#which… is what I expect… I just wish there was more… empathy? sympathy? something soothing behind their words.

[floral-hex]

It’s been a rough couple of weeks. Anxiety run amok. Tried to distract myself by playing through Super Mario Bros, but I’ll be honest, that was stressing me out pretty bad trying to get through some of those levels. Unrelated but coincidentally (tangentially?), after an intense bit of playing, my anxiety flared up majorly. Heart racing, skin painfully prickled, lungs failing me. Oh well. That’s what drugs are for. So instead I started Death Stranding, which my little brother gifted me for Christmas a couple of years back but I just never got around to committing to. Much better choice. It feels like the perfect distraction for me right now. Frankly, I’m lonely. I feel cut off from the world. I’m scared and anxious and I have no idea what the future holds for me, but it feels bleak. So it’s nice to pop into this little world where you’re trying to make connections and explore the world, even if it is just a video game. It’s giving me something positive to focus on right now.

I just thought I’d make a text post. Mention a game I like. Just folded some laundry, I’m on my 3rd bowl of cereal right now, and I’ll do some dishes when I’m done. Trying to keep on moving forward. More bullshit in the tags.

[nanasparadise]

“Dream Invader” Yan! Abbacchio x gender-neutral reader (Soulmate AU)

Hello everyone! I hope you are doing fine. I don’t know if you have read my previous post, that talks about a dream I had, but I decided to turn some elements of it into this piece of writing. This fanfiction is set in the soulmate universe. I really hope you enjoy it, because I decided to write this instead of studying for my French essay I have tomorrow (please wish me luck, God knows I need it) :D. And for the requests: I haven’t forgotten you, please remain patient. T-T I’ll write my last test on Thursday, after that I have holidays, so I’ll definitely catch up on them!! Thank you for sticking around. <3

Summary: Your soulmate keeps visiting you in your dreams, but you don’t feel comfortable around them…

TW: noncon touching, toxic relationship, angst, reader gets hurt physically, MATURE AUDIENCE ONLY/MINORS DNI

 I do not condone any yandere behaviour in real life.

 Word count: 2626

It had happened yet again. You had dreamt again of this man, one of many countless dreams. Breathing heavily, you abruptly opened your eyes and wiped away the sweat that was accumulating on your forehead with the back of your hand. “Does that really mean…?”, you mumbled softly. Most people would be happy to find out they had a soulmate and finally had met them. But most people’s match certainly wasn’t someone, who conveyed a deep obsession and possessiveness towards their beloved. Still mentally in your dream, your body started to tremble slightly. What were you going to do now? At first, you had brushed off the dreams, convincing yourself that they didn’t mean anything. But you knew the gist of it. You knew that when a certain person kept infiltrating your dreams, that they were your soulmate.

Sighing deeply, you turned around in your bed, your left cheek resting on the soft pillow. The clock on your bedside table revealed that it was 4:30 a.m. You certainly couldn’t fall asleep again, but it was still too early to wake up for work. So you remained there in the quiet, your shallow breaths being the only sound in the dark room. Despite your efforts, your racing thoughts kept returning to your dream. “Who is this man?”, you whispered as you looked down on your fingers, which seemed to still hurt.

 Every time he had shown up, he had never revealed his name to you, wanting to keep it to himself. “I‘ll tell it to you once we see us in real life, amore”, he had told you, a certain spark igniting his admittedly gorgeous yellow and purple eyes. Truth be told, your soulmate was nothing short of beautiful. Long white hair with a purple hue graced his stoic face. His athletic body was adorned with a dark bodysuit, accentuating his muscles. All in all, he reminded you of a vengeful Greek god, breathtaking but dangerous. Dangerous… You began to feel threatened by the presence of your mysterious dream visiter. Since he had never offered you his name, you hadn’t given him yours either, sensing there might be something off about him.

 Still, he had found it out. This night in your dream, you two had been on the flower field you had met for the first time. You had felt dizzy, as if your head had been caught in the clouds. This light atmosphere had convinced you that this had been truly a dream, since a sense of haziness always accompanied your nocturnal adventures. The summer sun had been setting, turning the sky into a colourful spectacle of orange and pink. This would have been a picturesque and maybe even romantic moment if it hadn’t been for the feeling of dread building in your stomach. A small smile had formed on his purple lips when he had perceived your form. Quietly, nearly inaudibly, the stranger had murmured your name into the warm summer breeze: “Y/N.” Immediately, goosebumps had formed on your arms. 

“How do you know my name?”, you had replied, visibly shaken. Had he somehow managed to get some information on you? 

“It’s such a fitting name”, he had mused contemplatively, ignoring your question. “Y/N…” His unique eyes had been fixed on you the whole time, analysing every detail of your face. Fear had started to take over your body. The slight shivers had transformed into noticeable trembling. Your breath had shortened as you had desperately searched for a way to get out of that dream. 

„Why are you doing this?”, you had shouted out, panic manifesting in your voice. “Why do you keep entering my dreams, just to behave like a creep? How should I trust you when you don’t even tell me anything about yourself, yet you somehow know my personal information?” The man in front of you had sighed at your outburst. Sparks of sympathy had danced in his eyes, making them appear even brighter. Slowly, he had reached for your hands, holding them in his larger ones. You had tried to pull off from his grasp, but your fighting had been futile against his stronger form. So you had been forced to remain there, listening to the dream man’s words. 

“I know this is confusing for you,” he had said while rubbing circles on the back of your hands with his thumbs, “but I can’t give you any information yet, my job makes it hard. I need to see you in real life and I promise, I’ll tell you everything then.” Tears had pricked in your eyes, clouding your vision. Why had he assumed you two would meet? The thought of the stranger knowing your address had turned your initial dread into hot anger. No matter if he was your soulmate, you were still your own, independent person! He couldn’t just stalk you, talk to you as if you were a couple and leave you in the dark about his own identity. The dream man still had held your hands, expecting some kind of reaction from you. 

“No”, you had simply answered, refusing to meet his intense gaze. 

