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twodimecastle · 3 years ago

Text

fifty bucks & six months.

spencer reid x gender neutral reader new relationship, secret keeping nonsense, 4.5k words, ao3 a/n; turns out i love writing texting fic but tumblr destroys the formatting rip

zero months.

You smile conspiratorially, extending a pinkie towards Spencer and he gives you a skeptical look.

“You know the odds of being found out immediately are-” he starts, but you cut him off.

“Astronomical, I know. I know. But don’t you think it’ll be fun to see how long we can push it?” you wheedle, not caring that your voice sounds more like begging than is strictly dignified because seeing the way Spencer’s nose crinkles in amusement at your heavy handed persuasion is too adorable to pass up. You scoot closer on the couch, tapping the end of his nose with your pinkie finger, letting him catch your hand between his as you continue “I think we’ve got a good shot at hiding it for a little while. It would be like a game.”

Spencer draws your captive hand to his lips, brushing them across your knuckles and watching fondly as you forge ahead in your campaign to persuade him, enjoying the show and the attention too much to tell you he’s already on board. Your eyes are shining with the prospect of the caper, and you’ve made no move to take your hand back from him, and Spencer’s pretty sure he’d be more than happy to sit with you in this moment forever. “I mean-” you go on, gesturing animatedly with your free hand, “you’re like-a really good liar when you want to be. And everyone else always forgets how good you are at it.”

He snorts at that and the sound makes you light up, eyes tracking the arch of his brows, the warmth in his soft brown eyes, memorising the way he looks like this; utterly unbothered, completely at ease. It might be your favourite version of him, but that race has always been a tight one with no clear winner in sight. You have lots of favourite versions of Spencer. Twisting your hand in his, you tangle your fingers together, savouring the way you feel his thumb glide delicately along your skin and the unhidden joy in his face at the simple show of affection.

Time to play your trump card.

“$50 says we can hide it from the whole group for at least six months. If everyone figures it out before then, you win. But if not everyone has worked it out by then, I win.”

The mischievous shine in your eyes is irresistible, and Spencer smiles, disentangling one of his hands from yours to extend his own pinky finger.

“You’re on.”

The words barely make it out of his mouth before you’re colliding with him, pressing your lips to his.

two months.

“So, how long has this whole thing been going on?” Derek’s question catches Spencer off guard, and, based on the way he can see you freeze in his peripheral vision, takes you by surprise as well. Sliding into the driver's seat of the SUV, Derek continues “I hope you didn’t think you were gonna be able to keep me in the dark for long, pretty boy. You should know better than that.”

Following mechanically after him, Spencer takes the passenger seat, trying to frame his next statement as carefully as possible as he hears your door close and the car start. “We were-going to tell you guys-” he begins uncomfortably, glancing back to you for support, but you look just as on edge as he feels. “We were just gonna-keep it to ourselves for a while-before telling Hotch and everything-” he tries again, the mounting tension levering his shoulders higher and higher with every passing moment, but then Derek just laughs, shaking his head.

“Hey, I’m happy for you, kid. For both of you.” He spares a look at you in the back seat through the rear view mirror, and you can feel the tension in your jaw relax, the furrows in your brow straightening out at the note of approval in Derek’s voice. “I’m glad you two finally figured it out,” he says, fondly, and you laugh.

“I bet Spence we could keep it from you guys at least six months,” you explain, reaching forwards through the centre console to link your pinky with Spencer’s, and the touch of your hand releases the last of the tension he had been harbouring as he covers your hand with the other one of his own. He knows Derek clocks the motion, filing it away in his mind somewhere, but he doesn’t care about the scrutiny so much right now. Not when your hand is so warm and comfortable in his.

Derek reaches for the dial on the radio and flicks through the channel, thinking about something, and as you watch, a slow mischievous smirk spreads across his face a moment later before he glances first at Spencer and then at you.

“I’ll tell you what,” he says to you, and Spencer can feel a familiar grin tugging at his own lips as he watches a plan take shape in his friend’s eyes. “I’m happy to sit on this information for a while for a cut of the winnings from whichever one of you comes out on top.” He snorts good naturedly as he continues “I have my own bet to win with Prentiss, so if you two help me win that one, I’ll cut you in too.”

“A quid pro quo of sorts,” Spencer says slowly, and he feels your fingers tighten around his, as you snort softly, and he knows instinctually you’re grinning the same way you always do when you’re winning a game. “I think we can do that.”

Derek grins, turning the music up as he nods, eyes on the road. “Then you two love birds have got yourselves a deal.”

two months and two weeks.

PG: youre not as slick as you think you are ;)

YN: ???

PG: ;))))))))) you should invest in some concealer for your work bag sweetness or tell the good doctor to pay more attention to whats visible in your work clothes

YN: oh my fucking god wait how do you even know thats how that happened

PG: im all knowing and all seeing im like the omnipotent goddess of the fbi

YN: derek blabbed

PG: he sang like a canary but also im an omnipotent goddess im also totally clued in on the whole bet situation with em so for the low low price of every single juicy detail about how this adorableness went down you can buy my silence :)

YN: im getting derek decaf coffee on all coffee runs from now on >:( traitors dont get caffeine

PG: darling sweet angel i need deets all of them like immediately

YN: >:( fine ok so. after that case down in georgia a few months ago? the weird one? with the creepy mother son thing?

PG: omg yuck pls dont remind me im here for the CUTENESS not the MURDER

YN: sorryyyyyyy anyway so spence was like being super weird about it all on the plane and whatever but he was doing that super annoying thing where he ignores it and says hes fine so everyone leaves him alone

PG: YEAH why does everyone here do that ALL THE TIME its SO annoyingggg

YN: ikr its insufferable and like super not subtle ANYWAY. spence was being weird and whatever and i just. refused to let him sulk on his own or whatever like i could tell there was something bothering him and so after work i insisted that we were gonna get like shitty diner food or whatever and watch a movie and he knows better than to say no to me

PG: smart boy

YN: so we got fries and milkshakes and then went back to his place to watch a movie and he was still like weird and silent and like brooding yknow? but whatever just figured hed talk about it when he was ready so i put on a movie and offered to make popcorn and then he was just staring at me and he looked so SAD and TIRED and i thought id done something wrong like the poor guy looked like he was gonna cry and i was panicking over fucking popcorn and then he says ‘why are you always so nice to me?’

PG: oh my god hes like if a sad victorian orphan was actually a triplicate phd holder

YN: i was SO thrown off i was like spencer. spencer were best friends. ive been forcing you to hang out with me for years now why do you THINK im being nice to you its bc i care about you asshole and then. like after another million years after letting me sweat it out over whether hes about to cry for like fucking years the asshole grabs my hand and says. i shit you not. ‘you know im in love with you, right?’ !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

PG: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

YN: anyway hes my boyfriend now :’) dont tell anyone tho gotta win the bet

four months.

Lingering by the elevator, you glance around at the uncharacteristically silent office building, waiting for Spencer to leave the bullpen. The sound of his footfalls drawing nearer makes you smile and you mentally applaud yourself for suggesting the two of you remained behind after disembarking from the plane, taking advantage of the manufactured privacy to take the same car home, back to his apartment.

When he sees you waiting for him, he can’t help the soft fond smile that tugs at his face, as he reaches for your hand, sliding his fingers into yours with a gentle squeeze, the quiet of the building allowing him to indulge in the show of affection. You return the squeeze, leaning your head on his shoulder with a yawn and as he presses a fond kiss to your temple he’s rewarded by a sleepy hum of approval from you that sends a rush of quiet joy shooting through him.

“At least we won’t be sleeping in hotel beds again tonight,” you say, voice weary, and Spencer nods as he shuffles you into the elevator. The doors slide shut and the elevator starts to move and in the moment of absolute privacy, you steal a kiss, tilting your chin up to catch his lips with yours, revelling in the soft huff of surprise he lets out, even as he smiles against your mouth. Even after months, the simple act of kissing Spencer still feels new and thrilling somehow, like you can’t quite believe it’s something you’re allowed to do.

His nose brushes yours and he breathes “unless something big comes up, we get a sleep in tomorrow too,” and the way you beam at him sends his heart racing in his chest, unable to look away from the fondness shining in your eyes.

As the two of you exit the elevator and make your way through the Bureau car park, you tuck yourself against his side, wedging yourself under his arm with a happy sigh, eager to get yourself horizontal and asleep as fast as possible. Spencer brushes his lips against your temple again as the two of you close in on his car, almost free and clear of the office when a voice behind the two of you brings you up short.

“Reid?”

Spencer is reacting before his mind catches up, turning on his heel towards the sound of Hotch’s voice echoing through the parking lot, conscious of the incriminating way you’re still tucked against his side, even as his brain is rifling frantically through any possible excuses for the current circumstances.

“Hotch-” you step away from Spencer, cheeks flaming, not wanting to chance a look at him. “I-we-thought everyone else had gone home,” you trail off lamely, trying your hardest not to balk under Hotch’s ominously impassive scrutiny. A second passes, then another, and the short silence feels like months, or years even as the three of you stand locked in a stalemate.

“I take it the two of you would prefer to keep this under wraps?” He asks, finally, and it registers with Spencer, somewhat belatedly, that Hotch’s tone isn’t admonishing. It isn’t enough to dissipate the tension coiling in Spencer’s muscles just yet, but he spares a glance at you as he nods, and a moment later, Hotch gives the two of you a curt nod of his own. “I’ll tell you what,” he says, a shade of irony colouring his voice. “If you two fill out the paperwork for in-team relationships for me, I’ll keep it to myself. I understand privacy is hard to come by in our office.”

The words take a while to fully sink in, and you’re conscious that you’re standing there blinking and gaping at your boss like a bemused fish for a good few seconds before you’ve composed yourself enough to say “absolutely, sir. Of course. Thank you.”

Hotch nods again, heading towards his own car, and as he passes the two of you, a brief smile flashes across his face.

“Congratulations, you two. Get some sleep.”

four months and three weeks.

Spencer isn’t sure how late it is, but he knows you’re not asleep yet, the faint glow of your phone screen casting faint distorted shadows across his room as your free hand rests lightly on his chest. In the dark blue twilight of his room, the space feels undefined and dream like somehow, the line between his mind and his surroundings blurry or indistinct somehow, and as you huff out a near silent laugh at something on the screen in your hand, a thought rises to the surface of his thoughts like flotsam on an unwanted tide.

The more clinical part of his mind notes the autonomic response in his body, the way his heart lurches unpleasantly in his chest, heart rate rising with an influx of cortisol through his nervous system, automatically rifling through ways to control the anxiety response. Age old instinct surges forwards, starting to push his spiralling anxiety down out of sight so as not to bother you with it, but then your hand shifts infinitesimally on his chest, fingers curling in the soft fabric of his pyjama shirt, and for once his body is miles ahead of his brilliant mind, your name is leaving his lips before he’s really aware of it happening.

Your gaze flashes up from your phone at the sound of his voice, soft and hesitant, and you let the screen go dark as you set it down. You can feel Spencer’s heart hammering against his ribs under your palm, and your brows knit together in concern as you shift closer to his side, tracing gentle circles over his shirt with your fingertips, the repetitive motion intended to soothe, though you’re not sure if it’s for his benefit or yours.

“Yeah, baby?” You ask softly, working hard to keep the rising worry from your voice. After three years of friendship and almost six months of dating, you know him well enough to sense when his propensity for overthinking and catastrophizing is slipping out of his control. You can feel his chest rise as he inhales sharply, whatever he’s about to say cut off by second guessing, doing nothing to pacify your concern. “Spence? Is everything okay?” You ask again.

“This-bet-hiding our relationship-it’s-” he trails off, throat tight as he rolls onto his side, facing away from you, and smushing his face into the pillow, already wishing he hadn’t said anything. You’re the kindest person he’s ever met, but offering up this kind of raw insecurity feels like pulling teeth. Even if it’s you. Especially if it’s you. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to find out if you care about him enough to stay when his racing mind gets the better of him. The pillow muffles his voice as he says “never mind.”

You feel your own heart rate tic up in response to that, matching the wild beat of Spencer’s that you could feel under your palm only a second ago. “Baby, talk to me. What’s on your mind?”

He shakes his head, face still hidden in the pillow. “It’s stupid.”

He can feel the rush of your breath on his back as you sigh, and your voice is almost achingly patient as you say softly “it’s not stupid if it matters to you.” There’s a long pause, and you press yourself against his back, settling close and letting your hand slide over his side to rest on his chest, the heat of his skin sinking into yours even through his thin shirt. In spite of his height, he feels so small as you wrap yourself around him, drawing closer, trying to reassure him without yet knowing what he needs to be reassured of. “Spence?”

“Are you ashamed of-being with me? Is that why you want to hide it?” The words are almost whispered, the sound almost lost against his pillow and your heart sinks, plummeting faster and further than if you’d dropped it off the side of a skyscraper. You should’ve known he might worry about that, should have realised it might have felt that way. Remorse rises hot and bitter in your throat and you swallow it down, trying to steady your voice.

“Spencer. Sweetheart. No. Never. I could never be ashamed. I love you. I’m so sorry.” Your arms wrap more tightly around him and you bury your face against the crook of his neck, the tension you can feel in every inch of his body making you feel more cruel and short-sighted than you already do. “I’m sorry I didn’t realise it might feel like that. I could never be ashamed of being with you, Spence. You’re my favourite person.” He takes the kind of shaky, shallow breath that comes with trying not to cry and your heart breaks a little more as one of his hands slowly moves to cover yours where it rests against his chest, just over his heart.

As his hand rests over yours, his thumb strokes lightly along your knuckles, and he knows you know him well enough to notice the way his hand trembles, just a little, because then your hand is shifting against his, turning to clumsily tangle your fingers with his, holding tighter to him as he tries to collect himself, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath as his eyes squeeze shut. He can hear the contrition in your voice as you say softly “I’ve never really liked having people know everything about what’s going on in my life. And I love our friends but-something like this, that’s so-special? So new? I wanted to be able to keep it to just us for a while.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice comes out a little shaky, scarcely more than a whisper, and it’s more than you can take as you pull back and gently force him to roll over to face you. He’s not crying, but his eyes are glassy and you recognise the fight to keep the tears unshed in the tight set of his jaw and the hard line of his lips. Leaning on your elbow, you lift your free hand to gently smooth out the furrows of his brow, letting your fingers linger along the planes of his face.

“Why are you sorry,” you ask gently. “You don’t need to be sorry, baby. Not for talking to me about things that bother you. We can tell everyone else tomorrow, if you want? We can call off the bet. Derek will live. If he’s got a problem with it I’ll turn all his shirts into crop tops.”

He can tell the joke is a last bid attempt to make him smile, to ease his fear, and it works. In spite of the anxious weight in his chest that feels like it’s pressing him into the mattress, Spencer laughs weakly, meeting your eyes, and he watches as a relieved smile breaks across your face, releasing your lower lip from where you’d trapped it worriedly between your teeth. The unmitigated affection that floods into your eyes renders him momentarily breathless as he takes in the moment. You’re still here, still trying to take care of him. Just as kind and steadfast as ever.

“No,” he says eventually, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you down on top of him like a living weighted blanket, letting your warmth chase the bulk of the tension from his body and luxuriating in the way you curl into him, one hand sliding into his hair. “We shouldn’t call off the bet. We still have to take Emily’s money, remember?”

Your sleepy laugh is the last thing he hears before his eyes close and the feel of your body wound around his lulls him to sleep.

five months.

SR: Can I talk to you about something?

DM: you dying or something? that’s a really fuckin ominous text to recieve out of the blue

SR: I’m not dying, why would that be what you assumed? I just have a question.

DM: just a figure of speech but what’s up?

SR: It’s about your bet with Emily. What’re the terms for it?

DM: wym?

SR: What exactly did you two make the bet about? What needs to happen in order for you to win the bet?

DM: does this count as collusion?

SR: Technically yes, but calling it collusion implies a certain degree of illegality.

DM: whatever anyway the terms i made with em were that you’d make some kind of move before your birthday but she reckoned you were gonna need some kind of near death experience to do anything about your crush why?

SR: I’m just making sure I have all the information.

DM: what’s going on pretty boy? you planning something?

SR: Maybe.

DM: not a helpful answer reid is everything good?

SR: Everything’s fine. We’re just figuring some stuff out. Nothing to worry about.

DM: is there something you’re not telling me?

SR: Don’t worry about it.

five months, three weeks and six days.

In the chaos that was the scramble from the briefing room to the jet, you haven’t yet had the chance to speak to Spencer about the outcome of his most recent thesis defence panel. By the time you’ve got a moment to breathe, the jet is underway, coasting across the country towards Montana, the whole team settled in for the six hour flight. You corner him in the tiny kitchen area of the jet as he’s making a mug of mediocre coffee, fingers tapping out an absent minded rhythm on the countertop as the coffee machine whirs, clearly not paying attention to anything outside of his head.

“Hey, boy genius.” He jumps, whirling around, eyes wide with surprise, and you smile fondly. “So?” You demand, and Spencer raises an eyebrow in confusion. You snort, rolling your eyes as you elaborate. “Your defence panel. Did it go okay?”

You’re shifting your weight and fidgeting restlessly with the belt loops on your pants and as he studies you for a moment, it occurs to Spencer that you’re nervous for him over this outcome. The thought brings an almost giddy smile to his face.

“You know this isn’t my first thesis defence panel, right?” He says mildly, deliberately burying the lede, enjoying the way you scowl in irritation too much to answer your question right away, too enamoured with this display of concern on his behalf.

“Don’t be difficult, Doctor Reid. It’s still a big deal.” He just shrugs noncommittally, and you huff, swatting his arm lightly. “So did it go well?” You ask again, eyes narrowing as you try to dissect his microexpressions, trying to discern the answer he seems determined to keep from you for yourself. A few seconds later, he relents.

“I can now add degree number six to my wall.” He confirms. Getting degrees doesn’t hold the same rush of pride for him now, the accomplishment feeling somewhat less exceptional as he acquires more of them, but the way your face lights up with pride for him reminds him how special the things he’s capable of can be. You’ve always made him feel like more than the sum of his parts somehow, like something infinitely more precious than he always assumed he is.

“I fucking knew it. That’s amazing, Spence,” you say, chest warm and full with pride and love, and his almost shy smile in return is enough to make a decision for you in a split second. Your hand dips into your back pocket, drawing something out, and you carefully hide it from view in your palm as Spencer tracks the motion curiously with his eyes.

Your eyes are shining with affection and something that looks like mischief and the way you’re smiling at him is more than enough to divert his attention as you step closer, just barely noticing as you slip something into his hand. You’re dangerously, distractingly close now, and he’s conscious, if somewhat distantly, that neither of you is concealed from the rest of the team, scant meters away in the seating area of the jet. But you’re smiling and close enough for him to feel your breath on his face and suddenly your lips are on his, and even after nearly seven months of being able to touch you like this, it’s enough to make him forget everything else as he melts into the contact, savouring the warmth of your skin and the faint smell of your shampoo.

You pull back a second later, the kiss over almost as soon as it started, but it’s enough to attract attention, and you can hear a belated ‘oh SHIT’ from Emily in the main cabin of the jet. In your peripheral vision, you can see money changing hands, your friends scrambling to react, but you don’t look at them, choosing to enjoy the bemused, affectionate look on Spencer’s face as his brain catches up to the events unfolding around the two of you.

“I was tired of keeping it a secret,” you say fondly, loud enough only for him to hear. “You win.”

Blinking in confusion, he finally tears his gaze away from yours, fingers uncurling to reveal the fifty dollar bill you had pressed into his palm right before you kissed him. The penny drops and he snorts with laughter, shaking his head in half hearted indignation as his other arm loops around you, pulling you in, letting you rest your head on his shoulder, hiding your face from the rest of the team as he kisses your temple, revelling in the way you wind yourself around him in response.

“I was gonna do this in like two days. I wanted you to win,” he murmurs against your hairline, and he can feel your faint laughter.

“Too bad, baby. I’m used to getting my way,” you say, pulling back to steal another quick kiss before peeling yourself out of his arms with a wink, turning to face the onslaught of ‘care to fucking explain that’ and ‘I fucking told you so’ from the rest of your friends, tugging him with you by your joined hands.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid/you #spencer reid/reader #reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds imagine #dr spencer reid #my writing #spencer reid fluff

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nevertheless-moving · 4 years ago

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Suicidal Misunderstanding X

Star Wars Time Travel AU #27

Part I - - - - - Part II - - - - - Part III - - - - - Part IV - - - - - Part V - - - - - Part VI - - - - - Part VII - - - - - Part VIII - - - - - Part IX

“I realize this is incredibly difficult,” the Nautolan Soul Healer said calmly. “But in order for us to help Obi-Wan, we need to determine the cause of his current disconnection with reality. Based on the drug panel, and convenient surveillance, we have, to the best of our ability, ruled out temporary psychosis brought on by a drug interaction.”

Cody stiffened further, not sure how to react to anything anymore. When a brother tried to end his own life, it was usually obvious why.

Sife Aerdo continued on. “There have, of course, been cases of Jedi Seers giveing into their fears of the future, or losing their sense of reality, but every case study involving such an extreme reaction was the result a gradual degradation over the course of many years. Nevertheless, it seems clear that Obi-Wan experienced a vision, and it may have impacted his breakdown to some extent. The more we know, the more successful any attempts to convince him of reality will be.”

Bant furrowed her brow in thought, trying to replay three decades of increasingly vague discussions of nightmares.

”Considering the high profile nature of his position, we cannot rule out some kind of psychological attack, perhaps even a darksider incursion.

Anakin leaned forward intently, the inside of his skull buzzing with white noise.

"All that being said, we must be prepared to treat Obi-Wan’s self harm as the culmination of a long and quiet mental health struggle. He would not be the first in the Order to disguise such a thing with durasteel self-discipline.”

At that, Bant and Mace took a moment to release their feelings to the force, while Anakin raised his shields defensively.

Master Aerdo finally hesitated, before continuing in the same smooth tone. “I would ordinarily prefer to structure this kind of conversation quite differently- allow Obi-Wan time to share his feelings first and invite you each separately to support him in the healing process. But he’s gone from fighting sedatives and force compulsions as though the fate of the galaxy depended on it, to a self-induced coma. All while barely lucid, yet still somehow maintaining Master Class mental shielding. We need to get a better understanding of his mental landscape if we’re going to even begin the process of treatment."

It is necessary to note that everyone in that room had led, in one way or another, a somewhat miserable life. This was the main reason none of them could claim that the next five hours were the worst they had ever experienced.

“But he’s always had terrible sleeping habits.” Anakin said hoarsely.

“Yes, but I think they got worse after Qui-Gon passed,” Bant argued, not sure what point she was making.

“When I pointed out he couldn’t be getting more than three hours a night he told me that he could manage on meditation” Cody offered irritably.

“That’s technically true,” Mace confirmed. “If the Master in question is well-balanced otherwise”

“So its like his eating habits, crushing responsibilities, and repeated exposure to violence, then? Completely fine for a Jedi, in less it’s not, in which case it’s a major red flag?”

“I think it would help to establish a timeline.“

Aerdo actually dredged up old mission reports, leading to the group reluctantly contacting Ashoka for her memories of Mortis.

At her Master’s insistence, she told them everything she remembered, hazy as it was, nervously elaborating on her own memories of falling. To her confusion, Master Windu all but brushed past that, assuring her that the important thing with stepping into darkness was the choice to the return to the light. Anakin bizarrely agreed with Windu. Out loud. Unnerved by the cooperation more than anything, she put her holographic foot down and demanded to know what was going on.

Anakin took the comm-link into a separate room to speak privately.

Upon return, he informed the group (with a visibly red and puffy face) that Kit would be escorting her back from Mount Cala cleanup early, daring anyone to disagree. Windu nodded and the conversation continued on.

Together they rewatched holo-footage of Obi-Wan laughing amongst Ghost company the night before last, and debated reports from psychometric investigators who had scoured the cantina as well as Obi-Wan’s personal quarters for traces of illicit substances. Between that and another drug panel, they were finally forced to conclude that despite the timing, the alcohol at most confused Obi-Wan’s perception of a vision, or possibly simply loosened his tongue.

Bant prodded Cody to repeat every word from the holocar ride to the temple, taking furious notes. Cody was unable to stop the heat that crawled up his face.

Just when the looming horror of Obi-Wan actually preparing to intentionally die started to break over Anakin, Windu interjected.

“You don’t see what I do,” the Harun Kal said grimly. “Something galaxy-sized shattered around Obi-Wan and he didn’t break from it. The closest comparison I have is Master Yaddle’s presence when she meditated on her confinement. He’s chosen to keep going, even when, quite frankly, death would be a release. We’re missing something fundamental.”

“He said there were ‘other dark forces at work.’ Even if the fight was objectively hopeless... there’s no way he would choose to die because of it!” Anakin agreed vehemently, shaking off morbid fears.

“But he did choose to die.” Cody said quietly. And the wind went out of Anakin’s sails.

“Lets go back.”

Anakin gritted his teeth as they picked apart everything ‘unusual’ Obi-Wan had said and done leading up to his visit with Bant.

“What exactly did he...”

“So Plo Koon was able to get a read through his shields?”

“Did he have anything to eat?”

“How did that compare to...”

