the weirdo.

Just as you turn away, a single brown eye catches your gaze. He’d been watching you again.

The thought sends a tremor down your spine. “Need anything else?” you ask clinically, trying to ignore the urge to either kiss him, or scream.

He huffs contentedly, rocking against the cushions like an animal sinking into a burrow. His eyes drift closed, and you can’t help but just notice how dark his lashes are against his cheek. “Can’t think of anything,” he murmurs, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

“Okay. Good night,” you tell him, squeezing his shoulder as you pass by to turn out the lights.

“Night, babe.”

You choke. Well, maybe he won’t remember.

Fat chance. He’s drunk, but he’s not wasted. You decide to raise him, because any other response from you will be awkward, forever.

“Good night, honey,” you answer sweetly as you flick off the light.

In the darkness, you hear him snort.

♠

author’s notes/confessions:

I have never written Javier Peña. I have never written in second person. I have never written decent smut. I speak no Spanish. Advice and criticisms, if delivered kindly, are very welcome.

Yeah, I realize that I wrote Javi a little lighter/goofier here than he’s probably typically depicted. Hang tight, guys. He’s not taking this seriously yet, but he will be. Just wait.

Guaro/Aguardiente a legit Colombian liquor, and I tried to depict it as accurately as possible for never having tried it. The anise thought that reader has is a reference to absinthe, which is a trip if you’ve ever managed to acquire the real deal (something that’s kind of difficult if you live in the States, unfortunately). Also, I’m unsure if you can just walk into a pharmacy and buy liquor in Colombia, but hey, just go with it.

This started as a conversation with Tiff and turned into... well, this. I am so, so sorry. Expect about 20k and three chapters. Probably.

Not beta’d. you get what you get, my friends.

At the risk of sounding pathetic, your feedback absolutely inspires me to write faster. I don’t make the rules, guys. I just write.

This installment is (mostly) complete, but I’d love to hear what you like and what you don’t, and what you want to see next. My inbox is open. I welcome messages. I want to make friends.

Love you guys big, and happy holidays to those of you who are celebrating!

#Javier Peña #narcos #javi x reader #Javier Peña x reader #pedro pascal #javier pena #javier pena x reader #javi x you #narcos fic #smut #narcos fanfiction #pedro fandom #pedro fanfiction #Javier Peña x you #Javier Peña imagine #narcos netflix

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orionares · 3 years ago

Text

BTHB: Comatose

Law and Order: SVU

@badthingshappenbingo

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“Can I ask you something?”

He flinches at the small voice from across the room. Blue eyes similar to his eyes stare at him blankly beneath brown curly hair with the same tenacity and strength he'd worked side by side with for twelve years.

Elliot nods slowly, prompting the ten year old to slide out of his chair and cross the room to stop inches from the foot of his mother's bed. Noah Benson rests his hand on the foot of the bed and eyes Elliot cautiously. "Did you do something to my mom?"

Elliot chokes on his breath and pushes himself from the huddled position in his chair to face Noah. He stifles a need to burst into tears and instead answers in a cracked voice, “What do you mean?”

“If you were the one that got her hurt,” Noah muses, “you’d be in jail. But- but you aren’t arrested and you have a badge. So you're a cop. Right?”

Elliot can feel his heart shatter as the boy eyes his mother, lying unconscious in one of Sanai’s hospital beds, hooked up to a handful of wires. He himself can’t bring himself to look at her- no, not after what had happened. The guilt alone-

“Do you work with my mom?” Noah’s question comes as he steps closer to Elliot, causing the older man to flinch. “I’ve never seen or heard about you before.”

“You're inquisitive,” Elliot stammers. Noah cocks his head to right and mutters, “What’s itiquative?”

“Inquisitive,” Elliot corrects. He scratches the back of his neck and sighs, “It means you ask a lot of questions. You also like to ask the right questions. Like your mom.”

“That’s what Uncle Fin says.” His face falls as he turns towards the bed and sniffles, “Is she going to be ok?”

A knuckle raps on the door as Fin Tutola ducks his head into the door before stepping in. He pauses to stare at Olivia for a moment before shaking his head in disbelief. Even though he had dropped off Noah an hour earlier, he still finds himself shaken at seeing her in this state. “You ready to head out, Noah?”

Noah doesn’t peel his eyes from the bed. “Why hasn’t she woken up yet?” he answers softly. Behind him, Fin and Elliot exchange a worried look.

“Do you remember what we talked about yesterday?” Fin asks. He walks to the side of the bed opposite Elliot and Noah. He places a hand on Olivia’s forehead and sighs as one of his closest friends doesn’t react to his touch. Noah nods slowly and furrows his brow as he recalls the day prior’s conversation.

“She hit her head on the sidewalk when she and-” Noah quickly whips his head back to Elliot, “Detective Stabler was trying to leave the hospital. It’s a….it’s called a…”

“Cerebral edema,” Elliot finishes. “Brain swelling. They induced a coma to help the swelling go down. It’s going to take a few days for her to heal, buddy.” Using the word ‘buddy’ stings for Elliot- hell, he doesn’t deserve to use that term for the son of the woman whose heart he broke.

Noah shakes his head. “Oh, yeah. Can I stay a little longer? ‘Cause I want to be here when she wakes up.”

“Well, Elliot will be here-”

Noah’s eyes widen and he turns once more to Elliot. He mirrors his mother’s investigative scan at his badge and face. “My mom says your name in her sleep. A lot.”

Fin snorts unexpectedly at the boy’s comment. “Okay. Maybe this is a conversation for another time-”

Elliot finally pulls himself out of his daze and holds up a hand in defense. “No, I-I can head out and-”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Noah counters. “Can I talk to Elliot, Uncle Fin?”

Elliot glances up to Fin, who’s staring at Noah with contemplation. Even after ten years, Elliot can recognize the planning in the sergeant’s eyes. After a minute, Fin looks down to Olivia and whispers to her, “It’s your kid and you know I can’t say that to that face. He’s going to ask a million questions unless we nip it in the butt.”

“Fin-”

“Why don’t you take Noah down to the cafeteria?” Fin suggests, cutting Elliot off. He checks his cellphone to see 7:36 on the lock screen. “I think the cafeteria closes by 8 and he hasn’t had dinner yet.”

“Wait, maybe-”

Noah’s already moving towards the head of the bed where an empty chair sits close enough for him to climb onto the bed. He sits on his knees and begins chatting to his mother, “Mom, I’m going to be right back, ok?”

“She heard you,” Fin says. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the cafeteria, Noah slides into one of the cafeteria’s booths with a plate of a hotdog and French fries. Elliot stands next to the table and watches the boy slide off his jacket and begin eating hungrily without a word. The detective hesitates before easing down into the booth and sliding across to sit directly across from him.

“How’s the food?” Elliot finally asks after a few minutes of silence.

“Good.”

“I’m glad.” Elliot rests his hands in his lap and asks, “So your question about if I did something to your mom….what made you think that?”

“I heard Auntie Amanda and Uncle Sonny talking about you when I stayed at Auntie Amanda’s apartment,” Noah answers. He takes a bite of his hot dog and continues, “They were talking about how her ex-partner came back and how someone….named Chief said that she should stay away from you. What’d you do?”

“I- '' Elliot inhales and exhales slowly, replaying the many ways he had predicted having a conversation with Olivia’s son. “I was her partner at work for twelve years. We were inseparable and then I left her….without saying goodbye.”

“Why?”

Elliot pauses to formulate his answer. “Adult reasons.”

Noah moves onto his French fries and mumbles, “Adults always say that. It’s dumb.”

“Touché. I was married until a couple of months ago when my wife died,” Elliot explains. Saying the words ‘my wife died’ still stings. “When your mom and I were partners, I…..um…”

“You loved my mom?” Noah’s eyes widen before he shrugs his shoulders at Elliot’s sudden look of disbelief. “What? It happens in the movies all the time.”

“You are too smart for your own good,” Elliot chuckles. “I did but I was married. That’s a complicated line even for adults.”

“Then….why’d you leave?”

“Because I was afraid. Things became complicated so I did what cowards do and ran, Noah.” He ignores the instinct to stop spilling his guts to a ten year old and pushes on. “ My family and I moved to Italy and I cut her out of my life.”

Noah suddenly stops eating, pushes the plate towards Elliot and scowls at the man. “That’s stupid.”

“What?”

“I don’t get why adults do stupid stuff like that. My friend Phillip’s parents hated each other but they stayed married. Philip said they should have gotten a divorce a long time ago but didn’t. He moved away last year with his grandparents, I think. It’s dumb that you left.”

Elliot settles back against the booth, speechless. The observations and opinions shared by everyone in Olivia’s life spilled out by her son in a ten minute conversation. “It was and will be one of the greatest regrets in my life.”

Noah takes another fry off of his plate. His next question comes in a timid voice. “Do you still love my mom?”

Elliot swallows hard and feels tears forming in his eyes. “Why do you ask?” he chokes out.

“Because you keep staying with her at the hospital. And you look like people do when people they love are hurt.”

Elliot nods and chuckles. “You should be a detective when you grow up.”

“I want to be a dancer. Do you?”

Elliot smiles for the first time in days at Noah. “More than anything. More than anything.”

Noah takes another fry before stifling a yawn. “You should tell her...if she...if she…”

“Hey,” Elliot quickly slides out of his side of the boot and moves to sit next to a suddenly tear eyed Noah. Elliot rests a hand on his shoulder and says softly, “Your mom is the absolute strongest woman I ‘ve ever met. She’s going to be ok. You can’t give up hope, okay?”

Noah buries his head against Elliot’s shoulder and whimpers, “Okay.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"They're letting me stay the night," Elliot says softly as he settles back into his chair he had been sitting in for the past two days. After parting ways with Fin and Noah, he had returned to the hospital room to find a blanket , a pillow and a nurse giving a nod in approval. "I think they assume that we've..that we're…together, I guess."

Hw can't bring himself to look at her battered form in the bed. The moments of leaving the hospital after the Chief and IAB had dismissed Bell, Olivia and him to go home replays over and over every time his mind wanders.

"Elliot, I don't need protection!" Olivia growls as the three head towards the parking garage.

"Wheatley got to Angela in a hospital! I'm not going to let him get near you!" Elliot counters. Behind him, Bell's eyes are occupied on her phone, brow furrowed at the information she's just received from Jet.

“I know how to protect myself and my son. I’m a police captain,” she argues back. There’s an anger behind her statement that he can’t quite place but-

Bell suddenly holds up a hand and exclaims, “Hold up! Jet’s just sent me a-”

His sergeant doesn't finish as a concussive force slams into his body , propelling him and the two women across the pavement and into unconsciousness.

Elliot shakes off the memory and continues to talk. “I think it’s because I’ve spent a total of six hours away from you since the explosion. Liv, I can’t- ever since I’ve come back, I’ve put you in danger, caused you stress and….got Kathy killed.”

In the back of his head, he imagines the Olivia of ten years ago, sitting next to him with a cup of coffee and a comforting hand on his shoulder, saying, “El, you can’t blame yourself for something that was out of your control.”

“But I left you and that was in my control,” he answers the voice. He rubs a hand over his face in frustration. Another bit of memory- the briefest moment of consciousness after the explosion replays in his head.

He’ll never forget opening his eyes to her lying unconscious a foot away from him on the pavement with blood running from her ear onto the ground.

“I know I don’t deserve this but,” Elliot whispers, “but don’t leave me please. I didn’t deserve Kathy and I sure as hell don’t deserve you….but” he finally looks up to the bed and can’t stop the sob of guilt that comes. The tubes, cuts and her stillness break him. Elliot stands up and walks to her side, letting the tears fall. The tears don’t fall only for her, but for his wife, his kids, Noah and everyone he’s impacted since returning to New York.

“I love you,” Elliot whispers. He rests his forehead against hers and repeats the words he hopes he can say one day again. “I love you.”

#olivia benson #elliot stabler #law and order svu #bensler #bad things bingo #bad things happen bingo

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americasass81 · 4 years ago

Text

Make Her Mine - Chapter Five

{Warnings:- 18+, Dark theme, Smut, Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Sex, Spanking, Attempted Suffocation, Anal, Use of Inanimate Object, Swearing, Implied Breeding, Oral (male & female receiving), Brief Mention of Real People, Spitting}. Do not read if any of these warnings are upsetting.

This contains adult themes and by proceeding you are acknowledging that you are over 18 and are consenting to the content below the cut.

A/N: Okay so I know it's been a while since we last checked in here but life and story block decided to pay me a visit. At least the good news is I got the whole thing finished (will never reveal how I beat the block though😂). Hope you all enjoy it. Feedback is welcomed.

Pairing:- Tony Stark x Reader

Word Count:- 3,820

Waking beside Tony the next morning, your mind worked through all the possible options available to you. You could try to escape, but with his stupid technology inside you, not only could he always find you but the two shocks you already received were still fresh in your mind. Carefully reaching across him for the phone on the bedside table, Tony opened his eyes, caught hold of your hips and despite your struggles, placed you on top of him before thrusting up into your waiting pussy as he pulled your hips down to meet his. "Fuck darling, what a way to wake up? You feel fantastic. Tell me you love how full I make you feel."

Holding onto his chest to steady yourself while trying to free yourself, you refused to even look at him. Unhappy with both your non-participation and refusal to answer, he lifted you up until only his tip remained inside you and repeated the process again. Each time he brought you down, a hand left a slap on your ass cheek and it wasn't long before his efforts brought a reaction from you. Just not the one he expected.

Managing to successfully grab your pillow, you brought it down on Tony's face and couldn't believe your dumb luck when he started thrashing beneath you, before his hands fell from your body. Holding the pillow in place a bit longer for good measure, you then removed yourself from his cock while grabbing his phone, t-shirt and boxers before running from the room. Throwing on Tony's clothes while simultaneously making your way towards the kitchen, you tried the phone only to find it locked.

Upon reaching the kitchen, your spirits sank further when, as Tony had told you previously, both doors were indeed locked. Searching around for some means to pry any door open, you eventually dropped to the floor while you contemplated the fucked up situation you now found yourself in. Here you sat in a house you couldn't leave, with a dead Avenger and apparently no way of opening any door that wasn't your bedroom. You would have cried at the dire circumstances now facing you if it wasn't for the sharp pain that radiated throughout your body, signaling that Tony Stark wasn't as dead as you thought. Screaming and wrapping your arms around yourself as the pain increased, darkness claimed you once again before a pissed off Tony towered over your unconscious form.

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

Finally coming round in a room you didn't recognize, the double doors however told you that you now occupied Tony's bed. Looking around, you saw that while it might look similar to your room, it was in fact much bigger with three doors along one wall. Above the bed proved another difference however and this one made you wish you could reach a bathroom. Where the window in your room sat above the bed, here Tony had a mirror running the full length of the bed with the same ceiling window on either side.

Tearing your gaze away from the scene above, you looked once more at your naked form, but this time instead of being secured to the bed your hands and feet were simply bound together. Giving you a bit more freedom, but still not allowing you to move, a noise off to your right brought your attention back to the three doors. All of a sudden, the single one opened and there before you stood a dripping wet Tony Stark, draped in a black towel that left very little to the imagination. Winking over at you, he made his way to the other two doors before emerging a short time later in boxers that were no better than the towel. Rounding the bed and sitting on the couch you now just noticed, Tony couldn't help but admire the effort you made to roll onto your side in order to face him. It seemed your determination and perseverance were fast becoming his favorite qualities.

Taking your time to catch your breath after the effort moving took, the look on his face did nothing to quell your rising anger or frustration. "Well Mr. Stark, I guess it's safe to say you look pretty good for a dead man. Do I get to find out what's in store for me now or later?"

"Oh Y/N . . .," he smiled, rising from the couch and laying down next to you on the bed. "what I have planned for you will totally depend on the path you choose to take going forward."

"Path? What path? I can't believe you're actually going to give me a choice in any of this."

Sliding his hand along your side, he smiled broadly before cupping your face to make you look at him. "You know, with as smart as you are you should be way higher up in the company. How come you've never once applied for any promotional opportunity?" he asked, failing miserably to put you at ease.

"I already told you, I was happy where I was. I was good at my job and it was well paying, while still affording me ample time to enjoy various hobbies. Not everyone needs to be lord of everyone else." you directed at him.

"Lord of everyone?" he scoffed, his other hand stalling on your left thigh. "Is that what you think of me? Excuse me for seeing something I want and going after it. As circumstances and you keep proving, life can be quite short. One never knows when it might end."

"But I'm not something, Mr. Stark. I'm someone. Someone who's not interested in being your flavor of the month or however long you plan on playing with me."

"Oh darling, no. No no no. You're not a flavor of the month. You're my forever. All you have to do is choose it."

Bursting out laughing at this ridiculous statement, you rolled over onto your back again as you tried to compose yourself. "I think I might have cut off too much air to your brain when I tried to smother you, because I honestly don't see any scenario where I agree to be yours."

Propping both of you up against the headboard, you cringed as he placed his arm around your waist before speaking again. "Let's watch a little visual presentation and then you tell me where you stand." With that a tv screen rose from what you thought was a box at the end of the bed, while Tony played around with the watch on his wrist. As the screen came to life, your eyes widened when he opened a file titled 'New York Mob.'

Sebastian, Sabrina, Anthony, Scarlett, Jeremy, Chris and Brie, all possible known information about each and every one of them was displayed in eye opening clarity. Tony it seemed had been thorough. So thorough, you thought, that he could probably teach the F.B.I. and the C.I.A. a thing or two. Looking as the information continued to scroll by, accompanied by an array of private pictures, your blood ran cold when you realized, this was his leverage. While he had told you he didn't want a war with Sebastian, it seemed he was more than willing to mobilize the Avengers if necessary to keep you with him.

Turning off the screen when he felt your tears fall on his chest, he pulled you closer and wrapped his arms tenderly around you. "You know you can keep them safe, right darling? Just say you're mine and Steve, Wanda, Vision, Rhodey and Bruce need never know of their existence."

Wiping your tears, you managed to pull yourself free of his arms before glaring up at him. "Are you out of your freaking mind? You're a goddamn Avenger. Heroes don't do this sort of shit."

"You're right Y/N, this is the kind of thing your friends do all too frequently. But good girls also don't behave the way you do. Now come here, say you're mine or by god you can face the consequences." he threatened as he held out his arms to you.

Figuring the worst he could do was shock you until you were gratefully unconscious again, you turned away from him, before curling into a ball and waiting for the painful darkness that never came.

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

Snatching you up, while you fought as best you could, Tony sat back down on the couch, before placing your bound form across his lap and his left hand on your back. Feeling his right hand massage your ass cheeks, you turned your head to face him as you realized knocking you out would be a blessing compared to what he had planned.

"Mr. Stark . . . Tony . . . you win. I'm yours. Now how about we get something to eat and discuss this future you envisioned?" you suggested, with as much fake sincerity as your frightened body could muster.

Having freed your legs and smiling broadly, Tony continued to stroke your ass as he leaned forward and kissed your lips before meeting your terrified gaze. "Seven to ten minutes darling. That's how long it takes to properly suffocate someone. Shall we see how long it takes for my proud little girl to beg?" With that, his hand left your ass before coming back down sharply.

Eyes fixed on the floor and thinking of all the ways you would love to see him suffer as a means to distract yourself, you let out a cry somewhere around slap nine, when this time it seemed the nanoparticle armor had made an appearance. Not knowing how much time had passed, six more rapid blows of metal against flesh had your ass stinging and tears falling from your eyes. Turning to face him once again, this time you hoped your current state could swing the situation in your favor. "Tony please, it hurts so freaking much. Stop this and I will say, do and be whatever you want."

"Aw Y/N, darling, we've only been at this a few minutes. You and I both know your stubborn streak is much stronger than this. Besides, I can tell when you're lying. Now if you don't mind, I have some work to get back to."

