#and nothing ever sticks in my head so every time i touch it I RELEARN HOW MUCH I HATE IT | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theskywaslookingback · 4 years ago

Note

tma fic recs please ? 🤲🏽

Oooooo yes! I never get asks like this, thank you!

[my tumblr fic recs tag is here for browsing]

I had to put it under a cut because it got...entirely too long barely half an hour into making it, sorry.

Under 5k

means of cartharsis by orphan_account [G] [965]

“You’d think – you’d that at this point nightmares would be second nature for me, hm?” Martin says, forcing a smile even as he tugs the blanket tighter around his trembling shoulders.

It’s meant to be a bit funny. Instead of laughing, though, Jon frowns.

“No,” he says simply, and matter-of-factly wipes the moisture from Martin’s cheeks with a tissue like he’s a crying child.

A Proper Sleepover by Goodluckdetective (scorpiantales) [T] [1.4k]

In a different world, one where Elias is not waiting for them outside the Lonely, everyone has a chance to savor a moment of respite. As much as they can get these days. If only to talk about things that long need to be spoken.

“Basira says we should all sleep in the same room tonight,” Jon says without looking up. “Safer. So we can keep an eye out for intruders and also each other.”

“So we’re having a proper sleepover then?”

Jon scoffs. “Technically we’ve been having a proper one for months.”

where i go, when i go there by rainny_days [T] [1.7k]

Martin wants Jon to hold his hand. Martin doesn't want Jon to hold his hand.

It's complicated.

all the other ways by AptlyNamed [G] [2.2k]

Jon loses his first soul mark when he is eight years old.

a palace from ruin by bibliocratic [G] [2.2k]

"What're you sorry for?” Martin asks.

“I should have asked,” Jon says finally. “I'd never.... you were always so private about him, so I mean, at first I wasn't sure he was even yours, but then – when you, when you went with Peter, and I – he was so small, and I thought he was h-half-dead. S-so I picked him up and I carried him. And I'm sorry.”

interiors by doomcountry [T] [2.7k]

In the doorway, he fumbles with his keys. Their sound is loud in the silent stairwell. You don’t remember getting here.

searching for a light (for a right) by Kalgalen [T] [2.7k]

Some people make the mistake of assuming he's naive about sex, for the simple reason he hasn't dated in a while. Tim has called him a prude, at one point, and implied that he was somehow afraid of the intimacy required by the act; he wasn’t entirely wrong, but this definitely isn’t the reason for Jon's disinterest and general bafflement toward what most people seemed to consider as "what makes them human".

Jon simply hasn't found the right person. That is all it is: high standards, and a reticence to let people in.

(In which Jon finds out society is wrong about what a romantic relationship should be.)

how to plant a garden in rocky soil by treeprince [T] [2.9k]

Sometimes you just need a good pair of hands to work out all the kinks in your life.

Good thing Martin has two.

A Weather In The Flesh by cuttooth [G] [3k]

"There is a span of years where Jon doesn’t touch anyone other than the occasional hand shake. It’s not so bad. He’s never been someone who’s needed physical affection."

Jon has never been any good at making people want to stick around.

I'll bring the motion by callmearctus [T] [3.1k]

A long series of kidnappings and international flights leaves its own special mark on someone. Before the Unknowing, Jon is a mess.

Martin helps.

A Bread Made In Heaven by Againstme [G] [3.3k]

Martin moves over and watches how his boyfriend handles the dough. He's awkward with it, tentative and gentle, as if he's scared of hurting it somehow.

"Is this, uh, am I doing this right?" Jon asks, still slowly stretching out the dough and folding it onto itself.

"Well," he says shifting closer to Jon again, "you could be applying more pressure. Here, let me help you out, dear."

Martin moves fully behind Jon, and reaches around him, putting his hands on top of his boyfriend's. Jon inhales sharply, but doesn't say anything else, just lets Martin's hand rest on top of his.

Martin's hands are bigger, but not big enough to entirely envelop the other's hands, and Jon's hands are much, much warmer than his own are. To see what they're doing, Martin moves his head to look over Jon's shoulder. Though he can't see his boyfriend's face from this angle, he can see how it is slowly growing red at the edge of his vision. He decides not to tease him on it, instead content with letting a smile spread across his face and slowly guiding their joined hands in the proper motion.

Or, Martin teaches Jon how to make bread.

stumbling and spinning by lady_mab [G] [3.3k]

“Things happened,” Jon says demurely, trying to untangle Gerry’s fingers, but it only results in him getting pulled in so Gerry can kiss him properly. “It’s not all that bad.”

“I suppose not,” Gerry says with a sigh, sitting back upright. “You somehow managed to snag an incredible boyfriend out of it.”

It takes a solid few seconds before realization clicks in Martin’s brain. “You mean me?” [...]

“You have to admit, Jon has great tastes,” Gerry teases.

nothing sweeter than local honey by beeclaws [T] [3.4k]

So Tim is content, one arm leaned into the spray, waiting for the water to warm, enjoying the feeling of homecoming underneath the gentle fuzz of jetlag, when he hears gasping, panicked breaths coming from the other room.

Tim and Jon, in the aftermath, relearning how to be okay.

When Words are Inadequate by Mugatu [T] [3.8k]

Meals and the preparation of are, for want of a better word, informative. Fact gathering. A place where they can fill in the gaps of their knowledge of the other.

Jon cooks for Martin, and they learn more about each other.

go softly by doomcountry [T] [4k]

And there is nothing else besides this.

Imago by cuttooth [T] [4k]

“Jon?” he asks tentatively, tightening his grip around the poker as it slips against his sweaty palm. The antennae twitch, and suddenly Martin knows that it’s Jon, the knowledge sliding into his mind in a surge of desperate affection, the same profound love he felt that first time he truly saw Jon in the fog of the Lonely.

“Oh,” he whispers. “It really is you.”

Jon changes, but he’s still the same to Martin.

shoreline by bibliocratic [G] [4.1k]

“Martin," Tim says kindly, tipsily, only mildly slurring. "Dearest, dearest Martin. You're wankered, babe. Last train to Stockwell fucked off hours ago because it is now piss off o'clock in the morning, and there's a sofa with your exact name on it at my place. Thought you said you wanted some handsome fellow to take you back to his tonight?”

Or: The OG Archive crew go drinking, Martin comes out, and gets some well deserved TLC. In that order.

get your epitaph right by bibliocratic [G] [4.2k]

Martin's daemon has tried on the shape of dogs and lizards and snakes and horses, and even – once, when he was younger and Mum took him to the seaside, a fish.

Martin's never seen his soul in the dressing of a spider before.

i've known the warmth of your doorways by beeclaws [T] [4.2k]

'I’m always in pain, Jon wants to say, even as he dismisses the thought as melodramatic. Between his growing collection of old wounds and scar tissue, the supernatural hunger for statements that hasn’t been truly satiated in months, and the unpredictable aches and strains his body threw off day by day long before he ever set foot in the Institute, some level of pain and discomfort follows Jon wherever he goes now. He is used to being in pain. He’s not used to someone holding his hand as he suffers through it.'

Jon catalogs the comforts he receives, and wonders how long he will be allowed to keep them.

lay down your weary head by Zykaben [T] [4.6k]

Jon has been running himself ragged, searching for every scrap of information he can possibly find about the Unknowing. He's exhausted and sleep-deprived but he can't bring himself to take a break, not now.

Luckily, Tim and Martin are there to make sure that their boyfriend gets the care and rest he needs.

only the sweetest words remain by bluejayblueskies [T] [4.6k]

This isn't how things are supposed to go, right? Jon remembers those ratty paperbacks from the charity shops, dime-a-dozen romance novels with broken bindings and yellowing pages and words that spoke of love and passion and sexuality in prose that was more than a bit too mature for someone whose age hadn’t yet reached double digits. Stolen glances turn into dinner dates turn into passionate kisses turn into…

Well, he’d never actually read those parts of the books, because it had all seemed so deeply uncomfortable and gross. But he got the picture.

Or, Jonathan Sims, on being loved

5k-20k

and they keep not letting go by Marianne_Dashwood [G] [5k]

It’s an electric feeling, something strange and new and familiar all at once, even though he has been holding Martin’s hand for most of the day. His stomach swoops, like he is standing on the edge of the precipice of realisation and staring into the void of unknowing. But at the same time, he does know. In this instant of contact between them, the last few years of cups of tea and small smiles and momentary glances, of panic and fear and only feeling safe with Martin’s solid presence in the room, despite his paranoia, rush into him, and oh, oh oh.

ready to call this love by yewgrove [G] [5.6k]

How is Martin supposed to tell Jon that he panicked, stupidly, when the lovely old lady down the village asked him what they were doing in this part of the world? Got the shopping! Oh, by the way, we're married now! Whole village thinks we're on our honeymoon, hope you don't mind!

Prenons-nous la main by luftballons99 [T] [6k]

They still haven't talked about it, any of it, not even to pass the time on the long train ride to Scotland. Instead, Martin fell asleep in the seat next to him, pressed into his side from shoulder to knee, and Jon thought about love confessions and verb tense and how the two fit together when you think you're dying.

or: Good cows, mediocre poetry, and other crucial topics of discussion.

This Must Be The Place by cuttooth [T] [6k]

“You said – you said we were going home,” Martin says softly.

“I did,” says Jon, and is grateful that Martin doesn’t comment on him calling the Archives home. “I – I don’t really know where to go. I, uh, I don’t have a flat anymore, I don’t think. We could find a hotel?”

“Let’s go to my place,” says Martin. His hand squeezes Jon’s, more gently than before. Most importantly, Jon notes, he doesn’t let go.

Jon and Martin go home for a little while.

Small Things, Simple Acts by ZaliaChimera [T] [6.6k]

Even after leaving London, Jon and Martin are not free, not really. Maybe they never will be.

But for now they can be themselves, and maybe in the end, that's enough.

house by tomatoes [G] [9k]

Martin can take care of himself.

roses, roses, roses by acetheticallyy (judesstfrancis) [T] [9.3k]

Rose scented laundry detergent. Running into Jon in the breakroom. Running into Jon on his way back to his desk. Rose scented detergent. Running into Jon. Roses. Jon. Roses, roses, roses.

a deeply annoying child by ajkal2 [G] [9.6k]

Jon is hiding under the desk.

----

There's a child in the Archives, who shouldn't be there.

Inseparable by voiceless_terror [T] [10.3k]

“You can stay.” The voice interrupts his internal panic, and he looks over to find Jon studiously avoiding his gaze, staring hard at a neighboring bush. Martin wonders what caused his sudden change of heart. “But you have to sit on the other side. And don’t talk to me.”

Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood meet as children. Some things change, others do not.

i'm almost me again, you're almost you by gruhukens [G] [12k]

After a second Jon steps in towards him, close enough that Martin flinches, but all Jon does is put two fingers under his chin with his free hand and raise it until Martin can’t duck away. Jon has never touched him so casually before – at least, not until today, and it raises a lot of thoughts and feelings that Martin is trying very hard not to process.

Much like a lot of other things that have happened, he thinks. Not that it’s horrible or terrifying or numbing like everything else has been: it’s just another thing on the list of things he doesn’t have the capacity to deal with.

---

In the wake of the Lonely, there's a lot that Martin doesn't really want to think about.

hello my old heart by firebirdsuite [T] [15.8k]

Peter’s wrong, of course. When it’s all over, Martin does still want to tell Jon everything. It’s just—well, there’s a few things they need to work through first before they can get there.

Martin and Jon find each other again in Scotland.

Over 20k

The Kindness of Strangers by TheOestofOCs [M] [23k]

It was easier to treat Jon like a monster when he wasn’t shivering against his back, brokenly humming—wait, was that…

“Are you trying to do ‘Hey, Jude’?” Tim demanded.

Jon stopped, stiffening. “Mm hrmh mm mmh hm,” he said defensively.

“You really can’t hold a tune, can you, boss?”

It was just an ordinary walk to a restaurant. Tim had insisted that if they were going to talk, there would be no tape recorders or weird Archives ghosts listening in. A bit of fresh air wouldn’t kill him, Tim had said. What could go wrong?

By the time Jon spots the white delivery van, it’s much too late.

The Stranger kidnaps Jon. Tim comes along for the ride.

Misjudged by ShastaFirecracker [T] [36.5k]

Martin's been a longtime listener of What the Ghost, so when Georgie gives a shoutout to her flatmate's Twitch channel during a Q&A, he checks it out - only to discover that her flatmate is also his most terrifying coworker at his new job. The first time they crossed paths, Jon yelled at him for incompetence. But on the streams, Martin sees an entirely different person - someone fun and relaxed, engaging and unfairly attractive. Over time, Martin begins to find that Jon buried inside his dour, awkward coworker. He also learns to live with the fact that his crush is painfully one-sided... or is it?

if we make it through the night everyone is gonna hear us (Series) by skvadern [Ratings Vary] [42.4k]

In which Sasha survives the NotThem (with a little help from a certain Distortion) and she and Jon spend s2 working together to try and make sense of everything that's happening to them. It goes...interestingly

the garden of forking paths by bibliocratic [T] [49.7k]

Whatever he had predicted might happen, Jon wasn't expecting to survive upon demolishing the Panopticon. He certainly wasn't expecting to be rescued.

Instead, he wakes up in an alternative universe where he's never been the Archivist, and Martin Blackwood doesn't exist.

Martin Blackwood wakes up somewhere else entirely.

it's only forever by lady_mab [T] [50.9k]

“The castle at the center of the labyrinth,” Jon breathes, recalling again the words from one of the past conversations with Martin. “He’s there.”

“Turn back, Jonathan,” the Goblin King says, and Jon is surprised to hear a slight edge of desperation in the tone. “Turn back before it’s too late.”

“I can’t,” Jon answers with the same tone. “You know that I can’t.”

The Goblin King’s grin is gone completely, and he regards Jon with a degree of pity before that melts into resignation.