“No what?”, he had replied, impatience swinging in his voice. He had been in your dreams endless times, reassuring you of his love and loyalty for you. Why hadn’t you been reciprocating his feelings? He was your soulmate after all! 

“No,” you had repeated while your eyebrows had furrowed, illustrating your resistance,”we’re not going to see each other.” The grip on your hands had suddenly become stronger and hurtful, nearly crushing your fingers. For a second time, you had tried to take away your hands from him but without success. The stranger’s orbs had fixated you, darkness swirling in the iris of the same colour as the flowers on the field. Terror had made itself visible again in your body and mind, amplified by the man’s sombre look on his handsome face. Yes, he looked just like a statue of Ares, so enchanting and yet so enraged. And dangerous… 

“So you don’t want to meet your soulmate?”, he had stated calmy, which only had increased your anxiety. 

“Please, let go, you’re hurting me”, you had pleaded despairingly. The man had squeezed harshly one last time your hands before he had eventually released them. Protectively, you had cradled them against your chest, trying to soothe the pain by softly rubbing your fingers. “What kind of person would do this to their soulmate?” you had thought in disgust and fear. Hesitantly, you had looked up to him, his face remaining a stoic façade. 

“You still haven’t answered my question, Y/N”, the dream man had said coolly. The fact that he had addressed you with your name again had put you in a state of fear once more. Nevertheless,  you had gathered all your courage to reply to him. 

“No, I don’t. Someone who hurts and stalks me can’t be my soulmate, no matter if they enter my dreams. And even if you are, I still don’t want to be with you. Please, I’m begging you to respect and accept that.” 

The Italian – you had guessed that this was probably his nationality since he called you Italian pet names –  man’s gaze had immediately softened at your words. He had known he’d got carried away with his rage. Of course, your words had pained him more than any weapons ever could, but he had to be patient with you. He could only imagine how he had come across to you, especially now that he had hurt you. No, he couldn’t pain a loved one again, not you… 

“I’m sorry, cuore mio,” he had said remorsefully, regret manifesting itself, “I really shouldn‘t have hurt you. I promise it won’t happen again. I just want to see you, really see you, and hold you in my arms. I know, I might not be the best man to have existed.” His face had abruptly twisted into a pained grimace. This had been the first time he had ever been that sincere to you. Your feelings had begun to transform into a mix of sympathy, fear and confusion. He had really appeared to feel bad about his actions, maybe he had lived through a trauma to react that way? Your pondering had quickly come to a halt. No, you really couldn’t start to show empathy for the man. After all, he had stalked you, hurt you, crossed too many lines. Nonetheless, your dream invader had kept up with his speech. “I don’t know if I deserve your love, but I really want to believe in it. You are my soulmate and I am yours, we can make it work out if we try. Please, give me a chance and I will do everything in my power to show you I am worthy of you. Just don’t reject me already.” He had paused for a moment, a slight tremble in his voice making itself visible. You had stared at him with big eyes, not knowing what to do or how to feel about this situation. “I’ll be truthful with you. I’ll tell you everything you want to hear.” The man had tried to grasp your hands again but had immediately stopped when he had seen, how you had flinched away. His lips had formed into a thin, bitter line while seeing your reaction. Was he a monster? “I see that my words don’t seem to get through you” he said stoically. “I’ll show you what I mean, that might help. We’ll be seeing each other soon enough.” His last sentence had sent you a cold shiver down your spine. You had had the feeling that he hadn’t referred to another dream… An expression of horror had slowly crept on your face.

“What do you mean?”, you had blurted out loudly, “you mean in our dreams, right? You don’t know where I live, do you?” But the stranger had cruelly decided to stay silent, staring at you ominously instead. Suddenly, the light atmosphere around you had changed. Heaviness had taken over you, the scenic landscape had turned black as you had woken up.

 You took another look at your clock. 5:15 a.m. Did you really spend so much time recalling that dream? Deciding that you already wasted too many thoughts on that man, you stood up from your bed and took a shower, even if it still was early. “Some distraction will do me good”, you sighed, exhaustion manifesting in your voice. Your dreams involving the stranger were always so vivid that the next morning you woke up completely tired and drained. As you entered the shower and felt the warm water hitting your skin, you finally managed to relax a little, even if that tiny voice of fear kept reminding you of the dream man’s words…

 Weeks had passed since your last encounter in the dream world with your so called soulmate. A sense of hope blossomed in your chest. Maybe he had finally come to his senses and realised that it would be best to leave you alone? That was at least what your friends had told you. They had reassured you that it happened often, that your soulmate could be invasive, they had heard that before from other acquaintances. But in those cases, it had always ended well, none of the people had been harmed. You had chosen to blindly accept that explanation. Truth be told, you did need comfort right now. Because, what your friends didn’t know was, that you felt a pair of eyes burning holes into your back every time you left your home. Yet, you never saw the person behind the gaze. Foolishly, you clung onto the sense of security your friends provided you with, even if it was but wishful thinking…

 As you returned home one evening after your work, you already perceived intuitively that something was wrong. Why was there a light on? You always did turn them off… Cautiously, you entered your bedroom, as that was where the light source came from, with your phone in your hand with the emergency number already typed in. Your palms grew sweaty and your breath heavy as fear flooded through your veins. Only now, you thought that you should have maybe taken a knife from the kitchen as protection. But alas, it was already too late. When you saw the person sitting on your bed, you were surprised to see a familiar face.

The man from your dreams quickly stood up when he glanced at your form. His eyes first landed on your horrified face, then on your phone. Without a second thought, you quickly tapped on the call button and placed the device next to your ear. The man knew exactly who you were planning on phoning. “Please, take the phone away Y/N, I’m not going to harm you”, he said lowly. Even though he promised to not hurt you, his dark expression on his face made you think otherwise. Of course you weren’t going to hang up now. You heard the Italian sigh at your act of defiance. After the second beep sound, a voice appeared on the line. 

“How can I help you?”, the person on the other side of the phone asked politely. Before you could reply, an to you invisible force ripped the device out of your grasp and slammed it onto your wall. The screen of your smartphone turned black and cracked into thousand pieces. With eyes as big as saucers you stared incredulously at it. 

