#yeah i was frustrated too but my ass was the only one not slinging verbal abuse at the poor nurses holy fuck

[bittersweetblasphemy]

i never want to ever hear another dipshit say we can't do universal healthcare "bc wait times will be absurd" when i just spent 8 hours in the er waiting room.

[narumi-gens]

Okay but would Naoya have a secret breeding kink when blue ball queen was dirty talking him about “filling her up” or would he just be infuriated 👁 👄 👁

note: even a broken computer isn't enough to keep me from digging in the trash 😣 warnings: smut, impreg kink, misogyny (naoya, duh) words: 1.7k (because I’m the trash queen) related drabbles

As Naoya watches you underneath him, practically folded in half from the way he's pushing your knees to your chest with his hands on the backs of your thighs, he finds himself angrier than usual.

But for once, he can't blame it on you despite how much he wants to. He can't blame it on your disrespectful mouth that never shuts up or your inability to recognize him as your better.

No, he's angry at himself. Because instead of focusing on the way your tits bounce with every brutal thrust or how your fingers are furiously rubbing at your swollen clit or the string of moans escaping you, all he can pay attention to is your stomach.

Or more precisely, all he can pay attention to is the thought of what it would look like if he didn't pull out like he usually does.

The last thing he wants is for you to end up pregnant with his kid. He doesn't need any bastard kids running around, especially not ones that would tie him to you for the rest of his life.

But the thought pumping you so full of his cum that your pussy is overflowing is too tempting for him to ignore. He imagines your stomach swelling, your tits getting big, your body changing like nature intended because of him. 

In spite of himself, he finds his hips pounding into your ass even harder as his grip on your thighs tightens.

He wants to be the one to show you that all you're good for besides fucking is getting pregnant and having kids. He wants to force you to accept that you are truly the weaker sex by design. He’ll make you see that any notions you have about "self-worth" and "agency" are nothing more than misconceptions.

He’ll turn you from a foul-mouthed, ill-tempered, disrespectful jujutsu sorcerer into a wife and mother who bows her head when she talks to him and knows her place. 

The thought of breaking you in is so tantalizing that it almost has him coming on the spot.

"Gonna show ya," he pants, his eyes squeezing shut as his mind paints the image of you so fucking big with his kid on the backs of his eyelids. "Ya ain't good fer anything else."

"Shut up," you're quick to reply between moans, but it only urges him on. You won't be so mouthy when you're taking care of his kids, when you're cleaning up after them, when you're breastfeeding them.

He lets out a low groan as he pictures how big your tits will get when they’re full of milk for his kid. It's enough to push him over the edge and before he knows what he's doing, his burying himself as deep as he can inside of you and coming with an almost animalistic growl.

His hips give a few jerks as he fills you with his cum, his hold now so tight on your thighs that finger-shaped bruises are a guarantee. His shoulders rise and fall rapidly as tries to catch his breath.

When he lets his cock slip from you, he can't tear his eyes away from the way his cum slowly leaks out of your messy cunt and trails down the crack of your ass. He continues to hold you in place for a few moments longer before collapsing onto his back beside you in bed with a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, already reflecting back on how that may have been the hardest he's ever come before. He pointedly ignores the fact that imagining you pregnant with his kid was the cause.

But while he's busy luxuriating in the aftermath of his orgasm, he's completely ignorant to the storm brewing beside him.

"You fucking came inside me!" you shout, sitting up in bed and hitting him hard in the face with the pillow that you had been using.

He recovers quickly and grabs it from you so that he can place it behind his own head with a smirk.

"Yeah? And?" he asks, his tone bored. He watches you from the corner of his eye as you angrily get out of bed and pick a discarded shirt up from the floor that you slip over your head.

"You're so fucking lucky I'm on the pill," you hiss as you storm off to the bathroom, loudly slamming the door shut behind you.

"Good! That means I don't gotta keep pulling outta ya anymore!" he yells after you with a sadistic grin. He wonders what you're more upset over -- that he came inside of you or that you didn't get to come.

You're only gone for a few minutes. He hears the toilet flushing and the water running before the door opens and you come back into the bedroom.