Yesterday is Here by CirrusGrey [T] [53.3k]

"Who the hell are you?" Jon could feel his hands shaking. The man laughed, taking a step forward and raising a hand to point at him. "I'm you, from the future!" he said, then swayed, eyes going unfocused, and collapsed to the floor in a dead faint. -------- Post-season-four Jon and Martin time travel back to the season one Archives.

A Home For What Loves You by TheWrongShop [T] [151k]

It was completely fine that Jon was following up on this very normal, non-supernatural statement at midnight on a Friday. He was going to find nothing at all, and then he was going to go home and sleep for fourteen straight hours and feel absolutely no qualms about moving case #0150409 directly into the filing cabinet marked "discredited".

Or; Jon and Martin end up investigating Carlos Vittery's basement and finding the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss together.

RATED E *MINORS DNI*

A Look And A Voice by cuttooth [E] [6.9k]

“Do you want to have sex with me?” Jon asks bluntly, and for a second Martin can’t breathe.

“It - it doesn’t matter what I - ” he begins valiantly, before Jon interrupts him.

“Because I want to have sex with you, and frankly it doesn’t matter if you think it’s for the wrong reasons. I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions. The only thing that matters is if you want to as well.”

Martin meets a guy in a bar and takes him home.

Warms The Coldest Night by cuttooth [E] [11k]

"Flame that warms the coldest night Bring to us the waxing Light, Be with us on Solstice Night." Gypsy - Bring Back The Light

There is mistletoe hanging in the doorway to the Archives when Jon gets in.

Curiosity by ShastaFirecracker [E] [11.6k]

“You know that conversation we had the other day about how one of the most important things for queer youth to learn is that it's okay to change their minds, because identity and self-discovery are always fluid?”

Behind him, Martin slipped oven mitts over his hands and pulled open the oven door. The scent of garlic and rosemary flooded the kitchen. “Yeah?” he said.

“I, um... I'd like to revisit the topic of sex.”

At the Interim (Series) by Rend_Herring [E] [41k]

A Measure Outside the Lines and The Residuum

triptych (Series) by Stacicity [E] [44.9k]

A collection of Jon/Tim/Martin fics

a steady hand, a delicate man by callmearctus [E] [52.8k]

Martin is the proprietor and manager of a very discrete and fairly exclusive brothel situated between Belgravia and Chelsea. Blackwood House excels at special requests and pleasing any client.

Except for Jon, who probably has never been pleased a day in his entire life.

Despite that, he still comes back. It eventually begs the question: how do you solve a problem like Jon Sims?

#statement ends #anonymous #fic recs #save #((this took me like two hours lmaooooo))

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angelicspaceprince · 4 years ago

Text

Forget-Me-Nots

Author: Toby

Title: Muriel’s Birthday

Pairing: Muriel/Reader

Character/s: Muriel, the Devil, mentions of Asra

Word Count: 1, 292 words

Warnings: Angst, predictions for Muriel’s Reverse Ending only made sadder because my brain’s a dick.

Tags: N/A

Prompt: You had made a deal with the Devil in order to protect your friends. Now, you only have a moment with Muriel before he forgets everything, forever.

Notes: Listen, I know he’s a little OOC, but I tried, and it’s going to take me a while to get used to writing his character. What I will say, however, is that I got the upright ending, thank god, but I was thinking about what could possibly be involved with the reverse ending and uh. It kinda. Spiralled out of control? So yeah. Enjoy.

Buy Me a Coffee

Forget-Me-Nots

You don’t know how you got here. Well. You do, but you were unsure how you got to this specific situation.

Face to face with the Devil, your hand held tightly in Muriel’s as your friends stand opposite you, seemingly frozen in time as the Devil simply smirks in your direction.

“You promised.” Is all you get out, throat feeling swollen and tight. “You said you’d let them go.”

“Ah, indeed I did.” The area in front of your friends shimmers for a second before disappearing all together. Your gut falls to the floor.

It was a trick. All to get you out of the way.

“Where-”

“Your friends are safe.” Is all the Devil says, cutting Muriel off.

“They always were.” You add on, looking up at Muriel, eyes wide with the realisation of what just happened. “We’ve been tricked.”

Muriel’s jaw locks in anger. “We-”

“-agreed to his terms as long as our friends remained safe.” You remind him.

“And they will be. Never let it be said that I don’t stick to my word.” The Devil adds in with a sickening grin. “Now. Time for you to stick to your end of our deal.”

Your heart sinks, the Devil looking positively giddy as you turn to Muriel. Your friends safety, for one of you to forget the other. They even threw in a lovely detail that if you didn’t part that the other would die by their own personal hand, not something you wanted for either of you. Now, you had to decide who was going to remember, and who was going to forget.

“We don’t have to do this.” Muriel murmurs softly to you, the look on his face almost desperate. He couldn’t forget you. And he couldn’t bear the thought of you forgetting him.

Your eyes flicker over to the Arcana across from you. You know you shouldn’t go up against them, and you really didn’t want to face the consequences of not following through with your promise. “We don’t have a choice.” You finally say quietly, the realisation of how bad this was now sinking into your stomach. “I can forget.” You offer, your heart twisting at the thought. Forgetting Asra, the shop, Volta, Nadia, Portia, hell even Julian had found a way to worm into your heart. The idea of never knowing them again hurts, but not as much as the idea of never remembering Muriel.

He shakes his head firmly. “No. I will.” You can see the beginnings of tears in his eyes when he realises how much he has gained, and how much he will lose if he follows through with this.

“You’ll forget Asra, the Kokhuri, Khamgalai.” You remind him softly. “You can’t lose all of that, Muriel.”

“I won’t know once I’ve forgotten.” He states bluntly. “I-. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle you not remembering me again.” He finally confesses.

“Muriel.” His name comes out in a whisper, the thought never occurring to you that you forgetting him would hurt that much.

“How touching.” The voice from across the way causes you to jump as you both spin to look at the person causing this delima. “However. I have my own plans to attend to. Make your decision now.”

Before you have a chance to say anything, Muriel steps forward slightly. “Take my memories.” His voice carries as confident as it ever will across the empty field.

The Devil’s grin widens in delight. “Wonderful.” His eyes flicker over to you for a second. “I am feeling generous. You have one minute before he forgets. Use it wisely.” With that, he’s gone, faded away into nothing.

You spin back to Muriel, who looks shocked now this was about to become a reality. Your hands instantly move to cup his face, pulling him down slightly so you can press your lips against his. “It should have been me, you should have let me-”

“No.” Muriel’s hands move to grab your waist as tears threaten to fall from your eyes. “No.” He doesn’t even attempt an excuse, and he doesn’t need to. Not when you have so little time on your hands. “I love you.” He reminds, voice soft. “Don’t forget that I do.”

“In a few seconds, you won’t even know me.” You reply, voice slightly bitter.

“Perhaps, but I will never stop loving you, I will never forget loving you, I will never forget the way you make me feel.” He swallows, leaning down to hover his lips above yours. Before he gets a chance to ask, you close the gap, kissing him as sweetly as you can, trying to commit this feeling to memory. A feeling of warmth, of love, of home. Of Muriel. He pulls back, resting his forehead against yours. “Promise me you won’t forget me.” He whispers.

“I promise.” You say, not hesitating for a moment as your eyes lock with his green ones. “I love you.” Is all you can choke out, tears finally beginning to fall from your face.

“I love you too.”

He moves to stand at his full height, and you watch in horror as you see all recognition begin to bleed away from his eyes, all fondness for you, all caring that he had for every living thing around him, everything that made Muriel Muriel disappearing right in front of you until he reverts back into the same, stony man you met what felt like an eternity ago.

His brow furrows as he looks down at you in confusion. “Who are you? Where are we?” His words pierce through your heart as the realisation finally hits you. The Muriel who knew you, who loved you, was gone.

Your eyes flutter shut, your hand moving up to press against his chest only to hesitate and fall to your side. Muriel doesn’t know you. He wouldn’t want you touching him.

You take a deep breath, smiling at the familiar earthy scent that you loved about him before you look back up, eyes wet with fresh tears, a small sad smile on your face. “I’m no one of consequence.” You finally say. You couldn’t leave him without giving him something, someone to go back to. “You need to head to Vesuvia, find Asra. He will help you in any way you need.” You were thankful that you had spoken to Asra about Muriel’s family, about what you had learnt when you met Khamgalai. Hopefully, he will be able to take Muriel to the Shining Stepe and he will be able to relearn who he was, where he came from. The only blessing you could take from this was that he forgot about his time in the coliseum, something you knew was still hanging over him, no matter what he said.

Muriel looks down at you, clearly in distrust. “Why should I do what you say?”

You shrug. “Maybe I’m here to guide you forward. Help you grow as a person. Perhaps that’s my job in this life.” You suddenly remember the other side of the Devil’s deal and your chest grows cold. You need to leave. Now. “Do what you wish, Muriel. Just stay safe for me, okay?” You give him a half-hearted wave and you turn and start to walk away, not completely realising it would be the last time you ever saw him. It was the most painful thing you have ever done, and your heart feels like it’s shattering into a million pieces as you walk away, your hand moving to claw at your chest.

It was all for the better, you tried to tell yourself as you continued to walk forward, refusing to turn back and look at Muriel who by now was long gone.

It had to be.

#toby writes #the arcana #the arcana fanfiction #reverse ending prediction #my take on the reverse ending #muriel #muriel/reader #muriel/apprentice #muriel/mc #the arcana fanfic #muriel fanfiction #muriel/reader fanfiction #muriel/apprentice fanfiction #muriel/mc fanfiction #the arcana game #the arcana muriel

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starl1ght-child · 5 years ago

Text

Enthralled

Rezyl Azzir x F!Non-Guardian OC

Chapter 13 : Promises [ WC 2.1K ]

masterlist

Rilea was in the hospital for another three months following Twilight Gap. The broken vertebrae were taking the longest to heal and she was bedridden until they did. For a long while, she barely spoke. Temporary paralysis had taken everything from her: her life, her happiness, her faith. She wouldn’t be able to go back to work afterwards, she wasn’t even sure if she was going to walk. When the vertebrae did finally heal, she remained inpatient for weeks of physical therapy and rehabilitation. She had to relearn how to walk and regain strength in her back and legs.

Rezyl took some temporary leave from the Vanguard. He told them that after Twilight Gap, he had to rethink some of his priorities, and they did as well. But eventually, he started to get antsy. There was rage towards the Fallen that fueled his fire for revenge. Rilea would still have a life if not for the Fallen. She would still be able to walk. He spent much of the first month keeping her company in the hospital, but he wasn’t made for staying in place. And the longer he stayed out of the field, the longer his anger simmered.

Rilea knew that he was growing anxious staying in one place, so she assured Rezyl that she was fine. She was in good hands with the doctors here. He didn’t have to spend every waking moment with her. Just come visit every couple of days. And though he said he would, that was another empty promise. She realized that they were both alike in the sense of being workaholics. He only came to visit when he was home, and that was about once every five or six days.

And when he did visit, she started to notice small changes in his personality. He smiled less. He talked less. He seemed to be avoiding sleep, no matter how tired he was. Only a few times he had passed out, his head on her bed, clutching her hand. He started to become a little more physical, but not in a violent sense. He touched her more, caressed her more, he seemed to find comfort in the warmth of her skin.

But there was one thing she noticed the most.

He had stopped calling her “paramour.”

He came looking for her one day while she was in therapy, so he was shown to the rehab gym where she was working on walking. She had spent two weeks getting the strength in her legs back up. She was with a physical therapist on a straight track with two railings on the side for support. Adorned in loose pants and a tank top and sweating her ass off, short hair sticking to her neck and forehead, she caught sight of Rezyl standing by the door. There was a small smile on his lips as he started over to her. For a moment she was so excited to see him and tried to rush over to him; that she took her hands off the railing and she forgot she didn’t have the strength in her back to fully support herself yet. She sank down onto her knees, with a small groan of pain. Both he and the doc were at her side, but she brushed them both off. She grabbed onto the railings and pulled herself back onto her feet. She looked over at the doc and tilted her head, wordlessly asking for a few minutes alone. When the doctor walked away, Rezyl walked onto the ramp with her.

“You’re getting stronger,” Rezyl remarked. “Good.”

“Yeah, well, they won’t let me leave here until I can walk on my own again, so…” She gave him a strained smile. “I’m trying.”

He extended his hands. “Well, don’t let me stop you. Let’s keep going.”

Rilea looked at him with raised browns and half a smile. She took his hands and grasped onto them tightly while she tried to support herself. He slowly started walking backwards and she took some unsteady steps forwards, following his path.

“You know…” she started. “You’ve seemed a little distracted lately.”

He didn’t even bat an eye. “There’s a lot of work to be done, Rilea.”

She sighed softly. “I know. There’s always work.” She took a few more shaky steps. “Hopefully I’ll be walking on my own and out of here in a couple of weeks.”

“You shouldn’t rush your body, Ri,” he sighed. He looked down at her and tilted his . “I understand you want out of here, but you need to give yourself time.”

She bit down on the inside of her cheek. And took a few more steps. Her legs were shaking badly. “I-I need a break.”

He nodded and closed the gap between them, pulled her hand up to his shoulder then slid his arm around her back. He walked her over to the chair at the end of the ramp, supporting most of her weight until she was sitting down. She leaned back in the chair and the doctor came back over to give her a glass of water. She looked over at Rezyl to see a resigned look on his face. She leaned her head into his view and he met her gaze. She reached up and cupped his cheek; Rezyl’s hand came up and placed on top of hers.

“Hey… don’t look at me like that. I’m going to be alright.”

He sighed then reached up and ruffled a hand through her hair. “I know. You’re just as stubborn as I am.”