“I’m sorry for that”, the man simply uttered. Though you couldn’t hear a hint of actual remorse in his voice. “I’m gonna buy you a new one.” 

“What do you want?”, you managed to voice, “I thought you had left me in peace.” 

“I’ve told you at our last encounter that we would see each other again, fiore mio”, the man replied with softness. “I can’t believe you’re really here physically”, he kept on musing in a dreamy tone, eyes lighting up. He took a few steps towards you, a hand reaching out to you. You instinctively took a few steps back until your back hit the door. 

“Please, don’t come near me”, you begged, feeling completely helpless and exposed. 

“It’s fine Y/N, really. I promised I’d you show that I won’t ever hurt you again.” He was now in front of you, your faces so close, you could feel his breath fan over your nose. Tears welled up in your eyes and threatened to stream over your face. What were you going to do now? You were scared to react in a sudden way, scared it would trigger the Italian and his dangerous invisible force. Gently, the man shushed you and placed a hand on your cheek.  A calloused thumb brushed away the tears that had finally escaped. “I know that I have done bad things in the past,” he whispered quietly to you, “but I, Leone Abbacchio, swear I will fix it. I will be a better person for you, Y/N.” Your eyes widened at the revelation of his name. Abbacchio basked in your innocent reaction. He took a mental note to replay it with Moody Blues later. While one hand kept caressing your cheek, the other one grabbed into his pocket to take out a yellow flower, matching perfectly with the man’s eyes. Your gaze fell upon the plant, recognising it from the flower field of your dreams. Abbacchio softly tucked it behind your left ear while admiring your face. You hiccupped anxiously at his obsessive staring. “We will have a beautiful future ahead of us, I’ll make sure of it” the Italian murmured in your ear. 

“After all, we are soulmates.”

[whoacanada]

Zimbits fic  - ‘I know you are, but what am I?’

Magic AU, inspired by ‘The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina’

Word Count: 3k+

Summary: After the Falconers take the Stanley Cup, Eric begins to notice his life changing in unwelcome ways. Good thing he has a loving partner who would never hide anything from him. 

Right?

Notes: Witchcraft. Nothing too intense, if you’ve seen the netflix show, that’s worse than this.

Crossposted to Ao3

“MooMaw? This is Jack, he’s a friend from college.”

Bitty's grandmother bypasses Jack’s outstretched hand and slaps her hands firmly on Jack’s cheeks, pulling him down to stare him in the eye. She’s small enough Jack has to bend at the waist, but she seems to appreciate his cooperation, even as the rest of the family begin stammering apologies.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Jack says, words muffled by the hands squishing his face. She narrows her eyes at him and looks past a horrified Suzanne to Bitty, who is probably bright red with embarrassment. Rightly so.

“You didn’t tell me he’d been touched, Dicky.”

At the time, Bitty had been so horrified he hadn't quite caught the intent of what his grandmother had said. 

“I’m sure the boys are tired, mother,” Suzanne interjects with a forced smile nudging them both toward the stairs. “Dicky, you want to show Jack where he’ll be sleeping?”

In retrospect, Bitty should have seen the signs for what they were.

In the months following the Falconers’ title, and Bitty’s own glorious rise into the court of public opinion thanks to his lack of foresight, life had been good. Then, suddenly, almost overnight, it wasn’t.

Between classes in Samwell and and nights with Jack in Providence, Bitty tries to sleep. When he manages to, he dreams. If they can be called ‘dreams’. Terrible nightmares and beautiful visions come in equal measure. Every night, every nap, he’s given another piece of a puzzle he can’t hope to comprehend. He wakes up more exhausted than when he laid down and most mornings he’ll wake up and stare out the window to watch the sun rise. It’s as much as he can manage — to let nature handle whatever is happening within him.  

Eventually, Bitty can’t sleep at all. By the seventh night, unable to vlog, and eating ice cream straight from the carton in an effort to stay awake, Bitty gives up.

Jack's season is over so Bitty has no guilt about kicking his boyfriend awake.  

"Hnn?" Jack rolls over and looks at Bitty blearily. "Whatzit? Bits?"  

"I can't sleep."

Jack drifts back under almost immediately and Bitty resists the urge to drag him off the bed in retaliation. At least for the time being, he's in this alone.

The extra linens are in the hall closet — Bitty doesn't bother with stealing blankets from beneath Jack's sprawled body, star-fished across the entire bed like he's half-Kudzu.

"Rude," Bitty whispers, tickling behind Jack's knee to make him twitch so Bitty can snatch Señor Bun from where he's being crushed beneath Jack's thigh. He throws on Netflix in the living room, wraps up in a heavy quilt, and spends the rest of the morning regretting his life decisions.

When Jack finally emerges from the bedroom at 6am, Bitty greets him with an exhausted, guilt-inducing, "I can't live like this." Jack, bless him, takes the hint and immediately starts on making breakfast; a real one with omelets and bacon and a noticeable lack of protein powder.

"You should call in," Jack insists when Bitty can barely keep his eyes open long enough to feed himself. "You're exhausted."

"Something's wrong. With me. With the bed. Something. I can't work if I can't sleep. Can't do anything if I can't sleep."

Bitty startles when a fork appears in front of him: a neat, steaming square of egg held patiently by his partner. He doesn’t remember seeing Jack actually cooking, only prepping.

"You nodded off," Jack says, answering a question Bitty hasn’t asked, and he almost misses the look of knowing concern that flits over Jack's features. Empathy at best, sympathy at worst. "Open up. You need to eat something."

"You don't have to feed me," Bitty protests, even as he opens his mouth.

"Started after the Cup? Just insomnia?" Jack continues, cutting another piece of the omelette before feeding it to Bitty.

"Nightmares. Mostly. Then insomnia."

"Hmm."

"What, you think you know what it is?"

"I have an idea," Jack hands back the fork and scoots back from the table, running a hand along Bitty's back as he heads back to the kitchen. “You’ve been under a lot of stress.”

"Hon?"

Jack is quiet long enough Bitty thinks he may have left the room. Instead, when he looks up, he finds Jack intently tapping on his phone.