Knowing you had failed to appeal to him, you renewed your efforts to free yourself, only for Tony to increase the pressure of his hand on your back. Raining down many more metal slaps on each cheek, a scream ripped through you and your struggles died down when Tony spit on your ass before plugging you up with what you now knew to be a nano-cock. You didn't know if it was sheer stubbornness or hatred that kept you from passing out, but as Tony picked up your crying, trembling form and placed you back on the bed, you were more determined than ever not to submit to him.

Wiping the tears from your eyes as he once again secured your hands to the bed, Tony couldn't help but lean closer to whisper in your ear. "No more tears now, be my good girl and everything your heart desires will be yours."

"What my heart desires right now is to see you bleeding at my feet." you spat, moving around to head butt him once again. "Ow fuck, that hurt."

Collapsing back down on the bed while trying to ignore the throbbing in your forehead, you watched as Tony rubbed his head before moving down the bed and discarding his boxers. Then taking hold of your legs, he quickly secured each one to the bed with soft rope. "Y/N, I really don't know what I did to warrant this level of hostility. Where's the polite young lady who dropped off those files to my meeting Wednesday morning hmm?"

"Where she's been, is held captive by a delusional billionaire playboy who doesn't get that not every woman he meets wants to suck his cock."

Having settled himself between your legs, he seemed to contemplate what you said as one hand stroked his length, before the other made its way to your waiting folds. Once there, he then proceeded to slap your mound until tears and curses fell from your body once again. "See darling this is the fundamental problem we're having right here." he smirked, as he ran his fingers along your slit before plunging inside. "You run from me, claim you want nothing to do with me. Hell, you even try to kill me, yet your body still craves my touch." To prove his point, he withdrew his digits and brought them to your lips.

Opening your mouth when his other hand left his shaft to grab the nano-cock in your ass and push it deeper, his slick fingers entered your mouth, forcing you to taste your body's reaction to him. Working in tandem, his other hand began moving the nano-cock at a steady pace, while your mouth hungrily latched onto his fingers. In no time at all, shame bloomed within you as your back arched and the grin on Tony's face confirmed that he knew you had just come.

"Well now Y/N, what a way to prove me right. Shall we try for another one?" With that he removed his fingers from your mouth, moving them instead to your swollen clit. Slapping it again, while continuing to move the cock in your ass, the nanoparticles and ropes kept you exactly where he wanted you. Your demeanor changed dramatically however, when he slipped two fingers into your pussy and began pumping them and the nano-cock in and out of your body while his lips latched onto your clit.

"Oh my fucking god Tony, what the hell are you doing?" you cried out as your body fought not only the restraints, but the intense pleasure now radiating upwards and outwards from your core. Now crying full on tears, this was a level of pleasure you had never before experienced and it scared you to think what the end result would be. As Tony worked faster and harder, your breathing reached the point where you could no longer string two words together and as the nanoparticles loosened around your wrists, the coil in your stomach finally snapped and you saw black.

Coming around a few minutes later, an empty feeling in your ass told you the nano-cock had been removed while the smuggest looking Tony Stark you had ever come across, gently trailed his fingers up and down your over sensitive and tender folds. "There's my beautiful Y/N." he said, as he leaned down to kiss your lips, while you were too tired to currently fight him.

Looking around, you discovered that you were no longer tied down to the bed, but for some reason your body also seemed to have trouble responding to your commands. Sensing your rising confusion, Tony stopped his actions and instead focused all his attention on you before speaking. "It's okay darling, everything is fine. I just wore you out a bit is all." he smirked as he continued explaining. "Your orgasm was so intense, that you actually passed out on me. Thankfully the nanoparticles reassured me that nothing was wrong." Leaning forward to kiss you once more, he brought his lips directly to your ear before whispering, "Tell me Y/N, am I the first man to ever make you squirt?"

Looking up at him in abject horror, your voice finally seemed to return to you, even if the rest of your mental faculties still seemed to be rearranging themselves. "Squirt? Tony what the fuck are you talking about and could you please stop doing that." you exclaimed, as his hand returned to your pussy while his mouth lavished attention on each of your tits.

Looking up at you, you couldn't recall ever seeing Tony Stark so proud of himself and that look alone almost made you feel sick. "You soaked the sheets darling. There's cum and fluid everywhere. It was glorious. V.I.R.G.I.L. taped it, I can replay it if you want."

As the vaguest memory of what had occurred finally bloomed in your mind, you at last returned to your senses and scrambled as far away for him as you could physically get. "Jesus no, Mr. Stark. What you can do is erase that fucking video right now and get it through your thick head that what happened will not, I REPEAT WILL NOT happen again."

"Oh, so I see we're back to Mr. Stark are we? Well that just isn't going to work for me." he huffed out, as he moved quicker than you ever thought possible and had you once more held down on the bed beneath him. Fighting back as best you could, the battle was lost when Tony sat atop your thighs before caging both your wrist in his powerful hand. "Here's what's going to happen darling and I don't want to hear any complaints from you. First I'm going to fuck this pussy of yours so good you'll never let another man near it. Not that I'll ever let that happen anyway." he said, as your eyes followed his other hand down to where it stroked his now hard, red and leaking shaft.

"Then," he quickly added, noticing you were about to argue, "I'm going to fill you with so much cum that you'll always have a part of me inside you. Afterwards we are going to move to the kitchen where you and I are going to enjoy a nice dinner before getting to know each other better. Do I make myself clear?" he finally asked, as the tv returned to show images of your friends silently scrolling along the screen.

Reluctantly admitting defeat but too stubborn to let him see you break, you turned your gaze away from the screen to focus on him. "O-okay T-tony," you croaked out as a victorious smile bloomed across his face and his lips moved down to capture yours in a searing kiss.

With that, he quickly removed himself from your thighs and parting your legs, lined his aching cock up with your now abused entrance before gently sliding home. Failing to control the moans that left your lips as he set up a surprisingly tender rhythm, Tony was totally taken aback when he released your hands only to have them latch onto his shoulders as your legs left the bed to wrap around his waist. It seemed for all your protests and complaints, Tony had been right about one fundamental point . . . your body craved the feelings he pulled from it.

Pulling out to just the tip and then thrusting back in just as slowly so your walls felt every vein and ridge of his impressive member, Tony kept up this slow, torturous pace until you couldn't stand it any longer. "Oh for fuck’s sake Tony, put me out of my misery and fuck me like you promised."

Having finally gotten the desired result, Tony smirked down at you before releasing your legs from his waist and shoving them forward as far as they would go. Now able to pound into you at a deeper angle, his cock reached places you never knew could feel so good. Hitting your cervix and rubbing deliciously over your g-spot you finally gave voice to the pleasure he was working out of you. "Ah yes Tony, right there. That's it, please don't stop. Fuck!" you begged as you tried your best to thrust against him.

"Oh my beautiful girl, you never have to beg me for anything and I have no intention of stopping." Tony panted while gazing down on you. True to his word, Tony continued to pound into you and as he felt your walls begin to clench around his length, he reached his hand down between your joined bodies and began to apply enough pressure on your swollen clit to make you come undone.

"Ahh fuck. Uhhh, make me come Tony."

Getting the hint that you were so close to the edge that you simply needed a little extra push, Tony looked into your eyes as he placed his mouth over your left breast and bit into your tender flesh. Hearing the scream as your walls clamped down on his aching member, it was now Tony's turn to curse as his balls clenched up and both of you came in a torrent of cum and tangled limbs.

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

Laying down beside you as you both began to recover from your release, Tony failed to notice the tears leaking from your eyes as you rolled onto your side with your back to his chest. Wrapping his arms around you, he placed countless kisses all over your neck and shoulders while his hands roamed over your chest. Once he heard your breathing return to normal, he released his hold on you before rising from the bed. "Okay darling, let's get you cleaned up so we can see about that dinner I promised you."

Holding out his hand to help you from the bed, you couldn't remember a time when your body ached so much. Leading you to the door he exited earlier, Tony opened the door to the luxury shower and ushered you inside. Leaning against the tiled wall as the water hit your body, you jerked away when Tony came up behind you and lined his body up perfectly with yours. "Easy darling, it's only me." he whispered as he handed you the bottle of shampoo. Gazing down at the bottle, Tony seemed to understand what you were thinking and quickly used his powerful arms to cage yours by your side.

"Don't even think about it Y/N. You've already proven you don't value your own life, but Sabrina's seems to be a different story. All I have to do is have F.R.I.D.A.Y. alert Steve and your friend is nothing but a distant memory." Dropping the bottle as the fight died in you, Tony released you to pick it up as you slumped against the wall.

However as the tears you were shedding had now dried up, your anger seemed to have returned and turning around as he neared you again, you raised your fist and connected squarely with Tony's jaw. "You may have proven that my body craves you and you may hold my fate and that of my friends in your hands, but I will never accept being yours." you spat as Tony reached out and forcefully grabbed you by the hair.

Pulling your face close to his, he kissed you hungrily and spit in your mouth, before pushing you onto your knees and shoving his cock against your lips. "Bite me darling and the New York Mob will witness a massacre the likes of which has never been seen." was all he said as he squeezed your jaw and thrust his length down your throat.

Tagging:- @nsfwsebbie , @hoseokchild , @ironlady1993 , @gotnofucks , @floatingdaisy7 , @taintedgenre , @buttercandy16 , sorry if I missed anyone.

#dark!tony stark x reader #tw: attempted suffocation #my own writing

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catboynecromancy · 4 years ago

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Kissing prompts day 3, given to me by the wonderful @creativefiend19. Thank you so much for this one, I loved writing about their first date. 💕 Do I get the extra points for making it in canon verse? 😊

Pynch — An awkward kiss given after a first date.

So, how about a date night, Parrish?

This is the question that started it all. Adam had been in the middle of homework for his Interpretation and Application of Mathematics course, unable to hold back his groans and sighs of frustration, while Ronan bounced a Spongebob ball against the wall. At one point in time, Adam would have found this distracting, but now it’s become so commonplace it melts into the background along with the buzzing of his miniature fridge and the ticking of a clock on the wall.

“So,” Ronan says after a while, pausing his incessant fidgeting. “How about a date night, Parrish?”

Adam takes a moment to glare down at the paper, his overworked brain screaming for something to break the monotony and stress building with each passing minute. He’s been at this for hours now and he thinks, if he keeps going, it’ll probably be counterintuitive to getting anything else done.

So.

Date night.

“You want to go on a date? With me?” Adam asks, turning in his old, wobbly wooden chair to glance back at Ronan where he sits on the bed, black, ripped-up jean-covered legs spread out in front of him.

Ronan shrugs, an attempt at being nonchalant but failing miserably. “It’s been weeks since we started dating,” there’s a weird bite to the word when he replies, wiggling his Doc Martens. “We haven’t even been on a real date.”

His mouth opens to respond but Ronan quickly interrupts, “And making out in the BMW doesn’t count, ya horny bastard.”

And promptly snaps shut with an audible click. “Okay,” Adam says, giving a slight nod. “What were you thinking?”

“Dinner. A movie. Taking a long, romantic drive through the countryside,” he continues in a teasing tone, “Promise I’ll get you back at a decent time.”

It doesn’t sound like the most remarkable of ideas, no different from things they would normally do, but something about it changes when the word date is attached. All of a sudden, what they’re doing is too real, no longer just two horny teenagers giving into each other’s visceral desires, and Adam isn’t certain how he feels about this when it crosses the line between physical vulnerability into the emotional side.

But it’s Ronan and there’s no one Adam trusts to hold his heart in their hands more than him, even if he’s loath to admit it.

So he leaves his grueling coursework and they go on a date. Ronan takes him to Nino’s (Really, Lynch?), where they toss fries into each other’s mouths, laughing maniacally every time they miss (which is more often than not, admittedly). They find a dumb action movie to watch at the theater a town over, stuffing their faces with the plethora of sugary snacks Ronan purchases at the concessions stand, laughing more at how inane the film is.

Then, they climb into the BMW, and Ronan puts on an impossibly dark and sultry beat, the bass throbbing in time with Adam’s pulse. The whole atmosphere changes, the creature of wants and needs inside of Adam clawing to get out. He wants Ronan to pull over on the side of the empty street; he needs to crawl on Ronan’s lap and claim every part of him mercilessly, with abandon, until there’s nothing left to give.

Instead, when Ronan pulls over, he hops out before Adam can do anything and demands that he drive them back to St. Agnes. Adam thinks of protesting but, if he can’t have Ronan, the next best thing is getting to drive the BMW. So he does this, making sure to shift gears with careful consideration and intimacy, treating her like he would a lover. Or, well, maybe not, since the way he handles Ronan is often not so cautious with his touch.

They get back after midnight and park in the church lot, climbing out of the car. “Decent time my ass, Lynch,” Adam says. “Wanna come up?”

Ronan shakes his head, stepping around the BMW, edging nearer until they’re so close, Adam feels the warmth pulsing off of him in great contrast to the chilly, autumn air. “Nah. I don’t put out on the first date.”

Adam rolls his eyes but leans in for a kiss. His parted lips hit Ronan’s cheek and he pulls away, blinking, to look at Ronan. He’s turned, dark eyebrows drawn in, uncharacteristically nervous in a moment that should be simple and easy, like all the other times their mouths have met.

What’s so different about this?

“Uh…” It’s Ronan’s turn to try, but Adam’s taken a step back and he misses.

They hesitate, mumble excuses, attempting at the same time only to make it inches away before they both pull back. Adam feels a hot, anxious flush build in his cheeks that crawls up to his ears, and Ronan’s pale features have darkened as well, apparent even with just the flickering streetlight illuminating them in bursts.

“Fuck,” Ronan mutters, “Try again.”

Adam gives himself a moment to consider what is so dissimilar about this from every other time. Maybe, he thinks, it’s more real than the rest. It’s weird, how things change, when feelings are laid bare and actual romance is involved.

This Ronan isn’t the one who just wants to make out endlessly, this is the Ronan who cares, who Adam is pretty sure is in love with him. Who Adam, although still not wholly convinced, thinks he can fall in love with, too. Soon. Maybe sooner than he intends.

“Okay.”

He cups his hands around the sides of Ronan’s throat, brushing a thumb along the very faintly risen skin where pointed, black imagery has been etched in. Ronan takes a hitching, shaky breath, all nerves in the shape of a teenage boy, and Adam pauses to allow them both a second to bask in a rare instance of shared weakness.

When he bridges the distance, pressing chapped lips together in an awkward, chaste kiss, there’s a spark of something that Adam recognizes from the first time they did this in Ronan’s childhood bedroom. The gesture is returned, but just so. Ronan is shaking, or Adam is, or maybe it’s both of them. Heat spills from Ronan’s mouth into his own, lightning courses through Adam’s pumping blood, sending dangerous shocks straight to his heart. All that anchors him to this miniscule, human form is the boy before him.

Adam wants, he needs, and yet he realizes it might be okay to take things slow for both their sakes. He pulls away but not far, jittery with equal parts apprehension and excitement. “Sure you don’t want to come up?”

It’s Ronan who breaks their connection, stepping back to look at the pavement beneath their feet, it's cracks brimming with slowly dying plants. He palms his buzzed scalp, shifting back and forth. “Not tonight,” Ronan says. “I...got some shit I gotta do in the morning.”

He recognizes a Lynch not-lie-not-truth when it's given. Carefully skirting the truth but not outright lying, a compromise that doesn’t betray his earnestness.

“Okay, I’ll seeya later.” Adam doesn’t push, even if a part of him wants to.

“Yeah, later.”

Ronan is almost at the driver’s side door when Adam finally gets the nerve to say what he should have much earlier. “Ronan?”

“Hm?”

“Thanks. For the date. I really needed a break.”

Deep-set, ice blue eyes shift towards Adam, an intensity to them that is quickly broken by a wide and goofy grin. It’s one for Adam’s eyes only, more defenseless than anything else they’ve done this night. “No problem, Parrish. Someone’s gotta keep you from melting your magnificent brain with all that boring homework.”

Adam nods. They leave it at that because there’s nothing left to say. He watches Ronan effortlessly drop into his M6, watches as he caresses the steering wheel in a way Adam wishes was him, watches the red tail lights as they speed out of the St. Agnes lot and down the street, and he watches even once Ronan is long gone and only the memory of him remains painted there, an afterimage of his wants and needs personified.

With a sigh, Adam runs his hand over his face, letting a few curses learned from Ronan spill from his lips.

It had been almost too good of a night.

Maybe love isn’t as far away of a concept as Adam had assumed.

#pynch #ronan lynch #adam parrish #trc #the raven cycle #my fics #writing prompts #kissing prompts #creativefiend19 #I took a break yesterday to write some of tapoma chapter 6 #back at it again #:)#I don't heavily edit these btw so if there are errors don't mind #haha

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unlucky-rubber-ducky · 4 years ago

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Nightmares

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

1300 words

Summary/warnings: Really rather sad, nightmares, mentions of earth but no actual death. Super cheesy. It’s late. Sappy ending. Super rushed.

A/N: Hello! I was just kind of messing around with this one. It’s not perfect but it’s always fun to write nightmares. School has also been wild, so I hope you can forgive the long periods of time between posting. A final ‘also’, please always feel free to request something! Thank you so much for reading!

You had never heard the temple so… silent. It was so silent. No masters quietly chiding their padawans, no younglings giggling as they made their way to their next class, no knights celebrating a successful mission. Nothing. Silence.

Jedi lined the halls, creating a path and watching you as you walked by. You soon recognized the twists and turns were leading you to the council chambers, and the dread that had been creeping up on you fell like a rock in your stomach.

You could see the door to the council at the end of the hallway, and you were screaming at your legs to stop, to turn around, to slow down- anything to delay whatever was going to happen once you entered that room. As you neared, you recognized the two figures standing guard at the door.

In Anakin’s eyes there was a fury you had only seen on the battlefield, directed at droids and enemy soldiers. But now the blazing fire was focused on you, and you were sure that if he could get away with it, you would be lying dead on the floor. His padawan stood next to him, deep disappointment and almost loathing in her eyes- ice, to contrast her master’s fire.

“What have you done?”

For a moment you didn’t recognize the voice that echoed through the silent halls of the temple. It sounded more vindictive than anything you had ever encountered, and you wondered how that much hatred could be stored in a person.

“You will suffer.” Oh. You knew that voice. You spoke with it every day. “Greatly.”

The door whooshed open, and you were stepping into the council chambers.

You refused to meet any eyes, instead focusing on the singular empty chair. The chair usually filled by the one man you wished was present.

“Knight (Y/n). You have been charged with treason against the Galactic Republic, and the murder of Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. How do you plead?”

If you hadn’t fallen in love with him he would still be alive. If you had never started this tryst he would still be alive. If you had loved him enough to leave he would still be alive. His death is your fault. You knew this could only end in tragedy.

You took a breath.

“Guilty.”

You gasped as you sat up. You tried to control your breathing, but tears quickly began rolling down your face. Soon you were sobbing, the terrible, guilty feeling in your chest refusing to accept that it was just a dream. Before your brain could catch up you were already out the door, darting the short distance from your quarters to Obi-Wan’s. You had to make sure he was alright. That he didn’t hate you. You didn’t even consider the fact that knocking on someone’s door at one in the morning wasn’t exactly couth.

Of course, that all came rushing back when he opened the door with a confused, sleepy expression and no shirt.

“I-I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking, I shouldn’t have-”

“Were you crying?”

“I…” You tried to calm yourself as another wave of tears made their way down your face. Maker, why had you done this to yourself? It wasn’t like this was the first dream you had ever had, since the Clone Wars started it was only one of many- why was it this one that sent you crying and knocking on Obi-wan’s door? “I’m fine. I apologize for waking you, Obi-Wan.”