“When he's mentioned things in the future...did it seem good or bad to you?” Bant asked.

“Bad.” Cody and Anakin said in unison. Remembering the trip to the temple Cody spoke again, “Definitely bad.”

“Right. When we were talking he sometimes used the wrong tenses for things, people. I confronted him on not knowing ‘when’ he was after Knight Skywalker left. He told me that he knew what was real, but he was “enjoying not fully living in the moment” he also said that he intended to “wake up”

“Enjoying? That’s the exact word he used?” Cody asked incredulous.

“He did seem...mostly happy yesterday. Giddy, at points.” Anakin said, slumping in on himself.

Bant looked at her notes once more before addressing the group.

“This isn’t vision psychosis in any manner I’ve heard of before...but I think I might have a theory. He used to have intense visions when we were kids; plenty of us did sometimes, but Obi-Wan would be unable to sleep after. What terrified him more than anything was the uncertainty that he might make the wrong choice- even when the vision was about something good, or neutral. His visions gradually stopped coming around puberty. We just had a conversation about this a few months ago- how relieved he was to only have to manage flashes of precognition. If he had a random, horrifying vision of a terrible future...suicide wouldn’t be his reaction. It’s too final.”

“Even if he blamed himself for what he saw coming?” Mace asked.

“Especially if he blamed himself.” Bant said.

“What’s your theory?” Aerdo prodded.

“What if...what if he was telling the truth when he said he could separate out what was real and what was not? What if there was no distortion or blurring between now and then? What if he was just wrong about which was which?”

“That...would be a very extreme and abnormal manifestation of force-induced psychosis. He has training in distinguishing reality from visions. The continued presence of his mental shielding means that the fabric of his mind can’t be so horrifically collapsed in on itself.”

“What if the vision was actually that realistic?” Bant said, pushing back against the soul healer. “So detailed and vivid that it effectively was a reality in itself, and everything else, all of us...”

“Were just memories” Anakin finished. “It would...actually explain pretty much everything. You said he wanted to wake up and when...when I found him.” He stopped, swallowing. “When I found him, he argued with me...what if he wasn’t trying to hurt himself? If you’re right...that would mean I found him trying to get back to reality.”

“It could explain his behavior in the halls...his desperation to wake...” Sife mused “But it runs counter to every other experience I’ve had with those managing prophetic visions. Master Windu, could that explain the shatterpoints you saw?”

“I’m not certain. It would have to have been extraordinarily real to create the echos of Shattering I witnessed. I don’t know if that depth of vision has occurred before, but then again, many things are possible in the force.”

“You really think he might have been...trying to wake up from dream? By killing himself?!” Cody asked incredulous.

“If that ends up being what happened I am going to give him such shit. That is the worst way to end a vision.” Anakin replied.

“Yes. It is.” Bant said pointedly. “That’s why it’s a last resort, after every other attempt to wake fails.”

They all sat in silence, processing various implications. Cody was unnerved by another terrifying insight into force powers, as well as the idea that the General might vividly remember Cody being inexplicably mind-controlled into trying to kill him. Anakin was trying to understand what this would mean for them, and the conversations he had thought they had had. Did...any of it count, if he thought he was offering it to a hallucination?

“Alright, this is a valuable working idea, but let’s make sure to examine everything with an open mind before we draw any more conclusions. Anakin, what happened after you left the healers office?”

Obi-Wan’s critique of the practicalities of visiting a soul healer could be and was interpreted multiple ways. The incongruity of peacekeepers in war sparked a rehash of earlier discussion. More apologies. Self identifying as ‘crazy’ inspired new debate, especially in the context of the new theory.

“When I saw him enter the fountain room I assumed he had had a brutal run-in with dark force user.” Windu explained. “Based on everything we’ve gone over, I don’t understand when...but some of the more insidious sith compulsions work by taking whatever small anger or hurt you feel and magnifying them until they consume you. If Obi-Wan was already experiencing self loathing...”

Cody sucked in a breath. “Then a Sith mind suggestion would bring him to commit suicide. It...sounds like something he might do, if he was partially in control. Take the blow rather than let himself be used as a weapon against anyone else, even his worst enemy.”

“Hells, it could have been an even vaguer compulsion, driving him to attack the person he hates the most,” Bant added darkly.

Anakin buried his head in his hands, trying to hold it together. He couldn’t afford to lose control or get angry. Hells, getting angry at Obi-Wan for ‘failing him’ when in pain could be the reason Obi-Wan was currently in the healing halls. The man said he loved him unconditionally, then practically had a breakdown over how much Anakin pushed that unconditional love to the breaking point, then killed himself. How was he supposed to-

“Anakin? Are you alright to continue?” someone said.

“Yes. No. There’s more I have to tell you...I don’t know if it will help but - it was hurting Obi-Wan...I...”

“Let’s just take it one step at a time. What happened after you left Mace?”

Apparently even Cody somehow knew more about Bruck Chun than Anakin. Master Windu and Eerin told different sides of the same sad story, which spiraled back into a conversation about Obi-Wan’s inadequacy issues, which somehow devolved into a long rant about Qui-Gon Jinn that Master Windu had apparently been holding back for years.

“My apologies.” He said afterwards, clearing his throat as the group stared, taken aback. “Old grievances. Go on Anakin, what did happened after you got to the ‘secret spot.’”

“He...was skirting around whatever was bothering him...I pushed him...told him I wanted to help...he said I couldn’t...because it was me...because of what I...”

Anakin stood up suddenly, feeling the walls of the room closing in.

“I’m sorry- I’m sorry I-”

He ran out.

He turned around almost immediately, pacing in the small corridor, knowing he couldn’t leave, simply needing a minute to catch his breath.

Master Windu followed him out after a moment, not saying anything, just standing there. Watching him.

“What!” Anakin finally snapped. “What do you have to say that I don’t know already!”

“Knight Skywalker-”

“Don’t call me that! I DON’T DESERVE-”

Anakin let out a frustrated snarl, punching a wall. The crumble of stone beneath this fist briefly made him feel better, but then he remembered Obi-Wan’s heartbroken expression in the light of an underworldly glow, and the tiny, choked sound he heard when the healers moved him and Anakin just...collapsed, falling to his knees.

Master Windu sank down gracefully beside him.

“Anakin. This isn’t about attachment issues, is it.”

“Not really, no. I mean, maybe you’ll blame attachment but it’s more about...”

“Anger.”

Anakin looked up at that, trying to regain the meditative calm he had felt for a glimmering moment yesterday, right in-between making peace in the cave and everything burning to ash.

“You know that I have had my own struggles with anger. It is how and why I came to develop Vaapad.”

“Yes, but you’ve Mastered your anger. And you’ve never...never given in to hate.”

A beat passed and Windu watched some of Skywalker’s familiar breaking points flicker into view.

“You’ve done something. Something you know the Jedi won’t forgive.”

“Obi-Wan forgave me.” Anakin said, whispering. “He said that even though I couldn’t fix what I did he loved me anyway and I just needed to...to honestly regret what I did and not do it again. I told him I’d get rid of my lightsaber and I meant it and...I thought he forgave me. I was ready to go to the Council with him, come clean about everything. And then I left him alone to get dinner and when I came back...he was holding my lightsaber. My lightsaber.”

Anakin buried his face in his hands, shuddering with creeping cold.

“I’m not going to critique your and Obi-Wan’s attachment to each other right now. I’m well aware that much of the order has turned to personal ties to maintain their stability given the ongoing horrors of war. I am, for many reasons, wary of the risks this brings us, yet it is also true that risks do not automatically mean failure. I myself have mastered my emotions in a different manner than conventional wisdom councils.”

Windu spoke carefully. For all that he and Anakin had similar relationships with the force, they rarely saw eye to eye on any given subject. At a certain point, Mace had accepted that the volatile young man was determined to find the worst possible interpretation for anything he said. And Mace was not the order’s most patient diplomat.

“As for your crime, whatever it is, l will tell you this: Unless you choose to renounce the code and leave our number, you will be treated as a Jedi Knight, subject to our protections, as well as our judgement. You will receive appropriate mental counseling. If you are judged to be a danger to those around you, your actions will be curtailed and monitored, possibly through temporary confinement. The Jedi do not believe in punitive measures for their own sake, but you may be required to provide restitution to those you harmed, perhaps indefinitely.

Silence hung perilously between them. Windu watched a tremor run through the unfathomable kaleidoscopic of shatterpoints that had orbited Skywalker since he was a boy. A small one broke inward, and an attached tangle of larger, darker ones fell away, crumbling to dust. The rest faded from view, invisible for the moment. A choice had been made, some decision that closed off at least one path to the darkside.

“There’s no one to make restitutions to.”

“...You’re going to have to elaborate on that.”

“Let’s go back inside- I don’t want to do this twice.”

They returned to the increasingly hated meeting room.

Anakin spoke in an outpouring of words about love and hate, about misplaced revenge and now uncertain forgiveness. When he finally finished, the room was deathly silent.

The three Jedi sat quietly while Cody pinched the bridge of his nose. “I guess this is why Jedi have the no attachment rule, huh? I admit I never really got it, but I suppose even if I-”

Bant abruptly lunged up, fumbling to bring her lightsaber to Anakin’s neck. Everyone jumped to their feet, except for Anakin, who stared at Bant with a wretched expression.

“MASTER EERIN! This is not-”

“Did you do it?” she asked, ignoring the Master of the Order.

“Bant!”

“It was my first thought after I saw him. We all rushed in expecting a fight, or a bomb, only to find you, insane, and him with a hole next to his heart. I didn’t want to believe it of course, but you’ve always had a violent streak that Obi-Wan, force help him, couldn’t quite soothe away. A fight gone wrong. Master Windu said it was suicide, and I believed him, and I’ve been trying to make sense of that ever since. But Mace found you after, didn’t he? After you felt guilty? Did you think he was going to turn on you?”

“Bant Eerin, you are dangerously-”

“No.” Anakin whispered.

“Obviously I might be why. But I didn’t- I couldn’t. I know I’m not good but I can’t even imagine- holding a saber against him like that. Kriff, do you not get how much I can’t handle losing people I love? I was insane when you saw me because I saw someone trying to kill Obi-Wan and I couldn’t even fight them.”

Bant held his gaze for several lingering seconds, deactivated her saber and dropping it with a clatter. They stared at each other, breathing heavily and not blinking. She returned to her seat, moving jerkily. “I apologize Knight Skywalker. That was uncalled for.”

“I wish I could say I wouldn’t have done the same thing in your shoes” he responded lowly. Bant made a tiny, unintelligible noise in reply.

Cody collapsed back into his chair, holstering his blaster. “Alright then...so after you finished sitting in the fountain room...what happened next?”

Everyone stared at him.

“What?”

“You’re handling Anakin’s confession somewhat dispassionately. We’re simply surprised.” Mace said slowly, returning to his seat at the same time as Master Aerdo fell into theirs.

Cody shifted uncomfortably. “The vod were trained in a wide range of enemy suppression tactics. While we’re extremely glad the Jedi have never asked us to employ them, I’m not...unfamiliar with this scale of deliberate slaughter. At least in the hypothetical, sir.”

“I see.” Aerdo said. “That is a valuable insight to have, thank you. Knight Skywalker-”

“Just...call me Anakin. Or Skywalker.”

“Anakin. When did this happen?”

“About two years ago, immediately before the First Battle of Geonosis.”

“And have you had any similar experiences with giving into the darkside since?” they asked placidly.

“I don’t think so but...we went to war the next day and....I don’t know if I’ve stopped fighting since it- since I did what I did.”

“Hmm. Anakin, would you mind stepping outside the room and waiting in the corridor for a moment please?”

He bit his tongue, tasting blood, and quietly walked out the door while the Masters decided his fate. He leaned back against a wall, desperately wanting to see Padme.

To his surprise, the door opened barely a few minutes later, and he was politely invited back in.

“Anakin.” Master Windu spoke. “Thank you for telling us this. It’s an important insight into Obi-Wan’s feelings right now, and I recognize that you could have kept it a secret. As Head of the Order, and with the advice of a Senior Soul Healer, I have made a decision. You will be assigned a personal soul healer, who you will start seeing tomorrow. Commander Cody pointed out that over nearly two years of continuous warfare, you have maintained some of the the lowest trooper casualty units of any division, by a significant margin if we evaluate based on mission risk level. Your civilian and enemy casualties will be reviewed, but even considering constant war, since your massacre of the Tuskens, you have clearly managed to at least... direct your violence away from the innocent. We do not consider you a threat to the inhabitants of the world. For the time being, I see no real benefit to limiting or tracking your behavior within the temple or on planet, but you are barred from leaving orbit. I have decided to delay a full reckoning before the council until such time that your former Master is well enough to provide his own opinion. Give me just cause, and I will have you confined to a force-suppressing cell. Do you understand?”

Anakin nodded, bowing in acknowledgment. All things considered, it was...honestly better than he expected.

“Now, as Cody” Windu paused. “My apologies, as the Commander was saying-”

“Cody’s fine, sir” Cody said, wrung out in a way different from anything Kamino had trained him for.

“...I think we can all consider ourselves on a first name basis at this point.” Bant said with a snort. She paused. “That includes you Anakin. I really don’t know how to handle what you did but kark it, I don’t want to hate you. For myself.”

Everyone nodded.

“As Cody was saying, what happened next?”

Peace. Comfort. Hunger. A warning in the force...

“I tried to pull the saber back but his finger was already on the igniter...”

“You probably saved his life. Even a second later-”

“I know, that’s almost the worst part.”

“-his neck”

“Why would he change weapons?”

“What if-”

“He said what to you and Healer Che?”

“That has to support the detailed vision idea, think about-”

“I’m sorry, Emperor?”

“I think we’re done.”

Anakin stared blankly at Sife. “But we didn’t figure anything out.”

“Not conclusively, but we’re unlikely to make any more progress, you’ve given me enough information to preform a meaningful meditative scan, or guide a conversation, should Obi-Wan wake, or navigate through his mind, should we decide to make a more decisive attempt at his shields.”

“Master Aerdo... I leave the final judgement up to you, but I strongly urge you to make a more decisive attempt. I am more convinced now than I was...” Mace glanced at the chronometer “five hours ago that this was motivated by a specific, external stimuli, likely dark. Do you disagree?”

“No.” they said with a sigh. “But I don’t want to underestimate how much underlying factors might have contributed to his response to stimuli, including underlying factors that none of you were aware of.”

The Nautolan Soul Healer stood up, tucking their hands into their sleeves to address the room with classical Jedi serenity. It was a little irritating.

“In any case, we all need to sleep, eat, and meditate. Master Eerin, you have the rest of the day off, I've cleared it with Master Che already. Master Windu, I leave the final judgement up to you, and I am aware that your duties as Master of the Order are unceasing, but I urge you to take some time to center yourself before returning to the council. Commander Cody, I would be more than willing to arrange soul healing for you or any of the Vod, please let me know. Anakin, you will receive a comm later today with further details on your future healing sessions.

They bowed low, then glided out the door.

Bant stood next, bowed individually to each soul, and sped walked out.

Commander Cody cleared his throat awkwardly, “Mace- what should I tell the troops? We’re supposed to have command briefings later tonight.”

“If anyone asks about General Kenobi, tell them its classified.” I’ll schedule a briefing on the subject. Now go find Captain Rex and take care of yourself, that’s an order.”

Cody saluted, first to the high General, then to Anakin.

Finally it was just Mace and Anakin.

“Is there anyone who you trust who I can call to stay with you.” Master Windu asked.

“I can manage on my own” Anakin replied, not willing to give the Master of the Order anything else he could use against him, even after everything.

Master Windu held back a sigh.

He continued once more, making a deliberate attempt to soften his tone. “Anakin- I know we’ve had our differences, but this is not a trick, nor a trap. You’ve suffered a series of great shocks in the last 24 hours and handled them with immense maturity. I myself am struggling to deal with the emotional fallout.”

Anakin looked up at that, surprised. He didn’t seem to be struggling, but maybe that was what made him a good Jedi Master...

“As I told you before, I am not going to begrudge you the comfort of attachment. I’m rather convinced it would do you more harm than good at this point. I don’t want you flying right now, and you don’t have to be alone. I hope we have come to a better understanding today, but I doubt my presence is suddenly a comfort, though please correct me if I’m wrong. Now is there someone I can call?”

Padme ended her call with Master Windu extremely discomfited. She had barely heard from Anakin since he ran out on her the night before last to take care of an apparently extremely drunk Obi-Wan. He had messaged her a few times that night, promising to make it up to her, but had been comm-silent since. She had been starting to get worried, and now the Master of the Order was asking her to pick him up from the temple. Fortunately, she had already cleared most of her meetings for the week well in advance (Courascant leave usually meant THEM time, not that she was jealous of Obi-Wan, of course).

The speeder ride back from the temple was silent. All Anakin would say was that he would explain everything once they were in ‘a secure location.’

The door to the apartment had scarcely closed behind them when Anakin fell into her arms, shaking.

“Anakin, talk to me love, what’s wrong?” She gently guided him to the couch, arranging him so she could hold him protectively.

“Obi-Wan tried to kill himself.”

She let out a harsh gasp, “No! He can’t have, he would never-”

“I got to him in time, but Padme... he was holding a lightsaber to his heart. It was...really close” He burrowed deeper into the folds of her dress, and she gripped him fiercely.

“Oh gods, is he-”

“He’s physically healing, but he’s still...not all there. I spent all of today locked in a room, trying to figure out if it was a Sith Attack, or an insane vision, or..or me”

“Anakin! What do you mean ‘me’ - Obi-Wan loves you, you-”

“I know.” Anakin interrupted her again, knowing he was being unfair; he was just too exhausted to be patient.

“He told me loved me. He...he...found out about what I did to the Tusken village, You should have seen his face, Padme, he was horrified, but he still told me he loved me, and he was willing to forgive me, even though he shouldn’t”

“Of course he forgave you,” Padme whispered. “You’re not a monster, Anakin, I know you would never do something like that again.”

"And then after we talked, I left him alone and he-” Anakin choked out into her dress.

Tears ran down her face, heart breaking. “That’s- that’s horrible. Anakin...it must have have been a attack, Obi-Wan wouldn’t do that.” she said urgently.

He pulled away, horrified. “I made you cry. I made Obi-Wan cry too. I’m sorry- Padme please, promise me you won’t-”

She grabbed the sides of his head.

Her nails bit into the soft skin behind his ears as she pulled him down so they were face-to-face, vowing, “Never. I swear by the force itself, I will never choose death over life.”

He let out a relieved sigh, eyes fluttering closed.

“Now you,” she demanded

“As long as I have anyone to live for, I swear by the force, I will never choose death over life.”

She pulled him the rest of the way in for a bruising kiss. He lifted her, and they desperately clung at one another as he carried her to bed. They continued like that, clinging and grasping, until exhaustion carried him to sleep. She pulled the covers over top them both and curled around him defensively as the day slowly faded away.

Part XI

#star wars #my au #suicidal misunderstanding au #prequel trilogy #potentially triggering #discussions of suicide #references to self-harm #star wars au #bonding? between #Mace Windu and Anakin Skywalker #? in my #hurt/comfort fic #? It’s more likely than you’d think #also I struggle with fix it stories that just never address the big tusken elephant in the room? of course i want everyone to #live happily ever but theres a certain scale of atrocity that i feel u gotta address 2 get there #ugh this chapter got reallly long and im just gonna post it ok? ok.#meh #a lot of this fic is just people mentally going What The Fuck at various registers with different inflections #Because that’s not an inappropriate response to time travel in general! and star wars canon in particular.#star wars au no 27

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pluviophile-imagines · 4 years ago

Note

3 for bakugo or todoroki

I decided to do Bakugo for this, & then I got this ask after I closed the prompts for this event so I decided to go ahead and do it because it’s actually one of only two Halloween-related ones and I was planning to make this Werewolf!Bakugo anyway lol. This is a fun little AU that just kinda swaps quirks for supernatural creatures, loosely based off of a bunch of campy halloween stuff like Halloweentown and Sabrina The Teenage Witch. Also, the werewolves have destined mates like those dumb Wattpad novels, because sometimes tropes are fun and cute. Also this is THREE TIMES AS LONG AS I MEANT TO MAKE ALL OF THESE but ive also gotten like five??? individual asks for it 😭😭😭so y’all better not let it flop.

3: kissing so desperately that their whole body curves into the other person’s

Though you’ve known Bakugo pretty much your whole life, there’s a lot about werewolves that you don’t know.

If he were a different person, he probably wouldn’t be telling you at 5:47 on his 21st birthday that he’s apparently supposed to figure out who his soulmate is going to be tonight. If he weren’t so closed off, even to his best friend of over a decade and a half, then perhaps you wouldn’t be having this conversation, and perhaps it wouldn’t feel quite like pulling teeth.

“You have a soulmate?” is really all you can say, because most of your mental capacity is going towards keeping the sob in the back of your throat from being audible.

“Yeah,” he grunts. He’s not even looking at you, because he’s holding his phone in one hand and he’s scrolling through it, and though the two of you are sitting on opposite sides of the couch he has your feet in his lap, free arm wrapped all the way around them like he doesn’t want you to leave. “It’s… I dunno. Kinda cool, I guess.”

“All of you have soulmates?”

“Well, yeah. You witches don’t?”

You wrinkle your nose, trying your hardest to ignore the burning at the backs of your eyes. “No. We don’t.”

Out of the corner of your eye you see him purse his lips, as if troubled by the revelation. “Huh. How d’you know who’s the one, then?”

“We just. Figure it out? I guess. Is this why you’ve never dated anyone?”

“Yeah. Not really interested in anyone but my destined.”

He says it so easily, but you know him well enough to understand. He likes the idea of a soulmate; he’s looking forward to figuring out who they are tonight. Who would have guessed that he was a romantic?

It’s awful. It makes your chest burn. You’d only come to terms with your crush on the guy two months ago. Now he’s gonna be taken from you by some random person he’s never met?

No, you suppose, he’s always belonged to them. That’s how it works, right?

“D’you know who it’ll be?”

“Hah? No, dumbass, if I did that would defeat the purpose.” Bakugo pauses, glancing over at you with just his eyes, then darting them away just as fast. It’s probably just a trick of the light, but you could swear he blushes a little as he mumbles, “I know who I want it to be, though.”

Your eyes widen and you lean up, pulling your legs back (ignoring the way his hands tense before letting them go as if he wants to hold on) so that you can kneel on them right next to him. “Who?”

“Not happening.”

“Bakugo,” you whine, drawing out the last syllable of his name.

“I’m not telling you, brat.”

You lean forward, prodding at his cheek. “Is it Mina?”

“No.”

“Jirou?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Kirishima?”

Bakugo growls out your name, a warning, but you don’t pull away, getting even closer until you’re practically draped over him.

“Todoroki?”

He grabs you, whipping towards you as his arms fly up to wrap around your waist and yank you off him, tossing you back to your side of the couch as you shriek in laughter. He’d never hurt you, you know, and roughhousing like this is hardly new in your friendship; plus, well, you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been hoping to feel his big, warm hands like this. Despite all his surprises tonight, he’s still all too predictable, and you’d seen this coming a mile away.

What you don’t see coming is him pausing, braced with one arm against the couch all too close to you, holding his torso over you with his head right above yours. And he stares, those crimson eyes unreadable with an expression you’ve never seen before, locked entirely on you.

You can feel his chest rising and falling steadily against yours, and your own eyes are drawn to where his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly. You’re frozen, unable to move though you’d hardly want to anyway, and it hits you like a brick what he’s really been saying the whole night.

You open your mouth to speak, but then the hazy tension is shattered by the shrill sound of his phone.

Bakugo lunges away, pulls back with inhuman werewolf speed, grabbing his phone as he leaps to his feet. “‘S my mom, sundown’s soon, I have to go.”

“Wait, Bakugo—”

“See ya tomorrow, yeah?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, already half out the door.

“Katsuki,” you try, desperate, and it makes him freeze.

The door is open, his knuckles are pale with how tight he’s gripping the knob, but as much as you’ve tried it’s not enough. He’s gone without another word.

You don’t get to sleep that night.

It’s dumb; he’ll lecture you in the morning as he tells you all about his perfect amazing werewolf destined—that was what he’d called it, right? You prefer soulmate. Mate is a wolf thing anyway—who he’s spending all night with, running around in the forest howling at the moon and making out or whatever.

You stay out in the den, curled up on the couch with a blanket draped around you, ice cream in your lap, and an old movie playing that you’re not really listening to because you’ve been too wrapped up in your own head.

For an instant, you’d been so sure. A mere moment of absolute certainty that he was just as in love with you as you are him, that your oblivious pining for years was actually reciprocated. In the hours since he’d pinned you to the couch, you’d convinced yourself otherwise.

Imagine your surprise when there’s a frantic knocking at your door.

It startles you, making you jump about ten feet up in the air, and you freeze on the couch with wide eyes and a gaping mouth staring directly at the solid wood that seems to be shaking in its hinges. You’re halfway to casting a protection charm when a familiar gruff voice shouts your name from outside.

“I know you’re awake, I can hear you in there! Open the damn door!”

You glance at the time to find that it’s just under fifteen minutes to midnight. Awfully soon for him to be done, but you rise from your spot on the couch with the blanket still wrapped around your shoulders and move to let Bakugo in.

