#my gum has been hurting like a bitch for what must be almost a week at this point

[gellavonhamster]

Thirty, flirty (?), and currently not thriving but may start thriving a little after I get my fucking wisdom tooth removed today

[100hearteyes]

Part 2 of Clarke And Lexa Make a Porno, because why the fuck not.

Part 1.

"No. Absolutely not."

Anya's wolfish grin is no good omen. Lexa feels a sense of dread wash over her and tries in vain to assuage her nerves by holding her friend's gaze. Anya wouldn't look this sure if she didn't have some card up her sleeve.

Lexa throws a furtive glance around, checks that her co-workers are still focused on the German porn telenovela. It's only when she's sure that the action on-screen will keep them rooted for a while that she turns back to Anya, trying but failing to meet her eyes.

She overcompensates with another glance around the room and a low hiss. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but am I not too," she licks her lips, gathering the courage, "'vanilla' to do it?"

Anya shrugs like it's a no-brainer; crosses her arms and props her booted feet on Lexa's desk. "That's exactly the point. You're a lesbian Disney princess. Pretty sure if you started singing the whole fucking fauna of Capitola would follow you around."

Lexa levels Anya with a glare and tries to push her feet off the desk, to no avail.

(Seriously, what's it worth being editor if she can't even have her subjects' respect? She wishes this job was less about the headaches and more about the self-indulgent moments of microscopic tyranny.)

The feet might not budge, but Anya will. Lexa is sure of it. She draws herself taller and tucks on her most authoritative scowl. "I won't do it."

Anya plucks an imaginary cigarette from her mouth and throws it away without a care in the world. She reaches behind her and drags forth a heavy wooden box, filled to the brim with—

"My vinyls."

Lexa is in a daze.

She thought she'd lost all her vinyls to time and moving. She mourned each one of them for at least a year, cried many a night away clutching her record player to dear life, lamenting their shared loss.

They had a real connection.

But it turns out her vinyls weren't lost after all, and her tears were for naught. They were safe all along, albeit in different hands, and she'd known nothing of it, like a mother who lets her children wander about without aim nor authority.

How can she ever have kids if she can't even take care of her prized vinyls?

Lexa feels a prick of self-righteous indignation at the betrayal and puffs out her chest. "Why do you have all my vinyls?"

"I think you mean all my vinyls," Anya corrects with a lazy flurry of one hand towards the box.

"You don't even own a record player."

"How the fuck would you know?"

Lexa raises an eyebrow at her friend. "I come over all the time?"

"I could hide it while you're there."

"And then you'd never find it again, because that's what happens every time you try to hide something from me."

Anya shrugs and watches as Lexa picks one of the vinyls and turns it over in her hands, reading the track list on the back with the reverence one would a millennium-old parchment. Then she looks up at Anya with a stern glare.

"Over half of these were stolen from my house."

Anya shrugs again with infuriating nonchalance and Lexa wishes she had a pencil nearby just so she could snap it in two with one hand. Or stab one of Anya's eyes with it.

"Maybe I just rescued them from the actual malefactor," drawls Anya.

"We both know the real culprit sits across from me and has been wearing the same socks for the past three weeks."

Nailed it.

When she looks at her friend, however, all she sees is that same old resting bitch face that never seems to go away.

"Wow, Lexa," Anya deadpans. "Now you've really hurt my feelings."

Sometimes, Lexa wonders if Anya really has a rock where her heart should be. A supernatural, blood-pumping rock, of course, but a rock nonetheless. Or, maybe, Anya is a psychopath. Maybe the blood money theory wasn't so far-fetched after all. That would explain the brazen lack of empathy for everyone else's feelings, most of all Lexa's. What does it say about Lexa that her one true friend is someone who sneezes literally every time Lexa says 'I love you'?

Not that Lexa says it a lot. Only once or twice every few years.

Just enough to have noticed the pattern.

"Are you really trying to blackmail me with vinyls?"

Anya fakes an affronted gasp, laying a hand on her heart. "Would I ever. Think of it as... an incentive."

Lexa really does love Anya, despite her friend's... unique demeanor. Anya helps her come out of her shell — by taking up all the space and forcing her out of her own metaphorical home — and every once in a while she likes to make sure Anya is aware of her gratitude. Sometimes, though, things get really fucking weird.

Lexa would still do anything for her best friend.

"Let's imagine, hypothetically - very hypothetically," she stresses, although Anya's burgeoning smirk tells Lexa she isn't so easily fooled, "that I agreed. What would happen next?"

Anya takes her feet off Lexa's desk and sits up straighter, perhaps aware of the importance of this moment. This, Lexa decides, will determine her answer.

"Well first, I'd have to get you a costar. Then we'd sign some legally binding shit, find a crew, and make the damn movie. Simple as that."

Anya leans forward, looking into her eyes. In Anya's, she sees honesty and a pressing need to reassure. It takes some of the pressure off her shoulders right away.

"Look, Lexa, you can say no. But your name won't be on anything related to the movie and I promise no one in this shitty town will ever find out you did this."

This is why Anya is Lexa's best friend. And it's why Lexa would do anything for her.

Even star in a porno.

"Okay."

Anya's inner smile must be really, really big, because Lexa knows how hard she tries to tamper its outward expression — and still her lips manage to lift into a grotesque grimace. Coming from Anya, it's the equivalent of a blissful grin.

"Okay?"

Lexa nods and closes her eyes, bracing herself for a bone-crushing hug. It never comes. When she opens her eyes, Anya's resting bitch face is back on.

"What, did you want a fucking hug?"

It's a blessing to have her rude friend back, Lexa guesses, because seeing Anya almost smile is fifty shades of unsettling. So she rolls her eyes and rolls with it.

Her next question demands her full focus, lest she makes an even bigger fool of herself than usual.

Lexa breathes in, makes sure all her co-workers are still otherwise entertained, breathes out. Smooths out a non-existent wrinkle in her pants, wets her lips for courage.

"Anyway," she treads with caution, "do you have someone in mind for the other main role?"

It's fitting that Harper McIntyre's hit song One More Betyreyal (one of her less inspired titles, if Lexa may say so) starts playing in that moment, for the look in Anya's eyes speaks of nothing but danger. Lexa wonders how much planning went into this conversation, so Anya could plan all her gut punches in advance.

"Clarke Griffin."

No. No. Anyone but her.

Clarke Griffin is the new recruit, although Lexa hardly understands how there can be someone new considering the station is broke and they’re already overstaffed — and none of them make nearly enough money for how much they laze around all day.

Clarke came from out of town with a fancy degree and was directly hired as an editor. She voices the early afternoon newscasts and Lexa curses the one-hour period during which she's forced to cohabitate with Clarke every day.

Apparently, Clarke had taken a liking to unnerving her, be it by smirking at her every time she catches Lexa staring or by making all sorts of inappropriate comments — to her ear. Lexa hates how much it affects her, but how can she possibly focus on reporting about Lionel "Real Sight" Foster swallowing his own wooden eye or how Jasper Jordan rescued his own private parts from the jaws of two slats of an unassuming park bench if someone keeps doing everything in their power to distract her?

Lexa has a theory (an iron-clad theory, if she may say so herself), and it's that Clarke is trying to get her fired so she can take her shift. It's the best shift of the day. There is no other possible explanation.

"You know what, I take it back. Now you need to convince two people to star in your porno."

"Oh, there's no need." Anya waves her argument away with staggering nonchalance. "Clarke's already said yes."

Wait, what? "But you told me we'd need to get me a costar."

Anya shrugs and Lexa is now seriously considering revisiting her psychopath theory. "I lied."

"You conniving, lying b—"

"Careful," Anya cuts in with a raised eyebrow. "I am under protection of the Capitola Astrologers Union."

"Of which you are president, treasurer, and the only legal member," Lexa reminds her. "And I think any upstanding judge would love to know how exactly every other name on the list has joined said union posthumously."

"I am an astrologer, Lexa. I can communicate with the dead. It's in my job description."

"It scares me that you're not even aware you're describing an entirely different profession."

Lexa sits back, staring at the ceiling (and the chewing gum Murphy glued there a year ago — he could've been an Olympic jumper if he committed to work the way he does to being an asshole), trying to come to terms with a single, harrowing probability: she's going to star in a porno with Clarke Griffin.

"l don't understand why it has to be Clarke."

Anya leans forward, propping her elbows on her knees, expression serious and ready to talk shop. The last time Lexa saw her like this was— actually, Lexa doesn't think she's ever seen Anya like this.

"Look, I've done some market analysis and most girl on girl pairings are a blonde and a brunette." Anya raises both her hands and starts counting off fingers, "Brittana, Petramos, Holstein, Wayhaught, Supercorp, Joanarty, Choni, the inaptly named Shoni, Deanoru, Dana and Alice, Bette and Tina, Catradora, Villaneve, Clexa—"

"What's Clexa?"

"I don't know, some chicks from this fucking terrible CW show."

"Do you like it?"

"Do I like what?"

"Clexa."

"Dude, I don't even know their fucking names!" Anya exclaims, exasperated. As if she's the victim here. "The only Clexa I ship is you and Blondie. Naked. On my porno. Clarke and Lexa. Clexa. Havin' very hot sexa."

"Smart," Lexa deadpans.

"I know."

"Why can't it be Niylah? She's blonde, too."

Anya's smirk is five hundred shades of gross. "I know you'd love to get up close and personal with Niylah's knick-knacks, but no."

Lexa decides to let the comment fly for the sake of her own sanity.

"Why Clarke, though?"

"Because you two have chemistry, you fucking dimwit."

Lexa snorts. Chemistry. Lexa has never heard of something so absurd. She and Clarke have as much chemistry as Harper McIntyre and any semblance of originality.

Which is to say, none at all.

"She makes very inappropriate comments," she argues instead, knowing full well that pressing on the topic of chemistry will only open way for some trademark crass joke from Anya.

"Yeah," her friend agrees, like it's obvious. "Because she knows you love them."

She most certainly does not.

"I most certainly do not."

"You do. Your freakishly tiny ears go red whenever she flirts with you. Your step falters when she makes one of those comments, for fuck's sake," Anya observes, pointing in Lexa's general direction, before leaving forward and laying a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry to tell you this, but you, my friend, are a walking lesbian cliché."

Lexa takes Anya's hand off her shoulder. "Can you please stop insulting my tragically conspicuous homosexuality?"

"Oh please," Anya scoffs. "I'm bisexual, I can say whatever I want."

"If my step actually faltered - which they don't - it would be because her comments are annoying, off-putting, unprofessional, inopportune, and... and inappropriate", she finishes lamely.

"And you fucking love them."

"I don't."

Anya leans back on her chair with an evil smirk, propping her feet on the table and crossing them at the ankles. Lexa tries to push them off to no avail.

"Legalities aside, it's very simple. Clarke has already said yes. I just recorded you saying yes."

Lexa sputters, "You what--"

"You're both legally bound now." Anya shrugs. "Look at it this way: it will be very educational. You'll finally learn how to make a girl come, and get paid for it. Sort of."

A beat of silence.

"Anya, are you aware that you say something at least vaguely criminal every five sentences? Something that could actually put you in prison?"

Anya clicks her tongue, sinking farther into her chair, and lowers her sunglasses to her eyes.

"I've got friends everywhere, Lex. Let's just say I've dipped more than my fingers in my fair share of pies, if you catch my drift." A second later, she lowers her sunglasses just enough to reveal her eyes. "That means my tongue. My tongue's been in a lot of pies, too."

Lexa doesn't doubt that for a second.

"What I need to know is," Anya adds, taking off her sunglasses and throwing them across the room, "will you dip your fingers in the porn pie?"

Like this conversation hasn't caused enough trauma for thirty lifetimes.

"If I say no, will you still give me back my vinyls?"

"Absolutely fucking not."

Lexa swallows, clenches her jaw, and thinks of all those lonely nights spent in the couch clutching her record player and sharing cookie dough ice cream with it, longing for long-gone times when she'd dance to the mellow voices of the likes Billy Ocean and Ella Fitzgerald.

"My answer is yes."

[lavenderlucy]

Untitled 4x9 AU part 2

The plot bunny in my mind isn’t quiet finished yet. Here’s the second part to my very first piece Untitled 4x9 AU (I’m terrible at coming up with titles). This one has more angst than the last, but I will be making up for it with a third and final part coming soon. Thanks for reading!

Part 1 is here

Caroline was surprised to see a police car in Tyler’s driveway when she arrived early that morning. After spending a sleepless night battling her conflicting emotions about the night before she decided to check on Tyler before she made her way back to the cellar. She assumed he had already run from Mystic Falls after his plan to take down Klaus had failed, but she hadn’t heard anything from him since before Hayley snapped her neck in the Grille. She parked her car and got out just as the front door to the Lockwood manor opened to reveal two of her mother’s deputies leaving the house with grim expressions on their faces.

“Officer Sanders?” Caroline questioned one of them, “what’s going on?” She couldn’t help the nervousness seeping through her tone. Last night’s massacre must have already been discovered. She wondered how the Sheriff’s department was going to cover this one up. A few “animal attacks” were one thing, but 12 dead and dismembered hybrids on the Mayor’s lawn were another.

“I’m sorry, Caroline. This will be public by tomorrow, but I can’t discuss an active investigation. Tyler is inside. He can tell you.” Officer Sanders and the other deputy walked passed her and made their way to their car.