"You're fucking useless," you mutter and he closes his eyes as he stretches with a loud yawn. "I should've just gone with my vibrator. It doesn't have a mouth and doesn't make a mess. And it also makes me come every time."

"That ain't my job," he scoffs, a truly amused smirk playing at his lips at the idea that he's here for your pleasure.

He cracks an eye open when he hears you sliding opening the door to the balcony just off your bedroom. He catches just a glimpse of you holding something in your arms before you disappear onto the balcony for a few moments. When you return, your arms are empty.

He watches you as you pick up his boxer briefs before slinging them at his face. His reflexes are quick enough that catching them before they hit him is an easy feat.

"Get the fuck out," you say without sparing him a second glance on your way out of the bedroom and he chuckles to himself. Frustrating you is almost as gratifying as sex. 

His amusement persists even as he sits up and slides on his boxer briefs. But it doesn’t last much longer because he’s quick to see that your bedroom floor is now empty, his clothes nowhere in sight.

He glances at the sliding glass door that’s still open and his eyes widen when he suddenly remembers that you had carried something onto the balcony, only to come back without it. 

No. 

You couldn’t possibly have.

No.

In the blink of an eye and with the speed he’s known for, he’s on your balcony and tightly gripping onto the railing as he searches the mostly-empty street below. When he sees his shirt, kimono, and hakama scattered on the sidewalk, pure rage explodes in his gut.

“Fucking BITCH!” he yells with no care for your neighbors or the late hour. 

He’s moving so quickly that in the back of his mind he wonders if it’s the fastest he’s ever been. One moment he’s on your balcony and a millisecond later, he has you pinned on your back on the couch where you were sitting. 

He straddles your hips as he wraps a hand around your throat, his grip growing tighter when he sees how your eyes are dancing with mirth.

“You already up for another round?” you ask, a slight wheeze to your voice from how hard he’s squeezing your throat. His fury is so all-consuming that he doesn’t even notice the way his cock twitches.

“You fucking bitch,” he seethes. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

You raise an eyebrow at how his anger actually has his Kansai accent easing, like his ire is great enough that it’s actually able to override any pronunciations and verbal ticks.  

“Well, before you do that, you might wanna go get your clothes,” you point out, sounding almost bored. “The bars are getting ready to close and all it takes is one person who can’t hold their alcohol before they’re throwing it all up.”

He wants to argue with you, call you a bitch some more, and punish you for thinking you have the right to talk to him like this and treat him this way. But he  also knows you’re right. He needs to recover his clothing or else all he’ll have to wear on his way home is a tight pair of boxer briefs. 

“It shouldn’t be too hard to get them back for the world's fastest sorcerer," you mock with a rasp and he lets his hand close even tighter for a few moments, wanting you to think your life is truly in danger, before he releases you. 

He’s gone before you even know what’s happening and he’s already halfway through getting dressed by the time you make it out onto the balcony to watch him struggle. He ignores the heat of your gaze on him, as well as the stares of the few passersby who stumble upon the bizarre scene playing out in the middle of the street.

“Oi! Zen’in-sama!” you shout down to him as ties his hakama. He refuses to acknowledge that he’s heard you, although how could not have with how loud your voice carries. It’s enough to catch the attention of everyone down below. The mocking tone is gone with your next words, your voice as cold as ice. “I know my cunt’s so sweet that it’s hard to resist, but the next time you come inside of me without permission, I’ll cut your balls off so that you can’t make that mistake again.”

He looks up at your balcony, but you’re already gone. He growls to himself, seething that despite everything, you’ve still somehow managed to not only end up with the last word, but also to have humiliated him.

Now that he’s no longer buried ball deep inside of you, he can think with a clearer head and even through his anger, there’s an irritating note of relief that you’re on the pill.

It’s already bad enough that he can’t seem to give up your pussy, but that’s at least a habit he hopes to one day break. A kid would keep you in his life permanently. 

A chill runs down his spine at the idea, disgust curling in his stomach. He tries to ignore the hint of arousal that lurks just underneath it. 

[deejadabbles]

A Thousand Songs (Atem/Yami x Reader)

Chapter One: We Are Broken

One /// Two /// Three /// Four /// [Five Coming Soon]

Summary: You knew that you and your band could make it big. Not only that, but stay together while doing it; the five of you were family, after all. The only problem was that despite all your musical talents...none of you were particularly good at lyrics. After years of struggling to put out your first full album, the solution finally made himself know in chance meeting on an empty stage.