“Coming,” you say, not bothering to be loud because you know he can hear even the shifting of your clothes beneath the blanket.

He looks downright feral when you open the door, panting slightly, hair mussed up, eyes wild. But when he sees you, they light up, happy and excited like a damn puppy.

“Are you drunk?”

“Uh… kinda?”

“...Magical bullshit?”

He nods, a rough toss of his head to affirm. “Ancient rituals. Tipsy’s more accurate, if anything. Figured out who my destined is.”

“And you came to me? Shouldn’t you be with your soulmate, then?”

Bakugo blinks, clearly stunned, barking out a burst of laughter before shaking his head. “You’re somethin’ dumbass.”

You go to respond, more than a little insulted because he’s been acting so fucking weird all day and he has the nerve to say you’re being dumb, but any retort is flung from your mind as he steps forward and puts his hands on your arms.

Leaning in until your noses are practically touching, he speaks. “It’s you. It’s always been you.”

“H—huh?” you stutter out, heart stopping and mind reeling with his words.

“I wanted it to be you. And it’s you.” His hands slide down your arms to meet yours. “You’re my destined.”

There’s so much more to say, so much to ask him, everything ranging from but I’m a witch, how is that possible to so we could have been fucking dating this whole time but he doesn’t let you speak, clearly too overjoyed and inebriated, and you’re not entirely opposed when he yanks you in with exactly the level of roughness you’d imagine from him and kisses you.

And finally, finally, after a decade and a half of wanting to (longer than you even knew what kissing was), you can melt into him.

You believe him then, not that you particularly doubted. It’s like his lips are the missing piece to a puzzle, one you’ve been looking for your whole life. He holds you up with ease, werewolf strength coming in handy, as one hand laces with your own and the other darts to the small of your back. He’d be holding you closer, but you’re literally as close as you could be, body curving against him as his taller form hunches over you.

He kisses you far more sweetly than you’d have expected; no teeth or tongue but still all passion, heavy palm and fingers splayed across your back as the other hand pulls you and grounds you. It’s heated and it makes you forget that you’re both standing in the middle of the open front door at midnight.

You’re both reluctant to break away, you can tell because you both linger a little, bodies frozen as the kiss is followed by one, two, three more just as feverish but decreasing in length. Then the two of you pull away for real (not by much, no, he’s holding you far too intensely for you to get far) and you stumble backwards pulling him by his shirt into your home. He gets the hint, following and shutting the door behind you but not letting either of you make it very far beyond.

“All right,” you say finally, breathless both from the kiss and from giddy laughter bubbling up within you, “all right, you’re my soulmate.”

Bakugo kisses you again.

#bnha x reader #bnha imagines #mha x reader #mha imagines #bakugo x reader #bakugo imagine #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki imagine #ground zero x reader #ground zero imagine #anon #halloween au #soulmate au #I REALIZED JUST NOW WHEN I LINKED THE ASK THAT THE ANON WANTED THE READER TO BE A WEREWOLF TOO OOPS I MADE THEM A WITCH #oh well we can pretend the reason baks can have them as a soulmate is cause theyre part werewolf #ask.🌧#mine.🌧#char.🌧 bakugou #event.🌧 750 follower prompts

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damagedsmile · 4 years ago

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//Hullo hullo everyone, just flying in here with an update & I apologise for taking so long about it.

So its been a tough time for everyone with C-19. Ireland is going into another lock down. I hope yall are taking care & regardless of your opinion on the matter, I hope yall are being respectful & safe.

Life has been abit topsy-turvy for me. Im learning that grief is just a series of moments where, when you least expect it, you spontaneously combust with tears. Ive had good days but a lot of days where it do be just hanging on by your nails & wondering when the rabbithole ends. So basically I'm at a point where I really don't know how I'm going to feel the next hour, the next day... yanno. I've had moments where I feel ready to return here & do something small but that feeling always changes to the opposite; I'm being careful with discerning what is a manic whim & what is real. I think that's a very important skill for anyone in this position or with mental health issues to learn, so im learning something new this past while.

I have not been able to write anything or draw for months now. Its very frustrating & depressing in itself as I am a creative person & often feel smothered when unable to create. I just have no energy or ideas & am very resentful of myself for feeling things that disrupt my hobbies. But I know i need to feel & go through this so am not pressuring myself. I'm focusing on keeping myself clean & fed & practicing good sleep hygiene; once I can master these three fundamentals, I can focus on other things.

Its funny, I think, that life experiences can alter you so much that you forget how to be human in that you find yourself forgetting to eat & unable to perform daily self-care routines & unable to show love towards those you know you love dearly. To sum it up, I think its fair to say this is the lowest point of my life & its been both horrible & eye-opening. I feel like a burn victim, without skin, everything hurting & tiresome & feeling seperate from myself & my former life. In that same perverse way, that part of me is abit thankful for c-19 because it means I don't have people coming close to me & hugging me & generally being sympathetic: I find im loathing that behaviour now. I don't want to be the person whom suffered a great loss that everyone needs to comfort, I just want to be a person that people treat like normal.

I opened the door the other day to a Traveller woman trying to sell me bedsheets & she said "ah take that, it'd be a grand present for your ma" to which I said, "my ma's dead". It was easier to say than I thought it would be & it was actually a relief to say it & receive a fumbling apology, "I'm sorry, my ma's dead too." I appreciated that more than receiving a hug or a pat on the back. Not that a stranger would do such things, but yanno. We had a moment like saluting each other & I bought pillows off her, the end.

I hope I'm making sense. I hope no one takes offence to this. This is just my feelings, my journey. I've been calling myself a child of grief, making this journey to a port in a storm where i can start a new life on that port & begin anew once I've shed this old skin thats dried out from salty tears.

I've been playing TS4. I started the Asylum Challenge on medium difficulty. I have Joker there ofc with 6 others. I did have 8 Sims but Jared Leto died in the pool (he went for a swim instead of sleeping ffs). We've had 1 Asylum baby that was adopted away for obvious reasons. Currently Enoby Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way is trying to get with Rob Zombie's creepy twin, Bob Zombie. Joker is hitting it off with my Sim whose aesthetic is inspired by Emilie Autumn. I called her Kathryn Wheel cuz of the torture device/HIM song.

I got two rat kittens for Valentines Day (not sure if I've told you before). They're Fancy Rats but with blue colouring, which I've never seen before in breeds. I called them MizPah & BoBoBetty. The Precious got a new snake, a BEL he calls Helvita but i call her Boo.

I got my hands tattooed a wee while ago which wasn't as painful as my neck but painful enough that I'm relieved theyre done & healed up. I'll try remember to post pics whenever. My memorys been a bit scatty with meds. Im also working on losing weight again so I've been very tired & grumpy when I'm not huddling in a nest of blankets growling at The Precious when he enters my space. The only way he earns my trust each eve is to give me coffee & tell me im being very good. Is this a joke? YOU be the judge...

Anyway. Im alive & still working on myself. I thank yall for your patience & support, it means a lot to me knowing my friends on here are rooting for me. I'm toasting yall rn with my iced coffee (still trying to perfect the recipe but im getting there). I hope yall are doing well & are happy, safe, & healthy. Remember I love yall & wish you all the very best, even if I'm not present or feeling sociable. We'll all get through this, i promise you. Remember that you only really see light when things are very dark 💜

#damagedmun #mobile #update #tw mental health #tw long post

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caphayzardous · 4 years ago

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just talkin abt RSI thiiings

when I signed up 4 uni theyre like do you have a diagnosed disability that could affect yr studies and I have to say no because a) rsi isnt diagnosed nor was it in the drop-down list of disabilties to choose from so like can’t actually inform them of it, b) its only sometimes and most of the time it’s not a problem so it doesn’t count, right, I feel really out of line claiming any kind of disability its just that when it does flare up and literally disables me Im like. oh hm. c) its somewhat in my control and therefore somewhat a personal moral failing, right (to clarify. thats not a genuine statement.).

but it really can fuck me over so bad. idle pain, and then when I use the hand very sharp pain in the hand and wrist, sometimes up to the elbow, sometimes unable to carry things (forced to drop them) or use the limb at all, and after a day of it I get achey tendons in the other arm compensating. it hasnt happened in a long time but I’ve had active rsi in both wrists at once and naturally thats shithouse too.

im so screwed if I dont keep ahead of it, a big flare during the semester would really mess shit up. I’ve been doing really well to like have rest days if I draw or type a lot or feel something coming on and I’ve only had minor instances of it in the last few months but. I didnt anticipate this one to get so bad. driving is top 3 for rsi flare triggers for me. so driving 2 hours, playing the bass for a few hours, then driving 2 more hours, like of course that was going to do something. im lucky the bass alone doesnt harm me, but I shoulda foreseen that whole combo would act up... and I guess my healing in general is cooked right now because my body is a mess. I should look into underlying causes for RSI or see if there’s anything dietary I can do because this IS my one health thing which might benefit from that (yes, I’m still throwing shade at diet being brought up wrt my autoimmune disease,) but like..... im tired lol I’m already investigating 2 big health things right now and dont get me started again on the idea of cooking or eating better I’m doing my fukcen best to survive

im so excited to study and like I really cant understate that, but Im going to have to be so careful. ive been messing around with dictation in word over the last day to see if that might reduce some wrist workload for uni (except for how I also have vocal problems right now. yes. whole body dying disease.), but like yeah theres no alternatives for the actual drawing (or sewing and all). I just want to know how it will all work, my schedule, what kind of balancing I have to do... ahhh. and I want it to not be hurting right now...

#caphaytext

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fallen029 · 4 years ago

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I’ve been trying to get a part of OpB out a month, but this month I got swamped and just didn’t have time. I’m hoping I get it finished by this weekend, but it might not happen, so for the ones of you who follow me over here, I thought I’d post the first half (or quarter, really), for you to read over. This part involves a lot coming together all at once, so it’s just been a bit of a hassle to piece together.

I don’t usually post OpB shit over here and I’m not going to start, but if you see this and wanna follow the rest of it, it’s over on Fanfic and Archive. You don’t have to be all caught up or even read any of the rest of the Remember Me shit to understand it. It stands on it’s own, loosely in the Fairy Tail realm, focusing on the slave trade in Bosco. Nearly full OC, and kinda just me indulging my own shit a bit. It’s not for everyone, but I rather like it.

Operation Bosco: A Call to Arms, IV

it was always strange.

The feeling of it.

Waking up.

Since Haven had been revived following the mishap on the gauntlet, it was always a bit of a jolt, first thing, as her eyes peeked open and she was greeted to a new day. There were some difficulties in adjusting, right at the start, to the feeling. Her chest would get heavy and the breaths she drew in always seemed to burn, just a bit, as the scarring over her stomach itched.

For as bad as the nights were though, the mornings made it worth it.

She’d never really taken a break. Before. Had always been on, constantly. From the day her parents let her start snagging the fliers off the job board, she’d either spent her days completing them or training to be able to do so. Days were meant for toiling and nights were meant for getting fucked up in her father’s guildhall. Her mind was focused on very few things and everything felt simple. Easy. Broken down.

Get stronger and reward yourself along the way.

But when she was revived, things were different. She couldn’t take jobs right off the bat, she was too weak to train in the first few weeks, and her father no longer held a guildhall for her to act out in, with not too veiled hopes of gathering his attention.

Everything was different.

Locke had to go back out, on jobs, and even once she was up to training, she had no one but her boyfriend’s father or Ajax to do it with. Navi was gone, Locke now had friends, real friends that he wanted to spend time with, if he wasn’t out, and it was jarring.

All of it.

Her family was there, but she was trying to ease back into those relationships and they were dealing with their own trauma, what with her coming back to life and her father disappearing in the middle of the night.

She’d spend days, both with or without Locke, at a bit of a loss as to how to get back to where she was. Or, honestly, how to be sure she’d never return to it. There was a call for the long stretches of solitude and peaceful atmosphere she was rewarded with, but at the same time, it felt far more like a punishment.

She was a woman of action. Strong action. Constantly falling in and out of dangerous scenarios in order to prove her worth. Those few months of either taking no jobs or taking one and needing a be recovery period was hard on her.

Very hard.

“I never want to be like this again,” she told Locke, more than once, and he only snickered, smiling even, in the beginning when he was still just amazed to see her alive and breathing, with him once more. “Don’t nothing. Sitting around. Waiting.”

“It’ll be different in Bosco,” he assured her and it was still a dream to them then, not fully realized or understood, what it would mean.

What any of it would mean.

She spent months getting stronger and him proving himself to the guild master, just to find their power and prowess useless. He’d spent the majority of their time away on guard duty, back on base or across the border, while her true powers had been suppressed and her new, fancy one she was so pleased to wield had only come into play once.

And for what?

So she could find herself folding clothes in a sweatshop, hoping to win the approval of women that saw her as little more than a kid. A fucking, stupid kid whose current placement in life did more to depress them than, perhaps, their current surroundings. Reminded them of their first time. Times. In new places, adjusting to the new regulation and lack of freedom they were presented.

There was a resignation, back in Ewings, but it wasn’t buried nearly as deeply as it was the majority of the women she was currently housed with. The majority of them were too old, had been under too long, and she was made known of this the second she tried to broach the topic with any of them.

It was a headbanging kind of realization, the ones she had every single day and night, as she tried to assimilate herself with these women. She lacked the nerves or fears she had, on Ewing’s manor, but they were instead replaced with frustrating jitters of wanting to do something, to start something, but not quite being able.

She didn’t connect well with other people. She never had. But it was now a major part of the job and, though she wished that both Locke and Shae were able to carry the heavy load in this, she knew that her position in the hoped revolution was very important.

One of the things that she’d learned recently from the short months she’d spent back home actually came during that down time she hated. And from Marin, her lame younger sister, of all fucking people. Marin possessed the potential for all the power in the world, but balked in her formative years, and instead had to build other skills.

She wasn’t great at it either, after all. Connecting to other people. And maybe that was Haven’s fault, at least somewhat, but whatever it was, Marin found ways to overcome it. Where Haven thought to prove herself physically and violently, Marin managed her natural awkward disposition in another way.

With her natural abilities repressed, she found herself accessing social skills in other ways. She learned things about people, rather easily. She served them beers and fed them filling food until they felt comfortable enough to express things to her. Whether this was intentional or not, it allowed her to easily transverse any other personal relationships she was forced to have with others. They felt naturally inclined to consider her something. Not exactly a friend and maybe not a confidant, but at least someone that, even when sober and starving, they could count on to be there for them.

The best part of this arrangement was that Marin hardly had to offer anything difficult up to others; she merely had to provide the expected level of care. This wasn’t exactly an imparted benefit on Haven through word of mouth, but rather observation. She watched her mostly quiet and reserved sister in the guildhall many times following her resurrection, and it was a very alternate experience from how Marin was once treated around the place.

By doing her work, she found an avenue that otherwise wouldn’t be easily presented to her.

Haven wanted to be like that. With her job. To do her job and make friends along the way. It used to be that way, anyways, when she was just a regular mage, running around helping others. She fell in and out of relationships in her time away from Fairy Tail, nothing serious, but her prowess had always spoken when she was unable. Helped her fall in with the people she needed in the moment who required her powers just as heavily.

But now she didn’t need them. Didn’t have them. Couldn’t use them. It felt better, honestly, than it had back at Ewings place, now able to at least use her transformation magic, but it still ached a bit, as it always would, whenever she couldn’t draw electricity through her veins at will.

It was depressing.

Just how things had felt, when last year’s long, hot summer had faded into the darkness of a new season. But now she was trapped in the dull shadows of a hotbox sweatshop, equally as shut-in and alone, but just for different reasons.

Sulking wasn’t productive though. Nor was her natural inclinations towards anger and brash attitudes. Shae and Locke were both out of their element and struggling to find ground, but she was given the easiest job of all; she couldn’t fuck it up.

She just had to gain the trust of a bunch of old women.

Marin did it with the older men in the bar, plying them full of beer and liquor and listening to their problems. Finally, for once drawing true inspiration from her sister, Haven found that getting frustrated with her position wasn’t going to get her anyways; she just had to do her job and keep her head down.

So she tried it.

Haven had always been kind of afraid of it. Silence. Left to her own devices. To think. After her ventures into the afterlife’s eternity, she found mostly that she’d never not be afraid of the concept. Silence was just too much for her to handle.

But without even Shae now, it was what her days were mostly filled with. And as she focused, tried hard to get the folding and sorting all down, box breaking and box opening, but fuck.

Fuck.

It was just hard.

But she seemed to be endearing herself more, this way. Or at least she thought. There was a woman, anyways, of the few that were on folding and packing duty, that seemed to not look on her as harshly as she once had.

She was a...hearty woman, Haven thought. Homely, maybe, was the word. She kept her messy brown hair clipped back and out of her face for the most part, but sometimes a strand would fall from its containment and she was mutter curses just loud enough for the typical blonde to catch. A dark, rough patch laid over the older woman’s eye and she cursed about it at times too, wiggling a finger beneath the fabric to deal with an itch.

She went by Bea, the woman did, and she was a glimpse into the world Haven was merely visiting.

It started just like that. Not so harsh looks and, eventually, her grumbling at Haven to take a seat, beside her and two of the other women, during lunch break, down in the grass.

There wasn’t much to talk about. They probably didn’t really have much in common, removed from their current position, but they were trapped, all of them, with the magical marker denoting them as less than, and if they only had one thing to speak on, then it made sense that they eventually would.

“You wanna ask about it,” Bea remarked one day in that gruff she had. They’d had a few conversations by this point, short and to the point. Grumbles over the food, the work, maybe on a too cool summer evening, about the pond water. But this time, as they sat together in the warm grass, sun bearing down on them as they scarfed down their lunch, it seemed different. The tone. The intention. “All the new people do.”

Haven knew what she was talking about, of course, but even for as socially inept as she typically was, even she knew that she was heading down the entirely wrong path. Quickly shaking her head, she had to swallowed the hardened sliver of bread and warm meat of some sort that they’d been served before saying, “N-No, I haven’t. I-”

“Things were different,” Bea told her simply and this, at least, hadn’t been the first time she’d heard such at hing. “Around here. Before.”

Haven paused, not wishing to ward off the potential for further conversations, but also being reverent of letting this once slip through her grasps.

“Before?” she asked softly.

“Before,” the older woman went on, “the current master. The young one. The son.” She almost sneered, maybe, shaking her head as she insisted, “He’s not nearly the...man his father was.”

“Did he...did he take your-”

“Plucked it right out.” She made a popping noise with her mouth that made a woman sitting nearby visibly appear revolted. Bea only reached up, almost absently, to sneak a finger beneath the flap, scratching with a sigh. “Punishments were stiffer. The work harder. What we were dealin’… But I was so young then. Your age, maybe younger. Things were just...different.”

“That’s fucked,” Haven remarked, but Bea only shrugged.

“I’ve seen yours.” Then she made that face again, that sneer, the finger slipping back out from beneath the patch so that she could gently tap the pad against the course fabric. “Well, as well as I can see somethin’-”

“What do you mean?”

“Your scars. On your stomach.” Bea raised an eyebrow. “Told ya mine.”

Which meant she wanted Haven to tell hers. It was probably the entire reason she’d brought up the conversation in the first place.

It was with a bit of a sigh that Haven thought about it. All of it. She had a lot of scars, of course, and wore them well, but the most important…

The fact it was even visible was her own fault, honestly. Her transformation wasn’t that draining, but she needed it to be perfectly even, refilled and never taking away too much. Leaving her scars where they were, hidden beneath her clothing, was an easy concession. And the visible ones only added to her credibility. But they all stripped together, each night, and even though the moonlight didn’t illuminate much, all light only revealed the most inconvenient. Or at least it always had for Haven.

“I got cut open,” she admitted, softly, and though it wasn’t the full truth, as she looked away and reflected, she told just enough of it that her pain was not only convincing, but real. “Died. A-Almost, I mean. I almost died. Someone was able to use magic to save me.”

“All that miracle,” Bea sighed with a click of her tongue and a shake of her head, “only to land you here.”

“Only,” Haven agreed, “to land me here.”

Things only seemed to look up from there. It was difficult, of course, to be too optimistic for the future when you were dealing in such a dank reality, but Haven did feel good about herself. Bea seemed to like her well enough, maybe, and though the other women all seemed to be distant, it was nice to have something of an in.

She felt comfortable in it, at least somewhat, and was very ready to shove it in the often doubting Locke’s face one day when she disappeared off into the shed, equally anticipating her boyfriend as she was the soda pop he’d bring.

Which was why, as he slipped in empty handed, she had a bit of a glare.

“Nothing?” she questioned. “I literally have nothing to look forward to and you still manage to disappoint-”

“Haven.” He rushed the short distance to stand before her, his goofy gaze rather harsh that day. Clouded. Concerned. Reaching out, he grasped her cheeks in his hands, forcing her to stare up at him, linking their gaze. “Something’s happened. Or is happening. I don’t-”

“Is it Shae?” She shoved him off, tossing up an arm and, originally intending it to crackle with the heat of electricity, she instead found herself merely flexing. “We’ll fuck ‘em up, Locke. We’ll-”

“No, Have, it’s…” He only frowned at her. “It’s you.”

Deflating some, Haven returned the gaze though hers was accompanied by a raised brow as she questioned, “What do you mean?”

He wasn’t quite sure, honestly.

The concern came from Shae herself.

Locke had the benefit (misfortune?) of being one of the guards sent up to the penthouse, not for their irregular defiling of select hostages, but rather to rouse Monty from where he was shirking on his duties. It had been with a bit of a huff that Wick chose him, finding the young man eating with some of the other guards in the dining room, and as he and Locke bounded up the stairs, his only offered explanation was, “You talk sense to him, Hux. He likes you.”

But he didn’t like Wick.

No one liked Wick.

He was a cold man, older than the other guards and from the old breed, Anderson had sneered to Locke once behind the man’s back. He kept to himself and mostly seemed to find his time spent trying to get Monty to do anything other than drink and hide in his arcade or penthouse.

It was a difficult task.

But recently, the Master had taken quite the liking to Hux and, while that was annoying to some of the other guards, Wick saw this as a new, unexplored advantage. Guys listened to their friends, after all, and if the new guard could, at the very least, supply an easy way to control the Master, then, well, his presence was worth it.

Up in the penthouse though, as Wick moved through the living area, unconcerned mostly with the women that hung around, and instead headed to bang on Monty’s bedroom door, Locke uneasily glanced around at the women seemed equally as uneasy to see him. He almost raised his hand to wave at their very pointed avoided glanced, but he didn’t have a chance as someone came rushing over to him.

Shae had spent the past few days sitting by the door, mostly. She avoided Monty when she could, but felt it very important that she get to Locke, as soon as possible. Being locked away in the penthouse, this felt completely impossible as the man, she knew, would avoid the place like a plague. Still, there really wasn’t anything to do, at all, other than slowly go insane in the place and though she knew she was meant to be gaining trusts of the women around her, she found herself far more worried over something else.

She’d gotten up. Right before he came in. To find what had been left for them to eat in the kitchen. There was more, here, than down in the sweatshop, but most of the women, especially those who’d been there long, seemed to survive mostly on their pills and alcohol.

But Locke came in, while she was doing that, and at first, the sight of Wick stalking through the apartment wasn’t a welcome one to the woman and she hung back. But as he was barking for Monty, Shae saw the man she was actually looking for and, not knowing exactly when she’d be given another opportunity, she ran right for him.

It was awkward, the next few motions, as she hesitated and Locke tensed, at the feeling of someone approaching him in such a manner, but then there was the awkwardness of all the women staring and one of them had to say something, but it had to be here, because she was the one who had something to say, and while he was too shocked for much more than his silence, Shae knew she need to get the information to him as subtly as possible and, well, given their implied relations by that point, she figured it wasn’t too out of the realms what she did next.

Somehow, it was even more awkward.

Locke pulled back, when he realized what he was doing and it was like pressing her lips against nothing, mostly his chin, honestly, as she leaned up, but not enough to account for how hard he was trying to evade.

Pulling away herself, just slightly, she whispered, “Haven’s in trouble.”

Locke blinked with a questioning, “What?”

“Take this.” And her hands had been wrapped around his neck, but one of her balled up fists opened then and a folded slip of paper tickled the back of his neck as it tumbled down beneath the collar of his tucked in shirt and came to rest around his hip line, right where his too tight cut off passage. Shae’s eyes were wild as she insisted to the man, “You have to do something.”

It was on instinct, almost, the way he nodded at her solemn tone, but again, the seconds in this encounter were stifled by another immediately following it.

Wick had been coming out of the bedroom then, chewing out an inebriated Monty while he was at it, but this stopped suddenly when he saw what was taking place. Shae still had an arm wrapped around Locke’s neck and he was still too dazed to do much about it. The sight, for some reason, caused Wick to shout at them, but his gaze was quickly somewhere else.

“Enough,” he’d growled, the older man had, and all the women, who hadn’t really relaxed the entire time, seemed even more uneased by the action. With a deep growl, he was stalking right back across the room then to grab Shae roughly by the arm and toss her to the side. “You will not-”

“Hey!” Locke bucked right up as Shae, fighting against all instinct she knew, forced herself to only fall away and not bite back at the man.