Before you could turn away, he grabbed your arm and pulled you into his quarters. You protested as he sat you on the end of his bed, moving towards the kitchenette to get you a glass of water. You accepted with a watery smile.

“Now, darling, would you like to talk about why you were crying or watch a cheesy holodrama?” He smiled when you laughed just a little. “Ahsoka tells me the best ones play after midnight.”

His heart broke when you looked up at him from the cup in your hands. You looked so… lost. So sad and lost and desperate for comfort that you refused to ask for.

“Um, could we watch something? Or you can go back to bed, and I can leave, I just don’t want to be alone but I could probably go bother-”

“I promise that you are welcome here. Let’s see what’s on.”

You ended up settling on a reality show titled ‘The Real Smugglers of the Outer Rim’, it was dumb and required quite literally no critical thinking skills, which was exactly what you were looking for. His bed was small enough that your legs were pressed together, and you were painfully aware that Obi-Wan had yet to put a shirt on.

“I had a nightmare.”

“I understand. What took place?”

“I…” What could you say? I dreamt that my very real love for you somehow got you killed? That would be a lot to deal with. “I dreamt that you had died.”

You heard him take in a breath.

“I didn’t realize my death would distress you so.”

You turned to look at him, startled just a little when you met his eye.

“Obi-Wan. You’re not dumb.” His face went through multiple emotions in the span of seconds, and you turned your whole body to face him, suddenly itching to run away. Obi-Wan wasn’t dumb. He knew what you were telling him. In your own emotionally-repressed-Jedi-way, you were admitting feelings that you truly shouldn’t be admitting.

Your heart dropped for the second time that night. This was your dream. This was his downfall. Your downfall. How could you have walked into the exact situation your dream had just warned you about?

You jumped off of the bed, ripping yourself away from Obi-Wan, who looked even more startled than you. You couldn’t exactly blame him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just… I really shouldn’t have come. This was terrible. I’m so sorry. I’ll let you sleep. I can’t… I’m sorry for putting that on you.”

“Do you have… feelings for me, darling?”

“I- I don’t think-”

“Please.”

Oh, Maker. Your eyes filled with tears yet again.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do.”

“Please sit back down.” You tentatively sat on the edge of the bed, staying as far away from Obi-Wan as you could. “You likely know I… return your feelings, yes?”

You weren’t sure your heart could take any more.

“I honestly had no clue.”

“Oh.” Obi-wan blushed. “Anakin said it was obvious.”

“Obi-Wan.” His expression was serious again. “In my dream you died because I let myself care for you.”

“My dear, I…” He slowly raised his hands to cup your face, giving you every chance to back away. “I would much sooner die because you cared, than die knowing I could have loved you.” You placed your hands over his, pressing your face closer to his calloused hands. “Plus, not every dream is a vision from the future.”

You shared a soft smile. Obi-Wan was the first to break eye contact, glancing down at your lips in a silent question. You answered by leaning in and pressing your lips to his. You felt him smile into the kiss, and you couldn’t help but do the same.

“Can I stay here for the night?”

“Of course you can, precious one.”

You moved to lay next to him in your previous position, but he easily pulled you up and on top of him. You giggled and rested your head on his chest, calm for the first time since you first woke up. You traced the light freckles that were dotted on his skin, almost in disbelief that the night had turned out this way.

“You’ll be here when I wake up?”

He began running his fingers through your hair.

“I promise, my love.”

#obi-wan #obi-wan x reader #obi-wan x y/n #obi-wan x you #x reader #obi-wan fanfic #obi-wan fanfiction #obi wan #obi wan x reader #obi wan fluff #obi-wan fluff #obi-wan reader insert #obi wan reader insert #star wars fanfic #star wars fanfiction #star wars x reader #star wars reader insert

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hcrringtonshair · 4 years ago

Text

Change

Ivar x Reader

Word count: 1405 (wtf what’s going on with me)

Summary: You know Ivar, who is your husband now, since childhood. You love him but he changed and there is his Brother who his on your mind.

Warnings: angst.. yes, kind of love triangle, betrayal (mentioned), murder

a/n: Well idk what to say. I have never been a fan of writing angst. Reading it is nice but I could never imagine that I would write it myself. That English is not my first language is one of the reasons why it’s difficult to express the feelings right.. anyway I hope you like it! I recommend to listen to the song 👆🏼 it has given me the right mood to write this :)

I would appreciate it if you tell me what you think!

I‘ll add the keep reading tomorrow. I‘m on my phone rn 🙃

The stars looked beautiful. Thousands of the little lights blinking at the dark sky. It was so beautiful you didn’t want to close your eyes.

It was a peaceful night, this wasn’t usual you had to admit.

Not that far from you, you could hear people talking, men growling and laughing. There was a feast tonight in the great hall in Kattegat. You were there for a while, but decided to sneak out because you felt uncomfortable.

The presence of your husband Ivar was not your favorite these days. To be honest you weren’t so sure if he ever was a good company.

Everyone in Kattegat knew what happened to his first wife that made it even more complicated for you.

It was like you could read his mind when you were watching him. You knew Freydis was the love of his life, you could see it in the way he looked at her. The shining in his eyes as he announced that he would marry her and the time when Freydis was pregnant.

The scene of her lying dead on the bed was burned in your brain.

You weren’t dumb, that Ivar married you was only to fill the whole. He always appreciated you, but this wasn’t love. Not in that way.

You knew Ivar since you both were children, he was always a silent child. Silent but angry.

A few years from now you spend a lot of time together. Somedays you were in the woods and train your fighting skills or you lay the whole day or night at the same place where you were now. While watching the sky he talked about his ambitions to be as famous as his father, you talked about your dreams for the future.

You were always there for him before his father came back, before he went to England.

But then he changed so much and there was a huge desire inside you that wanted the old careless Ivar back. The one you loved, because that's what you were feeling.

Love

- Every time when you looked at him and it hurt to know he didn’t love you back.

How much did you wish that your feelings weren’t so strong, because even he noticed that you weren’t happy. He noticed that he was the reason why you were sad.

On the other hand there was Hvitserk, Ivars older brother.

He was always the caring one, you both liked each other very much ever since. He always stood by you, took care of you when Ivar was mad at you.

Hvitserk was the reason why you sometimes regretted that you married Ivar and you hated yourself for thinking that way. But it wasn’t possible to ignore the uprising heartbeat in your chest when he was near you.

“He would never find out y/n. I know you want it as well. Just one time, let me show you how real love looks like.”

Hvitserk’ s eyes showed pure desperation under your stern look.

“Hvitserk shut your mouth. I’m married to Ivar, so I belong to him. You missed your chance long ago.”

He shakes his head slowly, both hands on your thighs as he went down on his knees in front of you.

“But he doesn’t love you! He’s still in love Freydis, and he killed her. Please… Just imagine what he could do to you…”

His voice died while he rested his head in your lap.

You knew he was right and there was something inside you that wanted to know how it would feel to be with Hvitserk.

Your heart was beating heavily against your rib cage and you were not far away from giving in.

For a moment you closed your eyes to hold back the tears.

“I can’t Hvitserk. I’m sorry.”

You mumble as you stand up and watch him fall back.

Without a word you run out of the room, run away from the man where you know he was right for you.

The memories of this what happened only a few hours ago let you sigh loudly. Unlike Hvitserk you could never betray Ivar. You could never be that heartless.

You had to forget this, forget Hvitserk and be a good wife to Ivar.

Still staring at the sky you noticed how the grass under your body was cooling down your body and left your clothes wet, so you decided to go back.

Before you could stand up you felt somebody next to you.

“What a beautiful night.”

Shivers running down your body as you recognized the voice of your husband.

Your face turned to the side to face him, he had a light smile on his face. In one hand he played with a knife as he watched the night sky.

“How did you find me?”

His smile grows as he hears your uncertain voice and a pain going through your chest. How you missed this side of Ivar. Now he was like a few years ago, looking careless and satisfied.

You could punch yourself for the things you thought before.

“You are always here when you want to be alone.”

He remembered it, how many times he found you here. You didn’t respond, just watch his face in the small light of the moon.

“Why are you crying?”

You didn’t notice the tears on your cheeks before. Hastily you whipped them away with the sleeve of your dress.

“I don’t know.” A shaky laughter slipped out of your mouth, but he raised his eyebrows.

“Someone told me my dear brother was in your rooms in the afternoon.”

His voice was now threatening and you looked away. Someone was there when you talked to Hvitserk hours ago. You knew it.. you thought you heard someone walk away but ignored it then.

The upbuilding fear lets more and more tears stream out of your eyes. Through your blurred view you saw Ivar’s face now close to your face.

“What did he want?”

His lips lightly touching the sensitive skin on your ear as he whispered.

“Nothing, I’m serious Ivar. You know we’re friends. That’s all. He just wanted to talk.”

Unfortunately your voice was too low and it didn’t sound convincing.

“Don’t lie to me.”

His fingers on your chin forcing you to look him in the eyes. He inspected your face with his piercing blue eyes, his thumb whipping away some tears.

“It’s the truth Ivar. I swear by the gods nothing happened. He is just a friend, and your brother. There would never-“

“But he wants you!”

His hand pushed your face away and a little scream escaped your mouth as you fell on your back.

“I know exactly what you talked! He wants to be with you!”

You eyed the knife in his hand before you crawled back without losing eye contact.

“But that’s what he’s feeling! I would never… I could never be with him! I’m your wife Ivar!”

Loud sobs filling the silence.

“Please… Ivar whatever Hvitserk wants, I don’t care… I love you.”

His reaction was laughter, against all expectations.

“And that’s the problem y/n.”

With one fast movement he was over you.

Your head hit the earth again and for a moment you couldn’t breathe.

“I love you too y/n, but I can’t lose you. Not to my brother… I choose the way how I lose you.”

The knife in his hand scratches the skin on your throat. You tried to fight the tears by blinking fast to have a clear view but it didn’t work.

“Ivar…”

His eyes showed pain, the battle inside of him. But you knew him too well to know that he already made his choice.

“I’m sorry y/n. I wish it would have not been like this.”

Once more you wished he would change his mind, returning to the old Ivar.

You could still see him, even as the knife in his hand stabs inside your chest and his eyes grew wide in shock.

Your breath slowed down your eyes locked with his.

Even that he was the one who was causing your death you wanted to take him in your arms and tell him that everything will be fine.

That everything will be like years ago when the both of you were happy.

He went out of your sight and the stars came back in your view.

They were still beautiful.

What a beautiful night.

✧ • ✭ • ✩ • ✦ ✧ • ✭ • ✩ • ✦

Ivar the boneless Taglist

@youbloodymadgenius

#ivar the boneless #ivar the boneless edit #ivar the boneless x you #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar ragnarsson edit #ivar ragnarsson x reader #vikings #history vikings #vikings fandom

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lokidiabolus · 4 years ago

Text

Last Resort - Chapter 2

Fandom: The Maze Runner

Pairing: Thomas x Newt

Warnings: ex boyfriends, AU

Summary: Three years after breaking up with Thomas, Newt finally thought the past of hating each other was behind them, until Thomas asked him for a favour - pretend they got back together for a week while staying at his parents’ home. Because it was an absolutely dumb idea, Newt was inclined to refuse, but then found himself in the house he used to visit when he was in love and happy and the bitter reality of only pretending for people he always liked made him miserable. But it was nothing against dealing with Thomas himself for a week straight and trying not to fall back in love that hurt them both.

Or: Prompt ch. 192 with added spice. Or something. I just needed to write for a while :’)

Can be found on Ao3.

Notes: I think I never did so much rewriting like I did with this chapter. I'm still not satisfied with it, but I swear my brain just can't come up with anything else. Scrapped like 6 pages asdfjslfjslfjsdl. Now it's short :c

Anyway, guess I just wanted a bit of Thomas' insight for it. He's complicated lol. Or maybe not really, just trying to keep up. Don't we all though lol.

Oh and @izzymultifan (actually remembered)

Unbetad!

EDIT: (17. 5. 2021) I edited the ending with a lil continuation of the scene I previously deleted, because I thought it was unnecessary, but then I returned to it after few days and thought it should stay. It's not very long but I guess it's kinda important.

***

Thomas woke up disoriented, thirsty and definitely not rested enough, like when his alarm goes off on a workday and he only slept for four hours. But here was no alarm, no work, just him waking up with a flinch and realizing he wasn’t in his flat, and he wasn’t alone either.

The blond hair right in his face immediately pushed him into realization he was holding onto Newt like he was his lifeline, one hand under the shirt on his belly, other on his chest clutching the fabric, and an unmistakable morning hello tenting his pants, digging right into Newt’s backside. In retrospect there wasn’t much worse Thomas could have done to him, except maybe having a hand down his pants (which admittedly he used to do sometimes when they were together, but then again, that situation definitely didn’t scream murder like it would now).

In a sleepy confusion that hazed his just-woken-up-brain he searched the foggy memory on how this situation came to be, no matter how familiar it felt to him. Newt made himself pretty clear about sleeping together, so the sudden closeness – well, more like an absolute merge, unless he’d slip in – no, no dirty thoughts, bad Thomas, bad – didn’t make much sense.

The night came back to him embarrassingly slow – he got drunk because for some reason his dad decided to decimate his super precious whiskey, even though normally he hoarded it like a dragon his gold. He could only think of Newt being the incentive, drinking the whiskey so fast in his dad’s eyes, while Thomas downed it all to save him from barfing (Newt’s alcohol tolerance never existed in the first place, he disliked about any kind of it, and as far as Thomas remembered he got drunk only once with vodka mixed with orange juice on Aris’ wedding, because he could barely taste the vodka in it until it was too late). Then the world started spinning, Newt dragged him to his room somehow… which sounded farfetched, so maybe dad helped, he drew blank around that area honestly, probably because he stood up and all the alcohol began circulating faster. Then they talked… probably, and then Thomas fell asleep, since that’s all he could recall.

And now his hard-on was trying to get some, and he held Newt against himself with sheer ferocity of an obsessive hugger off his meds and the realization dawned on him like tons of bricks. Was he going to wake him up if he let go? Newt always woke up at the slightest noise before, there was no way of going to pee at night without getting back to the blond blinking owlishly at him, asking what happened. Was this Newt he barely knew anymore still the same? Still twitchy and light sleeper and grumpy and slow to rise when getting up?

Thomas didn’t have much choice anyway, did he. He just had to let go either way, and preferably remove his hips from Newt’s back and act like it was no biggie to be hard when in bed with his ex. He slowly untangled his hand from the front of Newt’s shirt and retreated from under the shirt as well with the other hand and managed to roll onto his back without Newt visibly stirring, which was a success. Unless he pretended to be asleep to avoid talking to Thomas about pushing into him like a horny teenager, which also worked.

Not like he hadn’t been doing that in the last month of their relationship anyway, just... ignoring the problem until it went away (a problem named Thomas) and well, ultimately it succeeded. It would work now too, and Thomas refused to poke the wasp nest this early in the morning – judging from the clock at 8:04 – and just went with the flow.

Need coffee, he thought unhappily when the headache set in. And water. Maybe some alone time in a bathroom first.

Newt didn’t stir until Thomas slinked out of the bedroom, which was a complete lie.

***

“Dad, just drop it,” Thomas repeated for fourth time when his dad couldn’t stop haggling him about his childlike alcohol tolerance the moment he appeared in the kitchen, asking for black coffee. He couldn’t tell him he drank Newt’s portions and without that argument nothing would sound plausible anyway, so he just dodged it with an increasing headache. Newt got up about half an hour later and didn’t speak a word to him – Thomas would even say he avoided his eyes several times, which meant he was absolutely awake in the morning to witness all of Thomas’ struggle to even exist around him peacefully. Which he couldn’t for years, really, so this only proved it.

It was fine. Thomas learned how to deal with it, despite taking him two years to come in terms of being hated by a person he loved since he was 17. Well, everything around the breakup took a lot from him, but he dealt with all eventually, right? He could finally look Newt in the eye without having all the incoherent anger and frustration pile up and he could talk to him fine as well unless they breached one of the thousand forbidden topics. Like them. Like family. Like love. Like sleeping. Like breathing, existing and fucking just trying to live.

Anyway. All dealt with, of course. No hard feelings.

(Lots of them.)

“You dealt with the drunkard just fine, right Newt?” his dad chattered towards the blond, patting him on his back and Newt forced a smile and a nod. Thomas saw this particular expression too often to not recognize it and huffed while sitting down at the counter with his own coffee.

He was used to being a bad guy anyway, no matter how much of the blame he genuinely deserved. They both knew he didn’t get drunk because he wanted to get wasted enough to drop unconscious on a spot and Newt would be a hypocrite to badmouth him when he was pouring all his whiskey to Thomas’ glass with thankful expression yesterday. But then again, not even he could tell Thomas’ dad about it, so they just had to have this unspoken oh yes, Thomas is a real piece of work as always.

Which sort of sucked. But Thomas couldn’t care less what his dad thought about his alcohol tolerance, it wasn’t like he threw up everywhere or broke mum’s precious bowls set (again). Not that he expected Newt to defend him anyhow, but he could at least say nooo, he was fine, he just fell asleep or something. Not that it surprised him he didn’t, but…

“He used to drink majority of guys from my work under the table and now look at him,” his dad delivered his fifth Thomas can’t drink for shit jab. He sure loved to milk that. “At least he has you to look after him, huh.”

Thomas stared at Newt’s back with mild annoyance the more the blond refused to elaborate on anything, just smiling at his dad while making himself a cup of coffee, and then Thomas’s eyes suddenly fell on the nape of Newt’s neck with a vicious, red mark near the hairline, and his whole body seized up like he got paralyzed.

A hickey? Since when? From who? What? Wait, was Newt already dating somebody else?

Saying already like three years were short amount of time… Thomas mentally scolded himself and his body raised up on its own volition, like being pulled in by some invisible force towards the blond. He had no clue if it were a twisted need for revenge or vindication or just him being unable to come in terms of not being told or warned, or maybe all of it together, he just couldn’t stop and plastered himself all over Newt’s back, trapping him between his body and the counter, circling his thin waist like a vine (he got thinner for sure).

“Of course I have you, don’t I,” he purred into Newt’s ear, loud enough for his dad to hear perfectly, and felt how Newt’s whole body froze, his hand mid-stir of the coffee. Thomas could see how his Adam’s apple bobbed when he gulped. “Looking after me when I get hammered into unconsciousness.”

“Yeah.” Newt’s voice sounded small, and Thomas wanted to bite down at that red, angry place on his nape like an animal. His dad probably wouldn’t appreciate it, but his ego sure would. He let his hands slide lower, to Newt’s hips, grabbing a handful, and the habitual movement made him restless. He did it zillion times during the time they were together. He did less, he did more, naked, clothed, lying, standing up, in whatever situation, touching Newt was his privilege.

And some fucking horny prick just took it?

Just marked his boyfriend – ex-boyfriend, Thomas, ex-boyfriend for three years, pull yourself together, you’re not 17 anymore – like a property and he didn’t even fucking notice?

Newt’s breath hitched and the spoon he was holding dropped into the coffee, splashing the black liquid around it, dribbling down the drawers under, making the blond curse under his breath.

“Sorry,” he immediately said towards Thomas’ dad who was handing him a cloth to wipe it with, and started squirming. “Thomas, leggo. Can’t reach.”

“Don’t wanna,” Thomas refused, squeezing Newt even tighter. “I’m hangover and miserable and you’re supposed to take care of me.”

Thomas’ dad snorted but took the hint and retreated while calling at his wife the boys are being rowdy again, Anna! And the kitchen fell back into silence, except of their breathing, with Thomas plastered against Newt’s back like he wanted to topple him over (he sort of did).