— — — — —

Five months to the day of her admission, Rilea was discharged from the hospital. She could walk on her own just fine, though she had a small limp now that was only noticeable when you were looking for it. She carried a pack over her shoulder of her belongings and let out a small sigh of delight when a light, late summer breeze brushed over her face and ruffled her short hair. When she got home, Rezyl wasn’t anywhere to be seen, but as she shut the door and set down her pack, she could hear the shower running. She smiled to herself as she snuck into the bedroom and changed out of the clothes she had been loaned from the hospital and into some of her own, something familiar for him. She quietly walked back out into the living area and sat down on the couch.

She heard the bedroom door open and she looked over her shoulder with a smile. Rezyl’s eyes widened when he realized that she was there. His Ghost immediately materialized out of thin air and circled around her head.

“Welcome home!” Amit chirped happily.

Rilea laughed as she stood. “Yes, I’m home.” She looked over at Rezyl and he still stood there, shocked. She walked over to him and took his hands. His hair was still wet from his shower.

“You’re home…” He murmured softly, his head tilting to take in her radiance. One of his hands lifted and cupped her cheek, thumb tracing over the old scar on her skin, index finger brushing over the new one in her hairline. “I saw you two weeks ago and you were still struggling.” She closed her eyes and sighed with delight as his fingers pushed through her hair until he held the back of her head. “You’re so strong…”

Rilea opened her eyes and gazed at him lovingly. “Rezyl…” She sighed softly. “We need to—”

He shushed her and leaned down, pressing his forehead on hers. “No… please, sweet girl, you’ve just come home. I haven’t been able to hold you in ages. Please… just let me have you… I just want to touch you…”

She wanted to open her mouth to protest, that she really needed to talk to him about how much he’s been changing. She just wanted to make sure he was alright. His hand slipped around her waist and gently pressed on her back, over the scar where the incision from her surgery was. The scar itself was still sensitive, but when his fingers touched it ever so gently, she nearly sank against him with the thrill that electrified her neurons. “You’ll always have me,” she murmured quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

As his hands slid down her sides to her hips and he effortlessly lifted her off her feet, Rilea pressed her lips against his and wrapped her arms around his neck loosely. He kissed her with a sense of urgency and desperation, but she could feel his desire emanating off of him. His skin felt like it was on fire, his grip on her bottom was firm as he carried her into the privacy of their bedroom, his kiss was hot and fervent, his touch like sparks on her skin when he finally sat down on the bed with her in his lap.

“Rezyl,” she gasped when his broke from her lips and trailed kisses along her throat. He faltered for a moment, pausing his assault on her skin, his hands already halfway up her shirt. Rilea giggled lightly as she leaned her head back and pushed her hands into his damp hair. “Slow down… I’m staying right here…”

He let out a pent-up sigh and leaned his head on his shoulder, his lips pressing on her collarbone. “Sorry…” he mumbled in embarrassment. “I… I missed you… I think a lot more than I realized.”

She cupped his jaw with both her hands, lifted his face and smiled compassionately at him. “Then come home more… I know you’re trying to keep me safe from out there… but I feel safer when you’re by my side.”

He closed his eyes and leaned into her hands, one of his lifting and closing around her wrist. “All right…” he sighed. “I’ll try to be home every night… whenever I can…”

She smiled warmly and leaned forward, closed her eyes and pressed a kiss on his lips. “Good…”

— — — — —

They laid side by side, skin and hearts bared, cuddled in each other’s warmth, a tangled mess of limbs. Rezyl’s fingers danced up and down her skin, tracing over every scar, from the new ones on her spine and stomach, to the older ones on her shoulder and cheek. Rilea, exhausted from their make-up session and cuddled up with her back pressed against his chest, was nearly falling asleep against him. His hands finally settled her abdomen, gently rubbing circles on her skin. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t rest. There was one question on her mind that she wanted to ask.

“Hey, Rezyl?” She said softly, and he hummed in response. “Why’d you stop calling me ‘paramour’?”

He was silent for a moment, though he still continued to gently massage her skin. “Because you are no longer my paramour,” he started, but his hand slid up and covered her heart before she could respond. “You are my love. My greatest love. There’s nothing immoral about this love for me anymore. Twilight Gap made me realize that.”

She shifted in his arms and turned onto her other side. His hands aligned on her spine and pulled her close against his chest. “How so?”

“In the years I’ve known you, love, I had never felt more fear and anxiety thinking that I had lost you. I know…” He sighed and pressed his lips against the back of her neck. “I know I will lose you one day. But I wasn’t ready to lose you like that. I love you too much to let you go.”

“My years in this world are finite,” she whispered. “You and I have both known that from the moment we met, and yet you stayed with me. Through everything. Rezyl, I…” she looked up into his eyes, his beautiful emerald optics that had captured her from day one. “I love you, too.”

He gave her a small smile, leaned over and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Get some rest, sweet girl.” She nestled against his chest while he ran his hand up and down her spine. But while his lover slept, Rezyl stayed awake. He was at war with himself. The Vanguard was flawed; they only fortified the wall after Twilight Gap, when it should have happened after six fronts. The Consensus was arrogant, especially the Speaker; who exiled Osiris because he was concerned about a Vex invasion, which the City was woefully unprepared for. And to make matters worse, he sent Saint-14 after Osiris, and he has since gone missing. His patience for the City’s “leaders” who sought “peace” was growing dangerously thin.

Tag List : @mail-me-a-snail

#destiny #destiny fic #destiny fanfiction #enthralled fic #dark age destiny #rezyl azzir #non-guardian oc #my oc #my writing #enthralled

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planetsam · 6 years ago

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Malex Prompt: Alex has been relearning how to train due to his prosthesis (fighting, working out, shooting, etc.) with the help of a military friend. Michael finds them training outside of the cabin.

“Breathe through it. Come on, just give me a few more breaths.”

Michael frowns as he comes around the side of the cabin. He’s not expecting what he sees. A very attractive woman is standing over Alex, pressing both her hands onto his leg. Alex is laying on top of a massage table, wearing a t-shirt and a pair of shorts and hugging his other leg into his chest. He’s obviously not very comfortable in the position but Michael has a feeling the sweat that darkens his t-shirt and sticks out on his forehead has a lot more to do with the weights and exercise ball that are resting nearby. The woman doesn’t let him up as he breathes and finally she relaxes, pressing her fingers along the sides of his kneecap.

“How are you feeling?” She asks him.

“Like crap,” Alex says, releasing his leg.

Michael feels his frown deepen. Alex admitting physical pain is rare. Almost as rare as him being in shorts. Alex was never a shorts kind of guy, but it’s taken Michael longer than he wishes to realize that Alex isn’t comfortable showing his prosthetic. He’s actually more comfortable showing his missing leg, not the device he needs to walk. The injury is preferable to the help. It’s a quintessentially Alex thing to do. The woman glances over and their eyes lock. Surprise flares on her face but she immediately shifts her weight. Given the amount of pressure she’s clearly capable of putting, Michael has few doubts she’s prepared to kick his ass. The change in pressure has Alex pushing himself up and following her gaze. He too immediately goes defensive, pushing himself into a sitting position.

“Guerin,” he says.

Michael raises his hand and slinks out of the shadows he definitely wasn’t hiding in. Of course Alex would be doing all the exercises and fighting to get better. Alex isn’t the type who would let a major life altering injury siderail him for a decade. Michael wishes that he hadn’t left his hat in his car. Or was late instead of early. There’s nothing to do but come stand in front of them.

“I’m Michael,” he introduces himself.

“Lily,” she says, “I’d shake your hand but I’m lotioned up,” she looks at Alex, “back down. We’re not done.” Alex’s face falls but he lays back, fighting to keep his face straight as Lily goes back to manipulating the limb, “so how do you know Alex?” She asks.

“We grew up together,” Alex cuts in, “we reconnected after I got back.”

Quantifying what they are hasn’t exactly been a strong suit for either of them. Friends isn’t adequate, lovers isn’t honest. Actually the only thing they’ve ever truly named each other where the other can hear is family. Michael is okay with that, except when other people ask for an explanation. Family is a weird word for both of them. And he’s not sure how to tell Alex he’s in love with him and also refer to him as family. So ambiguity is a great fall back.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

“Stretching him out,” Lily says, “Alex?”

“I overcompensate on my leg,” Alex says. He’s flung an arm over his eyes, “and the muscles get tight.”

“Oh,” he says.

He knows Alex is missing a leg. He knows it every second of every day. Alex takes responsibility for going to war but Michael knows he was a catalyst for that decision. It’s hard not to blame himself for Alex’s predicament. And Alex who is obsessed with being strong enough—whatever that means—refuses to let Michael feel guilty about it. Refuses to be treated differently about it.

“I’m around a lot. Can I help?” He asks abruptly. Alex’s arm rises and Lily looks at both of them, “I’m a mechanic,” he adds, “I’m good with my hands.”

Lily bits down on her lip. Michael realizes that she’s waiting for Alex to say something. That’s good and consent is important but Michael can feel the awkwardness. Shit he didn’t want to make it awkward. Just when he’s about to apologize and make up an excuse to get the hell out of there, Alex drops his forearm back over his eyes.

“His hands are freakishly strong,” he says.

“Stronger than mine?” Lily asks, pretending to be offended. Alex nods, “I’m going to remember that,” she tells him and produces hand sanitizer from her pocket. Michael shoves his hands out and cleans them, “I’m just going to show you how to assist Alex stretch.”

Michael nods and focuses in as she explains and points where to put his hands. Or he tries to focus. He hasn’t exactly been allowed to touch Alex in a really long time. Which, to be fair, he more than deserves given his behavior. He’s been clear that he’ll go as slow as needed, but he can’t pretend it’s not difficult to keep from touching him. Especially when they are right next to each other more and more. Alex will sit next to him, but Alex isn’t big on showing a lot of skin. He likes being covered. They both do. It’s fucking twisted and they both know why, even now that there’s no one to put marks on their skin.

His fingers hesitate only a moment before he puts them onto Alex’s knee. He’s under no illusions that Alex is suddenly going to communicate what hurts, but his plan of carefully watching is thrown for a loop when Alex’s breath catches. Michael knows from him that his body temperature is unusually hot. But he thinks if it wasn’t, Alex would probably know his hands better than anyone’s. It’s weird to see all ten of his fingers neatly flattened against Alex’s skin and when he’s directed to put his hands on top of each other, it’s his left hand he presses to Alex’s flesh.

“Now gently apply pressure,” she instructs. Michael slowly leans his weight onto his hands, “a little more,” she says, “you’ve got a long way to go until you hurt him.”

Michael ducks his head, embarrassed at how wrong she is before he forces himself not to read more into this than what is actually happening. He pushes his weight firmly unto his hands and Alex makes a noise. Before he can jump back though, Lily holds out a hand and directs him to stay there. She takes Alex’s other leg and carefully manipulates it, until Alex makes another noise.

“Breathe,” she says to Alex, “deep breaths.”

“I hate both of you,” he says.

“We’re going to hold this here,” she says and glances at him, “you know that’s—“

“Alex for ‘ouch’?” He offers.

Alex raises his arm to shoot him a truly venomous look that Michael answers with a smile before Alex groans and throws his arm back over his eyes. Most of his weight is on his palms. Before he can think about it, Michael gently strokes his pinky down Alex’s leg, doing his best to time it with his breathing. He’s not sure if it helps but eventually Alex relaxes into the stretch and he almost loses his grip when he feels his muscles go. He definitely jumps and Lily smiles and Alex presses his lips together in an effort not to laugh.

“Sorry—“ he starts and looks down at the leg under his hands with confusion, trying to remember everything he read. Reading about it only works if he doesn’t think it’s Alex.

“It’s just the muscles,” Alex says. Michael looks up and nods, “it feels weird,” he says, “I’m not used to it yet.”

“You will be,” Lily assures Alex, a smile passing between them.

It occurs to him that Lily doesn’t know if he’ll be around. That it’s very possible that he won’t be. Or it is on paper anyway. He has no intention of not being there until Alex is used to everything and long, long past that. Until him not having a leg is more normal than when he had two. Or they figure out how to get Max to regrow him one or something.

He plans on being there. That’s the thing.

“Why don’t you roll over?” Lilly says.

Michael mourns the loss of contact as soon as he has to take his hands off of Alex. He tells himself the shiver that works up Alex’s body is just because of the temperature change. Slowly and steady, that’s what he told himself. He watches as Lily tightly rolls up a towel and slides it under Alex’s hips as he rolls over. Michael’s usually distracted by other parts of Alex’s anatomy when he’s rolled over. The back of his leg is smooth. If Michael thinks too hard about it, he gets a headache from thinking the back of Alex’s leg is on the front of it now. Lily gently supports the leg until Alex taps the table.

“Here, support this while I get another towel,” she says, “don’t move it up.”

Michael carefully takes the weight of Alex’s leg. He glances back to see Alex turned and looking at him. Their eyes move and he tries to smile. But he can feel that thing starting between them again. Son of a bitch, he can tell Alex feels it too. He watches his throat work and his lips part as he tries to calm himself down. Physical therapy is not the time for it. For this tension, for everything else. Michael makes sure he’s got a good one handed support on Alex’s leg and moves his other hand up. Alex’s eyes widened.

“Do not—“ he starts.

“Are you still?” Michael asks.

“Guerin,” he warns.

Michael lightly scratches the back of Alex’s leg, right under the knee.

As it turns out, Alex is still ticklish.

At least for him.

Michael doesn’t push it but Alex still snorts with laughter when he tickles under his leg. If Michael wasn’t aware that Alex is probably the only person who can get him to be ticklish, he wouldn’t think much of it. But most people skimming their fingers up his sides or asking if he’s ticklish are dismissed. But when Alex does it accidentally, the sensation is unmistakable. Giggling isn’t something he does around people either.

“Okay okay,” Lily breaks it up with a smile, “put his leg down,” she says and slides the other towel under his hips, “I’m guessing you two got into a lot of trouble in school.”

“I did,” Alex says, “he got me out of it.”

“So you were the well behaved one,” she says looking at Michael. He shrugs, “you’ve been very helpful.”

“I’d do anything to help Alex,” he says without thinking.