“Shut your fucking mouth.” And Wick turned to Locke once more, raising his hand and striking him, sharply right above his left ear. Having been raised on such things, if anything the feeling made the hardy mage almost nostalgic. If only the hit wasn’t so weak with no true iron behind it. As Locke blinked away the feeling, his direct superior only glared darkly into his red eyes. With a shake of his head, Wick insisted, “You will never do that again. Do you understand? You are on duty. And in front of her?”

“In front of who?” Locke griped as he resisted the urge to rub at his ear. “What are you talking about?”

But Wick just huffed then, turning on his heel and walking over to where some of the women were coward, wincing as he came close, but there was only one that he seemed interested in. Locke had seen her before and, though she hadn’t stood out to him before, he recognized her as one of the women that worked in the kitchen. Not marked. Hired help. She was the youngest one of them, a teenager, and Locke had mostly steered clear of the kitchen help, not quite sure how they fit into liberation.

He grabbed her though, Wick did, hissing something about how she shouldn’t be up here, right now, and she was wide eyed, the teenager was, nodding her head and being drug from the penthouse while everyone else stood stock still and eerily silent.

As the teen and Wick disappeared out the door, a beat would come to pass before Monty, the only one capable of breaking the tension laughed, drunkenly, shaking his head as he continued on then.

“C’mon, Hux,” he slurred as he came to weakly slug the man in the shoulder. Grinning, his glassy eyes found Locke’s as he remarked, “Gotta finish work, huh?”

“Yeah,” Locke agreed with a nod and, though he did glance at Shae, he turned to follow after the Master.

Monty stumbled down the stairs with Locke’s help and, with some more assistance, the mage managed to shove the guy into his office where, following, he was certain to close the door behind them.

“Wick’s just freaked,” Monty explained, going to fall into his chair. “That I don’t, uh, seem presentable to my uncle.”

“Your uncle?”

“Alwood.” He sniffled though, at the man’s name, Monty did. Raking a hand across his face, he groaned some as he said, “Man look’s out for me.”

But he couldn’t even think about that sort of thing, in that moment, Locke couldn’t. Instead, he only paced a bit, around the small office, while Monty continued to rub at his face trying to wake himself up.

“Can I ask you something?” Locke finally asked and Monty waved his hand a bit.

“Sit down and do it,” he grumbled a bit. “Giving me a headache.”

Hesitating, Locke glanced at the door before going to sink into one of the plush chairs that set before the desk. Softly, he asked, “Who was that? That girl?”

“I dunno,” Monty replied as he rubbed a palm roughly into one eye, the stinking eventually causing him to gasp and drop his hand. Then, dryly, he replied, “You’re the one fuckin’ her.”

“What? No, I meant… The one that Wick drug out of there,” he explained. “The young one. Who-”

“That’s Wick’s fuckin’ daughter.”

“He’s what?”

Monty snorted then, sneering some as he sat back in his chair and focused on the ceiling for a moment. “I’s a kid when it all happened. It was under my dad that it all happened. That fucker. Left me all this shit to deal with. And fuck Wick too. Asshole. Thinks he so good. So great. Knocked the woman up. Down in The Factory. Judges me. He does the same fucking thing. Did. Whatever.”

Locke shifted, a question on his tongue, but doing so caused the slip of paper down the back of his shirt to scratch against his back and, suddenly, he couldn't give a shit about Wick.

“Hey, man, are you going to be alright?” Jumping up, Locke forgot for a moment that he actually, sort of, had a job to do and straightened at the remembrance. As he looked over Monty, he added, “If I take off?”

Monty ran a hand for once through his hair, causing it to become even more disheveled. Shaking his head, he said, “Gotta, uh, sober up. Before Alwood comes around.”

Locke found it unlikely that this would be accomplished, but he had his own problems to worry about. Not only did he imagine Wick would be on his ass, should he run into the man again, but he needed to get that slip of paper and read it over as soon as possible.

His room was empty, thankfully, when he arrived at it. On occasion, the other guys would be lingering around to talk or try and goad him into going into town with him. They all got their checks every two weeks and, now with a sizable accumulation of cicles, the offer seemed like it should have been more enticing to him than he was displaying to the others.

But he didn’t want to leave the property. Not with Haven around. If he told her about it, she’d goad him into going out with the other guards, get to know them better, study them, learn something useful to the cause, but fuck that. He wasn’t leaving her alone on the property.

It was hard enough knowing she was so close and yet barred off from him the majority of the time.

His chest was pounding, as it had since what had popped off upstairs, but alone now, closed off in his tiny bedroom, his heart felt like it was trying to rip from his chest. Ripping off his shirt, he probably looked a foo as he spun around in a tight circle, trying to find where the slip of paper had fluttered off to, freed now.

It wasn’t much. As he found the white slip sticking out against his dark hardwood floor, his fingers trembled some and he was both disappointed and terrified by just how short in length Shae’s note was.

She had to be straight to the point, of course, and there wasn’t much there for him to glance over, but still, he found himself collapsing onto the edge of his bed as his eyes traced over the short writing.

Alwood’s taking Haven back with him. Stop her from going. I’ve heard bad things about him. She’s not safe.

The note didn’t tell him much. And though he tried to get what he could out of the guys he had patrol with the next morning, because of the former, he didn’t have much to offer Haven that day, as he stared with heavy concern at what, truly, was a strange woman, but exuded all the warmth (or lack there of) that his girlfriend did.

He’d spent the majority of his life trying to protect her. And others. It was in his nature, since he was a boy. He liked for all the people he cared about to be as safe as possible. This was a difficult task, growing up as a mage, but he always saw after his friends. Haven especially.

His whole point in coming to this place was for that exact reason. He dreamed of more, he wanted more, but deep down, it was the only thing that really mattered.

“Alwood is going to try and take you,” he told her simply. “But I’m not going to let him.”

Haven stood there for a moment, after his words, losing her tension and fear for Shae and, at least somewhat, gaining some for herself.

“Alwood,” she repeated his name softly then, frowning, “knows Ewing.”

“What?”

“I told you. That’s where I know him from.” Turning from the man, she could only blink in the darkness, her desire for static, not to draw, but to expel, pooling in the pit of her stomach. “What if Ewing told him about me? And he came here to get me?”

“Haven, I don’t think-”

“He knew me, Locke.” She shook her head some. “From the last time. When I was there. The first time. He knew exactly who I was. He’s connected and shit and is after me now, I bet, and-”

“If you need me to get you out of here-”

“What?”

Locke looked quite serious when she glanced over her shoulder at him. Softly, he said, “I’ll sneak you out. Whatever. That’s why I came. If you or Shae run into trouble-”

“I’m not in trouble.”

“What do you mean? You think some rich fucking sicko is out to get you.”

“Are you kidding? Fuck him. He’s after me? Ewing’s after me?” She turned quickly then, bouncing on her feet, seemingly amped. “Fuck him. He doesn’t know what he’s messing with.”

“Haven-”

“I’ll kill him. I’ll kill them all.”

“You’re not-”

“I’ll fucking kill them, Locke.” She threw up a fist again, still with no electricity behind him, but as the blow connected to Locke’s chest, he had to suck in a breath. Twisting her fist, she pressed harder into him, but didn’t stumble forwards, instead only hanging her head, arm taut and rigid as she breathed heavily down at their feet. Bravado deflated, she only whispered, “I’ll fucking kill him, Locke.”

“You won’t have to.” He balled his own fist, but it was only to crash it down on the top of her head, sighing some as he took in her new look. When she raised her eyes, they were dark and not her own, but the heaving of her chest alternated perfectly with his own as he tugged her to him. “I fucking will.”

Haven rested there for a moment, indulging maybe, if just for a moment. Shoving him off after a beat, she only whispered, “You can’t kill shit. Fucking worthless.”

“If you had killed Ewing back at his place,” Locke retorted with a frown, “then we wouldn’t even be having to deal with this shit.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“You’re,” he replied, “in trouble. You get that, right? This isn’t a joke. You can’t go back with Alwood. And if he’s intent on taking you, then it’s probably best if we start figuring a way to get you out-”

“No way.”

“Haven-”

“Give me time,” she insisted. “We can’t fuck this up. Shae upstairs, I’m down here, you’re a guard… This is too perfect to not be the plan. How it’s meant to be.”

“I’m not going to let you-”

“I’m not going with him. I won’t.”

“Then-”

“I don’t fucking know, okay?” Shaking her head, she asked instead, “How do you even know they’re taking me? Have you spoken to him? Alwood? Or did your little friend the master-”

“Shae told me.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “She, uh, passed me a note.”

“How does she know?”

“Haven, I don’t fucking know.” It was his turn to be annoyed. “How do you not know? If she does? I thought you told me you were making friends.”

“Friend. I’m making a friend.”

“Haven-”

“I’ll ask her about it.” Haven seemed to snap out of her funk, if only for a moment, as she snapped her fingers together. “I’ll ask her to tell me everything she can about Alwood and if she knows why he’d even want me, what for and all that, right? She’ll tell me. We talked, you know? Seriously talked. About-”

“You’re not going,” Locke told her simply. “With Alwood. If I have to drag you out of here kicking and screaming-”

“Calm down. Idiot.” Haven held her head higher. “I didn’t want to go with him either. I’m not going to. Especially not if he’s tangled with Ewing. That’s not why we came. We came to get access to tunnels or some shit, right? So I’m going to fucking get us that.” Then she conceded a bit, “We’re going to fucking get those. I’m going to talk to Bea and you’re going to actually be fucking useful and we’ll figure out how to avoid Alwood all together. When does he leave?”

“I don’t know. I-”

“Useless.” She shoved him this time, but it was playfully, maybe, and Locke pushed her back, maybe too hard, but he was kind of tired of being smacked that day. Still, when she sighed, he gave one back, only nodding his head when she ordered, “Find out. Okay?”

It felt weird, when she turned her head up to press her lips to his, and Locke laughed some into the kiss, which got him shoved again, but he only shook his head.

“Doesn’t feel right,” he told her. “Here. With...this you.”

She snorted, shoving passed him then, “if you could make yourself taller-”

“I’m going to find out when he’s leaving,” he insisted. “And if we haven’t figured a way to make sure he’s not taking you with him-”

“You worry too much, Locke.” And she clipped his name the way that he liked. Poised to head right out of the shed, she only reminded, “Do what I told you and everything will be alright.”

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solohux · 6 years ago

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Prompt; Omega Hux gets severely injured during an attack on a f.o base he is stationed at. Kylo is away but returns immediately when he hears the news. A medic pulls him aside, saying they will try to save both Hux and the baby. Kylo didn't even know hux was pregnant.

The report in Kylo’s hand details the events that led tothe destruction of Firecracker Base.

It had been one of the First Order’s smaller bases, usedmainly for strategic-planning purposes and holding a plethora of the Empire’srecords on battle plans. It was one of Hux’s favourite bases to visit; Kylorecalls him talking about the peace and quiet there, the tranquillity ofsitting amongst documents upon documents for hours with no disruptions andnothing else to think about but the First Order’s impending victories. Kyloremembers making a comment about how Hux was a typical omega; seeking quiet after spending time with so manyobnoxious alphas. Hux had quipped that he was mated to the most obnoxious alphaof all before smiling and ending their holocall.

But somehow, the Resistance had learned of the Base’s locationand felt the need to destroy it andthe Empire’s documented history of its own victorious battles.

Kylo supposes that he should be grateful that his mate’sname isn’t among the list of fatalities but as he stands outside of one of theoperating theatres on the Finalizer, Kylocan’t find it in himself to do anything but think of how close he’s come tolosing Hux. Their bond had flared painfully just moments before

“Uh, Master Ren?”

Kylo turns around quickly, coming face-to-face with a medicdressed in all-white uniform, a little medical droid hovering next to him witha datapad in its robotic arm.

“How is he?” Kylo asks, chest clenched.

“General Hux is still unconscious, sir. He’s being preppedfor surgery as we speak,” the medic says, and the droid whirrs sadly. “With badfractures to both his tibia and his fibula, surgery is necessary to ensure they’realigned properly for them to heal. But the most worrying part is his cranialinjury too, sir. If there is a fracture to his skull or a bleed on the brain—well.We shall cross that bridge when—if—wecome to it.”

“I see,” Kylo says, palms already trembling.

The medic bows, “He is in good hands, Master Ren. The baby’svitals remain steady and we’re confident that we’ll be able to save them both.We have hope.”

The medic and the droid leave then, walking back throughthe swinging door of the operating theatre where Hux lies, but Kylo doesn’thear them leave, he doesn’t hear the swing of the door. He lowers himself intoa nearby chair, staring at the floor, letting the datapad slide out of his palm to clatter onto the floor.

Baby. What baby? Hux…can’t be pregnant. He wouldhave told Kylo, surely. Kylo wouldhave been able to sense Hux’s change in scent, he would have seen the bump that adorns Hux’s belly—

No. The pair have been apart for 5 months; Hux onFirecracker Base and Kylo jumping back and forth between whatever missions theSupreme Leader sends him on. The holocalls that they’ve shared have only everbeen from the chest upwards. It’s agony for Kylo to think about, that Hux haskept his pregnancy from him. And now, Kylo risks losing them both.

It’s another three hours before Hux’s surgery is finishedand he’s placed in a private room in the medical wing for healing. The medicshad suggested a bacta tank but Kylo had argued; with Hux being afraid of bothwater and small spaces, waking up in a bacta tank would do more harm than good.Instead, Hux lies still and pale in a large bed, dwarfed by its size, withvarious IV lines into his hands, life-sign machines beeping all around him. Bruisinglitters his pale face, giving him a black eye whilst thick, white bandaging iswrapped around his head, his bright red hair matting to his forehead underneathit. Kylo stands at the foot of the omega’sbed, eyes locked on the large bump of Hux’s belly covered by the medbayblankets.

“—bones will heal with time, Master Ren,” the medic says. “Though,I’m certain the cast on his leg will annoy the General somewhat. We know how helikes to walk around the bridge! Ahem. Andthe unborn child, sir, it’s healthy and unharmed. A little fighter, I’d say. Awriggler too! Didn’t stop fussing throughout its mother’s surgery. I’ll…I’llleave you now, sir. I’m sure you’d like some time alone with your mate.”

Kylo says nothing as the medic leaves, closing the door veryquietly behind him, leaving the alpha alone with his omega, the first time they’vebeen in the flesh in five months. Despite the consistent beeping of thelife-sign machines, Kylo doesn’t feel reassured that Hux is even alive. He’spale beneath the white sheets of the bed, his arms resting on top of theblanket. As Kylo moves to sit in the chair that’s been placed at the top of thebed, he can’t draw his gaze away from the gentle curve of Hux’s abdomen. Herubs his hand over his eyes and sighs.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Kylo says, hesitating to take Hux’shand. “Why didn’t you tell me, Hux?”

The omega doesn’t move, not even when Kylo finally buildsup the courage to entwine his and Hux’s fingers together, and leans in to planta desperate kiss on Hux’s forehead, mindful of the bruising that litters hisface and the bandaging around the top of his head. Kylo can’t bear to pullaway, leaving his lips pressed against his mate’s skin before moving away topress their foreheads together, willing his omega to return to him. He feelstheir bond getting brighter in his mind as though Hux is trying to push throughhis unconsciousness to reach Kylo’s mind.

“I’m here, gingerbell,” Kylo says, hoping that the use ofHux’s nickname will aid his fight against the shadows in his mind. “Come backto me. Please.”

“Mmm…”

Kylo’s eyes widen a little at the small whine that Huxmakes beneath him, watching him shift in the sheets.

“Ky…lo.” Hux’s eyes remain closed though he moves his headto the opposite side, leaning his temple against Kylo’s forehead as he exhales.

“I’m here, Hux,” Kylo says, whispering. “I’m not going toleave you. Never again.”

Kylo sees a small smile paint its way across Hux’s lips,something that neither of them have done since they were parted. The omega’seyes move rapidly underneath his eyelids before they flutter open, taking amoment to focus before landing on Kylo’s worried face. Sighing, Kylo feelsrelief wash over him as his mind reconnects to his lover’s, stronger now thatthey’re reunited.

“Ren,” Hux breathes. “My head. Ah. It hurts.” Suddenly, pure worry consumes his expression. “No, the baby!”

When Hux sits up, Kylo is quick to hold him, wrapping hisarms around him to ease him back down to the pillows, hearing Hux groan in painas he’s moved.

“Shh,” Kylo says, cupping Hux’s cheek as he sits down onthe bed, being careful of Hux’s broken leg. “The baby is fine. You both are.”

Hux frowns worriedly, seemingly cowering away from Kylo’sgaze for a moment before looking back up at him with sad eyes.

“You know about it.”

Kylo looks to the bump, seeing Hux’s hand is alreadyrubbing over its curve protectively.

“The medic told me about it when you were first brought in.There’s no hiding it now, Hux.”

“Are you…Are you angry?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Wouldn’t you beangry if I kept something like that from you?” Kylo raises his eyebrows.

“Well,” Hux says. “I’d be shocked, I think, that an alphahas managed to get pregnant—”

“You know what I meant. How could you have kept somethinglike this a secret? And for so long. You’re at least 5 months. Why didn’t youtell me?”

“Because,” Huxsays, turning his head away, scrunching a handful of blanket in his palm. “Iknew you’d tell me to get rid of it. You’re a Knight, a warrior. Hardly the kind to want to settle down and raisea pup. You’ve even said that you don’t want pups. I was afraid of yourreaction, Ren. I want to keep it. And…And I’m 6 months along. I was already amonth gone by the time I left for Firecracker, actually.”

Kylo’s heart sinks. Is Hux afraid of him? He may have mentioned one or two things about notwanting pups until much later but hisentire being feels as though he’s trembling, on the verge of collapse.

“Hux,” Kylo says,standing from his seated position on the bed to kneel on the floor, Hux’s handstill held in his own. “I said that I didn’t want pups at this moment, not thatI’d never want them, but if we’ve conceived, then it is the will of the Force.It’s meant to be. I want this pup too, I promise. I don’t want you to be afraidof me.”

“Afraid of you? Hardly,” Hux says, reaching out with hisfree hand to brush his hand through Kylo’s hair. “More like, afraid of losingyou. I thought telling you of our baby would push you away from me.”

“You never have to worry about that, Armitage,” Kylo sayssoftly. “I promise. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep the both of you safe.”

Kylo is aboutto lean in for a kiss when the omega gasps suddenly and Kylo sees his handmoving under the blankets to touch his stomach.

“What is it?” Kyloasks, sounding frightfully worried. “Should I get the medic?”

“No, it’s–,” Huxgasps again and sits up a little, his teeth gritted, fighting against the pain.“Come here.”

He grabs Kylo’sleft hand and pulls it towards the bump of his belly, placing Kylo’s hand downupon it, covering Kylo’s hand with his own.

Kylo frowns. “Hux,I don’t–“

“Ssh!”

And suddenly,there’s a glorious sensation against his palm. The baby kicks hard against hishand and Kylo looks up at Hux, who’s staring at him with a slight twinkle inhis dark eyes. Hux feels a wave of elation rush over him and he’s unable todistinguish whether the feeling is his or Ren’s. He leans across, finally, andkisses Hux, their fingers entwining on the omega’s pregnant stomach.

Kylo breaks thekiss, watching Hux’s pale eyes open slowly.

“She’s kicking because she’s happy,” Hux says, smiling.

“She?” Kylo gasps.

Hux shrugs, “Just a hunch.”

#kylux #mpreg #omega hux #i know who this anonymous prompter is and i'd just like to say thank you and i miss you <3 <3 <3 <3

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icharchivist · 6 years ago

Text

perso-rant underneath and at first i intended it to be more light hearted but welp cant dive into myself without digging the bad stuff so just ignore this as rambling.

(idk if the cut works on mobile so as usual blacklist #ichapersonal to skip it , its quite long)

its night and im noisy and all but yknow part of the reason m/lb is such a healing show for me and i rewatch it every couple of days?

i cry everytime M.arinette's family is on screen pretty badly bc i get so envious all the time. i hate my shitty family (and often can relate to A.drien's ressentment) so just seeing such a /healthy/ family being often shown litterally brings me to tears. im like C.hat in the animan episode when he stares at the family picture with a sweet smile (another detail that stupidly make me cry who allowed th i s)

like. i dont relate to A.drien's relation to his family but some of the emotional effects is often a moment of "welp. mood." and being kinda sad /for him/ even if i can feel it for myself too. but then with M.arinette's family everytime they get to be on screen i realize how happy this sort of dynamic makes me and it makes me /so envious/.

like my mom is an artist and an excellent cook but she always barred those interests from me bc it was /hers/ and it was for /her ego/ and this attitude just killed every curiosity i had and remplaced it with a complete unability to care.

i used to bake as a kid but my mom was always shutting down everything i was doing, and if i was asking for help or recieps she would just tell le "it's a secret just watch " and never letting me know tf she was doing so i stopped lmao. everytime ive tried meals since it was only for myself and with a hard mocking from family and mom saying she had a better recieps and i should just let her do so i dont even try it often. (moreeven now that the kitchen is opened to the living room and they're super judgemental when im in it)

i was messing with drawings and paints in her workshop when i was a kid but she would always point out flaws and take my tools to correct it without telling nor showing me how and it killed it, it took me until my 14yo to start doing mindless doodles and then my breakdown when i was about 20 to seriously try back to draw and do art and try different tools (until my right hand made it impossible for me to hold a tool and the failure still feels yknow)

i wanted to sew things and make clothes (at the time for my dolls) but my mom was never letting me touch the tools (that we HAD since not only she made clothes but her mom actually had a fabrique shop. like. right next door. i think it became part of my mom's trauma hating her mom and refusing us to connect with her, more so with what happened when i was 7 and we lost contact with them but still, the damn irony. and i cant remember if my grandma ever let me close her sewing material but i was a damn kid after all) so this is another thing i didnt pursue

i wanted to pick up music (piano mostly) bc my uncle is a musician but my parents never wanted to invest in that because they already gave a piano to my sister (that i wasnt allowed to use) so ye that was dropped lmao

and i started to write when i was about 11 and it was that /one thing/ i didnt need help for from anyone, completely self taught, with my own ways and tools, and my parents were always dismissive of it, never listening to me, always telling me it wasnt important, that i should focus on something else, and after other circumstances that added to that i dropped writting around my 17/18yo and it had been painful to even try to write again since.(i came back to writing around my 20yo a bit before my breakdown but after it happened it started to die out and i felt exhausted and stopped after a few months and since then i've never been able to pick up writing again ay.)

(and im not touching the obsessive elements bc like- the fact she does it for her crush makes it different, but the sort of things she does? taking pictures and putting them everywhere in her room when she hyperfixates, making overcomplicated schedules and such? i litteraly do that with fiction. i made a freaking timeline for this show. i am currently working on organizing codex from d.a and an approval guide for christ sake. and im not talking about my multiple fandom shrines in my room and the fact i legit have one for m/lb made from pictures found on merchs.

or also the fact i have a lot of passions i'd love to share and seeing M. play video games with her dad for exemple makes me so bitter when all i get is backhanded insults from my parents when i bring it up.)

