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bluejayblueskies · 3 years ago

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it will be this, always

Chapter Ten: week thirty-seven Words: 9.9k

Relationship: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood Tags: Post-Canon, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, (and here it is!), Domesticity, Therapy

Work Summary:

Jon coughed again, and blood stained his lips and blood stained Martin’s hands where they pressed against Jon’s back and blood stained the floor beneath them and help, they needed help.

Martin doesn’t remember shouting. He barely remembers the faces that had surrounded them, wide-eyed and terrified, all utterly unfamiliar.

Jon and Martin wake up somewhere else. Jon begins a slow path toward physical recovery, and several important, long-put-off conversations are had as they begin to navigate a new world that they hadn’t thought they’d be alive to see.

Chapter Summary:

Regarding healing, growth, and happy endings

Read on Ao3 (link in source)

Or read below:

(cw for mild arguing, self-deprecation, mention of spiders, brief mention of acephobia, mentions of apocalypse, brief mention of insects)

Their new flat smells like cedarwood and fresh paint. It’s infinitely nicer than any of Martin’s past flats, with a distinct living room and kitchen and a short corridor that leads to a bedroom and a modest-sized bathroom. There’s no mildew lingering in the corners, nor do the windows have cracks in them. The couch doesn’t sag in the middle, and there are no chips in the countertops.

When Martin sees it filled with the small collection of items they’ve accumulated over the past few months, he almost cries. It’s a strange feeling.

There’s the small wooden frame displaying the bent, slightly crumped picture of him and Jon standing next to one of the many Highland cows they used to see on their walks at the safehouse. (It’s one of the only items that remained with them from their old universe, tucked away safe and secure in Martin’s pocket.) A collection of mismatched mugs fills their cabinets, found at charity shops and the cheap local department store near them. Books sit on the squat coffee table they’d decided at the last minute to purchase, various bits of scrap paper shoved between their pages.

It’s a place that looks lived in. It’s a place that looks like a home.

It’s on the first floor of their building, carefully chosen so as to avoid stairs. Although Jon only requires the wheelchair now on his bad days, the walker he’s transitioned to still makes stairs cumbersome, and he had begrudgingly admitted when they were searching for a new place to live that he didn’t want to have to deal with them on a daily basis.

It had been a bit strange, leaving behind the house they’d lived in for just over half a year. It had also been more abrupt than Martin had expected. He’d come home from work to find Jon making a list of potential new flats and giving him the news that, apparently, the owners of this home would be returning to it at the beginning of the next month. Martin knew it would be temporary—had even felt awkward at first, living in a place that so clearly belonged to another. It still left him hollow inside, to clean up all evidence of themselves and pack their limited belongings into cardboard boxes and rehide the spare key after they locked the door for the last time.

But their new place is… well, it’s theirs. (At least, as much as one can claim ownership over a rented flat.) And signing his and Jon’s name on the rental agreement—putting their cohabitation down in writing—had been…

Well. It had been a lot of things. He’d decided to focus on the positive ones, rather than the nerves and anxiety hovering just beneath them.

His therapist had coaxed them out of him, of course. They’re good at that—convincing him to acknowledge the things he would rather not think about, encouraging him to embrace emotions that he would much rather ignore indefinitely. It’s why he’d settled with them in the end, after cycling through a few others who never seemed like a good fit for one reason or another. They’re gentle but firm, able to hear the things he isn’t saying and work with him even when he snaps or clams up or gets frustrated.

He remembers very clearly his third appointment with them. He stops in weekly—every Thursday after he gets off work, sitting in the small waiting room with unfamiliar green plants in the corners until he’s called back. Their office is well-lit by large bay windows that look out over a small green space, with a few large armchairs centered around a squat table in the center of the room. During his first appointment, Martin’s eyes had been drawn to the brightly-colored fidget toys on the table—thick, bendable silicon wires and connected rings and stress balls and other things Martin doesn’t have the name for—and he’d thought, Jon would like those.

His therapist is taller than him, and their cardigan has elbow patches on the sleeves. They’d introduced themself to him as Dr. Quine, and their handshake had been firm, the black ring on their middle finger hard against Martin’s skin. And when Martin walked into their office for the third time, a familiar thrum of anxiety in his stomach, they greeted him warmly once again and asked if he would like any tea.

He was still sipping on the floral green blend he’d been given when Dr. Quine tapped their pen against their notebook thoughtfully and said, “I was thinking that today, we could talk a bit more about the interpersonal relationships you’ve mentioned.”

Martin kept his mouth pressed against the rim of the mug, feeling the sharp heat of the ceramic against his lips. It helped ground him, even as his chest squeezed and he felt the sudden urge to call this whole thing off and retreat back home.

“That’s… fine,” Martin said after a moment, dropping the mug onto his thigh and wrapping his hands around it. The heat seeped into his palms, making them slightly clammy. Or maybe that was just the nerves.

If Dr. Quine picked up on his hesitation (which he was sure they did), they didn’t show it. They clicked their pen a few times, scribbled something down too quickly for Martin to see, and then said, “Why don’t you start by telling me about them? You’ve mentioned a… partner, in the past?”

Martin nodded. “Y-yeah. Jon. He’s my… boyfriend.”

He didn’t know why he hesitated. They were still together, despite everything, and things had been going…

Well. Not good, exactly, but better. Their arguments were quieter, less like a wildfire and more like a matchstick flame. Sometimes, the flame would still burn too close to the end of the wood and fingers would be singed and Martin would step out onto the back porch and stare up at the sky, blue and cloudy and full of sun, and allow himself to feel frustrated and irritated and upset. But he always went back inside, and Jon was always there, and they would sit and talk with clearer minds and try to figure out what went wrong. What to fix.

“We can’t fix everything, Jon,” he’d snapped a little less than a week after their decision to commit to rebuilding their fractured relationship. “Some things are just—broken. They just are.”

“Isn’t it worth it to at least try?” Jon had countered. “How do we know it can’t be fixed unless we try?”

It had felt naïve. Full of childish hope. Martin has spent his entire life surrounded by broken, fractured things, sweeping up shards of relationships and taping over cracks in façades and soothing displeased expressions with oolong tea. He knows when to let something go—to stop trying to repair the damage and just… deal with it. Cover it up, maybe. Pretend like it doesn’t exist. Apologize for it, even when it’s not his fault. So for a brief moment, he had been filled with the overflowing desire to tell Jon to just let it go.

Jon’s eyes had been wide and beseeching as they’d stared into his, his hand hovering halfway in the air between them like he’d reached out and then thought better of it. And Martin just… deflated.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it. “I just… have a hard time thinking like that.”

Jon’s face softened at that. He still looked a bit mournful when he said, “I suppose that’s always been part of the problem. That we have different ways of thinking, o-of communicating sometimes.”

Martin thought about all the things he loved about Jonathan Sims—the way he could talk for hours about something Martin knew nothing about but enjoyed hearing about regardless, his passion when they argued about little things like the best flavor of ice cream or which Austen novel is the most romantic, the things he said sometimes that Martin didn’t really understand but that he cherished because they were Jon’s—and said, “Well, I don’t want that to be part of the problem.”

Maybe that’s a good place to start, he thought as he stared at Dr. Quine’s hands where they rested on their lap. So, tentatively, he began to tell them about Jon.

It was complicated, thinking about every word he said and ensuring that it fit within the narrative he and Jon had established to explain the Fears. As far as Dr. Quine is aware, he and Jon have just managed to escape—quite difficultly and through dire circumstances—a religious cult that worships gods of fear. It’s an imperfect story, but it’s comprehensive and flexible enough that Martin can, for the most part, talk candidly about his past and the true sources of his problems.

He still chose his words carefully, avoiding too much detail and skipping over some sections of their relationship entirely when he thought they might sound too absurd. He talked about the good things—the beginnings of their relationship and the new life they’ve begun here and the moments of calm they’d stolen between the stress and horrors of their past. And, with his hands fidgeting nervously in his lap, he talked about the bad things.

This is why I’m here, he reminded himself. I’m here because Dr. Quine can help. They can’t help unless I tell them what’s wrong. It doesn’t make sense to hide things from them unless absolutely necessary.

He couldn’t help doing exactly that, though. There were too many things that were just… hard. Eventually, after what felt like hours but must have only been ten minutes or so, he lapsed into silence. Dr. Quine wrote a few more things on their notepad before starting to ask questions. Their voice was casual and mildly curious, like they were just having a conversation. They were, Martin supposed, even if it sometimes felt like an interrogation.

“So this is the impression I’m getting,” Dr. Quine said about halfway through their session, sitting back and balancing their notepad on their knee. “You and Jon have gone through something traumatic—and you don’t have to tell me the specific details if you’re not comfortable with that, now or ever—and it’s placed a strain on your relationship.”

Martin worried his bottom lip between his teeth and nodded.

Dr. Quine hummed. “And you feel as if he isn’t willing to communicate properly with you, or that attempts to communicate are stressful and unsuccessful.”

That was… a little more complicated, and maybe not entirely correct. Still, Martin nodded again. Nodding was easy and required little energy. If he said no or hesitated, then he would have to explain himself further, and the thought of it made him feel weary and drained.

“So would you say then that the central issue in your relationship is a lack of open and honest communication?”

Martin didn’t know if that was the… central issue, per se. It was an issue. But there were a lot of them, and honestly, Martin hadn’t been keeping score.

It felt dishonest, somehow, to nod again. But it was so much easier than supplying his own words.

“Right.” Dr. Quine wrote something down on their notepad, then looked back at Martin with a slightly more serious expression than before. “And do you think those communication difficulties may be affecting your ability to be honest and direct with me during your time here?”

Martin… didn’t know how to respond to that. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, found a loose thread at the bottom of his jumper and began to pick at it, and finally looked down at the ground. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“There’s no need to apologize, Martin. I just want to make sure that I am as well-equipped to help you as possible, and it’s not uncommon that people have difficulties talking about the things that trouble them. Especially when they’ve grown used to ignoring their own problems or thinking that they’re not important.”

Martin scowled at the ground, more from discomfort than irritation. “I- I don’t—”

He cut off, feeling shame and embarrassment curl in his stomach. He didn’t like this one bit. Ugh, this was stupid. A stupid idea. Ridiculous.

“It’s okay,” Dr. Quine said softly. “This isn’t a space for me to judge you or to criticize you or to make you feel bad for processing your emotions in a way that has worked best for you in the past. This is a space for me to get to know you, to understand how you’re feeling, and to help unpack some of the things you may be struggling with. If you ever feel uncomfortable with something I’ve asked or if there’s something you don’t want to talk about, let me know and we can talk about something else.”

That didn’t feel… right. Martin had never been to a therapist before now, but he was pretty sure the point was to talk about the things you didn’t want to talk about. He must have looked sufficiently skeptical because Dr. Quine smiled and said, “I’m not an interrogator, Martin. While we’re together, talking, you’re the one who controls the direction of the conversation. I might ask difficult questions sometimes or try to guide you toward things that it seems like you’re avoiding, but you always have the right to stop the conversation. I won’t mind.”

Martin stared at Dr. Quine for a long while. Eventually, they asked him another question about Jon, and he slowly answered, and the conversation picked back up into a comfortable pace until their hour was up and Dr. Quine wished him farewell with the promise that they’d see him again next week.

Martin left in a strange haze. That night, he cried, and he didn’t really understand why. Jon tucked him silently against his chest, and when Martin’s tears finally ran dry, he asked tentatively if therapy had gone poorly.

“No,” Martin found himself saying, surprising himself with the honesty of it. “It… it went really well.”

“Oh,” Jon said with a frown. “That’s… good. I’m glad.”

“I didn’t think it would,” Martin said quietly. “I- I still feel sometimes like it’s… not something I should need? Like I’ve been doing fine enough by myself up until now, so why should I even bother?”

Jon didn’t chastise him, which Martin was grateful for. Instead, Jon held him a little bit tighter and said, “I… feel the same way. Though for me, it’s more the reluctance to believe that there’s anything therapy can do for me at this point. Th-that maybe I’m too far gone, or… they won’t take me seriously.”

Martin nodded and buried his nose in Jon’s hair. It had come up during their initial discussion, the morning after they’d decided to try to make things better. Martin had explained his own reservations with therapy—a belief he could never seem to shake that it was his responsibility to be better and that he shouldn’t burden anyone else with his problems—in an attempt to get Jon to understand why he was so hesitant about this. And, after a moment, Jon had explained his.

It’s not that Martin had ever thought that Jon’s arachnophobia was irrational. He supposes he’d just never understood why, of all the horrors they encountered, that was the thing that scared Jon the most. But after Jon had finished telling him about the black-and-white picture book and the terror that had gripped his waking and unconscious hours long after the book was gone and the patronizing child psychologist who took his story of spider’s legs and sticky webs as a metaphor and nothing more, Martin found himself recontextualizing every moment, every interaction, every Statement.

His first thought was, perhaps a bit selfishly, why didn’t you tell me sooner? His second was, you were just a child.

Eight. Jon was eight when he—

Martin swallowed his reflexive apology—he was sure Jon had had enough of those—and said instead, “Thank you. For… for telling me. Do you… need anything from me?”

Jon shook his head. “It was a- a long time ago. A lot has happened since then.” He hesitated for a moment, then said quietly, “Maybe, once I- I find a therapist, you could… you could come with me? J-just to the first appointment. I don’t really want to…” He tapped his fingers together a few times. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Of course,” Martin said. “Of course, love.”

Martin sat in the waiting room for the entire hour-long appointment, and when Jon finally emerged looking wrung-out and agitated, they went to the park near their borrowed house and sat on a wooden bench underneath a willow tree.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Martin said softly.

Jon looked straight ahead, his eyes focused on nothing in particular. “No,” he said after a moment. “I… don’t think I ever will. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

A corner of Jon’s mouth twitched, like Martin had said something funny. All he said in the end, though, was: “Thank you anyway. For asking.”

They returned to the house that wasn’t theirs when the sun began to dip close to the horizon. Martin has already forgotten how it smelled and how the sun refracted off the little crystal glasses on the side table and how the dust motes settled on the countertops. He’d taken a moment to mourn it, the first morning he’d awoken in their new flat. Then, he’d inhaled the smell of cedarwood and fresh paint, gotten out of bed, and gone to prepare breakfast.

Their flat still smells like cedarwood (and of vanilla and cinnamon candles as well) when Martin opens the door now, stepping to the side and holding it so Jon can walk in behind him. It’s one of Jon’s better days, but the commute to the squat office building where they’ve been attending couple’s counseling had been long, and Jon leans heavily on the walker as he makes his way into the flat.

Sometimes when they return, it’s accompanied by light conversation and smiles. Today, though, they don’t speak. Martin locks the door in silence and takes his shoes off in silence and goes to make tea in silence. He picks the special blend with mango and Ceylon that Jon likes—loose leaf and a bit fancier than he’s used to—and something green and bitter for himself. It takes much less time to brew the tea than he’d like, and it’s no time at all before Martin is setting the mugs on their coffee table and sitting next to Jon on the couch.

Jon mumbles his thanks and cups his hands around his mug, his jumper sleeves covering his palms to stifle the heat. He takes a breath, lets it out slowly, and says, “Now or later?”

Martin sighs and stares at the wall. “There’s no use in putting it off, I guess.”

Jon hums and taps his finger against the rim of his mug a few times. “Right.” He pinches his lips together for a moment. “I know that today’s session didn’t go… well.”

Martin makes a dry, amused noise. “That’s a word for it.”

Not that any of their sessions go particularly well by any normal definition of the word. Martin wonders sometimes why their counselor doesn’t drop them as clients before remembering that this is likely par for the course for her. (She’d told him that herself after a particularly bad session, apparently sensing the guilt and shame bubbling under the surface of his skin.) Martin is infinitely grateful for her, particularly given that she’s the fifth counselor they’ve tried and the only one that they’ve both been able to agree upon.

The first two hadn’t sat quite right with Martin. (A fact that frustrated Jon, especially when Martin couldn’t offer a better reason than I just don’t like them.) The third had given them a look when they said that the issue probably didn’t lie in their sex life because they didn’t have one, and they’d ended up leaving the intake appointment early. The fourth had seemed promising, but by the third appointment, it became apparent that his method of therapy just wasn’t working for Jon.

After that, they’d almost quit. Maybe, Martin thought, there just wasn’t a therapist out there that would work for them. But a few nights later, Jon set his book down and said bluntly that if they quit searching for someone and left things as they were, things would just get bad again. That he didn’t want things to get bad again. That even if therapy wasn’t the answer for them, they would have to keep searching and find something else because this was too important to give up on.

Martin had never thought of Jon as a particularly optimistic person, nor had he viewed himself as a particularly pessimistic one. But it kept feeling like all the hope had lodged itself in Jon’s heart, leaving none left for Martin to hold onto.

He took Jon’s hand in his and said, “And what if there is nothing else? I’m not saying there won’t be, a-and I’ll keep trying, but… it is a possibility.”

Jon exhaled and squeezed Martin’s hand so tightly he thought his fingers might bruise. “If we run out of options, then… I suppose that’s that.” He looked at Martin with startling intensity. “But I don’t think we will.”

The next day, Jon suggested their current therapist, his tone of voice leaving no room for argument. Martin wonders sometimes if Jon Knew that she would be the right fit for them, or if he’d just used his still-sleepless nights to do research. Whatever the case, Dr. Ramakrishnan is patient enough to work them through long periods of silence and assertive enough to shut down any conversations that start to spiral and willing to take their frankly absurd backstory in stride.

She had been patient with them today too, even as Martin grew increasingly frustrated when he tried and failed to find a sufficient way to fit Jon’s godlike apocalypse powers into the narrative of their religious cult cover story. Even as Jon said that he didn’t view their relationship during that time as inherently unbalanced and that he never meant to make Martin feel that way. Even as Martin slipped and snapped that how could there not be a power imbalance when Jon was essentially a god and Martin was distinctly not. She picked through the minefield that was a good portion of their conversations, and while things hadn’t been resolved in the end… it was certainly better than it would have been without her.

That doesn’t mean that the conversation doesn’t still sting at Martin.

“Is it good for us to keep talking about it here?” Martin says. It’s the same question he asks every time they come home from one of their appointments with lingering tension. And every time, Jon’s answer is the same.

“The point is that we’re meant to get to a place where we can resolve our issues in a- a healthy way, right?”

Martin sighs and leans his head back on the couch. “Yeah.”

“Right.” Jon takes a tentative sip of his tea, wincing at the heat. “We already know each other’s opinions on the matter. Perhaps we should… do the exercise that Dr. Ramakrishnan gave us?”

It had surprised Martin at first that Jon seemed willing—keen, even—to do the exercises and activities that their therapist suggested. But maybe it shouldn’t have. Jon likes things with structure and clear instructions, things he can lay his hands on and see the results of immediately. Martin just wishes he could feel the same about them, rather than getting the overwhelming urge to crumple the paper up and throw it away.

He just can’t help but find them ridiculous and unnecessary, like the worksheets he used to get back in primary school. (Or maybe Dr. Quine is right and he’s just scared of the kind of vulnerability required to lay bare his feelings on a piece of eight-by-eleven computer paper.)

Martin’s expression must convey his distaste because Jon makes a face of his own—sympathetic and exasperated in equal measure—and says, “I know you’re not… fond of them, but they are meant to help.”

“I know,” Martin says defensively. “It doesn’t mean I have to like them.” Then, after a moment: “… Sorry.”

“Don’t- don’t apologize. You’re allowed to have opinions about this.”

Martin makes a noncommittal noise and reaches over, grabbing his newly purchased laptop from the side table. “Let me pull it up.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Martin sees Jon purse his lips, but he doesn’t say anything. He just takes another long sip of his tea as Martin opens his email, finds the exercise, and angles his screen so Jon can see it.

The next half hour is long and leaves Martin feeling tired and exposed. The worst part about it, he thinks, is that the tasks outlined in the exercise aren’t even all that hard, so he should be able to do them. Instead, they end up abandoning the effort before they’re even halfway through the document when Jon gently closes the laptop and says, “It’s late. Let’s just… go to bed.”

Martin doesn’t put up much of an argument. It’s not until they’re in bed and Martin’s mind feels more settled that he finds himself able to say, “I don’t know why this is all so difficult for me.”

“I… think that’s rather the point,” Jon says softly.

“Yeah, I- I know that it’s going to be hard to talk about the really bad things, but I mean… all of it. The- the talking in general. Even just sitting there, in her office, on that—ridiculously plush sofa. It all just feels… exhausting. You know?”

Jon hums. “I do.” He pauses, pressing his lips together into a line. The moonlight casts long shadows across his face, highlighting the dark bags under his eyes that Martin is beginning to worry will become a permanent fixture. “I… I thought about it, you know—back in the Archives. F-finding a therapist. It wasn’t… it wasn’t that I didn’t care, or that I didn’t want help.”

“It was just hard,” Martin murmurs.

“… Yeah. And… I don’t know. Maybe I should have tried harder? But…” Jon picks at a loose thread on the blanket. “Well. I suppose it felt like there was nothing to be done. I couldn’t leave the Archives; I couldn’t stop being the- the Archivist. And I- I’m managing well enough right now, but back then… what would I have even said? ‘I’m distressed by these nightmares because I think there are actual people suffering due to my presence in them’? ‘I keep having flashbacks to the time I was kidnapped and held for a month by things that wanted to use my skin for a world-ending ritual and nobody came for me except another monster that also intended to kill me’? ‘I ate someone’s trauma and I feel guilty about it but I also want to do it again and I don’t want to want it’?”

Jon makes a frustrated noise. “It- it wouldn’t have worked. Probably.” Quieter: “Maybe I- I should have tried anyway, though.”

Martin really doesn’t think it would have made much of a difference. Not with Jonah hovering over Jon’s shoulder. Not with his path toward the apocalypse already set, paved with orchestrated traumas and intentional isolation. But still, he sighs and says, “Maybe. But regardless, you didn’t. We didn’t. A-and we’re trying now, which… that has to count for something, right?”

“I… I hope so.”

“It’s going to be better,” Martin says. He believes the words more than he did a few months ago, but they still feel like a heavy lie on his tongue. “I- I know that the Fears are still here and that we’re not… totally separated from all of it, but it’s… it’s better than it was. Right?”

Jon sighs. “Right.” He hesitates. “And… we’re still… okay? F-for now, that is.”

Of course, Martin almost says automatically, but he forces himself to actually stop and consider how he’s feeling. After a moment, he says, “I… am still a little bit angry about earlier. What happened at therapy. But it’s…” He exhales slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re okay. Not—great, but… yeah. Okay.”

That seems to be the answer Jon is expecting, and some of the tension that Martin hadn’t realized was there drains out of him. “Okay. That’s… good. I- I’m not angry, for the… for the record. Maybe a little… upset? Not at you, just… well, maybe a little bit at myself. Or at the situation as a whole. I just… don’t want you to feel like we’re anything other than equals.” Jon looks like he wants to say something more, but he swallows it down. “Sorry. It’s… late. Too late to discuss this in detail again.”

Martin takes a breath and reaches across the space between them, gathering Jon’s hand in his. He squeezes it once, then brings it to his chest and holds it palm-down there against the soft fabric of his sleep shirt. “Yeah. I don’t… I don’t think we should keep discussing it. Not now. And I know it was… complicated.” He bites down the instinct to keep pushing, to keep peeling away the newly formed scab on this particular conversation, and says instead, “I love you.”

Jon lets out a breath and offers Martin a faint smile. “I love you, too.” He pauses, then leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to Martin’s forehead. “Good night, Martin.”

“Night,” Martin murmurs, already feeling exhaustion weighing him down.

They don’t always have nights like this. Some are lighter, where Martin will read Jon poetry in his new quest to find something Jon likes and Jon will pick it apart with a smile on his face. Some are quiet, where they’ll lie in bed and Martin will trace patterns on Jon’s back and Jon will card his fingers through Martin’s hair. But many are still laden with heaviness, with unresolved tension from the day and lingering issues and the unspoken understanding that further arguments can wait until the light of the next day.

On those nights, Martin falls asleep just as easily as all the others (which is not all that easily at all, for reasons unrelated to any qualms he may have with Jon). Because even if they go to bed angry or upset or frustrated, when they wake up, they will be able to begin anew.

And that, at least, is something to look forward to.

A few days later, during the evening after Jon has returned from his weekly individual therapy appointment, he sets his book down with a sense of finality and says, “Martin, we… we need to talk.”

Martin, who had been having a relatively nice evening with a mug of hot cider next to him and his journal in his hands, finds that his heart is suddenly in his throat. It makes it a little bit hard to breathe until he clears his throat and says, “Um. O-okay?” Then, because he has actually been listening when Dr. Quine talks to him, thank you very much: “I-I’m not… really in the right headspace for a big, um. Discussion about… you know. Everything right now, though. Um. S-sorry.”

“What?” Jon’s forehead creases, then smooths quickly as his eyes widen. “Oh. Oh, n-no, it’s not… it’s not about that.”

It occurs to Martin that there is an infinite number of other ominous discussions that can result from we need to talk, but he doesn’t think to consider them before he says, “Oh. G-good. Um, then just… I’m listening.”

“Right.” Jon drums his fingers on the cover of his book a few times. “I wasn’t going to… bring it up, but Dr. Aronov seems to think that it’s important that I make it clear when things are bothering me sooner rather than later. Er, within reason. I think.” He clears his throat. “Anyway.”

Martin takes a breath and prepares for whatever new and uniquely awful problem in their relationship Jon is going to point out.

“It bothers me when you put the ceramic bowls on the top shelf of the dishwasher rather than the bottom one.”

What?

“What?” Martin says, feeling rather like he’s unknowingly reached the bottom of the stairs, stepped forward expecting another step, and met only solid ground.

“I- I know it’s silly,” Jon hastens to say, “but it’s just… the top shelf fills more quickly than the bottom one, w-what with you and I both bringing plastic containers of food to work now, a-and plastic can’t go on the bottom shelf because it will melt, so things that can go on the bottom—glass and ceramic and such—should be put there so that there’s more room, a-and I’m fine rearranging things, but it- it would just be easier if things got put in the right place from the start so I didn’t have to—Martin?”