Lily smiles and Michael looks at her for as long as he can before he finally has to look at Alex. There’s something soft in his eyes that Michael hasn’t seen for a very long time when he looks at him. And something in his own chest seems to open at the sight of it. He shambles closer to the front of the massage table. As long as he lives he’ll never forget when Alex reaches out and catches his hand. Lily’s sigh makes both of them look back at her.

“I’m sorry, that’s just—“ she sighs again, “I’m a romantic. You two make a very cute couple.”

Alex squeezes his hand.

“Thanks,” Michael says.

“Let’s see if we can get this leg a bit higher with this great moral support,” Lily says coming back to business. Michael tightens his grip on Alex’s hand as he groans. He leans down so he’s closer to Alex’s head, which is cushioned on his forearm.

“Breathe,” he says.

“I hate you,” Alex says.

“I know,” Michael tells him, covering his other hand with his free one, “but do it anyway.”

So Alex breathes.

#michael guerin #alex manes #malex #malex fic #roswell new mexico #roswell nm fanfic #malex fanfic #michael x alex #prompts #this started as sexy and got sweet and idk what happened

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xxkellsvixen19xx · 6 years ago

Text

Forget Me Not Jim Mason x Reader 50 First Dates AU Pt 1/?

A/N: Not long ago seen an ask on @michael-langdon-appreciation blog by an anon asking for a Jim Mason 50 First Dates fic, I know she is busy and got quite a bit going on so I took on the task. I decided to go not entirely by the 50 First Dates story line there will be parts of it yes but going in a bit of a different direction, this will be multiple parts. Hope you like it anon let me know what you think, as well as my followers feed back is appreciated! 💓

“Hi, l'm Jim Mason maybe you can help me? l'm looking for Y/N any idea where l can find her?” Jim walked through the boat till he made his way downstairs to the cabin, making his way to the door calling out…

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N Mason?”

She can’t remember yesterday…

When a freak accident on a storm-swept road leaves Y/N with a memory full of holes, she can't remember her own email password, much less how the little pink "positive" on the pregnancy stick got there. She's at a loss to explain what happened, or when ...or with whom. But what the mind forgets, the heart remembers. Still, it’s going to be a long, hard ride to a happily ever-after for two, plus one.

2 months ago...

Jim closed the distance between them and touched their lips together. Soft. Sweet. More intense than any kiss he'd ever given her before. Her breath escaped in a puff as he pulled back, warming his skin.

"Oh. That was nice." Y/N replied softly.

"Hmm, you ready for better than nice?"

She opened her mouth to answer, and he caught her lips separating them. His tongue eased into her mouth, and he tasted her like he’d longed to for months. Sweetness, a touch of cinnamon, but mostly her. This was far better than nice. He dug his fingers into the fabric at her hip to stop from exploring anywhere else. His other hand locked on the truck frame to make sure the only thing he used on her was his mouth.

He wanted to consume her.

Kissing was only the beginning because, oh hell, every nerve in his body had gone on high alert, especially when she curled her hands around his back and stepped against him. One leg on either side of his thigh. Bodies tight together, her warmth enveloping him along with the scent of her perfume. His head spun from even this much contact.

His throat moved as he swallowed. Whispered, “Say it's not crazy. Say this is what you want, even though I'm leaving tomorrow. " I want you,” Y/N confessed. "And it’s not crazy-not completely." She reached behind her and unhooked her bra.

Her bra joined her shirt on the floor, and that was it. Discussion over. Jim had her in his arms; her feet dangling in the air as he carried her down the hall to her bedroom. Their lips connected, the worn fabric of his T-shirt soft against her naked chest. He paused to take off his shoes, and they bounced off a few walls en route. Her legs were wrapped around his hips, her hands traveling over his shoulders and back as she savored finally getting to touch him.

Jim lowered her to the bed and stepped back. He reached over his head to grab his T-shirt, jerking it forward and off his muscular torso. His biceps flexed, chest muscles and chiseled abs clearly visible in the light streaming through the window. She admired the dark dusting of hair on his chest, another dark trail leading down into the jeans that were even now being unbuttoned, unzipped and frantically cast to the floor.

"Get naked," Jim ordered. "I want skin and nothing but skin tonight. I want enough touching to make me crazy for the next months hell even the next years.” She wiggled off her jeans and undies, staring at him in awe. "I'd ask for a picture, but your image is branded on my brain. You're gorgeous, Jim."

Jim traced the edge of her jaw to her neck, kissing his way up to the sensitive spot under her ear. Kisses and caresses, his lips on her torso as his fingers plumped her breast. His tongue tracing circles around her nipple a second before his lips closed over the tip and he sucked. A sharp, aching need shot from his mouth to directly between her legs, and Y/N could no more hold back her groans than fly to the moon.

It wasn't just one thing, it was the complete seduction. His hands on her stomach, sneaking over her belly to tease the folds of her sex. His mouth doing sinfully good things to her breasts. Y/N's heart pounded, her body growing slick as he teased her, fingers on her clit, fingers slipping inside her.

"I’m going to make you come, and this first time? I'm going to watch." Jim hung over her, his face only inches away as his hand worked her, a rapid thrust of his fingers driving her toward a peak faster than expected. His pupils dilated further as she groaned his name, her nails digging into his broad shoulders.

He kissed her breathless then vanished, sliding down her body like a human tornado. More caresses, long slow strokes –he avoided her sex for a moment, and she was glad until the continued touches made her twitch with the desire.

"Hmm, delicious." Jim opened her legs with his shoulders and dropped to tease her folds with his tongue. Gentle at first, then bolder until she was arching up to his mouth, grinding against him as he thrust his tongue deep. As he covered her sensitive clit and sucked, flicking the tip with his tongue until she broke into a million pieces.

She turned into a puddle on the mattress, barely able to focus. He snatched up the condom and covered himself, lowering over her to touch their heated foreheads together.

Jim breathed out slowly as his cock nudged her core. "You ready for me?"

Years ago. Forever. All the words she wanted to say she held back, instead simply nodding.

He slid inside, and she shook, fighting to keep her eyes open so she could add the expression on his face to the whole experience. Bliss mixed with the hunger, and a moan escaped him as she crossed her heels against his lower back. The change of position slipped him deeper so they were all-the-way connected.

Skin to skin, fully engaged as they stared into each other’s eyes. Jim pulled his hips back, and pressure skittered past sensitive nerve endings, making her entire body heat further.

He thrust forward, and again, catching hold of her hip to lift her higher. He pinned her in position as the pressure and tempo increased.

"Sweet Y/N. Oh my God, so good." Jim tilted his hips at the end of each thrust, and she gasped.

"Okay?" he asked.

"Oh, this is..." She couldn’t breathe to get the words out, but she didn't want him to stop. "Yes, good. So good."

He kissed her, his breath hot on her cheek before he tangled their tongues, thrusting into her mouth in imitation of his cock.

Y/N saw lights sparkling before her eyes when they broke apart to gasp for air. "I’m close. Oh, Jim, how? How can this…?"

"You feel it, Y/N? How good we fit? How fucking good we are together?" He pressed her to the mattress and grabbed her thighs, looming over her and opening her in a whole new way. The changed angle increased the tension, and when he slipped his fingers over her clit, she was lost.

"Jim ..." Y/N shouted his name. She clutched her thighs as he drove in one final time, his cock held deep while her body convulsed around him.

Stars floated past her vision as he shook, his body gone taut-his abdomen, his chest, all the lovely muscles under her exploring fingers.

She closed her eyes, and everything reduced to sensations. To the touch of his lips to her cheek, the added heat as he rolled them to the side. Jim hitched her leg over his waist, rocking his hips gently as his hard-on continued to stretch her.

Y/N opened her eyes to discover his sexy smile waiting for her. That one lock of hair was back over his forehead, and she brushed it away tenderly.

"Hey." Her cheeks flushed with heat.

Jim traced his fingers over her shoulder. "Hey. That was..." His sigh screamed of satisfaction as he met her gaze.

"Trust me, you're nothing short of mind-meltingly sexy, and I want to do that at least a couple more times tonight."

To: [email protected]

04:07:00 Sunday, September 13

Made it to Redondo Beach. That was a hell of a drive at the start. The storm didn't ease off until I was past Lomita. Held me up enough I didn’t get in until after midnight, so I didn’t want to call and wake you up.

I'll be gone by the time you get this message. Leaving early hours Sunday. I miss you already. I can't wait to get back so I can date you properly. Getting to share Friday night with you was a dream come true, but as hot as the sex was? I want more for us. I mean it. This is something I’ve wanted-you're something I’ve wanted-for a long time.

[email protected]

p.s. I love that you used your nickname for an email address

November, Palos Verdes…

Y/N slapped her palm against the door to her small house, slamming it shut behind her. The door reopened not two seconds later. "Will you stop running away from me?" Medina demanded. "I asked a question."

"I don’t know the answer, okay? And it's pissing me off," Y/N snapped. "Oh." Medina sighed, kicking off her shoes before easing herself onto the back of the couch. She planted her feet on the seat cushion and nodded sadly. "Another of your memory gaps?"

Y/N glared over her shoulder as she draped her jacket on a wall coat hook. "Memory gaps. Such small words for such a huge, fucking nuisance."

"Hey, stop being so rough on yourself. The doctors said things should come back. Sometime."

Sometime was another not very reassuring word. Y/N stomped across the room to stand with folded arms, glaring at her friend. “Medina, I still haven't figured out the passwords to my computer. You had to help me pay my bills so my power didn’t get cut off. I'm relearning how to do the data entry at the office, which means I’m basically a freeloader with my own friend."

“I don't mind. None of us mind." Medina shook her head. “Please, stop beating yourself up. Stop acting as if, since your car wasn't totaled, you don't have the right to be injured. A few obstacles are worth dealing with until you’re back up to speed."

Obstacles. Fah. Another word that was as bad as memory gaps.

There might be holes in her memory, and lingering frustrations, but there were a lot of good things in her life. Between Medina and her family, somehow she’d get through this rough patch, and make it out the other side.

Of course, thirty seconds later she was running to the bathroom to throw up, which erased a good portion of her optimism. It was tough to stay positive while bowing in front of the porcelain throne.

HE HADN'T EXACTLY SPED the whole way home.

Jim was sure there were a few sections of highway where he'd briefly slowed to the speed limit. When there were too many cars for him to dodge.

Since the plane dropped him off at six a.m., he'd been going nonstop. Pretty much like he'd been going for the previous two months. Working like a madman before falling exhausted into bed for a few hours to get up and do it all over again.

The good part was the blistering pace kept him from obsessing about Y/N before falling asleep. It did nothing to stop the dirty dreams that invaded his brain and had him waking with more than simple morning wood.

He wanted to see Y/N.

Driving with one hand, he used the other to check his mail. There were a mess of texts and emails in his inbox, most of it spam, but none from her. The message he'd sent to Medina moments before leaving had bounced back as well with a Message undeliverable. Recipient's mailbox is full. Fatal daemon error.

Curses drifted through his brain. He punched in Y/N's number only to have the phone die on him, the battery dead. Fine. It was more important to be there and do the next thing in person anyway.

Like sweep Y/N up in his arms and kiss her senseless.

The entire drive he daydreamed about where he’d find her. Timing-wise she should be at home, so he ignored his own place, and the garage, and took the back loop. The sight of her car in the drive made his heart leap, and he parked in the second free space in a rush, damn near leaping from the truck. Somehow he forced his feet to a walk instead of rushing her front door and bursting in like a maniac.

He rang the doorbell.

Knocked.

Rang again.

It might be rude, but he even leaned over and peered in the window, to see if she was around. A pair of shoes lay haphazardly under the hall coat rack, a small puddle of water pooled under the soles. Her coat was there-only no sign of her. He moved to knock a second time but was interrupted by Y/N's less-than-ladylike cussing. Jim ��tried the front door, and it opened easily.

“Y/N? You here?" Both feet still on the outside stoop, he stuck his head around the door frame to make himself heard.

A new set of sounds greeted him, less amusing than the curses. Retching and coughing, and Jim couldn't stand it any longer. He stormed forward and headed toward the bathroom.

“Angel eyes, you okay?"

She was seated on the floor, her cheek resting on one arm as she basically clung to the toilet. Her eyes were closed, and her face twisted in a grimace as she shuddered then leaned forward and spat.

"Oh hell, you got a stomach bug?"

Or that’s what Jim intended to say. He got out the oh hell part before Y/N's eyes flew open and her gaze landed on him, all traces of nausea and exhaustion vanishing as she opened her mouth and screamed. She scrambled to her feet, hands flailing, a riot of noise and motion.

Damn.

He held out a hand toward her. “Y/N, hey, it’s okay. It's me, Jim." He ducked away from the toilet plunger she'd swung like a sword. At the same time he examined her quickly-noting her pale skin. The dark shadows under her eyes.

The business end of the plunger wavered in front of him as he took in her extremely short-cropped hair, the H/C strands that usually would have covered her shoulders only about an inch long over her entire head. It was a radical change from before. Kinda cute, really, but unexpected.

"Jim?" She squinted, her head tilting to the side and making her rather adorable. Well, adorable if she weren’t still threatening him with a toilet cleaner.

He took hold of the handle and tugged the shaft from her fingers, putting the weapon back in its place. "Yes, Jim."

"I don’t remember this at all," she muttered. "You're not you."

He laughed, and then caught her as she swayed. "And you must be running a fever or something."

She squirmed out of his arms and backed away slowly. "No fever. My stomach's upset. Feels better now." She looked him up and down quickly. Utter dread joined the disappointment in his gut.

He headed back to the living room, pausing to remove his boots and wipe up water from rain he'd tracked in during his mad rush to help her. That’s when he noticed there were other changes in her house since September. A lot more stuff for one thing. Fabric and paintbrushes in the hall, a stack of clothes draped over a chair in the kitchen besides a sewing machine. He had to move aside a pile of what looked like jigsaw puzzle pieces before he could sit on the couch.