So sometimes i see M. and part of me is just in awe, loving everything about her. the other part of me tho... i feel... a bit robbed? like she's such a creative kid, she's incredible and she inspires me everyday, and i cant help but think how i would have adored her when i was a kid. (im not even kidding, as a kid i requested my mom a costume of black cat for h.alloween and a l.adybug costume for the carnaval. i have pictures of that at my dad's place sadly it kills me. also my room when i was a kid used to be covered with l.adybug stickers like. HELL my mom doesnt care about my interests but last year she bought me a M/LB winter callendar (bc its been years i was mentioning i wanted one, a selfish whim but oh well) and i had a huge double take bc i was certain she didnt remember me talking about this show- and she did not. when i asked her why, she legit told me "because she reminded me of you as a kid with your pigtails your obsession for l.adybugs". like!! i cant even stress how kid!me would have adored this show and especially LB./M.) (the pigtails too this time i have proofs around there i used to carry them all the time until i was bullied for it at school. (bullying at school instead of good friends also adds to the difference in question tbh lmao))

there is something so... weird into seeing the parts of yourself that you cut yourself from in a character, and see that the main difference is because of how the family (and bullies) treated those elements so drastically differently.

my family was always neglectful but differently than A.. the things i relate to with him is how he specifically still holds on hope that his father will do better at least just for one day and his reaction when he's left down saying he's just used to it. and like normal, not every kind of abuse are the same and all but i still relate enough to feel sad.

but M. is always a whiplash of feelings like i could have been this sort of girl in a better environment.

at 13/14yo she was already making stuff up, baking, designing clothes, doing art, she was doing so many things, even forgetting the superhero part. she was being happy being a creator at her pace and with encouragement. at 13/14yo i was starting to show concerning signs of d.epression because i was trying to handle my parents's divorces and the multiple trials that followed that /i/ had to handle by finding middle grounds, allowing some of my father's blackmail to avoid worse, and by litterally having to collect infos from mails everytime to prove against some of his arguments to the judges. and my sister refusing to talk to us for a year, which caused us basically to feel very bad thinking of the eldest sister who ran away from home, and having to handle my father's harrasment and emotional abuse of constantly belittling me (fuck this was the age he legit told me i would probably end up a p.rostitute so ye!!! fuck that!!!) andd the fact my mom was also falling apart from all of it on me and i was always supposed to cheer her up while i was having a hard time in a new school and new environment away from the very few friends i had and again feeling abandonned by my sister which freaking sucks after already had suffered that from our eldest one.

but M. makes me cry every. goddam. rewatch. its like maybe the ultimate wish fufilling story of just how i would have loved my family to be. of how i think i could have turned up.

and that realization hits so badly everytime.

there's a thing with my hyperfixations where i'll always find a way to tie it back to my traumas. i dont know if im pulling straws, or if the things are there. for having watched m.lb when it came out unfazed and only got hit with that realization upon rewatching- i feel it was more me realizing "there is something there that is touching me more than before" and having an introspection to get it.

and i think the difference is that- before my breakdown the characters and stories i related to where the eternal optimistic-yet-damaged "never give up!" type of characters. When things started to go downhill to my breakdown and since then the fictions that talked to me the most were all dealing with guilt coming from toxic environment that werent your fault per se but you pierceved that way. my way to relate were to characters who felt deeply connected to their guilt (peak being c.loud of f.f7 that even topped it with the deadly skin disease making him lose will to live (because ye that happened. still hate to watch out for that so ye), and memories issues, you would have told me at 13yo when i first watched that movie that this would be what i would relate to him about 7 years later i would have laughed at your face.), which translated with pushing people away and self destructing habits.

and i know i watched m.lb the first time around that time, when i was 20/21. and that may be why i didnt feel that. that my concerns were too elsewhere to realize that. That i was too focalized on how i felt like i failed by suddenly breaking under the pressure, having all the things i've kept burried kicking me out at once, and that i couldnt afford to be a burden to anyone. and it translated with me loving characters like that because in most cases their friends ended up reminding them of what was important - and sometimes just getting frustrated about your fav being as dumb as it forces you to pull yourself back together lmao. not always working but it was there.

now im 23. i cut ties with my father for about 3/4 years now, with all the shitty things that ensued out of the last trial where he sued me and his still-happening harrasment (sometimes silly sometimes scary). My mom and step dad are suffocating me more and more everyday. my health had become so disastrous i cant even manage to go school or find a job. And more than ever im frustrated and angry.

and i think it may be a shown of recovery? perhaps linked to therapy? of while i still have guilt of falling apart- /they/ are the reason i fell apart. and I'm yet to have proper apologizes for it. i grew furious at my family. of how much i feel robbed.

lately im so angry at everything i lost, was taken of, stolen childhood all of that- because of my parents, mainly. (hell even the bullying at school - in primary school it apparently started bc of gossips about why my eldest sister ran away from home, and in middle school it was first bc my parents insisted on sending me to private school where i was an outcast. which then had me truly embrassing the outcast persona that had made it impossible for me to be at peace in the two others middle schools i went to. highschool saved my social life tbh).

i think it's therapy and recovery that is making me shift the blame and feel so angry at them. so bitter. and suddenly i see in an innocent kid show a "what could have been". same starting personality, different people to channel this.

and this is. frustrating.

but it makes me love it even more. idk if its driving anything else than ressentment but at least for the time of an episode I'm in a bubble of a.lternative universe where i can forget about my life and feel satisfied at once.

like finding a piece of myself that i deliberately broke and burried to never think about it again, and realize far later how it missed to the whole, and how damaged this piece is now, but still is.

and there is something incredibly healing about that. i would never have thought there would be this much healing out of this anger and yet satisfaction. what a strange feeling.

fiction is funny that way. the things people can get out of it to deal with their own psyche are so different one person to the next.

it's just so weird for me to go from "i relate to the horrors this character went through" to "and fuck those horrors. let me think about what could have been if this didnt happen."

even moreso knowing i had this piece of fiction before and didnt approach it that way. there's a time and a mindset for everything. apparently now was the best mindset for me huh

.......

so ye apparently i cant like something like a normal person and have to go on about how it connects to my deeply rooted traumas lmao.

anyway it's been eating me up for weeks now and it's 4:45am i have absolutly no impulse holding me back. if you sat through this piece of work im sorry. just needed it to get it out of my chest.

i'll go back to hugging my cheap-yet-lifesaving c.laire's l.adybug pillow now

good night o/

#ichapersonal

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magicalgirlpropaganda · 3 years ago

Text

Things that are hot and sexy (because i do them)

• being unable to cite sources no matter how long you spend on it or how long you try

• getting a boost of motivation to work but on the wrong thing

• actually don't mind doing school work and have a thirst for knowledge but hate failure and not having time to finish assignments

• "wow i can't believe i finished all my assignments for the week! So fast. I have time to study and actually perfect my work and get better grades" *gets more assignments* *cries*

• i can't meet my own high standards

• being so stressed because of mom that i have horrible mood swings and im in a constant state of rage and anxiety

• being relieved when my friends invite me to do things because then i see it as an obligation and im "forced" to go (even though they'd understand if i said no, i see it as an obligation for my own mental wellbeing)

• wanting desperately to help others but struggling to even take care of yourself

• i can do the work, i can handle the workload. But i can't handle the pressure of my mom checking my grades

• i know that I'm smart and i know that I can do it. Ive been working so hard and my work is paying off but i need my mom to trust me

• overeating due to stress and went on an etsy shopping spree. Had to force myself to stop "stress buying" stuff and "stress eating"

• my dumb little passion project went on hiatus because im busy. Which is fine but a bit dissapointing

• i love it here. I don't want to leave. I love the art program. The work is a lot but i love my classes and my friends and my life here. What if one day something horrible happens and i have to leave because its too expensive?

• everything in my life is going good but my mom stresses me out so much that it's no longer going good

• I'm sorry for being incompetent... Even on my medicine. I am much better off than before and i can actually think but. I can't focus and i often miss intructions on assignments unless i write down absolutely everything. Why am i like this?

• my high empathy problems are coming up again because im so emotional.

• i am fine on 6 hours of sleep a night now but i wonder how long that will last. I don't have enough time to sleep for 8 hours every night. And maybe its because i take too many breaks but if i dont take breaks, i can't focus and everything just because thoughts that don't make sense

• im so stressed. Please just let me get my work done. All i ask is to be able to just sit down, relax, get my work done. I want to do so well on the exam later this week that I bump my B to an A or just even a high B.

• at least i enjoy school. High school and before was... Much worse. I don't enjoy spending hours trying to find out how to cite very specific topics and i dislike that one of my professors is a big perfectionist and so i often lose points on assignments (everyone does) no matter how hard i try to make it perfect. And i dislike having to check canvas so often because its difficult to navigate and i swear they try to hide assignments from us. And i hate that i have so much work that some weeks i wonder if i can possibly get it all done. And i hate group projects and i hate writing boring essays. But i love my classes at least. And i want to do well. I will do well. I am going to make all A's if it kills me. I was a B/C student in high school with occasional A's. If i just studied more (i never studied), i could have been one of the best students there, i believe. I didn't study, but I'm glad I didn't because it didn't matter as long as I got ok grades and I passed. I enjoyed my youth (not that im not still young...not that those years weren't the worst). But now i have to make A's or at least high B's because I know i can and I have to prove to my mom that I can do it. Maybe if i get good enough grades, she will back off some. Then I can prove to her that i really don't need her "help".

• this is way too specific of a list

• i want a job. If only i had time for a job. I have a strong work ethic. Im a good little capitalist slave. Please give me mone- i mean. Work. Yeah... Work...

But I dont have time for a job. Im very thankful that i dont need one. But I need to grow up and get a job because it will help me in the future

• speaking of which....a job i applied for months ago just called today... A lite late, buddy. Im 2 hours away now.

• but god... I so want to work there. I hear its a great place to work and the owner is gay (aka, not going to be homophobic to me)

• i wish i had my suitemate/neighbor's life. Like loudly talking on the phone and slamming doors as loud as possible all day long? And she's an RA so she gets paid.

• im calling my mom soon and getting this shit over with. Also i have somewhere to go with friends tonight so we can kidna- i mean recruit ppl for the theatre club. Im no theatre person but i am there for my friend and to make props.

• i can't do it.

• but if i do this, ill be free....

• maybe a quick meditation beforehand. Maybe self hypnosis so i can emotionally numb myself for a few minutes... Idk if im experienced enough to do that yet... But I've been doing it for years so might as well give it a try

• have i really resorted to self hypnosis to deal with the stress of calling my own mother?

• am i really so weak that even though everything is going well, something as simple as my mom calling to check my grades once a week makes me so upset that I cry almost every day about it?

• i know what she is doing is not legal. But what can I do about it?

• my mom thinks that im incompetent as well. That's why she checks my grades. She thinks I can't do it. She didn't even think that I had the ability to live by myself. I proved her wrong there.

• im working so hard partly because of her. So why does me working hard and thus not having time to call make her upset?

• it will all be over by tomorrow.

• perhaps calling her on the phone in a public space would be better. Maybe if she realizes that im not just in my dorm....

Luckily, my mom cares a little too much about social norms. She's used against me this all my life but perhaps it could be beneficial to me.

•thats right. I can just pack my stuff i need for my work. Then ill meditate for a bit and take a tea break. Ill go take everything to a public place with lots of people and call her then.

• i don't want to bring my friends into this, it wouldn't be right. But i wish that they would just sit next to me while I was on the phone. For emotional support at least. But i wouldn't ask them to do that, especially since we haven't known each other long. But i think it would make everything better if i had someone else to back me up

• people must be sick and tired of these posts. Im sorry.

• my mom says she's proud of me, but she doesnt act like it. She used to trust me. When i was 16/17, she would say that its up to me, my responsibility, that I knew what I was doing. Now, im 18. Why does she no longer trust me? I am an adult now. It doesn't make sense. I'm more responsible than I was at that age and im an adult now. It doesn't make sense at all, shouldn't she trust me more?

• i check my own grades religiously. Why is it necessary for her to do so too? What does that accomplish?

• i have an A, 2 almost A's, 2 low B's (but i know i can get the grade up and im studying hard to do so) and one C (it was an assignment that everyone did poorly on and another homework assignment that i did poorly on because I was exhausted). I know a C is bad but it's my drawing class. My favorite class. I do well in there and i think I'm probably one of the better peforming students in there. The C was just a small mistake and since we have more work in there now, getting that grade up will not be difficult. But i feel like all of my hard work just doesn't matter anymore. It will not satisfy her either way. Even if I had all A's, she would probably still be upset that I didn't have high enough A's. One of my professors says that she doesn't give A's on projects because "mistakes happen in art and you have to accept it".

• heavy workload... Im fine doing it but... I can't do it well with the amount of time I'm given. If i just had the weekend as well and not just the rest of the week. If i had just one full day more.

• this weekend will probably be dedicated to next week's work if i can do it early

• i can't call her. It's too stressful.

• im lightheaded just thinking about it

• i have every right to be angry. I have every fucking right to be angry.

• my day should revolve around schoolwork and studying. My weekends should revolve around taking breaks and light workloads. But every moment of every day revolved around my mom instead.

• and to think... If i lived in a place where college wasnt so expensive... Perhaps she would leave me be. Perhaps my grades would be so much better and perhaps I would be happy.

#vent post #rambles #long post #rambling

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swanisms · 7 years ago

Text

how close is close enough

notes: soulmates with benefits? one true lovers to one true loved? iDK this was an exercise in smut, ive been in a drought

also on ao3

There’s something to be said for the way a soulmate fucks.

The movies, the novels, the articles, the “Soulmates Are Great, Get Yours Now!” sales pitch is that love-making isn’t truly love-making until it’s your One True Love. Too optimistic, “Once Upon a Time” to consider that making love to your soulmate could be the last thing you want.

Fucking them, however, has its perks.

“You look ravishing tonight, Swan.”

Killian’s kiss is sloppy, more than the nip of teeth - blood wells up in what’s sure to leave her lips bruised. He isn’t looking for a reply, or any kind of acknowledgement of his compliment – more accurately, his declaration that this is exactly what he’s about to do: ravish her.

Still, it’s as it always is, because he loves being able to halt the cleverly worded retorts in Emma’s head, to leave her mind completely blanked and blissed out because it gives him the satisfaction that she can walk out that door and never look back, but he’d still be the one imprinted on her, the only one who can make her forget to breathe – naturally. It’s one of the little quirks of having a soulmate, that the oft used and stupidly impossible line is actually possible when everything is so hyper-focused on mine that I goes completely neglected.

Your soulmate is everything to you. He’s supposed to be to hers, but she likes to be hers first so it is as it always is -

“The stalking is getting prosecution-worthy.”

“Your company is the one that hired me to represent them. Appearing at an event that I’ve been invited to isn’t stalking.”

He presses a hard kiss to her lips before her pout becomes a protest of said “invitation.” Killian’s seriously intent on seeing them furiously red and swollen from his attentions, and fuck her if she doesn’t clench her thighs at the thought of his number of meetings tomorrow, when she still carries the well-fucked air about her, in her walk, in her talk, in the way she licks at the mark of his teeth on her bottom lip. Meetings he’ll have to sit through while knowing the remnants of pleasure are still coursing through her, another soulmate quirk where the spiking feelings travel along that invisible line from you to them and her flush of arousal intensifies with his frustration.

She’s come from that alone a few times.

“You may have some grasp on the criminal justice system, but I know the ins and outs, love, and I have more than a dozen arguments to shut you down before your petition even reaches a judge.”

She snorts, and effects a breathy voice, “Oh, that’s hot. Keep telling me just how you can manipulate the law in your favor. It’s just so sexy to know that I can’t do a damn thing to keep you away from me.”

“You can’t.”

Her breath catches at the gentle affirmation - this trace of genuine emotion that she didn’t sign up for. Emma only wants to feel the press of his hard length against her belly and not the leap her heart makes into her throat.

“We’ve had enough of that, haven’t we?” he breathes against her lips.

Emma’s eyes shut hastily. She doesn’t want to see the months of being unable to sleep, the anxiety launching even the thought of it out the window because of the sea between them. That it was only soothed when he caught the red-eye and got stuck at JFK for hours before taking a cab straight to her door. She’d opened it before Killian knocked, and he’d moved swiftly, bags falling to the floor as he tilted her chin to align their lips perfectly in a kiss of “hello, nice to meet you, be mine forever,” before stepping back to groan with utter exhaustion, “Can we go to bed?”

They’d slept for hours, entire days, waking up to shower, eat, and study each other in equal measure, until the exhaustion eased enough for them to actually work through this thing. They’d decided on Killian transferring to New York because picking up his entire life and moving it into hers was better than the reverse (she’d finally found a place that she liked enough to stay, not loved, but she’d made roots here, the first she’d ever been able to, and he’d understood that from the sparse, sanitized history in her personnel file. Probably more from the way she’d said, “I like New York,” into the bedspread, picking at the sheets instead of looking at him). She’d made a very minimal protest when he announced that he’d been offered a job by Regina in the past and he was certain the offer would still stand even ten years after she’d grudgingly, unhappily given it.

There was no protest at all when Emma walked into her bathroom to find him naked and dripping water on her floor because he’d opted to towel off his hair first. It had gone straight from her catching his eyes to Killian lifting her atop her sink to fuck away her anger at him for soaking her recently mopped floor. Her faucet left a deep imprint in the small of her back and he’d smirked as he massaged the pain away – and then massaged her lower and into quick decision: fuck soulmates, soulmate fucks, it is.

(She closed her eyes, didn’t she? So why can she still see it so crystal clear?)

“No you can’t,” he breathes hotly.

Her lips are captured again, her hair with them as he slips his fingers in and tugs at the tangled curls, grip tight just as she likes it - the way he likes it, a mirroring desire. Emma’s hand slips between them to palm him through his pants – her lips parting on a sharp breath at the weight of him, all of him straining towards her. Her fingers are soon at his belt, and the difficulty of doing this one-handed is worth it because her other hand grips his shoulder, nails carving half-moons through the layer of his shirt – the taut muscle feels so good to hold onto; she doesn’t like to let it go.

Killian hisses at the pain, and returns it in kind. Her hair pulls painfully at the roots as he throws her head back, her gasp embarrassingly audible - her moan reverberating through her whole body as he kisses the line of her jaw. His teeth scrape against her chin before he attacks her neck, beard and teeth rubbing the delicate skin raw. Clearly admiring his handiwork, he nuzzles his nose just beneath her ear while his body shakes against her in quiet, teasing laughter.

Emma’s fingers are fumbling now, but she manages to finally release the expensive buckle, tugs the zip down because his pants are far too tight for her to just slide her hand between the band and his skin.

The hard planes of his stomach jump inward as her nails tickle the dark hair trekking a downward path, and then his cock does, the hot, hard length seeking the heat of her palm. In some kind of feat of strength, she resists just grabbing him in hand like she wants to and brushes just her fingertips over him, not even a caress.

She moans at the slight sensation, though because he’s so hot and rigid and she hasn’t even felt his bare length yet, and she wants to so desperately, mouth parting at the thought of taking him in hand, in mouth, inside her. Emma wants to fuck him, overwhelmingly so, a wave of moisture turning her underwear useless, no point in keeping them on because they’re ruined, utterly ruined by him.

Killian licks the shell of her ear, and promises darkly – and oh, it’s a promise – “Keep that up and I’m going to fuck you right here against this door, and have the staff knocking it down because of your pretty screams - I’m quite tempted to take you until the door comes off the hinges…” He trails off only to bite at her earlobe, hard, and as she whimpers at the shock of pain, rolling her hips because she’s so desperate for the same focused attention, he asks, “Would you like that, hmm? To spend all week with an aching back, so well-fucked that every time you move you’re reminded of me, every small shift a lesson in why you shouldn’t tease a man so desperate for you.”

He is - he’s hungry for her, hips slamming forward, crushing her hand between their bodies. The door does echo the motion, her back hitting it hard. The air goes out of her from the blow, her legs parting instinctively to allow him between. Killian tugs her hair one more time before she’s scrambling to catch up and wrap her arms around his neck before he hoists her up by her ass and carries her to her bed. She remembers vaguely, that she’d brought work with her when she hears papers crinkling beneath her shoulders - but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters but how he follows her down, thrusting between her legs, forcing her skirt up so that they can collide, his erection dragging hotly against her soaked cunt. He groans as that wetness melts through his boxers too - but it isn’t all her, he’s so hard that she can taste the fluid coating the head of his cock, salt leaking from the tip in desire - desire too soft of a word for what they have - not true love-making but soul fucking -

If they don’t get undressed soon, she’s going to come in her underwear, and he’s going to curse her for ruining his pants.

Not that his curses are so bad, though, given the way he makes her reap the consequences, rutting against her until he’s hard as before, but she’s so far gone that the first thrust makes her come, the second, third, every meeting drawing out her pleasure into a bliss it takes hours for her to wake up from.

“Swan, I’m always impressed by how easily distracted you are when you’re beneath me.”

His words whip at her ears, all the warning Emma gets. It’s the bite of a man tired of having to repeat himself, but she can never stop herself from thinking of him in the past, present and future when they’re together, it all blends into just one thought: Killian, and he always has to fight to pull her from that.

He likes the fight, though, likes to drag her back to this moment - he thrusts hard, driving her into the mattress, the pain of their meeting, and indescribable pleasure, never given time to settle. He pulls back quickly, reaching his hand where his cock was, and tearing her underwear to the side, one finger already worked into her before she can think to whine, to beg, to plead her case in more than moans and twisting in the sheets.

Killian’s finger goes knuckle deep, would sink deeper if his ring didn’t catch on her tight entrance, if she wasn’t so taut already that he could slip it within, the drag of the cold metal on her sensitive walls - her gasps as he pulls out, bring his finger to his lips so she can see her juices making the jewels glimmer.

“If you don’t bloody stay here, lass, I’m going to -”

“Do what?” she breaks in.

Emma opens her eyes, because that’s her problem every time, when she closes her eyes, she can see every Killian there is, but when she opens them, he’s the only one before her. His face hovers close to hers, eyes narrowed in frustration, bright blue darkened black in maddening need. Dark hair clings to his damp forehead.

He’s so beautiful, and she reaches up to tell him so with her fingers, brushing them over his too-kissed and not kissed enough lips, down his neatly shaved jaw, over his neck and to the nape.

Her hand feels right there.

It feels right when he turns his head to kiss her arm, still maddened, but smiling when he pulls away, drags his finger free of her so she lets out a soft gasp - not of loss. It’s never that. He never leaves her; never. Merely directs his attention elsewhere, to the waist of his pants, forcing them down his hips with no care for his comfort, and properly pulls up her skirt so there’s no pull on her legs to keep them from spreading wide in welcome. He takes a short moment to divest her of her underwear, cool air making her thighs tremble.

Killian’s cock bobs between them and she looks and looks and looks until she looks, lifting her gaze from his fat length and back to his face. He’s watching her - no need to study because he knows her well, knows her best, but watches her because he -

He smiles at her, satisfied, but not amused enough to call it a smirk – his dimples too deep to simply place on the deep red blush spread from her cheeks to her chest and everywhere his eyes can see and everywhere where he can’t. It isn’t just the sweat on her skin, her hard nipples straining against her blouse or even the damp hair tossed recklessly about her.

It tangles Emma, the words in that smile. She wants to shut her eyes and throw herself back into that melee of simply him and none of that expression already plaguing her, its words echoing in her head: he’s happy with what she’s giving him and yet, wants more.

Killian’s gaze averts to her spread legs and she breathes relief out, breathes torment in when he licks his lips, filth in the quick motion, and says, “You have the most beautiful cunt.” He brings his hand to her, stopping just short of touching her to say, “It burns to the touch,” even though he isn’t touching her, not at all, and then adds, “It burns not to.”

He moves and Emma does, too. He presses his knees between her and drags her to him, his cock smacking against her, earning a hiss from the both of them. She reaches up to find that perfect handhold at the nape of his neck, and with the other she grabs his forearm, ready to pull him to her the moment he sinks within.

It takes Killian a moment to find her, his cock spreading lush wetness everywhere; she can believe she’s this wet but every time it happens she’s a little amazed, a little embarrassed of what he does to her. He’s too focused on watching her face to ease their ache, and it isn’t as if she can’t help him with that because just like him, she can’t look away. She could blink and she still wouldn’t miss it because he can hold that look for a lifetime. It’s the look reserved for her, born the moment she swung open her door to let him in. It’s the heavy gaze, the soft almost-smile that says he’s never left, never will.

Emma hates the whimper that leaves her mouth when he finally guides home, his rigid length always a stretch that she never adjusts to, so thick that it always burns when he fills her - always, something about soulmates setting you alight with a simple touch, but always to make you believe in love, not ascribed to them fucking into you until becoming one feels less like two hearts meeting and more unconvinced that they’ll ever be able to part when he’s nudging the very end of her, her walls grabbing him and not wanting to let go.

She pulls Killian down, not moving besides a slight shifting that makes her bite her lip when he pulls at her. He moans at that - buries his face in her neck and kisses her over and over again until her skin burns too. She pulls his head back, forcing him to rise above her, and returns his fervent kisses with her own. Her tongue plunges into his mouth greedily, their lips moving, maybe not perfectly in tune, but there’s no misstep; they follow each other’s lead.

Her hips follow his when he draws himself out.

But his hand grabs her waist, squeezing hard, and Emma’s pushed back down, allowing him to pull out of her, almost completely free so that she gets the full weight of his inward thrust. She lets out a sharp cry against his lips and pulls away to find comfort in his neck. She can’t see them like this, but she’s spent enough time committing them to memory with her lips that she can trace her tongue along the few small freckles dotting Killian’s skin.

She doesn’t fight the pace he sets, slow and deep - she’s happy with what he gives her, too, and yet she wants more, shudders beneath him with wanting him in fast, short thrusts that hit her hard. He flexes his hand on her waist, and releases her to flatten his hand on her abdomen and feel the shudder for himself.

“Good girl,” Killian says, kissing the crown of her head, continuing to take her the way he likes. She flushes at his words, caught in his sincere words, overcome by how easily he says it and how deeply she feels it, “You’re doing so good for me, love, letting me have you like this. You don’t know what it does to me - what a gift you are.” He keeps kissing her head, she feels it as his nose sinks into her hair with every mark of affection. “Want you -”

She keens quietly, her own nose brushing the coarse hair of his neck as she lifts her head from the embrace, parting them only so their heads can come flush together, resting - but not quite because her eyes are wide open as are his, fully aware of the other –

As aware as she is, Emma feels completely and utterly helpless to the thing suddenly rising within her, urging her to words she’s never even thought to voice.

“...more than anything?” she asks.

Killian nods. “Aye, more than anything.”

She keeps her eyes open up until the moment he kisses her, and then it isn’t about the joining of their lips, or the way he picks up speed, or even his hand crossing the distance between her belly and her curls, thumb finding her swollen clit and rubbing it in deliciously hard circles - Emma keeps her eyes open because this is more than anything, more than everything, more than it could and should possibly be.

She closes them because if she doesn’t, she’s afraid she’ll be lost in the impossibility of it all and lose the reality of it, of him.

(That Killian is hers.)

Emma closes them because, more than anything, if she doesn’t, the next words from her mouth might be “I love you.”

Rocking against her, Killian keeps kissing her until she can’t breathe from it, panting harshly as his fingers and his cock bring her closer and closer to orgasm - and then he’s talking to her, though she can barely make out the words because blood is rushing in her ears and his murmurs are nonsense at best, lust and affection and everything jumbled together.