"You should call in today," Jack repeats, this time as an order, not looking up from the device. "My parents are still in town and Maman has been bugging me about spending quality time with you. Use that spa package the Falcs gave us. Go spend the day with her, see if you can relax. I'll have a new mattress by the time you get back."

"You don't have to do that, it's just me being me. Much as I love your mother.”

"What's the point of having this life if I can't take care of you?" Jack's gaze flicks back up to Bitty, distant, like his attention is suddenly on another matter entirely. “Let me do this.”

Bitty gives in because, really, what else can he do?

Truth be told, Bitty can’t remember all of what happened between leaving the apartment, meeting Alicia (”Oh, you poor thing.”), and ending up back home. 

True to Jack's word, there's a new mattress on their bed: a delightfully plush pillow top that seems to be off-gassing lavender; but the relaxing scent is warring with something pungent and curiously damning.

"Is that sage?" Bitty asks, taking off his coat.

“Smudging. Shitty's idea," Jack admits, sniffing reflexively. "Get out the bad energy. Or something. Worth a shot."

“Oh, here.” Jack hands Bitty a slip of paper, on it, a note written in Jack’s own scratchy hand, is a string of French Bitty is ashamed to admit he still doesn’t understand. “For relaxation. You say it in the shower, before bed, anytime you need to calm down.”

Bitty falls face first onto the bare mattress, and, for the first time in what feels like weeks, he’s out like a light.

“What are we making today,” Jack hands Eric a single egg, eyebrows dancing. “Taking suggestions?”

“You wish, this is for Angelique in the front office. Promise made, promise kept—” Eric splits the egg and a red, bloody yolk drops into the the batter, startling them both.

“Crisse,” Jack curses, snatching the bowl to inspect it before dumping the whole mess in the trash.

“Ugh. No brownies, then?” Eric jokes, trying to calm himself as Jack takes the carton from the fridge and cracks another egg over the trash. This one is fine: a healthy, expected orange. “I’ve never seen that before? I’ve been cooking my entire life, MooMaw had chickens and I’ve never—”

“It happens sometimes,” Jack grouses, breaking normal egg after normal egg before handing Eric the last one still clutched safely in his fist. “Here. Try again.”

“Just throw out the whole mess, hon,” Eric waves Jack’s hand away but the man is insistent. “I’ll go to the market and try a different brand. Maybe this wasn’t the best plan for today.”

“One more, for me,” Jack urges. “I’ll buy more. Just, please.”

“Money is not the issue, here,” Eric takes the blue-green egg from Jack’s palm and cracks it on the edge of a spare bowl. He misjudges the strength of the shell and the whole thing crushes between his fingers, smearing rancid red and black all over the counter.

“Fuck! What’s wrong with it?!”

“…Spoiled.” Jack spits, snatching a dishtowel from the oven. The explanation makes zero sense to Eric, not that he’s level headed enough to think it through when the smell hits him.

“Oh, Lord, I’m gonna be sick —”

“Bath,” Jack blurts, guiding Eric to the sink, tapping the faucet on. “You need to take a bath. Right now. I’ll get the water started.”

“Wait, Jack —”

But he’s already gone.

“I just took a shower,” Eric laments, trying not to look down as he scrubs the gunk from his hands and under his nails. “But I guess this is disgusting enough to warrant another one.”

“Bath,” Jack calls from the bedroom. “No showers. Rinse it off and come in here.”

Jack's got the water running and at least six of Eric's good beeswax 'date-night' candles lit.

"We aren't making rancid egg goo sexy, are we?"

"Of course not," Jack's taking off his shirt which implies otherwise. "I'm gross, too."

"Yeah, you are," Bitty is trying to be playful but there's still red under his nails.

"Get in. You first."

Bitty’s barely settled when Jack slides in behind him, water sloshing dangerously close to the top of the tub, never quite going over. It’s nice. They haven’t done this in a while. Too long. Though, this doesn’t feel much like a romantic evening, more like a disgusting afternoon as Jack loops his arms around Bitty’s torso and holds him tight, murmuring something not quite English, not quite French, in a soothing, but hurried tone.

“Bits?” Jack, breaks for a moment, running his fingers over something on Eric’s hip. “What is this?”

“Hmm?” Eric looks down and finds Jack poking at his birthmark with no small measure of interest. “What?”

“I don’t remember having seen it before.”

“Oh, that darn thing? I’ve had it forever. Usually, I throw a little concealer over it or something.”

“Since when? Doesn't matter. That seems like a lot of effort for a birthmark. It’s not ugly, and I’ve never noticed it before now.”

“Oh, I hate it. I’d get it removed but no dermatologist I’ve seen will touch it. Who knows.”

“Who wanted it removed? You?”

“My grandmother,” Eric sighs, reaching down to poke where Jack’s fingers are resting. “Not MooMaw, Coach’s mother, Grandma Catherine. Apparently, she wouldn’t hold me as a baby because she thought it was a bad omen,” Bitty doesn’t mention how she’d terrorized his poor mother and ultimately ended up banned from the Bittle-Phelps household.

“She sounds like a bitch,” Jack mutters after a moment, catching Eric’s hand beneath the water, lacing their fingers.

“She was,” Bitty breathes, leaning into his boyfriend’s touch as Jack begins whispering again.

Bitty startles, phone falling between the pillows and hitting the floor with a low thud. He can't reach it.

"Of course," Bitty sighs, kicking off the sheets to slide out of bed and start a blind search. He doesn't find his phone immediately, though he does feel a mess of dirt and grime beneath his fingers. "Our cleaning service has not been doing a great job," Bitty complains to himself, finally getting a grip on his phone. "Gonna have to tell Jack — ”

When he pulls back his hand is covered in dust. His phone as well. Far too much to be explained away by a lazy cleaning crew. Or maybe just a lazy boyfriend.

Bitty grabs the base of the bed and pulls, frame squealing in protest of the action, and when he's made enough progress Bitty turns on his flashlight and illuminates half of a good sized ring of something that had previously been directly under his and Jack's bed. It's dark lines of paint, crushed leaves, a puck, and —

"Señor Bun!"