Caroline was surprised that Tyler was still in Mystic Falls. She walked through the door to the manor, worry clouding her mind. If Klaus found out Tyler was still in town there would be nothing stopping him from coming over here and killing him. She heard the sound of a sigh, Tyler’s, coming from the sitting room. As she walked down the main hall and turned to enter the room she smelled liquor and tears. She could feel the heavy feeling of grief all around her. She found Tyler sitting on a sofa with his head in one hand and a tumbler of what looked like scotch in the other.

“Tyler?” She questioned as she moved towards him. He looked wrecked. His eyes were bloodshot. His shoulders slumped. Caroline vaguely wondered if Carol was home. She made her distaste at seeing her son drink while he was technically still underage clear.

“Tyler?” She tried again. Finally he looked up at her. The broken look on his face gnawed at her heart.

“Care...” he tried to continue but a pained sob left his lips instead. Caroline flashed forward and stopped just a few inches from him.

“Tyler I’m so sorry. I tried to stop him, but I was too late. They were dead by the time I got there. I’m so so sorry.” Caroline finally felt the grief she had been putting off for the 12 hybrids. The reality of what Klaus had done was setting in. Tears threatened to spill over. For Tyler and his friends and for the friendship that had been tentatively building between her and Klaus. There’s no way she could feel anything for the man that slaughtered his own pack so willingly she thought to herself. A lie, her mind told her, but now was not the time to dwell on that.

“What are you- you don’t know, do you?” Tyler’s voice interrupted her thoughts and brought her back to the present.

“Don’t know what?” Caroline questioned. Dread suddenly filled her.

“After Klaus murdered the others he came here and he...” Tyler trailed off and a look a pure rage took over his features.

“What did he do, Tyler?” She asked afraid of the answer.

“He killed her!” Tyler shouted, standing suddenly making Caroline stumble a few steps backward. “He killed my mom to get back at me. That sick fucker came here and drowned her in the fountain.” He swallowed the remainder of his drink, the crystal tumbler still clutched in his hand.

Tyler was seething. He never had great control over the beast inside him and it was evident in the way his wolf pressed against his skin now. His eyes were gold and veins trailed from his eyes down to his cheek bones.

“What?” Any color that Caroline had in her pale features left her suddenly. She felt as though her knees would not continue to support her.

“HE KILLED HER!” Tyler screamed. The glass in his hand was suddenly shattering into pieces against the wall behind Caroline.

“I’m so sorry, Tyler. I had no idea. I tried to stop it, but Hayley got to me before I could. That bitch snapped my neck. I told you this whole thing was a bad idea. I’m so s-“ Caroline started but Tyler interrupted her before she could finish.

“Seriously, Care? You told me so? My mother and my pack are fucking dead and that’s your response?” Tyler took a step towards Caroline, his eyes still golden and enraged.

“That’s n-not what I m-meant,” Caroline stammered. “I’m so sorry, Tyler. That’s not what I meant.” Her foot was firmly in her mouth. Her tendency to say the wrong thing reared it’s ugly head.

Tears spilled down her cheeks now. She reached for Tyler to wrap him in a hug, but he stepped away from her. Caroline felt the sting of rejection.

“You should leave. I have things to handle with the police and my mother’s,” Tyler cleared his throat, “my lawyers.” His wolf receded from his face and he now looked like it was taking all of his strength just to remain standing.

“Tyler, you shouldn’t be alone. Why didn’t you call me last night? I’m here for you. Let me help,” Caroline pleaded. She stayed where she was even though all she wanted to do was wrap Tyler in her arms and comfort him. Even though their relationship had been slowly falling apart in the past few weeks, or months if she was being honest, she still cared for the boy in front of her. The boy who was now an orphan.

“Just go, Caroline. I don’t need you. I need to find Hay-.” He stopped talking and his jaw clicked shut. He looked like hadn’t meant to mention the girl that betrayed him and his friends, who had snapped his supposed girlfriend’s neck.

“Hayley? You need to find Hayley?” Caroline’s voice became louder and full of anger. “That backstabbing bitch sold you and your pack out to Klaus. I found out last night right before she snapped my neck and left me on the floor of the bathroom in the Grille. I was trying to stop her and save you all, Tyler. Klaus wouldn’t have had an advantage had she not run to him and told him the whole plan. Maybe he wouldn’t have killed them if we tired to reason with him. He probably felt cornered so he lashed out.” Caroline knew mentioning Klaus right now was a terrible idea, but Tyler had to realize that Hayley betrayed him.

“So now you’re defending Klaus?” Tyler’s anger returned in full force. “That’s really nice, Caroline. You’re defending the bastard that killed my pack and my mother not even a full day ago.” Tyler’s eyes started to bleed gold.

“I’m not defending him! Hayley betrayed you. This whole mess is her fault! I saw Klaus last night and-“ She wasn’t able to finish her sentence before Tyler flashed in front of her, his face just inches from hers.

“You saw him last night?” His voice was quiet and accusatory. Caroline could feel his anger radiating from his body.

“Yes. I was looking for you,” she began evenly, hoping to calm him down. “I was worried about you. I found him out in the cellar. We only talked for a couple of minutes and then he left.”

“Let me guess, you batted your eyes and he let you go,” Tyler sneered. “Typical Caroline, flirting with monsters to make herself feel better.” The look he was giving her was one of pure disgust.

“No! I mean yes, he left without hurting me, but I didn’t bat anything at him, Tyler, and I certainly didn’t flirt with him!” Caroline was becoming annoyed. Tyler was grieving, but that wasn’t an excuse to speak to her that way.

Tyler and Caroline were silent for several long moments. Their annoyance with each other hung between them. Caroline’s thoughts drifted to Klaus without her permission. He had let her go last night. He could have killed her in a second with no effort and he had let her live. He had been so gentle when he pressed his lips to her mouth and cheek, like he was scared she might break. It was hard for Caroline to reconcile the broken man last night with the man who murdered Tyler’s mother just minutes after nearly kissing her. Klaus was a monster, yes, but weren’t they all? Hadn’t they all killed to protect themselves or their loved ones? Hell, hadn’t they all killed for no reason at all other than they lost control? How many times did Tyler expect he could provoke Klaus before he lashed out?

“Tyler...” Caroline didn’t know what to say to him. She wiped her tears from her face with the back of her hand and took a breath to ground herself.

“Go, Caroline. Just go. Please.” Tyler looked like he was going break down. Caroline had barely taken a half step toward him when his eyes flashed yellow and his fangs emerged from his gums.

“GO!” He shouted.

Caroline knew in that moment that they were over. He would rather look for the bitch that had sold out his pack and almost gotten him killed instead of be in the same room as her. She knew it was selfish to think this way when his grief was still fresh, but she didn’t care. Her fear that he had been cheating on her didn’t seem so far fetched after all. Their show at the pageant just a short while ago didn’t seem so much like a ruse now. Tyler clearly had feelings for Hayley if he still wanted to find her after all of this. She met his eyes and tried to convey something, anything to make him see she wasn’t the bad guy here. His glare was still full of rage so she turned and flashed out of the house.

Once she was in her car Caroline felt anger rush through her. How dare Tyler choose the girl that betrayed him and his friends over her? How dare he accuse her of flirting with Klaus? How dare he dismiss her? Caroline needed an outlet for her anger. She knew she would get nowhere with Tyler today so her mind settled on Klaus. How dare Klaus make her care for him despite everything that he is and then murder his hybrids? How dare he give her jewelry and romantic drawings and then drown Tyler’s mother? Caroline’s anger quickly turned to rage and she sped out of Tyler’s driveway toward the Mikaelson mansion.

Her car was barely in park before she whipped open her door and stalked up to Klaus’s front door, her blonde curls bouncing with each step.

“Klaus!” She shouted while banging her fist on the door. After a minute with no answer she banged louder. “Come out here you unbelievable bastard!” She was about to start yelling louder when the door was suddenly ripped open and an enraged looking Klaus stood in the doorway, eyes flashing gold. The sleeves of his dark gray henley were pushed up to his elbows and Caroline could see small flecks of paint on his hands. Klaus opened his mouth to growl something at her, but Caroline beat him to it.

“How could you? How could you be such a monster?” She shouted, her hands shaking with rage, as she took a step up towards him.

Klaus’s eyes narrowed and he stepped out of the doorway to meet her on the top step of his porch.

“How could I?” He gritted out between clenched teeth. “How could I kill the mutts that Lockwood and his little friend unsired and turned against me? HOW COULD I?” He raised his voice louder until he was shouting at Caroline.

Caroline opened her mouth to speak again, but this time Klaus interrupted her.

“Or are you talking about his mother? She was a fighter you know. She fought until her very last second, desperate for air.” He taunted with a wicked smirk on his lips, eyes sharp. Caroline gasped, shocked at the way he spoke so casually about killing Carol.

“He took EVERYTHING from me,” Klaus spat. “It’s only fair I finally take something from him. You lot have been trying to kill me since I returned to this infernal town and now you’re shocked that I exacted my revenge. You called me a monster, love. This is what monsters do.”

“Carol was innocent! She didn’t deserve to be a part of your twisted game! God, I don’t know why I ever gave you even a second of my time. You’re clearly not worth it!” Caroline shouted back at him. Had she been in a more rational state of mind she would have been almost afraid to shout at the man who just murdered 13 people, but her heightened emotions clouded her judgement.

Klaus’s features turned darker and before Caroline could blink he pulled her across the threshold by her upper arms and slammed her against the wall of his lavish foyer, the plaster cracking around her. The breath left Caroline’s lungs and her eyes widened as she took in his golden eyes and double fangs. She realized how stupid she had been to come here and pick a fight with Klaus. She let out a pained cry as she felt her ribs and spine protest. She was pretty sure something was fractured at the very least. Klaus grip loosened infinitesimally until he saw tears form in her blue eyes, threatening to spill over her cheeks.

Klaus removed his hands from Caroline’s arms and took several steps back from her. Something that looked almost like regret for his rough treatment of her flashed across his face. Caroline slid slightly down the wall before she locked her knees and caught herself. There was no way she was going to give Klaus the satisfaction of seeing her fall.

A moment passed and Klaus slowly moved forward with a grace that only came with age until he was close enough to touch her. He slowly lifted his hands so he didn’t frighten her and once more gripped her upper arms. Instead of bruising his touch was soft yet firm. He helped Caroline to stand up straight and held her there while her bones fused themselves back together. A single tear escaped and made its way down her face. Before it could reach her jaw Klaus moved one hand to cradle the side her face and brushed the tear away with his thumb. Caroline moved her free arm and grasped Klaus’s wrist with hesitant fingers. She hadn’t meant to touch him, but her body acted on its own accord. She could feel his slow pulse and his warm skin beneath her fingers. She could smell the blood running through his veins. The two of them stood there unmoving and staring at each other for several long minutes. Regret clouded Klaus’s face. Caroline wondered how many times in his long life he’d ever been sorry for anything he’d done.

“Not many,” Klaus answered softly, “but I find myself making exceptions for you, Caroline.”

Caroline realized she’d spoken out loud and blushed slightly. Klaus moved his thumb over the light pink on her cheek, looking as though he was fascinated by the color. She knew she shouldn’t be so comfortable in Klaus’s embrace, especially after she had seen Tyler’s grief stricken face earlier. She shouldn’t be so comfortable with a murderer’s touch, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. Something in Klaus’s touch ignited something in her that she had never felt before. A feeling of completeness. A feeling that someone truly cared for her. A feeling that she was finally enough.

[cosmicbash]

One the angsty prompt ideas I’ve been thinking about is Kells practicing how to cook for weeks so he can surprise Em by cooking him dinner, maybe for an anniversary or something, and on the day Kells has planned to surprise him, Em is hours late, leaving Kells alone for the evening. If you’re interested maybe you could write something like this? 🥰

3 years together. One thousand and ninety five fucking days between him and this old dorky man.

It's insane. Downright impossible to believe but Colson knows it's as real and true as the 2 year sobriety chip he's got hung around his neck on the gold chain Marshall gifted him with it this morning.

Both their relationship and his sobriety are as intertwined as their lives are now. Marshall's like the glue that holds all of his pieces together. Picking Colson back up, time and time again whenever he shattered in the beginning and filling in the gaps with his own loose pieces until it was Colson's turn to do the same. Which, by then, it only made sense to combine their puzzles and broaden the picture.

Now Marshall swoops in for Casie's PTA meetings he can’t make during tour. Holding the phone and helping him FaceTime for soccer games and school conferences when flight delays or bad luck keeps him late.

Colson tags along to Whitney's first few dates out in LA, weaving through the public spaces Marshall never could without drawing attention just to make sure she's safe and respected.

They tag team any situation involving the girls, even though Alaina and Hailey both still snicker at him from time to time, and Casie rolls her eyes at Marshall's rules. They're more than just dating now.

They're family.

And even just thinking about that brings tears to Colson's eyes.

Or maybe it's the onions. Baze said chewing gum helped mitigate this fucking problem but goddammit does it burn-

"Fuck!"

He has no idea how he got it in his mind that he could actually cook a meal, let alone a full anniversary dinner for Marshall but here he is. A pot and pan already cooking on the stove and his fingers knicked a dozen times in his rush to cut up more veggies for the sauce. 

It's insane.

But Colson's following through with it anyway, because he fucking loves Marshall and that bastard cooks dinner for them every single holiday or occasion so it's about time he stepped up to the plate and did it himself. 

Plus he's been secretly practicing for weeks with Baze over both FaceTime and a few in person lessons. Perfecting his simmering styles and meat seasoning to make the tastiest meal he can manage all on his own.