Jim rose to his feet as she approached a few minutes later. "Better?" She waved away his concern. "Fine. Just a touch off for a few days." He couldn't wait any longer, closing the distance between them. If she was sick, that eliminated a too-personal welcome home, but that was okay. They'd leapt in at the start. Now he could go a little slower. Care for her. Take his time to make sure they had a solid foundation. He caressed the peach-fuzz softness just above her ear, stroking gently. "I like your hair."

Y/N touched her head self-consciously. "It’s okay. It's grown a lot since the accident." The bottom fell out of his stomach. "Accident? What accident?" She snorted before jerking to a stop, the golden flecks in her E/C eyes flashing at him in the light. "You're serious. You didn't know I went into the ditch?"

He grabbed her hands tight. "I had no idea. Y/N stared at their joined hands, her mouth hanging slightly open. "Umm, Jim. It's okay. I mean it happened two months ago." Her unease increased, and her body grew stiffer. Instead of curling up against him like he'd hoped, she withdrew, and the whole situation grew more awkward by the minute.

When she pulled her hands free, he let her go. Let her increase the distance between them. She was leaning on the wall opposite him now, a good five feet between them. Jim felt wrapped in cotton. "So...how do we get from your great ditch driving to your hair being cut off?"

Y/N took an enormous breath and let it out slowly. "They told me I bumped my head. Hard enough they shaved my hair off so they could attach test thingies. After a week's testing when nothing showed up on their machines, they told me I was fine."

Jim was the one frowning now, his entire body tensing as he slipped the clues together. "You keep saying ‘they told me'. You don't remember the accident?"

She shook her head, frustration obviously rising. "I don’t remember the accident, plus there are a few other gaps. I lost a ton of long-term memory as it relates to math-passwords, formulas and things like that. So it’s nice you sent me an email, but I never got it. I had to set up a new email account because I couldn't get into the old one."

His jaw had to be hanging open, and his feet were pinned in place now, hands dangling uselessly by his sides. Y/N had lost her memory?

Had she forgotten them? If so, she'd have forgotten what they'd done. What they'd planned. It would explain so much in terms of her discomfort with him-more than only nerves at having him back around after a long break.

He forced himself to speak even though his mouth had gone totally dry. "So...this amnesia. How extensive is it?"

Y/N shrugged. "A couple weeks before the bump are fuzzy or gone-I'm not sure now what are real memories and what are things I've been told."

"A couple ..."

It was true. In one swoop their future was rearranged. He wasn't about to pick her up caveman-like and tell her that they were another thing she'd forgotten. Not when she was still fighting frustration along with whatever else had her at less than one hundred percent physical health at the moment. He also had no intention of letting her get away. The dilemma of how to move forward threw him into a tailspin.

As out of control as a car skidding into a ditch.

Credit to @carolthors formally Skyofsong

#jim mason #tribes of palos verdes #fan fiction

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movedto-dazaipositive · 7 years ago

Text

one guess where this started. couldn't have done it without @taggianto 💜 you.

CW: rape and resultant pregnancy; severe self-worth issues; mentally ill character with wrong ideas about what constitutes mental illness.

so, I've got a running headcanon that Kent's mom is alcoholic and she has ptsd.

rape & pregnancy TW // she was raped in college and that's how she got pregnant with Kent. she kept him out of choice, but she loves him no matter what

but that doesn't change the fact that she has ptsd and for many years while she was working 3 jobs to keep them alive and Kent on the ice, and she had to get through somehow. so she drank at home

and she wasn't ever really there for Kent. she couldn't be, between drinking and working. does Kent resent her? I don't think so. I don't think he knew it was even an option until he met the Zimmermanns and Jack

and saw the way they behaved with each other. but he loves his mom and he'd do anything for her. it's why he sticks with hockey even when it hurts–his mom worked hard to get him where he is, and he can't let her down now

but she crashes around the time Kent is 16/17. she's no longer got Kent around to survive for, and it really messes her up. and Kent watches Jack and his mom crash and burn, up close and from afar, and it fucks him up

like, bad. he can't stop thinking that it was him, that he's the reason they're the way they are. that he's the only thing they have in common and they're both–the way they are, and it must be him. it must be Kent

jack's OD breaks Kent, pushes him over the edge of a cliff he was already clinging to with his fingertips. he shuts down completely and only surfaces to a) send his mom to rehab with his first NHL paycheck b) and play hockey

he withdraws completely. cuts himself off from human contact at the exact time he needs it the most. he spends his rookie year with the Aces Captain, Patty, his wife and their two kids, barely holding on to his humanity

it's a good thing the team forces Kent out regularly, because otherwise he'd turn into an Actual Hockey Robot. it's not that he isn't friendly with them–he plays beautiful hockey and laughs and chirps with the rest of them, but there's something off about it. he's skittish and awkward, and he gets this look in his eyes sometimes, like he survived something awful but not really.

like he isn't all there. they worry about him. he's too small and too good at hockey and he needs someone to watch out for him

the first year, it's the whole team. all how-many-ever of them, looking out for Kent on and off the ice. the second year, Jeff comes to them

Jeff is...good with Kent.

Jeff's been playing on the NHL for a couple years, got drafted third or fourth to the Seattle Schooners. he's a good teammate, dryly funny, chirps that take a second to sink in. he plays good hockey, not as good as Kent, but good.

but he seems to know, instinctively, what Kent needs at any given moment

Jeff drags Kent into being social and actually, y'know, forming meaningful connections with other people by giving Kent puppy eyes until Kent agrees to hang out with Jeff and teammate of the week

and Kent, horribly unused to being someone people want to spend time with and nearly incapacitated by loneliness after a year of next to no human connection, says yes every time

and Kent is a person? under that weird obsessive hockey robot exterior? he's fun to hang out with. he's even funny. he's a bit a total dork and likes helping people and he always knows a good place to eat

so people on Kent's team start to seek his company even without Swoops around and Kent goes ? but he doesn't like to let people down or say no

Kent is still like, messed up inside. he doesn't sleep well and there are a lot of days when he won't get out of bed of he doesn't have to. but he's still trying

except... he's not trying to be better at Humaning for himself. he's doing it for Jeff and the people who depend upon him to show up and entertain their kids for two hours so they can go on a date

the only thing that's changed is the manifestation of Kent's chronic self-sacrificing and the people who receive it.

and Kent is honestly trying really hard and overcompensating for a year of not being a good Human Person so he swamps himself in helping people and overworks himself

and it's Jeff that picks up the pieces of Kent's dumbassery. it's Jeff that calls people to let them know that Kent has the flu, no they haven't been to the doctor yet, yes he's mostly okay he's puking right now, so no he can't come and take care of your kids Patty find a fucking babysitter you're a millionaire jfc

(Patty is kind of a dick)

Kent: [in between puking] but I promised

Jeff: shut the fuck up

Kent's bedridden for almost a week. he misses two games, both of which the Aces lose

it's during this week that Jeff realises just how fucked up Kent is, because in the middle of puking his guts out and shivering under six blankets he still finds time to blame himself for everything that goes wrong in that week. e v e r y s i n g l e t h i n g. it's not really Kent's fault, being sick pulls down all walls that keep him from airing the constant internal monologue of self blame and loathing, but Jeff calls his cousin Rashmi and has a slight breakdown

well, I say slight. he nearly cries

Jeff needs to talk about how much Kent is hurting and omg I never knew im a terrible friend eeeee

she tells him to a) calm the fuck down b) don't take this so personally, you can't help him if you think you're the one to blame, he's doing that already c) here's a bunch of helpful links on how to deal when you think your friend might be mentally ill

Jeff tries to be subtle about bringing up the 'you might be mentally ill thing'. Kent, however, is not dumb. he catches on to this really fast, and panics hard. his only experience with mentally ill folks is his mom and Jack, and they are not a good place to start–both addicts who've been unintentionally emotionally abusive to Kent. Kent draws the best conclusion he can with this data pool. the conclusion is I am a horrible person who will soon be drug addict and hurt the people around me, whoops time to Shut Down

Kent [shutting down] I am a horrible person that deserves nothing good, ever. Jeff: nO Kent: I can't hear you over the sound of my self loathing Jeff: N O

and Jeff does not know how to deal with a Kent who's gone straight back to rookie year levels of skittish I-am-a-virus-don't-touch-me. the team, on the other hand, knows perfectly well how.

or, at least, they know how they dealt with it. but they're hockey players, with the combined emotional intelligence of a nail clipper, and when they tell Jeff about it he's horrified. so he figures out his own methods–he sticks as close to Kent as possible while not overwhelming him, and he does his best to be Supportive

it is difficult to be supportive when the person you are Supporting does not want to be supported. so he does his research, and hits upon the perfect solution

he goes to the local pet shelter and asks for the most unlikely to be adopted kitten, because he knows that Kent has a soft spot for hopeless things

they give him a three month old Calico, blind and almost certainly headed to a shelter without a no kill rule

Jeff: ......I'll take it

Kent is baffled and enchanted. Jeff really thought it'd be harder to sell this to Kenny, but Kent's holding squirmy, curious little kit, already babytalking to her, asking her if she knows what a pretty princess she is, yes you are, aren't you and Jeff has a second where he thinks Oh, shit

bc this more humanity and interest than Kent has shown in almost a month, and then Kent is turning to Jeff to ask him questions about raising cats that Jeff didn't even know were a concern, but clearly this is making Kent happy, so Jeff gives him a book he'd picked up at the recommendation of the volunteer at the shelter, and drives Kent helplessly to the pet store and watches as Kent buys cat shit off Amazon

Kent doesn't realise she's blind, at first. kit (Jeff named her) has large golden eyes that are permanently dilated. Kent only figures out she's blind when he's sitting on the floor watching her toddle around, and she keeps walking into his outstretched legs. Kent calls Jeff in a panic, asking him if he knows what's with kit's eyes, and Jeff thinks I knew I was forgetting something

and then he explains the situation to Kent, and Kent reacts exactly the way Jeff expected him to–with a sudden fierce dedication to kit, even more so than ten minutes ago when he would have died for her

Kent cat-proofs his house–he pours a lot of time and money into getting everything exactly right so Kit needn't suffer more than necessary. he lavishes Kit with all the love he's capable of–and he's always capable of a lot more love than he thinks–and makes sure that everyone coming to his house knows that one move that frightens Kit is more than enough to get them banned

so Kent pours himself heart and soul into loving kit. he spends every second he isn't on the ice taking care of his beloved baby princess

and it's incredibly healing. he knows he has to get up in the morning and come back after runs (not walk into traffic) and that he has to get done on the ice so he can come back to her

there's a period of like, six months, where the only reason Kent does anything at all is because kit needs him to. and he won't let himself think about how Jeff could also maybe take care of her. he won't.

his mom's rehab clinic is expensive but ridiculously intensive and extensive. it's almost 14 months of rehab and therapy and relearning hire to be a person without addiction, as well as working through whatever led you to seek addiction in the first place

Diana Parson comes out of it changed. she feels more like a person than ever before in her life. she feels whole, healed still, but so much better

so she goes back home, and Kent is in Vegas depressed as fuck, and his mom is in New York living for herself, and doing things she loves, and discovering herself outside of therapy

she comes back home at a time when it's incredibly difficult for Kent to do even basic things like have a conversation. so all through the season, he doesn't visit her and he can't even summon up the guilt.

and her therapist tells her it's okay, that he needs time too. and she loves him and she gives him the time she needs, but she also decides that she's stable enough to foster a child

which goes well! Lydia is 7 and slightly untrusting but Diana has patience and love and she's been reading and she's financially stable and she has time (ask things she didn't have with Kent). she has time to ask Lydia how her day went. time to play and talk and do bonding activities with just the two of them

and soon enough she and Lydia love each other so much! and they have rough times but they get through it.

the season ends. and the aces lose. and Kent is probably even worse than before. and someone suggests that since the aces will no longer be in town to make sure that Kent buys groceries/stays a person, hey you should go visit your mom!

so Kent, depressed and hating himself, gets to watch his mom get her big second chance

and he tries do hard not to be bitter but it's killing him. he keeps wondering what his life would be like if he were Lydia. if he had a financially stable supportive mom. and he can't blame his mom so he blames himself

he blames himself for needing more than she could give him. because she did her best and she raised a pro NHL player and he doesn't have any right to expect more

and one night it gets so bad that drives himself to Jeff's place

this would be okay but Jeff actually lives in Canada

he's just. in this place where Jeff is the only person that Kent knows won't hurt him

and he's so, so tired

and Jeff, chilling with his family, suddenly has an armful of distraught sleep-deprived Captain

and he's just like ......sorry I gotta take this

Kent knows where Jeff lives bc he's been there at least once before

and Kent just. breaks down. he cries for hours. and Jeff can't do anything except drag Kent up to his room and cuddle him while he cries and pet his hair. Kent cries himself to sleep, but he wakes up with Jeff wrapped around him and there's like, 14 seconds where he just feels safe and good because Jeff's there and hugging him in bed so something somewhere must have gone right

anyway Kent wakes up and gets dressed with Jeff hovering gently over him, knocking into him once in a while to make sure he's okay

(like when cats wind around your feet because they're excited to see you. except they might trip you up. the issue w Jeff is that he is Big)

he finds his phone in some weird corner of his car and plugs it in. and finds out that he has 200+ missed calls from his mom

because his mom doesn't have the numbers of any teammates she can call and she's been so worried and he feels Horrible for Being This Way

so he calls her. and she picks up on the second ring and she's been having panic attacks and flashbacks for 4 days and she doesn't remember parts of her therapy

so she yells at him. and Kent is still way too fragile to handle this but he also has to do this? and he just. panics

mother-son bonding via hyperventilating to each other on a phone line

but Jeff gets so mad on Kent's behalf, and pulls the phone out of Kent's hand and cuts the call.

but then he feels guilty so he sends her a quick text message to let her know that Kent is safe and he'll call when he feels better

and the next few days are just Jeff hugging Kent and Kent wearing Jeff's clothes everywhere because he didn't bring his own

and when they kiss it's just so natural? Kent stops hiding how much he wants Jeff. it's too much work. and Jeff is close to Kent almost all the time. and they're so stupidly in love that Jeff's older brother walks into them making out against the kitchen counter and moon walks back out

they make out for so long that every member of Jeff's family sees them and walks back out.