Bitty snatches his stuffed rabbit from the center of the circle and hugs him tight, trying not to overreact about whatever mildly-satanic insanity has been going on beneath him while he sleeps. Bitty snaps a photo of the scene and texts it to Jack with a succinct message of 'Please tell me this is you'.

"Don't you lie to me, Mister," Bitty whispers, dragging the bed back to cover the symbols like somehow covering it back up will make it go away.

Jack's reply is immediate.

‘Oh you found it’

[…]

‘Happy Halloween?’

“Bullshit,” Bitty growls, clutching Bun tight. “You hate Halloween.”

He texts Jack as much.

“Bits, look at me,” Jack holds his gaze firmly, though he’s attempting to be playful. “We’re going to do some word association, alright? I’m going to say some things and you just answer with the first thing that pops into your mind.”

“Okay,” Eric laughs. “If we must.”

“Alright, let’s start now. Ready?”

“Sure.”

“Dark Lord.”

“Voldemort.”

“Coven.”

“Jessica Lange.”

“Uh, how about ‘familiar’?”

“Overly,” Eric winks.

This isn’t the answer Jack seems to be looking for.

“Fuck,” Jack sighs.

“Me?” Eric chirps, earning a playful, halfhearted shove in return.

“Easy --”

“You.”

“Shut up,” Jack tugs Eric into his lap and snuggles him tightly. “Game’s over.”

“Well, you are. Easy, that is,” Eric laughs between kisses. “You did this to yourself! With your spooky wordplay.”

“You really are clueless, aren’t you?” Jack mumbles, pressing his lips to Bitty’s neck.

“Ouch,” Bitty swats his boyfriend’s arm. “Unnecessary.”

Jack dodges the comment and goes quiet, his lips still against Bitty’s skin as if someone has pressed a pause button on their evening.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Jack says finally. “About me, and I really don’t want to scare you.”

“You cheatin’ on me?”

It’s the first thing that pops into Bitty’s head and he feels foolish for even saying it aloud when Jack snorts and shakes his head; which Bitty feels more than sees.

"Fuck no. Not in a million years. This is different. When I turned 16, I had to make a decision,” Jack awkwardly maneuvers around Bitty to stand them face-to-face. "I got lucky, because of my parents, their standing, but I . . . you know I'm not like everyone else, right?" Jack says, resting his hand on Bitty's cheek in what he probably intends to be a comforting gesture. “The others?”

“You’re . . . talking about the draft, right?” Bitty hazards.

Jack frowns, expression far too sober for Bitty to play this off as a joke, and holds his other hand up, revealing a small, violet flame cupped in his palm; so small and quaint it could be mistaken for a party trick. Bitty doesn’t even hear Jack’s warning as he reaches out to touch.

“What! How are you doing that -- Ow!”

“It's fire, bud,” Jack chastises, immediately checking the burn. 

“Because purple fire is normal,” Bitty sticks his finger in his mouth and glares at Jack before the weight of the moment catches up to him. “How did you do that?”

“I’m a member of the Church of Night.”

“Which is what.”

“I have supernatural abilities.”

"So, you're, like, a witch, then?"

“Give me your finger,” Jack tugs Bitty’s hand from his mouth and kisses the burn before whispering something against the red skin. The pain vanishes alongside the mark, which is not the most troubling part about the moment they're sharing. “Warlock,” Jack corrects, swiping a bit of stray saliva from the corner of his lip. “Try again,” the light dancing in Jack's palm is back, larger and terribly enticing. “Go on, Bits, it won’t hurt you, now that I know you’re just gonna go for it.”

Bitty reaches out a second time and Jack doesn’t recoil as the purple flames, cool to the touch, grow larger and dance between Bitty's fingers.

“You’re taking this really well.”

"This doesn't seem so scary," Bitty admits, leaning into the half truth as he pulls back to check his skin for any burns; Jack makes a fist, extinguishing the flame.

In another world Bitty actually possesses the confidence he's pretending to exude. In reality, he's low-key terrified; fighting off an existential crisis and trying to keep his composure as the man he loves tells him not only that magic is real, but that he himself is some kind of witch, and not a fun one. He’s something much more traditional that Bitty has not been raised to be comfortable with.

"Pyrokenisis is difficult," Jack defends, sounding like his old self again. "Most don't attempt it until they have years of experience with conjuration."

Just like that they're back to normal. Jack's air of mystery vanishes as he petulantly snaps another flame into existence, this one almost white and much larger. Bitty has flashes of his freshman year when a Quinnipiac d-man doubted the strength of Jack's slap-shot and Jack 'accidentally' cracked a pane of glass on the next shift.

Classic Zimmermann ego.

"Not just a hockey prodigy, then? Kind of a big deal off the ice, too, I bet," Bitty teases, hiding his fear behind humor as Jack goes pink and the flame falters. "You ever cursed anyone?"

Bitty watches Jack's left eyebrow twitch.

"Who was it?"

Jack's lips thin, though Bitty can tell the gesture isn't in irritation at being caught. The man is fighting a smile.

"It doesn't matter. Anything that happened was deserved."

"In that case, I have a lot of questions?" Bitty says once he's rediscovered his voice.

"And I'll answer all of them," Jack insists, bravado vanishing as he sags with relief. "Soon. Promise. Everything and anything you want to know."

"Have to admit, I'm a little intimidated," Bitty steps into Jack's space and allows himself to be pulled into his boyfriend's arms, trying not to tense. "Silly me, thinking I was the only secret you were hiding."

"I can have secrets. Makes me interesting." Jack runs his hand along Bitty's back.

“Makes you stressed,” Bitty counters.

“Also true.”

"What does all of this mean for me?"

"I don't know, yet. Still trying to figure that part out."

Bitty takes a moment to think about his life, then grabs Jack’s hand and drags him to their bedroom. He leaves Jack standing in the doorway to grab the corner of the bed frame and drag it sideways, revealing the madness beneath.

“Explain.”

"It's a protection ward." Jack doesn't miss a beat. "I laid it down after the egg incident. Didn't want to risk anything happening."