“Do you enjoy being a bloody prick?” Newt finally broke the spell, pawing at Thomas’ hands to get them off, his voice an angry whisper. “What’s your deal, for fuck’s sake!”

“Hangover,” Thomas huffed, not letting go and to be completely honest, Newt wasn’t really trying as much, just slapping his hands half-heartedly. “Could’ve at least said I didn’t give you any trouble, I covered for you the whole night.”

“You gave me loads of it!” Newt started wiggling, and Thomas had to fight the urge to just bite down, mark any piece of skin available, to make the restlessness go away. “You were heavy as fuck, I had to carry you all the way to your room!”

“Yeah, and?” Thomas grabbed him lower, and Newt pinched his hand in revenge, which finally made him let go with sharp breath.

“Fuck you,” the blond barked at him with fiery eyes. “I don’t know what you are trying to prove but groping me is not on the bloody table, get it?!”

“Mhm,” Thomas rubbed the place Newt pinched him at. “Sure. No fun allowed, got it.”

“Fuck off!”

Thomas hated how Newt turned away and the hickey was so visible it made his insides churn. He used to talk about his problems a lot these past few years, so he could finally let go of whatever was holding him in place, unable to forget, and he thought he reached that point, that he was free.

Looking at Newt marked by another man… no. He was not. Still stuck, still the same.

Still angry and miserable.

Still… there.

***

The fact Newt refused to talk to him completely was an understatement. Thomas blamed his unsteady approach on the alcohol, because what else he could blame it on – his own feelings? He sodealt with those already, there was nothing that would make him see red.

Except of a hickey on his ex-boyfriend’s neck, that would do it. Apparently.

But still – it was the hangover that made him stupid, right. If he’d be completely sober and not aching anywhere and his mind clear, he would just… shrug at it. It was Newt’s business who he slept with or not, or who he let bite his nape like a dog (some young fucking idiot who thought hickeys are still sexy? Stupid shit).

Not Thomas’. Not anymore.

The more he tried to push it away from his mind, the more his mind pushed back, just pointing it out loudly every time he glanced towards the blond sitting on the couch in the living room, bundled in a fluffy blanket, fiddling with his phone.

He was fiddling with his phone a lot actually. Texting somebody?

The guy who left the mark?

Thomas felt the irrational anger seep into his consciousness again and he forced it back down with a frown. He knew asking Newt to help him to get his parents off his back wasn’t exactly a great idea (asking ex to be your bf again for a show just screamed trouble), but at the same time asking anybody else just felt… wrong.

Thomas had to admit he’d be able to go along with this only with Minho, probably. Because Minho was a born actor, he’d be able to breeze though this with ease and Thomas’ parents would like him for sure, because, well, everybody liked Minho, honestly.

Asking Teresa or Brenda was just… desperate. Because other than them it would be Newt and getting back together with Newt… well. Thomas could tell from the moment he saw him getting into his car in front of Newt’s workplace it was going to be tough for both of them.

Not much of a surprise so far climbing Mt. Everest would be easier than keeping his chaotic feelings under control.

“You need some fresh air,” his vision of Newt got obstructed by his mum in a frilly apron she wore unironically and he looked up to her with half-lidded eyes.

“I think I need chicken soup, actually,” he offered in response, because dragging himself through the snow outside now sounded like a death penalty.

“Air first,” she insisted, adamant, and turned towards Newt like an executioner. “Right, Newt? A walk would do him good.”

Newt looked at Thomas and Thomas just knew. He was doomed. Newt was going to betray him like Scar did with Mufasa and he’d enjoy it, he could see the glint in his eyes, just shining there, spelling revenge in big, neon letters.

Please, he mouthed at the blond in desperation and Newt tilted his head to the side and then his mouth curled up.

“Sure, that’s a great idea, Anna,” he signed the death certificate without an ounce of shame and relished in it.

Fuck you, Thomas mouthed again, and Newt sent him a condescending smile. Fuck him especially.

***

“You’re unusually quiet,” his mum casually pointed out like she didn’t just drag him out to cold ass weather while holding a knife (butter one, but that’s what made it scarier), despite his very vocal (or vocal sort of, too loud and his brain wanted out of his skull) protests.

“Hungover,” he reminded her bitterly. The snow under their feet crunched sharply and the noise was tearing his brain to pieces, like walking on a broken glass and he had no idea how much longer he’d be able to act like it wasn’t killing him.

“Well, it was nice of you to cover for him,” Anna shrugged like she didn’t just blew their cover with a killer one liner and Thomas probably shouldn’t have been as surprised. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen him drink.”

“That’s cuz he can’t drink for shit,” he mumbled with a frown. “Did dad notice?”

“No,” she shook her head. “He was too busy boasting about the partnership. It’s been some time since I’ve seen him so happy, you know how he hoards the whiskey otherwise.”

“Yeah, cheapskate,” Thomas snorted, and the noise sliced his brain painfully, like an instant karma.

“Think he was happy about Newt being back too,” she hit the nail on the head a bit too close to home and Thomas hated how his stomach lurched at it. “Well, you know him.”

“Sure is happy for not getting any grandkids,” he just grumbled and Anna patted him on his back.

“We still have Hannah,” she reminded him sweetly. “Maybe one day she’ll feel like having kids and force you to babysit for her two times a week.”

“Me? You’re going to be the grandparents, it’s your obligation to babysit!” The idea of taking care of Hannah’s kids made him scared for life, and they didn’t even exist yet.

“Pretty sure Newt wouldn’t mind,” she chirped happily, and Thomas loathed how right she probably was. Newt never really showed any kind of real interest in having kids or anything, but he never minded babysit for his own sister, and generally all the kids liked him.

Not that thinking about that had any merit anyway, since they split up with a point of no return. Maybe Newt already planned kids with the new person who left the distasteful hickey on his nape, or the person who he kept texting, and the more Thomas thought about it, the more his chest burned.

“Cherish him a bit more, would you,” she poked his arm. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you have some beef between you. Had an argument before coming here?”

Why the fuck is she so perceptive?

“A bit,” he answered quietly. “No biggie.”

“Set things right,” she plainly ordered him like he was ten again and had do her bidding. “I don’t want another sad Christmas.”

There isn’t going to be any Christmas for us, he wanted to tell her, but kept his mouth shut. At this rate, there wasn’t going to be anything for them, at all.

I really need some sleep.

***

Not very often did the morning come so peacefully, like a gentle spring washing over tired soul, leaving it invigorated. Thomas basked in the pleasantness of it, a quiet, warm and relaxed moment where he slowly woke up from a dream into reality still welcoming and soft like he never left the fantasy realm.

He took a deep breath, stretching, slowly coming to realize of contours of another body pressed into him, and under his hands and around his legs and under his chin. The soft blond hair came to view when he opened his eyes, with Newt draped around him needily, and his heart melted.

The first night in their flat. Their home. A place that only belonged to them, these walls and floors, and small kitchen and big windows, for them together. It came true, finally, inevitably, for Thomas to have Newt all for himself, to share his mornings, his evenings, his life with him. Nothing else could make him happier.

“You already up?” came a sleepy rumble from Newt’s chest, the hands holding Thomas’ waist slowly moved up, to his back, pushing them even closer together.

“Just woke up,” Thomas kissed the top of the blond strands, his own hands traveling over Newt’s back, right onto his butt, kneading it.

“Mmmm.” Approving sound doubled his endeavour and then Newt was slowly grinding to him, lazily, his lips stretched in a smile, reaching to pamper Thomas’ neck with small kisses. “This sure is nice, huh.”

“Love it,” Thomas agreed with the sentiment while grabbing Newt’s thigh and hiking it up over his hip. The blond softly moaned at the contact and Thomas pushed more into it, completely awake and needy and allowed. There was nobody that could hear them, scold them or gasp in shock like a puritan at them making out – just them, two lovers in their home, free to make love any time they wanted.

And Thomas wanted too much.

***

He never stopped wanting.

He woke to his room bathing in shadows, with the blanket twisted between his legs, his headache still present, even though in weaker state than in the morning, and his body wasn’t any less sluggish. The walk with his mum didn’t help him much, just added to his misery with freezing cold and nagging reality he couldn’t play this game any longer, which made him feel empty and unhappy.

He didn’t feel this unhappy in a while, it usually only came back when he heard of Newt about a year after the breakup. Every time his ex came back to his life, even when somebody only mentioned him in a passing conversation, Thomas’ chest set off that painful pang in it, like a trigger just waiting to be pressed, and he fell back into hollow kind of depression.

He got rid of it, somehow. He built walls around himself, he locked all of his twisted personality traits and pushiness and hateful behaviour away, he spent years searching for more he could fix, for all that made Newt unhappy with him, what made him leave Thomas after seven years without really talking about it.

He thought he managed to become a better person. He believed he could change the way he acted. He hoped if he ever talked to Newt again, at any point of their lives, he would be at least able to show him he wasn’t that ungrateful, lousy boyfriend anymore, that they could at least be friends. Somehow. Just talk normally. Just… exist in the same room without… Newt making that anguished face, like it hurt him still.

Thomas tried. But failed. Maybe it was just recurring theme of his life – to touch something wonderful, to taste true happiness, just to fuck it all up and lose it.

Maybe he was just obsessive. Suffocating.

Maybe making mistakes were rooted too deep in him to get rid of.

Maybe… it was simply impossible.

***

Newt was playing games with Hannah in the living room when Thomas came back down. Hannah made fun of him for sleeping all day like an old guy and his mum said something about hoping he didn’t catch a cold and gave him a bowl of chicken soup.

The strange, unattached feeling stayed with him since he woke up, and only doubled when he saw Newt’s neck marked by some fucker on display. His stomach churned at the implication there was this unknown guy waiting for Newt to come back home, who kept impatiently sending him texts that made Newt frown and smile in turns, like he just slowly sunk back into the problem they never resolved. Thomas felt disgusted with himself, and angry, and, when it came to it, immensely tired.

“Oh, you have the whole week free?” his mum asked suddenly, breaking Thomas’ bubble of trying to eat the soup like a mental case of lobotomy, and he realized there had been a conversation going in meantime and he didn’t catch any of it. Newt wasn’t playing the game anymore, though Hannah still furiously pressed buttons on her controller, and instead of it sat on the couch, turned towards Thomas’ mum at the table.

“Yeah, thought getting out of the city might do me good,” he answered her with a soft smile and the idea of another week like this sent Thomas into desperate mode. Even though it was him who forced Newt to take whole week off, because… he only had bad ideas, obviously.

“But there’s bit of a rush now, right?” he entered the conversation impulsively and Newt glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. “At work. Christmas and all that being close.”

“Yeah, it’s… a bit hectic,” the blond admitted, making Thomas’ mum go aww. “There’s lots of people taking vacations they didn’t spend yet, so we usually work crunch time.”

“Yeah, kind of same,” Thomas added. It wasn’t really a lie. But not the truth either. “And I know I said a week, but I’ve got some texts from work already, thought of going back tomorrow instead.”

Newt stared at him with an evident confusion, but Thomas knew at this rate they were going to crash and burn again if they stayed, and he didn’t want that. He couldn’t even trust himself to keep it civil when his blood boiled like in a bull taunted with red flag.

Except the red flag was an unknown nobody on the other side of the line of Newt’s phone.

And bed.

“Uh,” came from the blond. “No, wait. What? You…”

“We can visit again during Christmas,” Thomas offered a big fat lie, he almost bit his tongue at it. Christmas were a taboo, he knew mentioning it were already risky, but it gave him an out with his mum, so that worked at least. “When it’s calmer.”

“When is what calmer?” Newt still stared, Thomas said almost disbelieving, and he just prayed for him to play along and not act like he knew nothing about it.

“Work,” he answered stiffly. Too stiffly, he realized, since Newt’s eyes narrowed.

“Uh oh,” he heard Hannah interject, which meant he already failed in the mission to make this believable. Fuck.

“I need a smoke,” the blond announced instead of reacting and stood up sharply. Then shot Thomas a badly masked glare. “Keep me company?”

He wanted to say no but couldn’t when his whole family watched them like during tennis match. So he just nodded and followed Newt outside of the house while feeling like slapping himself.

***

“Care to explain or am I supposed to guess.”

The cigarette was lit, its fiery tip shone bright in the darkness of the porch once the automatic light shut itself because they weren’t moving like they rooted in the wooden floor. Newt was wearing his coat and Thomas only stood there in the long-sleeved shirt, which in retrospect was probably a mistake.

“I did explain,” Thomas said. “Just thought about work-,”

“No, you didn’t,” Newt stopped him immediately while crossing one of his arms on his chest while other held the cigarette like a weapon. “You said a week, so I took a week off. I’m not bloody leaving now. It’s my vacation.”

“I also said three days would probably be enough,” Thomas asserted. “And they are. I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“Why?” the blond demanded. “It’s not like I suffer here. I like this place. What’s your problem?”

That kind of question had no easy answer and Thomas held Newt’s eyes only for few seconds, before looking away.

“Am I the problem?” came another question, even sharper. “You just can’t stand me anymore, so you want to leave?”

“You know that’s bullshit,” Thomas scoffed. “Since when did I ever-,”

“No, I don’t know!” Newt interrupted him with raised voice and Thomas flinched. “I don’t bloody know anything about you anymore! You brought me here and expected what? War? Did you want us to fail?”

“Why would I want us to fail?” Thomas’ eyes widened in a shock. “What kind of fucked up logic would that be?!”

“I don’t know!” Newt barked. The cigarette he was holding was slowly fading away, the ash falling everywhere how he moved his hand. “But something’s up since this morning, so obviously you’re lying about work and I want to know why!”

Well, finding out his ex-boyfriend had a lover, or a sex friend or whatever the other person was definitely served as a wake-up call. Thomas couldn’t overlook it – he thought he’d be fine with anything, it had been years, but one fucking hickey and some fleeting texts and he just had the rising urge to tear the walls he built down and get angry and make Newt inevitably miserable, which he despised.

He fucking loathed it. And himself. And everything around him.

“Why did you even agree to come here?” he couldn’t help but demand. “Why did you even bother playing this stupid game when you have somebody home? You trying to make him jealous or it’s just your thing?”

Accusing – stupid Thomas, fucking idiot, just talk normally, what’s wrong with you – as always.

“What?” Newt’s eyes shot up, wide in honest surprise. His cheeks were red from the cold, or maybe embarrassment, Thomas didn’t know. “What are you talking about?”

“About that hickey on your neck?” Thomas pointed towards the incriminated spot and Newt’s whole body went rigid.

“A hickey…?” Newt’s free hand was touching the place now, his voice shocked. “You… ugh.”

“Look, it’s not my business, clearly,” Thomas rubbed his eyes tiredly, desperately trying to make an excuse for his own consciousness why he couldn’t look at Newt. “But obviously it’s causing you trouble with him, so. As I said. Three days are fine, we can leave now. Go back home. Forget about this.”

And forget about me trying to corner you, and me getting hard in the bed with you this morning, and me sounding jealous and lame, and me… just for being me.

“Are you fucking with me?” Newt’s voice sounded disbelieving. “Are you bloody serious right now? A hickey from some random guy appeared over night here? That’s what you’re saying?”

Overnight…?

“Overnight?” he asked a little dumbly, which forced him to look Newt in the eyes, where he saw hell unleashed. It made his throat squeeze almost hard enough to suffocate him.

“You think I just popped back home for a quickie, then back to your bed in the morning like a bloody Cinderella?” the blond seethed, the cigarette in his hand morphing into a protentional weapon of choice. “Where did that even came for, for fuck’s sake? You’d been seeing me for two days, never noticed anything, and then suddenly your Esmeralda syndrome got cured or what?”

“But-,”

“You bloody drunk fucker,” Newt took a step towards him and Thomas found himself hitting the entrance door with his back, when he automatically tried to back out. “Should have known your bird brain won’t remember anything.”

The realization hit Thomas like tons of bricks right in his face, able to cause heavy concussion if it were real.

“I did this?!”

“No, the bloody sucker behind you, who the fuck do you think?!” Newt’s voice was harsh, but Thomas could only hear the bare fact he made a hickey of size of Texas on his ex-boyfriend’s nape while spending the next day being jealous… of himself.

“What the fuck,” he breathed out with an ugly relief flooding his veins, which was all sorts of wrong. Being relieved over attacking his ex at night definitely did not count as a good point in anybody’s book. “What the fuck.”

“Calmer now?” Newt sighed in exasperation and Thomas couldn’t say he was. It just opened door to another set of bad he had to deal with.

“I attacked you when drunk?” he asked quietly, and Newt blinked in surprise.

“Attacked?” he repeated and then barked out a laugh. “No, you really didn’t. You were drunk out of your mind, for fuck’s sake.”

“I see.”

“Didn’t think it left anything,” the blond sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as if in memory, which was kind of hot – no Thomas, it was not hot, but embarrassing, shut up -. “I mean you just munched on me a little, then fell back asleep. No harm done.”

“You made a fuss about us sleeping in one bed but it’s no biggie when I leave a hickey?” Thomas couldn’t help but laugh a little and Newt’s face showed signs of hesitation.

“Look…” he tried after a moment, the cigarette in his hand nearly gone. “I… don’t know, you were just sleeping while holding me, it doesn’t mean anything-,”

“And that’s fine with you?” It was Thomas’ turn to interrupt him, and Newt looked a little lost for a moment.

“I suppose that’s fine with me, yeah,” he admitted slowly.

Thomas looked at his shoes, taking in a deep breath. He couldn’t deny the knot forming in his belly over the day already started easing off, for purely selfish reasons he had, but at the same time his head became even a bigger mess than before.

“So what does it mean?” he asked after a while. “I’m trying to do the right thing here, I thought… you’d rather leave than stay with me longer, after today, but…”

“I want to stay,” Newt answered immediately. “Unless you really don’t want me here. Then no, of course. I had the same problem the first day, feeling all kinds of weird and jumpy. I guess I just sort of dealt with it. Stepped out of my comfort zone and all that.”

“Sorry you had to.”

It wasn’t like Thomas wanted Newt to change anyhow by doing this favour for him. But he’d also be a hypocrite if he didn’t admit he wished Newt to feel good here. With him. Selfishly, hopelessly. Like before, like they were okay. Like they still… liked each other. At least a little.

He knew that kind of hope was self-destructive and harmful, but he didn’t stop loving this man three years ago, after going through an immensely rough patch, so he wouldn’t stop loving him now for no reason either.

“No need to be sorry,” Newt interrupted his thoughts with much softer tone than Thomas expected. “I mean even despite it’s you, you didn’t really do anything bad yet.”

“Wow,” Thomas snorted. “Way to ruin the mood, boyfriend.”

“I try,” Newt grinned, and it seemed like the tense mood dissipated and they both relaxed enough to breathe easier. Thomas possibly wouldn’t even notice he had been so strung up until now, if the huge boulder of irrational fear of fucking up didn’t fall off his shoulders with a bang.

“And just for the record,” Newt added while finally inhaling the last puff from the already burned-out cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray. “I noticed you digging into me in the morning.”

“Of course you did…” Thomas banged the back of his head against door in utter shame. “Because universe hates me, and you had to fucking wake up.”

“Yeah, well,” Newt let out a small shrug. “I got hard at night, if it makes you feel any better. Let’s call it even.”

“What.”

“Had a real nice dream,” the blond casually announced like he was ordering pie with no filling and Thomas was a stupefied cashier at Costa Cafe. “Woke up with you being handsy with me. Tried to scramble away, cue for you to make the hickey and fall back asleep.”

“Uh.”

“1:1, right?” The sly smile Newt’s mouth produced did things to Thomas’ underbelly and before he even caught himself, he automatically reached out and grabbed Newt’s side.

Fuck.

“Pretty lousy score,” he just said – bad Thomas, stop making a pass at your ex -, “That’s no match whatsoever.”