She cries out when he increases the pressure on her clit, three swift swipes of his thumb and a deep drive of his hips completing her. She barely holds on - usually doesn’t because flying into that space between heavenly and heaven is all she wants - but this time, she doesn’t blank out, maybe because she’s come so close to ruination, maybe because she wants to be ruined, but she holds on and she hears her name, broken on Killian’s lips, a prayer that only she can answer, rolling her hips up to meet his so he rocks his pleasure against her very core, riding out his orgasm - their orgasm.

(Theirs.)

He collapses atop her, and he’s heavy, but she doesn’t push him off. She’s too close right now to let him go far.

“We’re not sleeping like this, are we?” he queries.

She likes the way he sounds after, always does, but like doesn’t really describe the depth of it - and neither does the soulmate thing, the feelings jumping from her to him to her to him. It’s just that ‘like’ never could come close to it.

“No, but -”

Emma swallows and feels her chest tighten, and her heart race. All this is dragging her towards the yawning jaws of panic – it’s all going to be ruined if he moves off of her, if she lets a distance grow. The distance that never bothered her, even when Killian was a continent away and she couldn’t sleep at all, is terrifying now - and now of all times, because she’s never felt this way, the sudden strike unexplainable.

“But -” she says again when he starts to move.

But, Killian parts them, pulling out of her and falling back on his knees so he can see her clearly. With the clarity of sight, he pulls her up too, drawing her close, worry wrinkling his brow, panic in his eyes.

“Emma, hey. It’s okay. It’s okay, I’m here.”

Yeah, she’s aware, and with that awareness comes the helplessness, and the words tumble from her mouth.

“I love you, I’m sorry.”

Killian cants his head, both eyebrows jumping just as she begins to cry. She thanks whatever decided that she should have someone for her always and forever, thanks them with how much she hates this. More than anything, she hates this.

…more than anything?

She should never have asked the question.

“You’re sorry?”

He sighs and she closes her eyes, willing the tears to stop but they don’t because why would they? It feels like they’ve just been waiting to fall all along.

Waiting for her to fall with them.

“Well, I don’t mean to upset you, Emma, but I’m not.”

She doesn’t open her eyes.

But he cups her face, fingers at her neck and thumb caressing her cheek, and it’s the way he caresses the wet track of tears that makes her open them. Like he wants to brush them away, but can’t.

He smiles, humored brightness to the blue of his eyes, “No, not in the slightest. I’m glad that you’ve chosen to love me. It’s good. Puts us on the same page.”

“What?”

Killian shrugs his shoulders in explanation. Somehow, the small motion is reassuring – the followed itching at the spot behind his ear drawing her smile. She’s crying and he’s nervous, and yeah, she feels like they’re on the same page.

“I decided a while back that I’d love you because you’re mine. Not in the way that we belong together, but that you make me feel like I belong.”

She can’t think how to reply to that – to give words to the emotions that rise… “What the hell?” seems pretty inappropriate right now even though it’s her go-to response to things that throw her off course, out of mind, and completely unable to fathom.

Thankfully – or knowingly – he keeps going without her words.

“I’m not particularly fond of the fluke of birth that had us awake for three horrible months before I could convince Liam that finding you was life or death -” he pauses in consideration, a fond smile at the memory “- I think it was the motorcycle accident that turned the cards in my favor. Nothing like a concussion to get a stubborn git to give you access to his special contacts.”

Liam, his brother. Special contacts…

“What the hell?”

Completely ignoring her question, he says, “I can usually work the law in my favor, but he’s a bit of a stickler for doing things the Right Way, tends to work in the written law and not the spirit of it.”

“Yikes.”

A grin takes him, and with clear pride, he says, “You two will get on swimmingly.”

Narrowing her eyes – there’s always some double meaning when he references anything having to do with the sea – Emma asks, “Jaws theme swimmingly?”

Killian laughs, loud and obnoxious, and Emma pushes at him, rolling her eyes only to feel the lingering wetness in them, to remember that she’d been crying and he’s clearly trying to help her forget, and she loves him for that.

She loves him, and she doesn’t have to be sorry.

He looks at her, obnoxious, too-satisfied smile gone to an indulgent smile, like he wants to give her whatever she wants. Killian brushes her fingers with his. Emma returns the touch, her fingertips resting on his knuckles, stroking softly.

He clears his throat, drawing her attention back to him – something needs to be said, yeah, of course. She nods at him, offering a soft reassurance that is probably more for her than him – he knows her best, but she knows herself just as well.

“I hate that this was seemingly decided for us but -”

He shrugs, and she supplies, “I don’t hate you.”

“Thanks,” he says, his sarcasm softened by her moving to place her hands on his chest, and then sweeping across to buttons of his shirt. She starts unfastening at the neck or, rather, upper-chest because even professional doesn’t warrant an aesthetic change with him – she likes that.

Her progress has taken her halfway down when his hands fall on hers, stilling her movements.

“Thank you,” he says, his grateful words weighted with the kind of emotions that are supposed to warrant an explosion in her chest, effusive declarations of true love and forever and “‘Til death do us part…if we file this quickly we can get married tonight!”

She smiles and lets him wipe at the tears still on her cheeks while she returns to unbuttoning his shirt. With a hum of affection - and maybe just a small firework show in her heart - she says, “You’re welcome.”

#cs ff #captain swan #cs au #cs smut #xoxo gossip amber;;#xoxo; f #this is feels-ier than the first sentence implies #through no intention of my own ofc

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artificialqueens · 7 years ago

Text

for all the honest world to feel (trixya) (6/9) - dare

“You fucker,” Adore crowed, drawing back with a face-splitting smile. Bianca grinned back, crooked, and tucked a little of her bangs behind her ear.

“Only one of us gets to affect a tone of outrage here, bitch,” Bianca said. “You’ve been keeping Trixie Mattel stashed away in your little grow-op for how long, exactly?”

(AN: more laughs, more sadness! i can’t believe it’s been two months. hopefully yesterday’s interlude served as a bit of a refresher; as usual, i use “she/her” for adore and “he/him” for pretty much everyone else (depending on the context.) no promises on when the next one will be up, but it is currently reading week so i’m gonna try to get as much done as i can. ALSO IVE UPPED THE CHAPTER COUNT. i’m sorry? i don’t know if i should be apologizing.

this week on honest werld: bianca tries to cheer a couple of sad sacks up.)

| ch. 1 | ch. 2 | ch. 3 | ch. 4 | ch. 5 |

TO: KATYA - 7:28 AM - Friday August 29th, 2017

check in?

FROM: KATYA - 7:28 AM - Friday August 29th, 2017

[A single emoji: index finger pinched to thumb, OK, the universal symbol of ‘all-good’.]

FROM: KATYA - 7:29 AM - Friday August 29th, 2017

you?

TO: KATYA - 7:29 AM - Friday August 29th, 2017

yeah. that’s about right

“So this is where you’ve been hiding out,” said Bianca, staring inquisitively, like Brian was a specimen under a microscope. “There was a pool on it. I guess we all lost – my money had you under a mattress in a drug den somewhere. You know, a classic.”

“You heard about that, huh,” Brian said, with a smile that landed somewhere between awkward and sheepish. He held Bianca’s gaze steadily as a nervous feeling turned over in his stomach – or maybe that was just the hangover.

He hadn’t seen Bianca in… god, ages. He couldn’t even say when.

“I hear everything,” said Bianca. He looked Brian up and down, brow raised; then his dimples flashed. “It’s just a matter of distinguishing the bullshit from the facts.”

Brian huffed a laugh – flavoured with relief – and stepped back. “Come on in,” he said. “I, uh. I wasn’t expecting to see you. It’s… kind of a mess.”

Bianca grabbed his bag again and followed him in the door, snorting audibly. “If you think I don’t know that…”

“Oh, no, this is fully on me,” Brian said. “Adore’s been away all week.”

“I know,” Bianca said. There was a thump – Brian turned to see that he’d dropped his bag in front of Adore’s room, and was leaning back against the wall beside the door, inspecting him. Bianca continued, “She’s been texting me pictures of the other lawyers’ asses that just say ‘P.E.G. THEM’. The same caption every time. All week. I’m about to call my telephone company and change my damn number.”

“Just buy another prepaid, girl,” said Brian, and grinned when Bianca laughed.

“But yeah,” Bianca said, shrugging. He tucked his hands into his pockets. “I thought I’d come down and, y’know, cheer a bitch up, and then I find you here.”

He gave Brian an expectant look.

Brian cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said. He rubbed a hand at the corner of his eye, willing away the dry itch of too much liquor and not enough sleep. “I’ve, uh. Had a lot going on, I guess. Uh – I’m in the guest room, actually, sorry. That throws another wrench in your plans. I could take the couch, if you don’t mind my crap being all over the room –”

“Don’t be stupid, no one’s sleeping on the couch,” said Bianca, “except maybe you, right now, if you don’t collapse on the floor instead. You look like you’re about to pass out. Sit down, for Christ’s sake.” He brushed past Brian at what could only be called a clip – fast, determined, and altogether more than Brian’s hungover brain could fully process. Brian chose the path of least resistance and heaved his aching body – he was definitely getting too old to be sleeping without a real pillow, shit – over the arm of the couch, settling down with his cheek leaned against the back cushions as he watched Bianca set about tidying the kitchen. Bianca called over his shoulder, “Should I bother looking in the fridge, or should I spare you the indignity and just go get groceries?”

Brian thought about the wilting lettuce all sad and alone on the second shelf, and closed his eyes. “Uh,” he said. He’d never made that salad. “Might be best not to look.”

Cupboards banged open and shut, keeping time with the pounding in his head. “That’s what your dad told your mom when the nurse put you in her arms, huh,” said Bianca over the racket, who could very well be doing this to punish him.

“You think my dad stuck around that long?” said Brian, suffering quietly in the unmoving dark behind his eyelids. “You think I was born in a hospital?”

Bianca cackled. Brian’s head throbbed.

A long moment later, something cool and damp pressed against his temple, and he opened his eyes to see condensation drip down the side of a glass of water from very close-up. He lifted a hand to the glass, fingers brushing against warm skin, then looked up further to meet Bianca’s eyes, which were resting on him with a sober kindness.

“If you’re gonna die, do me the courtesy of moving to the balcony first so you don’t stink up the place,” Bianca said, mouth twitching up.

Brian pressed the glass against his cheek. “Anything to make this easier for you,” he said.

Bianca – nearly three years later and Brian was still a little too intimidated to even try for ‘Roy’ – huffed a laugh and returned to the kitchen. The cupboards started banging again, but a little quieter this time. Brian sipped his water and watched through half-lidded eyes as Bianca fussed and grumbled. “Always moving things around, I swear to God it’s like she tries to piss me off…”

“If there’s no food, what are you looking for?” Brian said.

“Frying pan. You’re vegetarian, right?”

Brian glanced up, surprised. “Yeah.”

“Get that look off your face. I remember things. I’m not that old.”

Brian smiled, hiding it away behind his cup.

Once Bianca was satisfied with the layout and contents of the kitchen, he leaned back against the counter and started tapping away at his phone rapidly. “Sesame oil, hoisin, star anise,” he muttered, “tofu, rice noodles – if I find anything instant in these cupboards, I swear…”

The sun was splintering through the clouds above the rooftops across the street; Brian shut his eyes and pressed the cup against his cheek, the cool glass soothing the ache behind his eyes. There was a pause in the low flow of words across the room and then Bianca said, “How’re you doing, miss Trixie?”, in the kind of crooning voice you might use on a sick pet.

That was fair, probably.

“Somehow both too close and too far from death at the same time,” Brian mumbled against the glass.

Footsteps sounded across the floor. He opened his eyes again.

“Don’t,” Bianca said, now over by Adore’s room, rustling through his duffel. “I’m just going for groceries. You can catch a few more winks while I’m gone.”

The fog in his head made Brian’s nose itch, his eyelids hang heavy. He nodded distractedly at Bianca as he rubbed at his face with one hand; when the door shut, he slumped against the arm of the couch, knees coming to rest against the back, glass of water cradled in his hands between his ribs and the cushions. Somewhere outside, a wind chime jingled quietly. His eyes drifted shut.

At some point, Bianca came back. Brian twitched into wakefulness at the sound of the door; shoes on hardwood (quickly silenced); the fridge opening and closing and the stove top beeping on. Bianca hummed tunelessly across the room.

Something in Brian twisted, turned in on itself like a dog gnawing at a mat in its stomach fur. Not quite restlessness, not quite nausea. He made a quiet, incoherent noise, then licked his lips and tried again: “Bianca?”

Bianca looked over at him. He saw it through mostly-closed eyes. “Yeah?”

Oil sizzled in the frying pan. The doors to the balcony were still open, and there was a faint smell of ginger beginning to fill the air, chasing away the staleness that clung to the corners of the room. Brian swallowed against the dry feeling in his mouth. “Tell me about your tour?” he said.

Bianca huffed a laugh. “Don’t get me started, girl,” he said, warning, but Brian cocked a sleepy eyebrow and he laughed again, louder. “Alright. The most recent show was in Florida, so, you can imagine, a bunch of swampy assholes – you didn’t need to fuck ‘em to smell ‘em. And the venue’s air conditioning was amazing everywhere except in the dressing room. You wouldn’t believe…”

Bianca rambled on. Brian closed his eyes again and drifted off to it, Bianca’s voice a soothing rhythm in the room, like one of those fountains where the water trickles slowly over tumbled stones. The pounding in his head faded. His eyes shut. He slept.

Hours later the door closed again, startling Brian into confused wakefulness and a late afternoon light. The sun had passed beyond the scope of the glass doors, casting the living room into shadow. Brian blinked hazily against the indistinct dark of the entryway, unable to make sense out of the lines and shapes that blurred before his eyes.

There was the thump of a bag being dropped. His gaze focused in on the sound – and up, to its source, where Adore stood listless, pale and brittle in the shadows. Her eyes slipped shut while he watched, and her lips thinned, pursed.

He opened his mouth.

“Adore.”

Adore’s eyes flew open to meet Brian’s gaze, but it wasn’t him who’d spoken. She looked to his right.

“B!”

In a flash, Adore’s face went from spent exhaustion to an almost hungry joy – not hungry, exactly. Sharp at the edges and a little too bright in the eyes. Brian didn’t know how to explain it, but it hit him like a punch all the same, familiar and close. Adore flung herself at Bianca, who caught her easily.

“Hey, baby,” Bianca said, knuckles going white at her spine.

“What the fuck, Yanx, what the fuck,” Adore kept repeating. Her elbows poked out like a spiny guard where her arms were wrapped around Bianca’s neck – like, god fucking help you if you try to get between this shit. She’ll fuck you up.

“What? I can’t take my weekend off to come visit my best girl?”

“You fucker,” Adore crowed, drawing back with a face-splitting smile. Bianca grinned back, crooked, and tucked a little of her bangs behind her ear.

“Only one of us gets to affect a tone of outrage here, bitch,” Bianca said. “You’ve been keeping Trixie Mattel stashed away in your little grow-op for how long, exactly?”

Adore paused, and looked back at Brian.

Brian dragged himself upright – well, more or less. Bianca had drawn a step back, watching him with an eyebrow cocked. Adore, holding one of Bianca’s hands in both of hers, was watching too, mouth set with trepidation, waiting for Brian’s move.

“About a month,” Brian said. “It’s, uh. It’s a long story.”

Bianca’s brow twitched higher. “I cleaned your puke out of the bath mat while you were passed out just now. I think you can fuckin’ humour me.”

Adore’s eyes widened.

“Oh my god,” she said, “oh my god, dude, the thing –” she glanced quickly at Bianca and then back, “when I was in L.A. I saw – but the thing, last night, dude, how fucked were you?”

“Ask your bath mat,” Bianca said. “And what thing is it we’re referring to? I’m not a fucking codetalker – no offence to your people, Trixie.”

Brian laughed, hoarse but real. “That was the Navajo, you dumb bitch.” He sipped his water – which miraculously hadn’t spilled all over him during his nap – and aimed for a smirk. “Sorry that the only code you understand is hanky because you’re a fucking dinosaur.”

Bianca cackled, and the sound – bright and younger than such an old bitch deserved – bounced off the walls, pushing back the pall of the encroaching evening and the stale air in the corners left over from Brian’s week alone.

“Watch it, girl,” Bianca shot back. “I brought your dinner into this world and I can take it out just as easy.”

“Food,” Adore blurted, turning suddenly and shaking Bianca’s arm.

Bianca rolled his eyes. “Did your lawyers not feed you in L.A.? It’s on the stove. I’d say you know where your own plates are, but in this kitchen, I can’t be sure.”

Adore smacked a kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, B,” she said, then spun past him into the kitchen.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bianca said. He eyed Brian critically. “I’d ask what you’ve been eating but I’ve already met it. You look thin.”

“Who knew depression had such perks?” Brian said, but judging by the way Bianca’s lips thinned, it fell flat.

“Come on,” Bianca said, decisive. “You’re having seconds tonight, and if I have to clean them out of more of Adore’s furniture later, I’ll do it. Because I care, Trixie Mattel.” He came over to the couch and offered Brian a hand up; once Brian was standing, he took him by the elbow and lead him towards the kitchen. “But expect my invoice by Monday. My mother taught me two things: how to clean and how to bill for it. So don’t you take me for a fool.”

“Oh, I’d never,” Brian laughed. “Lot of drunk white women stay at the hotel she worked at, huh?”

“Don’t compare yourself to them, now. You couldn’t afford to stay there.”

Adore flitted around once they were sitting like she had springs instead of feet, spreading candles throughout the room so everything was glowing and soft at the edges. And Bianca could cook, apparently, because it wasn’t enough that the bitch was talented and funny and well-read and handsome. Brian scraped his plate clean and – at Bianca’s glare – got seconds.

At one point, Bianca stepped outside to make a call. Adore leaned over and said, “Trixie, when I was in L.A.,” and then paused, one hand curled around Brian’s wrist. “Yeah?” he said, prompting, grinning easily with the food and the hour and the company. Her gaze flicked across his face – then she smiled and said, “I was really fuckin’ worried about my plants, dude.”

“Wow,” he said. “They’re fine. Where is the faith? I thought we were friends.”

“You’ve said that to a lot of people in your life, haven’t you,” Bianca yelled from outside the doors.

It was good. Everything else might be fucked beyond belief, but this – it was good, and something in Brian’s chest felt like it had been opened, like the first sweet breeze breaking through a summer heat wave, fluttering the curtains and knocking screens against their frames.

Brian woke just after midnight to a dry mouth – this hangover was going on twenty-four hours now, which was some bullshit – and the quiet sound of rain and distant voices. The glass by his bed was empty so he pulled on a shirt and slipped out the door, only to stop, drawn up short at the sight before him.

Adore and Bianca were on the balcony. They were turned in towards each other, talking quietly; Adore had one arm braced up on the railing, and Bianca was holding her hand. The city beyond them hid behind a grey curtain of late August rain. The night haze closed them in together, away from the rest of the world – and Brian, standing at his door, holding his empty glass against his chest, was just as far away.

Bianca said something he couldn’t catch, a serious expression straining the corners of his eyes as he searched Adore’s face for… Brian didn’t know. Adore replied, then ducked her head, shoulders hunching up. She freed her hand to fumble at her pocket, coming up with a carton of cigarettes. She lit one in the candle on her right – and missed the look that crossed Bianca’s face, aching and tired.

As Brian watched, Adore aimed a crooked smile out from under shaggy bangs – saying something, cracking some joke – only for it to break at the edges, ragged and thin in the orange glow of her cigarette. She turned away, out into the rain. Her shoulders, square and black against the grey night, cut a lonely figure, like some doomed ingenue from an old hollywood movie.

Bianca stepped closer and wrapped an arm around her waist. Her shoulders shook.

Brian couldn’t watch anymore – shouldn’t have seen any of it. He slipped away into the bathroom to fill his glass, then back into his room, deliberately not looking out onto the balcony again – and it hurt not to, in some fucked up way, hurt worse not looking than looking had. Because seeing Bianca hold Adore’s hand, and seeing Adore lean into the warmth of Bianca’s body – that had fucking hurt, like a blunt force straight to the chest.

He went back to bed. Cheek pressed into his pillow, he looked again – for the fifth or sixth time that day – at the texts from that morning between him and Katya. Not even ten words and they were all he could think about.

He fell asleep and dreamed of seagulls in flight; white sheets rumpled like seafoam; warm skin and a warmer smile.

bianca is here and she thinks she’s my mom, he texted Katya the next morning, each word coming too slow and careful. Stupid. He was so stupid. how do i tell her it’s a new dad i need instead?

He considered the text for a solid minute before pressing send.

There was no reply, but no read receipt either. He stared at the phone for another minute or two, lost in thought, until a knock came at the door.

“Hey,” Adore called, “hey, get your guitar, I want to show Bianx what you’ve been teaching me.”

“Sure, just a minute,” he called back. He woke his phone up to check it one more time, then got up to grab his guitar from the corner, flipping his notebook shut where it lay on the bed along the way.

He’d gotten a little work done this morning. It still made his palms sweat to see it all laid out like that, all the little fears and hopes he tried not to look at from day to day, and to remember that video on his instagram. But there were too many words set down to let them all go to waste. And anyway, he didn’t have to share the finished product with anyone. Just Katya.

He owed Katya that much.

Out in the living room, Bianca was curled on the couch barefoot, like a large and particularly self-satisfied house cat, smiling over a mug of coffee at Adore on the other end, her guitar balanced precariously in her lap.

“Oh, cool,” Brian said, affecting as much irritation as possible when they looked up at him. “Everyone gets to sit except me. Very cool.”

“Someone called me a dinosaur last night and someone didn’t,” Bianca said. “Figure the rest out for yourself.”

“Oh,” Brian said, and discreetly shot Adore the finger around the body of his guitar. Adore raised a lazy peace sign in return. “I’ll take that, I guess,” he continued, contemplative, “I probably deserve it.”

“Grace in defeat,” Bianca said. “I like that about you, Trixie.”

Brian hummed, dumping his phone on the coffee table and then straightening to sling his strap over his shoulders. He tapped his foot on the floor idly. “What did you want to play?” he asked Adore, then, not looking down, plucked out the notes to the theme of Jurassic Park.

Adore fell back into the arm of the couch, laughing, and Bianca pointed a finger at Brian and said, “You’d better lock your door tonight, bitch.”

“Please,” said Brian. “I welcome death.”

“Could we maybe, like, play my fuckin’ songs? Before I pussy out over here?” said Adore.

Bianca made a skeptical face at her. She made a much worse face back.

“Alright, alright,” said Brian, adjusting his strap. “27 Club?”

Adore’s new material was all angry and loud, but she kept returning to these softer, acoustic versions, like there was something in there between the notes that she was trying to find, something that got lost when it was all grinding electric rhythms. Brian followed her on the melody, rounding the sound out with three notes for her every one. Her music didn’t sound angry to him. It just sounded honest.

That had always been Adore’s greatest strength, though – that revelatory honesty, that unquestionable realness. Even when she was plastering on a smile, it was there underneath, palpable. Brian didn’t know how she did it.

(Nothing is real, mama, Katya would say, but that was also just her way of saying that everything was.)

(Brian didn’t know about all that. Some stuff was realer than other stuff – it was just a question of whether that mattered.)

The last chorus faded into a settled quiet. Adore tapped her pic against the body of her guitar rapidly, like a wood-pecker, then looked up at Bianca through her lashes and said, “What do you think?”

Bianca opened his mouth, paused, and then huffed a quiet laugh. “I think you put the rest of us to shame,” he said, and Adore ducked her head over her guitar.

Brian looked at them a moment, then swallowed and said, “I just want to remind everyone in the room that I did the heartfelt acoustic thing first. Just. You know. In case anyone had forgotten.”

Adore laughed and kicked out at him, missing his knee with her turtle-print-socked foot by a mile.

“I hate you,” she said, beaming. “9 Yards?”

“It’s your gig, girl,” he said, clinching the capo into place.

Adore nodded. She tapped them into the intro, grinning up at Brian like they were a team, and they fell into the melody together, just like they’d been practicing all month.

Three songs later they took a break, while Adore stretched her fingers out and Bianca got them all drinks. The two of them traded jabs across the room, and Brian, cross-legged on the floor, tucked a smile into the body of his guitar as he listened to their banter. He fiddled away at the notes aimlessly. The words he’d been penning late at night ran through his mind, the internal rhyme, the dips and pauses.

“I have it on good authority you never reorganized a damn thing when you were living with your mother,” Bianca was saying, “so I can only assume you’ve picked it up now to spite me –”

“I reorganized plenty!” Adore protested. “Moving shit around is reorganizing, it just isn’t tidying.”

“Oh, and you think you can have one without the other? Like, oh, well, I put this condom on, guess you can fuck me in the ass now! That ain’t how it works!”

Adore dissolved into laughter.

“Wow, I’ve been doing sex wrong this whole time,” Brian said, then almost dumped his guitar out of his lap as his phone buzzed on the table. The screen flashed with a new text: FROM: KATYA.

The guitar went on the floor; the drink Bianca tried to offer him went unnoticed.