#kent parson #parseposse #parsepositive #parswoops #swarse #lmao #that be #me #carysfics #omgcp #?????#p2 tag #original #i'm sorry about the lack of read more cut guys #tumblr hates me

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pumpkins-s · 7 years ago

Text

Spilling Like An Overflowing Sink

Read on AO3 Here

Read the Other Chapters on Tumblr Here

Lance Alexander Rafael McClain is born in the middle of a summer storm, thunder cracking and rain slamming onto the roof of an old ramshackle house that had seen more than its fair share of children.

The miracle baby, that’s what the family had called Lance. The unexpected son to a mother of five daughters.

(In which family is always complicated, Lance’s life hasn’t been all sunshine and rainbows, and he and Keith are really emotionally constipated for each other.)

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Relationships: Keith/Lance, significant platonic Lance & Hunk

Characters: Lance, Lance’s family, Hunk, Keith, Shiro, Pidge, Allura, Coran

Chapter 9: Liar

((Author’s Note:

Hello! New update here for SLAOS to kick off July before I get busy with my Klance Big Bang fic!

Before we begin, a few exciting things:

My lovely friend Logan has done some beautiful doodles of Mavis and Loraine, which you should absolutely check out here and here.

Also! Since I love having something to listen to while I read/work, there are now matching playlists for Loraine & Mavis for you to so check out if you so please! You can find the tumblr post for both playlists here (complete with coverart!), or go to them each directly-- Mavis: Spotify. Youtube. Loraine: Spotify. Youtube. ))

It takes four days before things to go to shit.

…Naturally.

Why on Earth would Lance have expected anything else, with such a foolish, hopeful, half-thought out idea?

It’s four days of awkward, stumbling missteps in trying to relearn himself, filled with scrambling changes of clothes every time he dares to look in the mirror and feels his stomach flop unsurely at seeing bright patterns and knock-off chiffon, pairing skirts with his loose, faded t-shirts in hopes of finding some suitable balance between memory and self-taught reality, and one rather memorable incident on the second day of this little mini-venture when Mavis had opened the bathroom door to find Lance in tears after he had accidentally jabbed himself in the eye with her half-stolen, half-borrowed mascara brush.

Even after making the decision to give this a try, it’s not as simple as throwing on a new set of clothes and calling it done. It’s hardly easy unlearn a year of practice keeping himself from these things, and it’s never really just been about clothes, regardless.

After all, Lance thinks, if this was just an odd addiction to what most people might call cross-dressing, then that might be easier to be rid of. But this… This is just himself. Lance. It’s an itch under his skin on hot, muggy mornings that he cannot escape and a distinct feeling of wrongness every time his shirts rub against his collarbone and long skirts sit too low on his thin, unshapely hips.

No matter what he does, even in this… experiment, it still feels like he’s running from himself, and it leaves him with an aching, wishful desire for the easy sense of self he’d known as a child, happy and unquestioning of what he wanted or how he wished to look or feel.

He’s not sure if this is all a result of his choices in the last year after losing Loraine, or if this was, perhaps, inevitable. Maybe he would have faced the same struggles had he persevered anyways as he got older.

Still, no doubt this would have been easier, with Loraine here.

…Then again, having Loraine would have meant no Mavis, and that in of itself is a can of worms and complicated feelings Lance isn’t quite ready to open yet.

Regardless, for those few strange, itchy, yet oddly content days, he presses on to figure out what he wants from this, what he wants from choice.

On the fifth day, he finds himself sprawled out on Mavis’s couch in the heat of the summer afternoon as the humidity clings to his skin, NASA t-shirt from his suitcase and skirt from Mavis’s purchases thrown on and the hair bow pinned haphazardly to his curls, tongue darting out idly to prod at the leftover sticky sweetness on his lips from an ill-advised foray into lip gloss, old stuff found in Mavis’s bathroom drawer that likely hadn’t been touched in years and was well past any advisable expiry date. He’s sitting in a position that would likely get him scolded for indecency at home— Shoulders resting on the cushions where he should be sitting and legs flung up in the air, knees hooked over the back of the couch and skirt pooling in his lap as his arm stretches past his head to flick through channels on the television with the remote clasped upside-down between loose fingers. Across from him, Mavis sits with her feet tucked up under the pillow Lance rests his head on, shirt abandoned in favor of just her sports bra and jean cut-off shorts, brow furrowed as she fiddles with a replacement string for her violin, loudly confident in her occasional bluster that she can do it herself rather than take it to the shop.

It’s a quiet, pleasant kind of companionable silence intermingled with the background noise of the TV ads and Mavis’s occasional swears as fine, long fingers poke and prod at delicate woodwork.

At least, until the sharp rap of knuckles on the front door jolts them both into awareness, attentions turned to it in half-awake confusion.

“Mavis?” A man’s voice rings out. “It’s me, are you home?”

Mavis blinks, looking to Lance for a moment, and then promptly trips over herself and falls to the floor with a squawk as she tries to scramble off the sofa. “Shit!”

“You okay?” The voice asks, concern drifting into the friendly words. “I’m gonna come in, alright?”

There’s the scraping of a key being inserted into the lock, and the door handle turns, sending Lance wiggling desperately in a similar failed maneuver to Mavis’s in an attempt to at least sit up properly. In some distant part of his mind, he wonders in what alternate universe Mavis, paranoid, private Mavis, would ever give some random guy who clearly wasn’t a relative a spare key, as Mavis waves her arms pointlessly from her upside-down position on the floor at the door, one knee still caught on the sofa, and screeches. “No, wait! Jeff—“

The door slams open all of three inches, before catching on the chain lock, and jolting to a sharp stop. Sighing, Mavis drops her arms, covering her face with one of them tiredly. “Chain lock, Jeff.”

“Whoops.” Half a man’s face hovers in view in the crack between the door and the wall, grinning abashedly. “Sorry, forgot.” Below him, another face, younger and with wider eyes, peers into the space as well as the man’s eyes slide over to Lance.

Lance’s heart catches in his throat as it finally registers with him what he is wearing, in plain view, to this man who is not Mavis and not safe, and he finds himself frozen, half-tempted to flee, but unable to find his feet.

“So…” The man drawls, thick New Jersey accent caught up in cigarette smoke roughness visible in his words. “Who’s the girl?”

“The what?” Mavis half mumbles, stumbling to her feet, grabbing her shirt where it lies on the coffee table and pulling it over her head as she staggers to the door and nudges it back enough to unhinge the chain lock, opening the door properly once it’s free.

“The kid?” The man says, sticking calloused hands into loose jean pockets and meandering into the room enough for Mavis to shut the door behind him, with his shadow hot on his heels, a boy around Lance’s age with dirty blonde hair that hangs in front of his eyes and a scattering of freckles on his forearms that stand out against his pale skin. “Wait, wait, don’t tell me…” He pauses, thinking. “…Your brother’s daughter? You mentioned you had family coming to visit, and you’re the youngest sibling, right? So…”

The guy’s gaze slides between Mavis and Lance, questioning, and with a lurch in his stomach, one part horror, one part elated relief, several things click into place for Lance all at once.

Most importantly, that this guy, amazingly, impossibly, thinks he’s a girl. Somehow.

A girl, not… Well.

Apparently a skirt, a hair bow, and a bit of old lip gloss did a lot more than Lance gave it credit for, especially given this was paired with his loose, boyish shirt that he knows for certain is one of Carlos’s old things, and his distinctly short hair.

“…What?” Mavis says, and then her eyes widen as she catches on, darting to Lance in a panicked question. “I mean, uh…” He stares back at her with something like frightened desperation as it fully registers their only options here are to roll with it or correct the man’s mistake and face the potential consequences, which is… unappealing. Making a split-decision in seconds, he silently begs her to play along.

He’s not ready to face it again. The judgmental looks, the uncomfortable questions. Not in this place that is supposed to be his secret haven. He knows nothing about these people, aside from the fact that they seem to know Mavis, and that alone is not enough to confirm they are safe for Lance.

“…Yeah.” Mavis finally finishes, trailing off unsurely and lapsing into momentary silence. “This is… My niece… Lance.” The man blinks, surprise flickering over his face, and Lance looks to his cousin with a strained, pleading expression, prompting a quick, aborted movement on her part that looks like something between a shrug and throwing up her hands, the meaning, as far as Lance can determine, best equated to a sentiment along the lines of ‘I panicked’.

Which… Fair enough.

“It’s… a nickname.” Lance offers unsurely, edging closer and wincing at how frail and borderline whispery his voice is. “Long story.”

“Alright then.” The man’s voice is bemused, but not unkind, and Lance unfurls, shoulders relaxing ever so slightly as he registers that, yes, this guy has accepted the ruse without question. “Lance it is. It’s nice to finally meet Mavis’s niece. She doesn’t talk ‘bout her family half as much as she should.”

“Right then.” Mavis coughs into a fist, eyes flickering unsurely to Lance once more, as if she can’t quite believe this is happening either. “Lance, meet Jeff and his son, Tommy. Jeff and I um… work together, and Tommy helps out sometimes around school.” She turns back to the newly christened Jeff, sticking her hands into her back pockets in a nervous gesture that is purely Mavis, and goes to work doing what she does best— Deflecting. “You’re supposed to call me before you just come over, jackass.”

Jeff grins unashamedly, holding up his hands in an easy gesture of surrender. “I needed to go over some numbers with you for next month’s stock, and I was in the neighborhood.” Mavis raises an eyebrow, distinctly not amused, and Jeff waves the plastic bag in his left hand carefully. “I brought takeout, your favorite Chinese place.”

Something gives in Mavis’s expression, and she looks to Lance. “I don’t know if now is the best time, Jeff…”

“Come on,” Jeff waves his hand dismissively, and for the first time Lance finds his mannerisms rubbing him the wrong way. People listen to Mavis, that’s just part of the way she works, and to see someone so casually ignore her unsubtle suggestions is… unusual. Different. “You love Chinese. It’ll just be for a bit, promise.”

Hesitantly, Lance reaches out, catching Mavis’s fingers at her side, and she glances at him again, clearly sensing his discomfort. “…Leave the food on the kitchen counter. We can talk in my room, give us some quiet.”

“Great.” Jeff says jovially, sliding a hand around Mavis’s waist that makes Lance’s skin itch uncomfortably, and leading her away without a backwards glance. “Tommy, keep Ms. Lance company, yeah? Talk about your video game things or something.”

“Yeah, sure…” The boy mutters quietly, sounding as if he’d really rather not, and then Mavis is gone into the other room, quickly flashing Lance a reassuring smile as the door shuts behind her that he does his best to mirror.

After a couple long seconds, it properly registers that he is alone with Tommy, and he turns back to the other boy, the other boy who thinks he is a girl and who’s father apparently is close enough to Mavis to touch her like that, and prays that he doesn’t fuck this up too badly.

His only reassurance is that Tommy looks just as unsure and uncomfortable as he does.

“So…” The boy drawls, soft and questioning. “You’re… Mavis’s niece.”

“Um. Yeah.” Almost unconsciously, Lance crosses his arms, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “And your dad and Mavis… They… Work together?” His voice lingers on the last words, dubiousness easily soaking through. He may not know an exceeding amount about the adult world just yet, but he doesn’t think randomly showing up to someone’s apartment that they apparently have a key to with lunch is standard coworker behavior in the slightest.

At least, no one’s ever shown up to their house with lunch for any of his sisters or mother claiming to know them from work.

“A-Ah, yeah!” Tommy brightens considerably, nodding and shoulders relaxing slightly. “She works at Dad’s bar! She helps with my music theory homework for band class when I’m there after school sometimes, she’s really nice.”

“Yeah…” Despite himself, Lance feels a smile slip onto his face. “She is.”

“’M sorry about my dad, for the record.” Tommy offers. “I know he can be a bit… much. He just… really likes Mavis. He tries to find excuses to talk to her and stuff.”

“It’s alright.” Lance offers hesitantly, not completely sure if it is all right at all but trusting the other in his honesty in regards to the situation.

Tommy grins unsurely, bright and cheerful, and idly Lance catches a similar, fainter pattern of freckles along his cheeks to match the ones on his arms, scrawling around the length of his face and catching on the edges of his nose. “Yeah— Sorry, I don’t think that was a very good introduction before, with me hiding being my dad like that.” He sticks a hand out, thin fingers smudged with dirt and ratty friendship bracelets crowding his wrist. “Tommy Buchanan.”

Lance smiles, and takes the proffered hand, his darker skin tone contrasting sharply against Tommy’s. “Lance McClain.”

It’s only then that he once again considers the oddness of his name compared to this ruse— So easy Tommy’s presence is, at least, compared to his father, that it previously slipped his mind once more that this is… Happening.

Lord help him, whatever this is. Perhaps he would have been better off never touching those clothes Mavis had bought, had he known such complications would arise so quickly.

“Um—“ He shifts awkwardly, and Tommy shrugs amicably, retracting his hand as Lance lets go.

“Don’t worry. I know a girl named Dylan and another named Billie… And a guy who insists people call him Sugar. Lance isn’t the oddest nickname I’ve heard, especially not for a girl.” Tommy smiles, young and unassuming and all the things his father appears to be without the undercurrent of wrongness Lance in his potential paranoia feels. “I think it suits you.”

“Oh.” Lance feels heat scrawl across his face and shuffles back, bringing his hands in front of him and twisting his fingers together nervously. It’s… strange. It’s not that he’s never been complimented on his name before, but the idea of someone now appreciating it in a way that is wrapped up with the idea of him being not-a-boy is odd. He’s so used to forcing himself to associate what it means to be Lance with being what he needs to be— Not his memories of being Lancie Loo-Loo, the child that never feared these associations of name and meaning at all.