Newt glanced at his hand resting on his waist and then back to Thomas with a thoughtful hum.

“I’m not that good at sports,” he just said, looking back into Thomas’ eyes. “But you might be onto something.”

Thomas took a deep breath and risked the second hand grabbing other side of Newt’s waist, pulling him closer. The layers of clothing made him dissatisfied, no matter how cold it was and how his skin already felt like ice, he just wanted to get under the coat and the sweater and the shirt and make Newt react somehow. The blond just silently watched him, let him do whatever he wanted, and somehow it felt like a test and Thomas was scared of failing it.

“That’s it?” Newt broke the tense silence around them when Thomas just stood there, holding him.

“Thinking,” the brunet mumbled with a frown.

“About?”

“How to touch you without it being classified as groping,” he moved his hands a little lower as an experiment, getting no reaction. “Since it’s off the table.”

“Pfff.”

He hesitated, then gingerly let go of one side and reached for the zipper lodged under Newt’s chin, keeping the coat closed like a fortress. His hand barely cooperated with how frozen it was, but Newt still didn’t stop him and that encouraged him unfairly.

“Newt.”

“Yeah?” the blond’s voice was quiet and close to his face.

“What’s with all the texting?” He kept holding the zippier between his fingers like he couldn’t decide, and Newt made a soft huh? noise in the back of his throat.

“You were on your phone the whole day,” Thomas lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “Is there somebody…?”

A sigh. Thomas let go of the zipper.

“That’s Alby,” came a reply and if Thomas wasn’t already propped against the door, he’d take a step back. There was nowhere to run now, so he just let go of the blond completely, nodding.

“He’s my partner,” another string of words Thomas comprehended but wished he didn’t. “A bit demanding one.”

“Sounds like it,” he just commented, staring at his feet until Newt’s shoes came into view as well when he stepped closer.

Seriously testing me. That’s-

“A bit cruel,” he breathed out with a puff of white smoke and Newt pushed further and pressed his mouth against Thomas’. His cold lips lingered for a moment before parting, their breaths mingling, and Thomas’ heart fought really hard to get out of his chest and run away. The proximity was non-existent, Newt stood so close their chests were touching, and his eyes were so dark, and pupils blown wide Thomas got easily lost in them.

He always did. Nothing had changed.

“You look cold,” Newt whispered to his lips, hovering so close their mouths gently touched when they took a breath.

“Freezing,” Thomas answered in daze, holding back only by a miracle. He wanted to reach out and pull the blond man flush against him, to grind into him, to kiss him so deep his toes would curl, and he’d buck up, he just wanted so much it made him suffer.

“Alby’s my colleague,” Newt dropped quietly. “Funnily… you weren’t wrong about work being in a rush now. He’s struggling a little. Wanted to know my opinion.”

A colleague. And nothing else?

“Nothing else,” Newt answered like he could read his mind and then sagged against Thomas’ body like the energy just left him, resting his head on Thomas’ shoulder.

“I thought I can handle being this close to you,” he heard him mumbling into his shirt. “But the more I am, the less I can fight it.”

“I thought I can handle you dating somebody else,” Thomas added to it while letting his head fall back against the door with a dull thud. “But obviously not. It’s scary. I don’t want to fuck it up again.”

“Yeah,” Newt agreed with him. “Me neither.”

He wasn’t sure if this had been some sort of consensus they reached, or just a fling that happened because they were both lonely, but Thomas didn’t want to let go – even though he should have, logically, to protect them both. The pain they caused to each other three years ago was still there and festering under their skins, but the more Newt was pressed into him, breathing softly, the more Thomas noticed his reason slowly creeped away, like a thief in the night disappearing with loot.

But he wanted. For fuck’s sake how he wanted to just hold him close and promise him love and eternal happiness, and the scary part was he couldn’t promise shit. His love was real, but not unconditional, happiness was fleeting and simply relying on both of them and the rest of the world deciding whatever to fuck them up or not.

But…

“I give up,” he mumbled, weary to the bone. At Newt’s soft hm? he just sighed. “It’s fucking cold.”

The blond barked out a laugh, but nodded and let go of him, immediately taking all the warmth away.

“Then shall we assure them we’re not breaking up again?” he nodded towards the door and without waiting for Thomas’ reply he already reached for the handle. “Or not leaving tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” the brunet conceded. “Hannah’s going to be milking this for the rest of the week…”

“Serves you right,” Newt laughed quietly while opening the door and Thomas kept the answer to himself.

We’re not breaking up again rang in his head like a bell, deafening his reason even further. Newt didn’t protest when he reached for his hand on their way inside, and he wondered if his heart was ready for another trial.

He ignored the uncertainty and took a leap of faith.

#newtmas #tmr #the last resort series #the maze runner #izzymultifan #edit 17. 5. 2021

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amelialincoln · 4 years ago

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So Sorry

Her head was pounding, aching maybe? Nope, more like throbbing. She shook her head in frustration as her sutures broke for the fourth time. She ignored a couple of the confused glances from around the OR. Her sutured were always perfect but today her hands wouldn't stop shaking. It was probably due to dehydration and couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten. It had been back to back traumas all day, every specialty was swamped but neuro had gotten it worst. Owen wasn’t working today which made matters worse. She’d heard the nurses gossiping about him getting a call about a possible lead on his sister. Her heart had swelled a bit at that. She wished she could be there for him but was reminded that being Owen’s therapist wasn’t her job anymore. It was Teddy’s now. Something she might feel jealous about if she wasn’t so happy with Link. They’d planned to get married a year ago but realized some fancy ceremony seemed dumb. They loved each other and that seemed to matter more than anything else.

"Everything okay, Doctor Shepherd?" Deluca asked from beside her. She missed Stephanie, Deluca’s polietness was starting to piss her off.

“Everything's perfect, why?" She squinted into the brain cavity, her eyesight was starting to blur ans she realized how badly she needed a nap.

"No reason." Deluca shook his head. "I can close if you want."

On a normal day Amelia might snap at her him for pointing out her incompetence of a simple skill she'd preformed hundreds of times, instead she just sighed. "Sure, page me when your finished, I'd like to follow up." She handed her instruments to the resident. "Watch the lep–"

"Leptin receptor, I know," He assured her. "Get out of here." Amelia nodded, thanking the scrub nurses beside her, she quickly fled the room. Dizzy didn't even begin to cover how she was feeling as she began to scrub out. Everything was spinning. She waited for a moment of relief, gripping to the edge of the sink.

"Amelia?" She didn't have to look up to recognize her boyfriend's voice.

She took a deep breath, splashing her face with cold water and turned to meet his gaze. "Hey. You all finished for the day?”

"You don't look well," he observed, ignoring her question.

Amelia shook her head as another wave of nausea rolled over her. Her hand flew to her mouth to prevent her from throwing up onto his scrub top. "I don't want to get you sick.” Link held out an arm for her to steady herself and watched the dizziness pass before pulling her into his chest. Normally his cologne would calm her but today she couldn’t help but wince at the strength of it.

"I'll take you home," he assured her, removing her scrub cap and running his hands through her hair to remove the tight braid.

"No," she paused, shutting her eyes tight, "you're busy, I'll be fine."

He took a minute to survey her before placing a hand on her sweaty brow. “You're hot, do you feel feverish?"

"Not particularly, just nauseous."

"You've been spending too much time with Zola at daycare. That place is covered in germs. You probably caught a flu bug." She nodded before suddenly pulling away from him. Her entire body heaved as she threw up in the scrub sink. “The nurses are gonna love that.”

“I just wanna go home,” she mumbled weakly.

"Okay," he promised, "let’s go get your things and I'll take you home."

"It's rush hour, we could be here for awhile," Link muttered, slowing the car down to a stop behind the car in front of them. Amelia peered over the dashboard, a large line of cars blocked her view.

“Ugh,” a groan escaped her mouth as she noticed the traffic blocking her view.

"We're almost home. Another twenty minutes with the traffic." Link tried to sound optimistic as he glanced over at his girlfriend, curled up in her seat with her head leaning on the car door. "Please don't throw up in the car."

"Thanks I'll keep it in mind," she snapped.

"I told you that daycare is full of germs. You're in there almost twice everyday,” he tried to dismiss her anger, knowing she’d been up all night.

"I like how you're making visiting my nieces and nephew seem like a bad thing."

"There's a flu bug going around, you can always visit them at home," Link argued.

"If I have a break I'd rather make use of it then talk to stupid interns for half an hour!" She yelled, pressing her index fingers to her temples.

"Why are you so stubborn?!" He finally huffed, slamming his hands on the wheel of the car.

"Why do you always have to act so freakin righteous? She cried. Link pressed his lips together, gritting his teeth. Traffic has always agitated him as it does Amelia. They weren’t the most patient people.

"All I'm saying is–"

"Can we just not fight right now?" She interrupted. "I'm just really tired."

"Alright,” he tried to soften his voice.

"Good," she answered, cupping her forehead in one hand and squeezing her eyes shut. He felt slightly guilty for adding to her headache. They’d been at a stall for ten minutes when Amelia began to squirm again. Her index fingers roughly massaged her temples and she jumped as Link placed a soft palm on her forehead.

"Hey, hey," he muttered as she relaxed. "Your forehead is still hot, are you sure you're ok?"

"I told you, I'm fine," she mumbled, staring out the window.

"Amelia..." hot red tears rolled down her face and she wiped them away with frustration.

"I said I was fine," she tried to sound irritated but it came out a lot weaker. What she looked like was frail and unhealthy. Something Link had been noticing more frequently about her appearance, always tired, always shaky. She'd lost weight for sure but she keeps telling him that she’s just been swamped with work. He went to caress her side but quickly pulled away in horror as she yelped in pain.

“Okay, what the fuck is going on,” he was surprised by the anger in his own voice. Their relationship was built on trust which was something Link was grateful for every day. Lately he couldn’t shake the fact that she was lying to him.

"Stop yelling at me!" She cried, tears streaming down her face.

"Tell me what's going–"

"I thought I was pregnant!" She blurted out finally. Link’s voice went silent.

"What?"

"We've been t-trying for months and n-nothing was happening," she stumbled over her words as he stares at her in shock. "I was getting nauseas, I-I had this terrible back pain and I was tired all the time." She looked to Link for any flicker of emotion but his face had gone stone cold. "I didn't have time to go get a test at the store and I was so excited," her voice was starting to break, "I went to see Carina and I asked her to run some tests."

Link drew in a shaky breath, trying to hold back any flicker of excitement that might be showing up on his easily readable face. "Okay..."

"But they all came back negative. Carina was as confused as I was. We didn't know what to do except run some more tests. I had an ultrasound done, still nothing. And then I started bleeding and everything started to make sense."

"Bleeding?" Did you have a miscarriage?” He reached for her hand as he forced his own feelings down. Why hadn’t she told him? That was something they should’ve gone through together.

"I went to the bathroom and there was blood," she replied, she took in shaky breaths.

"Okay," Link waited for her to tell him, his heart thumping in his chest. He was almost a father.

"Carina was worried about the same thing as me, considering my family history, so we got a couple scans. They were positive.”

"For..." Link urged her to finish.

"For ovarian cancer. I didn’t want to tell you because initially we thought it was okay. With your history and everything I didn’t want to scare you but it's spreading really quickly. Carina said it could be in my bladder by next week and then possibly my liver. The tumor is located right beside a major bloodstream so it's just shipping cancer cells all over the place." She smiled through her tears, the classic Shepherd appreciation for tumors was written all over her face. "it’s pretty perfect, it’s margins are–"

“Stop,” he suddenly felt like it was him who was going to throw up. The car jolted a little too hard as he pressed in the brakes and stared into her eyes in disbelief. “Are you kidding.” She shook her head, not able to read any of the million scenerios that were running through his mind.

"I had my first round of chemo today.”

"Why the hell are you working?"

"It’s a distraction, I just–”

"And you didn't think that my opinion, being practically your husband, would matter?" He had never been much of a crier but he found himself biting back a sob. “You don’t think that the one who is directly impacted by your wellbeing would want to have a say in any of this?”

“I didn’t want to worry you. I’m trying to figure things out. I didn’t want to drop a major bomb on you without being sure of my prognosis.”

"So your telling me that if I was your position you would've preferred me not to tell you if I was dying?" He glared at her through blurry eyes.

"I didn't say that!" She protested, curling her hands into fists.

“I trusted you to tell me everything. You’ve made me promise you to keep you updated on my cancer shit but you can bother to do the same yourself? This is a joke.” He knew he was projected his issues on her and he hated himself for it.

“I thought I was doing what was best for us,” she tried to explain, running her hands through her hair in frustration. Link stopped, staring into her palms. His hands began to shake on the wheel and his knuckles went white in an attempt to squeeze his hands hard enough to stop the shaking. Amelia glanced down at the hair caught between her fingers and let out a tiny whimper as the couple pulled into the driveway. He wanted to wrap her up in his arms, tell her it was all going to be okay. The idea of watching her go through what he had made him want to run in the other direction. The idea of her hurting was too much for him to bare. He looked at her pale expression, knowing exactly how she was feeling and recounting on all the times he’d prayed to god that her nor their children wouldn’t have too. Children were most likely out of the question at this point though he didn't care as long as she made it. Was this really their reality now? If she made it? He leant over to kiss her, hoping it would suppress his thoughts and prayed that he’d be able to kiss her for the rest of his life.

an anon requested that Link and Amelia be together rather than Owen and Amelia during her cancer situation. sorry its sad but what were u expecting lol.

#amelink #amelia shepherd #amelink fanfiction #amelinkfanfic #amelink fanfic #Atticus Lincoln #atticus link #greysanatomy

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baconpal · 4 years ago

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talkin bout fuckig manga

hey it’s me, haven’t had internet for over a week and i’ve been sick and uni and blah blah blah time for a rant about manga

this time its about "Soredemo Machi wa Mawatteiru", tl;dr, good manga read it idk

lots of bullshit below the cut

Before anything I say gets too confusing or I go off on an insane tangent, just know my recommendation is that you read "Soredemo Machi wa Mawatteiru". It's not very easy to find online since it has an official English release (which my recommendation extends far enough to suggest I might pick up in the future, just to have it, but I am very stingy), but there's an alright torrent of all the volumes on your local anime torrenting website, and is at the very least worth the trouble of reading as such. There is also an anime that gets better as it goes, but the manga is my primary recommendation. Beyond this point I'm not gonna give much regard to what I write, so get ready for anything, read the manga and see if you agree with me, or don't and see if I care:

BOUT THE ANIME: The SoreMachi anime is one of those rare comedy anime you find where the animation and overall production is just really extra the entire time. Hopefully you know what I mean because I won't really be able to explain it any other way, it's simply one of those shows where the jokes are decent and it's a fun time for the most part. Unfortunately, the anime makes a couple of critical missteps that kept me from getting far into it when I first tried watching it about a year ago, and in retrospect seem even less reasonable.

Starting with the good, as an adaptation it does a good job with most chapters it covers, it properly sources where each chapter comes from incase you intend to read the manga and skip around to catch up, and the anime adapts some sections to have additional jokes that fit very naturally in to the story. It also covers up some of those problems only manga can have like having a concert segment without any actual music involved, until they invent mp3-paper it's just something we'll have to live with. Translation work was pretty good (I watched the [WhyNot] release for those who care), which is extra important for something as difficult to translate as jokes from another language. The set of episodes they chose to end on was very good, and was expanded to be a lot more impactful in the anime. If it wasn't for the last episode being as strong as it was I may have given up on finding the manga when I saw it wasn't super easy to read online.

As for what the anime fails in, some episodes feature some really blatant over-acting that doesn't really help make characters believable, and there's this obnoxious gag that continues the whole where through where most scenes have a few seconds long line from what is essentially a forced mascot character, which usually mean nothing and only serve to harm the pacing of many episodes (there isn't even any sort of equivalent bit in the manga so I really don't know why they did it, most of the anime original jokes are pretty good so I just really don't get it). The biggest issue the anime faces is that the source material is about 140 chapters, while the anime is only able to cover 24 chapters. This comes with a LOT of problems, the first being what I'd call the "required reading". SoreMachi is not a 1-note simple comedy where you can skip to any chapter and be completely okay; There are many small but meaningful subplots lying beneath, and characters have a fair bit of development throughout. What this means for the anime is that the first 3-4 episodes are just the first few chapters of the manga, which are a bit rough and not as good as the majority of the work, which is true of a lot of comics (god fuck I promise there will be more than a first chapter of my comic I promise it'll get better fuck). In terms of the anime by itself, I'd say episode 1 is decent, 2 is middling, and by 3/4 their still taking a while to introduce members of the cast, and I didn't immediately want to finish it. I put the show down for a long time until my internet started dying and I wanted to watch something fun. Slapping it back on at episode 5 I immediately had a great time and watched the rest of the show pretty soon after. While I understand the reasoning behind doing this, the anime does not pay off this structure, as beyond the first few episodes, the chapters start being presented out of release order and out of chronological order, kind of destroying any consistent throughline. This decision in and of itself isn't the worst, since the comic isn't always chronological, and the volume ordering is a bit different from the release ordering, but the inconsistency makes the first few episodes feel lessened without reason. The other large failure that comes with only animating about 1/7th of the entire work is that many themes and concepts that are core to the manga are not represented in the anime well at all. One of the biggest is the rare but unnerving supernatural chapters, of which only one is animated, and not a particularly good one. In order to talk about these themes I'll have to transition into talking about the manga itself, since they aren't part of the anime.

DA MANGA: So one last recommendation that you read the manga, the whole damn thing. Cus we're gettin into themes and character moments that take a long time to pay off, and obviously is all part of my interpretations, so if that stuff means anything to you don't let me ruin it for ya.

The title of the manga is, in essence, the entire manga's "punchline" in that every chapter could meaningfully end with simply the text "And yet the town still turns..." (My translation of the title, fuck "And yet, the town revolves" or "But the town moves"); by this I mean most chapters end in an anti-climax where a mystery is left unsolved, or a mystery is solved and undercut by the realization that life simply keeps on going without much change. This is used to essentially force your eyes open to all possibilities when reading, as the main character spends her time acting like a detective, and these mysteries end up as either misunderstandings, secrets, riddles, and sometimes something out of the ordinary happens that makes you unable to pin anything down firmly. Similarly, these endings aren't always read-and-forget scenarios. Several chapters come back in the form of a continued joke, a continued mystery, or contribute to some greater purpose later. Readers are properly rewarded for keeping everything they can in mind, while also tormenting such people with loose ends.

I enjoy Hotori as a protagonist due to her character being defined not in flaws and strengths, but in mindedness. Hotori seems like a simple "haha she's dumb" character to start, but consistently throughout she proves that her strengths are in memory, observation, and deduction, while lacking in some more common sense and abilities. Her brain works in strange ways that some people may or may not understand, such as her need to think through even the most trivial fictional scenarios, which I relate to deeply.

The art and paneling throughout are wonderful. Ishiguro Masakazu is one of those artists who draws very simple characters, but knows how to use details and depth to breath so much life into the artwork. He also clearly uses the occasional supernatural happenings as an excuse to draw what he loved, as all sorts of artistic depictions of the supernatural come out that simply look satisfying. These parts obviously meant a lot to him since he's been working on a primarily mystery-action manga that has a lot more of that stuff in it. (Also, as hindsight is 20/20, if you've read any of his new work you'll notice that the main character of it is eerily similar to a character who shows up very late in SoreMachi that the author obviously fell in love with, cus she just keeps coming back and even ends up with a really unsettling end to her character arc despite only being introduced as a component in a harmless mystery. Feel free to call me out for the same shit 30 years from now when I'll probably do the same shit)

I'd like to get into some of the major themes of this work, as a lot of them hit very close to my mind (which I guess is true of any theme you recognize for yourself, you wouldn't really "get it" if it didn't mean something to you...).