So far the last three times he's made the dish his bassist had given stellar reviews so there's little chance he'll somehow fuck it up tonight knowing it's for Marshall…..at least, he hopes.

The minor setbacks his butchered fingers have brought aside though, so far everything was coming along perfectly. His noodles are boiling (never over the rim, thank you wooden spoon trick), his meats marinating, and as soon as he tosses these sliced onions in his sauce will be cooking down beautifully.

All in all the night is starting to look like it just might be perfect.

Until 6 o'clock passes by and Colson's ears never pick up the click of the front door knob, or the hum of Marshall's escalade pulling up front outside.

The food's still simmering, minutes away from being actually done so he doesn't worry too much. Sure he was hoping to have a sweet moment where his boyfriend comes home and catches him cooking at the stove like a traditional housewife, but seeing his face when the food's done and plated promises to be just as cute.

Besides, Marshall has always fit the housewife role so much better than him anyway. Even the apron Colson's wearing is one of the older rapper's, stolen from his small collection in the pantry to protect his designer sweater.

Colson doesn't start to worry at 6. Traffic can be a bitch.

7 though? And then 7:30 when his texts go unread and his calls ring all the way through to voice-mail? That's when the blonde starts to fret. 

He's luckily put off plating because some brief flash on uncertainty had run through him after the food finished so it's stayed warm and simmering on the stove. But even that had to come to an end before 7:30 because his sauce would singe or his noodles might squish, so now Colson's trying to keep busy by perfecting the presentation. Shaky fingers swiping around the edges of Marshall's plate to clean up a splatter of sauce. Every Chopped Judge rambling off feedback in his head until he has it looking like something he's certain even Gordon fucking Ramsey would ask for a bite of.

By 8 the dinner table is set. His plate, Marshall's, the bucket of low alcoholic wine they both love chilling as a centerpiece. Colson even lights a few candles and adds some flowers from this mornings gift exchanges to keep himself from screaming.

There's a pit in his stomach that's steadily been growing though. Every passing minute and glance to his phone where he finds no change only carving it deeper. 

Marshall should be home. He never runs this late at the studio without a call, let alone without a message. He's treated his work like any other 9-5 job since before they ever even got together, always strict about his routine and careful to make up for over run hours by leaving earlier the next day. Usually Colson likes to bust his balls and insist he live a little more spontaneously but tonight isn't the one to pull that.

Especially not if it means Marshall's going to completely forget to check his fucking phone and leave him trying not to think the worst.

Colson only males it another 5 minutes before he caves and texts Paul. Fingers tapping fast across his screen to draft multiple desperate sounding messages before he finally settles on a "Em bust his phone again?" That feels just casual enough to not embarrass him in the off chance Marshall decides to burst through the front door seconds after it sends.

The door stays closed though and Paul doesn't open the message at all. 

Now Colson can't even start passive aggressively eating dinner on his own if he wanted too. The pit in his stomach has torn itself open wide into a nauseous chasm. Every scary possibility he wanted to avoid thinking about spilling forth from the dark trench like ghouls.

He's dead. Some crazy fan broke into the studio and shot the whole place up. No one's gotten around to tell him yet, that's all. They're too busy dealing with the fallout.

No, Em's security is beyond top tier, and with how close Colson and his current bodyguard are he knows the guy would call him immediately. Marshall's fine.

Unless… what if he was in a car accident? Or some road rage incident gone fatal? Colson's seen Marshall's short temper flare up while driving. They've made dozens of jokes about it in the past, so is it really that unreasonable to believe?

Colson's pacing in the front haul when he calls Porter. Phone tucked between his ear and shoulder while he fights his shoe laces, heart racing in his chest. Prepping to fly out of the house the second Denaun tells him what fucking hospital Marshall's staying in, praying it's at the ICU section and not some fucking morgue.

"Kelly?" The older man sounds confused when he finally answers. Voice high and tone light like he's expecting this to be a butt dial. "What's up man?"

The lack of rush or worry in Denaun's voice almost soothes Colson's panic right on the spot. Surely he wouldn't sound so casual if something had happened. 

It's enough to keep Colson from immediately pleading for Marshall's safety at the least. "H-hey, uh nothing really-" Maybe Marshall is even with him right now, realizing how fucking late its gotten and how shit of a boyfriend he's been and that's why Denaun sounds awkward too. "Just uh, waiting for Marsh to get his slow ass home ya know? Sorry, aheh, I'm probably sounding like a fucking needy girlfriend right now, calling his friends and shit-" the longer Colson rambles the more embarrassed he actually feels in the moment.

God he must sound pathetic right now. Panicking over Marshall being a few hours late.

"Waiting? Didn't Marshall head out like 2 hours ago?"

"W-what?"

Colson's blood feels like actual ice in his veins.

"He isn't home? I mean, I know he was gonna stop at- fuck is it already half past 8? Marshall seriously isn't home?" Denaun's sudden panic only heightens Colson's own, but he can't get any more words to come out. Not with how a rock feels like it's jumped up his throat. "Shit, Ryan are you getting through to him? Try Paul-"

Ryan's there too? 

"What? Paul's gotta fucking answer-"

They can't get ahold of Paul either?

"Kelly have you-"

Marshall's missing. Colson's been standing around making dinner for hours, worrying over the portion sizes and appearance of his plates and Marshall's been fucking missing. What kind of partner is he? What will he even tell Hailey? Alaina? And fuck Casie is supposed to be coming up this weekend so they can all go vacation together before his next tour-

The front door bumping into his shoe startles Colson out of his frozen panic. Denaun's angry shouting dropping from his ear, as he twists and meets a pair of sheepish blue eyes peeking around the hardwood.

"Hey." 

Marshall's…..

"Is that my apron?"

So fucking dead.

"Is this your--" Colson's fingers are curling around the edge of the door so fast he doesn't even care that it makes his phone fly to the floor. "That's what you want to fucking say to me!?" His anger is boiling fast, replacing the cold in his veins with lava. "You fucking piece of-"

Marshall stumbling inside with the yanked door is expected, but the flash of bandages and a sling douse Colson's flames like a bucket of water. "Ow, fuck just give me a second to explain-"

He's hurt.

Now with all of Marshall visible Colson's hyperaware of dry blood splattered on his white graphic tee and scratches partially hidden within the rapper's beard along his cheek. "I got in an accident out on the M-8, it was minor but-"

Colson really can't handle all these rapid mood switches Marshall is putting him through today.

“You fucking idiot-“ Tears are bubbling up in his eyes and it’s like his hands can’t reach his partner fast enough. Pulling Marshall into his arms for a tight hug despite the pained noises his actions inspire. “Stupid, old asshole-“ Marshall’s hurt, the cars probably wrecked, but he’s home and that’s enough of a relief to finally smother that pit weighing down his stomach. “Don’t ever scare me like that again!”

A moment passes before he’s hugged back, shock more than likely freezing his partner up but when Marshall does loop his good arm around Colson he pulls him close. So close Colson is the one who’s bones feel like they might ache. “Can’t make any promises about that,” The older rapper’s palm feels warm when it climbs to cup his neck, Marshall’s face turning to press a kiss into Colson’s throat. 

That brush of lips is the final crack to release the flood gates.

"I love you."

"I know."

"I really really fucking love you."

"I know baby."

"I don't care how old your ass is, you better hold out and fucking die after me like a proper goddamn boyfriend, you hear me Marshall?" He's getting snot all over the older rapper's shirt. Full on smearing it across his own cheek and the fabric with every pointless rub of his face. "I love you so fucking much. Can't do this without you."

"Told you I'm not dying after you unless you kill me first, and I'm chasing you into the afterlife once you do go too. Fuck all the marriage shit, death ain't parting us either you brat." Marshall's tone is light and his palm is doing wonders to comfort him by rubbing circles into his back. It's enough to slow his hiccupped breathing down a few notches. "I dunno if you noticed but, I'm a little obsessed with you."

That drags out a wet snort. "Y-yeah?" When Colson pulls back to meet Marshall's eyes he swears he can see a wet shimmer starting to glaze over his partner’s as well. "Prove it then."

There's a flicker of something in blue eyes, so fast that Colson almost thinks he hallucinates the emotion altogether. But then Marshall's wrapped up arm wiggles between their bodies. The dark blue of the sling catching and sliding so his scratched up fist can shimmy its way partially out. "Planned on it-" There's something clutched tight there, black peeking out from between Marshall's finger and thumb. It's got Colson's heart dropping down into his stomach all over again. "What do you think I was driving so late on the M-8 for?"

"Marshall-" It can't be.

"Colson." But his shithead of an accident victim boyfriend is pulling back, both his good arm and slung arm awkwardly flailing in the air for a moment as he drops down on one knee. The visible wince not hidden as well as Colson imagines the man wants it to be. But Marshall's eyes are softening, and the blonde feels completely cemented in place. The only part of him moving being the uncontrollable shaky quiver of his bottom lip. "I had a whole moment planned, there were flowers, balloons, and those stupidly expensive alcoholic chocolates you love, but they all got absolutely trashed in the crash. Like, half of Detroit is probably going to think the Macies Thanksgiving parade started early. Paul called to have it all replaced, and honestly some intern is probably going to come banging on the door in about 20 minutes but I don't want to wait-" There's a flash of genuine worry that's furrowing the skin between Marshall's brows as he continues. "So I'm sorry this isn't gonna be that fancy perfect proposal you've always dreamed of-"

"Shut up." Colson's voice can't go above a whisper. His tone quick and clipped from how anxious he is to hear the man finally finish. "Just- shut up, ask me. Ask me Marsh, please-"

"Fine, always need to rush me."The rapper's lip quirks at the corners. Hands transferring the small box between eachother with a bit of fumbling. "Will you, Colson Baker-" Until Marshall can finally get it open with an audible clunk. "Legally commit to being with my annoying old ass forever?" 

[werezmastarbucks]

coming back was a mistake?

the reader bonds with kai over their shared dislike of mystic falls

previous part

kai parker x fem!reader

word count: 4180

music: cherry by lana del rey, stella maris by moby

She came to the football field every evening at approximately the same time. Kai started weighing which sight he liked more: the pretty smart dog catching its frisbee in the air, or the grumpy girl in her skin-shade top, running around like the devil was trying to bite her in the ass.

Well, the dog hopped so high, and it was so lively! Plus, dogs are all adorable.

But the crop top though.

After several evenings Kai started noticing the pattern. She always stood in one place, as she was catching her breath, and looked at the clouds. She might not even notice she stops at the same very spot every time she finishes running. After the second evening, and after she left, Kai came down to the court and put a scratch five inches long on the ground with a jackknife. She always stood exactly there. He looked up into the now darkened sky, seeing the first stars, and pondered, as if her thoughts could be captured by him now, floating there, above where she’d been. What was she crying about so gravely? Her hands were shaking as she pressed them into her mouth, like children do. After she was done, she walked away to her house, relieved, and didn’t look back.

That was puzzling. Might as well busy himself with the mystery of the sad moody girl who cries on the football field every evening, while he’s waiting for the merge.

You stood, silently praising yourself for throwing your jacket into the car at the last moment (come on, monkey! we ain’t got any more time! Damon was yelling. He couldn’t hide how much he liked it when you came to visit every year, and you felt bad for despising the visits). The wind was unusually ferocious for the warm month, but then again, this place was deep in the waterfall region, up in the hills, an open spot. Plus, there must have been some hardcore magic ingrained right in the soil. As you stood, and watched, while the Salvatore brothers were humping and cracking their backs, digging up the earth, you pretended to feel the magic oozing out. The burial places always felt special. Having lived in Mystic Falls, you worked up this rare type of intuition.

You didn’t want to come. As you returned, and was busted by the Mystic Falls gang on the very first evening, you reminded them of your foremost rule: you do not engage in their bullshit anymore. Let them fight all the original vampires of the planet... or the werewolves... whatever... you only came back once a year, for seven days, and weren’t keeping up with the Draculashians. A tiny part of you was curious. But it hit back hard, every time. Involving yourself in the MF action was dangerous, and made you feel like an old woman who keeps complaining about them kids being loud in the street.

You were on your way to Caroline’s when somebody called Damon, and he put on his working face. Turned out, they need to undig some bodies exactly today, because the Little Shit (Damon didn’t specify whom they referred to) made his conditions. Well, work’s work. You hadn’t been to this spot before. From up here, you could even see the distand hills of New Orleans. You missed that place.

“How many bodies do you need?” you asked them. Stefan stood up to look at you curiously. As if saying, there are the bodies - we need to get them. Get them all!

“It’s not how many”, Damon helped, “it’s which ones”.

“And what are you gonna do with them?”

“I will eat them”, somebody whispered. You shivered a little under your clothes, but didn’t budge. You looked at your side. Malachai from the bar.

“Joking”, he snickered, “I don’t eat corpses. But I do have jello worms, you want some?”

You examined him thoroughly.

“You have blue ones?”

He looked down the pack.

“I think so...”

As you tried to fish out the blue ones, he looked at you.

“Do you eat bodies?” he asked.

“No, not really”, he sighed. “Thanks”.

“Mm-hm”, he was chewing, looking at the vampire brothers as they worked. Damon shot you two a glance which didn’t say anything specific.

“You’re the Little Shit?” you guessed.

“They call me that? Rude”, he moved his shoulder as if he was a bit cold. “I guess I do somewhat irritate them”.

“Somewhat?!” Damon growled. You cringed.