"To me."

"To you." Jack affirms, walking across the room to kneel and nudge a stone back into shape. "I have enough wards on me the only person who can hurt me is me, evidently," Jack looks up, apologetic. "I was worried about all the attention on you."

"If it’s for protection, does that mean people want to hurt me?"

Jack licks his thumb and smears something that could be ink. Or paint. Its viscous, a dark color Bitty can't identify and doesn’t want to examine too closely.

"One would be too many for me," Jack answers, wiping his hand on his jeans. "Better safe than sorry."

"Okay, so," Bitty kneels down beside his boyfriend and points at an off-white lump in the leaf pile. "Is this a tooth?"

The sheepish look is back.

"Euh, yeah, don't worry, it's one of mine."

"Oh, that doesn't make me not worry, Sugar. Not reassuring at all,” Bitty toes a leaf over the tooth, hiding it from view. “Don’t recall much human bits in the ‘good magic’ column.”

Jack flashes a smile, like they’re sharing a secret. Which, Eric realizes, they are.

“This isn’t like tv, bud. Though it doesn’t do itself any favors in the way of aesthetic, I’ll admit that much.”

“Can you…show me, um,” Eric nudges a leaf with his socked toe. “Some more? Maybe?”

The smile on Jack’s face is as wide and bright as Bitty has ever seen.

“Yeah, bud, I’d love to.”

[imaginebeatles]

Art and Obligation | Chapter 18

Pairing: John/Paul

Rating: Nc-17 (PG-13, for this chapter)

Set in: 1820s (au)

Summary:  John Lennon works as the apprentice of a well-known portraitist and is tasked to do the picture of the young Mr. Paul McCartney. He is the son of Jim McCartney, a wealthy and powerful landowner, and has the reputation of an arrogant, spoilt brat with a pretty face, who has a way of wrapping anyone around his finger. But soon John finds that things are not as straightforward as they may seem.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Beatles and this is fictional. I do not make money off this.

Author’s note: A bit of a shorter chapter, though not as short as I had first thought it would be. I hope you guys like it. I also realised I had not yet updated the page for this fic, which I will do tomorrow. Chapter 17 is linked at the end as always. Love you guys! 

It was already dark by the time the carriage drove through the gate and over the sloping gravel pathway that lead up to the large manor house that was nestled comfortably in the landscape further up the hill, the colouring trees having spread their leaves over the yellowing field that lay around it, which complemented the warm glow of the stone exterior walls of the building. The chill in the air was already hinting at the winter that was fast approaching and the warm light of gas lamps, fireplaces and candles that shone through some of the many windows that Paul was already able to see from the carriage despite the long distance, promised a warmth and a comfort that now proved to be not as easily accessible as it had once been.

As the carriage drove further up towards the building, Paul found himself musing over the last couple of days that he and John had spent together, travelling back from Paris to Liverpool, a journey that had gone rather too smoothly in his opinion, an opinion that he knew John shared. Although they had done barely anything more than sleep, eat, read, and talk, it had been nice to spend some more time together now they had still been able to, and Paul fondly remembered the numerous times he had either fallen asleep or woken up with his head resting on the other man's soft chest, while John had his arms wrapped around him, holding him close and refusing to let him go again either until he fell asleep himself or Paul insisted he would relieve himself on him if he had to. It had been a pleasant couple of days, and Paul felt sad to think those days were now over; even if they had decided to continue whatever it was they had together, doing what they had done in Paris and living the way they had was not a possibility for them anymore. He wished the carriage had broken down, or that they had been captured by a storm, rendering them unable to travel for a couple days and lengthening the time they had together, but they had not been so lucky, and now he was here again, home, alone.

The carriage halted abruptly half-way down the path, causing Paul to tumble forward in his seat and land face-first into the bench opposite him, tearing him away from his thoughts. The horses pulling the carriage neighed in fright, startled by something in the dark, and Paul could hear the coachmen trying to sooth them, gently calling at them in a soft voice and urging them to calm down with promises that it was alright, before the man started to shout profanities at whatever it was that had caused the horses to startle as they had. It appeared, for as far as Paul could judge from inside the carriage, to be a man or a boy, for he could hear some inaudible whimpering and muttering of apologies that were rudely overpowered by the loud booming voice of the angry coachman, making it hard for Paul to make out who he was yelling at, or even what he was yelling about, the man being incomprehensible in his anger. Paul, picking himself up and straightening out his clothes and hair as he made sure he hadn’t hurt himself, grumbled some curses before he pushed the carriage door open and jumped down to see what was the matter and to keep his coachman from hurting anyone if necessary.

“Sir! Are you alright, sir? My apologies. The horses…” the coachman started as soon as he heard the carriage door slam shut, but he swallowed down the rest of his words as soon as Paul raised his hand to motion him to keep silent and he walked over to them as he buttoned up his coat to shield himself from the cold.

“Yes, Miles. Thank you. Now, who has-“ he started, but before he could finish his own sentence the man or boy – Paul could not make him out properly in the surrounding darkness – cried out his name and scrambled up from where he had fallen onto the muddy ground, and hurried over to him with a surprising eagerness that neither he nor Miles had expected. Startled, Paul took a step back on instinct, unsure what the stranger might do to him. It was only when the person in question was about five feet away from him that Paul recognised his friend.

“Paul! You are back! I had hoped you would be,” George exclaimed, clasping Paul’s hand tightly in his own as a bright smile spread across his face that reached all the way to his eyes, which shimmered with happiness and something else that Paul had a hard time pinning down. Empathy? Relief? Worry? He wanted to ask, but George did not give him the chance. Releasing his hand, the man glanced back towards the manor, eyeing it for a brief moment with what seemed like suspicion, before he turned back to his friend and pulled him closer by his shoulder, turning them away from the coachman, who was watching the pair curiously as he petted the horses, which were trampling about restlessly.

“Your father has been waiting for you,” George said, lowering his voice to something barely louder than a whisper, “I thought you might appreciate it if you knew about this beforehand, which is why I was waiting for you - the horses spooked when I tried to stop the carriage - but I heard your father saying to Matthews that as soon as you were home, he was to bring you to him, no matter the time. ”

“When was this?” Paul enquired, though not surprised by the news.