Rock Band AU, Atem x Reader, gender neutral reader.

A.N.  Woo look at me, starting a new series before I finish my current ones. Don't hate me I have the attention span of a squirrel! I know band AUs are pretty cheesy but I don't care, this idea has been floating in my head for awhile and it's super cute okay?? I was also going to wait to post this until all the chapters were done but I couldn't control myself anymore. These chapters will be much shorter than my usual length so hopefully that means I can update faster??? I won't make any promises but I'll try. Anywho, I hope you guys like fashionable, sensitive Atem because that's who'll be featured in this fic <3 The reader's gender is never mentioned but I will admit I tended to lean more towards songs sung by women in this, I don't really think that matters though (I have Atem sing songs originally sung by women so...). I really hope you guys like this series and I'll love to hear your thoughts <3 Also: @ohyema​ This is the series I told you about all that time ago lol

I am outside

And I've been waiting for the sun

With my wide eyes

I've seen worlds that don't belong

My mouth is dry

With words I cannot verbalize

Tell me why

We live like this

The crowd was small, as always, but it was enough. Anyone hearing your songs was enough for now, or so you told yourself week after week. You felt Yugi’s eyes on you as you leaned away from the mic, plucking the cords of your Stratocaster for the brief solo and you looked to your left to see him smiling at you; always the positive optimist, the sun that shone on you and the rest of the band.

You flashed him the briefest smile in return before turning back to the mic. If you closed your eyes, got lost in Anzu’s keys, Jou’s steady beats, and Honda’s strings, you could almost pretend you were playing in front of a packed venue. One full of fans solely there to hear music, and not just a dozen or so patrons who enjoyed the music as a backdrop to their late-night drinks.

Keep me safe inside

Your arms like towers

Tower over me

You could have sworn you heard another voice in the crowd join yours as the chorus came. Ah, so there was an actual fan in the crowd.

Cause we are broken

What must we do to restore

Our innocence

And all the promise we adored?

Give us life again

Cause we just wanna be whole

Your eyes fluttered back open for the briefest second and through the smoky haze in the room, you saw that someone at the bar was holding up their phone, camera aimed at the stage. That managed to make you smile, at least you had someone’s attention.

Lock the doors

Cause I'd like to capture this voice

It came to me tonight

So everyone will have a choice

And under red lights

I'll show myself it wasn't forged

We're at war

We live like this

“Are you guys on SoundCloud or anything? Cos that was pretty awesome!” asked a young man who looked barely old enough to be in the bar at all.

You were just helping Yugi pack away his turntables, having finished your set and wishing the small crowd a good night. The young man was with two others, all of them looking enthused as they stood at the base of the small stage. The girl even giggled when Honda winked at her.

Yugi, as usual, was the one to speak up and pulled out a small leather folder from his back pocket. “Yeah, we are actually! We also have a youtube channel,” he pulled cards from the folder, black cardstock with your band’s name, logo, and media accounts scrawled across it in gold text. He handed one to each in the trio, smile still bright on his face, “Check us out if you get the chance, we’re trying to put out a new album this summer, so we should have plenty of new songs to listen to soon.”

With a few ‘cool man’s and ‘awesome’s, the trio wandered back to the bar, the one who had spoken already pulling out his phone with the card in hand, and the girl waving at Honda over her shoulder.

“You know you shouldn’t get their hopes up,” Anzu whispered as she set her keyboard case at the foot of the stage, “Two songs does not an Album make- we have no clue when we’ll actually have it out!”

“Well,” you chimed in, clicking one of Yugi’s several cases closed, “Maybe telling new fans to expect more from us will finally light a fire under our song-writing-asses.” When Jonouchi opened his mouth, that cheeky look on his face, you held up your hand to silence him, “And yes, I know I procrastinate too much, I’m to blame too.”

Yugi lifted two of his cases- and answered after Jou jumped in to take the heavier of the two, “I still think all of us should take a week's vacation, lock ourselves in our studio and work on the album together. Only getting together a few times a week is what’s really killing us I think- we can’t get into a creative groove!”