Jon is staring at him, a confused look on his face. It takes Martin a moment to realize that he’s smiling, a bit too wide. A laugh escapes him, and he presses a palm to his mouth, shaking his head a few times. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles against his hand, still unable to wipe that giddy grin from his face. “I- I’m not laughing at you, I promise. I’ll, uh. I- I’ll be sure to put the bowls on the bottom shelf from now on.”

The sentence is punctuated with another laugh, and Martin takes a few deep breaths, trying to battle down the strange hysteria that’s settled in his chest. “Sorry,” he says again.

“Are you… quite all right?” Jon says, like he doesn’t know what to do with Martin’s helpless giggles. Martin doesn’t really know what to do with them himself.

“Yep. Yep, I’m… I’m great.” Martin takes another deep breath, drops his hand, and says, “I just… bowls?” Then, quickly: “Like I said, I- I’m not laughing at you,o-or making fun of you—it’s a, um, valid concern, and I- I’m glad you told me—but it’s just…”

He shrugs, a bit helplessly. “It’s so normal.”

Jon blinks a few times, as if coming around to the fact that it is, in fact, extremely tame compared to the many other things they’ve discussed in recent memory. “I… suppose it is.”

“Just… normal domestic stuff.” Martin laughs again, quieter. “Is this the part where I say that it bothers me when you leave the clothing in the dryer for hours before taking it out and putting it away?”

“I don’t mean to,” Jon says defensively. “I… forget.”

“You could set a timer on your phone. And I’ll put a note by the dishwasher so that I remember what’s supposed to go where.”

“Yes, that sounds reasonable.”

Martin exhales slowly. “Right. Uh, wow. That was… easy.”

“I… suppose it was.”

The night progresses after that rather unremarkably. They talk a bit, about nothing in particular, and then Jon goes back to his book and Martin to his poetry before it gets too late to avoid going to bed, even if neither of them will likely fall asleep until much later. Martin doesn’t really think about the brief, innocuous conversation so much as it… lingers in the back of his mind. He doesn’t realize just how much until the next week, when he’s sitting across from Dr. Quine and it just… slips out.

They’d been talking about boundaries, and Dr. Quine asked if he’d set any new ones lately. Martin thought about bowls, and then his mouth formed the words almost of its own accord. It wasn’t until the words were out of his mouth that he considered the fact that Dr. Quine probably meant something more in line with his… traumas, and less the finicky domesticity of his home life.

He feels a strange mix of fondness at the memory and embarrassment at speaking it aloud curl within him, along with another emotion he can’t quite place. Before he can wave the words away, however, Dr. Quine makes an inquisitive noise and says, “Is this sort of discussion unusual between you and Jon?”

No, Martin almost says, because they’ve had plenty of disagreements and compromises over the past few months and it’s far from unusual for Martin to not quite understand where Jon is coming from but try to accommodate him anyway. (He’s trying to get better at accommodating him, at least. Or, when he can’t, listening and trying to understand Jon’s perspective. It’s… it’s a work in progress. As so many things are right now.) But the words stall on his tongue as he looks at Dr. Quine’s face—open and honest and genuinely curious—and he gets the feeling that that’s not what they meant.

“Kind of?” he settles on. “It’s not that all of our disagreements are… y’know. World-ending. But…”

He trails off, and Dr. Quine lets the silence blanket them. It was a bit strange at first—lingering in that silence, realizing that Dr. Quine wasn’t going to fill it and would patiently wait until Martin was ready to continue. But Martin finds that he doesn’t really mind. It’s nice, sometimes, to just… listen to the hum of the radiator and the buzz of the electric lights and his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears.

Martin listens, and then, between one heartbeat and the next, says, “It was just so… normal. I- I was expecting something serious when he brought it up, and then it was… bowls.”

“Bowls,” Dr. Quine echoes, as if in agreement. “Does the fact that it was normal bother you?”

“It’s not that it—bothers me,” Martin says, only a little bit untruthfully. “It’s just… strange. I don’t know.”

Again, that blanketing quiet. This time, though, it feels a little bit suffocating. Like there are too many expectations held within it.

“I don’t…” he says quietly, then stops again. Fiddles with the hem of his jumper. Stares at the wall, at the picture of what he thinks are cornflowers there, bright purple and shining in painted sunlight. “I don’t think I… know what to do with it. H-how to be… normal. The whole time we’ve been together, things have been… well, you know. Strange. A-a bit awful, honestly. It was awful, but I was… I was used to it. At least I knew what to do with it, you know? But… god. Bowls. What do I do with that?”

Martin takes a long, deep breath and says, “What is our relationship going to look like when it’s just… normal?”

Martin isn’t stupid. He doesn’t have any illusions about the fact that the Fears are very much a part of this world and that Jon (and him too, at least a little bit) are still very much tied to them. He knows that they’ll never really achieve ‘normalcy,’ at least by the typical definition of the word. But in comparison to all that has come before—the Archives, the apocalypse, even the brief period of time they spent in Scotland hiding away from it all—what they have now is probably as close as they’ll come. And after everything, it feels a whole hell of a lot like mundanity.

“That’s something that you’ll have to discover for yourself,” Dr. Quine says with a small smile. “It’s completely understandable to be apprehensive about things like this, given the circumstances surrounding your relationship with Jon in the past. It’s important that you allow yourself to feel nervous and to acknowledge that this isn’t something that you’re used to. But it’s also important to remember that this is progress, and even if it’s strange at first, it is a step in the right direction.”

Martin sighs and, after a moment, nods. “Yeah. You’re… you’re right.” He lets out a soft, dry laugh. “I still don’t know what to do in the meantime, though. How to adjust, h-how to…”

He trails off, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Dr. Quine gives him a few moments to continue before saying softly, “How to what?”

Martin looks at the ground. “… How to not ruin this too.” His fingers tense atop his thighs. “You said this is progress, a-and that’s great, but… how do I know it isn’t just going to get worse again? How do I know I’m not going to say something, or- or Jon isn’t going to say something, and we’ll just be back where we started? One moment we’ll be talking about kitchenware, and the next it’ll just be… you know.”

Dr. Quine makes a soft, understanding noise. “The future’s never certain, and it would be irresponsible of me to say that those things won’t happen. But…” They tap their pen on their clipboard a few times. “You care about Jon, yes?”

Mutely, Martin nods.

“And you care about your relationship with Jon?”

Again, Martin nods.

“Right.” Dr. Quine looks at him kindly. “And you’re here. You’ve made the decision to be here, even if it’s hard, because you care about those things and because you want to make things better. For your relationship, but also for yourself. That’s a big step, and it’s something you should be proud of.”

Sitting in a plush armchair, fighting against the tightness in the back of his throat and the prickling at the corners of his eyes, Martin doesn’t feel very proud. Still, he forces himself to nod. “So, what—if I try, that’s… that’s all that matters?”

“You say that like it’s not something that takes a lot of effort, commitment, and patience.”

Martin exhales slowly. “Right.”

“And again, you’ve already put in a lot of that effort to get yourself here. Small steps are important.” Dr. Quine turns slightly in their chair, rifles through one of the cabinets behind them, and returns with a blank sheet of paper that they hand Martin. “It might be worthwhile for you to create a list of goals for yourself.”

“Goals?” Martin echoes.

Dr. Quine nods. “It could be anything. It could be changes you want to see in yourself or changes you want to see in your relationship. The main thing is to keep them small and achievable so that you can easily see progress when it happens.”

Martin nods. “Right, that… that makes sense.” He stares down at the sheet of paper for a long moment before saying quietly, “I’m… I’m not really sure where to start.” He laughs humorlessly. “I assume ‘get better’ isn’t what you’re looking for?”

Dr. Quine offers a chuckle in return. “Not quite, no.” After a few moments of silence, they continue, “You might start with goals that will help you adjust to normalcy within your relationship or ones that will help introduce more normalcy into your lives. Things you wanted to do in the past but couldn’t, or milestones that passed you by due to circumstances.”

Martin worries the edge of the paper with his thumb. There’s a mug of pens and pencils in the center of the table, and when it becomes apparent that Dr. Quine is waiting for him to start writing something, he picks one. It’s bright green, and Martin’s pretty sure it has glitter in the ink.

It’s not that he hasn’t thought about all of this. He has, at great length—while sitting side-by-side in the safehouse, while walking from hellscape to hellscape in a ruined world, while lying on the couch in their borrowed house and staring at the ceiling with blurry eyes. He’d thought about the things he’d lost—that he hadn’t gotten the chance to do and now probably never would. It wasn’t even the bigger things—though Martin thought about those too, about houses and rings and getting wrinkles at the corners of their eyes together. It was mostly the little things, like finding shapes in the clouds and burning cookies and poorly painting each other’s nails. Sometimes, Martin wanted them so badly he ached with it, and it was all he could do to hold Jon’s hand and stare forward at the latest horror and not cry.

So yeah, he’d thought about it. But it had always been something just out of reach—an idle fantasy. It hurt, and Martin hated it, but… well, it had been true, hadn’t it? There was no rewind button, no way to turn back time or erase the things that had been done. And even if he could, he never could quite shake the conviction that he wouldn’t even be with Jon in the first place if they hadn’t gone through it all and ended up here.

But… this is part of healing, right? Putting all those idle fantasies and deep wants and desperate longings into words and convincing himself that they’re possible.

Dr. Quine is looking at him, clearly waiting for him to begin. So Martin takes a breath, lets it out, and tries to summon up the words he needs.

It’s… surprisingly easy. Once he writes down the first one—go on holiday together—the rest come quickly until his page is full of sparkling green hopes and dreams. He stares down at it a bit blankly, unsure what comes next.

“How did that feel?” Dr. Quine says after a moment.

Martin resists the urge to crumple the paper into a ball. “I… I don’t know.” He swallows. “Strange? But also…” He hesitates, tracing the words with his eyes without really reading them. “I… I think it was nice.”

It scares me, he doesn’t say. I feel like I’m going to lose it all again, and I won’t get to do any of this, he doesn’t say. I feel like I don’t deserve to have any of this, he doesn’t say.

Dr. Quine can probably see all of it written on his face—they’ve always been good at that. But they don’t mention it. Instead, they nod. “I’m glad.” Their eyes flick over to the clock on the wall—bright yellow, with pictures of sunflowers on the face. “We’re almost out of time, but I want to ask you before we part ways to pick something from that list—just one, though if you feel comfortable doing more, you can—and do it. If you can’t, that’s fine, but I encourage you to try. Do you think that’s something you can do?”

Martin nods slowly. He skims the items on the list, and he’s about halfway through when one of them catches his eye. Ridiculous, he thinks and moves on to things that are less ambitious. But the thought has already stuck in his mind and refuses to let him go.

“Do you have anything in mind?” Dr. Quine asks.

Martin reads the words once more before looking up at them. “Yeah, actually,” he says with tentative confidence. “I… I think I do.”

Martin gets back to the flat before Jon does. He has the text on his phone telling him that Jon is staying late at the office to finish the article he’s writing that’s going into print in a few days, and there’s a sticky note on the fridge proclaiming the same thing. He still feels a little thrill of anxiety when he comes home to a dark, shadowed flat and begins to make dinner in silence.

Somewhere in between beginning the broth and retrieving the pre-cut peppers from the fridge, Martin turns on the old radio they have sitting on the counter and adjusts it to a frequency that plays a genre of music he’s never heard before but that he finds he rather likes. Things become a little bit more bearable after that.

Everything is bubbling in a pot on the stove by the time the doorknob rattles. Martin quickly stuffs the list from earlier back in his pocket, like he hasn’t been staring at it for the past ten minutes and resisting the urge to cross out ninety percent of the items there as ‘absurd’ or ‘unreasonable.’ It’s just in time for the door to swing open and Jon to come through, balancing his satchel on his lap as he wheels himself with one hand and props the door open with the other.

“Hey,” Martin says, trying not to let his nerves bleed into his voice.

Jon hums, pushing the door shut behind him and depositing his satchel rather unceremoniously on the floor by the door. (“We’ve got hooks by the door for a reason,” Martin will say later, and Jon will grumble something unintelligible before retrieving his bag and pointedly hanging it on the closest hook to the door.) “Hello,” he says absently, in that way he sometimes does after he’s had a long day at work and his mind hasn’t quite let go of the most recent story he’s been investigating.

“How was work?” Martin says, because Jon will likely talk about it anyway at length if Martin is willing to indulge him (which he almost always is).

Jon sighs and rubs at his temples for a moment before making his way to the kitchen. “Long. It took me longer to transcribe the interviews than I thought it would, and the Eye was feeling particularly… unhelpful today.” He makes a frustrated noise. “Decided to enlighten me on the life cycle of one of the beetles native to this area rather than on the circumstances of Mr. Brenner’s death involving those particular beetles.”

“You say that like you don’t enjoy investigating these things yourself.”

Jon makes a discontented noise. “Yes, well. I’ve been trying to get home at a reasonable time, and this isn’t helping.” He looks past Martin at the stove. “You made dinner?”

“Mm. Hot and sour soup.”

Some of the stress slips away from Jon’s face, replaced by a smile. “That sounds wonderful. Thank you, Martin.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Jon, now in front of him, reaches up and taps a single finger on Martin’s chin. Martin smiles, leans down, and presses a chaste kiss to Jon’s lips. Of the several gestures they’ve established to accommodate Jon when he uses the wheelchair, this is the one he uses the most often, and Martin can’t say that he minds much at all.

A soft, fuzzy feeling fills Martin that lasts nearly until they’re finished eating. Martin can see the bottom of his bowl by the time the nerves begin to set in again, and he can’t quite resist the urge to slip his hand into his pocket, feeling the dull edges of the paper against the pads of his fingers.

He doesn’t mean to get stuck inside his own head. But an indeterminate amount of time later, he hears the clink of metal on ceramic and Jon says, “Martin? Is… everything all right?”

Martin blinks and quickly removes his hand from his pocket. “Yeah. E-everything’s fine.”

Jon’s lips press together and his forehead creases. “Are you… sure?” he asks tentatively.

“I’m sure.” Martin takes a breath in and lets it out, trying to settle his nerves. “I’ve just been… thinking about something. S-something I want to… ask you.”

“… Okay?” Jon looks nervous now, which… yeah, Martin hasn’t made the most promising start. “Did… did everything go all right in therapy? I-is something…”

He trails off, but Martin is already shaking his head. “No, no, it’s—everything went… fine.” At Jon’s skeptical look: “Really, it did. This isn’t about—well, it is a… little bit about that, but- but not in the way you’re thinking. Probably.”

“Okay,” Jon says again. There are still some lines of tension on his face, but his expression transitions into something curious and encouraging. The sight—a reminder that Jon trusts him to tell him when things are bad and when they’re not, that Jon isn’t just humoring him and does genuinely want to hear what he has to say—makes something warm and tight cluster in Martin’s chest.

“Right,” Martin says, the word only a little bit choked. Then, again: “Right.”

He’d asked Dr. Quine, in the minute or so they had before their session was over, if he should start with something smaller. If it was… too much for his first foray into his idyllic bucket list of mundane fantasies. They told him that he should do what feels right for him—what he feels ready for, regardless of any perceived magnitude or ‘too much’-ness. Which was an exceedingly unhelpful answer for his decision-making process, but probably an entirely helpful answer for his own self-confidence and personal growth.

Ugh.

So here he is—doing what feels right for him. He just hopes that what feels right and what is right happen to line up in this particular instance. Because he really, really doesn’t want to mess this up.

Jon is still looking at Martin expectantly. So Martin makes himself look back instead of glancing away, takes a breath, and says, “Do you want to get a cat?”

Jon blinks a few times, clearly taking a moment to adjust to a much different conversation than he’d been preparing himself for. “Like… right now?”

“I- I mean, not right this instant—I think all of the shelters are closed, and there’s probably some research we should do beforehand—but… well, I- I was thinking soon-ish, but if you want to wait, o-or if you don’t want to get one at all, we… we can do that instead.”

“Oh,” Jon says quietly. “And you’re… you’re sure?”

Martin thinks, in any other circumstance, he would find a sort of humor in the gravity Jon’s words carry—like this decision carries the weight of the world, and a misstep would end in disaster. But… well. Doesn’t it? It’s certainly not to the scale of decisions they’ve made in the past—actual, ‘world on our shoulders,’ ‘for the greater good’ decisions—but it still feels heavy in its own right.

Maybe it’s because it’s the kind of decision a couple makes when they’re committed to staying together, in the same house, co-owning an animal and promising it that it will have a safe and loving home to live in. Because if things fall apart again and they can’t put them back together and they leave one another, they will have to decide who gets the cat, and the longer they both live with it, the more complicated and messy that decision becomes. Because they own mugs and furniture and books and pictures together, but this is a living, breathing creature that will (hopefully) learn to love them, and they will love it in return, and…

And in a way, they’ll be starting a family. Which is a bit of a terrifying thought, if Martin’s being honest. But the question is already out there in the open, and Martin finds that he doesn’t particularly want to take it back.

Because he wants this. He wants it so badly he aches with it. And all he can hope is that Jon wants it too.

“Yeah,” Martin says with a surprising amount of confidence. “I’m sure.”

“Oh,” Jon says again, and the word would probably make Martin more nervous if it weren’t filled with such wonderment. For a moment, he just looks at Martin, as if searching for any lingering bit of hesitance on Martin’s face. Then, softly: “If you’re sure, then… yes.”

“Yes?” Martin repeats, a little bit breathlessly.

Jon nods, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips that he’s clearly trying and failing to keep contained. “And to be clear, I- I would also be partial to soon-ish.” His eyes light up, and he makes a hold on gesture before pushing away from the table and retrieving his laptop from his satchel. He pushes his bowl to the side, opens the computer, and angles it so Martin can see his screen. Martin is subjected to the truly horrific amount of tabs and windows Jon has open before Jon minimizes them and opens a new browser window. “I did a story a few weeks ago where I interviewed someone at one of the animal shelters near here—nothing Fears-related, I promise—and it seems like it might be a good place to start.” He pulls up the website for the shelter and begins scrolling through a page filled with pictures of cats of all shapes, sizes, and colors. “And we’ll have to think about what supplies we’ll need, of course, though I- I suppose that can come after we’ve thought more about what cat we’d like to get, since—well, some of them have specific dietary preferences. We’ll have to find a vet too, of course, and it might also be prudent to…”

Jon keeps rambling on, pressing his finger to the screen and leaving smudges on it when he sees a cat that particularly excites him and opening the page for it in a new tab so they can look later. And Martin will have to take a more active role in a bit—talk Jon down from twenty toys to just ten, probably, and convince him that they don’t need fancy glass bowls and that plastic will do just fine—but for now, he just watches Jon talk with something light and fluttering blooming in his chest. It spreads to his stomach and crawls up his throat and makes him feel a little bit like he’s floating, or like the gravity around him has suddenly lessened and his body carries much less weight than he’s used to.

It feels an awful lot like hope. It’s an emotion that tends to scare Martin, for fear that it will be snatched away and he will be punished for daring to feel it in the first place. But he takes a breath, then another, and allows himself to feel it.

Because even though things aren’t fixed yet, and even though there are some things that probably never will be, and even though they will continue to heal and break in a constant cycle of pushing and pulling, he’s still here. He’s still trying, and he’s still choosing this path—together, with Jon, loving him for all he’s worth—and he’s doing all he can to live the kind of life that he’s never allowed himself to truly believe he could have. But they’re going to get a cat, and then maybe they’ll go on holiday, and then maybe they’ll celebrate anniversaries together and birthdays with friends, and then maybe Martin will buy a ring, and maybe… maybe things will be all right.

Jon’s hand covers Martin’s, and Jon squeezes once, giving Martin a soft smile. And when smiling back doesn’t feel quite enough, Martin gives in to the urge to turn and wrap Jon in a tight hug. Jon makes a surprised noise but, after a moment, buries his face in Martin’s neck. Martin presses his nose against the top of Jon’s head and closes his eyes and thinks, I love him, I love him, I love him.

Even when things are hard. Even when they fight, over something small or something much less so, and frustration and hurt cluster once again in Martin’s chest. Even when Martin has a particularly bad dream or a particularly bad day and has to fight off the memory of blood on his fingers or fog on a beach or hospital wings or canned peaches.

Even then, Martin loves him. It’s a choice that he has made, and it is a choice that he will continue to make, because… it’s worth it. Jon is worth it. And of all the things that Martin is uncertain about, this isn’t one of them. Not anymore.

He will love Jon for as long as Jon will let him. And if it will be this, always—loving Jon…

Well. Martin doesn’t think that would be quite so bad.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #my writing #my fic

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tsukkiseasalt · 3 years ago

Text

Eyes That Won’t Wonder

“What, what!?” You shriek.

Another low laugh erupts from him as he leans against the door, his large frame blocking any potential view of the inside.

“I believe that is a compliment.” He mumbles his lips curling up into a sly smile.

“Y-yeah, it was.” You stammer, words barely making themselves out of you as your stomach begins to do cartwheels.

“As much as I'd love to stay right here and chat, you’d probably find it to be much more comfortable inside.” He says, smile fully present now, and you take a moment to admire the sight-storing it in your mind. He moves enough for you to slip right past him and pause the moment your feet touch the dark hardwood floors.

The aroma is the first thing that invades your senses. It smells of pine and a rich tobacco, with slight hints of something sweet- maybe vanilla, you can’t really tell. The home is just as beautiful on the inside as it appeared from the outside. The dark hardwood floors complimented the ivory walls and dark rust colored trim. The living room was sparsely decorated though, it had only one couch, a chestnut loveseat and a matching recliner. He obviously doesn’t get many visitors.

“Your home is beautiful.” You say breathlessly, eyes roaming the space in awe.

“Thank you.” He exclaims, a large hand grazing the small of your back as he slips behind you and towards the kitchen. His touch makes your knees go weak and you steady yourself by placing a shaky hand on the door.

“Would you like something to drink?” You hear him call from the kitchen.

“Ah, water please.” You answer, taking a few deep breaths before you saunter over to the counter placing your folder in front of you. He slides the glass in front of you and you nod as a thank you before you begin to sip.

“I don’t think I ever caught your name.” He says leaning back onto the fridge, arms folded over his massive chest.

“Oh, uh, my name is y/n y/ln.” You mumble your index finger rubbing the rim of the glass.

“Lovely, it fits you.” He says, eyes catching your own. You can't help the blush that arises on your cheeks.

“T-thank you.” You manage to stammer out, silently cursing yourself for getting so flustered so quickly. He was a patient not some guy at a bar, you needed to get a grip and you needed to get it fast. “Uhm, you’re a bit younger than most of the other patients i have worked for. Is there actually anything wrong with you?” You quiz, but the words come out a bit harsher than you intended. “Oh goodness, I did not mean that in a bad way at all sir- Mr. Wakatoshi, oh my goodness. I am so sorry.” You exhale letting your head fall into your hands. Your words are all becoming a jumbled mess and you can't help the shame that creeps up your throat. Great, now he probably thinks I'm some kind of asshole.

“No, it's okay. I understand what you were trying to say. Two years ago I had to get a disc in my back replaced and it took a lot out of me. Though I can still get around pretty well, there are still certain tasks that I need help with. I am also set to have another surgery on my knee two months from now, so I thought it would be better to have someone get accustomed to me and my habits beforehands.” He says voice monotone. Is he angry?

“Mr. Wakatoshi, I am so sorry if I came off as rude earlier- I didn’t mean to offend.” You say feeling guilty.

He shakes his head. “You’re fine sweetheart, I’m actually quite flattered that you think that.” Before you have a chance to relish his words he starts again, “I’m going to go put some clothes on, but here. I made a list- well a schedule really- of how my day usually functions. You can look over it and if there is anything that seems to be a bit much for you let me know and we will make alterations to it.” He says walking out of the kitchen and returning with a piece of paper. “Here, I will return shortly.” He says handing you the paper. Your eyes skim the page as you read the text.

7:30am- Arrive & make coffee ( I prefer mine black)

7:45am- Read the newspaper

8:00am- Feed Randy & Lyle

8:15am- Pour second cup of coffee & wash dishes

8:30-9:30am- 2nd Workout (If you could have a bowl of fruits waiting that would be lovely)

10:00am- Post shower stretch (Help isn’t required but appreciated)

10:30-12:00pm- Take Lyle to the park (You are more than welcomed to join us)

12:30pm- Lunch / with Aone* (*Mon. & Thurs. only)

1:00pm- Stop at farmers market

1:30pm- Arrive home & check on Randy

1:35-4:00pm- Varies (You may leave at this time or you may stay for dinner.)

4:00-6:00pm- Prepare dinner

6:05- 6:45pm- Eat then wash dishes

All that is required of you is bolded, the italicized text is completely voluntary, though I would enjoy your company.

“Goodness.” You mumble, placing the paper down. “This is even less than I did with Washijō.” You thought you had it easy then just checking his oxygen, helping him up, and taking him wherever, but you were basically an in-home barista.

“I hope it isn't too much.” The voice startles you as he appears beside you now fully clothed- well not really. He had on a pair of dark sweatpants and a gray sleeveless shirt putting biceps on display for all to see.

“Uh, no, not at all sir. I was expecting much more actually.” You admit eyes darting between the paper and his arms.

“Oh, well I'm sorry to disappoint you.” He says voice low as he bends down to tie his shoes. “I’m sure that there will be more for you to do after my knee surgery.”

“Yes, and I'm not disappointed sir, I'm honestly kind of relieved. I haven't worked with anyone in quite a while, so this is a good refresher to allow me to get back into the routine of things.” You say words falling from your lips before you realize it.

“Is that so?” He asks standing back up to his full height, face full of curiosity.

“Yes, my previous patient passed away and I took some time off. He and I were close, friends even, and the death really hit me hard even though I knew it was coming. It still hurts ya know.” You exclaim as feelings of sadness wash over you at the thought of your friend.