“It’s from Katya,” he heard Adore stage-whisper as he snatched his phone up and unlocked it. “You can tell ‘cause she looks like she’s about to throw up her heart out of her mouth.”

“That’s visual,” said Bianca, and “Fuck the both of you,” said Brian, exiting the room, gaze glued to his phone.

Safely tucked away with a door between him and his hecklers, he read the text a second time, a third, and his own before it:

TO: KATYA - 12:07 PM - Saturday August 30th, 2017

bianca is here and she thinks she’s my mom

how do i tell her it’s a new dad i need instead?

FROM: KATYA - 1:34 PM - Saturday August 30th, 2017

what’s a step up from a check-in

He sank down onto his bed – and then a new text appeared, and another, and another.

if bianca’s ur dad and my uncle what does that make us? because i’m into it

i should have opened with that

I just. can’t tell when it’s a joke and when it’s a call for help with you right now

Brian swallowed.

me either, he typed.

Moving between the living room and the guest room was like moving into another house – another life entirely. The air prickled at his skin, slightly too cool with the encroaching fall. He’d left his window open the night before; gone back to his room, the image of Adore’s shoulders and Bianca’s hand at the turn of her hip burned into his mind. He’d cracked the window and lain on the sheets, thinking, thinking, completely un-fucking-able to stop thinking, staring out the window at the shadows cast by Seattle’s spindly bulk.

Katya’s texts from before had lit the dark of the room with an unfamiliar blue as Brian read them over a third time, a fourth. As his eyes had slipped shut, he’d heard it again, the way Katya’s voice had cracked: it’s not – you don’t just get to have things.

In the late afternoon, now, he hunched over his phone, shoulders up against the silence of the walls. He typed, i’m okay. And then, I don’t know what else to say.

There was a pause. Three inscrutable dots.

i don’t know how you did it, back then, Katya sent. trusted i’d make it through off one emoji and some incredibly unwarranted faith in – idk, fate? god?

You, sent Brian without pause.

He hurt. It was a physical thing, like all the ache inside of him had clawed its way out of the lock-safe of his chest and sunk long nails into his bones, his joints, all the spongy marrow, the nooks and crannies of his body. The way he missed Katya – it was a physical thing.

Dumb, sent Katya.

And, yeah.

i’m tired, he typed. The words came slow, because every letter felt like it cost him something. i feel sick all the time, more than i can blame on a day-old hangover. i miss you. I don’t know what to do.

He stared down at the words in the little text box, sitting idle, deceptively tranquil. His thumb hovered for a beat over the [x] to delete – then he shook his head and sent it off.

Delivered and then Read flickered instantly, followed by the ellipsis of Katya’s typing.

okay, came the answer. okay. thank you for telling me, tracy.

For some reason, the simple, sober seriousness of it made his eyes prickle. He huffed a laugh and rubbed at his nose.

we’re gonna work this out, was the next message, and then he really was tearing up, lashes sticking damply together as he blinked down at his phone.

we’re gonna work this out and it’s all gonna be okay, Katya sent.

thats a lot of optimism from a selfprofessed fatalist, he replied one-handed, wiping at his eyes with the other.

satanist, Katya answered quickly. theyre different things. sometimes.

Brian huffed a laugh, and then, mouth twitching despite himself, typed and sent: oh, you mean some people try to be bipartisatan?

There was a pause.

I, Katya sent.

I can’t even be mad

Im actually relieved

Brian really did laugh then, a sharp bark, and grinned down at his phone, like he could see Katya grinning back from the other side of the words.

The dots returned.

FROM: KATYA - 1:43 PM - Saturday August 30th, 2017

so bianca’s there now? how’s hell’s favourite senior citizen doing

That one Brian screencapped to show to Bianca post-haste.

good, he replied. sounds like she’s taken up throat-singing. seems to be sleeping in adore’s room.

Katya sent back a line of eyes-emojis.

mhm. it’s good though, Brian continued. like a continuous wave of benevolent judgement radiating directly at me. i think that’s healthy. Needed, even.

There was no reply for a minute; Brian kicked his heel gently against the back leg of the bed frame, waiting it out. His gaze drifted to his notebook, open at his side, and the corrections he’d scrawled out that morning. Assonance, meter, rhythm – just because it was honest didn’t mean it could be sloppy. He had his pride, here.

His phone buzzed again. Katya, forever on his wavelength, had sent: i liked your song

And then:

well, for values of liked. I mean – you know.

but it was good. is there more of it?

Lots more – black ink bleeding across faint blue lines, all the shit he’d been not-saying for a year or more condensed into four-four time. A whole fucking mess of a song more.

Yeah, he sent. And then, biting his lip: i’ll have to play it for you sometime.

He looked down at those words on his screen and the flicker of the Read notification, then amended -- i mean. i want to.

i’d like that, Katya replied, followed by a single heart.

Outside the guest room, a guitar picked up again, hesitant at first and then with more confidence. Brian glanced at the door, then out the window at the stretch of grey clouds hanging over the city. He turned and lay down on his side, phone in hand, and scrolled up to the top of the conversation – 1:34 PM, Saturday August 30th – to re-read it from the start.

Too late that night, tired but restless, Brian stepped out of the guest room to see faint light on the balcony and a thin haze of smoke. The apartment smelled vaguely sweet; mug in hand, he followed the scent out through the open glass doors, where Bianca was sitting alone, watching a small stick of incense burn. The orange glow at the tip simmered steadily, like a car light on a highway at midnight.

Bianca turned at Brian’s approach. “You’re up late,” he said, tipping his head back to observe Brian as he hovered in the doorway awkwardly.

“Yeah.” Brian jiggled the mug. “Getting some writing done.”

“Yeah? How’s that going?”

“Oh, you know. Slightly less painful than a country doctor pulling teeth. The usual.”

Bianca laughed softly. “C’mere,” he said. “Come sit. Enjoy the night. And this, uh, smelly shit Adore chose to inflict on us.”

“Really? I don’t see her out here,” Brian pointed out. “She bought it, but you lit it, girl.”

Bianca harrumphed, sinking deeper into his nest of blankets. “Well, she’s actually sleeping for once. Someone’s gotta keep the neighbours awake on her behalf.”

(When they’d walked into the magic shop that evening, Bianca’s first words were, “This feels like some white people bullshit.” He’d scanned the place, scowling, while Adore held her hands up to her face and snickered behind them. “No sense of self-preservation, messing with forces they don’t understand. It’s a miracle there’s enough of ‘em still around to plague the rest of us.”

Steph’s first words upon meeting Bianca were, “You look like you need more chamomile in your life.”

“I have some we can share,” Adore had offered; “if you can fuckin’ find it,” Bianca had interjected under his breath.

Adore had dug her elbow into his side. “Don’t be a grump,” she’d said. “I like these white people, man. They sell me crystals.”

Brian, behind them, waved at Steph with weary commiseration.)

Bianca tugged one blanket free from his pile as Brian settled down and passed it over; Brian took it with a nod, hunching his spine against the chill. Fall came faster in Seattle than L.A., like an impatient host ushering a guest out the door. Brian tried hard not to think of the implications of that particular metaphor.

“Let me,” Bianca said, nodding at Brian’s mug, then, when he passed it over, poured half of his own into it. A faint haze of steam rose out of the mug as Brian took it back.

“Thanks,” he said, then choked on his first sip – not because it was hot, but because it was beyond alcoholic. “The fuck is this?” he managed.

“The only cure for the common cold,” said Bianca. “I don’t know. Whatever was in the cupboards. Lemon, chamomile, and a shitload of gin, can you taste it?”

Brian stared at him. “No,” he said. “It’s just a delicate bouquet.”

“Ooh, someone thinks she’s fancy,” said Bianca reproachfully. “You don’t want it, give it back.”

“No, no.” Brian huddled the mug closer to his chest. Bianca’s mouth twitched crookedly.

They drank in silence for a minute. The skies lay heavy and low, weighted with rain; the street was quiet. On the coffee table, the incense was burning down to its stick, the sweet unfamiliar smell drifting on the breeze. Sips two, three, and four of Bianca’s hell brew went better, and a slow warmth began to fill Brian from the inside out. He slumped back into the chair, twisting his feet in the ends of the blanket as he stared out onto the street. The buildings were so obscured by the dark that he could only pick them out in edges and lines, like some monochromatic cubist painting.

“How long do you think you have left here?” said Bianca.

When Brian turned to look, Bianca was watching him – might have been watching him the whole time.

“I’m not asking ‘cause of Adore. Short of insulting her mother or voting for Trump, Adore would let you stay until the oceans rise to swallow this godforsaken hipster port-in-the-storm whole. I’m asking for you – ‘cause I don’t know how much longer you have it in you. Staying. And you’d better have a plan for when you can’t anymore, because otherwise this whole bullshit tangle will just get worse.”

Brian lifted his mug, rested it against his bottom lip. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I know.”

Bianca let him sit a moment longer, then said, “So?”

“Yeah,” Brian said again. He took another sip to steady himself. “I don’t know. Everytime I think I have a handle on what I’m feeling, something else comes up, or something happens, and it’s like I’m back in that moment again – standing in my bedroom in L.A. and realizing I couldn’t do it for another second more.”

Bianca hummed, low and almost soundless in the dark. “And what’s it?”

“The whole – thing. All of it.”

“Narrow that down for me.”

Brian turned and scowled at him. “You know, Adore never gives me this kind of shit.”

“Adore has her own shit. That’s why you never asked her to actually help – you just asked her for a place to stay. You wouldn’t have sat in that chair, and you wouldn’t have said as much as you have, if you didn’t want me to give you shit.”

He held Brian’s gaze steadily until Brian looked away, back down into his mug.

“Yeah,” Brian said.

“Hey,” Bianca said. “You know I wouldn’t push if I didn’t care.” He nudged Brian’s knee with his own. “Don’t repeat that or I’ll deny it.”

Brian laughed, just quietly.

“So,” Bianca said again. “What’s it?”

A siren rang out, somewhere in the distance. Brian took another drink. The clouds overhead cast everything in deep blue shadows; his hands had gone ghostly white and veinless. He wrapped them tighter around the warmth of his mug.

“Everyone wanting something from me,” he said finally, then corrected, “expecting something from me, and feeling like I have to answer to it. All of it, because no two people expect the same thing. That’s not what I fucking signed up for,” he said, volume climbing, then he cut himself off, looking away.

“Isn’t it?” said Bianca impassively.

Brian – snapped.

“I signed up to compete on a dumb-ass game show. I signed up to show my art to the world – I signed up to share what I could do, not who I am. That’s mine. That’s mine and not any other fucking person’s in the world. I didn’t sign up to be grabbed at, told what to do, or told when and where to spill my guts for some strangers’ emotional boners. They can go jerk off to season seven if that’s what they really need. I owe them my work – my best work. I don’t owe them me.”

The mug was shaking in his hands. He breathed, then breathed again, fighting against the band around his chest.

“No,” Bianca said gently. “You don’t.”

Brian opened his mouth, then closed it. It felt like something had dislodged inside of him, something that had been stuck in crooked where it didn’t belong; he couldn’t meet Bianca’s eyes. He looked out at the skyline until his mouth felt less dry and he could speak evenly. “But that’s not how it works.”

Bianca made a questioning noise. “Isn’t it?”

And – for fuck’s sake. “I don’t know. Why don’t you go ask Adore.”

Silence. Brian pressed his lips together, then took another sip of his drink. That was a low blow and he knew it. When he looked back, it was Bianca staring out at the skyline, face unreadable.

“Sorry,” Brian said quietly. And then: “I don’t know how to go back. But this isn’t… this isn’t who I want to be. I didn’t know I could get to this point, not anymore.” He hunched his shoulders. “I’m such a fucking mess.”

“Well,” said Bianca. “Yeah.”

Brian’s mouth twitched. “Thanks, girl.”

They sat in silence for a moment – a new, companionable silence that Brian had never felt with Bianca before, always a little too impressed and in awe to actually relax. He drained the last of his mug and pulled his blanket further up around his shoulders and neck. Sitting with Bianca like this felt like sitting with Adore did, like – like sitting with Shea, or Kim, or Katya, and that made him feel both warm and lonely at the same time.

“You know,” he said abruptly, “Adore has to be one of the – the best fucking people I’ve ever met.”

“That’s not exactly breaking news to me,” said Bianca.

“I’m serious. I show up out of nowhere and she just… lets me stay in her house, tells me it can be for as long as I need – seriously, who does that? For some bitch off the street? Come on. I wouldn’t.”

Bianca rolled his eyes. “Don’t be melodramatic. You’re not some bitch off the street. She liked you before all this, she told me so.”

“But you know what I mean,” Brian insisted. He watched Bianca from heavy, half-lidded eyes – he was either tipsy or half-asleep, and for the fucking life of him he could not have said which.

“I do,” said Bianca. “But – you realize she got something out of it too. Having you here. It’s been good for her.”

“Well,” said Brian, “well, yeah.” He tipped his face over to look at Bianca fully, the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth and the way he held the edges of the blankets bundled in his lap, arms crossed to keep them place and hands tucked into his sides for warmth. “She’s lucky to have you. You balance her out – you’re like a rock. Or, I don’t know, some other, less-cliché shit.”

“I can see why you’re such a successful songwriter,” said Bianca.

“Fuck you, you’re the wind beneath her fucking wings.” Bianca laughed, and Brian grinned sleepily. “I mean it. You’re like – you’re so steady. Nothing touches you. That’s what she needs right now.”

(Earlier, he remembered, in the magic shop: the moment where Adore had retreated from the conversation, so smoothly Brian almost hadn’t noticed – eyes going distant and distracted, body closing in on itself. One moment she was there and the next she wasn’t.

And then: the way Bianca had stepped forward, touching a hand to the small of her back. The way Adore had leaned into it. The way Steph hadn’t noticed at all, because Bianca had taken over the conversation completely, buying Adore the moment she needed to get herself together.)

Bianca’s mouth pursed and he looked away.

“Who’s older, you or her?”

“I –” Brian paused. “I don’t know, actually.”

“She makes it easy to forget. And then sometimes I look at her and I feel like she has to be my age. No one that young should look so tired.”

Brian shifted in his seat, unsure of how to respond to the strange tone in Bianca’s voice. “Bitch has good skin.”

Bianca hummed quietly.

“You know,” he said, “you go through things in life and you think, this isn’t so bad. There’s no point in lingering on it because the more time you spend in place, the less time you spend getting yourself out of there. You know? You think, I can handle anything. And then you see someone else go through their own things – someone you care about, someone you love… “ Bianca trailed off. “That’s the real hardship. That’s the shit you can’t push away or push through. Where you learn you aren’t so tough after all.”

Brian swallowed, and thought about Katya.

“It’s not –” Bianca frowned and looked away. “It’s not her fault. But it’s hard.”

“She’s lucky to have you,” Brian said again, more forcefully. Bianca looked back,

surprised – then smiled all lopsided, and reached over and squeezed Brian’s forearm.

“Anyone ever told you you’re a sap when you drink, Miss Mattel?”

“Yeah.” Brian looked down at Bianca’s hand, then at his own around his mug. A dozen nights from the past month filled his head, the warm cocoon of a tipsy haze, Katya’s voice in his ear. He had developed this bad habit of repeating hey, I like you, like it was some big secret he was revealing every time. And then Katya would say, smile evident in the timbre of his voice: you’re a sap, Tracy. How many nights?

God, Brian missed him.

He swallowed against the tangle of feelings lodged tightly at the base of his throat. “Is it worth it?”

“Mm?”

“You’re the biggest name there is in our world. You know what I mean. Is it worth it?”

Bianca looked at him, equal parts thoughtful and watchful. Words clustered on Brian’s tongue but he couldn’t get them out: the stress, the loneliness, the bullshit, the distance –

“It can be,” said Bianca after a long moment. “You have to make it worth it, though. Make it yours. Do what you want to do, no more and no less, and make sure that at the end of the day, you have something to come back to.”

Brian dreamed of the pier; he woke too early, with gritty eyes and a tightness in his throat, and lay on his side looking out at the heavy grey skies which had persisted through the night. He remembered Steph, the day before:

“You look weathered,” she’d said, while Adore showed Bianca around the store.

“Yeah,” he’d said. “My pores are all oc-cloud-ed.”

She exhaled half a laugh, but looked at him with serious eyes. “So,” she’d said, “how’s that end of the world treating you?”

Seattle outside his window grew lighter but not brighter, the grey pall lying melancholy along its lines. All the colour leached out; that last pretense of summer giving up the fight. Brian shut his eyes against it and fell back asleep.

“My uber is downstairs,” Bianca said, chiding, as Adore refused to let go. “Dan.”

Adore sniffled. “Shut your face and let me hug you.”

“My wrinkles are getting deeper by the second, Delano.”

“‘Cause you can’t afford to get a lift done. Shut your face.”

Brian, leaning back against the island that separated the kitchen from the rest of the room, looked down at his hands so he wouldn’t have to see the way Bianca’s mouth twisted, abruptly less than firm.

“Now don’t you two do anything stupid once I’m not around to keep an eye out,” Bianca said a moment later, “and you, don’t you let that one forget to eat, okay?”

Brian glanced up again to find both of them looking at him, Adore with a fond smile halfway there and Bianca with a scowl.

“I eat!” he protested.

“Hmph,” said Bianca.

“Okay, exactly one of us looks like a short brown stick insect, so…”

“Shut up and c’mere,” Bianca said, finally loosening himself from Adore’s clutches, and when Brian hesitated, he came over himself, grasping Brian’s elbows, one then the other, and tugging gently until he folded forward into the waiting hug.

Bianca was warm and steady, and Brian shuddered, just a little. He didn’t know how Adore could let go.

When Bianca was at the door, bags in hand, he paused and looked back at both of them, even though his Uber was waiting (and beginning to honk intermittently.) His gaze flicked from Adore, to Brian, and then back to Adore. Adore made a rough noise. “Text me, dumbass,” she said. “I’ll miss you. Fuck. Get out of my house.”

Bianca laughed, eyes crinkling up at the corners, then waved a little at both of them – like a fucking dork – and disappeared out the door.

Adore slumped back against the couch. She looked both tired and older; but there was something more quiet about her energy than Brian had seen in the past month. He went over to settle beside her, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders gingerly.

She rested her head against his shoulder. He rubbed his thumb against the slope of her arm, absent, then said, “Want to get plastered?”

It was barely noon.

“Yeah,” said Adore. “Fuckin’ slaughtered.”

The rest of the day was… a bit of a blur.

Brian woke to a new day, sunlight, a pounding head, and a text from Katya.

LA is more of a sinkhole than i remember, it read. Anxious about fault lines & wishing u were here.

He pressed his face into his pillow and read it again, then again, half a smile creeping onto his face.

The night before was pretty much a shitshow, but he remembered parts here and there; vaguely, he could recall Adore digging her toes into his thigh – she’d been stretched out along the couch, while he’d been tucked into one end, mug of something ungodly held between his hands – and telling him, voice quieter than the night outside, that she’d watched the video. His video, the one he’d deleted from Instagram.

“That’s,” she’d said, slurring a little, “that’s some real shit, dude. Like some real ass shit. That’s not the shit you walk away from.”

But I have, he’d replied, barely even conscious of what he was saying. Lots of times. Katya and me… it’s always been ‘almost’ with us. Almost after almost after almost.

And almosts only count –

“But you want it,” she’d said. “And I know – I know she does too. Dude. I know.”

And what was he supposed to do with that? Did Adore think he hadn’t figured that much out for himself?

Fuck.

He turned over in bed, away from the sunlight, and groaned quietly. It felt like a small animal had fucking died in his mouth. He dragged himself upright on unsteady feet. There was a slight possibility he was still drunk.

Phone in hand, he stumbled out of bed, hitching his boxers up with one hand. The stretch to the door felt like an interminable distance. Water, he thought, get some water, and then back to bed for more sleep, and when I wake up I’ll feel like a person again –

He opened the door.

For one golden moment, everything was still. Then somewhere across the room, something jerked, and Adore gasped, “wait –”

Brian blinked.

Another jerk of movement; a thud; and then his vision cleared, the noonday sun slanting through the apartment easing in his eyes, and he saw Adore staring back at him from the couch, mouth slack, one hand pressing her phone face-down into the coffee table.

“I was –” she stuttered, “– fuck, I was –”

In his hand, Brian’s phone began to vibrate insistently.

“Fuck, Trixie,” Adore said weakly. “I was live.”

Brian stared at her.

People talk about the bottom falling out of your stomach. This wasn’t that. This was walls tumbling outwards, like a card structure when the table under it’s been knocked, the hollow inside of a house revealed to the open air in the shock of a second. This was the walls of his chest split open; fault lines doing what fault lines do.

He pressed a hand behind him at the door, like maybe he could step back into his room and all this would go away.

His phone was still buzzing, continuously now, the noise like a power drill. His mouth was dry as sawdust.

He wasn’t ready. The walls were coming down and he wasn’t fucking ready.

#dare #trixya #adore delano #katya zamolodchikova #trixie mattel #rpdr fanfiction #submission #fathwtf #canon compliant

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remotecontrolchuck · 7 years ago

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Super Late Toonami Night Review: The COUNTDOWN continues!

So after a week of technical difficulties of my computer literally falling apart, and moving everything I have to my new laptop, I’m finally able to work on my weekly Toonami review for, well, last week. With that said, onto the review!

Last week we continued with the COUNTDOWN event, where we learn that TOM has been sent into the not so distant future, where after the Vindication goes through a bizarre nebula, SARA goes all Terminator and begins gearing the clydes for war against all organics. With help from future TOM, present TOM sets out to go back to the past, and prevent doomsday from happening.

Aside from the COUNTDOWN event, not much else occurred last week besides new episodes and old reruns we all enjoyed. Next week is going to be the DBZ Kai marathon for Thanksgiving weekend, though hardly fitting compared to Dragon Ball Super, which has a tournament started because of food in the first place. That, or Lupin the Third, because of the great food they’ve been showing on that show. Could go for some Italian right about now.

And speaking of Lupin the Third Part IV: the Italian Adveture, can’t believe we’re down to seven episodes left this season. It feels like only was only a few months instead of six that this show started, and man has it been a blast! While I’ll save my review for Lupin the Third when it finishes its run, I will say that so far it’s one of the best anime to come to the block yet, and I’ll miss it when it’s gone.

Anyway, back to the DBZ Kai being the marathon for Thanksgiving weekend, I feel it’s not that great of a choice. I mean honestly do I really need to feel like I’m eating soylent green when Majin Buu is turning people into candy before eating them, or into milk before giving them to formerly blind children for that matter? I’d rather have a food fight or be shown extravagant food than see that.

Moving on, last but not least, it’s been recently announced that the block’s run will be expanding yet again on December 2nd! If this keeps up, the old 6 Hour Challenge will be back! As for the reason for the reason expansion, a new show will be coming to Toonami, Black Clover. It’s a new series I’ve been hearing about here and there, with some people either liking it or hating it. Since I don’t know really much about it, I’ll watch this series and see for myself whether I’ll like it or not.

Now that I’m done with the news segment, it’s onto the recap of last week’s shows!

Dragon Ball Super: Despite their massive power, both Goku and Hit appear to be evenly matched. However, Goku throws in the towel after Beerus and Chompa get into another arguement. Naturally Chompa is thrilled, and Beerus is pissed. With their last fighter being Monaka, it appears Universe 7 is doom to lose... at least it would been so if not for Hit.

Seeing how weak Monaka really was, Hit decided to take pity on the little guy, and made it look he was taking out by him with one punch, declaring that he and Goku were now even. Naturally everyone is shocked by the sudden turn of events, Beerus being the most surprised as he didn’t expect to suddenly win the tournament.

Of course being a sore loser, Chompa began having a meltdown and began threatening to kill his failed champions. However, both he and Beerus are left shocked and speechless when all of a sudden a strange little fella showed on the arena floor with two purple-clad guards. And if the Destroyers are scared out of their minds, this obviously isn’t good news.

DBZ Kai: After another round of mindless massacre and rampage, Majin Buu is finally taken on by the combined form of Goten and Trunks, Gotenks. But when said combined form has an overconfident ego, the jolly bubblegum goon has no trouble trouncing the two. Fortunately the two managed to escape, the same can’t be said for the Earth military that tried to take on Buu, and ended like the previous ones that went up against Nappa and Cell.

So with their military basically annihilated once again, the people call upon their champion, Mr. Satan, to take care of the unstoppable menace. But despite his ego and dirty tricks, the “brave” fighter ends having no chance against Buu. Fortunately for him, the pink blob thinks he’s pretty funny and keeps him around as a servant, leaving Mr. Satan plenty of time to figure out how to save his image.

Stardust Crusaders: After sending Anne back to Hong Kong, JoJo and the gang head off into Pakistan to continue their journey. But they’re soon delayed by heavy and treacherous passes, forcing them to stop at local village, filled with creepy people and a recently deceased body in the middle.

Reader: Ooh, that’s bad.

But JoJo and the others are soon greeted by a nice old lady who invites them to her hotel.

Reader: That’s good!

The old hag is actually DIO’s servant Enyaba, who wants revenge for the death of her son.

Reader: That’s bad.

But JoJo begins having suspicions about Enyaba.

Reader: That’s good!

He and the others still go into the hotel anyway.