And no, someone thinking Lance and associating it with girl isn’t quite right either, but it’s something different, at least, and that is… enough. Maybe. Maybe.

“Thank you.” He says softly, and Tommy brightens.

Perhaps, he thinks, this is not so bad after all.

“…Do you want to watch TV with me?” He offers. “Mavis and I were watching this old music competition she likes.”

Tommy nods enthusiastically, hands shoved into his pockets and previous nervousness all but disposed with, and Lance feels himself breathe a sigh of relief.

Later, much later, long after the Chinese food resting in its plastic bag in a sorry heap on the counter has undoubtedly gone cold, Jeff and Mavis reappear from her room. Jeff collects Tommy as he leaves, the food still untouched where it sits as he loudly laughs and talks his way out, hand on Mavis’s back all the way to the door, and Tommy shyly waves Lance goodbye, chasing after his father down the hall without bothering to close those last couple steps of space between them.

They migrate back to the kitchen on an unspoken agreement in awkward silence, Mavis spooning out the now sticky, clinging-together mixes of rice and meat and vegetables into chipped bowls and shoving them into the microwave to reheat while Lance perches on one of the too-tall bar stools, legs kicking idly and meeting only air.

After their food is placed in front of them, Mavis sits down next to him, fork twirling in her hands as she pointedly looks down at the bench and not at Lance. “So that was… a thing. That happened.”

Lance blinks, and automatically fills his spoon and shoves it into his mouth. “…Yeah.”

“Jeff thinks you’re a girl.”

“They think I’m a girl.”

Mavis’s head thunks dully against the kitchen counter as she drops it, arm outstretched to snag the glass of some dark, auburn liquid Lance can safely assume isn’t meant to be shared with him that she’d poured while reheating their food, and then once again brings her head up enough to down the liquid in one fell swoop. “Is this good or bad?”

“I don’t know.” Lance says honestly, bones thrumming with the knowledge of exactly what just has occurred, and it’s the truth. He really doesn’t know— On the one hand, there’s the strange, bubbling elation at the idea of being something else for once. Maybe not what is right, whatever that is, but… Something. On the other, though, there is a kind of precarious inevitability to this sort of thing that promises doom. He is not prepared for this sort of situation, for the upkeep and forward planning needed to maintain... this.

If his mother or Marcie were here, they would promise him that this is his life, and he doesn’t have to keep secrets or, vise-versa, tell anyone anything he doesn’t want to, especially things that are none of their business. If Karen or Igraine were here, they’d call him an idiot for getting himself into such a mess, and then they’d smack Mavis upside the head for letting it happen.

If Loraine were here…

He doesn’t know.

If Loraine were here, it is very likely he wouldn’t be here altogether, either.

Lance trusts Mavis though. He knows this much, whatever that means for this rather odd little situation. “I really… don’t know.”

Distantly, he wonders if he should be panicking over this.

…Probably should, in all honesty.

He isn’t. At least not currently, though he can’t speak as to whether some kind of panic will set in later— He got good at compartmentalizing these things almost subconsciously, after Loraine. Right now he just feels… numb. Lost.

This is not overwhelmingly positive in any way, and this is not awfully bad. It’s certainly not easy, definitely, but it is what it is, and now the only question that remains is what to do with it.

“Mm.” Mavis hums, staring down at her empty glass and swishing the ice resting in its base gently as if it might offer her the secrets of the universe, or at least of their current predicament. “You’re damn lucky you inherited whatever same genes that Lucas got for a pretty androgynous appearance, honestly. And that your voice hasn’t dropped yet.”

Lance pales, and Mavis blinks, eyes widening as she rethinks her words, turning to him with a faintly panicked expression. “Hey, not saying that it will happen! You might get a fairly ranged or high-pitched voice, lots of people do! Look at me, I sound like a forty-year-old man often enough and I’m trying to pass myself off as a singer half the time!”

Lance snorts, breaking into unexpected giggles. “No, you don’t. You sound like Mavis.”

Mavis pauses, and then relaxes, a small, fond smile slipping onto her face. “…Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Lance says, awkwardly poking his spoon around the remnants of his lunch. “I’m not that worried about that sort of thing with um, with Jeff and Tommy, anyways. Like…” He frowns. “Yeah, it’s surprising, and it makes me a little nervous, not gonna lie, but this isn’t my real life, really. What they think I am or am not, it doesn’t matter that much. I’d just never really considered the fact that those… changes will happen one day.”

“Growing up happens to the best of us, Lance.” Mavis grins wryly. “We all just have to live with it, there’s not many alternatives.”

There’s a pause, soft but peaceful, as they both poke unsurely at their food, and then Mavis breaks into giggles, growing in volume and hysteria quickly. “God, what are we doing?”

Despite himself, Lance finds the infectious laughter catch him, leaving him burying his mirth in wide, tight-lipped smiles against his palms. “No idea.”

Mavis cackles at that, hunching over and sending her bar stool rocking unsteadily, and it only sends Lance into further giggles, grinning over his fingers as he peers down at her doubled-over form, her shoulders shaking from surprised, relief-stricken nerves.

It’s all a mess, but at least it’s their mess— To own, to claim, to do with as they please.

And that? That is good.

Eventually, after the food is finished and the dishes washed and left on the drying rack, they find themselves curled back up on the couch as the evening heat falls to mildly warm and humid night air that clings to their skin like a second pair of pajamas. The two of them sit in the middle with Lance slumped into Mavis’s side, her arm thrown over his shoulders and his fingers tangled in the edge of her large sleep shirt as she flicks through channels, looking for a late-night rerun of a movie or a cartoon.

There is a steeping quiet, made up of uncertainty and a million questions they both have about all this, and all the things they cannot understand about each other, even after Mavis finds an old anime being shown and leaves it with the volume on low.

Lance lets himself be the first to break their waiting, speaking into the night where the daylight may not have his unsure thoughts. “So… Jeff.”

Mavis freezes ever so slightly, eyes trained on the television. “Jeff.” She says. “Jeff is… a friend.”

“You said he was a coworker.”

“He is!” Mavis blinks, and then shrugs. “Well, I mean, technically it’s more like he’s my boss—“

“You’re sleeping with your boss?!” Lance screeches, surprise getting the better of him, and Mavis cringes.

“I’m not sleeping with anyone. And how do you even know what that means?! You’re like… barely twelve.”

“Mavis I grew up in a house with eight teenagers.” Lance deadpans. “I know what sex is, thank you very much!”

Mavis turns red, sputtering, and he sighs. “Geez, what is he like, ten years older than you?“

“Only eight, and it’s really— It’s really not like that, okay?” She says sharply, cutting him off, frame still tense and awkward, and Lance relents, burying back against her side and resting his head against her chest.

It’s a different sound than Loraine’s heartbeat, just ever so slightly in its feeling in a way he cannot explain, but it’s still calming, regardless. Mavis is not Loraine, but that does not inherently make her lesser. It just makes it… Well, different.

Loving Loraine, attaching himself to her as his anchor in the world, that was easy, natural. Mavis is… This is a foundation, a trust they have chosen to build, rather than one that was innately there from the beginning. They do not automatically know each other the same way Lance and Loraine did, but they have chosen to, and in a way that is maybe even more powerful.

Maybe.

It is difficult, he thinks, to define his relationship with others without using Loraine as a reference point, and he neither wants to live his life seeing everything as lesser than Loraine in some way, nor as ever coming to see the bond he shared with his sister as somehow less important, because of what it held in inexplicable connections over fostered faith and work.

“So what is it like, then?” He asks instead to quiet the rabbit-heartbeat thoughts of his mind, and Mavis hums, unsure and considering.

“I dunno kid, alright? It’s just… Jeff is kind to me, and the attention is nice, I guess. He’s apparently been really lonely since his wife, Tommy’s mom, left a few years ago, and I think he just likes having someone to talk to.” She shrugs, shifting Lance’s weight ever so slightly. “He says he needs me around, and it’s… It’s flattering. He owns the bar I work at, and when I started helping him with more managerial duties, my paycheck like… doubled. I was really struggling to make rent at the time so he inadvertently helped me out a lot there.”

Lance crinkles his nose. “Still. Giving him a key, though? You used to lock your bedroom door at home just to stop people from getting in. Including your brothers. Whom you shared the room with.”

Mavis makes an unhappy noise of half-hearted denial at that, twisting her hands together in a way he knows means she’s fibbing. “It just sort of ended up that way. I started doing all this extra work around the place and helping him with the books and suddenly there was just a lot of off-hours talks and him showing up with lunch and stuff and then it was just… easier, for him to have a key. I got used to it, I guess. He means well, and I don’t dislike the company. And it’s free food and stuff and… My job too, y’know.”

“It doesn’t sound like it makes you happy, though.” Lance says, because no matter what his dwellings on the knowing of Loraine versus the knowing of anyone else, he understands enough about Mavis to discern this, at least.

“It doesn’t make me unhappy, and that’s enough when it comes to me dealing with people.” Mavis says firmly. “He’s… It’s complicated.”

“I guess.”

“I promise you it’s fine.” She says with all the certainty that comes with being someone like Mavis. “I’m not going to start shacking up with psychos or something, don’t worry.”

Lance grins against her sleeve, shaking his head ever so slightly. “If you say so.”

That night is when the panic does come, fleeting but certain as it leaves him breathless and stumbling from sleep, dreams of hands yanking back his hair and cutting and of whispered voices from long-left classrooms chasing after him. It’s a wordless hum of anxiety of what happens if they know, what happens if they find out, that leaves him rolling and scrambling his way off the pullout mattress and up into Mavis’s bed, clinging to her shakily as she whines sleepily and shifts over enough to make room for him, patting his head absently as she passes out again.

He falls asleep to the soothing sounds of her breathing and the distant honks of the cars in the night traffic outside, and in the morning she makes him frozen waffles that are still soggy after being toasted and promises him that if he wants it so, Jeff and Tommy will never set foot in this apartment again while he is here.

And it’s the truth, for a couple days— Before Jeff calls to invite himself over for lunch with a fifteen minute warning Mavis cannot seem to deny him, and Lance throws on a frilly shirt and shorts without thinking.

That second time, he doesn’t bring Tommy, and Lance sits fidgeting uncomfortably in the corner.

The third time, he does, and Tommy teaches Lance poker with the card set he brought stuffed in his shorts pocket with a hopeful, hesitant expression.

Despite everything, the Buchanans suddenly seem to become a part of the regular schedule, after that.

Perhaps it’s not surprising, in a way. This may be Lance’s escape from his reality, but this is Mavis’s actual life at the end of the day, and apparently Jeff and Tommy, for better or for worse, are part of it.

And so he gets used to Jeff showing up every few days to eat or to talk or to drag Mavis out to go somewhere with him, and to dodging inside the bedroom every time he hears a knock at the door and he’s not appropriately dressed, per se, just in case.

It becomes a part of the new normal disconcertingly quickly, if he’s being honest.

He likes Tommy’s company, at least. It’s odd, hanging around someone the same age as him— He’s used to befriending people who are technically older, no matter how infinitesimal that one year gap between himself and Hunk might feel, and knowing Tommy’s only a few months older is odd.

Not bad, but… Definitely odd.

Still, it’s nice, to have someone to hang out with when Jeff inserts himself into Mavis’s daily schedule with charming smiles and reassuring words, and Tommy holds a kind of quiet peacefulness different from Hunk or Yuu’s that Lance can appreciate. The afternoons he spends playing snap or go fish with him and helping him braid more messy friendship bracelets for his wrists and ankles are… Good.

It’s undeniably strange when Tommy braids him ones in bright pinks and yellows and tells him that they’re nice colors for a girl like him, but that’s not bad either. It’s a strange half-ruse he adjusts to. Not quite a lie, not quite truth.

He thinks of home, sometimes, when he works, and he sets aside three bracelets, lavender and yellow and dark red, for Ritzie and Hunk and Yuu.

An obnoxiously neon pink one gets made for Mavis, to match the bright nail polish she puts on her toes every few days with consistency, and she ties it to her ankle and doesn’t take it off.

Lance ends up with six, all from Tommy in varying colors, scattered up his arms, and he admires them as he desperately tries to ignore the anxious curling in his gut when Tommy rambles happily about his father.

Jeff makes Mavis happy, or so she says, and that’s what’s important.

Outside of that, it’s nice. Mavis cooks oversized bowls of spaghetti or makes toasted tomato and cheese sandwiches on the nights she doesn’t give up and order takeout or pizza, and the two of them eat dinner sometimes on the couch with old anime reruns on the television. She takes him sight-seeing around her schedule and to the theater she works as a stagehand at on the slow days, introducing him to her coworkers there, all of whom Lance likes infinitely more than Jeff, if he’s being honest. He dresses in his clothing from home on those occasions, until his second visit when he spots what he had at least previously assumed was a man in tights and heels milling about the stage and a then assumed woman wearing a binder and wifebeater.

“It’s off-Broadway theater in New York, Lance.” Mavis tells him airily. “Almost everyone’s either queer, not-cis, or liberal as all fuck.”

After that, he hesitantly dresses as he pleases for each particular day on those occasions, and Mavis takes him for ice cream from the corner dairy afterwards like clockwork.

He listens in the spare evenings as Mavis practices the instrument of the day, most often the tiny upright piano jammed in the corner of the living room or her violin, and calls out song requests based off whatever show or movie was just on TV.

Mavis, blessed by her ability to play by ear, normally nails them.

Once his three and a half weeks are up, Lance packs away the clothes he didn’t bring with him in the first place into Mavis’s closet, pockets the random junk she bought him, and leaves with photos for Marcie, a book for Evie, Tommy’s number programmed into his phone with a promise to text, and thirty-six missed calls from Hunk.

And then he, reluctantly, unsurely, clinging to Mavis’s sweater in the airport as he hugs her goodbye and wonders how long it might be until he sees her again, goes back home.