You didn't know what you were expecting when you told him that, maybe an ‘i'm sorry for your loss’ or nothing at all but it is safe to say a hug was not one of those things. His body was warm and his chest was solid- it felt good. You wrapped your own arms around his waist and closed your eyes.

“I hope that one day you and I could be friends as well.” He says quietly pulling away.

You don't fight the smile that graces your face, “Yeah, I feel like we will.”

The words seem to liven him because a large smile spreads across his face again. “Well I’m gonna go lift now, feel free to look around. There's food in the fridge and snacks in the pantry. Make yourself at home.” He says walking to the back of his home.

“Oh, Mr. Wakatoshi!”

“Yes love?” He asks, turning back around, a smile still lingering on his lips.

“Who are Lyle and Randy?” You ask looking back down at the paper, partly to hide the blush that you are now sporting. “Are they your children?”

“Yes, they are my children. I’ll introduce you when I return.” He laughs before turning back around and disappearing into a hallway.

You sigh as soon as he is out of eyesight dropping your head onto the cool marble countertop, raising your head just enough to read the time on the clock that sits unwavering by stairs. 8:37. You had just under an hour to get somewhat acquainted with the home you would now be in for ten hours a day for six days a week. You decide to begin with the kitchen, opening and closing drawers & cabinets identifying the contents within them, occasionally rubbing a light hand over them. Next is the living room. The wide open space is mostly vacant and you take a seat on the loveseat sinking back into the cushions. “Nice.” You mumble.

Pushing yourself up you wonder to every room opening the door just enough for you to peek in and see what it is. You hesitate though when you get to the room at the end of the hallway. It’s his. You could sense it, nonetheless you slowly push the knob down and peek inside. It’s clean just like the rest of his home. You don't linger and decide its best to close the door & move onto the next.

By 9:15 you’d looked throughout his entire home, and it was more beautiful than you could have imagined. The ceilings in the bathrooms were high and had beautiful artworks painted atop of them, they looked as though they belonged in a museum rather than someone's guest bathroom. The spare bedrooms were just as lovely. Each had a shelf that was littered with books and knick-knacks that looked foreign. All of this just fueled your curiosity- what did he do & how long did he do it?

You shrugged as you went back into the kitchen jumping when you saw his large frame in the fridge. He was shirtless, again, but this time his hair was wet and clung to his head. The small gray stripes were clear as day against his dark olive locks.

“Oh, hi. I didn’t think you’d be done yet.” You say awkwardly scratching the back of your neck.

“Yes, I finished early and decided to shower & grab a snack.” He says waving the bowl of strawberries.

“I was about to prepare one for you.” You said.

“Oh, thank you. You don't really have to do anything today, just get accustomed to things.” He says popping the small red fruit into his mouth.

“Would you like me to stretch you out?” You ask, remembering the list.

His eyes shoot up to yours as soon as the question escapes your lips and you realize how wrong it sounded and before you had a chance to correct yourself he spoke. “You stretch me out, I mean i’ll try anything once but i’d prefer the opposite..”

His words startled you to say the least, and almost instinctively the words flowed from your lips, “I’d like to see you try.”

His eyes widened at your remark and at that you began to spew apologies. “Shit, fuck, DAMMIT. God, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to say that, the stretching part I mean. Well I meant that, but not what I said afterwards. Ok, let me start over. What I meant to say is do you need help stretching considering you just got done working out. There, that's what I meant.”

Your eyes are frantic as they lock with his. God, it's the first day and I'm already gonna lose my damn job. Just great. His lips are pressed in a straight line for a moment before he finally lets the edge of them glide up into a small smirk.

“I’ve already stretched, but I suppose I could go a little deeper, maybe a little harder this time.” He says emphasizing the two words as he pops another strawberry between his lips smirk still evident.

“The stretches of course.?” You ask for clarification.

He hums and pops another strawberry between his lips setting the bowl down onto the counter stalking towards you, his large figure quickly engulfing your much smaller one almost instantly. “That’s not quite what I had in mind.”

You can feel his warm breath on your lips as he leans down, “But if that is what you insist.”

A loud bark bellowed throughout the kitchen causing you to jump. He smiled and wrapped a protective arm around your waist. “No need to fret, he was probably just getting anxious to meet you.”

“He?”

“Yes, my son, or at least one of them. Come on so I can introduce you.” He says guiding you down the hallway, to his room you assumed. You were correct, you realized as he pushed the door open revealing a large dog.

“Don’t worry sweetheart he doesn’t bite. Daddy made him promise to be on his best behavior.” He whispers lowly into your ear.

Fuck, this may be harder than I thought.

hiiiiii, this is the second chapter & you can just check the tag eyesthatwontwonder to read the first. anywaysssss i hope you enjoyed! likes and reblogs are always appreciated <33

#haikyu x reader #ushijima x reader #haikyuu!!#ushiwaka #wakatoshi ushijima #shiratorizawa #smut #eyesthatwontwonder #haikyu headcanons #haikyuu smut #haikyū!!

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strawberrysoup · 5 years ago

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Pocketful of Posies || Chapter 1

You’d been hiding for years and years now; from your family, from society, from alphas and packs. Suppressants were dangerous but effective and necessary for an omega who refused to be owned—but no suppressants were strong enough to fool the nose of a super soldier, who together with his pack would stop at nothing to bind you to them forever.

pairings: dark!Avengers x reader word length: 3.3k chapters: 1/? warnings: A/B/O dynamics, power imbalances, noncon and dubcon sexual situations, loss of autonomy, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat — this is a dark!fic, read at your own risk. Open the read more and CTRL + F, search “content warnings” to skip to detailed trigger warnings at the bottom of the chapter.

Cleaning rich people’s vacation homes hadn’t been your dream job growing up. You had such high hopes when you were a kid, well into your teens, of becoming a zoologist. It had started off like most kid’s dreams—in kindergarten you wanted to be a veterinarian. That grew into wanting to become a herpetologist, but then you wondered, why limit yourself? As a zoologist you could be around tons and tons of animals, studying their behaviors and ecological impacts. It was about half way past your fourteenth birthday that you realized none of your dreams mattered.

You woke in the middle of the night to a crippling pain in your stomach, an unbearable heat boiling under your flesh. You must’ve been screaming, because your parents burst in frantically—only to stop dead upon stepping past the threshold. At the time you had no idea why, but it had been shock. Omegas were rare nowadays, more and more betas were being born while the number of omegas dropped. It was a point on contention; betas could breed with alphas, rendering the omega almost obsolete but alphas, especially ones with packs, wanted omegas.

Personally, you figured that evolution had decided to take things into its’ own hands. Everything about omegas spat in the face of adaption; they were small and delicate, hardwired to obey alpha commands even to their own detriment, experienced a full weeks’ worth of being completely and utterly incapable of survival on their own—

Well, unless one acquired (through whatever means necessary) methods to prevent it that one. Heats, a homegrown threat guaranteed to commit acts of violence at least twice a year. By the time your first had worn off, your parents had already jumped into action. They had three different packs bidding on you. Your mother had been bubbling with glee, talking about how wonderful it was that she had produced an omega when she herself was a beta. Your very existence was about to rocket them into both fame and fortune. So, you ran away. That same night.

It had been shockingly easy to locate illegal suppressants. They taught all about them in school, how they were horrible and taxing on an omega’s physiology. Suppressants masked an omega’s scent, prevented their heats, and (in your opinion) were the best invention of the twenty first century. You couldn’t have given a flying fuck about what negative impacts they might’ve had on your body—death would be a reprieve. Unfortunately you’d yet to have any of the widely touted negative effects (effects that you were pretty sure were made up to keep omegas afraid and compliant) and so you found yourself cleaning rich people’s vacation homes just over the Canadian border.

You’d been living out of your car since you first bought it at sixteen, for five hundred dollars. You gave a creepy beta a blowjob to get your license forged. It was the best investment you’d ever made (not that you had the opportunity to make many) and the clunker was still getting you from point A to point B and that’s all you needed. You had to move constantly, staying in one place too long meant people started to notice you, especially in the small towns you frequented in Ontario. But there was so much forest surrounding you that every once in a while you could just drop off the face of the earth, camping so deep in the woods no one would stumble across you. It made staying anonymous so much easier.

That was actually the current plan, after you finished cleaning this last massive cabin; to abscond into the woods for a while, until you’ve faded from everyone’s memory. You won’t return to this town for at least a year. You’ll spark recognition when you return, but not enough for anyone to consider you more than an outsider in their close-knit community. The kind woman who lets you work for her cleaning company so sporadically will remember you when you ring her, the only person particularly thrilled to hear you’re back for a few months.

You do an excellent job and you do it fast— you can thoroughly and perfectly clean a 6 bedroom mansion by yourself in less than 10 hours and you were paid under the table so you didn’t require overtime, which Mrs. Hunt loved (there was no tax to be taken from an unreported cash payment though, so it was a fair trade in your opinion). You would work yourself to the bone, 10 hours a day everyday there was work available for at least three months and then dip without any expectations until the next time you returned, when she was gushing over the amazing reviews your work had gotten the last time you were around.

It was symbiotic existence—you were paid well for your efforts, more than enough to sustain living out of your car for months at a time, and your performance drove her online reviews into the 4.9 stars range and made it feasible for her to raise her prices. Mrs. Hunt didn’t ask any questions either, even when you requested to only work alone and couldn’t provide any identification beyond a driver’s license.

You were finishing up the kitchen in what was definitely one of the nicest places you’d ever cleaned when your phone went off in your back pocket. It made your skin prickle. Very few people had your number and you couldn’t think of a single reason they’d ring you instead of texting unless something was wrong. You propped the mop against your shoulder and dug out the phone, frowning at Mrs. Hunt’s name on the screen.

“Hello?”

“Oh sweetie, I’m so glad I got a hold of you! How are you doing?”

“I’m well, Mrs. Hunt,” you answered, your voice coming out semi-robotically as you strained not to sound panicked while continuing the conversation like a normal fucking person, “I’m just about done here, I was finishing the dry mop in the kitchen when you called and then all I need to do is pack up.”

“Oh perfect! I was calling because the owner just rang me, apparently some of his packmates will be arriving a bit earlier than anticipated—potentially within the next hour. Something about someone getting caught up at work, I’ll spare you the details. But if you’re almost done then you’ll probably be gone by the time they arrive.”

“Certainly Mrs. Hunt,” you’d immediately started frantically dry mopping the moment the words ‘within the next hour’ escaped the woman’s mouth, phone clamped between your ear and shoulder. “I’ll be gone in the next few minutes.”

“Now even if you aren’t its okay,” the concern in her voice meant that your own had betrayed you, waivered when you responded without your knowledge. “I always warn the owners that if they arrive before the scheduled time that there’s a possibility the house won’t be done and/or there might be people actively working in the house. You won’t get in any trouble, okay?”

“R-Right, thank you ma’am,” you swallowed heavily, finishing the last swipe across the tile in the kitchen and hustling back into the foyer. “I really won’t be but a minute though. I always keep all of my equipment put away and together if I’m not using it, so I really just need to pack up the mop.”

Which you’d already shoved into the rolling cart you picked up each morning that held all of your cleaning supplies provided by the company.

“Don’t forget your bucket too!” Mrs. Hunt sounded smiley again, “I’ll leave the key under the mat so you can stow your cart tonight. Have a good one swee—.”

“You too!” You might’ve hung up a touch too soon to be considered polite, shoving the phone back into your pocket and running into the kitchen. There was no time to dwell on manners.

The mop bucket was sitting on the counter, already washed and dried and waiting to be put away. You’d started keeping your things completely put away at all times the same day you’d been accosted by a homeowner who arrived home earlier than expected while you were still trying to pack up. You’d tried to put your notice in that night, a couple of years ago now, but Mrs. Hunt begged you not to—promised it would never happen again. This must’ve been her best attempt at preventing it. At least you had already planned to leave town tonight anyway.

You nearly sprinted back to the cart, haphazardly tossing the stupid bucket on top and wheeling it towards the huge front doors. You’d just stopped to reach around and grab the handle when the knob turned and the left door was pushed open, nearly hitting your cart.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he was a beta, curly haired and dark eyed with pale skin, wearing a pair of glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Did I knock anything over?”

“N-No, sir,” you pulled the cart back a few steps, nearly trembling with the effort it took not to blast right past him, especially when you noticed him carefully scenting the air. "The house is all clean, I was j-just leaving.”

“Thank you, for getting everything clean for us. We don’t get to come out here as often as we like, I’m sure the place collected a lot of dust in our absence,” he smiled, looking both parts shy and calculating to your well trained eye— and you had no time for such consideration.

“Not too much, h-have a nice night!” You could feel your pulse racing and that was bad. Even the good suppressants, the ones that most of your money went to, had difficulty completely masking the scent of panicking omega.

“Did you use bleach?” The question caught you off guard and you almost jumped when he put a hand on your cart, glancing through the array of chemicals.

“Y-Yes, in the bathrooms. I wasn’t informed of any sensitivities—”

“Nothing a little fresh air won’t take care of,” you wanted him to stop looking at you like that, like there was some pale flash of recognition behind his eyes. “Would you go open the windows in the bathrooms upstairs? I’m afraid my nose is pretty sensitive, several of my packmates are similar.”

You did not like that his nose was especially sensitive and you hated that his packmates were similarly afflicted. It felt like getting punched in the face with a fight or flight instinct, your brain immediately demanded that you leave the cart and run past him—fuck the cart, fuck the job, you could find something else.

“Oh, and do you have the key to the front doors? I might as well get them from you now instead of us having to go down to the office tomorrow.” Your hand immediately dove into your pocket, yanking out the single key and dropping it in his palm. “Thanks— and the windows? Sorry, I just can’t go up there until it’s aired out.”

He wasn’t a huge man but the way he filled the doorway made you second guess trying to run past him, even if he was greying at the temples and looking a little rumpled. It was strange, you wouldn’t usually have such an intense reaction to a beta, but something about him was vaguely unsettling. So instead of trying to make a run for it, you turned on your heel and forced yourself to calmly walk up the stairs. There were four massive bedrooms in the cabin, each with its own bathroom and you’d need to go through and open the windows for the three bathrooms that had them. It meant darting into huge bedrooms, dodging expensive furniture and knickknacks and trying not to dirty the freshly mopped and swept hardwood floors in the process.

It took about five minutes but you felt like you’d run a marathon, your heart was pounding and there was sweat at the nape of your neck. All you wanted was out of the stupid fucking house, immediately. You dashed down the stairs and turned the corner, seeing your cart right where you left it. The door was still open too, but the beta was no where to be seen. You immediately darted forward, grabbing the cart tightly and beginning to push it past the threshold—

You were stopped in your tracks at the sight of two unnecessarily broad alphas. Both were tall, the white man standing just an inch or so taller, with a full beard and blond hair. The black alpha had facial hair too, a cleanly edged goatee to match a faded cut. Both were incredibly attractive and putting off waves of pheromones, to the point that your head floated for a moment. Your lips clamped shut on a whine, instinct trying to push through and alert the two powerful alphas of your presence. Instead you ducked your head and continued out the door.

“Hi there, sweetheart.” Your gaze snapped up, immediately locking with a pair of dark brown eyes. “You the housekeeper?”

“Yes sir,” you answered quietly, stopping short in front of them when neither moved out of your way. “Sorry to have been here so late. Have a good evening.”

Both were still smiling, still pointedly not moving.

“My name’s Steve, that’s Sam,” the blond’s nose twitched, just slightly, and you realized he was very discretely scenting the air. “Nice to meet you. Do you live in town?”

“N-No, please excuse me,” you nudged the cart forward just an inch but they still didn’t budge and panic began coursing through your blood with renewed vigor, “excuse m—”

“Your scent is… confusing,” Steve’s head tilted to the side, “I don’t mean to be crass, of course, but I couldn’t help but notice.”

“It’s always been this way,” the response was automatic and your brain began shutting down all unnecessary functions; you were about to have to run and hope your omega physiology would make you faster than them.

“You smell almost like an omega,” he continued, both hands coming to rest on his hips, emphasizing the width of his shoulders. “But not quite?”

“I’m a beta.”

“Are you sweetheart?” Sam’s voice was a rumble, his head tilted to the side while his dark eyes burned holes into your skin.

The tone an alpha used with naughty omegas was deliberate and tightly controlled, the same as a command or a purr or a growl. It was on purpose, an attempt to nicely draw out the correct response. He wanted you to admit you were an omega, to tell them the truth of your own volition. The fact that your hindbrain desperately wanted to comply was a completely different issue—one you didn’t have time to address right now.

“Positive,” you breathed, clenching your fists tightly around the handles of the cart for just a second before deciding to leave it behind; you’d never be coming back here, there was no reason to worry about preserving your job.

Your eyes were quick and indefinitely perceptive. Being an omega was one step up from being a prey species, it came with inherent instincts that made you especially good at predicting behaviors. After all, an omega was only as good as their ability to please and soothe packmates. One of the single upsides to being an omega was that you were fast though—fast enough to outrun most alphas. And you only needed to go about a hundred and fifty feet, once you were in your car you could certainly get away. So the second you realized the pair was about to shift, moving to face each other more than you, you darted around the cart and dodged to the left.

It wasn’t your fault, honestly. There was no way you could’ve known you weren’t dealing with normal alphas. The blond was so fast that he almost moved between blinks—one moment he was still, the next he’d wrapped his arms around you and tugged you back into his chest. His arms were like steel, one wrapped around your torso to keep your arms pinned to your sides while the other carefully held your chin. Your hindbrain was screaming now, submit, submit, make alpha happy and you bit down on your tongue to hold in the whimpers, the omega sounds your throat was trying to produce.

“Shhh, shh, calm down,” it was half a tone away from being a purr and you continued to squirm while you still could—an alpha command was coming, you could feel it in your bones.

“Let Steve smell you,” Sam was rumbling instead of talking again, a similar half purr to how Steve had started speaking. "Everything’s okay, omega.”

You felt a nose nudge down your neck, towards your scent gland and you bared your teeth at the man in front of you. “I’m not an omega!”

“You smell like omega,” Steve’s breath ghosted over your skin and you fought a shiver. "Sort of. It’s buried, under… beta… sour beta?”

“What sort of suppressants are you on, sweetie?” You startled as the beta from earlier emerged from the house, wiping his hands on a dish towel absently. "Are you cutting them with anything? Heroin, or coke? It’s okay, you just need to tell me.”

“Tell Bruce sweetheart,” Sam coaxed, automatically moving to roll up the sleeves of your shirt, evidently looking for track marks. "Where do you get them?”

“I’m not on suppressants!” Your voice was almost a shriek at this point, desperately imitating the behavior of an angry beta rather than a terrified omega. “I’m a beta! Get off of me!”

“Okay, okay, here then,” Steve’s arm around your torso tightened, the one on your chin beginning to work its way down towards your jeans. "There’s only way one to tell for sure.”

Shock and fear and humiliation; an array of emotions swarmed through your body as his hand popped the button but those were the three you could identify and you immediately started thrashing your legs—he was going to check if you had an omega ridge and then everything would be over. It was a defining physical characteristic that couldn’t be passed off as anything other than what it was: a boney protrusion meant to catch on an alpha’s knot so they could be locked in place. In females it was found in the vagina, prominently featured directly before the g-spot so a knot would cause persisting pleasure. For males it was similarly positioned next to the prostate.

“Calm down, calm down!” Sam crooned, hands coming up to cup your face as while Steve’s slithered down the front of your jeans and into your panties. "It’s okay sweetheart, no matter what. Whatever Steve finds, you’re okay. You’re safe. We’ll keep you safe.”

The thrashing was doing nothing but tiring you out, you’d already been intensively cleaning for the past 9 hours without a break and it certainly wasn’t dissuading the hand slithering between your folds. You bit down on your tongue harder, until you drew blood to prevent the whimpers—you couldn’t make that stupid sound, you’d never make that stupid, pathetic, whiney noise, you couldn’t. Not even when a long, thick finger penetrated and sunk knuckle deep. Not even when the pad of said finger brushed your g-spot before hooking onto the ridge, tugging gently in a way that would’ve caused blinding pleasure had you not grounded yourself with the pain of biting your tongue.

“There it is,” Steve’s voice was soft, finger carefully running the length of the ridge. "A nice deep one too.”

“How long have you been taking suppressants?” Bruce prodded quietly, coming to stand next to Sam. “I need to know what sort of damage we’re looking at.”

When you didn’t respond Sam sighed, fingers brushing gently over your chin as he directed you to face him. "Please don’t make us use an alpha command, sweetheart. We just wanna take care of you. Tell Bruce how long you’ve been on suppressants, please.”

You regarded the handsome alpha for several short moments before spitting a mouthful of blood directly into his face.

content warnings: assault, noncon vaginal fingering

edited 7/9/21 - still on hiatus

#avengers x reader #steve rogers x reader #thor x reader #bucky barnes x reader #sam wilson x reader #tony stark x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #clint barton x reader #dark!steve rogers #dark!thor #dark!bucky barnes #dark!tony stark #dark!natasha romanoff #wow i give up its too many #posies chapter 1 #will reblog w tags in just a sec

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kylosupremeimagines · 5 years ago

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Adopting with Them Would Include (Kylo, Adam, Clyde, and Charlie)

Kylo:

Out of all four, he’s the most likely to bring up the fact that he’d want to adopt - and the most likely to want to as well. IT’s not like there would be many ways that he could give back to the galaxy after all that he had done, but he thought that maybe he could make even a small difference with adopting a child or two that was in need of a home. There’s no reason why he can’t come to love a child as his own even through adopting. In fact, he might even end up wanting to adopt more than one child if you were alright with the decision yourself.

He would only want to adopt when you have a place all to yourselves away from any ship. To him, space is no proper place for a child to be raised. With all that there is in the galaxy, there would be plenty of places for you to call home. He would not get too picky with the planet or city, so it would partially be up to you. However, Kylo would throw out the idea of living in Varykino, the Estate in Lake Country on Naboo that had been in his family before from Padme’s side. It would be the perfect place to raise a family, in his opinion.

After the First Order eventually falls is when you could finally settle down with him. Out of fear that his past would affect the chances of being able to adopt, he would start going by Ben Solo again. It was also partially because he wanted to put the past behind him; not that he would completely forget about it, since his time as Kylo Ren would always stay with him. It was good that he rarely showed his face to the galaxy unless directly to the First Order. That way, the chances of him being recognized as Kylo would lower.

With Kylo, you ended up adopting a little Togrutan girl who lost her parents to a tragic accident. She was no more than three years old, so she to a degree understood that something bad happened to her parents. Her name was Zohla, and she had light blue skin with purple and white patterns on her head tails/Montrals. Uniquely, her left eye was yellow and the right was purple. Despite her situation, she was a very talkative and curious little girl that Kylo eventually figured out had a connection to the Force.

Adam:

Having a child wouldn’t be Adam’s main priority in life or in the relationship, so the concept of possibly adopting would come further into the relationship. If you wanted more than one child, you would need to have one biological child in order for the idea of adoption to come up (If you’re capable of getting pregnant.) He wouldn’t be opposed to the idea but it would take a lot of planning. He would do a lot of research just to be sure that you two are ready for adoption; though, it’s mainly himself that he’s worried about not being prepared enough.

When you do start to plan having children with him, you would need to save up to get a better apartment with two bedrooms in a safe neighborhood that would have good school systems for when they’re of schooling age. Adam put in a lot of time searching for the best place, and would only settle for the best. He wanted to ensure that the child would grow up in a good environment. Even if Adam isn’t the best with the internet, he would really buckle down and do a lot of research before picking a new place to live.

He would actually get really nervous about the chances of getting accepted by the agency to be adoptive parents. Because of this, he’s going to go above and beyond to give them reason to allow you to adopt a child. One of his biggest sellers would be how passionate he would be and how he was already thinking of furniture that he could build himself, showing them a few things that he had worked on before. Adam would even “accidentally” leave things of Sample at the apartment when babysitting in hopes of the agent seeing it as a sign that he was trusted with a little kid.

When you two were finally cleared to be able to adopt, he almost couldn’t believe it. Once you could officially start the process, he did everything that was needed to finally adopt. Even if you weren’t too sure when exactly you’d be able to take in a child, now that you were certain it was going to happen eventually, he got the spare bedroom in the apartment ready for them. You were expecting to adopt a child not in their infancy, but closer to their toddler or early adolescence age, hence it didn’t come with a full on crib.

Clyde:

Although many believe that family requires blood, Clyde in no way holds such a belief. To him, blood in no way makes family. Someone related to you could do something so horrible that strips them of the right to call you family. And if you really look at it, when you marry someone, they become family without blood. So why can’t it be the same way with children? When you do adopt, he would want to do everything to make them feel welcomed into the family and never gave them a reason to think that they weren’t loved.

He would have begun to save up for such a thing a while ago, thus you won’t need to worry about all of the fees that come with adopting, or just not having enough money in general that would turn away the agency from accepting you as a potential adoptive couple. However, you never thought that there would be any issue because you had a very loving home (He would buy a house apart from his brother once you two get into a more serious relationship). You made it your own, and you were determined to add a child into your family.

Throughout the whole process, Clyde got so excited about the idea of being able to adopt a child in need of a home into the family. He was also extremely nervous that he wasn’t doing enough to show that you two would be fit parents despite the fact that he very well could be one of the best fathers a child could have. You assured him time and time again that he would make a great father. He even got praise from the people working with you all throughout the adoption process, saying that they too saw he would be a great parent to a child in need.

Clyde doesn’t put much thought into the type of child he wants to adopt. He knows that people can get really specific when adopting, like preferring a certain age range or gender, but he would take in any child that the agency presents in extreme need. He would even be more than willing to make accommodations for a child with special needs. No matter who comes through those doors into your lives, he’s going to love them with every ounce of love that he can offer them, even if the child isn’t biologically his own.