“And what are you, a digging up works inspector?” Kai went on. You grinned.

“Oh, you’re Y/N! You’re the girl they’ve been talking about, non-stop”, he realized.

At the grave, the brothers exchanged glances, since of course, they haven’t been talking about you in Parker’s presence.

You nodded.

“You long here?”

“A week”, you said, and rubbed your arms, “why is it so damn cold”.

“It’s the spirits disagreeing with the whole vandalizing ungraving, you know. I can’t calm them down just yet”, the guy said knowingly. You wondered internally what he was after all. He squatted a bit, putting his palm to the ground.

“Hold it”, the pack of candy was shoved into your hand and you filled your mouth with sour-sweet worms. Your jaws were about to get glued together.

“Woah, yeah, they fight back”, he took the hand away. “Listen, you”, he pointed his finger at the soil. You looked up at Damon and Stefan, asking them silently what was up with this dude. “I’m about to suck out your whole miserable existence, so you better comply, bitches”.

“Bonnie’s really good at communicating with spirits”, you said musingly.

“She’s also very good at lying, cheating and tricking people into trusting her and then stabbing them in the back”, Malachai said happily, standing up. He reached for some worms politely, forgetting it was his pack to begin with.

“You’ve met her?”

“Met her? Ha, I’ve been locked up with her. What a controversial creature”.

“Where is she? I haven’t seen her since I came”.

“Yeah, she’s... uh...” Kai cocked his head, thinking, “I might have left her in a... magical prison, you know”.

“What an asshole”, you said. You remembered the judgemental, brilliant, restless Bonnie Bennett. “Get her back”.

“It’s not that easy, miss”, Malachai sniffed. “Why do you care, anyway?”

“We studied together”.

“Okay then. See the diggers? We’re doing this all to get back there and get Bon Bon out”.

Damon puffed as if he could get tired. He was just probably listening and was severely annoyed. You knew at once when you saw Kai here how Damon could be deeply irritated by him. Their personalities did not correlate.

“And you? What are you doing?” he asked. Like he meant something else. You watched his curious face, the sweetness filling your mouth so much the gums started hurting. You needed water.

“I’m just here, man. Chilling”.

He nodded to his own thoughts.

“Hm”.

You turned back to the Salvatores simultaneously.

“You wanna go on a date?” Kai asked.

You haven’t been on a date in years. You were not the type to go dating.

“Stop this freaking wind, will you”, you shuddered yet again, instead of the answer. Kai got to the ground immediately.

You drove up to the corner and walked a little to the Grill doors. Malachai was standing there, waiting, like he was the Italian lover boy at the times when families of two children were willing to start war over dignity, and he was serenading to somebody. He didn’t say anything, just smiled at you; his gaze said things instead of him. Putting his arm above your head, he opened the door, and you entered the bar.

“The other way”, he took you by the forearm and then his fingers slid down to your wrist. Somehow, you got goose bumps on your skin at his touch; it was irrational. As the music filled the space, crappy, hipster Mystic Falls music, he led you to one of the tables closer to tha bar counter. You were trying to decipher the glint in his eyes, almost haunting, when you realized you‘re staring at each other.

“What?” you grinned even, uneasy, as your head cocked, and you caught yourself blushing on the inside. Get your act together. He’s not even that handsome. Well, maybe, okay, he is very handsome, but he’s one of those, so, don’t get your hopes up. You recalled how you two mocked the working Salvatores together, eating the chewing candy and cursing the dead. Nothing like doing nothing, bullying busy grumpy people. The conversation started itself.

“The music here is awful”.

“You’re very pretty”, he said shyly. “Maybe even too pretty”. He gestured towards you. There wasn’t any ogling with him, he was sincerely charming. He must be dangerous.

“The whole face and the... hair thing. Do you ever have problems because you’re pretty?”

The waiter, Maureen, approached you, and you had to stop for a while. She looked at Kai obediently, without paying you any attention. You found it eerie.

“No”, you began, and then thought. Well, every ‘pretty’ girl has problems sometimes. When it comes to brushing against the majority, the bar for ‘pretty’ is very low. If you walk down the street, and somebody throws a glance at you, they manage to see you as ‘pretty’.

“Well. You know, you sound like an asshole if you say you have problems because you’re good looking”.

Kai cocked his head like a bird, question in his eyes.

“Speaking of assholes, explain again how Bonnie ended up somewhere alone?”

He sighed.

“It’s a long story”.

You shrugged.

“We’ve got the whole evening”.

“You know, I’ll tell you, she killed me, you’ll ask how, I’ll have to go back a bit and explain how the magical prison works, you’ll ask what she and Damon were doing there, I’ll have to go back and explain, you’ll ask how I ended up there, and I’ll have to give you my whole life story”.

You took the straw in between your lips.

Kai’s nostrils flared a little.

“Alright. Maybe it was my fault a little bit”.

You were just drinking, not saying anything, and Kai started crumbling down. Must be the whole face and the hair thing.

“Alright! Alright. You ever heard of the Gemini coven? Of course you didn’t”.

You shook your head. You weren’t sure if you wanted to actually listen to the whole life story of this guy. That’s exactly how Mystic Falls tricks you into being one of them. It’s just full of dramatic, twisted life stories.

“It’s a witch coven, the coolest one, well, it used to be. Now almost all of them are dead, and soon, I will be the only one left”.

“Because you’ll kill them all?” you asked innocently.

“Yeah”.

“Yeah, of course. Why am I asking. Stupid”.

“I was born without magic. We have this thing, in the coven, the twins have to duel when they turn twenty one. The one with stronger magic wins and lives and absorbs the other’s life force and powers. But I was born without magic, so”, he tilted his head left and right, as if saying, well, you guess how it goes.

“Big disappointment. My mom used to lock me up in the basement for days not to embarrass guests”.

“What?!”

“Yeah. And this thing... I can absorb magic, because I’m a siphoner. It’s like... if I feel magic somewhere, I can take it. Then use it. Then I need more”.

“So, that’s why you were crawling on the ground there”.

“Yeah”, Kai nodded, “and the oldest bodies of those witches have the most magic, so, I now have enough strength to go back and bring your precious Bonnie home”.

“So, your folks gave you hard time then?”

He got distracted by your nails clicking on the glass. He was like a cat, his eyes clutched the sound, the flickering lights of the evening Grill dancing in the dark of his eyeballs.

“Do you sharpen them on purpose?”

“Of course”, you muttered, “that makes people want to touch me less”.

An uneven breath left his lips. You realized you found him endearing. What a cute, chaotic creature, dressed like a Soft Boy, but with a dark scheme on the back of his mind, eyes darting from here to there, and the tongue completely detached from brain. No wonder Mystic Falls couldn’t handle him.

“Scratch my hand”, he asked, putting his palm on the table. Amusement curled your lips.

You put your palm on his and tickled.

“Were you a twin?” you asked.

“Yeah, yeah, I was. My sister is still alive, but you know, if the merge ended up happening, she’d be dead. Because even without my own magic, I’m stronger than her. She’s all... spells from the books, rules of conjuring, flower growing magic. I’m a natural. Which is ironic”, a sad chuckle clouded his voice for a second. “My dad used to tell me he wished I was never born at all, even if it meant they missed an opportunity to have a set of twins for the merge”.

You eyed him carefully. He talked sad, but looked entertained. He was turning and pulling his hand under your tickling, like a child.

“You’re a big boy now”, you heard yourself, “you know how them fanatics are, right?”

“Hmm?”

“Just because it’s their fucked up world doesn’t mean you were a mistake”.

Kai nodded.

“I killed half of them anyway. My sisters and brothers, and my mom”.

You stopped tickling for a second.

“Uh, you killed your siblings and your mom?”

He was taking a sip and nodded.

“Mm-hm, yeah. I hanged my little brother from the banisters on the staircase. Have you ever killed somebody?”

An uneven chain of thoughts raced through your mind. Any other place, you would’ve freaked out. Here, it’s kind of fine. Everybody’s like that. Kai was a bit extreme, of course. Him confessing killing his child siblings on your date was a bit of a thrill pill. It’s not like he smothered Caroline with a pillow. Or pushed Elena’s car from the bridge. Of pinned Damon to the wall of his own living room. Or turned a sixteen year old schoolgirl into a raging vampire right in time for Halloween.

“You look like you killed somebody”, he whispered conspirationally. You turned his hand and scratched a bit harder. He didn’t notice.

“Is it your witch observation, or a pickup line?”

Kai grinned.

“I’ve told you everything. You tell me why you’re coming back every year”.

“Who told you I do?”

“Damon”.

You rolled your eyes.

“Just to visit”.

He narrowed his eyes.

“That is a lie. You’re lying to me. You hate this place. You don’t come here for a full week out of your own will to visit people you don’t even like”.

“It’s not that I don’t like them, I just...”

“Can’t stand them”.

“Their shenanigans. How long have you been here?”

“Since spring”.

“Have you noticed”, you even leaned over the table a little bit, and his fingers wrapped around your palm with determination. His hand was warm and dexterous. “That they’re in deep shit every week? These people don’t chill. It’s one cosmic threat after another, and most of the time, it’s Damon’s fault”.

“Yes”, Kai said gravely. “Yes. And it’s always about romance. Everybody is in love with everybody”.

You started laughing with relief you didn’t know the source of.

You were tickling his palm gently as you spoke, and didn’t even notice. Suddenly, Kai nearly jumped.

“Wait, you said, awful music?”

“Of course”.

“Give me your phone”.

You didn’t reply, looking at him.

“Come on. You wanna dance or not? I’ll go talk to the DJ”.

“Talk to the DJ?”

“Yeah. I’ll bring it back to you”.

Kai didn’t. A minute after he left with your phone, the mood changed. Even the lights went darker. You finished your drink and then recognized your own playlist coming in on the speakers. When he returned, pulling you into the crowd of people gathering to dance, you looked around at the couples. Malachai, the guy who grew up being locked in the basement by his mother and hearing that he was a mistake of nature, turned out to be an okay dancer, in fact. Perhaps he was just fucking around when he sang in the karaoke. He pulled you up to him and couldn’t stop himself from touching your arms as if tapping you for magic you might have been hiding. His hands explored the lean lines of your waist as you moved, and it didn’t feel forced. Going on a date with someone you barely know, you usually expect all kinds of awkward collisions, but this here was light-hearted, sincere, like neither of you cared enough, connected with your shared displeasure with this town. Neither of you really wanted to be here; Kai said he was waiting for something connected with the merge in September, because, after all the years he spent in the prison, he thought he had another shot at merging with his sister. Apparently, they’re all stoked to duel and kill their twin or die, well, let them. The less mental cases.

Not wanting to be here made you pull close to each other as if you were a proud unit, judging people around silently. People, weirdly, didn’t seem to mind to dance to Lana Del Rey the whole evening, then switching suddenly to relatively unknown soft hip-hop. They just moved, drunk on the evening, consumed by the calm twilight of the place, and you danced, too, with Kai’s hands sliding up and down your shoulders, soothing you like a snake charmer.

Suddenly, he leaned into a kiss and you didn’t pull away. You collided like waves, gentle at first, then, hungry, and wild attraction made your head switch off. His one hand laid on the back of your neck and the other, secured the low of your back, like he was a completely normal guy on a completely normal date, having completely normal heat coming up to his throat. Maybe he was, at the moment. You found it hard to break the kiss, feeling how strangely comfortable it was, like you knew each other forever. Shared spite does miracles to people’s minds.

You drank a little bit too much, perhaps, so your head started spinning, and you were forced to open you eyes. You looked around, still in his arms, and everybody - and that means everybody - in the bar was watching you, not dancing anymore. The music was still on, but people froze completely, mesmerized, and stared at you without any expression.

“What are they looking at?” you whispered.

“They’ll remember witnessing something beautiful, but won’t know exactly what”, Kai said nonchalantly. You shot him a glance.

“What?”

“I compelled them all”, he brushed them away with his hand, “it’s a private party”.

“That’s abuse...” you thought out loud.

“You think I’m evil?” Kai asked. Somehow it didn’t sound connected to your notion.

“Nah”.

Perhaps you should’ve given it more thought. You didn’t even see how impressed he was by the easiness with which you shook your head.

“Just bitter”.

He looked around, and people moved again, like nothing happened.

You couldn’t stop kissing each other even after you left and walked down the street away from the bar.

“You wanna go see a special place?” he mumbled into your face, his breath warm and sweet. “Your heels will disagree with it though, we’ll have to take ‘em off”.

There was almost lust in his voice.

‘Special place’ turned out to be the watching tower behind the school. Mystic Falls was such a small, pathetic place that it only had one sport court, one square and one park. The watching tower was called that because, when you were all fifteen, the bravest kids used to climb up the platform to watch the Founders Day fireworks. It was a steel construction resembling the tower for the musical engineer at a gig. Nobody ever figured out what it was initially for. Maybe Damon and Stefan should’ve dropped their whole vampire wars and first ivestigated that.

Kai was right though: the narrow ladder was made of iron and you had to take off your shoes. The platform itself stood about twelve feet up and was big enough for five people. You laid shoulder to shoulder, and only then you finally realized. It was the night for Perseids.

Brilliant white comets were shooting through the skies. Kai put his hand under the back of his head. You thought of how once you were watching shooting stars with your father back when you were a child; one of the stars fell somewhere behind hills and he said that it exploded. He convinced you he’s seen the afterglow of the explosion, and with time, you have convinced yourself you’ve seen it, too. Bright, short, white flash of misty light, like a flickering halo above the mountain. This memory was completely fake. Just like his belief that the red stars are the youngest. Father knew jack shit about space.