You and Anzu exchanged a look, knowing full well that neither of your bills would appreciate the week's loss in pay. Still, maybe it was something that you guys could find a way to work out. Then again, there was another idea that had been brewing in the back of your mind for a while now, and you weren’t sure if it was really something that the others in your band would go for...like, at all.

“I don’t know, a week probably wouldn’t even be long enough,” Honda chimed in after slinging his guitar case over his shoulder, grabbing an amp in the free hand.

Jou nodded as you all started filing out the bar’s back door, “I’m still thinking that gettin’ together every single night until the album’s done is the best way to go, even if it’s just for a few hours!”

This was the usual road the song writing debate took, or at least, how it usually went the past month or so, and soon enough the topic came to a standstill, as it usually did.

After loading up Jonouchi’s truck with your equipment, Honda gave the suggestion of stopping for some burgers at the 24 hour joint down the road, a common ritual after your monthly gig at “The Bandit’s Den”. As usual, Jou parked in the space best visible from the front windows of the dinner, and the five of you were glad to find that not another soul sat at the tables.

After settling at your usual booth and ordering, Yugi actually splayed his hands out on the table, looking rather determined. “You don’t start work until seven tomorrow. Right?” he asked you.

“Yeah?”

“I think we should take another trip to the station.”

You actually had to repress a sigh at that. Yugi was all about trying to trigger inspiration for songs, and the “station” referred to an old train station on the outskirts of town. You guys had discovered it long ago and were eager to use it in a music video, but were waiting for the perfect song to go with it. Sure, the old giant clock and brick stairs were a perfect setting, but it had only sparked a line or two of lyrics, nothing to make a full song.

Out of the five of you, most of the lyric writing fell on your’s and Yugi’s shoulders, with Anzu, Honda, and Jonouchi giving occasional input. Since you were the lead singer most seemed to think you would be the natural lyric maker, but the truth was that, despite your talent in singing and playing the lead guitar, lyrics just weren’t your forte. You’d had some luck when teaming up with Yugi, his emotional maturity helping you work through the written expressions, but that only went so far. Yugi also tried things like this, exercises and field trips in the hopes that it would spark creativity.

“How many times have we been to the station before, Yugi?” you asked, “I just don’t think it’s the oracle of inspiration we all hoped it would be. I still want to film there some time, but I don’t wanna take time out to visit it again, I’ll just get annoyed when it doesn’t lead to anything.”

Yugi’s set expression seemed to blink away, replaced with something almost like guilt, “Okay, I was just trying to think of something to get our inspiration flowing…”

Now you’re the one who felt guilty. “I know...hey maybe we could try something new? Like we could go some other place or try some different way to spark our heads?” you suggested, trying to sound positive.

Yugi’s eyebrows lifted in interest, but he was cautious when he asked, “Like what?”

“I…” you trailed off when your mind came up blank. It remained blank even as your eyes trailed over the entirety of the empty dinner as well as the dark scenery outside. A growl of frustration left your throat as you face planted on the table, “I don’t know!”

You heard Yugi giggle as he reached out and patted your head. Beside him, Jonouchi said, “What you need is some brain food! That’s sure to help some ideas come- ah! And here’s our feast now!”

Even though the food was good, kick-start your brain, it did not. If anything the meal just made you more sleepy, even as you guys chatted over the next hour before paying the tab and piling back into Jou’s truck.

Like always the next stop was the studio, the home and hideaway for you and your friends. For a small-time band whose biggest fame was on Youtube, all of you were actually quite proud of your studio. Yugi’s grandfather owned a few rental properties, and since the building wasn’t fitting for a residential space, nor in a part of town that would serve a shop well, he had agreed to give you guys the small building in exchange for help around his game shop every week.

Working together to make the space your own was some of the best memories you had with your oldest friends; going to second-hand shops to gather fitting set pieces, saving up for the sound dampeners so you could record your songs without paying a big-time studio, setting up the back room with tattered old furniture and a mini-fridge that was sure to break down any day.

The only thing that beat those days were the times you actually spent in the studio; rehearsing, recording your few music videos, spending downtime together writing new music on lumpy bean bag chairs and worn rugs (and definitely getting distracted by each other every ten minutes).