The simplest theme, again, comes from the title. The main character, Hotori, expresses a desire that the town she lives in continues going on, unchanged forever. This is obviously a fear of change, which ya know, same, but also an exploration of what it means to fear change. Hotori actively tries to keep businesses from closing down, keep friends from leaving, and keep relationships from changing, while simultaneously making all sorts of new relationships and solving mysteries. Hotori even comes to realize that simply learning the truth about something changes the world through your own perspective, and that such changes can't be undone. In spite of this, Hotori mostly gets her wish, any time she fears that a large change will impact the town, its resolved about the same as any other issue. Whether its a message that even time can't keep you from your loved ones and that change isn't worth fearing, or a concession that large changes to the setting would be a bad idea in terms of humor, I can't really decide. This theme reaches it's conclusion in what is one in a series of "ending" kinda chapters at the end of the series. Hotori is faced with a supernatural ethical situation, save her town from destruction at the cost of her existence, or live through the disaster, knowing her town and the people in it will forever be changed. While the actual result is that nobody disappears and nothing is lost, and the event may have simply been a strange dream, Hotori confidently decides that sparing the people in her town from a life altering event is worth giving up her memories with them. A kind of bold spit-in-the-face to the idea that change is okay, where we find that Hotori didn't fear change for herself, but rather for the people around her.

There's another major idea in this manga, which takes a very long time to pay off, and completes its arc at the very very very actual end of the series, the idea of "leading someone to be something". A character that rides that line between main and side character, Shizuka, is a writer of detective novels, who feels the best person to judge her works would be a version of herself without the bias of being the author. She tries to achieve this by leading Hotori to be interested in detective works (including her own) and generally be just like her, starting from a young age. The end result is a young girl dead set on being a detective herself (or at least another novelist), while Shizuka keeps her identity as an author secret. She then uses Hotori as a scapegoat for herself, attempting to see how she would solve various mysteries and use that as inspiration, and this is depicted as though Shizuka were some sort of villain, which she may feel like she is. The end result of it all, though, is that Hotori was likely already a detective-minded person, and that even if Shizuka pushed her down that path, it was Hotori's decision to continue down it, and the very end of the manga is a scene revealing that Hotori figured out Shizuka's secret at some point, and even still respected Shizuka and aspired to reach her, and the two accept each other for who they are. I enjoy this ending a lot, since as an artist I've worried that some of my love or aspirations for and from other artists came with an ulterior motive of wanting a better community for art to exist in, but people are people and will make their own decisions, and some day everyone may be able to become equals in a truly meaningful sense, where everyone is inspired by and guiding each other together.

So that probably didn't mean shit to nobody and I didn't even really talk about anything in the comic like most of the main characters or any of the shit goin on but ya know fuck you go read it, and thanks for reading this.

#long ass post #also gonna have finals on my birthday this week so awesome #im having a good time this year h-haha

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vampirepiggyhunterdefensesquad · 4 years ago

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dreams

It had been a fun evening, but Gaz could feel herself pleasantly getting sleepy. Her head lolled slightly, brushing against Zim's shoulder. She suppressed a smile at feeling him twitch slightly at the contact.

"Why are you. . ." His voice trailed off as Gaz let herself snuggle closer, wrapping an arm around his lower waist and pressing her cheek into his neck, feeling him swallow. "Why are you. . . slowing down?"

Gaz allowed her eyes to drift shut. "I'm falling asleep, Zim," she mumbled.

His hand snaked around her shoulders and disappeared into her hair. She could feel him playing with-- studying it under his strange fingers, feeling it. Occasionally they brushed against her neck, and she shivered.

"Ah, yes," Zim announced, "the human propensity to going into hibernation for several hours of each sun cycle."

"Don't go all alien, 's weird." Gaz turned her face into his body and smiled against his neck. "Everybody sleeps."

"Irkens don't need sleep!" Zim barked, jolting her slightly and sending her careening back to consciousness.

Gaz fought back the urge to hit him for waking her up. "Well, have you ever tried?" she snapped, pulling away and leaning on the sofa's armrest on her other side.

Zim folded his hands in his lap uncomfortably. "Why would I try?" he managed. "Sleeping is something inferior species do to pass time and rejuvenate energy they barely spent in the first place. IRKENS have evolved past the NEED for sleep!!"

His eyes kept flitting around the room, but his longing gaze kept snapping back to Gaz, who took no notice.

"I like sleeping." she merely said, settling down in her position and lying down sideways on the couch, careful not to brush Zim with her legs. Zim made an incredulous noise.

"What?"

"Come ON. You, a strong-willed and powerful human with the propensity for violence, loves to be in a state of physical vulnerability while you remain dependent on the needs of your HIDEOUS flesh to SURVIVE?? I'm sure it's a real blast." he finished snidely.

"Well, you can't dream when you're awake." Gaz forced herself to sit up, making eye contact again. She wasn't so tired she couldn't argue, and the idea that Zim resented sleep and looked down on those who "indulged' in it left a bad taste in her mouth. "Plus, it's comfortable."

"Dream?" Zim blinked. "I thought that was a myth."

"You thought DREAMING was a myth??"

"IT SOUNDS FAKE!!!"

"I like sleeping," Gaz repeated, more forcefully. "Just because your dumb leaders decided you shouldn't be allowed to enjoy it anymore doesn't mean it's not good. And dreaming can be some of the most pleasant experiences of your life."

Zim turned in his seat, fully facing Gaz. She'd come to recognize this as his "I-am-giving-you-my-full-attention" pose, and repressed a sigh.

"I would like to know more about these dreams.” he said, staring at her carefully. “Inform me of the sorts of dreams you have."

"Well, sometimes I dream about flying or something. That's always fun. Sometimes I dream I'm spending time with people or characters I like. Sometimes it's just weird, like I have something to do, somewhere to be, and I spend the whole dream trying to figure out how to get there. . . sometimes it's just a jumble of stuff I saw throughout my week. Sometimes, days when I played a lot of vampire piggy hunter, I dream I'm actually in the game and taking down vampire piggies myself."

"This sounds. . . . less than unpleasant," Zim admitted. "You have no control over what your brain decides to show you?"

"Kind of, not really though. I don't lucid dream all that often. That's when you can control what happens and you're aware it's a dream."

"Hm. And you can control everything that occurs?"

"Yeah?" Zim sat bolt upright, grabbing her hands in his. Gaz had no time to react before he scooted forward, pressing his forehead into hers. "TEACH ME. NOW."

She was wide awake now. Instinctively, Gaz's leg shot up and she kicked Zim in the stomach, pushing him forcefully away from her and landing with a thud on the floor below.

"I can't teach you how to lucid dream," Gaz spat, a bit more venomously than was probably necessary. "You have to just go to sleep yourself and figure it out."

"I don't want to sleep!" Zim whined, legs and arms tangled up. He didn't seem perturbed by Gaz's lashing out, instead extricating himself from the uncomfortable position he'd landed in. "I just want to dream."

"You can't dream without sleeping, stupid."

"YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!" he shouted back. "WITNESS my AWAKE-DREAMING!!!" With that, Zim jumped back onto the sofa (landing a bit closer to her than strictly necessary, but who was paying attention?) closing his eyes and going limp on the cushions. Gaz hoped he could sense the disapproval radiating from her glare despite not being able to see it.

"What are you doing?"

"Having a DREAM!!! obviously. Ohhhh, the dream I am. . . having. YES!!! Amazing things are happening in my amazing brain!!!"

"You're not dreaming, you're imagining. There's a difference." Gaz rolled her eyes. The eyes popped open and Zim's face fell into a childish pout. Gaz bit her lip to keep from smiling. It wasn't cute.

"C'mere. I'm gonna go to sleep now. I don't know if you even can, but. . . I wouldn't be mad if you tried. Right now."

"Now? Here?" His eyes bored into hers. "With you?"

"Don't. . . make it weird." Gaz coughed into her elbow, an excuse to look away. "But yeah. It's whatever."

Zim's mouth had closed, and he seemed to be cowed, for the most part. As a reward for his shutting up finally, Gaz returned to her spot on his shoulder, curling up and leaning against him. Zim's arms gratefully went right back around her, and his slight purring returned as she closed her eyes and let the comfort of her position and thoughts carry her away. Maybe Zim would sleep and dream and maybe he wouldn't, but either way, he wasn't going anywhere.

When the morning sun came peeking through the window, Gaz's eyes fluttered open again. A sour feeling somewhere in her chest threatened to rise up (she was always so easily woken, even by the sun, and kept the blinds in her room shut tight every night as a result) but hearing Zim's soft snore from under her cut the unpleasant feeling out from under her entirely. Gaz closed her eyes again and smiled. Judging by the mumbling from Zim's sleeping figure, Irkens could get to sleep, but they were kind of noisy. Maybe their paks kept at least a part of their brain awake during the process, in case of emergency. . .? Or maybe it was just a unique Zim thing.

Either way, she leaned back into Zim's slumbering body, strewn out across the sofa, uncaring of how it might look to anyone who could walk in. They had shifted in their sleep apparently, as Gaz was curled up on top of Zim's stretched out body. One of his arms was still up and over her back, and occasionally a finger would twitch along with a sigh or murmur from his perpetually moving mouth.

She probably could have stayed there forever if he hadn't started sounding a little more lucid.

As soon as Gaz's body returned to where it had been against his chest, a self-satisfied purr rose up in his chest, and his other arm went up to her hair.

",, az."

It was like her stomach had bottomed out and released everything in her body, organs included. She inhaled.

"What did you say?" she asked, in as soft a voice as she could.

"You," he chuckled slightly.

"What about me?"

Zim didn't respond verbally to this question. He merely grunted and tightened his grip around her body, pressing his face into her neck.

It was a wonder he hadn't woken up from the heat radiating from her face and body. Gaz wanted to disentangle herself from him, but she also didn't want to move a muscle for fear she'd wake him up.

She was wide awake now.

"What are you doing?" she asked, softly as she could without outright whispering.

He giggled. He GIGGLED at that. Gaz felt her breath catch, then cursed herself for having that reaction.

The giggle was slightly menacing, which made sense in retrospect as Zim's claws tightened on her back.

"Mine," he purred into her ear as they subtly slid downwards.

Gaz panicked. She jumped to her feet, out of Zim's ever-tightening grip, and stumbled backwards a few steps, trying to regain her balance and composure. He had no right to make her stomach do flip-flops like that. He had no right to be even the least amount of smooth or competent, asleep or not. Gaz clapped a hand over her mouth to steady her breathing, then frantically began rubbing her arms up and down and told herself she did NOT miss the contact as the chill of the room hit her.

Apparently, Zim did, as his eyes slowly flickered open and leisurely made their way over to hers.

A lazy, half-lidded, goofy smile broke out on his still sleepy face.

"Gaz. . . human." The suffix was an afterthought, savored in his mouth.

"Did. . ." Gaz swallowed. "So did you dream?"

"Dream?" Zim looked slightly confused. "Did I . . . dream?"

"Yeah, you definitely did," she answered. "I heard you sleep talking."

Zim's face went from self-satisfied to shell-shocked in heartbeat. His hands snapped together and he stared at her.

"What did-- what did I say?"

"Nothing!!" Gaz answered, waving her arms frantically. "It was just nonsense words, just babbling. You didn't say anything out of the ordinary, nothing weird or strange or cute or terrible, I'm gonna head home now, this was weird, bye!!"

"You're leaving??" Zim looked completely forlorn. "Already?"

Gaz flushed. "Get a grip," she said, as much to herself as to him. "It was just a dream."

He sat up slowly. "That was. . . unpleasant."

"It seemed pretty pleasant," she mumbled before she could stop herself. Zim's eyes swiveled to her again.

"But it wasn't REAL! What's the POINT????"

"The point? There's no point. It's just your brain entertaining you while you're asleep or whatever. . ."

Zim folded his arms and scowled. "I didn't like it."

"Of course not." Gaz was feeling tired again. It was barely sunrise and he was already yelling. "I'm gonna go home and go back to bed. See you later."

"There is no need!! It would be acceptable for you to, eh, continue staying in my living room."

"Thanks, but I want to go home," Gaz insisted.

He hopped to his feet and bounded over to her, sticking his arms out. "I COMMAND YOU TO STAY. We have not yet finished the levels we intended and you can't go home until we do!!! SLEEP HERE. dream HERE."

Hitting him with an elbow and rushing out the front door was satisfying vengeance for the topsy-turvy stomach feelings she was getting bombarded with, but it didn't stop her mind from racing all the way home. And it certainly didn't help her mutinous body stop wanting his warmth when she crawled gratefully into bed at home and closed her eyes. And it didn't keep her treacherous brain from coming up with all sorts of soft, cuddly scenarios to push on her in her weakened state.

Zim was right. Dreaming was dumb.

#zagr #zim #gaz #invader zim #my stuff #i livewrote this today and didnt edit it enjoy #i created this thing

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catgirlthecrazy · 5 years ago

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Imposter Syndrome

Fanfic partially inspired by episode 161, and also these excellent bits of Archivist Sasha AU/Not!Jon related fanart by @skyberia

AO3

Summary: Martin doesn't have much left of the real Jonathan Sims. He doesn't even have a face. Not a real one. Just a recording on a tape recorder.

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

"Come on…" Martin strains against the super glue cap. "Come on." The damn thing won't move. Frustrated, knowing it's a dumb idea but with no better ones to hand, Martin grips the cap between his teeth and twists.

"What are you doing?"

Martin yelps and fumbles the glue bottle. He frantically grabs for it, but his flailing arms just knock the tape recorder off the table and send it clattering onto the floor. He scrambles to pick it up. Please don't be broken, please don't be broken. There doesn't seem to be any damage. No new damage, anyway.

(He fails to notice that the record button was pressed on by the fall)

Jonathan Sims, Martin's fellow archival assistant and target of an extremely inconvenient crush, raises an eyebrow at him. "Um, sorry, I didn't see you there. You startled me." Curse Jon and his inconvenient good looks. He'd always had a weakness for dark hair and hawklike features.

Jon grunts. "I suppose that's to be expected, given the circumstances." He glances around the storage room. "No worms?"

"What? No, not in here, anyway. I've seen a few around the institute. Been stomping on all of them. Kind of satisfying, really."

Jon grimaces. "Lovely. You never answered my question by the way."

Martin racks his brain, but the last few minutes are a fuzzy, giddy panic to him. "Sorry, which question is that?"

Jon makes an inpatient noise. "What you were doing just now." He motions with his hand.

Martin glances at the tape recorder. "Oh, that. Just trying to fix the tape recorder."

"You? Fix a tape recorder? I thought your degree was in parapsychology."

Guilt gnaws at his insides. Martin does not want Jon thinking too much about his qualifications. "It's nothing complicated! Just one of the buttons broke off. Thought I'd try and glue it back on." He looks at the glue bottle morosely. "Or at least, I was. This seems to be glued shut."

"And you thought you'd pry it off… with your teeth? You do realize that's a good way to end up in A&E with your mouth glued shut." The raised eyebrow is back. He's good at that. Unfairly good at it. It makes Martin's insides leap with excitement. It also makes him want to curl up in a corner and die of embarrassment.

"I know, I know, it was stupid. I'm just frustrated, I guess."

"Understandable, I suppose. Not exactly pleasant accommodations here in storage." Jon pauses. "Are you alright down here? Do you have everything you need?"

"What, me? Oh I'm fine. Totally fine. No need to worry about me." He laughs nervously.

"I believe current circumstances have proven there is plenty of cause to worry." Jon coughs and looks away, his cheeks darkening. Martin has to suppress a lovesick grin. Jon always does this when he crosses his own personal definition of professional boundaries. Which as far as Martin can tell, encompass pretty much anything approaching genuine friendship. Not that Jon is very good at staying inside those boundaries these days. Not since the Prentiss incident.

"Anyway," Jon says, recovering himself. "Do you still have those files on Pinhole Books? Sasha said she'd assigned them to you." He's all business now, as if he hadn't just unbent enough to be outright friendly.

"Those? I think they're somewhere in my desk. Why?"

"Just looking into a few things related to Leitner."

"Alright. I'll try to find them after lunch."

Jon nods, and starts to leave, but hesitates. "You might want to try hot water." He leaves.

Martin heaves a heartfelt sigh. Then he realizes the tape recorder has been recording the whole time.

***

Months later, Jane Prentiss attacks. Jonathan Sims flees into Artifact Storage to hide. Something else comes out.

***

"Here you are Martin."

Martin blinks bleary eyes at the steaming mug that's just been set in front of him. He looks up to see Jon, a kind expression in his eyes. "You made me tea?"

"Of course." Jon smiles down at him. "You do it for me often enough. Seemed only fair."

"Wow, um. Thanks." Martin sips the tea. It's brewed exactly how he likes it: hot and strong with plenty of cream and sugar. "This is… this is really good!"

"Glad to hear it. And how've you been doing? It must be good to have your own place again."

"Not bad. Got a new flat not far from the old one." He'd lost the lease on the old place during his months in the archives. Not that he could have stomached going back there. There might still be worms. "Still unpacking boxes from the old place. At least the neighbors are quiet."

Jon nods. "Say, Tim and I were going to step out a bit early for drinks tonight. You want to come?"

Martin straightens. "Y- yeah, that'd be great." At that point, Sasha pops in with questions about the Herbert Knox file, and the conversation ends. Jon gives him a little wave and wanders back to his desk.

It isn't until later that Martin realizes: the rushing giddiness is gone. He'd had an entire conversation with Jon being nothing but nice to him, and his insides hadn't done one single swoop. He's still plenty fond of the man, but only that. Is his crush evaporating already? That was quick. Martin had expected to be pining after Jon for months yet.

It's probably for the best. Nothing would have come of it, except possibly Martin making a fool of himself. More of a fool of himself. And really, it's remarkable Martin ever had a thing for him to begin with. He doesn't usually go for blond hair.

***

Sasha takes Tim and Martin out to lunch. That's not particularly unusual. Jon is out following up a case, so he can't come, but that's not unheard of either. It isn't until she leads them away from their usual place and towards a park that Martin worries. He's not at all prepared for what she tells them.

"What do you remember about 0070107? Amy Patel's statement?"

Martin and Tim glance at each other. "That's the one where her neighbor was eaten and replaced by an evil drain pipe, right?" Tim said.

"I remember something about… changing photos?" Martin ventures.

Sasha pulls out a tape recorder. She doesn't look at it as she presses play. She doesn't even look at them. She's staring at some indefinite point in space to Martin's left, like it's a window to hell. The recorder plays.

"You're aware it's pronounced Kuh-ly-o-pee, right?" A man's voice, acerbic and dry, that Martin doesn't recognize.

"Really? I've always heard it pronounced ka-lee-o-pee." Sasha's voice.

"I suppose technically there's no correct pronunciation. But the organs are named after the Greek muse Calliope, so…"

Tim frowns. "Isn't that Leanne Denikin's statement? Who's that you're talking to?"

Sasha closes her eyes. "Jonathan Sims. The real one."

***

It takes them a week to find a way to deal with NotJon. During that week, Martin has to pretend that nothing has changed. That he isn't aware that his coworker and one time crush has been replaced by this… thing that calls itself his name. Martin has to smile when he says hello. Thank him when he brings tea. Laugh when he tells a joke. Just like normal.

(Were any of those things normal Jon behavior?)

Sasha's background in artifact storage provides the answer: an old diving bell with a penchant for disappearing people to infinite crushing depths. In his nightmares, Martin can still the the way the thing distorted, when it realized it had been caught. The way its limbs stretched into a grotesque parody of the human form as dark water sucked it in.

And then… things are normal again. There isn't even a police investigation. Jon apparently had no surviving family to raise a fuss about his disappearance. They get drinks, but even that is hard. It's hard to remember which of their fond stories belong to the real Jon, and which to the imposter.