“You ever compare yourself with the size of universe?” you asked. You were afraid to sound too romantic, or stupid, but you were drunk enough.

“Yeah. I like stars”.

“Do you feel small or big?”

“Small”, Kai replied obediently.

“Does it make you feel lonely, or is it a liberating feeling?”

“Lonely”.

“Does it make you wanna die or live forever?”

“I’m planning to live forever”, he said with convitction. You turned your head and discovered he’s been looking at you.

“Aren’t you mortified of the future?”

“I’m just very tired of dying”.

Your brows gathered together. You reached for his cheek and touched it with your fingers to make sure he was flesh and blood.

“You can’t die in prison world”, he explained.

“Oh. Are you alive right now?”

Now, Malachai was a little surprised.

“I think so”, he chuckled. “Hey, you. I’ve been spilling the tea all night and then you distracted me with kissing, and now I’m realizing you said nothing yourself”.

You wondered what Kai has done to deserve the title of Little Shit. You imagined he somehow incorporated you into his plan since he was so nice to you. He looked like he was geniunely interested.

“Nothing to tell. I don’t want to”.

“That’s not fair”.

You shut him up with a kiss.

As he let go of her hand, seeing the yellow light from the window, he has already decided everything. The door let the wave of bright flood him, and, before it closed behind her back, he turned invisible and hopped inside.

The house stood empty, with the light on in the kitchen. He didn’t know if she seemed like somebody who’s afraid of darkness, but it was strange. Kai let her go upstairs alone and cruised a little around the kitchen and the living room; her house, like her, felt mysterious and so familiar. When Kai finally made it upstairs to her room, she was taking a shower. Malachai touched every little thing that laid around: he put his palm to the wall, fidgeted with the jewelry she left on the bedside table; sat on her bed, opened and closed the curtains and left the outline of his hand on the window. He touched the handles of the wardrobe and brushed lightly over the dress she’s just been wearing, that she threw onto a chair.

When the girl came back, he expected her to cry again. Because of their date, she skipped her running session and didn’t go to the football field. As she stood at the mirror, Kai came up so close to her, he even wondered how she didn’t feel the tip of his nose barely touching her wet hair. She threw the towel on the floor, and Kai looked in the mirror. He couldn’t see himself, but he knew he was there. He wondered what they would’ve looked like together.

Then she froze and turned her head as if hearing something. Kai managed to step away as she rushed to the chair for clothes. She put on sweatpants and a shirt, and went downstairs. Kai was sure he didn’t hear anything.

Curious to no end, he followed, down to the living room, and then the kitched, the light turned on virtually everywhere in the house like she was terrified of shadows.

“No, I just came back”, she said, to nobody. Kai walked in front of her and stood in the middle of the kitchen. She looked over his shoulder. Then sat at the table.

“Fine, when did you come back?”

Pause.

“I thought you said you didn’t leave the house nowadays”.

She was talking to the empty room, a bit sad, not like when she was with him.

Wow, she is nuts, Malachai thought. Then he thought hard and repeated, to himself,

she is absolutely insane!

[livlepretre]

6 TVD Prompt Ficlets

Filling a bunch of prompts sent in by @finnismyoriginalsin last August– I didn’t take all of them, so seriously, if any of these tickle anyone, GO WRITE because they are all fantastic!

(Jeremy x Katherine; Tatia, Katherine, Elena x Klaus; Tyler!Klaus x Elena; Klaus x Elena; Alaric!Klaus x Elena; Elijah x Elena) 

Prompts:

Not 12am here yet so lol..I have a few more if you wanna do. 

Prompt: Stefan is Jack the Ripper with the help of Klaus and Rebekah, obv it’s how he earned the nickname.

Prompt: Jeremy finds the old timey photo of Katherine, meets Katherine who he mistakes for his sister at first (may or may not be shippy).

It’s entirely fucked. He knows that. 

The thing is it had all started innocently enough– no one had ever thought to fill him in on the whole evil twin thing, noooo, better to leave him in the dark and let him bleed his broken heart onto his not-sister’s shoulder and start this thing– this thing he thought was Elena letting him in, finally being present, where just about every week she would take him out to this bar outside of town that never cards and buy him drinks and listen. And they would talk. 

They never discussed it, it just seemed to spontaneously happen. Between Jenna always listening in on his conversations and her stalker boyfriends that made sense to Jeremy. 

So by the time he figured out it wasn’t Elena he’d been spending all this time with, his head had got twisted around. He’d been angry and hurt and somehow those nights out with his sister that he adored turned into even longer nights where he would stare into the sultry, sharp features of the vampire like he was looking into a funhouse mirror. That was how he first noticed the shape of her mouth, the sharpness of her pearly white teeth. How he first imagined that mouth on him, those teeth in him. 

The leap from imagination to reality is devastatingly short. 

She likes to ask him questions while she nurses his dick, nurses the bloody bites in his thighs. He tells her everything she asks for. More. He’s always liked talking to her. Likes being inside of her even more, even though it means he has to blush and look away whenever his sister walks into a room. 

Until one day she stops coming by. He waits for her, and waits. 

It takes forever to realize that whatever she had wanted from him, she must have gotten.

It’s soon after that that Damon approaches him with a plan to take the bitch down at the masquerade, and he’s all too eager to participate. 

Prompt: Tatia, Katherine, Elena, Amara x Klaus, he can’t escape her, he’s the one running now.

She’s everywhere. He turns the corner: there she is. Looks in the mirror, and there, standing just behind him again, her, her, her. 

A thousand years have passed, and while the memory of Tatia Petrova has surely haunted him, it had not been until after the sacrifice, when he’d revenged himself on Katerina and drained that last girl wearing a damned face had the haunting become quite so literal. 

Now Tatia follows him for true, her eyes an accusation as she looks and looks and looks at him and refuses to ever look away, her gaze still and fixed as only the dead’s can be. 

Katerina plucks at his sleeves, her hands thin and gray as they never were in all the years he had known her. Where once she had caressed him with those hands, had loved him with those hands, now all she can do is demand from him that he acknowledge her. That he look at her, and see what he has done to her. He never looks, because then he would have to see the gaping wound in her chest where once her heart had been. She had given him her heart once, and he had taken exquisite pleasure in holding that still beating heart in his hand and ripping it from her chest, in watching the gray crawl of extinguishment creep over her skin. He had been a fool. 

The worst is the last one. Elena, he reminds himself. 

Her skin painted with blood from head to toe, flames eternally licking at her hands and her feet. He always knows she’s found him again from the scent of charnel that follows her on a windless breeze. Of all of them, she holds herself farthest back. Never looks at him, never even seems to notice him. It’s unbearable, when he can feel around his wrists and around his ankles and threading through his ribs heavy chains, forging his fate with hers. Her last words had been Go to hell. He had not realized at the time that she intended to drag him there herself. He feels the weight of them, pulling ever tighter. Her silhouette is thinner every time he spies her. He doesn’t want to think what will happen to him when she disappears entirely. 

And so he runs. Leaves America, and then the Western Hemisphere altogether. Abandons civilization and society to plunge into the deepest forests, the darkest seas, daring to outrun the inevitable. 

Everywhere she finds him. She, she, and she. 

His three-faced goddess. His death where he had only ever thought to look for triumph. 

He had thought the chase was over that day he plunged his fangs into Elena Gilbert’s neck, but now he knows: that was the day the true hunt began. 

Prompt: Davina brings back both Kol and Finn accidentally, their ashes were mixed in the urn. And/or Davina brings back Finn who masquerades as Kol for a bit.

Prompt: Klaus x Davina, he also has a thing for witches like Kol. Gold dagger threats.

Prompt: Rebekah x Kol, secret liaisons

Prompt: Tyler!Klaus x Elena, awkward morning after, angst. And/or Tyler!Klaus x Caroline bc that would be super awkward and angsty.

It’s obvious as soon as she wakes up with her head clearer than it’s been since she turned that this is a huge irrevocable mistake. The mistake to end all mistakes. 

Elena creeps out from Tyler’s bed, cringing at the dried blood plastered all over both of their bodies, mapping the wild caresses that had led to the frenzied fucking last night. She trips almost right away– she lands hard on the floor, where she is forced to look into the glassed over eyes of the girl she and Tyler had picked up at the Founder’s party last night and, in a whiskey-drenched, blood-starved haze, seduced and then devoured. 

She groans, hanging her head in her hands, as viscous guilt surges up in her throat like bitter bile. 

Worse. Her gums ache. Even now she’s wondering when her next opportunity to do it again will be. 

“Lovely. You’re awake.” Tyler sits up and stretches. 

Elena narrows her eyes at him. Something about his word choice seems off. She’s known Tyler since they were in diapers, and never once has she heard him use the word lovely. In fact, there’s been something odd about Tyler ever since he mysteriously, miraculously didn’t die when Klaus burned– 

The blanket falls off of him and she is faced with the evidence of everywhere she had touched him with her hands and her mouth last night, all mapped out in vivid crimson like the cheat, the slut, the failure she is.  

“What are we going to do? What are we going to tell Care?” Elena moans, huddling in on herself. She draws her knees to her chest and rests her forehead against them. There’s a dab of blood on her left thigh and she can’t help sticking her tongue out to taste it, to comfort herself with it, even in the pit of all of her anguish. 

She’s gone and slept with her best friend’s boyfriend. Completely lost control of herself and abandoned everything that made her decent and worth loving. And she’s a murderer too, now. A really, really hungry one. 

“We should come clean with her,” Tyler says. “Straight away.” He eyes her naked body. “Well, perhaps after another bout. What do you say?” He crawls onto the floor with her and pins her beneath him. 

Lightning flashes through her brain. She kicks herself for not realizing sooner– but how could she? She’s been a wrecked, starving mess ever since she woke up on that coroner’s table coughing her lungs out. 

“Tell me again what you said after you saved me from Klaus,” she whispers. “In the kitchen.” 

The hybrid on top of her pauses. “I wanted you to drink some orange juice.” 

She shoves him off of her and darts to the other side, looking for her clothes. “First off, as though Tyler Lockwood would ever offer me anything other than a shot,” she says, thrusting her legs into her jeans. “Second off, what the hell, Klaus?” She stares down at her arms. She’s covered in Klaus-marks. Her skin crawls. “What was this? Why are you in Tyler’s body?” 

He stretches and prowls towards her. “I’m on holiday here until your little witch friend can find a way to jump me back into my own without that stake destroying me as soon as she does.” 

“And so you thought you’d just have a go at me?” 

“You handed me the perfect opportunity to separate Miss Forbes from her boyfriend.” He leers at her. “I must say, though, the after dinner show was far beyond my expectations. I do hope I can persuade you for an encore.” 

She slaps him. “You’re vile. I’d rather��”

“You’re already dead, and next to that, whatever else you might say is going to pale in comparison.” He leans in, brushes his mouth against her ear. 

Elena represses the shiver of delight and disgust that rolls through her. 

“And before you go casting stones: you still slept with me when you thought I was your dear friend’s boyfriend. What does that say about you?” 

Prompt: Finn x Rebekah or Freya, first meetings again.

Prompt: Klaus x Elena, hybrid baby somehow, oops can’t kill her now. Or, something pre season 1.

“You’re cheating on me?” he asks, bewildered. 

Elena– sweet, sexy, sixteen year old Elena– swats him, dashing tears away from her eyes in the next motion. “Of course not! God, how can you even think– Of course it’s yours.” 

“I highly doubt that.” Never sleep with a Petrova woman. That has been the rule he has been muttering to himself for 500 years. Why couldn’t he ever listen to himself? No, he just had to seduce the girl while he hunted for the moonstone, he couldn’t just leave her alone once he’d seen her– 

“Well, I regret sleeping with you too,” she sniffles. “But since you’re the only one I’ve ever been with–”

In an instant he’s caught her in his gaze. “Tell me who the true father of your child is,” he compels her. Once he has a name, he can vent his frustration and jealousy out on him. Snapping necks always makes him feel better. 

“You are,” she informs him, bringing the sky to come crashing down on his head without so much as batting a pretty black eyelash. 

He sputters, pushing her away from him. His thoughts spark and short– how– perhaps– 

He studies her wildly. Could her doppelganger nature be responsible? 

He curses, all at once becoming aware of the weight of the moonstone in his pocket. 

How can he sacrifice her now? He’ll have to wait– he pauses, tries to recall how long human pregnancies last– Well. Never mind. He’ll have to wait, at any rate. First for the child to be born, then for it to be weaned. And then? He can already foresee a limitless expanses of reasons to wait longer as this Elena Gilbert raises his child piling up in front of him. 

And as he waits, Elena will only grow ever more beautiful and deadly. And he will have no choice but to fall in love with her. 

Prompt: Alaric!Klaus x Caroline or Elena, meeting after class, creep.

“Elena, stay a minute after class.” 

The girl pauses in the middle of packing up her bag, her large doe eyes curious but trusting. So trusting. Had Katerina ever looked at him like that? Tatia certainly never had. 

As the class shuffles out, he takes the liberty of closing and locking the door, noting how still the girl doesn’t question him. 

Isobel had chosen well when she’d selected the history teacher. 

“What’s this about, Ric? Is it about–” she ducks her chin, very seriously, how sweet– “Klaus?” she half-whispers, half-mouths. 