The night was late enough that no one bothered the five of you as you unloaded the truck, and soon enough all of you were taking your usual spots in the back room (Anzu sprawling out on the battered chaise, Jonouchi and Yugi filling up the loveseat, Honda falling onto a pair of beanbags, and you plopping down in the hammock chair).

“Alright you guys, I’m just going to come out and say it,” Anzu sighed after a few moments of hanging off the arm of her seat, “We need help writing our songs.”

You actually sat up as straight as you could in your chair and peered over at her- had she really just said what you had been thinking of saying for weeks?!

When she saw your look, something like panic colored her face as she waved her hands, “Not that I don’t think you’re a good writer! The songs you came up with were awesome! ...But-”

You waved off her concern, the hard motion causing your hammock to spin a little, “No- no, Anzu, I totally agree! I just didn’t know if I should bring it up...”

Even if you hadn’t thought of it too, Anzu had plenty of reason to think you needed help. In the whole four years since your group had started the band, from the first days sitting in class drawing up logo ideas, you had only written six original songs- and that included the two that were meant to go on your new album. You had gotten by with relying on covers to fill out your live sets and media accounts and making a host of excuses for the lack of originality.

“You really think bringing in another bandmate’s a good idea?” Honda chimed in, eyes narrow as he leaned back in his beanbag chair.

“Yeah, we don’t wanna end up like half the other bands out there,” Jonouchi chimed in, seeming to subconsciously pull Yugi closer to his side, “you guys know the only reason our band works is because we get each other- we’re family! We can’t just bring another person into that, it’ll ruin it and maybe even break us up!”

Yugi put a hand over Jonouchi’s, “Hey hey, slow down, don’t you think we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves? First of all, bands hire ghostwriters all the time, and they don’t always join the band. Besides... I don’t know, if the person’s really cool, would it be that bad to have another member?”

“We could always have them ghostwrite for us for a while, and if we like them, then talk about letting them join,” you offered, and were glad when everyone seemed to contemplate that with at least some positivity. “But that brings up the issue I think we’ll have, I’m not sure we can find someone who fits with our style all that easily. Like Jonouchi said, there’s a reason all of us work well together.”

It was true, all of you brought something to the table, something more than an instrument. The five of you had slightly different tastes, all of it coming together in something that wasn’t quite punk, not quite rock, not quite pop or even metal, and that’s what worked to your advantage. You wanted to prove that different sounds and styles could come together in harmony and appeal to listeners all across the spectrum. Not fit into a genre-labeled box that only fans of said genre would even bother listening to.

Eventually, Anzu gave a shrug, “We won’t know until we try. Why don’t we put the word out and see what happens?”

“We can still work on our own, and if we don’t find anyone who fits, we didn’t really lose anything besides time,” Yugi added, and that pretty much settled the matter.

Tomorrow the search for a new member of your team began.

[p-artsypants]

Longest Night (42) Speaking

Ao3 | FF.net

“So, it’s been two weeks since Dr. Boucher removed your vocal nodules. Have you spoken to anyone yet?” 

Adrien shook his head.

This was his first therapy session. Dr. Robin Zollar, a woman that exuded warmth and kindness. Her voice was sweet and a little silly, and she reminded him of the fairy godmother from Cinderella. That may have been why he was responding to her so well. 

Besides speaking, of course. 

“Does your throat still hurt?”

Shake.

“Have you actually tried speaking?”

Shake. 

“And I’m guessing you really have no desire to either, right?”

Nod.

“Okay. Talking with Marinette, it seems like she’s been speaking a lot on your behalf. That’s fine and all, but you will need to develop a voice of your own. Do you feel like you have no need to speak?” 

Nod.

“Because Marinette speaks for you?”

Shake.

“No? Well, that is a lot different than I expected. I would like to know a little bit more about that. Would you be willing to write down what it is that you’re feeling, if you won’t say it out loud?” She pushed a pen and pad of paper towards him.

He stared at it for a long while.

—

“You’re serious?” Marinette crossed her arms and frowned at him. 

Gabriel held a tennis ball in his hand. “I mean, it wasn’t my idea. But my therapist said it might be a good way to connect with Adrien.” 