“Two days ago. I have been watching out for you since then; benefit of being a gardener I suppose, no one notices you. Ever since he has received the news that the Ashers were coming here from London, he has been impatient to see you home again. He’s been rather... irritable, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“He is not ill-tempered, is he?”

“Oh no. Quite the contrary! He has been very eager to see you again. Excited even, I would say. But as you were Paris… It makes him impatient, which is not a good thing for servants like us, either, as you can imagine,” he said with a small grimace, hoping for some sympathy, but Paul had other things on in his mind that were more pressing to him.

“And the Ashers?” he asked, “they are not here yet, are they?”

George shook his head. “They won’t be here until tomorrow morning at the earliest. But of course your father wanted you to be here before then. It would have been improper if you had not been here to welcome Miss Asher in person, seeing as your engagement is the reason for their visit in the first place. Your father was very worried about that,” he explained and Paul nodded as the thought it over, gnawing his teeth.

“Thank you, George,” he said after a while, and George nodded back at him as he squeezed his shoulder in an encouraging manner, wishing him good-luck, before he pulled away from his friend.

“I am certain your father will be most pleased to see you again, Paul. He cares about you more than you think,” he said and Paul smiled thankfully at him, hoping he was right.

“I will come and visit you and Pattie soon. I am sorry I haven’t been a better friend. It’s just… with everything that has been happening lately...,” he said, but George waved the apology away with a smile and a shake of his head.

“Just come and visit us soon. Pattie will greatly appreciate it, as will I. And don’t worry about talking to your father about that raise I asked you about. I know this is not the best time for you to ask him any favours like that, and I can do it myself-”

“No, George. I promised I would help you with that, and so I will, and no, this is not up for discussion. I’ll talk to him for you after the Ashers have arrived. He should be more agreeable then. It’s the least I could do for you two,” Paul insisted, smiling at his friend, who smiled back thankfully, seeming relieved to hear that. Paul was not surprised; he knew as good as anyone else how intimidating his father could be.

“Thanks, Paul. I really appreciate it. Just come by whenever you have time. You’re always welcome, you know that,” he said and with that the two friends wished each other a good evening. Paul promised he would visit them sometime this week, depending on how business with the Ashers would go, hopefully with good news, and George wished him luck, before the former stepped back into the carriage to continue the last of the way up to the manor, leaving the latter to walk home alone beneath the calming light of the moon, and to admire the gardens he worked so hard to maintain.

          Despite the late hour, it appeared most inhabitants of the manor had not yet retired for the evening, nor did it seem that the Fishwicks had gone back home either, as the first people Paul met as he stepped inside, the large door falling shut behind him with a loud thud that echoed through the hallway, were his brother and his fiancé who stood conversing on the balcony on the first floor, their arms resting on the railing, their fingers intertwined. Both of them glanced down at the sound of the door falling shut and Mike’s eyes lit up as they met his brother’s.

“Paul! You are home. How was Paris?” he called out, pushing himself away from the railing to start making his way down the stairs to greet his brother, beckoning Miss Fishwick to come with him, who followed obediently, her eyes on the older McCartney brother.

“As pleasant as a couple of days’ journey in a carriage can be,” Paul replied with a smile directed at them both and began to take off his hat and coat, which he handed to one of the servants who came over to assist him. As soon as his hands were free, he was pulled into a hug by his brother, causing a nervous chuckle to escape his throat from surprise. His brother’s next words did little to calm him down, sadly, his stomach churning at the prospect of having to see his father, never mind the news that the Ashers were coming no later than tomorrow. John was the only word that echoed in his mind.

“I hope you have enjoyed yourself at least. And before I forget, father wanted to speak with you as soon as you got home. He is in his study, I believe. I assume you heard the news about the Ashers? They will arrive tomorrow,” Mike said as he released him, repeating those exact words that kept haunting his thoughts, and Paul nodded to tell him that he already knew as he kissed Miss Fishwick’s hand to greet her as well, more to make sure he did not have to speak, than to be polite. He forced himself to smile when Miss Fishwick congratulated him on his engagement.

“I didn’t even know you were engaged, sir. Before Mike told me the Ashers were coming tomorrow, I mean. Naturally, I would have congratulated you before if I had,” she said, raising an eyebrow in surprise when Paul shook his head at her words and told her not to be silly.

“What my brother means, darling,” Mike quickly explained, noticing her surprise, “the match was agreed upon years ago under reservation. Nothing is official yet, though most did not think the marriage would not pull through, and they seem now to have been right.”

“Oh, I see. Well, she is a lovely woman, Miss Asher. I am sure she will make you very happy. Very beautiful, she is, and accomplished, of course,” Miss Fishwick said and Paul forced another smile at the praise, before he excused himself, saying he should probably not keep their father waiting any longer if he is so eager to see him, and - to his relief - Miss Fishwick and Mike nodded in understanding. They wished him goodnight before leaving him, and Miss Fishwick was quick to add some more praises on Miss Asher’s behalf, which Paul knew was well intended, but did not make him feel any better. Once he was certain he was alone again, he took a deep breath to force his body to calm down, and quickly fixed his appearance before he started making his way towards his father’s study.

          As expected, Paul found his father where his brother had told him he would be, sitting behind his desk, writing what appeared to be letters with a single gaslight burning on the wall beside him, illuminating him in a faint shimmer of orange light that caused the smile that appeared on his face as he looked up to see his eldest son stepping inside the study, to appear more disconcerting than it was presumably meant.

“You’re home! I’m so glad you are. I hope your trip was pleasant?” he asked as he offered his son a seat, his voice too cheery for Paul’s liking, but he took the invitation anyway, feeling glad to be able to sit down for a moment. Before he had even had the time to answer his father, the latter had already poured him a glass of whiskey, which he slid towards him over the desk. “We have something to celebrate tonight,” Jim continued as he caught his son staring questioningly at the glass.