An absolute thrill rolls up his spine at the shape of his name in her mouth. 

“Is there something you know that I don’t?” he asks carefully, fighting a smirk.

The girl’s face goes smooth as glass. He suddenly has a desire to tear her scalp free, the better for him to look inside her brain at all of those thoughts he can fair see swirling mercilessly behind her dark eyes. 

He hovers over her desk. Cannot resist tucking a long tendril of her silky brown hair behind her ear, to sink into those abyssal eyes like an animal trapped in tar. Those eyes could smother a man. A vampire. 

“Keep your guard up,” he murmurs, chucking her under the chin. “You never know who could lying in wait.” 

Prompt: Elijah x Elena, him and his ties, during first seeing her after smelling her (you know the gif)

The shock of her existence is immense. In a moment, his entire world realigns. Shifts back into an alignment so seamless and perfect he cannot believe that he had gone on for centuries thinking this possibility were gone forever. This girl– this as yet unnamed, unknown, human girl– is a miracle. An opportunity for vengeance and maybe– just maybe– a chance for redemption. 

He straightens his tie. Cannot fight the smile on his face as he greets  her. “Hello.” 

Sorry lol, damn I ship too many things.

[ohblackdiamond]

times upon this star (gene/paul, nc-17)

Amid KISS’ faltering fortunes in the late eighties, Paul confronts Gene.

There’s this dream he keeps having. They’re in the studio again, the old gang again. Ace and Peter looking affable, maybe almost sober. They’re recording demos at The Electric Lady.

  Ace is whistling off-key between songs, a wad of chewing gum in his mouth. His guitar work is flashier than it’s been in years, flippant imperfection, and Peter isn’t asking for ideas on the drum fills. It’s quiet work, too quiet, not much talking except for when someone decides they need to start over. No bickering or bitching, just pure focus, the way things used to be when they were hungry for it, really hungry for it, and sixty bucks a week was a princely sum to do what they loved.

 Paul’s guitar feels as worthless as a lead pipe in his hands and he keeps missing cues, but no one says a word. His fingers are slick against the strings and his voice doesn’t have its usual strength. It’s like he’s trying to sing through a vat of molasses. Nobody comments. He’d think they didn’t notice, except they glance at each other every so often, maybe in concern, maybe in pity.

“I don’t remember this one,” Paul finally confesses, and Peter glances at him blithely, sort of smiles.

“You should. You wrote it.”

 “I don’t remember it at all.”

Ace repeats the intro and then waits; they all wait, standing around him like his teachers in elementary school, hovering at his desk, expecting an answer when he never heard the question. Pay attention, Stanley. You’re brighter than this. We know you’re brighter than this.  He’s cornered. He’s smothered.

          “Can you get it back?” Gene asks, and he doesn’t sound concerned, doesn’t sound concerned at all, and Paul wakes up in a cold sweat.

***

It fades, though; it always fades. Morning always comes, or early afternoon, and he finds his off-tour routine again, a workout, a shower, a fussy half-hour just picking out clothes. A call to Pam, whose indifference chews through his ego like a termite infestation. Lunch and dinner and then he haunts the more exclusive L.A. clubs with the regularity of a dialysis patient. The crowd’s getting younger, or maybe he’s just getting older. Next year forty’ll stare Gene square in the face, and Paul’s not as far behind as he’d like to be.

Too old for this. Too old to be this lonely, and too young to feel like this much of a failure. After half an hour on the dancefloor he heads to the club’s restroom just to check his reflection, retouch his eyeliner. Hope for something new. He’s surprised when he sees Gene walk out of a stall through the corner of his eye as he’s dragging his fingers through his sweaty curls, trying and failing to revitalize them. Gene’s no drinker and he’s even less of a dancer, so he must be here for the same reason as Paul himself is: just looking for a night’s lay.

 “Gene,” he says, and he feels a little warmer, even turning around from the mirror to greet him. “I didn’t think you were still in town.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You keep yourself busy.”

Gene shrugs and washes his hands.

“Want a wingman?” Paul says nonchalantly. “I mean, not that you’re exactly picky, but…”

“Hell, no.” Gene’s looking at the mirror now, frowning at his own face. Paul wonders if it’s for the same reason as him, if age is starting to worry him, too, but then Gene just wipes a stray smear of lipstick off his cheek with a paper towel. “I know how you operate, Paul. You’ll duck out.”

“And leave you with both of them. Not that bad a deal.” He’s trying too hard to keep it easy, keep it light. The strain’s just beneath the surface. Gene, thankfully, doesn’t seem to question it, apart from a slightly furrowed brow. “Come on, why not? Let’s talk up some girls together.”

It’s as close as he can manage to begging for a dose of that old nostalgia. He never shared girls with Gene the way he had on occasion with Ace and Peter. Gene’s appetite, however enormous, was oddly vanilla, or maybe he just didn’t want competition. But they had, early on, helped each other out, before the girls became something automatic, something ordinary. Back when they had to share hotel rooms during their first few tours. “Gene majored in theology, he’s educated—no, really—” he remembered saying once to some giggly, half-high college girl after a show. “And a cunning linguist, just look at that tongue—” God, somehow the old, stupid line had worked well enough that Gene had made it with her that night, evidenced by the moans he heard from his hotel room a couple hours later and Ace’s disgusted banging on the door (“get another room, Geno, Jesus—”).

“I’m not here for that tonight.” Gene pauses. “There’s a producer here I’m trying to meet. You’ve probably heard of him, he’s—”

That shit again. Paul can feel his expression twitch before he forces it back into stiff neutrality. It’s a face he’s spent years perfecting, through all the mocking interviews and press conferences, utterly straight and utterly unruffled, except it’s paper-thin in front of Gene. Or it should be.

“Okay. Cool.”

“Don’t get pissy. It’s business.”

“I said it’s cool, Gene.” Paul pockets his eyeliner and heads to the door without a wave. “Have fun schmoozing.”

He doesn’t wait on Gene’s apology. He knows he won’t get one as he gets back to the dancefloor, feeling seedy, feeling wasted even without a drop of alcohol. There’s a girl, all fluffy red hair and a preening little smile, and he starts to chat her up on automatic, smooth over his frustration in the easiest way he can.

He stops when he realizes she has no idea who he is.

***

He doesn’t even turn on the radio on the drive home, no more than twenty minutes later. The housekeeper’s gone for the night, but she remembered, at least, to leave the light on in his bedroom. Another sentimental holdover from when he was on the road so often he wanted every hotel room to feel like home, at least a little, wanted the light on to greet him when he came back. Back then, the light was rarely the only one welcoming him back.

It’s too early for bed still, but he finds himself there anyway, lying on top of the covers. A month ago, during the shoot for The Decline of Western Civilization, that bed was covered with blonde Playboy models. Hired hands all. “You can do it,” he’d said to the camera, lazy and smiling as the girls sprawled over him like vultures to a carcass. “I did,” he’d said, the implication obvious—you can make it, you can have what I have. Another fucking lie, as potent as a morphine drip. He hadn’t made it. Hadn’t been a blazing success, much less a legend. Just a spark for everyone else to copy. He hadn’t done a damn thing but kept KISS on life support for the last eight years.

He doesn’t hear the car pull up, but he sees the lights from the window. It’s Gene’s. Paul comes downstairs, has the door open before Gene can even ring the bell.

“Get anywhere with that producer?”

Gene doesn’t take the bait.

“Far enough.”

“Are you going to come in?”

“I can only come where I’m invited.” Gene says it straight-faced enough that Paul nearly cracks a smile at the reference despite himself.

“Come in, then.” Paul shuts the door behind him. Gene makes himself at home, walking to the living room where KISS’ gold albums hang like a dead pharaoh’s playthings. He’s leaning in to inspect them as if he doesn’t have the same ones at home. Paul watches him from just inside the door, just watches, just waits, until Gene turns to speak.

“Paul, come here.”

 He heads over to where Gene’s standing, looking tired, looking bored. Gene’s only other mode these days, looking disgusted, must be out of commission for now.

 “You’re acting like I shot you. You keep acting like I shot you. Snap out of it.”

“Shut up.”

“You’ve been in my band for fifteen years, Paul. Don’t tell me to shut up.”

 “Your band.” Paul starts to laugh. “It’s your band now? Well, why the fuck not. Your shitty movies, your shitty marketing—your shitty band. Take it.”

Gene shakes his head, rolls his eyes.

“I don’t care what’s gotten into you, you need to calm down.”

“What’s gotten into me is my partner taking half the credit when I put in all the work. What’s gotten into me is you blowing me off for—”

“When have I turned you down, Paul? Name it. Name one tour I said no to.” Gene’s voice was starting to rise out of that customary even tone, that fake-intellectual enunciation he used to override his New York accent. Slivers of it were coming back like sea glass washing ashore. “In fact, name one concert I was even late for.”

 “Name one song on the last four albums you actually fucking wrote yourself.”

Gene doesn’t answer, and somehow, that’s worse than if he’d tried to defend himself. But it just confirms what Paul’s known for years. Tossing money at some wannabe songwriters to ghostwrite his stuff. He’d get someone else out there playing bass for him if he could. And why not? KISS is a dying investment, hemorrhaging funds. A band that can’t keep its members, much less a crowd. A band that has to beg for MTV coverage. Any businessman with half a brain would cut out.

Any businessman.

But any friend—

Paul swallows.

“Forget it. Just forget it. It doesn’t matter if you’re in Hollywood or Queens. You’re still the same asshole that used to chase pennies down the street.”

There’s a flash of something like pain in Gene’s dark eyes then. Something like shame, as if he’s been ashamed of anything in years—but he is ashamed, ashamed of the scars of childhood poverty. Ashamed they’re still there, still motivating him, leaving him restless and anxious no matter his millions.

 He shouldn’t feel any satisfaction in hurting Gene like that. But he does until Gene finally responds.

“And you’re the asshole that threw them.”

“Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit.”

He’s barely aware until after he’s done it that he’s pushed Gene up against the wall. Gene’s bulky, broad in a way he hasn’t been since they first met. He never works out. Never does a damn thing onstage anymore but obediently rock his head to the beat and stick his tongue out for the kids. It’s easy enough to hold him there, hand clenched around his shoulder. It’s easy enough until Gene yanks him forward, weight against strength, turns him around, and Paul’s back suddenly finds the wall. Above him, the framed gold records rattle on their mountings.

 He wishes they’d shatter.

Gene’s breath is ragged against Paul’s ear. Closer than they’ve been since their last interview, pushed together like puppets on camera. Closer than they’ve been since their last concert, leaning into the same microphone.

(can you get it back)

 (would you want it back)

Paul inhales the mix of cologne and sweat on Gene’s skin, so reminiscent it’s painful. His own breaths are an uneven rattle that only get faster the longer he’s pinned there, seconds that seem to stretch and tangle. He doesn’t protest—maybe that’s what Gene expects, what he wants—and doesn’t bother with a struggle. Doesn’t want to.

“KISS is all I have, Gene.”

“I know.”

“You’re all I have.”

“I know.”

Gene drops his grip on Paul’s shoulders. Quickly, Paul reaches over, grasps Gene’s wrist before he can turn away.

“Don’t go.” It’s pathetic. It’s so pathetic he wishes he could swallow the words up, but they’re spilling out like water. Any longer and he’ll be babbling like a child. Any longer and he’ll erode, past the remnants of Paul and the failed ghost of Starchild and right back to Stanley Eisen. Right back to the kid Gene first met, that fat eighteen-year-old kid with no right ear and no confidence at all.

Right back to who he always was.

“Please don’t go.” Both hands now, grabbing onto one of Gene’s arms, stroking his skin. A creature comfort he shouldn’t be so starved for. Paul can feel the flush in his face as well as he can feel the disgusting lump in his throat. Contact, just a little contact, just a little warmth. None of which he expects Gene to provide. Paul can’t even bear to look him in the eye. He knows damn well what expression has to be there, the pity, the revulsion. Gene despises weak people. Weak people like Peter and Ace, slaves to addiction. Weak people like him that couldn’t move forward and couldn’t change, kept shoving out the same desperate routines for a shrinking audience.

It’s a surprise, then, when Gene’s hand closes roughly around his. It’s a surprise when Gene’s chapped lips meet his neck and he whispers four words against his skin.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Gene’s kissing his collarbone, neither tender nor harsh but familiar, oddly familiar, as if this isn’t the first time he’s touched him like this, pushing back Paul’s hair with his other hand to expose more of his neck. Paul can’t believe it, brown eyes wide, heart pounding a hotly confused cadence. There’s no way in the hell this is happening. It doesn’t make sense. Any second now and Gene’s going to throw it all in his face, going to laugh and leave him here after all like a stupid, desperate groupie—any second, he’s just waiting on Paul to kiss back, touch back—and he won’t allow Gene that; he won’t allow Gene that—

“Gene, I’m not one of your whores.”

“I know that.”

“I’m not—I’m not giving you ammunition to hurt me.”

“Hurt you?” And now Gene’s pulled away enough to stare at him, looking bewildered. He’s still clasping Paul’s hand. “You think I’m trying to hurt you?”

“Aren’t you?”

“No! Shit, Paul, I’m trying to help!”

Unreal. Absolutely unreal. Paul wants to say Gene can’t pull that shit with him. He’s not a groupie, not a Playboy playmate. He isn’t someone who’s going to be gone in the morning; he’ll be there, defiantly there, tour after tour, album after album. Whatever happens is going to matter, and keep mattering, whether or not KISS collapses. Whether or not Paul does.