Charlie:

As a father, he already loves Henry a lot and wouldn’t be opposed to giving him a sibling. The conversation of having a child wouldn’t be rushed in the relationship and he would only bring it up when you both were ready, after getting married of course. He never wanted for Henry to be an only child, so he was hoping that the person he married after Nicole was going to be alright with having another child. In reality, he wouldn’t even get with anyone who doesn’t want children since his son is so important to him already.

When it’s time for your home to be observed before it’s determined if you’re fit enough to be adoptive parents, similar to when the divorce was going on the and the courts brought in people to observe his household to see if it would be fit for Henry. There was plenty around the house that showed how well you would make as adoptive parents. The fridge was always stocked up with food Charlie would use to cook, it was clean yet still looked lived in with all the things for Henry around, even some plants liven up the place perfectly .

Charlie personally knows someone that adopted a child, so he would turn to them and their family to better understand what it’s like adopting. You and the couple went out one night for dinner so they could explain it properly to you without any of the children around. It was a really nice evening, where you could ask them anything you wanted to know and were even recommended a certain place to adopt from. They even told you exactly what to expect in terms of required paperwork and documents which relieved you and Charlie of any extra stress of trying to figure it out on your own.

Strange enough, Henry expressed his desire to have a little girl. You never found out why he wanted a baby sister specifically, but you and Charlie did your best to adopt a girl; which Charlie too was excited for. Just as they wanted, you adopted an adorable baby girl, which luckily took quicker than either of you ever could have hoped for. She was welcomed into the family extremely quickly. Henry even insisted on sleeping close to her for a while just because he wanted to be a protective older brother (Partially to make Charlie proud of him.)

Tag List: @scheherazades-horcrux @alladeline @attorneyl @babybluelukex@glitzescape @dancewaterdance02 @celiholland @crkylo@celestiaelisia @xsister-serpent @fizzywoohoo @topsykretts92 @ayatimascd@delicatelyherdreams @ddriveringg @littlegirlsdontplaynice @yymmaarr@darlinguris @bellaren18 @queenofheartsmegs @themauvemage@starlingmehdarling @anti-climactic @mollmoll01 @reylokisses @smallt1ddygothgf @mira-winterlight @glassythoughts @moon-390 @fralackles @zaneholtzwrites @pinkmoontribe-blog

#Kylo Ren Headcanons #Adam Sackler Headcanons #Charlie Barber Headcanons #Clyde Logan HEadcanons #Kylo Ren X Reader #Charlie Barber X Reader #Adam Sackler X Reader #Clyde Logan X Reader #Adam Driver

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allicekitty13 · 4 years ago

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In 1987 Jasper and Alice meet at the local country club. With all the cards stacked against them can they find their way to happiness?

Read On Ao3

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Let em' say we're crazy, I don't care about that. Put your hand in my hand baby, don't ever look back. Let the world around us, just fall apart. Baby, we can make it if we're heart to heart.

"Don't you have a shift today Whitlock?" The voice rousing Jasper from his sleep was accompanied by a dirty shirt being thrown at his head. The man opened one eye squinting against the bright sunshine currently streaming through his window to look at his best friend Peter leaning against the doorframe of his currently open bedroom door.

"Pete," The twenty-one year old groaned. "The fuck did we do last night?" Jasper remembered they'd decided to go out. He remembered Peter and Charlotte going off to do god knows what. Well, the man had a pretty good idea of what but preferred not to think about it. He definitely remembered the line of shots he'd done with his favorite bartender, Mara. But anything after his seventh Alabama Slammer was either extremely fuzzy or a black spot in his memory entirely. Judging by the way his head was pounding, the sick feeling in his stomach, and the intense craving for a nice greasy burger from McDonald's, it was really no wonder why he struggled to recall the events.

"We got drunk." Peter shrugged. "You know, like we do every Friday. But really man, you gotta get up. It's after noon."

"Haven't you any sympathy for the hungover?" Jasper rolled over as he spoke to lay on his stomach wanting nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep the condition off. Maybe to venture to the living room couch at some point and watch re-runs of sitcoms from the 70's on the sole TV in the apartment.

"Not when I know you have to be at work in an hour. Rent doesn't pay itself, dude." With that, Peter left his friend alone to the misery of a bad hangover. Daring to open one eye, flinching at the still too bright sun, Jasper spared a glance to the digital radio/alarm clock sitting on the messy bedside table next to him. Although blurry, he could faintly make out the time of 2:13pm. That information caused him to awaken, fully sobering up in an instant.

Peter was right; he did in fact, have a shift soon. In approximately forty-five minutes soon. He would have to skip a shower, something his co-workers wouldn't be too happy about operating in such close quarters without air conditioning. That was nothing compared to the fancy customers he served at the country club who didn't exactly need an excuse to complain. Luckily it was Saturday afternoon, and most of his interactions would involve nothing more than shoving cans of Coors or Tab into coolers for the members to take out to the tennis courts or golf course.

Jasper threw on the polo style shirt he kept around specifically for the stuffy dress code required at the establishment and his cleanest, least beaten up pair of jeans. He quickly brushed his teeth and hopped into his beat-up 75' Gremlin hoping to make the thirty-minute journey in twenty.

Fate, as always, wasn't in the man's favor and he ended up being late. Only by about five minutes, but the glare Angela shot him when he finally arrived to take over the bar caused Jasper to feel as though he'd shown up hours tardier than expected. Once the irritated Angela rushed off to god knows where Jasper busied himself with making sure glasses were clean and everything well stocked for when the night shift arrived in five hours.

Of course, Angela being exceptionally organized and great at her job had, as usual, left very little for Jasper to actually take care of. He often wondered why she spent her time working at the club rather than going to college, but at the end of the day, they weren't really friends. The way Jasper saw it, her personal life was none of his business. If she didn't want to share, he wasn't going to ask. So with everything taken care of, the man figured he might as well venture over to the kitchen for a chat with the equally bored cook Emmett.

Jasper liked the slightly older man; he was a pretty solid dude. Emmett was trying to save up enough money to buy his girlfriend, Rosalie, an engagement ring. So a few months ago picked up a side gig working at the club as a fry cook. Emmett was hard-working, funny, and one of the most genuine people Jasper had ever met. They'd butted heads at first, having vastly different upbringing and thus outlooks on life. Still, over the past few months of working together at the establishment, Jasper found himself looking forward to Saturday shifts exclusively for their engaging talks.

Once he'd double checked to make sure there were no more menial tasks to take care of, Jasper swaggered into the kitchen and plopped upon an empty counter, ignoring the way his friend shook his head at the antics. They had a usual back and forth. Emmett warning the other man that if their boss were to walk in, not only would Jasper receive yet another meaningless warning about cutting his hair. Both parties would be lectured on how inappropriate it was for anyone, let alone an employee, to be acting so unprofessional in the workplace.

Of course, Jasper being reckless had received countless amounts of these warnings. The truth of the matter was that employees were hard to keep. High schoolers could only work so many hours, and most adults willing to take on such a job were quickly worn by the entitled attitude the customer's attracted to such an establishment possessed. Needless to say, turnover rates were high. Management couldn't afford to lose anyone for something like a haircut or unconventional seating choices.

So, as always, Jasper kept his place on the counter, chatting with Emmett about their respective weeks. Rosalie had recently taken a job at The Gap for an excuse to spend more time at the mall that her father couldn't argue with. Emmett had needed to replace yet another part on his frequently failing vehicle setting him back yet again on those engagement ring plans. And Jasper's band had finally scored an opening gig at one of the better-known bars in the area. Sure it wasn't headlining, but for the unknown musician, it was a big deal.

After just short of an hour of conversation, Jasper was in the middle of excitedly going rambling about his dreams of getting away from the California suburbs. Of how he wanted to pack up and head down to Los Angeles and the fabled Sunset Strip, when the bell at the bar counter rang, signaling a customer was waiting for his presence.

What he expected was another irritated woman, upset that she'd had to wait more than thirty seconds for another Tab. Possibly even a man who would chastise him because he paid hundreds of dollars for his families club membership. A fact that the members assumed meant they should somehow receive instant service. What he hadn't anticipated was the absolute goddess waiting patiently at the counter.

She was short, with permed chin-length black hair that she teased her fingers through as she leaned against the counter, talking animatedly with a younger girl. When he stepped behind the bar, she looked over at him with a bright, breathtaking smile. The girl uttered only four words, "Two Coke Classics, please." in her high pitched musical voice. They were spoken pleasantly, and her attention had been redirected to him entirely, in stark contrast to what he was used to. Typically customers would bark their orders in the mans' general direction before immediately resuming conversing with their companions.

It could have been the breath of fresh air that her attitude brought. Potentially the reason may have been how entirely simple Jasper found it to get lost in her clear blue eyes. In either instance, Jasper must have stood frozen, staring for too long as the girl frowned slightly, her eyes glancing up at the nametag clipped to his shirt collar. "Jasper?" She spoke again, concern lacing her words rather than annoyance.

His name on her lips sparked him into action, "My apologies, ma'am." He finally spoke, reaching into the belly cooler behind him for her order with butterflies beginning to swarm in his stomach.

#Jalice #alice cullen #jasper hale #Twilight #twilight fic

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lovemychoices · 5 years ago

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The Lost Prince - TRR AU [Liam x MC] Mini Series Chapter 3

After being married for three years and unable to produce an heir, Liam and Riley are about to give up when Liam gets an unexpected news that changes his life forever.

Genre : Romance, Drama

*THIS SERIES PRACTICALLY THROWS CANON OUT THE WINDOW* YEET!YEET!

Characters except my OCs belong to Pixelberry, I am just borrowing them

Word count : 3038

Chapter Summary: Eventually the truth comes out one way or another.

A/N : Sorry I’m posting via mobile plus I don’t have a laptop with me at the moment so the read more options isn’t available. Grammatical errors everywhere, I’m one of those people who only checks their work once and post.

Warning : I’m rating this PG18 cause there will probably be PG18 stuff that’s going to happen in future chapters. So if you read this series you acknowledge that you are 18 and above.

Catch up with the series HERE

Liam called Leo up the day after arriving in LA, sparing him the details about Theon, he just gave Leo the address where they should meet.

Leo had moved to Malibu with his wife Amara, who he met shortly after he signed on for his motocross career. She was his manager and PR rep, after a year of working together they started dating, eventually got married and had twins not long after. The ride from his place to where Liam wanted to meet was merely an hour and a half away.

He stops his motorbike in front of the victorian style house and slowly removes his helmet raising an eyebrow. “Curiouser?” He murmurs to himself. As he hops off his bike, Liam opens the front door ready to meet him. “Leo!” Liam greets with a smile pulling his brother into a bear hug as he steps onto the front porch. “It’s good to see you too little brother.” A few seconds later they pull apart. “So Liam, what’s all this?” He gestures at the surrounding of the house giving a questioning look. “You and Riley aren’t thinking of leaving the courtly life and moving into this suburban home are you?”

Liam snorts and shakes his head. “No it’s nothing like that. I…There’s something you should know.” His face quickly turns serious. “Maybe we should go inside.” Leo nods wondering what is going on, why is Liam acting all ominous, he steps inside the house and follows him towards the living area. “Wait here.” Liam said returning a few minutes later holding Theon’s hand.

Leo's eyes go wide open when he sees the little boy, he steps closer towards him and crouched down so he can meet him eye to eye. One look at the boy and he knew what was going on. “Leo, I’d like to meet Theon. He is my son.”

“Hello Theon, I’m Leo. It’s very nice to meet you.” He puts on his best smiles offering an outstretched hand. Theon looks up at Liam as if waiting for his approval, when Liam nods he turns back to Leo and shakes his hand giving a soft smile. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

Liam clears his throat. “Theon maybe you’d like to show Leah the new castle we finished building yesterday.” Theon gives a nod and brings Leah to accompany him to his room, as soon as they are an earshot away Leo turns to Liam. “Care to explain what’s going on brother?” He gives a pointed look. “I'm assuming since Riley isn’t here she doesn’t know about Theon?”

Liam shakes his head regretfully. “Maybe I should offer you a drink first. “Scotch on the rocks?” After handing Leo his drink, he then explains the whole situation about what happened the night in LA and who Theon’s mother was, also why he didn’t tell Riley about it yet. “She’s been through so much lately, I just couldn’t. But I’ll come clean about everything once I have the DNA test done and get the results.”

“You mean you haven’t had the test done?”

“No… That is why I need your help brother. I don’t want to risk the paparazzi spotting me here in LA.”

“And you’re sure that he is your son?”

“Without a doubt, I can feel it Leo. You saw him with your own eyes, he looks exactly like me when I was younger. Will you help me brother?”

Leo gives a rueful nod. As much as he didn’t agree with Liam’s decision to keep the truth about Theon from Riley, he also knew it wasn’t his secret to tell. He just hoped this secret won’t come back and bite his brother in the ass.

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

It has been more than a week since Liam left for the states, what was supposed to be a few days trip turned longer than expected.

Riley waited on the other line for Liam to answer her facetime call. The first time she called he didn’t answer, which was unlikely because he usually answer after a few rings and it was around 11pm where Liam was so he shouldn’t be in any meetings. After a few more tries he finally answers.

“Hey you.. you almost gave me a scare there. I’ve been calling for half an hour.”

“Sorry love, I was in the bath and left my phone in the bedroom.”

“A bath huh? But isn’t it almost midnight over there?”

“I’ve had a long day. Apologies love, I’ve been going on about my day I forgot to ask about yours. Is everything okay in Cordonia?”

“Well.. Maxwell hasn’t accidentally blown anything up yet so I guess everything is still fine.” She jokingly said but it was as if Liam was paying attention. “Liam? Are you okay?” He shakes his head giving Riley a weak smile. “Yes, everything is fine. I just had a lot to think about lately.”

“You know you can tell me anything right? We’re in this together.” Liam nodded without replying, there was this moment of awkward silence between them. Riley clears her throat. “So I can’t wait till you get back tomorrow, Madeleine already scheduled an appointment to interview the potential surrogates.”

“Oh I… I completely forgot about that. I’m sorry Riley but it seems I have to extend my stay in the states for a few more days.” He lied, the truth was that he had gotten the result for Theon’s DNA test and he was indeed his son. The news brought him such joy when he found out but was quickly overcome by the guilt of lying to his wife.

“Liam it’s been more than a week what possible reason could there be? You know how important this interview was to us..”

“I know.. I know.. And I promise to make it up to you. Have Madeleine reschedule the interview for next week I promise I’ll be back by then. I’m really sorry but I’m going to have to cut our conversation short, I have an early morning tomorrow. Goodnight Riley, I love you.” He said and hang up before she got a chance to respond.

After Liam hangs up, Riley had a gut feeling like something was wrong. Ever since Liam got to the states he has been acting differently, they usually talk for hours when he is finished with his day but for the past week he would sometimes find an excuse to leave or just text her and say he can’t talk.

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

Drake and Maxwell were at the parlor having some drinks after a day attending meetings with the rest of the council when Riley suddenly barges in.

“I think Liam is cheating on me!” She belts in an exaggerated manner as she enters the room then plops down on one of the couches.

Both Drake and Maxwell gives each other a questionable look before turning back to her with their eyebrows raised.

“Good afternoon to you too.”

“Riley the last thing Liam would do is cheat on you. Now what’s this all about?”

Riley explains everything that has happened over the past week about Liam’s behavior after he left for the states and that she told him she wanted them to have a child via surrogacy.

“What if that’s the reason he is cheating on me? I’m already failing him as a wife and queen by not being able to get pregnant?”

Drake and Maxwell takes a seat next to her, Drake placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “He is not cheating on you, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. I’m sure he’s just had a lot to deal with those diplomats don’t make it easy for him.”

“Drake’s right, don’t you worry little blossom.” Maxwell reassures her then wipes a tear from her cheeks. “Hey I know why don’t you go to New York and surprise him instead? I’m sure he’ll be thrilled!”

Riley stifles a cry. “I wish I could but I have tons of upcoming meetings that require my attention.”

“Then give us your schedule and well take it from here. No but’s…” Drake said firmly.

Riley hesitates at first but she knew there was no going against the two when they joined forces. She smiles and gives both Drake and Maxwell a grateful hug. “Thank you.”

After that the three headed to Liam’s office where his assistant Nicholas was sitting in the front desk just outside. When Riley ask about Liam schedule for the rest of the week he gives her a puzzled look. He explained that there was a meeting in New York but it ended a few days ago and Liam didn’t attend but Hakim did instead.

“HE WHAT?!” She snaps, now she definitely thinks he is cheating on her. How could he do this?

“Mam, I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

“Oh there’s gonna be an explanation alright!” She turns on her heels and stomps out, Drake and Maxwell follows after her all the way to her office where she paces back and forth, frustration written all over her face.

“Riley wait!” She shushes them with her finger while she dials a number on her phone. “Hey, I need your help.”

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

After finding out that Liam had lied about what he was doing in the states Riley had Olivia help track his cell for his whereabouts, she knew that Bastien wouldn’t help her because he was obviously helping Liam. It took a few hours but they finally managed to track his cell all the way to LA.

“Isn’t Leo living in LA? Maybe he is there visiting Leo?” Drake said trying to convince Riley not to jump to any conclusion until there is proof.

“Then why would he feel the need to hide it from me?” No!” She waves her hand dismissively. “Something is not right.” Riley knew what she had to do she would have to go to LA, find her husband and get the truth once and for all.

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

Riley asked another favor from Olivia to borrow her private jet instead of using the Royal jet, thinking if she did Bastien would find out and tell Liam and she didn’t want him to know what she had coming for him.

She made Drake and Maxwell to swear and keep their mouth shut.

“I’m going to LA to find Liam and I’ll be flying with The Nevrakis jet to avoid suspicion from Bastien. No one must know of this and if they ask you will tell the staff and the royal guard that the queen is away with duchess Olivia on a short spa trip and does not wish to be disturbed. I’m leaving the two of you to keep things in check while I’m away and I need the two of you to swear not to breathe a word of this to Liam are we clear?” She said in a stern voice pointing at both the men who gave each other a look then nods. “Say you swear it on your balls so much as if you break your promise you’ll lose them.”

“What? Riley I’m not gonna swear on my…”

“Swear it Drake!”

“Geez! ok fine! I swear to lose my balls if I so much so say even one word about this to Liam and anybody” Riley smiled trying to hide a giggle then turns to Maxwell pointedly with her hands on her hips. “You too agent breakdance.”

Maxwell chuckles “Hey, you don’t have to tell me twice. I like my balls where they currently are, attached to me and fully functional.”

“Good then I’ll see the two of you in a day or two.” She closes her suitcase and turns on her heels towards the door, looking over her shoulder before she leaves. “Try not to burn anything while I’m away.”

“Heard that Drake, she was talking about you.”

Drake gives Maxwell a sarcastic eye roll. “Sure she was.”

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

Riley stepped on to the front porch of the Victorian home where one of Olivia’s spies managed to track Liam down, she could feel her hands tremble feeling a bit hesitant to give the doorbell ring. What if she didn’t like what was behind those doors? Why was her husband her in a house she didn’t know existed until now? Better yet why did he feel the need to lie about where he really was? She sucks in a deep breath and exhaling calmly before finally having the courage to press that golden plated button.

She felt like she was holding her breath forever when the door opens up and a petite young woman with dark hair and tanned skin stood in front of her. “I’m sorry miss are you looking for someone?” The woman asked with a confused look on her face.

“I uh…” I must have the wrong address? She thought but just then a familiar face steps behind the woman. “Leah, is something wrong?” Liam asked when he sees Riley standing at the threshold,his eyes go wide open. Her nostrils flare and her eyes narrowing at him while her fist curl into a ball of fury. “Riley love, I can explain it’s not what it seems.” He sputters and takes a step back holding his hands up defensively.

“After everything we’ve been through, how could you?!” She barges in with her voice raised, she pushes Liam so hard he almost stumbles back. “I gave you everything and you go behind my back and cheat on me with some other woman!”

“Cheat? Riley no I would never! Leah is just a friend there’s more to this I swear if you just listen…” SMACK! Riley’s hands immediately connects to Liam’s cheeks before he could finish his sentence.

“Daddy what’s going on?” Theon walks into the foyer after hearing the commotion, he looks frightened and confused. “Daddy who is this?”

Daddy? Riley glances at the boy, who looks exactly like a younger version of her husband. Suddenly she could feel her heart beating rapidly and her head spinning. It was like she way losing the oxygen in her lungs and couldn’t breathe soon after she falls to the floor and everything turns pitch black.

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

Riley’s eyes slowly fluttered open with a ringing pain in her head. Was it all a dream? A terrible nightmare that she just woke up from? She presses her hand on her forehead and let out a soft groan, she turns to her right a sees a blurry shape of her husbands figure in front of her. “Liam?”

“Riley, love. How had a slight fall and hit your head on the floor.”

“Liam, I had this bad dream. I caught you cheating then we fought and there was this little boy who looked just like you.” She stops when she notices the expression on her husbands face, then it made her realize. “It wasn’t a dream was it?” Her voice starts cracking. “My love, please let me explain.” He pleads reaching for her hand but she swipes it away looking the other way. She couldn’t stand to see him, not if he cheated not if he was going to lie to her again.

“Riley, I didn’t cheat on you. But I have been keeping a secret from you and I’ll explain everything if you’d just look at me and listen.” He said in a tired voice. Riley finally meets his eye looking at him pointedly with her arms crossed. “Then explain and tell me the truth, is that boy your son?”

“Yes he is. Leo had the DNA test done and we had the result yesterday.”

“Leo knew? Who else? Bastien?”

“No. Just Leo.” Liam finally tell Riley the truth about everything that’s been going on, about how he met Theon’s mother a few years before he met her. How she kept Theon a secret from him all those years and that he only found out about him when she passed. He told her why he had to keep the secret from her until he was truly sure what to do with the situation. Riley quietly listen not saying anything after, her expression unreadable. “Love, please say something. I understand if your mad and I don’t expect you to forgive me but I had no choice.”

Riley closes her eyes trying to gather her thoughts before she finally opens them and speaks. “I’m not mad that you had a one night stand all those years ago before we met or that you have a son because of that night. I’m just disappointed and hurt that you couldn’t trust me enough to tell me all of this from the beginning. Did you really think that if I knew about your son that I would ask you to abandon him? Do you really think that low me?”

“Off course not, I think is would never think that of you.” He answers taking her hand in his. “I was just worried about how you would feel, you’ve already been through enough with the press and the whole thing about being unable to produce an heir. I just didn’t want to add to the stress.”

“I’m a grown woman Liam, I can take care of myself and I certainly can handle any truth you throw at me. Yes this information is a lot to process considering how I found out about it.” Never in a million years did she ever think the two of them would be in this position. “But no matter what we’ll get through this together like we always do. Just promise next time no more secrets.”

Liam leans in and kisses Riley on the forehead a slight feeling of relief. “I promise, so where do we go from here?”

“We go back to Cordonia and bring Theon with us.” She answers with a soft smile and Liam’s expression is somewhere between surprised and relieved at the same time. “Are you sure?”

Rileys gives him an assuring nod taking his hand in hers. “Theon deserves to be with his father, he deserves to be with family. With us.”

“Have I ever told you that you are the best wife ever?” He smiles.

Rileys chuckles. “You have but it never gets old. Now, I believe it’s time you introduce me to someone?

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

Incase anyone wants to be added or removed let me know.

@charliejane-blog @dcbbw @hopefulmoonobject @cmestrella @pixieferry @lodberg @traeumerinwitzhelden @romanticatheart-posts @gnatbrain @the-soot-sprite @texaskitten30 @ao719 @emceesynonymroll @jessiembruno @desiree---1986 @zaffrenotes @kinkykingliam @jlpplays1 @indiacater @fluffy-marshmallow-heart @queenjilian @annekebbphotography @thecordoniandiaries @rainbowsinthestorm @cordonianroyalty @lauradowning29 @msjr0119 @janezillow @heauxplesslydevoted @innerpostmentality @kingliam2019

#playchoices #the royal romance #liam x mc #king liam #trr liam #drake walker #maxwell beaumont #trr maxwell #trr drake #trr au

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therealrichardgrayson · 5 years ago

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NARUTO ANIME FANFICTION: Shikamaru...Ambu in Peril

Summary: Shikamaru embarks on a mission. But what is more dangerous is what lurks, seeking his demise. Will Shikamaru be safe or will those who seek his end get what they desire.

Chapter 1:

Okay, so this is my first Naruto fanfiction. I worked really hard on this first chapter. Also, this is completely clean of inappropriateness or language or etc. Please let me know what you think. I'm always open to ideas as this story is still in the making. Just let me know! Enjoy!

Shikamaru gazed wistfully at the clouds as they peacefully moved across the sky. He lay relaxing on the smooth grass outside of the Nara household. Pretty soon he would have to make his way to the Hokage's office for another troublesome mission.

"What a drag...," Shikamaru said with a sigh.

He closed his eyes with hopes of taking a quick nap before having to go on whatever mission would be assigned to him. Much to his dismay, those hopes were swiftly extinguished.

"SHIkaMARu! Get your lazy butt off that grass and get going! You're going to be late!" Shikamaru groaned at the sound of his mother's boisterous voice. After taking one last look at the blue sky, Shikamaru stood up and wiped the grass off of his Ambu black ops uniform. He untied his Ambu mask from his pants and looked at it fondly. It wasn't that long ago that he had become an Ambu member. A lot of people had thought that he was too young for Ambu, but here he was nonetheless. Shikamaru donned his deer mask and took off towards the Hokage's office.

What a drag...yet another mission. I suppose this is what I signed up for, but still...how troublesome, Shikamaru thought. Granted, Shikamaru didn't carry out all the duties that the normal anbu would. He was primarily a part of the black ops because of his stunning intellect and his vital combat strategies. Not to neglect Shikamaru's physical abilities, however, because his battle skills were certainly jounin level. His need as a strategist for Ambu wasn't required very often, so he mostly carried out normal missions and worked for the Hokage. After a few minutes of speeding towards the Hokage's office, Shikamaru soon arrived at his destination.