“Catch. With his arm in a sling.”

“That’s why it’s a tennis ball.” 

Marinette sighed and looked at Adrien. “What do you think, kitty?”

He sat at the end of his bed and shrugged. 

“A little physical activity isn’t going to kill you.” Gabriel admonished. 

“Yeah, but it could pull his stitches if he’s not careful.” 

“Do I look stupid, Marinette? It’s not even catch, we’re just tossing it back and forth.” 

Marinette frowned at the man, while Adrien gave a weak grunt. 

Gabriel tossed him the ball, and Adrien caught it, throwing it back. 

“Sleep alright last night?” 

“The usual,” Said Marinette, on her phone while she sat on the couch. 

“I was talking to Adrien.” 

“Right.” 

Marinette listened as the ball was tossed back and forth a few times. Before Gabriel repeated again, “Did you sleep alright last night?” 

Adrien didn’t respond. 

“I said, did you sleep well?”

There was a grunt. 

“Shrugging and grunting mean nothing to me. The doctor gave the okay, you can use your voice now.” 

“He doesn’t want to talk,” Marinette pressed. “Don’t force him.” 

“Marinette, again, I’m talking to Adrien.” 

She chuckled darkly, knowing his efforts were fruitless.

“I have someone who’s coming to visit soon. And your Aunt Amilie and Felix want to come and visit too. That will be fun, won’t it?” 

Marinette closed her phone and sat up, looking over the back of the couch to watch this awkward one sided conversation. 

“Felix himself emailed me and asked me about you. He wanted continual updates, since they didn’t get the same news broadcast over in London. He really cares about you.” 

Adrien just pitifully watched the ball, but did little else. It was obvious Gabriel was not happy with his body language, so he steeled himself into a neutral, professional posture. 

Marinette hated it. 

“Nathalie was helping with the company while I was busy with the investigation with you. Now that you’re safe, she’ll be taking a little vacation. But she assures me that she’ll be back soon, and that she can’t wait to see you.” 

The ball was tossed, caught, tossed. 

“Isn’t that nice? Nathalie missed you.” 

Toss. Catch. Toss.

“I said, isn’t that nice?”

“He’s mute, not deaf.” Marinette drawled. 

Gabriel turned and looked at her. “Look, if you keep talking for him, and encouraging this behavior, he’s never going to speak. It’s learned helplessness at this point, and someone has to train it out of him. So shut up.” 

The tennis ball hit Gabriel in the head.

“Excuse me!?” Gabriel whirled at his son. 

Adrien hissed at him, like a feral cat. 

Gabriel scoffed in disgust. “You’re not an animal! If you are angry with me, I expect you to use your words in a level tone.”

“We were treated like animals for weeks.” Marinette bit. “Sorry, it’s hard to think otherwise.” 

“Out,” Gabriel nearly shouted at her. “You’re not helping. Go bother your parents for a while.” 

With tears in her eyes, Marinette stood and started from the room. 

Adrien whined and tried to follow. 

“No!” Gabriel ordered. “You stay here! We’re playing catch!” 

Outside the room, Marinette started down the stairs, but got weak and had to sit. 

“Yikes, cringe.” Said Plagg, coming up to her side. 

“You saw that huh?” 

“I’ve been trying to give you both space and privacy, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to watch over Adrien like the little fairy godfather I am.”

“Was Gabriel right? Am I talking for Adrien too much?”

“Ehhhh, I tend to believe that that man is never right. Even when he’s right he’s wrong. But in this case, he’s wrong wrong. You guys are only two weeks out of the hospital. A month out of torture. I’m still trying to catch up with all the footage, and he’s trying to rush the recovery process. But when you do that, it makes everything worse.”

Marinette exhaled, feeling at least vindicated. 

“Marinette, even if you do something ‘wrong’ right now, no one should blame you for it. Sure, we’ll reprimand you, but you’re dealing with a lot of shit, and your mind isn’t totally clear. Don’t feel guilty for trying to protect Adrien.” 

“Thanks Plagg. That helps.” She glanced up at Adrien’s bedroom door. “I better get back in there.” 

Marinette climbed the stairs again, coming up to the door. 

As she opened it, she stared in horror as Gabriel stood over Adrien, a finger in his face, nearly spitting in anger.