Reader: That’s bad.

Later, Hol Horse shows up at said hotel and we’re introduced to Enyaba’s Stand, Justice, who takes cares of her son’s former partner in crime.

Reader:...

That’s good and bad.

Reader: Can we move on now?

Gundam IBO: At Tekkadan’s Earth Branch, Chad and the others are attending the inauguration of the Arbrau Defense Force (ADF). However, things take a turn for the worse when a bomb goes off, taking out and heavily injuring both Chad and Prime Minister Makanai. Turns out the Teiwaz accountant sent to work for the Earth branch, Radice, had sold them out to Rustal’s mercenary, Galan Mossa, who planted the bomb to start a war between Arbrau and the S.A.U.

Takaki, who’s now in charge, has to somehow keep everyone in line. And to make things worse, Takaki is unable to contact Orga, as he’s being prevented by Radice, because again the guy is a backstabbing dick that’s working for Galan Mossa. And speaking of Mossa, the merc soon becomes the commander of the ADF, and McGillis is soon contacted by the S.A.U. lead their forces against Arbrau.

Soon enough, Takaki and the Tekkadan Earth Branch is forced to work with Mossa and the ADF, and fight against McGillis leading the S.A.U. forces in the upcoming war. Meanwhile, Orga gets word of recent events on Earth, and decides to head there himself to oversee the Earth Branch. He orders Mikazuki, Eugene, and Akihiro to come with him, and Kudelia joins them in order to check on her mentor Mr. Makanai.

Hunter x Hunter: Taking on the Bomb Devils (who I’ve realized I’ve been calling Mad Bombers by mistake for the last month or so), Gon goes up against Genthru, while Killua and Bisky take on the latter’s two goons elsewhere using their spell cards.

At Soufrabi, Bisky reveals her true muscular form that makes he look like a JoJo character, and promptly beats the shit out of Bara. At Masadora, Killua takes out Sub with his incredibly heavy yo-yo, using a new electrifying technique that proves to be shockingly effective.

Lupin the Third: Someone begins painting pictures of those involved in the Italian Dream affair all over Italy, leading Lupin and everyone else to the Santa Maria delle Grazie, where someone has prepared an elaborate dinner in front of the mural of da Vinci’s “The Last Supper”. During this meal, where each course is a clue to the artist’s identity, Lupin eventually figures out who it is.

Lupin reveals that the artist and their mysterious host is none other than Leonardo da Vinci himself, having been resurrected by MI6 using Wataru’s notes on the Italian Dream, a collective consciousness inside the mind of every person on Earth where all mankind's knowledge is housed.

Naturally Lupin is right, and Gibbons summons his agent to kill everyone that now knows, forcing everyone to flee the scene. While running from MI6, Lupin stumbles across Leonardo himself, who manages to escape in a hovercraft/flying machine. But before taking into the night sky, he tells Lupin that he plans on changing the world soon.

Naruto Shippuden: While down about Lady Tsunade in a coma, Naruto and Sakura are given a nice surprise when they encounter Tazuna and Inari, having been hired to help rebuild the town. They then catch up and remember the old days, specifically when after Team 7 completed their first mission, how Naruto inspired Inari and helped him and his village fend off Gato’s remaining goons.

Outlaw Star: After picking up their new crew member, Aisha Clan-Clan, who had tried to kill them earlier, Gene and the gang continue on in the great space race. However, after a dirty tricked pulled by Harry MacDougall, the Outlaw Star gets lost in subspace for bit.

Fortunately, Gene pulls a daring move by piloting the Outlaw Star through an Aether Stream, which helps them get to the finish line. While they unfortunately make it in fourth place, they do make into first place on the Privateer class, breaking it even with their sponsor Fred.

Cowboy Bebop: We are introduce to Radical Ed, a young female hacker, who helps the Bebop crew track down the one responsible for causing satellites to fire laser into planet Earth, and carving strange drawings on its surface. She soon reveals that the culprit is actually an old A.I., who she calls “MPU”.

Apparently MPU had been feeling really lonely, and was trying to recreate the Nazca Lines that were destroyed during the Gate Incident fifty years ago, when it was just a spy satellite that would pass over it often. While guiding Spike and the others on how to get to MPU’s satellite through the lasers, Ed helps the A.I. make a copy of itself, before transferring itself to Ed’s computer.

That way MPU can avoid being sent the police, and be with Ed and her friends and no longer be lonely. Ed’s plan goes off without a hitch, but unfortunately for Spike and the others they can’t collect a bounty on MPU, due to it being an A.I. and not an actual person. Shortly after, Ed joins the Bebop crew, after forcing them to take her with them after remotely taking control of their ship.

GitS: SAC 2nd GIG: In order to obtain evidence of money laundering by a sleazy businessman with a fetish for prosthetic dolls/androids, Section 9 pulls off a fake heist in order to get them inside the vault. With the Major Kusanagi playing the thief, as well as clever misdirection and camera editing, the rest of Section 9 who are providing security manage to get inside the vault and find the evidence they need to arrest the millionaire.

That’s it for the recap, as well as this review! This week’s run of Toonami is about to start soon, so expect another review shortly after it. So see you guys in a bit for the Toonami live blog and Stay Gold!

Quick Update: I just found out that the Japanese voice actress for Bulma, Hiromi Tsuru, had recently passed away. There’s no words to describe this sad loss, she will be dearly missed. RIP and Stay Gold.

#toonami #dragon ball super #DBZ Kai #jojo's bizarre adventure #gundam ibo #hunter x hunter #lupin the third #Naruto Shippuden #outlaw star #cowboy bebop #ghost in the shell: stand alone complex

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kpopfanfictrash · 8 years ago

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Binary Star (IV)

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: You / Jaebum / Mark

Rating: PG

Word Count: 3,749

Summary: “In some cases, these close binary systems can exchange mass, which may bring their evolution to stages that single stars cannot attain.”

You and Jaebum have been dating forever when Mark Tuan shows up in your classroom. You’ve always been against change - a bit debilitating, being a writer - but for some reason this new kid has you thinking there might be an upside to chaos.

Before you know it, you’re at the back. At the back during your song. The one Jaebum wrote for you and you’re struggling not to feel upset about that fact. Struggling to hang onto the bubble of excitement you felt when the music started. It’s hard though, when Jaebum is still singing to the crowd as though nothing happened. Is still singing to the idea of you, not to you.

This song is a hit. A smash, actually. All around you the club is out of control. This is the song that could get them famous. But do you want that?

Even having to ask yourself that hurts.

It’s been three weeks since Jaebum’s concert. Three weeks since the blur of meetings and discussions about whether or not Jaebum and his band have ‘potential.’ The whole thing ended with James saying he would call as soon as he heard.

Apparently James now submits a review to his higher-ups. Who submit a review to their higher-ups. Somewhere above that lies the final say in whether or not On the Shore gets signed. When Jaebum asked how long this process takes, James couldn’t say.

“Hard to tell,” he said, packing up his briefcase. “Sometimes a week – sometimes months. Once time I had a band on the ropes for a whole year before someone at corporate finally decided to let them in.”

On the ropes. That’s what agents call their waiting bands. They have signed bands, potential bands and bands who are on the ropes. Jaebum’s band is currently one of these. As more and more days tick by, you know Jaebum is internally freaking out. Every word he says is on edge and you find yourself tiptoeing more than usual. Not that this bothers you – much.

It’s just that with Jaebum so wrapped up in his own problems – there’s no one to talk to about yours.

Mark slides into the seat next to you, glancing sideways as the bell rings. “Hey.” He nods. “What’s up?”

“What’s up?” you ask, trying not to smile. “Not much, homie.”

“Oh, god.” Mark winces. “Never say that again.”

“It’s my new thing!” you protest, tapping your pencil on your desk. This is an inside joke with you two now – you doing mundane things and calling them special to get a rise from Mark.

Mark rolls his eyes. “You know you’re completely misusing my concept.”

“Poor Mark,” you sigh. “Lost in a sea of angst. Continually made fun of by the evil Y/N.”

Mark starts to laugh as Mr. David enters the room. “Settle down, settle down,” the teacher says, turning towards the board.

Raising your eyebrows, you grin at Mark. “He means you, giggle nuts. No one else is speaking.”

“Giggle nuts.” Mark starts to laugh even harder.

Mr. David turns with a frown, effectively sobering you both. Mark straightens in his seat, ducking his head into his notebook. He’s still smiling though, as are you reading through the lines of chalk on the whiteboard. It looks like today’s lesson is on solar systems. The suns of solar systems, to be exact.

When the bell rings at exactly 9:00 am, Mr. Davis clears his throat. “Good morning class,” he drones, not waiting for an answer. “Today’s lesson is about the sun. Last class we breached the topic of galaxies – groups of celestial bodies associated with natural law and bound by gravity. This class we’ll delve deeper.”

Flipping to a new page in your notebook, you smooth out the corners. Your previous page is filled with drawings of star clusters. General rules and theory on galaxy formation as well as its degeneration. Concentrating on Mr. Davis’ words, you sketch today’s date at the top of the page.

“Most planetary systems are single star systems,” he lectures. “Meaning there is only one sun. All non-stellar objects rotate around this, drawn in by the gravitational pull. This is not the case in all systems.” Continuing on, Mr. David finds a blank space on the board. “There also exist multiple and binary star systems.”

Raising his hand, Mark waits until Mr. Davis notices. “What’s a binary star system?”

“Good question.” Nodding, Mr. Davis scribbles Mark’s comment down on the board. “A binary star system is one whose systems contains two suns orbiting a common center of mass. These systems balance each other in careful harmony, continuously influencing as they rotate.”

Your hand pauses halfway through your drawing. On the left-hand side of your page lies the singular star system. One sun with its planets drawn orbiting, accepting a singular star’s light. On the other side is a binary system. Two stars circling one another, coexisting together. Both stars are strong, powerful – equal in their light.

You can’t help but think the singular system is Jaebum. Bright, gravitational, drawing everyone into his orbit. In that system, you’re a planet. Maybe the closest planet, but circling him regardless. Allowing him to pull you onward, always thinking you’re surviving while secretly knowing you’re following.

The thought makes you dizzy and you exhale through your nose to steady yourself. Do you really see your relationship with Jaebum that way? No, of course you don’t. He might be a strong presence, sure – but so are you. You’re intelligent, confident and creative. What does it matter if he’s currently successful and you are not? Jaebum is the exception in that regard.

So is the star, though. You fall quiet for the rest of the class, barely even glancing from your notebooks. When the bell rings for second period, you gather your books tightly to your chest.

“Y/N?”

Mark is staring at you. Has been for several minutes, actually. “Sorry, what?” you blink, shaking your head.

Mark frowns. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, playing absentmindedly with your pencil case. “Everything is fine.”

Stepping before you, Mark effectively stops your walk. “Liar,” he says, eyes glinting with humor. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Have you filled out all your college applications?” you ask, avoiding eye contact.

Mark’s forehead wrinkles. “Some. Why?”

“What major did you list?”

“Biology.”

This surprises you. “Really?”

Mark nods, a small smile on his lips. “Yeah. After everything that happened to me, I want to do something in medicine. I’m not sure if I want to do research or pre-med yet, though.”

Rather than make you feel better, this only serves to increase your nausea. “Right. Good,” you say, a laugh escaping. “Everyone seems to know exactly what they’re doing except for me.”

Mark gives you a curious look. “That’s not true. You want to be a writer.”

“Ah, yes. How practical,” you laugh. You feel breathless, unable to regain control over yourself. “I need to find a real job.”

“A real job?” Mark folds his arms over his chest. “Writing is a real career.”

Staring past, you start to walk again. “I know,” you sigh, voice hesitant. “I know that if you’re successful writing can be a career. But if you’re not…” Trailing into silence, you allow your lack of words to speak for you.

Mark’s pace is even, footsteps lost in the deafening shouts in the corridor.

“Look,” you say, turning to face him. “I’m not being self-deprecating or searching for compliments. I’m just saying a lot of people are talented. There are a lot of good writers and there’s only a small chance I’ll succeed, even with talent.”

Rather than object, Mark falls silent. “That’s true,” he admits.

“So you agree?” you ask, raising your eyebrows.

“Yes,” Mark nods. “But I don’t think that’s a good enough reason not to try.”

His words give you pause and somewhere inside, a voice you’ve been shoving aside lately grows slightly louder. “No?”

“No.” Mark looks thoughtful. “Put it this way. If you try, you have two options: either you fail or you succeed. If you don’t try, there’s only one: you fail.”

Considering this, your heart beats strangely. A new kind of courage enters you and for the first time in a long time, you find yourself wanting to try. Wanting to fight, wanting to fly - or wanting to fall trying.

Mark grins at your expression. “There it is.”

“Fine,” you exhale, turning towards your classroom. “I’m doing it. I’ll apply to college as an English major.”

Mark lets out a whooping noise. “Thank god! I was scared I’d have to do a covert ops mission. Sneak into your house, switch out your application – something like that.”

Shaking your head, you shove him away as you enter your classroom. Sliding into your seat as your front pocket vibrates. The teacher is still busy setting up for lecture, so you chance a glance at your screen.

Hey, babe <3 excited for tonight?

Tonight. Tonight; your and Jaebum’s four year anniversary. He’s had something special planned for months now – dropping hints while unable to hide his grin. You quickly type back.

Tell me what we’re doinggggg

The bell rings then, so you shove your phone into your pocket. Jaebum won’t answer before lunch anyways, which is the next time you’ll see him. The rest of the morning flies by like this, filled with people and notes. At lunchtime Jaebum still refuses to tell you where you’re going. He grins each time you ask, folding his arms over his chest. Today he’s pushed his hair back, which he only does when you’re going somewhere nice.

“How nice is nice, though?” you whine, poking him. “Should I wear a floor-length dress? Would a high schooler even be allowed into a place fancy enough to wear a floor-length dress?”

Jaebum just grins. “It’s not that fancy. Just wear something you like.”

“I like sweatpants. Is that good?”

Jaebum shrugs. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

He’s being stupid but he says it with such sincerity that you groan and lean into him. Allow his arm to wrap around your waist and pull you close. “Fine,” you mutter, kissing his cheek. “I’ll dress nicely.”

Hours later, you’re regretting this edict.

Your mouth is pursed, hands on your hips while you stare into the mirror. Pushing your hair back with both hands to see what it would look like off your neck. You let it drop - down, definitely down. Grabbing your purse from your table, you hurry downstairs.

Jaebum said he would be here at 7:00 pm and its 6:58 pm now. He won’t be there a second before 7:00 though, he’s just like that. So now you sink into your kitchen chair, watching your mom work on her laptop.

“Happy anniversary.” She glances up from her work. “What has it been now, four years?”

Nodding, you find yourself happy she remembered. “Four years exactly.”

Your mom sighs, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Growing up so fast,” she says, folding her arms across her chest. “Your dad would’ve loved to see this.”

“Would he have?” You laugh quietly. “I seem to remember him threatening Jaebum every time he came over.”

“Yeah,” Robbie nods, entering. “It’s why I’ve taken up the mantle. Fight Jaebum always.”

Your mom laughs at this, leaning back in her chair. “Your father loved Jaebum,” she counters. “Or rather – he loved how much he loved you. It was always terrifying how much you loved Jaebum.”

This is the first your mom has ever spoken of this and you find yourself wanting to hear more. “What?” you ask. “Why?” From the corner of your eye, you see headlights swing into your driveway.

“Well.” Your mom shrugs. “Losing the people you love hurts, even if it’s losing them by choice.”

You blink at her words. Even if it’s by choice.

It’s been two years since your dad passed away. It’s just now getting to the part where it doesn’t hurt as much to talk about him. But saying that it doesn’t hurt as much is like saying you’re only hit by one lightning bolt, not five. One may hurt less than five, but even one is enough to kill you.

You usually think of your dad in terms of your own emotions. Never really in the light of your mother. She lost her husband though – her partner, life, love. Lost the man she thought she’d be spending the rest of her years with, not just his. This makes you think of Jaebum and when you do, your heart clenches. Losing someone you love hurts.

Leaning over, you give your mom a quick kiss on the cheek. “Love you,” you say, drawing back. “Thank you.”

She doesn’t ask what your gratitude is for. Your mom knows there are things your family do that go without saying. That’s one thing about loss – it either tears you apart or makes you stronger. The three of you are stronger now than you were before. Even Robbie has had to grow overnight.

Like now. He stands before you, arms folded in the doorway. Frowning as you walk past. “Be home by eleven,” he scolds.

From behind him, your mom laughs. “Midnight,” she corrects.

You wave at both when you leave, blowing Robbie a big, exaggerated kiss. Jaebum sits in his car, immersed in some game on his phone when you slide into the passenger seat. “Hi,” you greet him, leaning over.

Jaebum kisses you, lingering for just a second before pulling away. “Happy anniversary,” he grins, putting the car in reverse. “Let’s go.”

“Let’s go … to the park?” you ask, settling back in his seat. “To the circus? To an airplane show?”

“No, yes and no.”

“We’re going to the circus?”

Jaebum looks over. “You’re so crazy already, why not give in completely?”

He’s in a good mood tonight and you find yourself giggling, sliding lower in your seat as you turn to face him. Jaebum’s hand finds yours on the console, pulling your fingers into his lap. He lowers the windows, allowing the early breeze to caress your cheeks. Curling into your own seat, you watch him. Watch the sun play across his face.

“What?” Jaebum asks, glancing sideways.

“Nothing,” you smile. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

The drive is quiet after that, silent except for the music on the car’s speakers. Jaebum turns the volume up, sliding his fingers over yours and humming in time to the music. Before long he pulls into a parking lot, coming to a stop beside a restaurant.

A restaurant you recognize. “Really?” you ask, starting to laugh.

Jaebum nods, eyes sparkling. “This time we’re eating inside.”

You laugh unbuckling your seat belt. This restaurant is known for its food and amazing views and on your fifth date, Jaebum tried to take you here. After just one glance at the menu though, you realized there was no way in hell you could afford this. The two of you ended up out on the cliffs, just sitting and talking.

That day was also the first time Jaebum kissed you.

Now though, Jaebum takes your hand in his, pulling you forward. You’re glad you decided to wear a dress when you enter the lobby, realizing this place is even fancier than you remembered. Jaebum blends right in, completely at home in a button-down and slacks, blazer thrown over top.

“Im,” Jaebum says, walking up to the hostess. “Reservation for two.”

The hostess nods thumbing through her booklet. “Here – Im.” Grabbing two menus, she smiles back at you. “Follow me.”

Raising both eyebrows, Jaebum gestures for you first. At the table, Jaebum pulls out your chair, holding it while you sit. Sitting across the table, he watches the waiter fill your glasses with water. When the waiter leaves you peruse the menu, flipping open to the first page. Smiling gently when you travel back to that fifth date.

“You’re smiling.” Jaebum sounds suspicious. “Why are you smiling?”

You set your menu down. “I was thinking about the first time we visited.”

Lowering his head, Jaebum hangs a few centimeters from the table. “Will you never let me live that down?” he groans.

Starting to laugh, you reach over. Lifting his chin with your finger. “I was thinking about the end of the day,” you correct.

Jaebum’s frown lifts in a smile. “Oh.”

After leaving the restaurant that day, the two of you hiked over the tops of the cliffs. You talked about a lot that night – both about everything and nothing at all. Whatever thoughts popped into your mind. That was the thing you liked most about Jaebum. It was so easy to be with him, like you could say anything and he wouldn’t judge you for it.

Jaebum was a great listener. He took everything you said with a grain of salt, listening with a small tilt to his head. You noticed that that day on the cliffs. It was the first time you ever felt close to Jaebum - the two of you sitting close enough to feel but not touch.

You kept glancing at one another. Looking sideways until one of your eyes met the other’s. His gaze was enticing, entrapping in a way you couldn’t get out of. It’s often said that the last hour before sunset is called the golden hour. Called so because the light at this time of day is so soft, muted with diffused rays of the sun. People are most flattering during the golden hour.

The way Jaebum stared at you was as though he saw you clearly for the first time. As rays of sun slipped from his cheeks, they illuminating hair half-ruffled by the wind. When Jaebum leaned in, you hardly knew what he was doing.

When his lips met yours, you understood.

It was your first kiss. The first time you’d even considered kissing someone. As Jaebum kissed you, his lips pressed firmly to yours, you wondered if Jaebum might also be the last.

Now he sits across the table from you, smiling in the same way he did that night. You find yourself ashamed for the emotions which have churned your stomach since his band’s last performance. Ashamed of the fear you felt. The fear of him pulling away. Of him embarking on a new part of life which you can’t follow.

Or won’t. Because now you’re realizing that although you’ve applied to college, Jaebum hasn’t. He keeps holding this in his back pocket, patiently waiting for the call from James Marolin. His future is at fork in the road, while yours is at an arrow.

It’s just as you’re thinking this Jaebum’s phone rings. Wincing, he shoves his hand deep in his pocket. “Sorry,” he sighs. “I thought I turned it off – let me just check if it’s my mom, she –"

He stops talking. At the look on his face, you feel yourself sinking. Stomach churning, thoughts scrambling because you know exactly who is calling him.

“Hello?” Jaebum answers, switching his phone to his other ear. “Mr. Marolin?”

You can’t hear the other side of his conversation. Can’t hear what the other man is saying but you watch Jaebum’s eyes widen. Watch his mouth drops and no words come. Instead he just nods, suddenly recalling that he’s on the phone and can’t be seen. “Yes,” he blurts, continuing to nod. “Yes. This is amazing news – thank you so, so much! We won’t let you down.”

Jaebum hangs up. He doesn’t speak at first, just staring at the phone in his hand. Reaching across the table, you touch his arm. “Jaebum?”

His gaze snaps to yours and suddenly – brilliantly – he smiles. “Y/N,” he gasps. “Y/N, They want us to sign. They want us to sign and record an album. An album,” he laughs, full of disbelief.

“That’s amazing,” you say, struggling to smile. “Congratulations!”

It is amazing. It’s amazing and wonderful and perfect. Jaebum’s eyes find yours when he jumps up, fumbling across the table to grab your face. His lips press quickly to yours and you start to laugh. “Wow,” you say, grinning when he sits back down. “I guess now there’s two things to celebrate tonight, huh?”

“Oh.” Jaebum freezes. Glances at his phone. “I just – ah, shit.”

The knot in your stomach tightens. “What? What is it?”

Jaebum looks away, unable to meet your gaze. “I was just thinking… It would be nice to tell the guys in person.”

It’s a reasonable request. You know this, know you’re stupid for wishing it otherwise. Of course Jaebum would want to tell them himself. Of course he would want to see their faces at the news. Of course, of course, of course.

Your gaze drops to your lap.

“Y/N?” Jaebum asks.

Exhaling softly, you look up. “You should go.”

Jaebum doesn’t move. “Are you sure?” he asks, watching you carefully. “This is our night, Y/N. It’s our night and if you want me to stay, the news can wait until tomorrow morning.”

If you want me to stay. These words echo in your mind, making you feel guilty for wanting this. You do want Jaebum to stay. You want Jaebum to be yours, want him beside you because right now every step he takes seems further and further away from you.

Lifting your gaze, you force a smile. “Of course,” you say, though your voice sounds robotic, unsure. “You should go. Our night is any night – tonight is about the band.”

Jaebum smiles. “Thank you,” he says, jumping up. Kissing you briefly before helping you upwards. “Let’s go,” he grins, lacing your fingers with his.

You’re practically pulled from the restaurant, Jaebum stops quickly at the hostess to mumble an apology. Then you’re outside, in his car. Speeding down the highway, barely able to hold yourself together. You think you respond to everything – you must, because Jaebum doesn’t seem to realize something is wrong.

Once you’re dropped off in front of your house, you wrap your arms around your waist. You don’t want to go inside, not yet. You’re afraid that if you see your mom and hear her questions, you might cry. Tears are already threatening to spill over onto your cheeks.

You don’t want to cry and so you walk over to the tree in your front yard. Folding your legs beneath you to lean against the rough bark. You’re not sure when you began to feel like you couldn’t tell Jaebum things. It used to be you told him too much. Told him everything, no matter how difficult or sad.

Not anymore.

Sighing, you look down at your phone in your hand. There’s a small kernel of anger growing larger by the second. Yes, you should have told Jaebum this tonight was important to you. Should have said you wanted to celebrate his most recent success together.

But should you have had to tell him?

Without stopping to think about what you’re doing, you unlock your phone.

Hey.

It only takes a few minutes before Mark texts back.

Hey?

He sounds confused and you don’t blame him. The two of you rarely text on weekends.

What are you doing tomorrow? Something crazy?

Maybe. Why? Want to join?

After staring at your phone for a long second, you lower your fingers. Fighting every natural instinct in your body to respond.

Yes.

[Master List]

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blogdangerousobjectcollecto-blog · 6 years ago

Text

Is it wise to go on your parents car insurance?

"Is it wise to go on your parents car insurance?

Having looked around on car insurance website and seeing that my insurance would be as high as 2500, is it wise to go on my parents insurance. If they are the main driver and im the additional driver it comes down to just 1000. Is this illegal and what are the chances of getting caught if so? thanks x

BEST ANSWER: Try this site where you can compare quotes: : http://salecarinsurance.xyz/index.html?src=tumblr