***

One day, Martin finds an unmarked tape in the storage room. Thinking it's an old poetry tape he forgot to label, he pops it in a recorder to play. He could use a pick me up.

It's not poetry. The recording starts with a loud clatter, like the recorder being dropped. Then, Martin's voice. "Um, sorry, I didn't see you there. You startled me ."

"I suppose that's to be expected, given the circumstances ." A man's voice. Acerbic and dry. Martin can't breathe. He remembers this conversation. The voice on the tape is saying all the words that Martin remembers. It's not the same voice.

How long has this tape been sitting here? NotJon had hidden all the tapes containing the real Jon's voice, but apparently he'd missed this one. If Martin had found this earlier, if he'd managed to keep his poetry tapes in some kind of order for once … But Jon had already been dead by the time Martin had first met the imposter. His research on the NotThem made that abundantly clear. They might have caught on sooner. But it wouldn't have saved him.

"You never answered my question by the way."

"Sorry, which question is that?"

God. Had it really been that obvious, how much he'd liked Jon? Martin on the tape sounds like his head has floated off like a child's lost balloon. Jon's annoyance is audible even via tape. He remembers recognizing it as cover for genuine concern. It's so totally unlike the kind, smiling man Martin has known for the past year. How the hell did he never notice the switch?

Maybe he had. Hadn't his crush dissipated around that time? That makes Martin queasy to think about, but he clings to it anyways. That crush might be the truest thing he has left for Jon.

"Are you alright down here? Do you have everything you need?"

Martin blinks away wet, stinging tears. He remembers clear as day the kind and concerned look on Jon's face as he'd said these exact words. Except… those memories were fake. Had the real Jon looked at him like that? What would that even look like? Martin still doesn't know what the real Jon looked like. All he has is Melanie's vague description ("Short. Greying hair. Bit of an arsehole. Definitely not white."). All Martin's photos show only the imposter. He hasn't been able to find any Polaroids. God knows he's tried. He spent a week tracking down old yearbooks and photo albums and anything else he could think of. Plenty of photos of the imposter at varying ages. Nothing else.

Martin tries to construct an image of Jon. Take the few details he does have and paste them over the memories of the imposter. It feels less real than the fake.

Maybe that's the real horror of this monster. When someone you care about dies, you can normally take comfort in your memories of them. The NotThem has stolen that from him. No, worse than stolen. Corrupted. Taken Martin's memories of Jon and plastered them over with a false, smiling face.

All he has now is a tape and a voice.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #archivist sasha #notjon #my fanfic #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #my post

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sanderssidesfanfiction · 4 years ago

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If There’s a Place I Could Be - Chapter Sixty Seven

If There’s a Place I Could Be Tag

May 14th, 1998

“Hey, Toby?” Remy asked.

“Yeah?” Toby asked, glancing up from his homework. “What’s up?”

“You’ll still like me after you go off to college, right?” Remy asked. “Like, Vanessa left and she’s gotten way more distant. Not that we were close in the first place, but I don’t want that to happen to us. You’re my best friend.”

“Rem, I’ll never stop loving you, not for anything,” Toby said. “College is going to take up a lot of my time, but I can write when possible, and whenever breaks come around we’ll have plenty of time to hang out just the two of us. I won’t ever stop being your brother, understand?”

“Yeah,” Remy said. “Thanks, Tobes.”

July 10th, 2002

Remy was walking down the street, humming under his breath as he wandered around. Work had let him off early, and rather than call Emile, he decided he would walk around and explore the city a bit. Currently, he was walking around the southwestern part of the city, which was maybe the farthest away from the college, so he hadn’t had much reason to be down here before.

As he was walking down the street, a familiar mop of curly hair caught Remy’s eye from the window of a small café. Remy slowed down and paused. Emile hadn’t said anything about what he was doing today, and Remy had no idea he might be in this part of the city. He was about to go in and say hi when he saw Emile’s expression darken and he looked...not angry, but certainly not pleased. Whoever he was sitting with placed their hands face up on the table at either side, clearly trying to placate him. Emile rolled his eyes and grumbled something, hands making wide gestures.

Remy felt frozen in place as he watched this person put their hand on Emile’s shoulder. Emile sighed and had a certain longing on his face, a longing that Remy recognized from when Emile talked about his crush on Remy. It was lovestruck crossed with melancholy. But why would he have that look talking to a random stranger?

...What if they weren’t a random stranger? Someone that Emile knew that Remy didn’t? That would make sense, because Emile had friends from before college and they sometimes came to visit. But that still didn’t explain the longing on his face.

Remy decided to investigate. He walked to the door and walked in, calling, “Emile! Hey!”

Emile jumped, startled, and looked over at Remy with wide eyes. He almost looked...guilty? “Hey, Rem!” Emile exclaimed. “Grab a seat!”

Remy walked over and sat at one of the free chairs at the table. “Who’s this?” he asked, nodding to the stranger.

“This is Dice. My friend from high school, remember?” Emile asked, glancing between Dice and Remy.

“Oh! What brings you here?” Remy asked, turning to Dice.

“Just visiting Emile here, giving him some updates as to what I’ve been doing, him doing the same, you know, catch-up stuff,” Dice said.

Remy nodded, keeping a neutral smile on his face, though something in his gut told him that Dice was lying. Remy turned back to Emile, who was looking nervous under Remy’s trained gaze. “So, Dice, you keep in touch with Faith, too?”

Dice froze for just a second before he nodded. “Well, yeah, of course I do. I travel all the time, but I make it a point to visit all my friends across the eastern coast. Faith included.”

But Faith wasn’t studying by the coast, Emile had told Remy as much. “What’s really going on here, guys?” Remy asked. “Because Dice, I know you’re lying, and Emile, you look guilty as hell.”

A pregnant silence hung over them. “Your friend’s sharp, Mister Thomas,” Dice said.

Emile scratched the back of his neck. “All right, Rem, you got me. Dice is...uh...” Emile looked at Dice. “Well, I’m a client of his.”

“A...client?” Remy asked, brows furrowing. “You’re not...like...sleeping with him?”

Emile choked on the sip of tea he was trying to hide behind, and Dice snorted. Remy turned to Dice, getting no response. “Look, I know you’re not his high school friend, so who are you?!”

“Not a prostitute, I’ll tell you that much right now,” Dice said with an irritated scowl.

“Well, how am I supposed to know who you are?!” Remy asked. “Emile lied about how he knows you!”

Emile winced. “Remy—”

“—No, Emile, you lied about who he was! I don’t want to hear another word from you if it’s not the truth!” Remy said, crossing his arms.

“I’m a private investigator,” Dice sighed. “Your friend here hired me to find someone; missing persons are my specialty.”

Remy frowned. “First of all, he’s not just my friend. He’s my boyfriend,” he corrected. “However pissed I may be at him, I’m sticking with him. Second of all, who are you looking for? From what I understand, Emile kept in touch with all of his high school friends the best he could. And those who he still emails have contact with his other friends, so they’re all still connected. It’s not some long lost flame, is it? Because Emile had that look in his eyes he gets when he’s struck with the love bug, and I get I’m not the best person in the world, but I would have thought that I’d be enough for Emile?”

“Remy!” Emile interjected. “I’m not trying to find anyone I’ve had a previous relationship with, and I’m certainly not trying to cheat on you whatsoever!”

“Then what’s with this clandestine meeting?!” Remy asked, throwing his hands in the air. “Because it certainly looks like something suspicious is going on!”

“You’re Remy Picani?” Dice asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

“...Yes?” Remy asked. He didn’t know why all his instincts were suddenly screaming at him to be on guard, but they were. “Why?”

“Any relations to a particular...Tobias Picani?” Dice asked, a grin slowly growing on his face.

Remy’s heart stopped, before leaping into overdrive. “Toby?” he asked softly. He turned to Emile in shock. “You’re trying to find Toby?”

“...Yeah,” Emile said. “I didn’t want to tell you yet because Dice and I haven’t gotten any leads, but—”

Emile stopped short as Remy wrapped his arms around Emile in a hug. Tears were coming to his eyes. “Well, now I feel like an ass,” he whispered, starting to laugh.

“You did get pretty worked up,” Emile laughed.

Remy pulled back and lightly slugged Emile. “So, no leads?” he asked.

“No,” Dice said. “I haven’t been able to find even a trace of an Internet trail. The best I have is a couple possible schools he went to. Honestly, I haven’t ever seen a case like this where there isn’t some sort of stalker involved.”

Oh. The pieces clicked into place and Remy groaned. “Jamie,” he breathed. “Of course. She fits that whole ‘stalker’ stereotype to a T. And Toby’s been having trouble with her since his freshman year of college.”

“This Jamie have a last name?” Dice asked.

“Uh...” Remy wracked his brain. “King. Jamie King. And Toby went to...some art school I don’t know the name of, but was pretty infamous in the area, you can probably find it. Toby got Jamie kicked out of the college when she threatened to stab him if they didn’t get back together, and continued to leave threats outside his door...daily, really. She wasn’t exactly the most sane person you would ever meet. Toby wanted nothing to do with her, and I don’t think she knows where he is...”

“But she’s a piece of the puzzle we didn’t have before, and it might help us find your brother,” Dice said. “I’ve been trying to get your boyfriend here to prod about Toby and pass on any information he gets to me, but according to him, you would have seen through any lie he told in seconds. And given this conversation, I’m inclined to believe him.”

Remy scoffed. “Yeah, Emile’s a terrible liar,” he said, shaking his head. “And Emile, you could have just told me you were looking for Toby in the first place, I would have been able to help!”

“I just didn’t want to get your hopes up,” Emile said. “Dice has been working on this for two months now and we’ve come up with nothing, until you walked in the door.”

Remy sighed. “Look, Emile, I respect that, but you’re still dumb as rocks,” he said. “And possibly in need of a reevaluation of your boyfriend, here? Because I’ve been mellowing out a lot more, and finding my footing way better over the past couple of months. I’ve had my moments, sure, but I’m not the surly, cynical crybaby you met in college. I’m still kinda cynical, sure, but I cry less, and I don’t think any of our friends would describe me as ‘surly’ at all. I’ve changed over the years; I’m not going to be destroyed if we can’t find Toby. It’ll hurt if we don’t, sure, but I think we could actually do it, with time. And I won’t ask to come to the meetings, because I know that would be hard on me, but if you guys have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask, you know? I’d answer any questions you have if it means finding Toby. Don’t hesitate to ask.”

Dice turned to Emile. “You really need to reevaluate your boyfriend, Mister Thomas. He seems vastly different than how you described him to me. Granted, I only asked how he behaved when you first met, and that’s on me, but if you think he’s at all fragile...”

“I know he’s not fragile,” Emile sighed. “Still doesn’t mean I won’t try and protect him if I think he’s gonna get hurt.”

Remy shook his head. “Emile...I’m glad you’re doing this. And I’m glad you were trying to look out for me. But do you think you could consult me next time you come up with a crazy plan like this one? Nothing against what you’ve done, but I’d be able to help you.”

“Okay, I’ll run future plans by you, even if I don’t tell you they’re future plans. I probably should have done that in the first place here, and it’s my bad for not doing that. But considering all this, is there anything else you can tell us about Toby that could help us find him?” Emile asked.

“He enjoys his creature comforts a little too much for his own good,” Remy said. “He’d rather stay in the same place he’s at if at all possible rather than packing up and moving, even if something bad happens, like a stalker figuring out where he lives. The only way he’d move is if he knows for sure he won’t be safe staying where he is, and even then, he won’t leave town. So you can probably find him around the art school he went to. He wouldn’t go cross-country for a job, and I think most of his work could be done on computers now anyways. Graphic design, and all that.”

“Would he be the type to file a restraining order?” Dice asked.

“I don’t know,” Remy said, considering. “He wants to give people the benefit of the doubt, but when it came to Jamie, he was really freaked when she started threatening him. So he might have ordered one. Not that she would listen to it, but...”

“If he filed a restraining order, it’s possible that I could find his city. From there, finding the man himself would be a piece of cake!” Dice declared. “I’ll put out my feelers, and with any luck I’ll have an update for you next month!”

Emile looked about as excited as Remy felt. “Awesome!” he exclaimed. “You’ve got this month’s payment, too, so is this meeting done?”

“Yeah, I need to get moving. I’ll let you know where and when next month, Mister Thomas!” Dice said as he stood and left the shop.

Remy watched him go, before turning to Emile. “I’m admittedly a little surprised,” he said. “I wouldn’t have thought that this would be how you’d use your inheritance.”

“Oh, no, I’m investing most of it, still,” Emile said. “I’m just using whatever I have after that to pay Dice. He gets good results.”

“I hope so,” Remy said. “I thought I’d never get to see Toby again, and even if this might not work, it’s a possibility that I could see him again, and my heart is racing and my stomach’s in knots. I hope he’s the same as he was before. I’d hate to find him only to realize I’m staring at a stranger.”

“I think you’ll be fine, Rem,” Emile soothed. “Even if Toby changed, I know he wouldn’t stop caring about you.”

#if there's a place i could be #sanders sides fanfiction #remile #Emile Picani #ts sleep

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3laxx · 3 years ago

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Bring It Home - Chapter 7

Kissing someone was not something she had been looking forward to after Luz had died. Just because she was kind of, sort of over her feelings for the human didn’t mean she was ready for any sort of relationship after the trauma that Luz’s death had caused her.

WHat?? More chapters??! It's getting ridiculous what the hell, especially because this one just barely ends before 3k words. WHat the helllllll Anyway have fun with the kissy-kissy chapter!

(Keep in mind these are all not proof read)

Ao3 / FF.net

---

Sauntering up and down in her room, Amity didn’t know how to calm her heart.

Shortly after graduation, she had moved into a house together with Willow and Gus. It wasn’t much, just a small cottage in the outskirts of Bonesborough that her parents happened not to use.

She had repaired the little house together with her friends a lot and they had decided to become housemates as soon as her parents had given them the permission to move in.

The witch, now twenty years of age, had managed to get into the Abominations Coven and was content to work for them besides her other small job, some mercenary work that kept the bills paid and earn her a small income.

But she had recently rediscovered the bucket list that had gotten lost to her during the past few years and found why she had originally kind of brushed it under the rug.

Sighing, she fisted her hands into her hair that she was now allowing to grow out. Her brown roots dominated her head once again and only the tips had stayed faintly green. Rubbing over her face, Amity stopped pacing and came to a stop in front of her desk, grumbling when she stared at the piece of paper, the writing on it still glaring at her mockingly.

She wanted to do all these things, and she had never truly forgotten about it, but because she wanted to do all these things in order, she had kind of put the bucket list away for a more convenient time. Groaning, she sat down on the desk and stared at the paper.

Upon finding it, she had added a few more small checks to the filled-out space next to skiing, because her friends and she had actually started enjoying their little getaways to the knee by now and did it regularly, as well as another one behind the Azura book, but the task about kissing someone glared back up to her with a mocking emptiness.

Embarrassedly, she had also discovered that that meant she hadn’t ever kissed someone in all her twenty years.

Well, but she had vowed to do the bucket list her old friend and she had come up with. She owed Luz that much. She had to do it, of course, she had to. Sighing and breathing through, she lowered her hands to the desk and stared at the writing.

Who even could she kiss?

For a fraction of a second, her mind jumped to Boscha, but she quickly shook her head. Boscha was not a good idea and they weren’t that close. Willow or Gus?

It’d be super embarrassing to kiss either of them if she was being honest. While she didn’t see them in the same light as her idiot siblings that she loved very much, she still didn’t romantically see them either.

Someone else?

Grumbling, Amity realized that she didn’t have anyone else. Sure, she still had some contact with her old crew, Skara, Amelia, and Cat, but they were all not close enough for her to knock on their door someday and ask for a kiss.

And she sure as Titan’s asshole wouldn’t ever kiss her siblings or Eda. Sticking out her tongue, she shook her head again, then she sighed and rubbed over her face once more.

She didn’t have anyone she was interested in, anyway. She hadn’t found anyone attractive to her. Ever since Luz, she hadn’t even thought about any romantic involvement. She hadn’t even considered it, not even when her sister and Viney had eloped for fun, only to marry for real some weeks later. Or when Edric had announced that he was in a relationship with an old classmate of his.

Or when Willow had a girlfriend for a short time.

She hadn’t ever thought about it. She didn’t have any interest in that.

All she had wanted, her first and her last crush until now, had been Luz. She hadn’t even known she was supposed to search for other options when Luz had died, because in her mind back then, there had been no room for romantic involvement.

Sighing, Amity leaned back in her chair and shook her head.

How was she supposed to fulfill that task if she didn’t want a relationship?

She hadn’t realized for how long she had already been sitting there when suddenly, she heard a knock on her door and looked up to see Willow entering upon her call.

“Hey Amity, we were thinking of ordering in. Do you want anythi-… Oh.”, her friend immediately recognized the little sheet of paper on her desk and she supposed, if her expression was anything to go by, Willow had already figured out what she was gnawing on.

“Yeah, I know… Uhm, I’ll be downstairs in a minute.”, Amity tried brushing it off, but her friend already came over and rested a hand on her shoulder, leaning down to brush over the worn and used paper, almost falling apart from the years of carrying it around religiously. She smiled when her fingertips brushed over all the checks behind skiing.

“… You thinking about her again?”, she softly asked and Amity nodded, leaning her head against the hand Willow kept on her shoulder.

“Yeah… There are so many things she should’ve done, still.”, Amity mumbled and Willow chuckled, tapping on the last task.

“… That idiot.”, she remembered their friend fondly and Amity snorted, nodding.

“Yeah, that idiot.”

Furrowing her eyebrows, Willow finally turned towards her and leaned against the desk to face her friend.

“Are you still doing these in order?”, she asked, casting a side glance to the bucket list. Amity groaned, nodding. Talking about it wasn’t embarrassing to her, especially not in front of Willow.

“Yeah, but I don’t know who to kiss. Curse my dumb fourteen-year-old brain.”, she chuckled, remembering the reason why she had said that to Luz. Of course, she had wanted to kiss her knuckle-headed human and had hoped she would get the message. As far as she knew, Luz had gotten where Amity had wanted to go but hadn’t wanted to promise her something she couldn’t keep her word on. A small pang of pain went through her heart when she once again imagined Luz lying under the stars, staring up there and talking to her while the blood slowly seeped from her body.

“You don’t have anyone you wanna be with right now?”, Willow asked with a testing gaze and Amity shook her head, rubbing her face.

“After Luz died, I didn’t really feel the need to fall in love again. Or, rather, I just didn’t.”, she truthfully answered and Willow chuckled.

“Hey, you wanna kiss me?”, she suddenly asked and Amity’s eyes shot up at that, while her eyebrows furrowed.

“… What?”

“You heard me.”, Willow shrugged and Amity just gave her a quizzical look, slowly shaking her head.

“I don’t wanna kiss you. I’m not interested in you, romantically.”, she truthfully answered and Willow chuckled, pretending an arrow hit her in her chest.

“Ouch! Why must you hurt me so!”, she laughed and Amity loosened up a little before joining her laughter.

“You’re a goof, Willow. But seriously, I love you as a friend but I wouldn’t want more.”, she finally readjusted herself on her chair, shaking her head, “Please take this seriously?”

Much to her surprise, her friend stopped laughing and she looked up again.

“I’m taking this seriously, Amity. You can kiss me, I won’t mind.”

Rolling her eyes, she looked away from the witch who was leaning on her desk, putting her head in her hands.

“I mean it, Willow, I have no idea who to kiss.”

There was silence for a second before a calloused yet incredibly soft hand pried hers from her face and nudged her to look up, meeting Willow’s earnest face.