Swoosh! The four people in the room turned their heads to look at Shikamaru when he suddenly appeared in the Hokage's office. He was kneeling with one knee and one hand in a fist on the floor, his head bowing towards the ground.

"Shikamaru Nara reporting in for assignment, mam." he simply said.

Tsunade paused then said, "Shikamaru...I see you thought that taking a little nap was more important than making it on time for your mission assignment."

Her tone was serious but you could tell that she was smiling. Shikamaru took this as his cue to be at ease. He stood up, slouching and casually put his hands in his pocket with a relaxed grin. Tsunade organized some papers for the briefing, talking while she did so.

"I take it your mother gave you an earful for it."

"Indeed she did."

Tsunade smiled fondly then continued gathering papers. Shikamaru used this as a chance to look at the other three people in the room. He recognized them as Genma, Anko, and Raido, all more than decent shinobi. Raido was staring at him in silent contemplation. Shikamaru made eye contact and the two quietly stared at each other. The room was filled with a comfortable and professional silence, save the rustling of Tsunade's papers. They had never met, but Shikamaru could tell that Raido recognized who he was. And he knew what Raido was probably thinking. This is the kid who helped win the Fourth Great Ninja War with his genius strategies then became an Ambu at an extraordinarily young age. Shikamaru was thinking something similar about Raido. Both people saw each other as exceptional shinobi and they both knew it.

"Well, now that everybody is here, let's get started with the briefing." Tsunade's voice brought the men out of their assessment of each other. "This mission is going to be a double mission. First off, you four will be sent to a small village on the edge of the land of fire. Missing nin have been attacking that village there for some time. There are already multiple squads of shinobi there and they're currently fighting off the missing-nin from a defensive position in the village. This issue has not reached the level of war, but it is a significant battle. Shikamaru, upon arrival you are to take command of all the squads of shinobi there. They have already been informed of this. You three will be a part of the command squad, helping with strategy and troop management, and fighting when necessary."

Genma shifted the toothpick-like senbon in his mouth then politely asked, "You said it was a double mission?"

"Yes. I was getting to that." Tsunade took a breath then continued, "The second part of the mission is for you three to protect Shikamaru."

Everyone's eyes widened and the room's occupants looked at Shikamaru. Shikamaru's eyes furrowed in thought and confusion.

"I'm more than capable of defending myself Hogage sama." he said calmly.

Tsunade looked at him knowingly than said, "I know Shikamaru, but this is not a matter of your skills or any other reason." She paused to let this sink in then continued, "I'm doing this because I believe there is somebody after you."

"Somebody's after me?"

"Yes. Though I don't know who they are, I have seen what they can do and they are very dangerous. Maybe even to the likes of me."

Anko thought for a second than strongly interjected, "Wouldn't he be safer in the village than on a mission?"

"Yeah. There's more shinobi here and putting him on a mission would only put him in further danger, if your intention is to protect him that is." Genma commented.

"No. Tsunade has a point," Shikamaru spoke up, "If I stay here the people of this village could potentially be in danger. Not to mention, if we keep the mission a secret, they may not even know that I'm gone. This might give the shinobi here a chance to track these miscreants down before I'm even in direct danger." Shikamaru concluded, maintaining his calm, composed posture.

"Precisely, Shikamaru. That is why I'm sending you on this mission. That and the fact that we really need you for this mission. As I'm sure you all know, we can't exactly deploy every living shinobi in the village to fight this battle. Shikamaru has the necessary skills to turn the limited resources into success."

The four other shinobi in the room nodded their understanding then waited for Tsunade to continue. "Now, Raido, Genma, Anko, your mission starts now. This squad won't officially depart until first thing tomorrow morning, but I want the three of you to protect him all throughout the night. As you've no-doubt noticed Shikamaru, a few enemies are already in the village."

Shikamaru nodded, "Indeed. I wasn't certain, but I believed that there were at least three people spying outside my house last night. Before I found out what the mission was, I was planning to tell you and investigating it after the briefing."

"I figured as much," Tsunade said, "Now, Shikamaru, you need to head straight home and prep for the mission. You three need to quickly pack the necessary supplies for the mission, then head to Shikamaru's house and start inconspicuously taking shifts to stand guard. Be careful, all four of you. We don't know a lot about these people, so you don't know exactly what to expect. But, you do know that these guys are good and they're dangerous. Good luck. Dismissed."

Anko, Raido, and Genma spared a glance at Shikamaru, taking a moment to recognize his amazing ability to stay calm at the news he had received. Then they, along with Shikamaru, swiftly shunshined out of the office.

Late that Evening: Outside the Head Nara Household

Anko, Raido, and Genma crouched in a circle in the trees, quietly strategizing.

"Anko, you've got first watch. Wake me in three hours." Raido said seriously.

"Hai."

Raido and Genma quietly took positions on a tree branch to sleep, as Anko perched higher in the tree. She found a sturdy branch, then settled, her eyes sharply moving and analyzing her surroundings. Her years of experience became obvious as she kept her body completely still whilst still glancing in Shikamaru's bedroom and around the Nara Household for any potential dangers.

Around the same time: Shikamaru's Bedroom

Shikamaru briefly glanced outside his window and spotted Anko in position on a tree. 'Sigh' and I thought today was just going to be another normal, boring mission. What a drag.

2:37 AM

The night was dark and quiet. The only sounds were the crickets' chirps sounding throughout the grass or the occasional owl hooting. The sky, dark but laden with beautiful stars and a half-moon, lay painted peacefully above the trees. Amongst this peace, only a trained eye would notice the ominous shadows leaping from the trees and onto the Nara house. Raido remained crouched on a tree branch, having switched watch with Anko not too long ago. His keen eyes were alerted the second he saw the motion and he soundlessly woke his comrades. Shikamaru was soundlessly sleeping, at least to those who see him. But, he too saw the shadow across the sky and lay in his bed, waiting for the attack. The whistling of the wind, the rustling of the leaves, the rise and fall of the sleeping Nara's chest, the breathing of shinobi, good and bad, the clink of both side's weapons in preparation, and then the silence. Nobody breathes. Nobody moves. Everything and everyone is dead-still. The calm before the storm.

Soooooooooo...What did ya think? I really hoped you liked it. Please let me know! Thanks for reading!

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quarantinewithbean · 5 years ago

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Dirty vs. Clean

I think these terms are constantly consuming our minds at this point. At least, they are mine! I have always been a clean person, but this pandemic has brought my thoughts of contamination to a new level. When I get home from work, I take my shoes off outside of our house in our garage. I then walk into our entryway and set my bags on the ground, set my phone and keys on a table, take my coat off and hang up. I walk to the kitchen and get some disinfectant wipes and wipe down my phone, keys, bags, hang the bags, and wipe where everything was sitting. Wipe the door handles and light switches and anything else I may have touched. Then I throw the wipe away and wash my hands. Then I change my clothes. I also wipe down all hard surfaces, cupboard handles, railings, etc. in our house on a regular basis.

Any packages or mail are left out for a day to try and kill “dirty” virus germs that may be on them. And if we handle mail or a package, we are sure to wash our hands (for at least 20 seconds) when we are done.

Going to get groceries does not happen in person anymore as we get all groceries delivered. We put our order in ahead of time as we know it will take a few days, then we disinfect everything in our order and let it dry on the counter. Then we put it away, disinfect the counters, and wash our hands. God bless the Instacart delivery people who are in charge of shopping and bringing our groceries to us...we are sure to tip them well each time.

At work, I take even more steps to disinfect things. It’s almost distracting. Even though I am the only one who uses my office, I still wipe down my workstation with sanitizing wipes when i get in. Before eating lunch or snacks I wash my hands. I open any doors/microwave/fridge using a paper towel. As I think I’ve shared before, my office is in a small little building not attached to the main hospital and I typically only see 2-3 people when I go in, and all of whom are at least 6 feet away from me if I see them at all. I wash my hands just about every hour (as that is how often I’m having to pee now in my almost 7th month of pregnancy) and my hands are looking dry, cracked, and chapped. But at least they’re clean.

I feel like this invisible enemy is making me paranoid and I’m sure I’m not the only one! Even though I know it is the safest thing to do, I feel GUILTY assuming that any other person has the virus. It feels so abnormal. Every person I see I automatically think “Are they infected? Could they give this to myself and my baby?” It makes me feel judgy and I hate that feeling and pride myself on being the opposite! We aren’t even letting our family members come over to our house unless they have been completely isolating for at least 2 weeks, “just in case” they have been exposed to the virus. My dad has been building a crib for Bean and has been purposefully isolating himself from all other people so that he can drive it out to us safely and without exposing us - even putting off a carpentry job just so he can avoid being around others. Partway through his first attempt at isolation, he had to go into the clinic to have a procedure done, and started his isolation over. So he’s coming a week later. Because as we all know, if you are around one other person, you are essentially exposing yourself to the germs of EVERYONE they have been around, and we know people can shed/spread the virus before they are symptomatic, etc. etc. etc.

All of this is so much and so unpleasant to think about! I know it is necessary, but it is hard. It’s hard not to be social, not to give hugs, not to sit close to others, not to let friends and family touch my ever-growing bump. But I know it is for the best and won’t be forever.

I am VERY grateful that Aaron works from home and we don’t have to deal with him being exposed to anyone at an office. I’m also glad that we enjoy spending time with each other (still, somehow! lol). If you have someone to share this time in isolation with, consider yourself very lucky! It is so much harder for those who have no one else at home. Be sure you call and check on your loved ones who are all by themselves. I promise you they will be happy for the contact. Aaron and I have been doing some new fun things to beat the quarantine blues, including me teaching him how to play Mancala (my favorite childhood game), and watching a family of jackrabbits play in the field that is across the backyard from our house. They are ENORMOUS!! I knew that they were a mascot around here but was not aware of just how big they are in real life! We at first thought it was just a mom and dad and baby and named them Jack, Jill, and JoJo. Now we see that there are actually 3 little ones, so we have 2 more to name :) It is super fun to watch them tear across the field running after each other. I just cannot get over how big they are! We thought they were dogs or baby deer at first and then realized, nope...they are MegaBunnies. Aaron brought his rifle up so we could get a good look through his scope when we watch them. I also just ordered some binoculars online so we can have a better way of viewing them instead of having to hold up that rifle :)

I had my prayers answered this week when my supervisors and senior leadership approved my work from home request! I honestly never thought it would happen as they have not allowed hardly anyone to do so, but they made an exception for me because of my pregnancy AND because I already see the majority of my caseload using video/telehealth. I will still need to be in my office on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, but am not expected to go over to the hospital for in-person visits anymore and can just hide out in my safe little office sanctuary and see patients from my computer. This will drastically reduce the number of people I see on a daily basis as well as the number of potential exposures for Bean and I. We set up an area in the spare bedroom downstairs that is a perfect, private, quiet space for my workday. I even have a cute little coworker/sidekick that keeps me company when I’m not in session (see pic at the end of this post).

I can’t believe I will be getting into my 7th month of pregnancy this weekend! Things that are getting harder for me are: putting on socks/shoes, wearing pants, shaving my legs, dealing with heartburn, getting in a comfortable position to sleep in (and sleeping in general, which is weird as I’ve never had that issue before!), sitting up from laying down, and dealing with having to go to pee about every 5 minutes. Also, not sure if other people who have gone through pregnancy have had this, but it feels like I have to pee mainly when I stand up and not when I sit down. So I stand up, run to the bathroom, sit, and then feel like I don’t have to go anymore. LOL! Like, JUST KIDDING! I know that my doc says that is normal due to the pressure that baby is putting on my bladder and gravity but, man, it’s annoying.

I have my next checkup on Monday and will be going solo as the hospital I go to is now requiring patients to come alone unless under the age of 18 to stop potential COVID spread. Aaron has been with me at nearly every appointment so this will be a change. For my 32 week ultrasound I will Facetime him in so he can see Bean - and we always get printouts of babe from those appointments, too. I only have 2 in-person appointments left, one on Monday and then my 32 week, and all other appointments will be via telehealth. Thankfully we are not in an area of the country where they have outlawed spouses from accompanying mothers during birth - both hospitals here have vowed not to do so at any point in the future, either. It is just crazy to me that some places have done that!! I can’t imagine having to go through labor without my husband there. Although things have definitely looked differently for me during this pregnancy than I ever thought they would, I am just focusing on the fact that as long as myself, family (including Bean), and loved ones make it through this pandemic OK, I will be very very happy.

I hope you are all staying happy and healthy!

xoxo - Miranda

My cute little coworker. Don’t mind the floors, we have to redo them...

Taking a 6+ foot social distance walk with my mom, complete with masks.

There’s me wearing my mask and shield that I needed to wear in the hospital before they allowed me to work from home. I wanted a pic to show Bean someday the crazy time that preceded his/her birth!

The crib my dad has made for Bean!!

Aaron watching the MegaBunnies using his scope :)

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cupcakemolotov · 6 years ago

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It’s Cold Outside

Written for @lalainajanes, this was supposed to have been written before the end of the Holiday Season, since she works retail aka the hardest job on this planet. Its mostly a ton of fluff, sorry folks, no smut here, but hopefully I can finish something else soon!

Caroline eased the tips of her fingers out of the mound of blankets and shivered. The air was bitterly cold, the fire having gone out sometime in the night. Around her the house was quiet, the soft sounds of snow sliding against the windows easily discernible. She hoped the lack of thunder and harsh winds meant the worst of the storm had passed. She supposed she could check the weather report if her phone’s battery had made it through the night, but that would require moving. She was not looking forward to untangling herself from her super cozy pile of blankets.

Or the man pressed along the length of her spine.

She was pretty sure Klaus was still asleep, the warm tangle of him lax, his breathing deep and even. Even with the layers of clothes between them, even the hat she’d crammed over her frizzy waves, she could still feel him through every line pressed against her. The tangle of legs, the way her wool clad feet were shoved against his. The heavy length of his arm draped across her waist.

It left her wondering how he’d feel naked and just as close, and those were both dangerous and familiar thoughts. Dating one of Rebekah’s brothers could make her social life messy, but dating her friend’s favorite was a recipe for disaster. Caroline had watched Rebekah cut people out of her life for much smaller infractions, and she had made it perfectly clear years ago that her brothers were off limits.

If only she’d known.

Caroline had laughed when Rebekah had made her pronouncement, not believing dating a Mikaelson would ever be an issue. She and Rebekah had become friend’s despite themselves, and at the time she couldn’t imagine how Rebekah’s brothers would ever be a temptation.

She just hadn’t anticipated Klaus.

She’d met him for the first time during the summer of her junior year, having landed a coveted internship in New York City. There had been a complication with her sublet, a broken pipe had made the space unliveable, and a series of conventions had made getting a hotel room for a night or two on her budget impossible. A panicked phone call to Rebekah had ended with Klaus being bullied into offering his guest room. Caroline had been too stressed to be embarrassed, and Klaus had been grudgingly polite that first night she’d shown up with her bags.

He’d ignored her babbled thanks, hauled her bags into his extra room, and told her that as long as she didn’t disturb him when painting and didn’t have sex in the public spaces, he didn’t care what she did. She’d spluttered at his words but he’d disappeared before she could manage a reply, leaving her red-faced in his guest room.

Caroline had texted Rebekah that she was at Klaus’ apartment, thrown herself into a quick shower and immediately started scouring the internet for a place to stay that wouldn’t end up with her on an episode of the ID Channel. It hadn’t gone well. New York’s renting market was vastly different from anywhere she’d lived, and she’d been forced to text Rebekah a series options before crashing hard before the first day at her internship.

Said internship had left her pulling late hours, often staggering home after midnight and crawling out of bed again at six the next morning to start over. But Caroline wasn’t a quitter, and she had a very deft hand with concealers. It did, however, make finding a place to stay tricky. Her daylight hours were packed and so she’d find herself running searches when wolfing down a midnight snack, exhausted and blurry eyed.

It was how Klaus had found her.

She’d been camped at his kitchen island, eating her cold pizza leftovers and scrolling through listings with one hand. He’d been paint flecked and rumpled, curls fluffed into disarray. They’d both just sort of stared at each for a long moment. Caroline had known that he was stupidly good looking, all of Rebekah’s family was unfairly attractive, but something about frazzled artist Klaus had done things to her insides.

Thankfully, exhausted-Caroline hadn’t had a chance to embarrass herself. The expression on Klaus’ face had been a familiar, even if she usually saw it with less stubble, and she’d shoved the remains of the pizza box in his direction. Hungry Mikaelson’s were usually mean, and she was too tired to deal with it.

She hadn’t expected him to sit and eat as directed, Rebekah usually took more coaxing and Klaus hadn’t seemed much like the social type. At best, she’d have expected him to grab a slice and disappear. Instead, he’d sat and ate while studying her from an expression only slightly paint speckled. It’d been a little nerve wracking, but she’d lost all possible shyness when he’d started butting into her apartment searches. His comments had been a mix of helpful and annoying. She’d stayed up way to late that night arguing with him, she’d barely gotten in enough sleep to count as a single REM cycle. But even though she’d needed seven cups of coffee to function the next day, she’d admitted, at least to herself, that it’d been worth it.

It’d been… fun.

Caroline had tried really hard to keep her impact on his space to a bare minimum. Particularly once staying a few days had stretched past a week and that had meant avoiding him as much as possible. She’d expected him to react more similarly to Rebekah having he space invaded than he had. Klaus had been engaging and smart, bitingly sarcastic at times, but over all he’d been weirdly nice about her enforced stay as she’d complained about subletting in New York City.

Maybe that should have been a warning flag, but she’d been tired and off her Mikaelson game. Having narrowed her list down to two potential opportunities, she’d been cautiously optimistic that her stay at Klaus’ apartment would be ending.

The cupcakes on the counter had been her only real warning. Klaus in the kitchen when she got home in and of itself hadn’t been particularly alarming, but a Mikaelson offering bribes was never a good sign. It didn’t help that Klaus, freshly showered and alert, was an unfair sensory overload that had little to do with the warning bells going off in the back of her head.

Klaus had been completely unapologetic when he told her that he’d called his realtor about her situation. He’d ignored her loud noise of disbelief, and continued on that after a chance to really dig into the current renting market, it looked like her best bet was to stay where she was in his guest room. Caroline had not taken his suggestion well.

It had felt too much like mooching. Klaus has already refused her offer of rent when she’d tentatively broached it when she’d been stuck for that first week, and to extend that for another six weeks had left her spluttering with anger. She’d tried to be reasonable between gritted teeth, pointing out that she’d only called Rebekah for help in desperation, and his spare bedroom was an emergency location only, not a solution.

He’d made that clear the first night, hadn’t he?

Klaus had listened to her rebuttals with a little smile that made her want to bite him until she had run out of air. Then, picking up a cupcake, he’d unwrapped it while using her mom and Rebekah to cut her legs out from underneath her in two neat sentences. She’d kind of hated him a little for it even if the rest of her grudgingly admired his cutthroat tactics.

She’d still eaten the cupcakes, even if she’d really, really disliked that he’d been right. He’d been smart enough not to gloat in his victory, sliding her the box and disappearing back into his room. Too irritated to sleep, she’d written out a pro and con list for her new situation. Finally and irritably, she’d admitted her wasn’t wrong. His apartment was much closer to her internship that she’d have managed to find on her own, and the extra hour of sleep was a huge benefit. His doorman was friendly, the nightlife was awesome, and as long as she didn’t murder Klaus it’d probably be okay.

At least she didn’t have to share a bathroom.

But for all of her lists of lists, her fanatical attention to detail, there had still been challenges. The weekly cleaning service had taken some getting used too, and she’d still sneak re-cleaned her bathroom every time. The lack of things to clean when she’d been unable to sleep from stress had been annoying. Thankfully, Klaus hadn’t complained too much the time she’d rearranged his spice cabinet in a fit of anxiety and cupcake driven paranoia at three in the morning.

In fact, he’d sat on his counter with sleep heavy eyes and listened to her ramble about memos and models until the pre-dawn hours with only a small bit of complaining. She’d bought him flowers in thanks, and she’d tried not to read too deeply into his niceness. Rebekah had many things to say about her favorite brother, but patient and nice had rarely come up.

Thankfully for her sanity and her inability to shake off her awareness of his cuteness, for all the times they ran into each other, they still missed each other just as often. She could go days without him appearing from his studio. She’d given up on tip toeing around the first week of her stay, and as the summer moved on, she’d forgone any niceties or concerns for his sleep schedule pre-coffee.

Then pizza night became a thing.

Caroline couldn’t remember quite why pizza night had started, she was pretty sure it had something to do with post work drinks, and tipsy-Caroline being hungry after a night out. She was a bit fuzzy on the details, and hoped she hadn’t rambled too much. Tipsy-Caroline was a talker and a lot cuddly. Klaus hadn’t said anything, and she’d tried not to blush for almost a week.

But whatever had happened, every Thursday night for the rest of her internship, she’d walk in to Klaus and pizza. He’d poke and prod at her until she was spluttering; she’d argue with him over the silliest of topics until she was yawning and he’d shoo her off to bed. It became her favorite night of the week.

She found Rebekah’s brother to be a strange mix of snobbery and hard work, that biting sarcasm she enjoyed and a charm that was occasionally sweet. Little things cropped up in the apartment that she knew were for her even if he never explicitly said anything. Small things. A hand soap she liked or a certain snack in the fridge. Little sticky notes with cute sketches. She still had all of them, tucked away safely in new apartment.

And okay, maybe she’d developed the teeny, tiniest of crushes even knowing that liking Klaus had been a bad idea all around. A girl only had so much willpower against accents and dimples and clever wit. But Klaus wasn’t someone she could date casually, and there wasn’t any chance for a hot sexscapade. Not with Rebekah being such an important part of her life.

In the end, she hadn’t known how to say goodbye.

Thankfully, Rebekah had flown out for her last weekend in NYC, which had kept her goodbyes from being awkward. Klaus had been especially busy with a series of paintings and had left them to entertain themselves, but he had cleaned up and taken her and Rebekah to dinner their last night. He’d even emerged from his painting cave to wish her luck the morning she’d moved out. He’d already been smeared with paint and a little more disheveled than she was used to seeing, and keeping her goodbye hug platonic had been both easy and difficult.

She hadn’t really wanted paint on her clothes.

The trip back to the airport had been wistful, and Caroline would never admit it to Rebekah, but leaving had felt like a missed opportunity. She would never have stayed, she had one year to go, and so she had forcibly put Klaus and lingering possibilities out of her mind. But New York had always been her end goal, and twelve months later, she had moved into her shoe box apartment. The weeks she spent moving and adjusting to her new workload had been amazing and stressful, but it wasn’t until she finally settled that she found her thoughts drifting back to Klaus. Caroline had found herself idly wondering once or twice if he’d mind if she showed up with a pizza.

If he’d been in the States, she might have done it.

But a little bit of casual fishing with Rebekah had confirmed that he was currently in Europe promoting his newest gallery and wasn’t expected back in the States until after the New Year. Putting aside her disappointment, she didn’t even know if he was interested though she had hope, she’d thrown herself into her post-graduation life.

Caroline found she adored New York in the fall, pumpkin spice lattes and leaves falling in Central Park. But even as fall turned cold and blistering, stringing up Christmas lights and forming her tiny tree had been a tiny milestone she’d loved. She’d flown home to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with her mom, the quiet town of her childhood a stark contrast to the city she lived in now. It had been nice to realize she didn’t miss it, that Liz was happy that Caroline was building her life.

New Year’s Eve was in Vale, Rebekah having been super insistent that their friends circle spend the holiday in the new year at the Mikaelson Family Lodge. Caroline had avoided asking if her wish for an activity outside NYC was as much the opportunity of most of her family being overseas or a reaction to the very messy breakup weeks before.

Fervently wishing that her bestie had chosen someplace warmer to spite party without her ex, Caroline had packed up her ski gear and set her teeth. Since she was flying from Virginia instead of New York, she would end up landings hours before the rest of the group, but she was looking forward to the silence. She’d planned on a long bath. A chance to raid the wine cabinet, and maybe some picturesque selfies on her bedrooms balcony.

She just hadn’t counted on a legit blizzard rolling in the day if her arrival. It would figured her one trip to Vale would be a disaster. The storm was supposed to have been intense but manageable, so she hadn’t worried too much when she’d been getting on her flight. Chicago has its fair share of winter storms, she could manage the weather for a couple of days.

She knew how to drive in inclement weather.

Once she’d landed in Denver the weather had been a different story. The weather predictions had worsened and airlines had been presumptively cancelling flights. A quick phone call to Rebekah had confirmed that they weren’t getting out of JFK that night, any planes heading into the Midwest grounded. It had also become clear that if she didn’t want to spend the night at the airport, her best bet was to ride the storm out at the lodge.

The worst of the storm was supposed to have hit later at night, so Caroline had decided to roll the dice and rent a car. The two hour drive would only get worse the longer she waited, and the roads were expected to remain open for several hours.

Driving in the steadily falling snow had been tiring, her muscles drawn tight with strain. She’d texted Rebekah her plans but hadn’t heard back, her reception spotty, and it been with a great deal of relief that she found the house lights on as she’d pulled into the driveway. The walkway was mostly free from snow, as if someone gave deliberately shoveled, and she hoped the Mikaelson paid the caretaker well.

Yanking on her jacket, Caroline had grabbed her bags and made beeline for the front door, shivering in the wind and snow. The door had opened as she’d reached for the handle and she’d nearly slipped as she caught sight of who was standing there.

Klaus, with his mouth set in disapproval, the sweater he wore soft and comfortable looking, inviting her cold fingers to reach out and touch.

“I thought Rebekah was joking when she said you were making the drive.” His words were terse, edged in exasperation as took her bag and ushered her into the heat of the house.

Caroline rolled her eyes as she headed straight for the fire,yanking at her scarf and gloves. “It’s not my first time driving in snow, and I refuse to sleep on an airport floor.”

Klaus had made a rough noise of disbelief. “What would you have done if you’d gotten stuck?”