Adrien’s expression was completely zoned out. A defense mechanism that he had adopted in their hellhole. 

He was gone. And would probably continue to be so for a few hours. Did his mind go blank? Or did he retreat into a daydream? There was no way of knowing. 

She shouldn’t have left the room. 

“…not only is it disrespectful, it’s counterproductive. How are we supposed to help you if you won’t talk to us? You never had a problem speaking your mind before!” 

Marinette slid onto the bed next to Adrien, grabbing him around the waist and pulling his head to her shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m here.” 

Adrien didn’t respond.

Plagg got between them and Gabriel. “You’re done.” 

“I’m only trying to help.” 

“You put him into shock. How does that help him? You’ve removed him from this plain of reality. Great job. Dad of the year.” 

“Look, I just wanted to—“ 

“Are you still here?” Marinette snapped. “Get out. Now!” 

“I’m not going anywhere! This is my house, and Adrien is my son!” 

“He’s my husband!” 

Gabriel clenched his fist. “That wedding was a sham. You’re as much of his wife as you are a ball and chain around his ankle. He’ll never get better with you dragging him back!” 

The door swung open, banging against the wall. Marinette jumped at the noise and held onto Adrien. 

Tom and Sabine entered, having been sent for by Tikki. 

“Can you give us a moment?” Gabriel asked like he hadn’t just verbally punched Marinette in the gut. “We were having a discussion.”

Sabine said nothing, but slapped Gabriel across his face. “Be glad it was only a slap.” She bit. 

“That’s assault!” 

“And I bet the judge will be real sympathetic to you after what you said to our daughter and son-in-law.” 

Gabriel just scowled at them. “I feel like we’ve had this discussion before.”

“We did, and last time, Adrien started crying. We can continue this discussion out in the lobby.” 

“I’m not done talking to Adrien!” 

Tom cracked his knuckles. “Oh, yes you are.” With one swift scoop, Tom had Gabriel draped over his shoulder like a sack of flour. 

“Put me down! I can walk!” 

“This is what I used to do with Marinette when she was a child and threw tantrums in a store. You’re going to act like a child, we’re going to treat you like a child.” 

“I’m not a child!” Was the last thing Marinette heard before Sabine shut the door. 

“Are you alright honey?” Sabine asked, sitting beside Adrien. 

Marinette swallowed back tears. “I knew it…I want to help Adrien…but I’m making everything worse…” 

Sabine looked to heaven. “Lord, I’m going to kick that man’s ass.” She shook her head. “No, no Marinette, Adrien needs you right now.” She delicately pet Adrien’s hair. “He feels safe around you, and you understand him the best. Gabriel is lost and frustrated right now. He has no idea how to act. And believe me, it’s hard for us too. I worry every day about what the right thing to do is.” 

“But you don’t…you don’t yell at me.” 

“Because yelling at you never helped in the past. We’ve talked sternly to you when you were in trouble, and we did groundings, and the occasional spanking when you were very very bad. But yelling only made you afraid and distrusting. I suspect that’s the attitude from Adrien he’s used to.” 

Adrien didn’t respond in any way, just continued to bore a hole in the floor with his dull gaze. 

“The doctor said that you being together was good. And what does Gabriel know about this kind of stuff? He designs clothes.” 

Marinette cracked a smile. 

“Your father and I will sit him down and have a good stern talking to him. He’s the one making things worse.” 

Marinette breathed a calming breath. “Okay.” She let go of Adrien, only to take hold of his face and guide him to look at her. “Kitty?”

He blinked owlishly at her. 

“You with me?” 

Another slow blink. 

“Is he alright?” Sabine asked. 

“No, he’s—“ Marinette clenched her eyes shut. “He was like this back in…”

“That place.” 

“Yeah, he…when things would get bad, he sort of…shut down. Salo said it was a sign of death. I think he’s trying to protect himself.” She pet his hair, and kissed his cheeks. 

“What can I do to help?” 

“Can we move him to the couch?”

Sabine nodded and stood, wrapping an arm around his waist. 

Despite being mentally checked out, he was still respondent to movement. As they pulled him to his feet, he stood on his own, though still weakly. They guided him slowly over to the couch and had him sit down. 