Home to Veradera.

#Voltron #voltron fanfic #vld fanfic #my writing #Spilling Like An Overflowing Sink (Voltron)

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sophisticated-angel · 8 years ago

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Empty Space - Part Three

Character: Castiel

Warning: Implied sex

Word Count: 1,276

Pairing: Castiel x Reader

Summary: The reader continues keeping the truth from Castiel, but then their relationship goes someplace it shouldn’t, and she can’t hide it any longer

Story:

For three days Dean’s accusation haunts you. His stupid words nag you in every quiet moment. You’re doing this for Castiel, really. He’s allowed to believe this lie because he’s happy in it. Every time he says he loves you, every time he touches his lips to yours is completely justified. For three days you argue with Dean’s echo even when Castiel makes an excuse to take you outside and make out with you behind the dumpster at the motel. That night, however, you are struck by guilt. Suddenly, it feels very wrong to let him go on believing he loves you, but still you keep quiet. Dean doesn’t bring it up again.

Three days go by, and then the hunt, a simple salt-and-burn, is finished. Everyone is tired and bruised, and you spend half an hour taking a hot shower when you return to the bunker. While walking back to your room, Sam stops you in the hallway.

“What happens when he wants to go home?”

“Sam-”

Sam cuts you off with a raised hand and continues on his way.

Castiel waits for you in the bedroom. His damp hair sticks out every which way, and his focus is on rubbing a salve into a dark bruise on his shoulder. Exhaling, you rub your eyes.

“You okay?” asks Cass.

“Just tired. I don’t think I can sleep.”

“Give yourself time to relax. I could make us something warm to drink if you want.”

“That’s okay. I’ll just pace for a minute, do some stretches.” Shaking out your hands, you intend to do just that. Hardly have you extended your arms when Castiel is standing behind you and massaging your shoulders.

“Pacing will get your heart rate up,” he says in your ear.

His thumbs knead the muscles by your neck, and then he runs his palms down the length of your spine and presses into the small of your back. The heat from his hands and the pressure is soothing, and when he touches his lips to the nape of your neck, you shudder. Slowly, he makes a trail of soft kisses around your neck and up to the soft spot below your ear; his hands have stilled.

“Cass, how does it feel to forget yourself?”

“Terrible.”

Turning your head, you kiss him, mouths meeting crookedly. Your back is flush against his chest; his heart beats against it. Then you’re toe to toe, hands cupping his face as you kiss him over and over. A little voice in the back of your head screams at you to stop, stop before you do something you’ll regret, but it is quickly silenced. The door is shut, anxious hands pull at clothes, and Castiel is beside you, on top of you, and his hands trace your body. It lasts no more than a few minutes, over before you register what’s going on. Beneath the sheets you calm your breathing, and Castiel still kisses you, lazily now.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs with his lips pressed to your collarbone. “I love you . . . more than anything.”

Damn it. His words, so honest in their own right, bring guilt flooding in. This lie has gone too far, and you’ve done something you can’t take back. It won’t go away like a kiss might. You start to cry, and it snaps Castiel out of his lustful haze.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Shaking your head, you sit up and clutch the blanket to your chest. Cass runs his hand through your hair and wipes away your tears. How could you do this to him?

“Was it too rough? Did I hurt you?”

Again you shake your head but offer no explanation. In response Castiel takes your hand and lays his head on your shoulder. His skin is warm, his touch pleasant, and where before you rather liked his affection, now it only serves to make you feel worse. Maybe he’s happy living with his false memories, but you aren’t anymore. You can’t keep letting him believe this. To calm yourself, you inhale deeply through your nose and let it out through your mouth.

“Why aren’t we wearing wedding rings?” you ask quietly.

“Hm?” Cass lifts his head. “I’m sure we took them off so we won’t lose them.”

“Then where are they?”

“I would assume a safe place.”

“Where?”

“(y/n), what’s the matter? Do you want me to find them?”

“No, I - where did we get married? When?”

“What?”

“What city? What was the church like? Was the weather warm or cold? How many people showed up? Who was your best man?” Your voice begins to tremble. “Did I throw my bouquet? Did you carry me out of the church?”

“I don’t . . . why are you asking me this?”

“How much is the mortgage on our house? How many stories does it have? How many bedrooms?”

“(y/n)-”

“How many bedrooms, Cass?”

Cass studies you, lips parted slightly. “I have forgotten entire people. I don’t think it’s too surprising that I’ve forgotten details like these. If that upsets you, I am very sorry, but I promise I’ll relearn everything. I’ll memorize it.”

“No. Don’t you get it?” You almost laugh. “We’re not married. We never have been.”

“Of course we are. It’s one of the few things I can remember.”

“You remember wrong.” Quietly, you continue. “You used to be an angel. Literally. The first words you ever said to me were, ‘My name is Castiel. I’m an angel of the Lord’. You led armies in Heaven, fell, died, became God, saved the world, lost your wings, lost your Grace, became human.”

“What is this?”

“The truth. I let you believe we’re married because it makes you happy, but I can’t do it anymore. We��re not married, and you have to know I’m right. You have to know that something is off about this. Think about it.”

Head cocked, Castiel lets his eyes drop, and his hand releases yours. He rubs the back of his head pensively, obviously processing what you’re insisting. Then he takes a breath, stands, and silently starts to put on his clothes.

“Cass?” you venture.

“You’re right,” he grumbles. “I did think there was something off, but I also thought I could trust you to keep me straight. I thought you must be important if you’re the only person I can remember.”

“I’m sorry . . .”

“You let me sleep with you. Can you imagine why I might have difficulty accepting your apology?” His voice is dark and hurt as he pulls on his hoodie.

Too ashamed to speak, you say nothing until he puts his shoes on. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving.” He stalks out the door.

Snatching up the blanket, you wrap it around yourself and follow him into the hallway. “Cass, wait!”

“(y/n)”—he turns on his heel—”I really think this is the best idea. Let me figure out who I am on my own because apparently I’m the only one I can trust!”

And with that he leaves you trembling in the hallway with nothing but a blanket to cover you. His footsteps echo as he stalks out of sight, resound on metal steps, and the sound of the front door swinging shut behind him makes you jump. You bite down on your lip, feeling the cold floor beneath your bare feet and a tightness in your throat. Seconds after silence begins to ring in your ears, tears are rolling down you cheeks once more, and you sink to your knees with one hand clamped over your mouth. It’s barely been two weeks, but with Castiel’s sudden departure, everything suddenly feels like empty space.

READ THE FINAL PART HERE

#supernatural #castiel #empty space #reader insert #x-reader #part three #miniseries #fanfic #fanfiction #memory #marriage #amnesia #sophisticated-angel

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stars-forever-dwell-blog1 · 8 years ago

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Acceptance and Stuff

So I had this thought recently. . .

I think that anyone who has ever known that “something is wrong” (in any capacity) can tell you that there is a freedom and a relief that comes with finally knowing what it is…even when it’s not something we like. This can be true of being given the right diagnosis, finally, of finding out what’s bothering a friend, why your partner is acting weird, why your boss wanted to talk to you, etc etc etc. Limbo sucks. Not knowing how to proceed sucks.

In short, not knowing sucks.

For a long time – more than five years – I have had moments of deep, dark, all-consuming self-hatred as I failed to live up to my own standards and expectations again and again. Why was it that I would get a good job (well paying, “normal” hours, socially acceptable, etc), yet after a few months I would start finding it impossible to go in? Why would I call in sick when I wasn’t sick? But I did feel tired and upset and anxious, so maybe I really was sick. . .maybe if I just slept for today, I would be better tomorrow. Maybe I need a Monday to Friday, 9-5 gig like normal people have. Maybe I needed something more artistically stimulating. Maybe I needed something that paid better. Maybe I needed something more intellectually stimulating.

Maybe I needed something more fun. More corporate and refreshingly sterile and not messy. But then where’s the heart? More predictable. More changeable. More challenging. Easier. Less bitchy women who have nothing to do but gossip and backstab. More guys. Less boys. No coworkers. More young coworkers. More mature coworkers. Maybe I needed to get away from that guy I slept with. My boyfriend’s ex who glares at me. All the drama. Whatever.

Yet whatever I chose, whatever I changed, nothing stuck. I always got bored. Restless. Anxious. Afraid. So I could never save any money, so I could never do any of the “big” things I wanted to do in my 20′s. Get more tattoos. Travel overseas. Get a car. Take riding lessons. Live in the country. Get a dog. Get a horse. Get my own house on a handful of acres in the foothills. A grand piano.

And I must say, when I finally just exhaled and said to myself, “I have a disease,” there was a huge feeling of relief. So many of the questions that had previously been swarming in my head were finally stilled. Why haven’t you gone back to school yet? You’re so smart! (Funny how something seemingly positive can become destructive). Why do you work such menial jobs, when you have so much potential? All your friends have houses and condos and kids and dogs and cars and careers…why don’t you? You say you want all these things – travel and a horse and a dog and a life in the country with a garden – yet you are no closer now to any of it than you were when you were 19. . .why is that? What’s wrong with you? Why are you such a loser? You know it’s only going to get harder and harder to make something of yourself the older you get, right? You’re just kind of a fuckup, defective. Some people just are, you know. Even though you’re from a good family who had all the support and opportunities in the world, you’re just determined to fail. I don’t know why that is. (This voice in my head was my mother’s, by the way.) But these thoughts finally slowed until they were almost gone.

A radical self-acceptance was dawning, of loving myself just as I am, with no illusions, no expectations to be or do more than felt be-able and doable. To not demand what felt impossible, exhausting, soul-destroying. To not force myself into roles that were self-destructive, to stop trying to be things that just aren’t me. The perfect daughter in my mother’s eyes is not me, because her perception of perfection is terribly skewed. The perfect employee in the average employer’s eye is not me, because I believe in self-care and conscious living, in getting enough sleep and not losing touch with one’s emotions, one’s soul, one’s inner self. I believe in sticking my toes in dandelions, and I really don’t care if my pants get dirt on them, or if I come back from my lunch smelling like horses. The perfect girlfriend in my own estimation for awhile was not me at all, because I am not an ever-flowing fountain that never needs refilling. I may strive to be compassionate, but I am far from perfect, and I have needs, too. I am not a goddess. Well, I sort of am.

So to finally accept my diagnosis was like, at long last, letting go of an incredibly heavy load that was far too much for me to carry. Accepting my limitations, because we all have them. I think when we’re young, we feel like we don’t have any, we feel like our generation will be the generation to change things, finally! That’s at least how I felt after high school…that our ideals and passions would change the world for the better, that society would become more human and less money-driven, that compassion and passion would gain respect and importance in the collective consciousness, and money and corporate bullshit and toxic lifestyles less so. That people would start to seek true happiness and not settle for the lies fed to them by society, by each other. I thought it would be radical and sudden and dramatic. Yet entering my 30′s, I see things differently now. There will always be people who conform to the rigid parameters that have been laid out for them already, people who will pour themselves into whatever mould they’re told is the “right one”, and not question. But then there are the people who question the accepted reality, the status quo. They don’t just swallow whatever they’re given – they think. They question. They don’t accept indifference, cruelty, ignorance and unhealthiness just because they are the norm. They strive to break free of those chains. They struggle to get past mere survival to thrive. They seek balance – physical, mental, emotional, spiritual. And those are the people who are, to me, lights in the darkness, shapes and colour in the gray. And they, too, have been around forever, struggling against the dark in their own small or large ways. Every generation is bringing something new to the table, and it’s exciting to watch, and humbling to realize that my generation is no longer the new one coming out into the world. I equate it to the Aboriginal teaching of the medicine wheel. Each direction – east, south, west, north – all represent a different aspect of life. Childhood, adolescence, adulthood, elderhood. Spring, summer, fall, winter. White, red, blue, black. The teachings go on and on. And sure, maybe you’re having a blast in the east, but the time comes – and you feel it inside – when the wheel is turning, and you’re being pushed out, into the south. And you can’t do anything about it. You can deny that it’s happening and pretend you’re still there, but you won’t fool anyone. And we’ve all seen people who do this. The sixty year old woman at the bar dressed like a teenager, grinding on the dance floor and trying to pick up the freaked out bus boy. The elderly man who denies he has any health issues.

But. . .here’s the thing. Looking back, if I had been diagnosed when the depression actually started, when I was around fourteen, and I had accepted the news graciously and come to terms with the limitations of the disease so early on. . .would I still have done all the cool things that did in high school and my 20′s? Acted in plays all through high school? Went to drama camp? Flew to bc when I was 17 and lived out of my backpack for a year and a half? Hitch hiked all over the province? Lived in a cabin in the woods with no electricity or running water? Protested clearcutting? Lived in my tent? Worked in so many cool places? Lived in so many cool places? Took up karate, snowboarding, started relearning piano, fine-tuning my horseback riding skills? Dared to dream of working with horses one day, of writing a book, of playing music onstage? Because the thing is, with accepting this disease as part of my reality, I have lost so much hope. I don’t know if I’ll ever have the consistently balanced mood or the energy to go to school, or have a career where I have to be “on” for hours at a time. To be honest, the future looks pretty fucking bleak to me right now, and sometimes the thought of dying makes me feel relief, or at best spawns nothing but indifference in me. Because all those cool things I did were always tempered with anxiety, fear, and paralyzing confusion and pain, which is why there has never been any consistency in my life. Nothing flows for very long; it always collapses. And I guess I know that, if I didn’t have this bullshit disease, I would have already accomplished so much in my life, and would just keep going, growing, exploring, learning. . .I would be a force to be reckoned with, instead of a crippled girl. . .stuck. I can only accept so much. It’s the nature of all living things to fight for our lives when they’re threatened, so as long as I’m here, I can’t give up the hope that one day, things will be better than this emptiness that is all I have right now. But am I just deluding myself? It’s said that when people are in life threatening situations, they will cling to any hope to keep going. . .even when they know that hope is delusion.

#acceptance andstuff

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