He wants to say a lot of things, but his lips meet Gene’s instead.

That’s all it takes. Gene’s claiming, already claiming, mouth hard and heavy against Paul’s, tongue probing for an entrance Paul hesitates to offer, at first. Fifteen years on the road taught him all he ever needed to know about how little an opening Gene needs to make it with a girl. But to make it with him—he’s panting already, lips parting, anticipation and anxiousness merging. He wants to know. He wants to feel. Gene’s tongue slips in easily, hot and eager, and his chest is pressed against Paul’s, bearing down on him against the wall. Paul finds his footing gradually, almost shyly, tongue flicking briefly against Gene’s mouth, but before long he’s caught up in it, too. Before long, his arms are locked around Gene’s shoulders and their hips are flush, shoving together in an erratic, desperate rhythm that’s making Paul groan and Gene chuckle lowly. The fears, the paranoia, they’re melting into simple want.

Then Gene’s hand goes to Paul’s Levi’s. Nothing bespoke, nothing custom. Just a tight pair of jeans, erection outlined and straining painfully against the fabric. Snap. Snap. Then the zipper sliding down. Paul can hear his own words reverberating in his brain, said on over a hundred stages now, the Love Gun intro—(i said to her i said i’m a little shy)

(i said honey)

(i said honey)

“I have a bed, Gene,” he finally breathes out, and Gene laughs.

“All right.”

The light’s still on in his bedroom. Of course it is. Gene doesn’t turn it off when he walks in after Paul, and that surprises him. Even early on, Gene wouldn’t shower or get dressed with the rest of the band. Paul had suspected prudishness, or maybe even some weird intimidation. He’s never seen Gene any closer to undressed than on the seventies album covers. So he’s curious, intensely curious as he gets on the bed, starting to unbutton his shirt too quickly to be teasing.

Not quickly enough for Gene, who’s on top of him almost immediately, finishing with the last of the buttons. No undershirt beneath—he’d been looking to get laid, of course—and Gene’s fingers course down Paul’s hairy chest, admiring the muscle beneath. Paul shivers, reaches out to start peeling off Gene’s shirt, except Gene brushes his hand back. Paul’s lips purse, and he rolls his eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna fuck with your clothes on.”

“Just want to get a better look at the view first.”

“You’ve seen that v—ah.” Gene’s hands are back to Paul’s jeans, tugging them down along with his boxers. Paul kicks them to the floor, watching his bandmate with a sudden nervousness, glancing away as soon as Gene’s eyes meet his. He can feel Gene’s stare on him, traveling down from his mussed hair and streaking eyeliner down to his broad chest on down to his cock. Thoroughly exposed. He feels like those girls must when they’re being assessed, except Gene doesn’t assess, just glances and decides that a pair of tits are good enough. That’s what Paul had always assumed from the Polaroids. But there’s something Gene likes there, there has to be. There has to be because he’s starting to smile.

Being watched, if anything, is making his raging hard-on worse than ever. An audience of one he’s playing for now, an audience he never thought he’d court. Paul reaches for Gene’s slacks this time and Gene lets him, the button and zipper undone with casual deftness. He’s not wearing underwear. Like hell he was meeting a producer at the club. Right now, though, Paul can’t find it in him to mind.

“Have you done this before?”

“Fuck, no. Have you?”

“No.” Gene looks vaguely surprised at the admission, stops in the middle of licking a stripe down Paul’s throat, and Paul adds, “I mean, sure, I’ve had opportunities, but…”

Gene snorts.

“Ace is a catastrophe, not an opportunity. Give me the lube, then.”

Paul has to reach out awkwardly to get it out of the bedside table without pushing Gene off him in the process. Gene’s not exactly helping things, either, still pawing all over him, exploring every inch of his skin with his tongue and fingertips, tracing the jutting contours of his hips and his flat abdomen. Every inch except his cock. It’s distracting as hell, but it’s agonizing, too. He’s never let someone rove over him like this for very long. Not Pam or his litany of one-tour-only girlfriends, certainly none of the groupies that tried to worship him for a half-hour at a time. It would have given them too much control. He’d always redirect them out of their own caresses by turning the focus back on them. Insist they were the prize he was paying homage to.

Now Gene’s doing it to him.

“Hold on—here—”

Paul’s hands are unsteady as he twists open the cap and hands it over. Gene takes the lube and finally yanks off his own shirt, throwing it on the floor. Paul’s not getting the greatest chance at taking a look at Gene from this angle yet, given he’s still bearing down on him, but he’s surprised at what he does see. Oh, Gene doesn’t hit the gym, but he hasn’t gone completely to seed, either. He’s filled out; there’s that intimidating factor to him still, that raw physicality in his presence that’s driving Paul’s pulse insane. Gene doesn’t depend on the girls or the albums or the tours to keep his ego sated. He doesn’t define himself by the trappings of the band. He just is.

Before long, Gene’s pumping Paul’s dick in a rough sort of rhythm, at first ignoring his own erection, which brushes against Paul’s leg in brief moments that turn more intentional by the second. Paul tilts his hips up desperately into the movements, letting him rut against him, grabbing his bandmate by the shoulders, by the hair, thinking Gene might not go for more, thinking Gene might back out. He can’t quell that insecurity entirely, but the bursts of pure, mounting pleasure are enough to silence it. His teeth catch Gene’s lips half on accident the second before Gene slides a slick finger inside him, and he grunts a little in surprise.

“You okay?”

“Fine, I’m fine, I’m great.”

Gene raises an eyebrow.

“You’re nervous as hell. Look, if you’re not up to this—”

“I’m up to this.” Paul exhales, manages to grin through his needy consternation. His dick’s throbbing painfully, Gene’s pause only adding to the tension. “You’re just not the girl I thought I’d be taking to bed tonight.”

“Who’s taking who to bed now?” Gene laughs, adding another finger, crooking it inside him; this time, Paul rocks into it, the pressure, the feeling of fullness weird but not unpleasant. “Lift your legs up. There, yeah.”

Paul’s fingers tighten in Gene’s hair, yanking as Gene adds another finger, splaying them, pumping in and out experimentally. He knows Gene’s just trying to prepare, but it’s maddening, the buzz in his brain only getting worse the longer he’s doing it. The vulnerability’s driving him out of his mind, but so is the need, so is the odd reassurance that Gene’s doing his dead-level best. It’s strangely nostalgic, the look of concentration in Gene’s eyes, that look he had back in Wicked Lester and in the early days of KISS, that intense dedication. Paul never would have thought that look would ever be turned toward him.

His nails bite into Gene’s bare shoulder as he tugs him forward, as if there’s any space between them left. Gene’s dick is still a heavy insinuation against Paul’s thigh, and he’s craving it, craving that fulfillment.

“Go ahead.” Paul’s voice is throaty, breaths a heavy cadence against Gene’s neck. “I’m ready.”

***

There’s this dream he keeps having. They’re in the studio again, the old gang again. Ace and Peter looking affable, maybe almost sober. They’re recording demos at The Electric Lady.

His guitar feels like an extension of his body, all exquisite power, barely leashed in, and every note from his throat is clean and effortless. Gene glances at him in approval.

“Looks like you got it back,” he says, clasping an arm around his shoulder, and Paul starts to smile.

 “I think so. I think so.”

[orionwhispers]

Devil Like Me (Part IX)

(A/N I know its been a while but I hope you love this next part! Sort of a “filler” but big things are coming! Love you all, thank you for being so kind and patient) 

Then

Winter had slipped away, and the breath of spring was lingering in the air. You sighed, feeling content as the warmth of the sun bathed your limbs. You spread your fingers along the metal of the car, smiling at the heat radiating off it, sending shocks along your fingertips.

"That exam was hell."

"Tell me about it." You murmured, falling back into your comfortable position on the hood of Jasmine's yellow car.  You exhaled, glad for the fresh air, a welcome change from the stuffy classroom you had spent the past two hours in. Until the stench of smoke tainted your nostrils. You immediately recoiled up, grimacing at the stale smell, and stared blankly at Jasmine, her slender fingers grasping a lit cigarette.

"What?" She questions, pulling the rim of her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose.

"Since when do you smoke?"

She glances at the roll between her fingertips and shrugs, "I dunno. I just did."

You swivel your eyes and kick her lightly, "This wouldn't have anything to do with Greg would it?"

"Er - no."

"Good." You smirk, watching as she inhales, before breaking into a fit of deep coughs.

"Fuck it." She laughs still spluttering, dropping the smoke onto the floor and crushing it between the soles of her boots, "I thought I could get into it! But its so gross."

“Greg's gross." You childishly retort, giggling as she slaps you on the stomach, face pulled into a frown but her emerald eyes shining wildly.

You watch through hooded eyelids as she reaches into her bag and pulls out a stick of gum, then grabs her phone and checks the time, a photo of you both beaming widely set as the lock screen "About half an hour before we need to get back to school."

You tap your fingers in acknowledgement, feeling Jasmine's presence slink next to yours. Through the top of your sunglasses, you can see the view, the ocean in the distance, the light dancing on the top of the water. It was a relief to be out of the confinement of the classroom, the past few weeks had been hell. Studying for exams until your eyes felt sore, living on a diet of red bull and mac and cheese as you tried to cram your head with as many algebra equations as you could. Your bedroom was scattered with college leaflets and scholarship applications, left bare as you grew tired lying about how ecstatic you were about the laws of gravity.

The tops of the trees in the forest came into your line of sight, the bushy green needles protruding your thoughts. You directed your attention to a seagull perched atop of the post office, you didn’t need to think of him. But if you did - you'd think about how it had been months without a trace, not so much as a twig snapping in the distance as you drove to school. His absence had been strange, a relief at first. Finally, you could concentrate on your life without disturbance, but as the days turned into weeks you realised that you liked the distraction, the feeling of having someone watching from the sidelines. You couldn’t help wondering if maybe you had been too harsh with him on the night with James, but you shook away that thought as soon as it entered your brain, he was a monster, he didn't care about you.

“Greg's going to be 18 in a couple of weeks."

"Good for him."

Jasmine ignored your comment and turned to face you, cheekbones glossy from the heat of the sun, “His Uncle owns a cabin up in Ivywood.”

You nod, thinking of the small town a couple of hours from where you lived. You had spent a few odd summers there, it was beautiful and popular with campers.

“He says it’s right near the lake.”

“Lucky him.”

“He’s going to throw a party - a small get together - to celebrate, he wants you to come.”

“He wants me to come or you want me to come?”

Jasmine rises to her elbows, brows furrowed in distaste. “Y/N! I don’t get why you don’t like him?”

You sigh slightly, the truth was there wasn't much wrong with Greg, sure he was a bit arrogant, but he was harmless. Jasmine was far too good for him, and you found his failure to realise that irritating.

“It’s not that I don’t like him - it’s just I doubt I'd bring much to the party.”

“Well, it’s not like you’d be spending the weekend alone. There will be other people!”

“Like who?”

“Well, I'm not exactly sure on the numbers, but his Uncle says he can have it for the weekend! So it’ll probably be me, Greg obviously, Josh, Laura, Ashley, Mike and then you and Ren!”

You nod along recognising a few of Greg's best friends and fellow teammates but fall short at the last name.

“Ren?”

A smug smile grazes the corner of Jasmine's lips, “Oh yeah, I haven’t told you! Ren is Greg’s cousin, I told him all about you -”

“You told him about me?” You screech, shaking your head in disbelief, one of Jasmine's favourite hobbies was trying to set you up, usually with guys you had nothing in common with.

“Duh! You’re my best friend! It was only good things I promise!”

“Jesus Jasmine.” You sigh, rubbing your forehead and gazing out into the distance, partially hoping the ground would swallow you up.

“Cmon, Y/N.” Jasmine murmurs, crawling towards you, her voice soft. “You’ve had a really hard time..” she glances quickly at the fading bruise below your eye, now a muted grey colour. “-and I thought that maybe it would cheer you up!”

“I'm really not interested.”

“You always turn down the boys I suggest! Do you want to be single forever?”

A certain face flickers in your mind momentarily, but you blink, forcing it out of your head.

“He’s really nice. But even if you hate him, it doesn't matter! Imagine a weekend away, swimming in a lake, roasting marshmallows and just relaxing! Just think about it at least!” She holds out her hands and tilts her head, reminding you of a dog wanting to be thrown a ball.

“Fine. I’ll think about it! No promises!”

Jasmine squeals engulfing you in a hug, the scent of stale smoke and fruity perfume surrounding you both as she presses a kiss to your cheek. You settle backwards, gazing out into the distant town, rose-tinted from your glasses, memories of the past few months clambering over your brain. Who knows, maybe a weekend away could be fun?

Now

You pace around Rebekah’s spacious bedroom, bare feet padding against her luxurious fur rugs as you cradle a mug of steaming coffee. The faint lull of the radio is floating through the air and a few of her expensive candles are lit, making the air smell of sage and sea salt. The blonde is staring at you in anticipation, eyes wide like a tiger ready to strike.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” You ask, taking a sip of your syrupy brew, pretending you don't know whats coming.

She sighs dramatically, “Do I have to spell it out for you? What happened between you and my brother?”

You shrug, slouching onto her armchair and folding your legs. “Nothing, we talked - that's all.”

“Bullshit!”

You trace your finger along a drip of coffee trailing the side of the mug, watching Rebekah in the corner of your eye striking her hands on her hips, prodding you for more.