“Something to celebrate? I thought you said I had three months to find myself a wife before it would come to this?” Paul asked, looking up at his father in surprise, who sighed deeply as he put the bottle of whiskey, which he had been using to pour himself a glass as well, back down. He considered his son for a moment, before he spoke.

“In truth, Paul, this was not my idea. You know I want you to marry someone you actually care about, and though I know how fond you and Miss Asher are of one another, I also know she is not the woman you would want to marry-”

“I would not marry any woman, if it was up to me,” Paul muttered softly, though audible enough for his father to hear. He, however, chose to ignore his words, and merely glanced up into his eyes for a moment with a warning look, before he continued. Paul was unsure whether he was relieved or disappointed.

“-but she is a very accomplished, not to mention beautiful, young lady, who would make a good wife, and when her father wrote me concerning your engagement-”

“We are not yet engaged,” Paul protested again, and again, his words were ignored.

“-I could not decline him. He wishes for you to marry Jane sooner rather than later. I asked him to postpone for three months, but he is set on it, Paul. I know I told you three months, but… we both know you will choose for Miss Asher eventually,” his father finally finished and Paul picked up his glass to take a sip, unsure what to say in return, as he knew his father was right. If there was one woman he would marry, it was Jane. She was beautiful, smart, creative, free-spirited, kind, not to mention the fact that they had been friends since he had been about nine years old and she five; their mothers had been close acquaintances and Jane has often frequented the McCartney manor before Mary McCartney had passed away, and in those early years they had grown close. She knew him better than anyone and to a certain extent he did love her, but to marry her… that was a different question.

“You know that under normal circumstances I would keep my word. I want you to be happy.” Then don’t make me marry someone I don’t love - Paul thought, but he bit his tongue, knowing very well how quick his father’s emotional state could change, and in his mind, marrying him off to some well-off girl was the best for him, for the family, for the estate. He swallowed the lump that had been gathering in his throat and nodded. Besides, his father was right, he would have chosen for her eventually, and she would have chosen him.

“I know, father. I will marry her. You are right, she is the one I would have chosen anyway, putting it off won’t do any good,” he said, forcing the corners of his lips to curl up in a smile, and he let out an actual nervous chuckle as his father reached out for him and slapped him encouragingly on the shoulder.

“You’re a good son, Paul. I am proud of you, you know that, don’t you? I know I don’t always show it, but I do. I just want the best for you,” he said and Paul nodded again but didn’t speak. Instead, he reached out for his glass of whiskey again and raised it for the celebratory toast his father had hinted at at the beginning of their conversation. Jim raised his glass at well and smiled at his son, before they toasted in silence and took a sip of their drink.

Paul could barely think for the remainder of the conversation, his mind working hard to process what impactful changes were now drawing near: an engagement, a wedding, a wife, a couple of children, the last of which he minded the least. He had always wanted to have children, a family, even when he had been young, a couple of kids running around the house, screaming and laughing and playing and being happy and carefree, playing games with them, learning them new things and reading to them before they would go to bed at night, only to climb into his bed a few hours later out of fear of some nightmare they had been having. Even waking up every hour to look after a baby did not scare him off, and he could not wait to see his child make their first steps, or say their first words, and then to see them grow up to be beautiful and accomplished young ladies, or handsome and intelligent young men. Even the concept of a wife did not offend him, someone who would care for him, look after him, and who he could grow old and happy with, someone to share his entire life with and raise those kids, and simply love each other… But Jane was not the person he wanted that with. She could not be that person for him, no matter how lovely she was, for she was simply not the one for him.

He pondered about this as his father told him about the plans for the engagement: it was to last about seven months, and the announcement would be made during a ball that was to be held at the manor itself in a few weeks’ time, after which Jane’s family would stay at the manor for another week or two longer, before they would leave, and Jane would stay behind. The wedding then, would take place in late Spring at the church in Liverpool, after which a honeymoon was to be expected. To where, they could decide for themselves, though there have already been people making suggestions that were worth looking into. Paul hummed something agreeable at every question that his father directed at him, until even his father seemed to come to the conclusion that discussing this now had no point. In the end, he sighed and told Paul to go to bed, for Miss Asher and her family - a very high class family, who had ties even to the royal family - would arrive the following day and Jim expected Paul to be at his best behaviour. Paul nodded in understanding and wished him a good night as well, before he took his leave and went up to his bedroom, which had been well prepared for him, with his bed being freshly made, the curtains drawn, and a fire roaring in the fireplace.  

He locked the door behind him and lit one of the candles that stood by the bed, before undressing and slipping into his sleeping attire that had been hung over the back of his desk chair by one of the servants, and sat down on the small sofa that was placed before the fire, curling up his legs under his bum. He felt exhausted. His muscles hurt even when he did not move, and he felt his eyelids grow heavy, but he fought to keep them open as he stared into the fire. His mind was in a haze, memories and thoughts mixing and sliding over each other, until reality itself became blurred and one last thought remained: John.

The expression on John’s face when he had asked him about their future - the event itself seeming to have happened years ago rather than four days - floated before his eyes; worry, anxiety, hope, and finally happiness when Paul had agreed to continuing their affair… all that was now for nothing. Paul was going to marry Jane Asher, a proper English girl from a well-off family with connections to the royal family, which meant the end for them. He didn’t dare to think how John was going to react to that news. He didn’t even dare think how he was going to tell him in the first place. But he had no choice. It was his father’s wish, it was Jane’s father’s wish, it was his duty, and he had no choice.

Sighing, he looked down at the silver bracelet that encircled his right wrist, the green stones shining in the warm light of the fire, and he gently traced them all with his fingertips, his mind drifting off to the moment John had given it to him - what it different world it now seemed. He turned his wrist, exposing the lock of the bracelet, and started to fiddle with it, moving it into different directions and picking urgently at the different parts until it came free. He removed it completely and studied the bracelet carefully in the light of the fire for a moment, before he got up from the sofa with a groan and shuffled over to his bedside table, where he carefully put the bracelet away in the drawer, keeping it safely stored away. He reasoned it was for the best, and crawled into bed, where, not even five seconds later, he was carried off to restless dreams that barely let him rest.

Previous Chapter