“The worst isn’t supposed to hit for a few hours,” she’d protested, looking over her shoulder with raised brows. “It was perfectly fine and…”

Her words cut off as the power flickered and the. died around them, the fire their only source of light. The sudden silence had been punctured by the crackling of the fire, and Klaus exhaled slowly. “I’ll go check the backup generator.”

Caroline set her jaw and started pulling her gloves back on. “I’ll go with you.”

Both of his brows had arched. “You just got out of the storm, love. You sure you want to go back into it?”

To puncture his words, the windows rattled as the wind picked up. “You might need me to hold the flashlight. Plus, I know how generators work, being as this isn’t my first snowpocalypse.”

She could tell he had wanted to argue, but he’d manage to refrain. They’d trudged out into the storm together, and Caroline hadn’t argued when he’d use his taller frame to block the worst of the wind. Their investigation had lead to the discovery that mice had chewed through the wires, leaving the generator unusable. The cursing that had come from Klaus had almost been worth knowing that they were going to have to figure out how to deal with the snow without the convenience of running water. Caroline had taken back all her mental thank yous to the caretaker. She would have killed for a shower or bath to thaw in and was extremely unhappy she wasn’t going to get one.

Once back in the house, Klaus had rolled his neck with a sigh and eyed her. “Come on. I picked up dinner earlier. I’ll share. We’ll open a bottle and figure out our options.”

Caroline frowned and slipping out of her wet shoes, thankful for her thick socks and making a point to avoid the growing puddles as snow melted off their jackets. “Do you think the power will come back on?”

“Doubtful, sweetheart. The winds have been picking up all evening, and it is as likely someone’s asinine Santa decoration took out a power line as it was a tree limb. We’ll have to make due, I’m afraid.”

Dinner turned out to be Italian. The lasagna was room temperature, the cheese a bit congealed, but the wine made up for it. As had her company. It had been ridiculously easy to fall back into old patterns, and so much harder not to let her eyes linger on the curve of his lips, the hint of a dimple in the firelight.

It was with regret that she forced herself to be practical once she finished her food. Sleeping arrangements needed to be decided upon, their water supply examined. A quick perusal had showed that while the generators had been neglected, the pantry was well stock with food and water they could live off of should the storm last longer than expected. The bedrooms all had thick blankets, but also large windows and thin curtains. The master bedroom hadn’t been much better even though it did have a fireplace. In the end, with its fireplace, doors, and easily covered windows the den had ended up being the unanimous winner.

They’d wrestled a double mattress into the den as Klaus had refused to sleep on the floor and had convincingly argued the couch wasn’t wide enough for two. Deciding not to complain when she didn’t want to sleep on the floor either, she’d helped him move things around. By the time they’d piled the bed with blankets and settled in for the night, she’d been exhausted.

Thankfully, so had Klaus. Getting into bed had been quick, both of them covered in layers of clothes. Secretly, she had really been hoping Klaus snored or drooled or something that she could use to keep her hormones in check. Seeing Klaus again, sharing a bed with Klaus, had woken all sorts of ideas she had thought she had kept in check. And instead of being annoying, Klaus had proven to be an excellent bedmate and a quiet sleeper. And really, stupidly comfy.

Taking a bracing breath, Caroline mournfully decided it was best get up and deal with the fire. If the storm had eased up, it was likely that the roads would be cleared soon. Rich people rarely lived with inconveniences, and Caroline figured it wouldn’t take long for the airport to be functioning. Snow plows would start clearing the streets as soon as it was safe. She figured it would be best to get the den straightened up and eliminate all signs of their forced cohab for the night even if the rest of her social circle would be showing up much later that night.

Taking a deep, bracing breath, she pushed up to try to untangle herself. The arm wrapped around her waist tightened and she squeaked as she was pulled backwards, firmly against Klaus’ chest.

“It’s cold,” he murmured, voice sleep rough. “Stay.”

Caroline bit her lip to keep from shivering. “I was going to restart the fire.”

His fingers flexed against her stomach and she felt him move around behind her. The sound of the covers shifting and the familiar click of a phone screen was loud, and she pressed her lips together to keep from laughing at the little grunt of disbelief he made. “It’s six am, Caroline. I don’t remember you particularly enjoying mornings.”

“Technically, it’s eight am in New York,” she pointed out just to be contrary. For all that he’d complained it was cold, the bed was cozy with the combined heat, but she didn’t feel like reminding him of it. Burrowing back into her pillow, her voice was slightly muffled by the bedding. “We can’t stay here forever.”

“Perhaps not,” Klaus agreed softly, legs brushing hers as he settled behind her. The bed didn’t provide much space for them both and a tangle of limbs was nearly unavoidable. Not that Klaus seemed interested in avoiding her, his arm still draped across her waist. “But I’m in no hurry to leave, either.”

“Not a fan of the cold?” Caroline teased yanking the blankets higher, hoping to cover the heat in her cheeks with the motion. “How does that work? You live in New York.”

He laugh was soft. “And as I’ve been told, so do you, love. But I was referring to my current company, not the slightly unfortunate temperature.”

Caroline’s eyes widened, fingers curling tightly into the sheets at his casual admittance that he’d talked to someone about her. The sudden jump in her pulse left her breath hitching in her throat, and she tried not to fidget. “New York was always in my plans. I’m pretty sure I mentioned it at least once.”

“You did,” he agreed. “Does the city still meet your expectations?”

Taking a bracing breath, she glanced over her shoulder to find him watching her intently. There was a crease from his pillow on his cheekbone above his usual stubble, and his eyes were dark in the low light. “It’s nice to be able to afford more than a single drink at a time, and I still hate the subway. But I think I’m getting used to it.”

She’d found herself fitting easily back into brightly colored flats and comfy sneakers for running to catch a train, and her boots had gotten a much needed upgrade once the weather had chilled. For all of her complaints about public transport, she loved having a coffee shop always around the corner and highlighted takeout menus on her fridge. She was still looking for the perfect yoga class, but her legs were in fantastic shape.

It was messy, but it was hers.

“I’m glad,” Klaus said simply.

Biting her lip, Caroline rolled onto her back to study Klaus’ face more closely. There was a quiet sort of intimacy laying there with him, even with the layers and layers of clothes between them. Toes curling nervously beneath the pile of blankets, she forced herself not to fidget.

“I thought about swinging by with a pizza to say hi, I was pretty sure the doorman would let me in, but I was told you were in Europe.”

His lips curled slowly, a hint of a dimple peeking from his cheek. “London seemed less of a trial than my apartment after you left.”

Not willing to read into that when she wanted it so badly, she looked at the ceiling in mock exasperation. “You probably ruined the spice cabinet in a week.”

He made a rough sound of amusement, but his gaze was serious when her eyes returned to his. “If only your lingering presence was limited to my spice cabinet. You were in the magazines on my coffee table, your trash tv addictions just sitting there on my DVR, the precise way you’d folded your bathroom towels after the maids left last. You were gone and I still couldn’t escape you.”

Caroline her felt her cheeks heat, her mouth going bone dry at the dip in his voice, the smallest hint of gravel. “First of all, those shoes are quality entertainment, and I’d have thought you were happy to get your space back.”

“You cannot imagine I let just anyone rearrange my kitchen at three am, Caroline.” His brows arched, something warm and amused lingering in his eyes. “Much less confiscate my DVR with their poor television choices.”

She’d known that but hadn’t been able to really read into such a thing with her last year of school standing firmly between them. Carefully inching closer, she watched for any sign of discomfort or distaste but instead, Klaus settled a hand against her spine and pulled her closer still. She sputtered out a laugh, something giddy rising in her chest, and forced herself to focus.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Klaus’ chin tipped downward, both brows arching. “A pretty girl living with the older brother of her best friend? It was rife with potential commentary from our mutual acquaintances, as I am sure you can imagine. By the time I realized that it was more than just a bit of lust, I’d also realized how bad of an idea it would be to start something when you still had so many choices to make.”

Caroline could respect that. She hadn’t been ready for something serious. It could only mean good things that he’d realized that and waited. But her school hadn’t been the only elephant in the room.

She bit her lip, words slightly hesitant. “Rebekah won’t be happy.”

Klaus’ lips quirked at her faint warning. “My sister doesn’t share well, true. It’s a family trait, I’m afraid. But as I do t believe either of us are looking for a fling, she will get over it. Eventually. Assuming, of course, you wish to pursue something that would lead to her throwing such a fit.”

His fingers tightened slightly against her spine, a sign that the question had been difficult for him. It was nice knowing that he was as nervous as she even if he was hiding better. Particularly with how much she liked Klaus, the potential for more than just like she could see not that far in the future and she wanted it.

More importantly, she had already decided that Rebekah’s feeling weren’t more important than her own. It wouldn’t be an easy conversation and her friend was likely to throw the tantrum Klaus had alluded to, but Caroline was certain they could work through it. But it was important that Klaus knew that she had decided on him, that she had done so knowing the Rebekah would be unhappy.

“I was going to use that pizza dinner as a chance to find out if you were seeing anyone,” Caroline admitted, fingers lifting to toy with the ties of the hoodie he wore. “And if you weren’t, receptive you’d be to a move or two.”

His eyes flared with interest, thumb brushing slowly across a knot of her spine. “What kind of move?”

“The kind of move where I wore something short and tight that made my boobs look fantastic,” she said with a slow growing smile. “It couldn’t be too racy of course, Rebekah would never believe my outfit a coincidence if I showed too much skin. For that, I’m going to have to bribe her with candy flavored vodka and those English cake things she likes.”

“Not a fan of fairy cakes, love?”

“Oh no, they’re delicious, but for someone who drinks pure sugar disguised as alcohol, I do not understand her hatred of frosting.”

Klaus laughed softly, eyes lowering to the curve of her lips. “A discussion for another time, I think. I’m not particularly interested in the things my sister likes, Caroline.”

It was with more than a twinge of regret that she covered his mouth with her palm. Both of his brows arched in question, confusion clear on his face. Caroline took a deep breath and tried not to think about the feel of his stubble under her fingertips, and wonder how it would feel against much more delicate skin.

“You were going to kiss me.” The low noise of agreement he made set off butterflies low in her stomach and did not help her resolve. At all. “You can’t kiss me.”

His free hand lifted her palm from his lips and he tipped his head. There was no censure in his voice, just a careful caution she appreciated. “No?”

“Well,” she amended. “You can’t kiss me right now. It might be early, but we need to get the fire going and figure out food and I’d really like to brush my teeth. And you know, figure out how long until we can expect the power to turn on and the roads to be plowed. I’d also really, really like to get this room straightened up because if Kol teases us about sharing a bed Rebekah is going to be livid and I’d prefer her to be maybe not drunk, but at least tipsy before the conversation about dating her brother happens.”

His hand shifted so that thumb stroked slowly along the curve of her bottom lip as she drew in a breath. “And after we accomplish this mental list of yours, Caroline?”

“That depends,” she said brightly. “A girl has to have standards, and while I’m totally onboard with the kissing post-toothpaste, your half frozen hands aren’t getting anywhere near my boobs.”

Klaus’ laughter shook his whole body and she forced herself to maintain a straight face when what she wanted to do was laugh with him. Ducking his head, he caught her fingers and pressed the wide curve of her smile against her palm. Her breath caught, and for a moment they laid there, watching each other. Then Klaus pushed up, taking the heat of the blankets with him, and she squealed. He took no pity on her, pulling her up with him, and she pressed against the heat of him once they stood, shivering.

“As delightful as this is,” Klaus drawled, tugging at the ends of her hair. “I cannot start a fire and cuddle with you at the same time, sweetheart.”

Nodding, she reluctantly moved away from him. “Fine. I’ll track down some of those water bottles and then start folding the bedding.”

His eyes glimmered with laughter. “Don’t forget the toothpaste.”

Caroline huffed out a laugh then, reaching back to redo the mess of her bun as Klaus stepped around her. For a moment, she watching him move, the shift of his shoulders beneath the layers before making herself look away. She had no doubt that he would have the fire going in record time. She’d brush her teeth and give Rebekah a call, find out what kind of timeline they had to work with and then she’d very happily submit herself to a few hours getting handsy with Klaus.

It would have to suffice until they made it back to New York. Then she’d suck it up and break the news to Rebekah before she let Klaus take her to dinner. If he was really lucky, she’d show him some of her new, pretty and very adult lingerie. Delighted with her plan, Caroline went hunting for her cellphone, happiness a bubbling in her chest.

It was going to be a great New Years.

#my fic #klaroline #klaroline fanfic #klaroline drabbles

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bountyofbeads · 5 years ago

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The 'fool' that fentanyl made into a millionaire

https://apnews.com/ce51cf7c958643629bce76764f71058d

This is a fascinating read 📖 looking at who stoked and helped create the Fentanyl Crisis that has taken so many lives. 😱 😭 😭 😭

The 'Fool ' That Fentanyl Made Into A Millionaire

By CLAIRE GALOFARO and LINDSAY WHITEHURST | Published September 14, 2019 10:20 AM ET | AP | Posted September 14, 2019 10:40 AM ET |

SALT LAKE CITY (AP) — The photo that flashed onto the courtroom screen showed a young man dead on his bedroom floor, bare feet poking from the cuffs of his rolled up jeans. Lurking on a trash can at the edge of the picture was what prosecutors said delivered this death: an ordinary, U.S. Postal Service envelope.

It had arrived with 10 round, blue pills inside, the markings of pharmaceutical-grade oxycodone stamped onto the surface. The young man took out two, crushed and snorted them. But the pills were poison, prosecutors said: counterfeits containing fatal grains of fentanyl, a potent synthetic opioid that has written a deadly new chapter in the American opioid epidemic.

The envelope was postmarked from the suburbs of Salt Lake City.

That's where a clean-cut, 29-year-old college dropout and Eagle Scout named Aaron Shamo made himself a millionaire by building a fentanyl trafficking empire with not much more than his computer and the help of a few friends.

___

This story was produced in partnership with the Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting.

___

For three weeks this summer, those suburban millennials climbed onto the witness stand at his federal trial and offered an unprecedented window into how fentanyl bought and sold online has transformed the global drug trade. There was no testimony of underground tunnels or gangland murders or anything that a wall at the southern border might stop. Shamo called himself a "white-collar drug dealer," drew in co-workers from his time at eBay and peppered his messages to them with smiley-face emojis. His attorney called him a fool; his primary defense was that he isn't smart enough to be a kingpin.

How he and his friends managed to flood the country with a half-million fake oxycodone pills reveals the ease with which fentanyl now moves around the world, threatening to expand the epidemic beyond America's borders. It is so potent, so easy to transport, experts say, large-scale traffickers no longer require sophisticated networks to send it to any corner of the globe. All they need is a mailbox, internet access and people with an appetite for opioids. And consumption rates are rising from Asia to Europe to Latin America as pharmaceutical companies promote painkillers abroad.

The case against Shamo detailed how white powder up to 100 times stronger than morphine was bought online from a laboratory in China and arrived in Utah via international mail; it was shaped into perfect-looking replicas of oxycodone tablets in the press that thumped in Shamo's basement and resold on the internet's black markets. Then it was routed back into the postal system in thousands of packages addressed to homes across this country awash with prescription painkiller addiction.

When Shamo took the stand to try to spare himself a lifetime in prison, he began with a nervous chuckle. He careened from one topic to the next in a monologue prosecutors would later describe as masterful manipulation to convince the jury he thought his drug-dealing was helping people. Customers wrote thank you notes because their doctors refused to prescribe more painkillers, he said. It felt like "a win-win situation" — he got rich and his customers got drugs.

One of them was a struggling 21-year-old named Ruslan Klyuev who died in his bedroom in Daly City, California, the envelope from Utah at his feet. Shamo was charged in connection to that overdose alone, but when investigators scoured the list of customers they said they counted dozens more dead.

___

The question before this jury is being debated all across America: Two decades into the opioid epidemic, is there such a thing as justice for 400,000 lost lives?

The largest civil litigation in history is testing how the pharmaceutical industry should be held accountable for inundating the country with billions of addictive pain pills. Purdue Pharma, seen by many as the primary villain for deceptively pushing the blockbuster drug OxyContin, reached a tentative $12 billion settlement this week with about half the states and roughly 2,000 local governments. Attorneys general who didn't sign on say the figure is far too low. A trial of other pharmaceutical companies is scheduled for next month, in which communities will contend that their mass marketing of prescription painkillers sparked an epidemic.

This crisis began in the 1990s and has since has spiraled into waves, each worse than the one before: Prescription opioids spread addiction, then a crackdown on prescribing paved the road to heroin, which led to fentanyl — a synthetic opioid made entirely in a laboratory. Traffickers added it to heroin to boost its potency and profitability. That transition happened slowly at first, then with extraordinary ferocity.

By 2017, deaths from synthetic opioids had increased more than 800 percent, to 28,466, dragging the United States' overall life expectancy down for a third consecutive year for the first time in a century. Fentanyl deaths have been reported abroad, in Canada, Sweden, Estonia, the United Kingdom. Countries with surging prescription opioid addiction, like Australia, fear they are on the brink.

"Fentanyl will be the bubonic plague," said Mike Vigil, former chief of international operations for the Drug Enforcement Administration, warning that any country with a burgeoning prescription opioid problem could soon find itself following American footsteps. "It's just a matter of time."

No one can say exactly how or why fentanyl, first synthesized in 1959 as a powerful painkiller, entered the modern illicit drug market, said Bryce Pardo, a researcher at the Rand Corporation. In 2013, people began overdosing on heroin laced with fentanyl in New England and Ohio, and it spread from there. Shabbir Safdar, the Partnership for Safe Medicines' executive director, said the first known death from a fentanyl-laced pill was in San Francisco in October 2015.

It was a frightening development: The DEA estimates 3.4 million Americans misuse prescription painkillers, compared to 475,000 heroin users — meaning the pool potentially exposed is 10 times bigger.

There are two sources of supply. Mexican cartels and packages shipped direct from China, where it is produced in a huge and under-regulated chemical sector. A Senate investigation last year found massive quantities of fentanyl pouring in from China through the Postal Service. The report largely blamed dated technology that left customs inspectors sifting through packages manually looking for "the proverbial needle in a haystack." The Postal Service wrote in a statement to The Associated Press that it is working hard with its international counterparts to close those loopholes, and is improving its technology to intercept fentanyl shipments.

By the time a seized package heading from China to Utah led investigators to Shamo, he had already turned fentanyl into at least 458,946 potentially poisonous pills, the government said. There are many more like him, officials say, upstart traffickers pressing pure Chinese-made fentanyl into pills in their basements and kitchens with unsophisticated equipment. In a single batch, one pill might have no fentanyl and another enough to kill a person instantly. One agent at Shamo's trial compared it to making chocolate-chip cookies, only if too many chips ended up in a "cookie," whoever ate it dropped dead.

For traffickers, the profit margins are irresistible: The DEA estimates a kilogram of fentanyl synthesized for a few thousand dollars could make a dealer more than $1 million.

"Any moron can basically become a major drug kingpin by dealing in fentanyl," said Vigil. "You can have somebody with an IQ minus 100 who becomes an overnight multimillionaire."

___

Aaron Shamo dreamed of entrepreneurial riches. He idolized Steve Jobs and Bill Gates, and studied self-improvement books like "Think and Grow Rich."

He and a longtime friend, Drew Crandall, worked at eBay after failed stints in college. But Crandall was fired and Shamo decided it was "unfair" that he still had to work, so he quit. They wanted easy money.

Shamo grew up in Phoenix with three older sisters. As a teenager, he started smoking pot and refusing to attend services with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. His parents sent him to boarding school in Utah, where he earned his Eagle Scout badge. He later met Crandall through their shared love of longboarding and they moved in together. Crandall was awkward and shy; Shamo was charismatic, and prided himself on helping his friend talk to girls.

The pair concocted a plan to sell their Adderall, prescribed for attention deficit disorder, on the dark web — a wild, unregulated layer of the internet reached through a special browser. There are underground marketplaces there that mimic Amazon or eBay, where guns and drugs and pirated software are traded. Money is exchanged anonymously through cryptocurrencies like bitcoin.

They learned what they needed on the web, searching with queries like "how to ship drugs." It was so easy. They expanded, ordering drugs in bulk, breaking them down and selling at a mark-up, all while barely having to leave the house.

They used the postal system like a drug mule, peddling the club drug MDMA, magic mushrooms, date rape drugs — they once bought a kilogram of cocaine from Peru. They recruited friends, offering them $100 to have parcels mailed to their homes, no questions asked.

But the profit margins were slim and their ambitions were greater: They bought a pill press, ordered the sedative alprazolam online from India and watched YouTube videos to figure out how to turn it into fake Xanax, an anti-anxiety medication. Crandall, math minded, created the recipe. They mixed it up by shaking it in mason jars.

Then Crandall fell in love.

His new girlfriend grew suspicious when he would sneak away to package drugs. When she confronted him at a party, he tearfully confessed. She forgave him, if he promised to leave the business. They bought one-way tickets to New Zealand.

Then a local drug dealer made a suggestion to Shamo that would change the course of his life: There was a fortune to be made in producing fake oxycodone.

Shamo enlisted his gym buddy, Jonathan Luke Paz, to help him. Shamo ordered fentanyl online from China, set up the pill press in the basement and bought dyes and stamps to match popular pharmaceuticals. Then they handed them over to the local dealer, who tested them on his own customers. The first batches were weak or speckled in color, he told them, or didn't react like real oxycodone when users heated it on tinfoil to smoke it.

But they were getting better.

"Close to being money in the bank," the dealer messaged Shamo. "You did it, bro."

On the first day of 2016, Shamo he wrote out his goals for the upcoming year: He would be rich. All the girls would want him.

"I will overachieve," he wrote. "I will overcome."

He went online with his products a month later. Some were specified as fentanyl, but some weren't, purporting instead to contain 30 milligrams of oxycodone. Shamo named this new store Pharma-Master.

___

As winter turned to summer, sales skyrocketed. Pharma-Master started selling thousands of pills a week, charging around $10 each.

On June 6, a relatively small order came in: 10 pills, to be shipped to an apartment house in Daly City, a working-class suburb of San Francisco.

Like every order, it was sent in an encrypted email to two former eBay co-workers in charge of distribution. Alexandrya Tonge and Katherine Bustin counted out the pills in their suburban condo, packaged the shipments and dropped them in the mail.

The envelope arrived at the doorstep at 3 p.m. on June 11.

Under different circumstances, Shamo might have been friends with the 21-year-old man who lived there. Ruslan Klyuev, a Russian immigrant, was also an aspiring tech entrepreneur interested in the dark web. He had a baby face: rosy cheeks and curly hair. Klyuev loved to cook and would make extravagant meals for the house.

But his relationship ended, his web design business sputtered and he became estranged from his family, said Barry, a roommate who spoke on the condition that his last name not be published. His emotions toggled between sorrow and elation, and he struggled with substance abuse.

After drinking vodka, Klyuev crushed two of the pills with a battery and snorted the powder with a rolled-up sticky note, according to testimony. He started drifting in and out of sleep. He couldn't stand up.

He was found dead the next day, with fentanyl, alcohol and a substance associated with cocaine in his system.

His was the only death with which Shamo would be charged. His defense attorney, Greg Skordas, argued that neither his death nor any others can be definitely linked with Shamo's operation.

But in documents, prosecutors connected Shamo to a veritable slaughter:

A 24-year-old man in Seattle overdosed three weeks after he bought pills from Pharma-Master in March 2016.

Later that spring, 40 pills were shipped to a 21-year-old in Washington, D.C. He died in his dorm room 11 days later.

In Utah, a 29-year-old software analyst named Devin Meldrum had been searching since he was a teenager for a cure for cluster headaches that felt like knives stabbing his skull, said his father, Rod.

Doctors had prescribed opioids but limited the dosage, so he bought a backup supply from Pharma-Master. On Aug. 13, 2016, he ran out of pills days before his refill. As he got ready for bed, he texted his fiance and took a pill from his reserve for the first time, his father said.

He was dead before she arrived to say goodnight, blue on his bathroom floor.

His father isn't sure Shamo even now understands the magnitude of what happened: "Does he even comprehend how many families have had their hearts torn out?"

___

Online, Pharma-Master was getting rave reviews.

"These will make u a millionaire in under a year, guarantee," wrote one shopper who called himself "Trustworthy Money."

He was a dealer in Portland named Jared Gillespie. He bought 80,000 pills from Pharma-Master, according to documents filed against Gillespie in Oregon. He knew he was buying fentanyl pills, the Oregon prosecutors alleged, but the people buying from him had no way to know that. They are unknown and uncounted.

Shamo offered steep discounts for bulk buyers. Tonge, one of his distributors, testified that she began to question Shamo's claim that he was helping patients who couldn't get medication: Why would one person need 5,000 pills?

Her vacuum cleaner would become a critical piece of evidence. Its dust bin was filled with pills. The operation had grown so frantic, pumping out tens of thousands of tablets a month, that when they spilled onto the floor, they weren't worth saving.

Tonge and her partner complained that the orders were coming too quickly, so Shamo hired a "runner" named Sean Gygi to pick up the packages and drop them in the mail, dozens of them a day.

Drug manufacturing became routine: Shamo once wrote himself a to-do list, and included a reminder to "make blues," the street name for oxycodone, along with getting a haircut, washing his sheets, cleaning the kitchen. And Shamo planned to expand. He bought another press so big agents would later need a tow truck to drag it out of his garage.

The money was pouring in, and out.

Shamo hired a personal assistant; she did his shopping, had his car detailed. He stuffed a duffel bag with $429,000 cash and asked his parents to hold it. He bragged to friends about VIP bottle service at clubs and gambling in Las Vegas. He shopped for real estate in Puerto Rico; took photos sipping champagne on a cruise ship; bought designer jeans, an 88-inch television, a boat and BMW.