“We just.. talked. I mean you couldn’t even call it that, he’s not exactly happy to be speaking to me at the moment.”

She quirks a brow and tilts her head, watching you in a sceptical manner. You felt slightly bad lying to her, but whatever was happening between you and Klaus felt so private. Your relationship always had done. To onlookers it probably seemed beyond puzzling, you were destined to get hurt the minute you became involved, but nobody understood the connection you had - as cliche as it sounded. But now, things were different, the past two years had changed both of you, and you couldn't erase the past. You were handling him like a glass ball, determined not to shatter his fragile state.

"Oh sure. I bet you both had a lovely civil conversation, that sounds about right. "

You take a slurp of coffee, nodding along to Rebekah's story nonchalantly, but the blonde isn't taking the bait.

"Y/N! You were kidnapped! You practically vanished into thin air, Klaus went bloody mental. I haven't seen him act that psychotic since.." her voice trails off momentarily, eyes darting to yours before she falters and smooths out her dress. "Look never mind, but seriously, you can't possibly be telling me that he didn't go berserk when he found you? He used to try and stop you leaving the house to buy milk for Christ's sake. "

You snort remembering Klaus' overprotective melodramatics as you lean back against the plush furniture. You exhale loudly and push yourself up to Rebekah’s line of sight. “I'm not denying he went mad - he almost killed Damon.”

“He had it coming.” The blonde scoffed, venom in her voice. “You both must have been in quite a hurry to leave, I mean, you left behind your daylight ring. You never go anywhere without it.”

You trace the band around your finger, the weight of it comforting you. One of Klaus’ men had returned it to you this morning, you had no clue how he had acquired it but you weren't complaining. Leaning forward, you plucked at a feather sprouting from Rebekah’s pillow and rolled it between your fingertips.

“That girl... Elena.” You test the name on your tongue, watching as Rebekah's head momentarily picks up, a look of distaste on her crimson lips. “She said that Klaus wanted to hurt her and her friends.”

“Would that be so bad?” Rebekah asks, leaning forward and applying a coat of mascara to her full lashes, “The girl is a whiny bitch.”

You tut slightly, humoured at her annoyance. “What’s going on with these people? What has Klaus done?”

Rebekah places her mascara tube down, eyeing herself in her rose gold mirror as she runs her fingers over flyaway tresses sprouting from her hairline. “Katerina.”

You pause for a moment, the name is familiar but you can’t exactly place it. You squint, trying to focus as a thought pops into your mind. “Katerina? As in…“

“Crazy, psychotic Katerina who ruined Klaus’ plan and spent 500 years running from him? Yeah, Elena is her doppelgänger.”

You let out a low whistle, it feels strange being able to put a face to a name; well almost. You had once heard the brothers discussing a woman called Katherine, whispering in hushed tones about where she might be hiding. You had later managed to pry it out of Klaus - by sitting on his chest until he gave in - and he spun you a tale about a moonstone she had once run with.

“So - Klaus is extracting revenge on Elena because he can't get at Katherine?”

Rebekah snorts, “Something like that, another Petrova doppelganger…”

“Equals another shot at breaking the curse.”

“Bingo.” Rebekah finishes, turning to face you.

“So, Klaus is going to sacrifice the girl?”

The blonde meets your eye line momentarily, before smacking her lips and shrugging her shoulders. She clasps her hands together, delighted at how she has pulled herself together, “Shall we go and have some lunch? I bet its a relief to not be cooped up in that room.”

“Bekah..”

“Y/N.”

You roll onto your back, mumbling in contempt, frustrated at how much people pick and chose to tell you. It was exasperating that you were expected to stay in Mystic Falls without knowing what was going on around you.

“Look, I wish I could tell you but I hardly know myself. You know as well as I do that Klaus does whatever the bloody hell he wants, and I’m sure he doesn't want you involved and I don’t particularly feel like being in a coffin again.”

“How can he not want me involved but yet keep me here without so much as a conversation?”

Rebekah shoots you a sympathetic look, perching on the edge of her bed and offering a thin smile. You assume you aren't going to get much more out of her about Elena and the curse, and you try to act nonchalant as a particular question bubbles at the edge your lips.

“What about that other girl…” You pause, tapping slightly on the ceramic mug pretending to conjure her name as if it hadn't been at the tip of your tongue for hours. “…Caroline.”

“Oh, Caroline.” Rebekah tightens the strap of her stiletto heel, taking a cautious first step before steadying herself. “The blonde bimbo. She’s newly turned but she's harmless, more or less.” You raise a brow, egging her for more information, “She’s one of Elena’s best friends, oh so preppy and irritating, the poor little mite is terrified of me though.” She giggles and turns her head back towards you, flashing her pointed fangs and letting out a mock snarl. You laugh softly, rolling your eyes before diverting your attention back towards a loose thread on a plump pillow, mind whirring slightly, what she said shouldn't bother you, but it did.

“Whats the matter with you?” Bekah asks from the corner of the room, adjusting her belt and shooting you a quizzical look.  You wave a hand casually and take a sip, trying to mask your feelings. “It's rather hilarious to see her around me, I remember at the ball…”

She falters, spinning around as if on autopilot. Her azure eyes meeting yours, her brows furrowed in question. “The ball.” She finishes, murmuring to herself, you could almost see the gears turning in her brain as she pursed her red lips. “Klaus left so suddenly - ” Her face is sympathetic, eyes soft and kind “You saw them together didn't you?”

You exhale loudly, knocking your head back and running a palm through your hair, Rebekah’s mouth turns up slightly before spreading into a total grin. “I knew it!” Her voice is shrill and high pitched as she leaps towards you like a kitten. You stare back at her, bemused at her statement. “I knew there was a reason he left like that… Holy shit! Why didn’t you tell me?”

You push yourself off the armchair, suddenly feeling hot and overwhelmed with the situation. “I'm sorry, I was a bit busy being burnt alive by a stranger to tell you about my boyfriend dancing with another woman!”

Rebekah raises an arched brow towards you, mouth turned into a smirk. “What?” You ask feeling completely lost and bewildered at what you had gotten into.

“You said, boyfriend.”

You falter slightly, backtracking in your mind as you realise your mistake. “Yeah…  well, I meant.” You pause, exhaling loudly and flopping back into the furniture, head buried in your palms. “Shit! Fuck!”

You hear Rebekah lowly chuckle as she kneels before you, her hands are delicate as she places them over yours, folding them together in your lap. “She doesn’t mean anything to him. She's just a pawn in his game.”

“I don’t care.” You lie.

“I know. But if you did… I’d tell you that he doesn’t care about anyone, no one except you.”

You snort, “He has a funny way of showing it.”

You both still for a moment, the only noise is the trees whistling in the wind outside. Rebekah rubs comforting circles across your hands and you're so grateful for her presence. You suddenly begin feeling embarrassed, it seeps through your pores and insecurity is dripping in your mind.

“I'm being stupid.” You sniff, wiping the start of tears you had no idea were forming. “I left. It was my choice, he had a right to move on. I can't stop him.” Your voice is wavering but you remain firm.

“You still love him,” Rebekah says, its more of a statement than anything and you know its true, there's no point denying it.

“I never stopped.”

The blonde rises to her feet, mimicking your movements as you head towards the door. “Are you going to tell him?”

“No.”

“I think you should, I think you both have more to say than you realise.”

You take one step forward and then immediately move back. You purse your lips as if sucking on a lemon and point your toes as if you are going to take a leap, before pulling your leg backwards. You feel ridiculous but so many things are stopping you from moving across the hallway. The house is mostly empty, Rebekah left soon after your chat promising to catch up with you later to talk about your predicament - something you weren't looking forward to. Kol was long gone, probably off harassing an innocent civilian and you hadn't seen Klaus or Elijah since the previous day. You were used to being alone, and you found comfort in the presence of your own thoughts, the only noise being the occasional mumble from Klaus’ minions downstairs. You now had free reign of the house, but only stayed on the highest floor with the exception of Rebekah’s boudoir. You didn't feel comfortable roaming around the halls and felt safe in your own space. You couldn't risk trying the front door and even if it miraculously opened you didn't have the urge to run, there were still things to sort out here.

But here you were, stood still like a statue at the step leading to the second floor. Its large and open presence daunting but the secrets withheld behind the doors coaxing you towards them. You should feel guilty for even thinking about rummaging around someone else belongings, but you and the Mikaelsons were hardly strangers, and besides, there was only one person whose mysteries you wanted to find. You gave yourself a mini pep talk, basically telling yourself to grow some balls, as you took a feeble step forward. You smiled inwardly and curled your toes into the rug, watching as your feet carried you ahead. You slipped open the first few doors, to no avail. All were grand and extravagant, but not what you were looking for. You came to the last door, further back than the others, perched under an archway in solidarity. You scoffed at yourself, you should have chosen this one first. Even the wood was unwelcoming, a deep ebony - almost completely black, a sharp contrast to the light surrounding you.

Gingerly, you grasped the brass handle, cursing at your feebleness. You reluctantly pushed it open, listening as the door creaked in protest. Your feet prowled forward as you hit the hardwood floor and smiled to yourself at the comforting silence. You had almost expected an alarm to sound or to fall through a trap door into a lion pit, two things you wouldn't find that surprising from Klaus. You sigh as you peer around the room, a feeling anchoring in the pit of your stomach. The chamber is lavish, but not in an overwhelming way. The colours are deep and almost comforting, a mix of coppers and reds, the curtains are drawn, engulfing the room in darkness. You cautiously pace forward, taking in as much as you can manage, it smells familiar, in a way that makes your heart lurch in your chest.

The room looks entirely unlived in, the bed made and the drawers tidy and closed. The only sign that he was ever here is the lingering acrylic smell, and the art perched on the wall. You creep forward, your fingertips tracing along the edge of a mahogany dresser as you reach the edge of the large canvas.

It takes your breath away.

Once upon a time, mornings were a time for lounging in bed, covers draped over your cool form as you observed Klaus through sleepy eyes, his hands moving against his work, a small smirk on his lips when he realised he was being watched. The memory is unwelcome and you clench your fingernails into your palm to force yourself to forget, the instant pain shocking you into silence. The painting is of a forest, filled with lush trees, the bark twisted and gnarled reminding you of crashing waves against the shore. The sketch is dark and distant taking you back to a time long ago, you almost reach out and touch it, but stop yourself before your fingers disrupt the art.

Your hand brushes against an askew paintbrush sending it hurtling onto the floor, you curse lightly as you watch it roll underneath the bed. You bend down and clamber onto all fours, feeling the cool flooring under your palms. You scramble forward, heaving the great blankets grazing the ground, huffing at their excessive size in contrast to your small frame. You extend a palm, determined to find the missing apparatus before he notices its absence. You sigh as your fingers brush various specks of dust and a stray sock before you come into contact with something firm. You clasp your hands around the hard interior and tug it towards you, falling backwards into a more comfortable position. Your eyes graze over the object in question, its a kind of sketchbook bound in leather, you tease the front cover wanting desperately to prise it open but unsure of what you'll find. Its been well loved, dog-eared and creased along the dark spine. Curiosity gets the better of you and you rip apart the pages, the paper rough against your fingers.

Its a sketch of you.

You cant place the date, but your hands trace the pencil strokes, it's so similar to the first you received, capturing every essence of you, from the curve in your nose to the arch of your eyebrows. You turn the page and there's another, this one of you bundled up as you visited the beach one year, cheeks rosy and a wide smile as you stared at the open water. You flick the page, there's another, and then another. Each yellow page filled with sketches of you, all from the past, ones of you curled up reading a book, then side profile and smiling, trips from a time long passed. You feel tears trickle down your cheeks as you sniffle, a lump growing at the bottom of your throat.

You turn to the next page, and a small rectangle drops onto the floor. You unfold it slowly and realise its a map, slightly crinkled and worn with unmistakable scrawled handwriting across various regions. All sightings of you, possibilities of where you could be found. You exhale loudly as you come to terms with what you have discovered, you finger the creases in the map as you try to work out all of the words before you notice a small piece of paper sticking to the back of the journal.

You pluck it out, and your fingers trace the fine material, you know exactly what it is. Its a photo of the both of you, the only one you have. You had managed to sneakily take it of Klaus before he could protest, both of you in the reflection of a mirror. You grinning like a child at the camera, pleased with your hidden photo and Klaus in the background, attempting to control the fire roaring in the cabin you had rented for the night. You both looked so happy and utterly normal, not a care in the world as you enjoyed each others company. As soon as he heard the camera click, he pounced, demanding you tear it before you shoved it away with a laugh, distracting him and teasing him from the developing polaroid. You completely forgot about the photo that weekend, too caught up in bliss to remember where you had left it and your heart clenches as you realise he must have found it somewhere and kept it for himself.

A guttural moan escapes your lips before you can silence it, and the tears are flowing hard and fast, but before you can weep in peace the front door slams open and the house is filled with a chorus of voices. You wipe your damp face with the back of your sleeve and leap to your feet, returning everything to where you found it and leaving the room noiselessly. Avoiding all contact with people and not making a sound before you manage to lock yourself in the bathroom, running the taps to silence your deafening sniffles and looking at your weak form in the mirror. The day's events were clattering around your mind like a bowling bowl and you felt a surge of determination, you needed to see Klaus and talk to him - you needed to -

"Hey! You can't go up there!"

You turn towards the bathroom door, tuning into the voices rising from behind it. You edge forward, brows furrowed in concern before a knock jolts you from your mind.

"Y/N... It's Bonnie... I need your help."