“Why does a kiss have to imply romantic interest? Who cares who you kiss? I don’t, and honestly, I’d rather you kissed me than, I don’t know, Gus or Boscha. I don’t want a relationship from you either, so you can trust me not to read anything into a kiss and make you feel uncomfortable.”

Amity pondered over that while she stared at Willow.

Technically, she was right. The bucket list said to kiss someone, not to make a whole relationship out of it. And honestly, Amity would like to kiss someone at least once. Even better if it was someone who she could trust not to read anything into it and make her regret doing it.

Humming, she squeezed Willow’s hand, before nodding.

“Let me think on that offer, okay? For now, let’s order something, I’m actually starving.”, she smiled at her childhood friend, who pulled her to her feet with unsurprising ease – Amity had once tried to join in on Willow’s workout routine and had badly failed – before sighing in relief.

“Good, Gus is probably already in a bad mood.”

It didn’t take long for them to decide where to order their food and prepare for dinner until it arrived. Gus told them about his day at work, the Illusion Coven where he was rising fast, and Willow and Amity teased him a little while eating before they settled for one round of videogames. After that, Amity retreated to her bathroom and brushed her teeth, but Willow’s offer hadn’t really left her mind. Still considering, she spat out the toothpaste, before washing out her mouth and looking at herself in the mirror.

Was she really going to do this?

Wasn’t that cheating of sorts?

Well, Willow and she were both single and friends and Willow was right, a kiss between friends was just as okay. Not every kiss had to result in a relationship.

Furrowing her eyebrows, she breathed through, then she washed her face and changed into her pajamas before exiting the bathroom and knocking on Willow’s door. When she got called in, the familiar slightly humid air enveloped her in what felt like a hug while she entered Willow’s plant-filled room.

There were pots of plants everywhere.

Humming, she rounded the small vertical garden and saw her friend sitting on her desk, just working on her report for the Plants Coven before she looked up.

“Hey Amity, what’s up?”

Rubbing her arm and holding onto her pajama shirt, she breathed through. The air in the room had always soothed and calmed her, maybe due to the humidity, or because of some odors from the plants that had that effect.

“I thought about your offer and, uh, I’d like to try it out?”, she mumbled and Willow shortly furrowed her eyebrows, before nodding in understanding.

“Oh, yeah, sure!”, she got up and sat down on the edge of her bed, patting the space next to her, “Come here, we can do this nice and easy.”

Amity followed her friend and sat down with her. She felt comfortable enough around Willow not to feel awkward or out of place, after all, she spent a lot of time in this room just talking to the other witch or tending to her plants when she was out, so this wasn’t a problem for her. The problem was starting this, somehow.

“I-I just brushed my teeth, too!”, Amity tried to reassure Willow, who laughed.

“If it makes you feel better, I did, too.”, she noticed her fidgeting, so the plant witch placed a hand on hers and caught her gaze, “You don’t have to at all, Amity. It was just a suggestion and this kiss doesn’t mean anything, neither to you or me, okay?”

She nodded slowly, but couldn’t stop the memories of Luz from flashing in her mind. Willow seemed to pick up on her difficulty to relax, so she picked something off her nightstand and snuck it between Amity’s fingers. When she looked down, it was the Grom picture they had taken, Willow’s copy of it.

Luz grinned up to her and she immediately felt at ease, smiling.

“Th-Thanks, Willow…”, she mumbled, before looking back up to her friend who was looking at her with concern.

“Hey, we really don’t have to. But maybe, that’ll finally allow you to move on with the bucket list?”, she suggested and Amity nodded, breathing through.

“I’d like to do this, Willow, I just-… It’s-…”

“Painful?”, her friend helped her out and Amity gave a defeated nod.

“I-… I just-… I miss her. It’s been six years and I still miss her.”, she admitted, pulling up her shoulders. When Willow answered and her voice sounded kind of shaky, Amity looked up.

“We all miss her, Amity.”, she reassured her old friend, before tapping the picture with a small smirk, “I could pin the picture to my forehead if that helps?”

The small joke made Amity laugh, honestly laugh, and she shook her head, still giggling amusedly.

“No, please don’t do that.”, she finally mumbled and Willow chuckled along with her, nodding.

“Okay, I won’t.”, they remained silent for a few moments, before Willow squeezed Amity’s hands which were still holding the Grom picture which was significantly less worn than her own, “Ready?”

Amity looked back up to Willow and nodded, ignoring the slight blurriness in her vision, tears in her eyes.

“Y-Yeah, I think so.”, she confirmed and Willow nodded at her again, which she imitated before her friend lifted one hand to cup her cheek, so softly Amity had to close her eyes and swallow not to sniffle.

Slowly, she felt her leaning in, and with a soft nudge, to which Amity responded with a confirming nod once again, Willow’s lips pressed on hers.

It was a brief kiss, very chaste and innocent, and Amity appreciated Willow’s understanding when she broke away, squinting her eyes tightly. Her hand moved to the back of Amity’s head and she pulled her in to rest against Willow’s shoulder, a warm arm wrapping around her middle while Amity shivered. It had been scary and familiar and she didn’t know how to feel when she hid her face in Willow’s shirt, sniffling. But the tears subsided and Amity found the strength to breathe through, before finding her way back to Willow’s lips, keeping her eyes closed while she – with Willow’s consent – tried another kiss.

This one lasted longer because Amity wanted to know how it felt like, quickly falling into the rhythm Willow gave her, while her hands found their way to her cheeks.

It felt nice, admittedly, and she was glad that Willow offered the kiss. She didn’t want to be thrown into emotional turmoil because of one kiss.

Everything was so Willow around them. It engulfed Amity and made her feel safe, calmed her down, to the point where even her shivering subsided. Everything smelled like fresh soil and watered plants and everything was so calm and collected like her friend.

Breathing through, the girls finally ended their kiss and Amity felt Willow leaning her forehead against hers, keeping her eyes closed, before pulling back and catching her gaze.

All she found was concern and reassurance.

“… You okay?”, Willow asked and for some strange reason, Amity found the answer to be yes. Nothing between them had changed. She almost felt as if this kiss hadn’t even existed when Willow looked at her the same way she always did whenever she was worried for her. Giving her a small smile, Amity nodded.

“Y-Yeah, I think so. Are you okay?”, she gave the question back and Willow nodded, smiling.

“That wasn’t that hard, see?”, she asked and Amity shook her head, a bigger smile creeping on her face, making her giggle. The other girl tilted her head in question and Amity kneaded the hem of her shirt again.

“That was actually kind of nice. Maybe I still do want to have a relationship in the future.”, she giggled and Willow playfully rolled her eyes, while speaking to her in a mocking serious tone.

“Amity, I fear I have to break up with you. This is not working anymore.”, This was definitely a side jab at her for thinking every kiss had to result in a relationship. Pretending to be offended, Amity placed her hands on her chest and gasped.

“What?! I thought what we had was special!”, she indignantly cried and Willow laughed loudly when Amity played along, prompting her to place the back of her hand on her forehead.

“I have to leave you! It can’t be helped! I love someone else!”, she explained wistfully and Amity’s eyebrows immediately shot up.

“Who?!”

The way Willow started blushing immediately revealed that she wasn’t playing anymore. Grabbing her shoulders, Willow got up and pulled her up along with her, talking louder than necessary.

“Nobody! Goodnight!”

Amity laughed and tried resisting her friend but Willow was way stronger than her.

“Nooo, Willow, wait! Who do you like?!”, she tried but her friend shook her head, her face the same color of a tomato she grew by the windowsill by now when she relentlessly pushed her out.

“Nope! Byyyeeee!”, she gave Amity a little wave and then shut the door. Still laughing, Amity pounded against the door.

“Willoooow! Let me back in, I wanna tease you some more!”, she whined between laughter and she could tell her friend was also laughing, while still not budging.

“Nooo, go away!”, she yelled from behind the door and Amity finally gave up, retreating to her room with a big grin.

She would definitely find out who Willow was crushing on.

---

Let me know if you liked it!

#toh #the owl house #fanfic #bring it home #amity blight #willow park #kiss #bucket list #kind of sad #kind of happy #gus porter #aged up

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missperfectlyfine13 · 4 years ago

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A Bandaid For Your Bullet Hole - (Chp. 2/?)

Read Below or on AO3/FF

TW: Mentions of overdose

August 2009

“Mom, I’ve got all my stuff in the ca….” Chloe’s sentence is swallowed back up into the atmosphere when she walks back into the living room, “you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Chloe’s mom is sitting in the middle of the sofa, her arms wrapped tightly around a scruffy looking man in a mechanics uniform. There’s a few half empty bottles of booze on the coffee table and a lit joint between her mother’s fingers. She laughs airily at some dumb remark the stranger practically underneath her makes. She’s as high as a kite and probably drunk to boot.

“Chloe!” her mom’s eyes light up at the sight of her only daughter, “come have a drink baby.”

The only good thing about her mom getting high instead of drunk is that she is much happier. Her mom is an angry drunk, she turns into someone that Chloe scarcely recognizes. At least when she’s high she somewhat resembles someone Chloe used to know.

“What happened to taking me to college today?” she snaps, completely ignoring her mother’s request.

“That was today?” she asks dumbly, bringing her glass tumbler to her lips, taking a long sip of dark amber liquid.

Chloe groans frustratedly, “We’ve been talking about it for weeks.”

“Calm down princess, we can still do it,” she’s got to be kidding, she’s not going to let her mom drive anywhere like this.

Chloe shakes her head vigorously, “No. It’s fine, I’ll just stuff everything into my car and do it myself. You clearly have more important things to do.”

Her words must permeated through her mom’s hazy brain because she’s jumping up from the sofa, some of her drink sloshing out of her glass and onto the cream colored carpet, “No, Chloe let me do this. I want to do this.”

“I’m not taking you anywhere like this,” Chloe motions up and down her mother’s body, “you would just be an embarrassment.”

Her expression almost looks hurt before it turns bitter, “If that’s how you feel about me, then fine do it all on your own. See if I care.”

Chloe turns around without another word. She mindlessly shoves all her belongings into her little chevy impala, barely getting in everything she needs. She doesn’t even bother to go inside to say goodbye before driving down the road. It’s time for a new beginning, a new life, one she doesn’t have to hate. She has a good feeling about Barden, hopefully her gut is right.

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

December 2012

The winter air is crisp, sending a shiver down Chloe’s spine as her and Beca walk towards her dorm. They just left Bellas rehearsal and the air almost feels good after all the exercise.

“So, what are you doing for winter break?” Beca breaks the comfortable silence, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her coat.

Chloe shrugs, “I’ll probably stay on campus, I might go visit my brother, if he’s going to be around.”

Beca looks at her dumbly for a moment before composing herself again, “You aren’t going home for Christmas?”

Her and Beca have gotten really close this semester, Chloe might even dare to say she’s her best friend…if she didn’t have a heart stopping crush on the younger girl that is. Even so, she’s not sure if she wants to unpack her reasoning for never going home yet.

“Nope,” she answers the question simply, hoping Beca will just take the answer and let the topic drop.

She knew she wasn’t going to be that lucky, because Beca doesn’t care about anyone…anyone but her it seems. Chloe is the only person Beca goes the extra mile for, at least from Chloe’s point of view, that’s how it seems.

“Why?” the question barely surprises her as it come out of Beca’s mouth, her breath leaving a puff of white in the air.

“It’s a long story,” Chloe tries her best to deflect, but she knows Beca won’t give it up.

Maybe opening up to someone else would feel good. Maybe to weight of her problems would feel a little lighter.

“I’ve got time, we can go get coffee?” Beca looks at her hopefully, “My treat?”

“I thought you were having a movie night with Jesse,” Beca had been talking about it all week, the excitement of a new relationship and all.

That’s another thing that has been making Chloe feel even worse than she does at this time of the year. She had a bad feeling Beca would end up with him…she had a bad feeling she was straight. Chloe loves their friendship, but it just makes everything that much more painful.

“You were literally coming to my dorm to hang anyways, that’s not until later,” Beca laughs.

Chloe’s cheeks burn red, “Oh yea, sorry, blonde moment I guess?”

“You’re not even blonde, you don’t get to use that one.”

Chloe gives Beca a playful shove, “Shut up.”

After another five minutes of walking, they finally end up at the coffee shop. Before Chloe knows it, there’s a steaming hot cup in her hands and Beca looking across the table at her expectantly.

“So now, why don’t you go home for Christmas?” Beca parrots the question from earlier, making Chloe squirm uncomfortably in her seat.

“So, I guess it all really started when my dad died,” Chloe twirls the paper cup in her hands, attempting to channel her nerves into something else.

Beca nods, encouraging her on.

“My mom kind of self-imploded after his death…it started with drinking. It just spiraled from there, drugs, lots of sex with random men. It made all four years of high school miserable for me,” Chloe can feel tears threating to spill, she never talks about this, “after my first Christmas back home in college I vowed to never go back until she got her shit together.”

A hand reaches across the table to settle over her own. Chloe looks up into Beca’s eyes, which are sad and empathetic. It makes her feel comfortable, grounded, Beca’s hand against her own. Her fingers twitch underneath the touch, she never wants to break the contact.

“I’m so sorry Chloe,” Beca says softly, “that must be really hard…so I take it she’s still pretty bad?”

Chloe nods slowly, “Uh yea, I’ve tried to get her to go to rehab but she won’t listen, I’m worried she never will.”

“I know this is nothing compared to what you dealt with,” Beca looks vulnerable as she speaks, “but high school was really rough for me too. My parents got a divorce and my dad married my now step monster. I felt so betrayed, I felt like nothing would ever be right again. I felt like my dad was giving up on me.”

“I’m glad you shared that,” Chloe turns her hand so it’s holding Beca’s instead of lying limply below hers, “I’m glad I’m not the only one with a shitty story.”

“I mean you definitely win if we’re comparing, but yea, it was nothing to write home about,” Beca smirks.

Beca finally pulls her hand away and Chloe instantly misses her touch. She quickly moves her hand back to her cup, lifting it to her mouth, not wanting Beca to know how much the little contact affected her.

“Do you want to come home with me for Christmas?” Beca asks after a few moments of silence.

The question practically makes Chloe choke on her latte, “I couldn’t do that Bec. Your family doesn’t even know me.”

“They know of you,” Beca replies nonchalantly, “plus they would love you.”

“So, you’ve talked about me to your family?” Chloe quirks an eyebrow.

It’s Beca’s turn for her cheeks to fade into a light shade of red, “They were asking if I made any friends…so I told them about you.”

“Don’t be embarrassed Beca, I love that you’ve told them about me. If I talked to my mom, she would know about you, because you’re one of the best things about this semester,” Chloe says honestly, hoping the blunt truth doesn’t weird the other girl out.

A smile the size of Texas spreads across Beca’s face. She doesn’t seem sure how to respond, but Chloe knows she probably feels similarly if her expression is to judge.

“Shouldn’t you be asking Jesse to go home with you for Christmas instead of me?” Chloe suddenly remembers Beca’s boyfriend.

Beca shakes her head no, “He has his own family to go home to, plus I’ve only been dating him for a month. I’d much rather have you come with me…especially because I want to save you from having to be here for three weeks.”

“I’ll think about it,” Chloe finally answers Beca’s offer.

She’s going to have to think hard about it, the last time she went home with someone for Christmas…well let’s just say it’s not a fond memory. It was an almost eerily similar situation. She had known Aubrey for one semester and after the blonde found out about her mom, she had invited her home for Christmas. She also needs to remind herself that it was a very different situation all together.

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

December 2009

There’s no hiding the fact that Chloe is scared to go home for Christmas. She’s scared about what she’s going to find. It’s the first time her mom has been alone for that long. Chloe watched out for her more than a teenage daughter should.

She also left on bad terms in the fall.

She could walk into anything really, which is terrifying. Which is why the whole drive back to South Carolina, Chloe is practically shaking with nerves. She probably shouldn’t have loaded up on coffee like she did, the caffeine isn’t helping. Aubrey has called her on and off, offering her support…and the reminder that she can go to Aubrey’s house if it’s too bad. Chloe was determined to make this work though; she didn’t want to run away on her mom completely. Chloe is not a quitter.

About an hour later she finally pulls into the driveway of her mom’s house, the windows are dark even thought the sun set hours ago. That’s already not a good sign. Chloe puts the car into park and takes a deep shaky breath. She gets out of the car after a few moments of composing herself.

She slings her bag over her shoulder and walks up the path to the front door, her hand shakes as she lifts the key to the lock. Chloe pushes the door open slowly, she can hear the TV blaring some infomercial for air tight containers. It’s the only light illuminating the living room. As Choe steps further in the door, she can see her mom’s identical mop of red hair flowing over the arm of the sofa, her hand hanging limply down onto the floor. She can’t make out much else with how dark the room is, the blue-ish light of the TV making everything look a little eerie.

An ice-cold feeling courses through her, her heart rate picking up. Something isn’t right, she can just feel it. Chloe throws her bag down onto the floor and rushes over to the sofa. It barely looks like her chest is moving up and down, her lips look a little blue. Out of the corner of her eye she sees a baggy of pills on the coffee table. Shit. This can’t be happening.

“Mom,” Chloe says firmly, “Mom!”

Nothing.

Chloe kneels down next to her and shakes her vigorously, “MOM.”

Her hands shake as she pulls her phone from the back pocket of her jeans. Her fingers can barely hold still as she dials 911.

The operator is calm and comforting. She walks Chloe through checking to see if her mom’s heart is still beating. She feels like she’s floating through some nightmare as she rips her mom’s shirt open and starts chest compressions. She has no clue how long she hammers into her mom’s chest before the door busts open and the paramedics are pushing her out of the way. Her vision blurs as she finally lets herself cry.

She’s not quite sure how she gets to the hospital. The world finally comes back into focus when a nurse carefully approaches her and asks if there’s anyone that she can call for her.

“Um, my best friend, Aubrey,” her voice sounds foreign to her.

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

When Chloe’s mom finally is stable and back at home, Chloe leaves to go back home with Aubrey. Before she leaves, it isn’t pretty, her and her mom scream and fight, but there is no way she’s ever going to come back home to that again. Chloe gives her a final ultimatum: Go and get some help or I’m done here.

Christmas is miserable, even though Aubrey’s family is warm, inviting and sympathetic. They make her feel like she’s family. Even so, Chloe has never felt more alone. She feels like she has nowhere to go. She has no one to bake her cookies to take back to her dorm or give her a hug that feels like home when she needs it or give her boy (or girl?) advice. She’s all alone and it’s something she’s going to have to get used to.

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

December 2012

“I’ll go home with you,” Chloe offhandedly mentions to Beca as they sit on the bed in Chloe’s room at the Bella house.

Beca’s eyes light up and the chips she was munching on practically fall out of her mouth, “Really?”

Chloe nods, after thinking about it, the idea of having people to spend Christmas with would be really nice. It’s something she hasn’t experienced since Christmas her freshman year.

“I would love to,” Chloe smiles happily at the younger girl next to her.

“That’s awesome!” Beca exclaims, “Oh shit, I’ve got to book the flight like now then.”

“You haven’t done that already?” Chloe looks at her quizzically.

Beca shrugs, “I was waiting to see if you would want to come first.”

“You could have missed out on getting tickets Bec, you shouldn’t have.”

“I know, it’s ok though, I wanted to,” Beca looks down at her phone, which has flight listings to Seattle already displayed, “get your snow boots ready Beale, it’s been chilly out there this year.”

“You know, I’ve only seen snow a couple times in my whole life,” Chloe already feels excited thinking about seeing the fluffy, white precipitation.

Beca’s eyes bug out, “Dude, we are so going sledding.”

For the first time in years, Chloe is starting to feel excited about this time of year. This might be the best Christmas she’s had in a long time…

#bechloe fanfic #pp fanfic #bechloe #my stuff

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