Crandall and his girlfriend posted photos on Instagram of trips to Laos, Thailand, Singapore, kayaking and partying. But he was running out of money and agreed to become a remote customer service representative. The list of people accepting packages from China ballooned to more than a dozen. Everyone was making easy money and getting text messages from Shamo dotted with "lol" and "awesome!"

Shamo penned another note: "I am Shamo. I am awesome. My friends love me. I created an empire."

But even as he cheered himself on, there were signs of danger.

One customer reported an overdose death. Shamo scanned obituaries, then declared it was a faked, Crandall said. Then a message said pills were making people sick.

Crandall forwarded it to Shamo with a dismissive question: Should he tell them to "suck it up?" Or send more pills to pacify them?

___

They didn't know it, but a suspicious customs agent at the Los Angeles International Airport had flagged a box from Shanghai, China, pulled it off the belt and looked inside. The agent found 98.7 grams of fentanyl powder — enough to make almost 100,000 pills. The box was destined for Utah.

Agents looked for more packages making their way from China to Utah, and eventually one arrived, said an agent with Homeland Security Investigations who spoke on condition of anonymity to protect ongoing investigations. On Nov. 8, 2016, postal inspectors seized a box en route from a port city in China known to law enforcement as a fentanyl-trafficking hub. It was addressed to Sean Gygi, Shamo's "runner," so agents arrived at his house with a search warrant.

Gygi said he thought the hundreds of envelopes he'd put in the mail contained the party drugs he sometimes took himself. Told it was fentanyl, the agent recalled, Gygi drooped.

He agreed to wear a wire while he picked up the packages, like he did every day. But instead of dropping them in the mail, he delivered them to police.

This single day's shipment contained 34,828 fentanyl pills destined for homes in 26 states.

Four days later, on Nov. 22, 2016, agents stood on Shamo's stoop, shouted through a bullhorn, then broke the door down with a battering ram. They were dressed in neon-orange hazmat suits with clear bowls around their faces that made them look like astronauts.

Shamo came up the stairs in a T-shirt and shorts, a mask and gloves in his pocket. A pill press downstairs was running, in a room with powder caked on the walls and the furniture.

Others were raiding the stash at Bustin and Tonge's condo. Veteran vice officers would say they had never seen so many pills, even in international operations. In total, they packed up over 74,000 fentanyl pills awaiting distribution.

In Shamo's sock drawer, agents found stack after stack of cash. There was more money in a safe in the closet. Agents totaled up more than $1.2 million, not including the money he had tied up in Bitcoin or bags he'd stashed with his family. Investigators eventually caught up with Paz, who Shamo paid around a dollar per pill, and he surrendered $800,000 more.

Crandall was in Laos, still traveling with his girlfriend, when he heard the news. He stored his drug-related data on a flash drive, threw it down a storm drain and sent an email to the dark web marketplace: "This account has been compromised." After a few months, he figured he was in the clear. He and his girlfriend planned their wedding and invited guests to meet them in Hawaii for the big day: May 12, 2017. They bought rings, and a dress.

Agents were waiting when they stepped onto American soil in Honolulu.

___

When Crandall sat on the witness stand, he was slump-shouldered and shackled, clumsily trying to maneuver his handcuffs to pull a tissue out of the box to wipe his eyes. In the two years since his arrest, he has been imprisoned in a county jail and watched his fellow inmates suffer the brutal fallout of an opioid epidemic. They stole from their parents, cycled in and out of jail and shivered, sweated, sobbed through withdrawal.

He'd helped feed this, he realized. For money.

He and Shamo's other ex-partners and packagers pleaded guilty, agreed to testify against their friend and hoped for mercy.

The story they told convinced the jury to convict Shamo of 12 counts, including continuing criminal enterprise, the so-called "kingpin charge" that is typically reserved for drug lords like El Chapo and carries a mandatory life sentence. The jury deadlocked, though on the 13th count: the death of Klyuev.

The bust was one of the largest operations in the country in 2016. But the fentanyl trade has only grown more sophisticated since. By comparison, Shamo now looks "small-time," said Safdar, with the Partnership for Safe Medicines. The most notorious Mexican drug cartels have transitioned to fentanyl, even as homegrown upstarts like Shamo's proliferate.

Seizure data in the United Nation's World Drug Report shows trafficking quickly expanding worldwide. In 2013, four countries reported fentanyl seizures. By 2016: 12 countries. In 2017, 16 countries reported seizing fentanyl.

And there is no reason to believe it will not spread further. In Africa and the Middle East, the synthetic opioid tramadol is widely abused, much of it illicitly manufactured in Asia. If that market transitions to fentanyl it would be catastrophic, said Scott Stewart, a former agent with the State Department. In Australia, prescription opioid consumption has quadrupled. Marianne Jauncey, medical director of a Sydney harm-reduction center, can't think of any reason fentanyl won't soon arrive — all they can do is prepare for the day that it does.

As Shamo was convicted, a single dark web marketplace still had 32,000 listings for drugs, thousands of them claiming to be oxycodone. There was no way to tell whether they originated in a pharmacy or somebody's basement.

One vendor even borrowed a version of Shamo's name. Pharmamaster peddles oxys online, sold in bulk at a discount. It has, it boasts, an "unlimited" supply.

"Pharma-grade A++," the listings promise. "24-hour shipping!"

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bloodkingdomrp · 5 years ago

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♚SILAS.JAMES.MONROE-DUMONT

“ Where does seeking justice end and seeking vengeance begin? “

✚ AGE & DOB: Thirty-Four & September 19th, 1986 ✚ OCCUPATION: Emergency Room Doctor ✚ AFFILIATION: Unaffiliated

♛THE HISTORY♛

Before he was Dr. Monroe-Dumont (Dr. MD, as his colleagues like to tease him), he was just a Monroe. One of three, actually; always linked with his siblings by teachers and neighbors who neither took the time to get to know the family nor raise a finger to help them. Yet they never failed to shoot the pitiful trio sorrowful glances and whisper to each other about how terrible things must be for those poor, pinched Monroe children.

Roe was the eldest, and, therefore, the only one who remembered what their mother had been like before. He still had memories of a mother who patiently showed him over and over again how to tie his shoes, who would hum while she cleaned the house, and cut his sandwich into four perfect triangles if he asked nicely. A mother who’d remember she had three young children waiting for her and hurry home in order to tuck them into bed with a kiss, no matter how late she got off work. But that was all before she had become a walking list of tragic statistics: battered girlfriend, single mother; deadbeat, drug addict. No family, no education, and three kids under the age of ten, Miranda Monroe self-medicated herself out of a sea of anxiety until she was too fucked up to remember how to be stressed about anything at all. Dose after toxic dose, drugs became her only comfort, her entire identity. Eventually taking hold of her completely, leaving no room for trivial things like tenderness or parental instinct. So those became responsibilities Roe took on.

Barely more than a child himself, Roe was a poor substitute for a parent, but he tried his best. Long nights spent tucked against Annie and Parker, whispering endless, made-up stories in their ears until they fell asleep. Anything to distract their minds and keep them from asking about where their mother was or when she’d be coming home. The days were longer still, helping his siblings with their homework while his own sat in the bottom of his backpack, encouraging them to “eat up,” even as the powder-cheap mac n cheese stuck to the roof of his mouth as he tried to swallow it down for the fifth time that week. Good days were few and far between, but he had Annie and he had Parker, and in the end, he would have traded anything to get that back, because far too soon the Monroe three became two.

Case number: 371209. Patient: Monroe, Parker. Age: 7. Cause of death: Arrhythmia resulting in ventricular fibrillation. Drug screening: positive screening for cocaine [benzoyl-methyl-ecgonine] and heroin [diacetylmorphine].

Miranda lands herself with charges for felony homicide, abuse, and neglect of a child. The cruelest factor at all being that the withdrawal she faces in prison somehow ended up being a bigger demon to her than the loss of her youngest child. The neighborhood is a flurry of rumors and rehearsed sympathy—what a tragedy, if only we had known, if only we could have done something. A blessing in disguise, others dare to assume, for at least the two other children can be helped now. Roe and Annie did not take as kindly to their supposed rescue.

Roe doesn’t want to like the Dumonts. Their smiles are too kind, their house too big, and their lifestyle too perfect to be real. But they’re equal measures persistent and patient, whisking Roe to and from court-mandated therapy sessions, giving him space on his bad days, and tactfully pressing in during those brief moments when his walls begin to drop and he forgets that he doesn’t want to be a part of this family. It becomes hard to not want to be there. It’s the little things that start to break him; Peggy asking him what he wants to eat every time she goes to make a shopping list, Jonathan bringing home a new pair of shoes when he notices Roe’s are looking a little worn. Roe had forgotten what it felt like to be the one being taken care of, and no matter how much it felt like weaknesses to admit it, he didn’t want to lose that. He did not know if he could handle losing the first people, aside from his siblings, who looked at him like he was something more than a walking tragedy. And for a reason, that Roe still has trouble fathoming, the Dumonts did not want to lose him either. Three hundred and seventy-two days after being placed in their home, they finally broached the topic of adoption. Though, Peggy would later confess that it only took a week for her to be sure that Roe was meant to stay with them. And yet, that was still too soon. At that time, Roe was still a child grieving for a brother lost, mourning a family that would never be reunited, and it would be another year before any legal decisions were made to change his custody.

Compared to the life Roe had lived within his first fourteen years, the Dumont’s home was near perfect. In all ways but one: Annie wasn’t there. Judges and family social workers all kept promising the same thing, “It’s only a temporary.” But temporary was a heavy weight on his shoulders as days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and nearly two years had passed with the siblings only getting to see each other every few weeks. Roe had fought against the decision, questioning the courts on why his sister couldn’t be placed where he was, attempting to force them to see reason and put them back together, pleading with them when nothing else had worked. But they remained unmoved. It had been deemed that Annalise Monroe required a certain level of care that her older brother did not. Where Roe had taken his upbringing as a cautionary tale—every decision a conscious effort to distance himself from his parents and the path they had walked—Annie was tragically and undeniably a product of her early home environment. Rebellious and chaotic, she was moved through several therapeutic foster homes before landing herself in a residential facility. Her case managers hoped that the structure would provide a safe environment for her to start to work through her trauma, but with Annie things were often one step forward and a fierce and destructive leap backwards. The Dumonts had offered to serve as a potential step down for Annie after she completed her treatment, but with a series of self-sabotaging behaviors, discharge was seeming farther and farther away.

In the end, it was the move that forced the decision. Jonathan’s work transferred him from Chicago to St. Louis, and though Roe had already, inadvertently, come to think of the couple as his family, legally he was still in the state’s custody. As such his placement with the Dumonts would have been disrupted by their move to a new state. At this point it was no longer a question. The Dumonts calmly explained to Roe that they were going to adopt him so he could stay with them. Though some might have mistaken their actions as controlling, or inconsiderate not to ask Roe his opinion, it was a merciful decision. It offered Roe exactly what he wanted without having to say it out loud, lest he have to taste words coated with a sickening layer of betrayal towards the sister he was leaving behind. Guilt was a familiar companion and it travelled with him still, and yet, though Roe would not admit it aloud, his first night in Missouri—over three hundred miles away from every terrible and cruel thing that had ever happened to him—he slept a little easier.

Roe thrived in this new environment. Never bold or boisterous, his mark was one of quiet excellence. Given the time to actually focus on schoolwork, with the Dumont’s constant encouragement and praise, Roe developed a love of learning that promised nothing less than success when paired with his uninhibited determination. Supported and cherished, Roe learned what contentment truly felt like. If it was not for his steadfast communication with his sister, he could have written off his early life experiences as nothing more than an extended nightmare. He had finally seen what the world could be like, away from the pernicious streets of Chicago, and it was something he longed to share with his sister. To finally, finally, give her a new start as well.

In the summer of 2008, Roe had just graduated with his degree is pre-med and was eagerly awaiting the start of his graduate classes at Washington University in St. Louis. Despite his excitement for his continuing education, frankly, the only countdown that was on his radar was Annie’s eighteenth birthday. Released from the state’s custody at that point, she would be free to go where she wanted, and the Dumonts had already agreed to allow her to move into their spare bedroom while she figured out her next steps. He had expected his sister to share his elation, to turn away from the city that had practically held her captive all these years and never look back. But when he shared his plan with Annie she had simply shrugged and resolutely declared that she thought she would stay in Chicago for a while longer, and when Annie made up her mind about something there was no changing it.

That was not to say Roe did not try. He spent the next four years of medical school and first three years of his residency periodically sending his sister different job opportunities or school possibilities; all of which were far outside the radius of the windy city. Occasionally Annie would feign interest, going as far as to apply for one of the jobs. At least that is what she would tell Roe whenever he pestered her on the subject, though somehow none of them ever seemed to work out.

It was a Tuesday in May when Roe had called Annie, telling her about a secretary position that had opened up at a private practice where one of his friends from school was now working. The following Thursday he received an incoming call from an unknown number. The woman on the other end of the line explained that she was calling because he was listed as the emergency contact for Annalise Monroe, who was being rushed into surgery after receiving a gunshot wound to the head. He’s later told it’s a miracle his sister survived the surgery and that they were able to get the bullet out. Unfortunately, said miracle did little to counter the bleeding that had already led to severe swelling inside of her brain. In a cruel form of irony, ultimately, Roe gets his wish and gets Annie out of Chicago. She’s transferred to an ICU in a Missouri hospital, only an hour away from the Dumont’s home. The hospital there is smaller, vastly different from the bustling hospitals in Chicago’s city limits, giving them more time to dedicate to monitoring and caring for coma patients.

Unable now to call Annie, Roe instead spends the last year of his residency on the phone with her doctors and the investigators in charge of her case, her attacker never having been identified. No matter which he ends up calling the responses are always the same: there are no new updates. Annie remains alive—if you could call her pitiful state of existence that—and any leads towards finding who shot her remain dead and cold. Upon finishing his residency, St. Luke’s Hospital offers to hire Roe on as full-time staff. Much to the surprise, and clear dismay, of his adopted parents, Roe declines the position. Instead taking a job at Northwestern Memorial Hospital, putting himself back in the heart of the very city he had spent over a decade avoiding.

Roes never been the best with using his words, and he has none to verbalize why he had to go back. He doesn’t think he has the answers even within himself. Perhaps he was desperate to gaze upon the city in a new light, attempt to see whatever Annie must have saw in it, that kept her resisting all of his efforts pull her away. Or perhaps it was just the inescapable noose of fate, that there must always be a Monroe suffering in Chicago’s streets. And some days he did suffer; especially in the beginning, moving around the city with a haunted look in his eye. Every nerve in his body on edge, the entire city serving as one large trauma reminder for the child he once was and the trials that he faced. Peggy calls him often; tells him he sounds tired and that she wishes he would take some time off work. It’s the only line she uses with him now, after the one time she had been bold enough to tell Roe he should move back, which resulted in the only true fight they’ve ever had.

He doesn’t take time off, instead he rides it out and faces the sense of foreboding headfirst, drives through his old neighborhood every day after work until his hand doesn’t tremble against the wheel anymore. It’s not great, and it doesn’t feel like home. After all, Parker and Annie were the only reasons Chicago ever felt like home. But Roe survives. He makes a handful of friends and invests deeply in his job at the hospital. He’s just started to find some new semblance of normal when he receives the phone call that he’s been anticipating—dreading—for nearly three years.

They bury Annie on the Dumont’s family plot. “Your family is our family,” Jonathan tells him. And Roe knows that they believe that. The way Peggy cries, sorrow down to her very soul, is nothing less than a woman grieving the daughter that she never had a chance to take in. She cups his face after the service, and whispers, so sincere that it breaks his heart a little, that she prays he can find peace now. But peace is not what Roe feels. Annie may be at rest, but his soul rages on— a flicker of something dark deep inside of himself that he had tried so hard to ignore. “Death can be a time for healing”, the pastor had said, black suit pressed to perfection, worn leather bible clutched in his hand, a picture of poetic reverie. Roe agrees with him, more than any of them will ever know. He knows it’s true. It’s death that will bring him comfort. It’s just not Annie’s death that he needs. He has no name, no face, barely any clues to go on, but it doesn’t matter. He knows he’ll find them. And when he does, they’ll pay for they did.

♜ THE DETAILS♜

(+): conscientious, +resourceful, +compassionate

(-): critical, -reticent, -penitent

Face claim: Hugh Dancy

written by Bev | CST&EST

#the doctor #closed

1 note · View note

cassidyastorxaviershaw · 6 years ago

Text

Scene Week - Thursday

WHO: Adam Sylvester (Dom) & Eli Hummel (sub) @dominantsylvester

WHERE: Dominant Dorms, room 109 ; Adam’s suite.

WHEN: Thursday evening. May 16th.

CLASS: Ouch! That Stings - Impact Play & Knot’s And Other Things You’ve Been Doing Wrong - Bondage

KINKS: Impact - Flogging. Bondage - Leather Cuffs

NOTES: Dominant has submissive strip, cuffs wrists down the side of body and attaches to ankle cuffs and uses a flogger for impact play. After care assumed.

WORD COUNT: 4507

As soon as classes ended on Thursday, Eli headed to the Dom building and straight to Adam's room. He wouldn't lie, he was a little nervous about this one considering they hadn't actually gotten off on the right foot. He reached the door and took a deep breath, dropping to his knees. This was becoming all too familiar now. He lent forward and knocked the door three times before moving backwards and resting his hands on his knees.

Adam wasn't sure how this scene would go, at all, and there was a small, but larger than normal, chance that it could be a complete disaster. But Eli apparently wanted to try, so Adam was willing to let him. It was entirely possible that Eli just needed a little bit of guidance, and if that was the case, Adam wanted to help. When he opened the door, he was pleased to see Eli on his knees, and sent him a small smile of approval. "Thank you for being so prompt," he said as he moved back to let Eli in. "I'd like you to go and kneel facing the couch, please. We're going to talk about limits and rules and what you'd like to do in this scene before we do anything else."

Eli smiled back at Adam, the man much more attractive in person. He waited for permission and then moved on his hands and knees to the spot by the couch, facing it and waiting for Adam to join him. He was in a bit of pain from the scene the night before and his ass was bruised so, when he was asked, he would answer honestly.

Adam was surprised, but somewhat impressed, that Eli crawled to the couch rather than standing up. Adam hadn't specified, and wouldn't have minded if Eli had stood, but the fact that he didn't showed that he was at least attempting to get into a submissive mindset, that he was entering into this scene in good faith. Adam followed at a sedate pace and sat on the couch in front of Eli. Once there, he sent the sub another small smile, just a twitch of his lips really, so Eli would know he was pleased. "I think we should talk about rules first, before we do anything else. I only have a few. The first is respect. I expect you to be polite and to use my title. And you can expect me to be equally considerate. It's not a one way street. The second is honesty. If I don't think you've told me the truth, I'll stop the scene. I just won't play with someone who won't be upfront with me. And the third is obedience. You can ask questions, or ask me to pause or explain something, but I do expect you to do as you're told. The exception to this, of course, if it you need to use your safe word. That would always be respected."

Eli watched Adam's face and noticed the twitch of his lip which in turn made him smile. Even though he'd been rude to start, he really was here in good faith and wanted to be a good submissive. He needed the points too. He listened to Adam speak, not daring to interrupt him and, as he finished he nodded his head and gently cleared his throat, "Yes Sir, of course I will use your title and be honest with you. I want to be a good submissive for you sir". He paused, "In the interest of honesty, I will tell you I had an impact scene yesterday and I am a little sore and bruised sir but I am happy to have some more impact today. My safewords are amber and red and if I am gagged and unable to talk, I will click my fingers three times, sir".

"Good boy," Adam said with another small smile when Eli finished. "I appreciate you telling me that from the beginning. We can do a little impact play, if you're interested, but it won't be the focus of the scene, since you're bruised already. I'd like to hear your limits, and also what classes you're currently in, please."

Eli nodded, glad he'd made the decision to come clean about his bruises from yesterday, "Yes Sir, I am still interested in impact play if it should come up in the scene". He paused, biting his lip as he did and smiled at Adam, "My limits are vore, scat, vomit and age play and I'm in sub 101, D/S History, Ouch that stings and Knots and other things you've been doing wrong".

Those were very broad limits, but Adam knew that Eli was still very new to this. He was probably trying to be open to experimenting, which Adam couldn't fault him for. Adam nodded at the list of classes, which seemed to him to be all solid choices for someone just starting out with exploring kink. "Excellent. I've planned a scene which isn't too challenging, and it will fit very well into your classes. Since you didn't mention them, I'm assuming you don't have any reservations about including sexual aspects to the scene. Is that correct?"

Eli smiled, of course Adam would have something planned out, he seemed very professional when it came to being a dominant, "Thank you for taking the time to plan a scene Sir" he said, ensuring to keep his tone polite, "Yes that is correct, sir. I am more then happy for the scene to have sexual aspects".

Adam gave him another of his small, approving smiles and nodded. "Alright. I've set some things up in one of my spare bedrooms." He continued speaking as he stood. "You're not required to crawl, Eli, but if you'd like to, you certainly may. I want to encourage you to seek out the things that make you feel submissive, in a good way. Whatever makes you feel like you're being a good boy. If crawling does that, by all means."

Eli nodded and smiled, "I don't mind crawling Sir" he explained, having gotten used to it now. He liked that Adam was wanting to teach him a little as well as do the scene and thought he could learn a lot from this Dom. The worlds good boy made him smile more, his favourite words to be used to him, "I want to crawl for you Sir" he added as he followed Adam, staying on his hands and knees.

Adam smiled just a little wider at that. This was good. Eli was much more willing to engage in overtly submissive behaviors than Adam had expected. It was a good sign. Perhaps he'd been right, then, that Eli just needed a bit of guidance and he'd blossom into a happy, healthy submissive. "Good boy," he praised, because he wanted to encourage such behavior. He headed to the spare room, which was still just set up as a bedroom. The only indication that he'd prepared it for a scene was that there were several toys and tools set out on a dresser along with a bottle of lube, and the bedside table held two water bottles. "Take off your clothes, but you can leave your underwear on for now."

Eli looked around the room and at the small set up. He found every time he was called a good boy, he'd have to stop for a moment and shake his head, it was such a reward for him. He stood up as he was given his orders and undressed, a few small marks on his back but his largest bruise on his ass hidden by his boxer shorts. He folded his clothes and knelt down to pile them neatly on the floor just under the bed, "Thank you Sir" he said, staying on his hands and knees.

Adam busied himself with his supplies, though it was mostly for show so Eli didn't feel rushed. He kept an eye on the boy and turned to face him when he was done. "Good boy," he praised again with an approving nod. "Stand up, please." He picked up an item from the dresser and showed it to Eli. "I wanted to use these leather cuffs with you today. I find they're good for someone who is new to bondage. Give me your wrist." He started to buckle the wide, flexible black leather cuff to Eli's wrist. "For one thing, they're gentler than most other forms of bondage. Rope can dig in, whereas these are wide enough that the pressure is spread out, so they don't dig, and you can feel that soft felt on the inside, so it won't hurt even if the cuffs are pulled on. For another thing, they're much faster than rope. Hand me your other wrist." He finished buckling the first cuff on and picked up the second cuff off the dresser. "Rope can take a long time, depending on what I want to do. Simply tying your hands together is quick enough, but with rope, if I want to move you or change your position, I have to untie all of it and start again. With this, I can just use these little chains to clip the rings on your cuffs together, or attach them to something else, any way I want to."

Eli stood when instructed and watched as Adam picked up the cuff. He held his wrist out and as Adam placed the cuff on him and explained he found he was actually learning a great deal. He nodded along with everything Adam said, taking it all in and when asked, raised his other wrist and held it out to Adam once again and observed him fastening it around his wrist, "That's very interesting information Sir, thank you for explaining it too me" he said, smiling up at him.

"Of course," Adam said with a small smile. Though he wasn't very effusive with his emotions, himself, it was nice to see Eli smiling at him. "I think understanding what's going on is a big part of being comfortable and feeling safe. Don't forget, you're allowed to ask questions at any time." He took the two ankle cuffs and crouched down to attach them to Eli's ankles in turn, then stood again to examine the cuffs. "How do they feel? They should be snug but not tight. If at any time your hands or feet start to get tingly or go numb, it's important that you say something immediately. It's not as much of a concern with this kind of bondage, since as I mentioned it doesn't have as much potential to dig into you as rope or metal, but it's still a possibility. Bondage should never cut off your circulation."

Eli nodded in agreement, "It's very reassuring for me to hear your knowledge of all these things and I promise, if I have any questions, I shall ask Sir" he said with another nod. He watched as Adam put the cuffs around his ankles and when he came back up he smiled and answered, "Yeah they feel snug and the leather feel really good against my skin. If I start to feel any weird feelings I'll tell you, Sir".

"Good, I'm glad. Nothing we do today should be frightening for you, or anything more than a little intimidating. That's on the Dominant in a scene, though, to make sure you feel safe. If you ever don't feel safe, the Dom has already failed." He was picking up little clips and short lengths of chain from the dresser and putting them in his pocket. "I'd like you up on the bed now, on your knees, it doesn't matter which way you face. I'll help you get in the right position once you're there."

Eli nodded, "I have never felt unsafe here sir so I feel like I've been around good Dom's and I'm very glad to be learning from you Sir". He had not known this would go so well but he'd gone in with an open and submissive mind and really wanted to try. He watched as Adam put the items in his pocket and then when instructed, he climbed onto the bed, facing the head board and sitting upwards on his knees, "Like this sir?" he asked to confirm.

"That's good, I would hate to hear that anyone at this Institute wasn't keeping their scene partners safe. Yes, that's perfect. Now I want you to bend over." He put a hand on Eli's back, guiding him down. "Like you're curling up into a ball. It should be a comfortable position. Lay your head down on the bed. It's okay if your ass comes up a little, but I want you to try keep your knees curled under you, like you're tryin to be as small as possible. And your arms go straight down by your sides." He took one of the little clips out of his pocket and attached it to one of Eli's ankle cuffs, then to the wrist cuff on the same side. After checking the cuffs again, he repeated it on the other side. "How do you feel? Adjust as you need to, you should still have a decent range of movement."

Eli listened hard to what Adam wanted and he moved with Adam's hand as it pushed him downwards. With his head on the bed and his hands resting down the side of his body, he did feel quite comfortable. As Adam clipped his wrists to his ankles he gave a gentle tug to see how much movement he would have, satisfied with the result, "I feel fine Sir" he said his head turned to the side of where he could hear the voice, "There is some give and I am not uncomfortable at all".

"Perfect. There are some positions, we call them stress positions, meant to be uncomfortable when you're in bondage, but this is certainly not one of them. And I wouldn't try that with a beginner anyway." Adam didn't think he wanted to try out stress positions until he had more experience himself, actually, but that was neither here nor there. "I'm going to use a flogger on you now. Since your bruising is on your ass, I'm going to stick to your back." He picked up the flogger from the dresser and then returned and trailed the soft, leather strands over Eli's shoulder blade. "I'm going to start quite soft and work my way up. Don't try to hide your reactions or be tough about it. It's important for me to know how much it hurts you, because everyone is different." He swung the flogger very lightly in circles, letting the ends collide with Eli's back barely hard enough to even make a noise. He moved up from there quickly to a light touch and steady rhythm, still hardly enough to sting.

Eli nodded and allowed himself to relax into the position, actually finding it very comfortable. He loved having a flogger used on him and when Adam said he would use his back, he spoke and said, "Thank you Sir. The flogger is my favourite". As Adam started swinging the flogger, Eli moaned, soft moans of pleasure. He loved the feeling of the strands against his skin, the light touches just making him feel good.

Adam smiled at Eli's reaction to the gentle touch of the flogger. He was looking forward to seeing how that changed once it started to become more painful. "There you go, good boy," he said softly. "Let yourself enjoy it." He started to pepper in the occasional harder snap of his wrist, hard enough to sting properly now, amongst the softer touches. As he kept going, even the softer touches got harder, until he had shifted to slow, evenly spaced strikes, reddening the skin of Eli's upper back.

Eli continued to moan whilst the stokes remaindd soft and and he nodded, "Yes Sir thank you" he spoke out. As he felt the touches get a little bit harder and start to sting he would jump at the more painful ones letting out more of a whimper then moan.

"You're doing very well, Eli," Adam said soothingly as the flogging started to get more painful. "You can tell me if you need a break." He kept up with the harder strikes now and continued his pace of slowly getting more painful. As he increased the intensity, he slowed down to give Eli more time between each strike. "Your skin is all pink now, it's lovely." He paused for a moment so he could run his hand over the warmed skin of Eli's upper back. "Tell me where you are, Eli. How much farther do you think you can go?"

Eli groaned with every hit but he'd always enjoyed the use of a flogger and found his groans and whimpers would become pleasurable moans, his cock hardening. He felt the hand on his back and moved his head so he could see Adam, "I can go further" he breathed out, "I love the feeling of the flogger sir, I always have".

Adam took a moment just to observe Eli more critically, taking in the level of tension in his body and voice. He judged that for the moment, Eli was being honest about being able to take more. "Good boy," he murmured before removing his hand and starting again. He went slower now, but each strike was a sharp snap that was louder than before and left Eli's back progressively redder.

Eli smiled at the praise. He knew from experience he could take more. With every stroke Eli would moan out, feeling the bites into his skin as his breathing started to become a pant, "Thank you Sir" he shouted out as he felt one particularly hard strike.

The pain was actually starting to get to Eli, Adam could tell, and this was the part he enjoyed the most. When a submissive started to lose their composure. "That's right, good boy," he praised when Eli thanked him, and he paused to feel his reddened skin again. It was hot to the touch now, evenly red over the top half of Eli's back. "I'm going to give you ten more, Eli. Nice hard ones. And you're going to thank me for each of them. Understand?"

Eli moaned at the words, always enjoying being called a good boy. He controlled his breathing and relaxed his shoulders as Adam placed a hand on his back. He could tell that it would be hot by now, but he didn't care, he enjoyed this too much. He listened to what was to come and nodded, "Yes Sir, I understand. Thank you Sir"

"Good boy," Adam murmured when Eli thanked him. He was really very pleased with how well Eli was submitting. He was glad that Eli had asked for this, and Adam had decided to acquiesce. Eli was certainly a sub worth taking the time to teach, he thought. He removed his hand and took a step back, then swung the flogger, the hardest swat he'd delivered thus far.

A moan or pain mixed with pleasure as the flogger hit him once more. He almost screamed out, but knew he should wait, they would only get more painful. He turned his head and looked at Adam, "One Sir" he breathed as he caught his breath

Adam paused and put his hand on Eli's back again. "I'm waiting for you to thank me," he reminded. He hadn't told Eli he had to count, but that was fine. He was insistent, though, that once he gave an instruction it had to be properly followed.

Eli took a breath, feeling the hand on his skin, "I'm sorry Sir" he breathed out, "I got it mixed up in my head". He nodded and added, "Thank you Sir" his body relaxed with the touch.

"It's alright, you're learning," Adam murmured. "Just a reminder to pay attention." He moved his hand away again and brought the flogger down, just as hard as last time. He gave Eli a long pause between each hit and rubbed his hand over the inflamed skin to sooth him. Despite that, the strength of the swats did increase towards the end, though not by much. He wasn't going to push Eli any farther than this today. When the tenth strike fell, Adam set the flogger on the bed and ran his hand over Eli's back again. "There you go, all done. You've done very well, Eli."

With every hit Eli made sure he said thank you and he counted all the same, mainly so he could keep track in his head. As the swats got harder, he found himself to whimper and grit his teeth all the while pleasurable moans escaped his lips. On the final hit, as the flogger fell to the bed, Eli pulled at his restaints and literally screamed out, "Thank you Sir".With the hand on his back he nodded, "I wanted to be a good boy for you Sir".

"You were very good for me," Adam confirmed as he continued to touch Eli gently. "Just rest. Breathe. Let your body relax again. Just rest." He moved his hand down to play with Eli's hair for a little while, then back up to stroke his reddened skin. For several minutes he stayed like that, just letting Eli come down from the pain. Then he moved to unclip his cuffs from each other. "I'm going to move you now. How are you doing, Eli?"

Eli took deep breathes as Adam played with his hair and stroked his skin. Once he was uncuffed, he didn't attempt to move himself the shakes coming to him as they always did when he finished a scene. He knew it was the rush of different endorphins and the feeling of euphoria that did it, "Yes Sir" he said, giving Adam consent to move him, "I'm doing OK. I always get a little shaky after a scene like this".

"That's normal," Adam assured him. "I'm right here, you're safe. You're doing very well for me." He guided Eli to stretch out, pushing his legs out straight so he was laying down. "Roll over for me," he murmured, assisting Eli to roll onto his back. He knew it would likely be a little painful to lay on his back, but there were no welts, just an even red across his shoulder blades, so Adam didn't think it would be too difficult for Eli. Once he had the boy situated, he paused to examine his face, trying to gauge how close to his limit he was. "You have a choice now, Eli. We can end the scene right now and move on to after care. I won't be displeased. I'll be proud of you for doing so well with your flogging, and for being honest about what you want. Or, if you would like to continue, we will move on from pain play to something else. It depends on how tired and drained you're feeling right now."

Once Eli was laying on is back, he felt exhausted. He knew he'd taken on way too much with scene week and this was only day two. He thought about it and as much as he wanted more, he knew there had to be a line and he knew he had to be ready for the coming days, "I think I need to stop Sir" he said, not making eye contact, afraid he'd disappoint Adam, "I feel really drained and my legs won't stop shaking".

Adam nodded and ran his fingers gently through Eli's hair. "Good boy," he praised, his voice soft and warm. "Thank you for telling me what you need." He stood there for a moment, petting Eli's hair. "I want you to close your eyes for a minute, Eli. Focus on your breathing. Nice and slow, feel the way your chest moves when you breathe. I'm going to leave the room for just a moment, to get some things for you. Focus on your breathing, and I'll be right back."

Eli smiled at the praise, he found he craved it and it made him feel so good. He followed Adam's orders, closing his eyes and taking deep steadying breaths. He tried to focus on his chest but his legs felt like jelly and his focus was going there, "Yes Sir" he breathed out, "I'll wait right here Sir".

"Good boy," Adam murmured again, then left the room. It took him a couple minutes to return, and when he did, he had a reusable water bottle with a straw, a small bowl of grapes, and a soft, powder blue fleece blanket. "You may open your eyes," he said softly as he walked over to the bed. He set the bottle and bowl on the bedside table, then shook out the blanket and spread it over Eli's naked body. Then he climbed into the bed as well, sitting up by the head board, beside Eli's head. He rested his hand on Eli's hair. "You may move now if you want. I want you to be comfortable. If you would like to lean on me or lay in my lap, you may do that. If you would prefer to simply lay where you are, that's alright as well. I want you to try to find whatever action is most comforting."

Eli opened his eyes and, as soon as permission was granted, he moved himself, drawing the blanket around him and placing his head into Adam's lap, assuming his usual after care position. He smiled up at Adam, "Thank you Sir for letting me lay in your lap and for teaching me so much today" he said, actually impressed with what he had learnt and surprised he'd learnt it all from Adam.

When Eli curled into him, Adam laid a hand on his head and started to play lightly with Eli's hair. "You're welcome," he murmured. "You did very well, I'm proud of you for submitting so well to me." He really was, he wasn't just saying it for Eli's sake. For a sub who was so new to this and didn't have the advantages that Adam had, Eli had done remarkably well. He stayed there for several minutes, just letting Eli rest, before reaching over to the side table for a grape and holding it to Eli's lips. "It's helpful to give your body some sugar and some water after a scene. I want you to have at least a little."

Eli smiled and nodded, "I enjoyed submitting to you sir" he said, "I would love for you to teach me more please sir" he said, not meaning right now but in future. He noticed the movement and then felt the grape on his lips. He took it and ate and nodded, "Thank you Sir" he breathed, "Thank you". He couldn't be more thankful to Adam, he'd really enjoyed doing the scene.

#gleedsmscene9 #para #p:adam #para:scene week thursday

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actuallylorelaigilmore · 6 years ago

Text

Some Truths Are Stubborn As Gravity, Ch 2: Six Billion Pieces Waiting To Be Fixed

Her soulmate mark left Penelope just enough room to choose the wrong man the first time.

Elena wants to make sure she’s with the right person right now.

Schneider doesn’t think he deserves a soulmate, or that one is still waiting for him.

Syd is certain they found theirs. They just don’t want to lose her.

Why can’t destiny be simple?

Penelope x Schneider | Elena x Syd, One Day At A Time. Also on AO3.

(Ch 1)

“Mom,” Elena declared that morning, while Penelope was getting ready for work, “you have to promise you’re not going to embarrass me.”

“Me? Embarrassing? I don’t know know what you’re talking about.” Penelope turned back to the mirror and finished applying mascara. “I’m one of the cool moms, remember?”

“And I love you very much,” Elena replied, spacing her words out with care. “But today is important.”

“I know, I know, you’re meeting your internet people for the very first time. I want it to go well for you, too, baby. Besides a quick hello, and maybe a couple of middle school photo albums, I promise to stay out of your way.”

Elena waited until she had Penelope’s full attention. “It’s not just that.”

“Okay. Then what is it?”

“I didn’t realize it until I woke up this morning--it never occurred to me when we set up the meeting, I just wasn’t thinking about it. But, well…”

Elena lifted up her shirt just enough to show the small black date written across the left side of her stomach.

“Oh that’s right, it’s July 19th.” Penelope shook her head. “Sorry, I feel like I’ve been a day behind this whole month.”

She realized Elena was staring at her impatiently and sighed. “Elena, if the great love of your life is going to find you today, I highly doubt anything I--or you--say could ruin that. Try not to worry so much.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You and Papi fell in love right away. What if I meet my soulmate and they don’t even like me?”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Penelope countered gently. “That’s why they’re called soulmates. And anyway, you need to keep in mind that this is only one July 19th. Don’t pin all your hopes on today, all right? I don’t want to see you get hurt if this turns out to be an ordinary Saturday.”

Elena exhaled loudly. “Yeah, okay. I’ll try.”

But despite her easy agreement, she knew something good was going to happen. She could just feel it.

****

Elena really, really loved being right.

It was part of what made her so good at debating; winning an argument meant public validation for being smart and knowing things. She was allowed and even encouraged to celebrate just how right she was--so she learned how to win even more arguments.

When her friends arrived and she was finally meeting them all in person, she couldn’t stop her nerves from coming out in stammering geekspeak, but she was also thrilled, because despite her mom’s warning, she met her soulmate right on schedule.

Dani was gorgeous, and smart, and funny. They cared about the same causes, and liked some of the same music, and as soon as she reached for Elena’s hand to say hello, Elena knew that they were totally meant to be.

Or at least, they would be, as soon as Elena managed to say more than two words to her.

And if Dani was gay.

And if Dani liked her back.

The more time she had to think about it, the more she realized she was probably being ridiculous. Elena had no idea when Dani’s day even was, let alone if they might have a connection.

She smelled really good, though.

Lots of girls tried really hard to make the best first impression possible, each year when their day came around, but Elena had never cared much about soulmates growing up. Maybe she even tended to be a little bit mean to anybody she met on that day each year.

Well, to the boys. A part of her knew, though it would take her years to understand why, that she didn’t want some boy she would be stuck with forever.

But once she figured out that she liked girls, that liking girls was something she could do...something that was possible and okay and right...July 19th made her nervous.

Her parents had been so in love, she’d seen it every day. She felt it. And things between them had still imploded. Their marriage was a slow-motion car crash; she and Alex were left with whiplash and in Elena’s case, the understanding that love was not automatically enough.

She wanted to find her soulmate. She wanted to fall in love.

But she didn’t want to ruin it before she got the chance.

So when the first July 19th after she came out led her to a gorgeous activist with confidence to spare, Elena held her breath and hoped.

She didn’t do anything else, especially nothing as logical as mentioning her mark to Dani or asking her out.

What if she tripped over her words and said the worst possible thing and scared her soulmate away? With her luck, it could happen. Her mom insisted otherwise, but she didn’t understand--she had never been as awkward as Elena.

Plus she met her soulmate ages ago. And her soulmate was a boy.

It was just different.

****

“Do you ever wonder about your soulmate?” Penelope asked Schneider, standing just outside his door.

He took one look at her face, sighed, and stepped back. “Come in, Pen. This feels like a longer conversation than we should be having in the hall.”

As she sat on his couch, he shut the door behind her and tied his robe a little tighter. “Now, what’s on your mind? Soulmates?”

“Yeah. Elena has been asking a lot of questions lately, because of Syd…”

“Understandable,” he interjected, nodding.

“And it got me thinking, if at our age it even makes sense to think about soulmates anymore. If we haven’t met our person by now, what’s the likelihood that we’re going to?”

“I don’t know,” he said, joining her on the couch. “I guess this means Victor wasn’t yours?”

She looked down at her lap. “No.”

“I kind of wondered, after everything, but I didn’t want to ask. I’m sorry, Penelope. That sucks.”

“It’s okay,” she replied, shaking her head. “We didn’t know any better. Our days matched, and I wouldn’t change any of it--my kids are the best part of my life.”

“I know.” He reached out to hug her from the side. “Still. To answer your question, I don’t think about it, no. I haven’t in a long time.”

“Really?” Schneider had always been casual about relationships and sex, but he was also so sweet, so full of love for the people around him, that Penelope definitely would have guessed he was a believer in fate.

“Yeah.”

“If you did find your soulmate now...do you think there would be a chance for it to work?”

“If you found your soulmate now, I one hundred percent believe that it would work,” he told her seriously. “Absolutely. It’s crazy to think that just because you’re forty, you can’t find love.”

“You’re only a little older than me,” she reminded him. “If I can have a happy ending, so can you.”

“Eh.” Schneider waved her words away.

“Hey, you could. Why don’t you think so?”

“Have you met me?”

“Yes. Three times, as a matter of fact, since you kept reintroducing yourself before you got clean.” Penelope caught something in his expression as she spoke, and narrowed her eyes. “Is that what this is about?”

“You of all people should get it,” he said. “You can’t tell me that Victor’s drinking wasn’t part of what broke your marriage. Who would want to live with that? And my relapses, my addictions, are so much more complicated than the drinking. It’s my whole life.”

There was such a hopeless, helpless quality to his words, it hurt Penelope to hear, but she didn’t try to argue with him. She just listened.

“I stopped thinking about my soulmate when I started drinking. Because who needed to pin their hopes on fate when drugs and alcohol were right there, instant happiness? And I haven’t wondered about her since, because I refuse to. There’s no requirement that you love your soulmate, you know? You can walk away.”

Penelope heard what he wasn’t saying, and grabbed his hand. It was an impulse; she was rarely the one who reached out first.

“Schneider, listen. You’re right, about Victor, I know what that life is like. Which means I know what I’m talking about. You hear me?”

He nodded.

“You are more than your addictions. You prove that, every day you stay sober. Victor and I didn’t work out for a lot of reasons; in the end, we just weren’t meant. But for those years, I’m glad we had each other. Even during the worst of it, because it helped shape who I am, and I’m pretty awesome.”

He smiled. “You are.”

“So are you. Whether you meet your soulmate tomorrow, or you never find her, you have as much potential for happiness as I do. And if it doesn’t work, it could be because of your horrible taste in music or the fact that you cook nettles...it could be because she collects those creepy old dolls white women like, and they stare at you while you sleep, and when you want to move them out of the bedroom she cries and says they’re her children and talks to them by name. It could happen for all kinds of reasons!” Penelope insisted.

“But if it ends because you’re in recovery, and she can’t handle that, then she was never your soulmate to begin with. Because you’re easy to love, Schneider. You’re so easy to love, and you’ve worked really hard to stay sober, and anyone who cares about you can see that and is proud of you for it.”

He stared at her for a full minute, swallowing hard before he spoke. ”Hey, wasn’t this supposed to be your pep talk?”

“We can do me later,” she said, flashing him a smile. “Right now, I got you.”

“Yeah.” Schneider smiled back, squeezing her hand. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Pen.”

****

It was pretty bizarre that her little brother and her Abuelita, of all people, had helped Elena start dating...but she couldn't deny that without them, she probably never would have found herself getting ice cream with Syd.

Now that it was just them, she could feel her nerves coming back, times a hundred. Considering how they met, she lunged for the easiest conversation starter that came to mind.

"So, have you always been into gaming?" Elena asked, dipping her spoon into a cup of vanilla with crumbled cookie pieces on top.

Syd nodded. "Pretty much. I had to save up for my own equipment, because my parents aren't big into non-educational entertainment. They were fine with it once it was clear I wasn't going to let it interfere with my homework, though."

"What was your first console?"

Swallowing a mouthful of rocky road, Syd paused. "It's going to make me sound like such a nerd."

"Hey, you're talking to the queen of the nerds right here," Elena replied. "I recycle for fun."

"Well, I was impatient and saving up money was taking a long time, so I got my first console from one of my cousins when I was seven--and it was already a hand-me-down for him when he got it."

Elena smiled. "Now I'm intrigued."

"My first console was an Atari."

"No way. Like, the real thing? Retro Atari?"

"With Frogger and Pong and all of that, yeah." Syd grinned. "I wanted an Xbox, but allowance and extra chores could only go so far."

"I can't believe you bought your own gaming system at seven," Elena mused. "You're right, you really are a nerd."

"Hey, it takes one to...get ice cream with one."

"True." Elena smiled back, and they ate their dessert in slightly-more-comfortable silence after that.

It was at the end of the evening, when Syd held the door open on their way out of the shop, that the possibilities between them became so much scarier. Elena caught the date written on the inside of their wrist and stopped walking. She was frozen where she stood.

"Elena? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she told Syd faintly. The paralyzing terror was unexpected.

Hadn't she hoped this would happen? Wasn't it what she wanted?

"I'm fine," she added, as though saying the words would make it true. "Just a...a little dizzy."

At least that part wasn't a lie. It felt like the whole world had sped up around them, a whirlwind of possibilities, all tied to the meaning of July 19.

She knew the right thing to do would be to tell Syd the truth. They had the right to know what Elena had just figured out. But it was so soon--it was too soon. If Syd was going to let her down gently after their single date, it would hurt much worse now.

People's days were private, Elena thought, not sure if she really believed that or was trying to convince herself. She didn't have to reveal hers, just because Syd happened to have the same one, in an unavoidably visible area.

Love was a leap, that was what her mom had told her once. A decision, not just the unavoidable whims of fate.

As Syd waited with concern, Elena offered them a reassuring smile, and kept her mouth shut. She didn't know if this was fate or not, but she was sure of one thing: she wasn't ready to leap.

****

Getting confirmation from the universe that Syd could be her soulmate left Elena even more determined not to scare them off. It also seemed to directly increase the amount of stupid things she said when she was trying to flirt, and she couldn't make it stop.

It didn't help that she had a little brother who made it look easy. She wished she had half of Alex's cool, instead of being the sibling who couldn't string together a coherent sentence around her crush.

Kissing Syd was an act of desperation, some sports metaphor for her final chance, the moment when Elena decided it was better to risk everything than let Syd think the worst.

And then, kissing them was a revelation.

They liked her back. Even though she couldn't stop babbling, even though she spent most of their time together acting crazy, Syd liked Elena as much as she liked them. Enough to make out on a balcony in the middle of a manhunt.

Sent back inside by circling helicopters, they went to Elena's room, holding hands next to each other on her bed.

"I have to show you something," Elena said, before she could lose her nerve. With her free hand, she lifted up the long-sleeved shirt and vest that she was wearing, baring her stomach.

Syd's confusion turned to surprise, and then joy. They held up their wrist, asking the question with raised eyebrows rather than words.

Elena nodded. "I noticed it after ice cream."

"Why didn't you say something? I thought maybe you were lactose intolerant and just didn't want to mention it. Or that you had a terrible time."

"No, I had a great time. I just got scared, when I saw it."

"Of me?"

"Not you." Elena squeezed the hand she was still gripping between them. "Of the future, I guess? I thought I was ready to find the person I was meant to be with, and our first date was going really well, and then I saw your mark and I realized I am so not ready. Not for my whole life to be decided right now."

"Nobody said it has to be," they pointed out.

"Yes, and I realized that a few minutes ago, when happiness finally drowned out the panic in my head. I like you. And hey, maybe we're meant to be. That's pretty cool."

"That's very cool," Syd agreed.

"So for now, I'm going to focus on that. Getting to know each other better and having fun."

"Saving destiny for later."

"Exactly."

"Sounds perfect." Syd looked down at their joined hands. "Should we go join your family?"

"It's been weird out there. I kinda got the feeling we'd be better off staying in here."

"Okay."

They sat in silence for a few moments before Syd let go of Elena's hand. She turned toward them to make sure everything was okay, but never got the chance to ask.

Syd leaned in slowly to kiss her, giving her time to protest, melting her nerves away with every brush of their lips and the feeling of their fingertips against her face.

When they finally emerged from her room, Elena was certain even Dr. Berkowitz could see the flashing sign above their heads that said 'just got done making out until we were flushed and breathless.' Nobody said anything, though.

It was a miracle that she didn't revert to her former, babbling self after that, but once the soulmate connection was out the open, Elena didn't feel nervous around Syd anymore. She didn't feel scared, either. She just felt happy.

Until Homecoming.

****

Before Syd showed up in that jacket and tie and made a liar out of Elena and her disdain for high school rites of passage, she wasn't sure how anybody knew when they were in love.

She loved her family and her closest friends, and she had thought about it a lot, but it was a mystery to her. How did 'like' evolve into 'love' and when did you notice the difference? It had to be really obvious, right? Like getting hit by lightning, one of those metaphors for love that sounded violent and terrifying but, Elena thought, must be worth the damage. Otherwise, why would everyone be so obsessed with romance and happily-ever-afters?

Maybe people liked to exaggerate. Or maybe she was just weird, because it was nothing like a lightning bolt. It wasn't even like her heart skipped a beat.

Elena watched Syd totally embarrass themself in front of her family--except they weren't embarrassed at all, not like Elena would be with everyone looking at her while she sang and danced. Syd was so secure in who they were...they liked her that much...they were one of the most amazing people Elena had ever met. They were smart, and funny, and sweet, and so talented, and oh my god she was in love with them.

She expected her stomach to lurch, her heart to race, and it did as the significance of her feelings sunk in. But the actual fall into love was so easy, it didn't hurt it all. It was more like static electricity in the dark, over an empty patch of carpet. A brilliant spark she never expected that could light her up.

And wow, did it ever. She went to a dance. She danced without caring what anybody else thought. She was happy, and in love, and once she told Syd the truth about her lack of popularity, she felt even more sure that they belonged together.

Their days matched, after all. According to the lore that was the first step to forever.

If she were a different kind of person, an easier person, less prone to picking everything apart and looking for danger, that would have been enough. But she was Elena Alvarez, and she had two divorced parents who could barely hold a conversation about the weather without arguing.

Parents with matching days, who loved each other right up until they didn't.

After the dance she couldn't help thinking about it, worrying over it. She and Syd were so happy that she could lock the fear away most of the time, but it would come back whenever she got too comfortable. Anytime Elena thought they really must be soulmates, an obnoxious part of her brain asked why it mattered. If soulmates couldn't guarantee a relationship was forever, what was the point?

By the end of the school year she she could tell her distant moods were worrying Syd, but she couldn't stop feeling torn between happiness and fear. If they knew she had doubts, it would worry them even more, so Elena avoided the questions and the confused looks.

It finally occurred to her on a random Tuesday night at home that she might be missing a piece of the puzzle. If she was, Elena realized, laying her domino down next to the last one Alex had played, she could never expect to figure this out.

Elena didn't want to hurt her mom by opening old wounds, but she had to know. Was the moral of her parents' story that soulmate bonds couldn't guarantee happiness?

Or had her mom just mistaken her Papi for fate?

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