“Here’s a nice warm blanket. Do you want some tea?” 

“Yes please, maman.”

Plagg spoke up from where he was silently watching. “I think Adrien would really enjoy a coke.” 

“Are you sure?”

“He might only have a few sips, but it’s his favorite drink.” Then he whispered conspiratorially, “but his dad never lets him have it.”

“Okay, I think I’m following.” 

“Marinette, you play video games, right?” Plagg asked. 

“Uh, yeah?” 

“Good. I’ll put in his favorite game, and you play it, and see if that rouses him.” 

“Good thinking!” 

Plagg floated over to the TV, and turned on the console while Sabine left to get them snacks.

Marinette leaned over and placed another kiss on his cheek. 

The drum beats started up as the main menu came up. 

Marinette groaned. “Skyrim...” 

“What? Don’t like it?” 

“I’ve never played it!” 

“You’ve never played Skyrim?!” Plagg nearly shouted in mock offense. He didn’t actually care, but old Adrien would have. 

“I know the memes, Sneak 100, ‘I took an arrow to the knee’ but I never actually sat down and played it. It’s so long!” 

“Well, you got a lot of time on your hands now. Might as well start!” 

“Yeah, might as well...” 

She modeled her character to look like Ladybug, with red paint over the eyes to replicate a mask. 

As she started playing, Sabine came back and left the snacks. 

Marinette paused the game to help Adrien take a few sips of his drink. She placed the can in his good hand and brought it to his lips. Then she tilted the can slightly, watching as he drank on his own. 

It didn’t rouse a response. 

“If this goes on much longer, I’m going to call the doctor.” Said Sabine. “I’m worried.” 

“Me too.” Said Marinette, sweeping the bangs from his forehead. 

Sabine stayed and watched the game, wincing when Marinette sliced someone’s head off with a sword. 

“This is pretty gory, are you doing okay?” 

“Yeah, it’s almost cartoonish. I...I did much worse.” 

Marinette continued to sneak glances at Adrien. He seemed to be watching the screen now, instead of looking through it. His eyes followed her character, and Sabine took it as a sign that he had mostly come back around. 

“Feeling a little better, Adrien?” She asked. 

He hummed.

So she left them alone. 

Tikki sat on Marinette’s lap, while Plagg nuzzled into Adrien’s hair. The room was quiet, the volume on the game turned down, and only soft ambient music was heard. 

“I love you.” 

Marinette blinked. The voice was so soft, so rough, and wavering, she didn’t think she heard it at first. But she turned to look at Adrien, seeing that he was looking at her. Her breathing picked up, as she waited, begging him to speak again. She bit her lip to keep her from speaking and interrupting if he did say something. 

“I didn’t know what else to say.” 

She shook her head at him, and turned her body to face him. “Say whatever you want. You know I won’t judge.” She leaned in, staring deep into his eyes to prove he had her full attention. 

Adrien rested a hand on hers, squeezing slightly. He met her gaze, holding it with his breath. 

“You…” He began, only to pause. 

“Yes?” She urged. 

“You…are really bad at this game.” 

Marinette nearly collapsed on him, she was laughing so hard.

—

Adrien recalled this very special moment with his lady after the therapist handed the notepad. So he had lied. He had spoken to someone. His other half, his partner, his soulmate. But it felt a lot less like ‘finally speaking’ then it did sharing a secret. He had confided as much in her then. He still didn’t want to talk, but with her it was different. 

With her, he felt safe, free, and wanted. He could talk for hours, or say nothing. Either way, he was comfortable. 

“Adrien?” The therapist asked delicately, as he hadn’t written anything. “If you prefer not to answer, that’s fine too. We have a half an hour left in this session.” 

He was inclined to write out his feelings just as much as he was to speak. It was hard to find the words. Much less ones that were worthy of being spoken.

Finally, he admitted what he didn’t want to.

Why bother speaking if no one will listen?

—

It was evening when she arrived. The sun was just about to set, sending La Grande Paris into glittering gold and orange light. 

Though it felt weird to be staying in a hotel when her home was just a block away. 

Disguised with sunglasses and a handkerchief, Emilie was escorted upstairs to the nicest suite available. 

And inside awaited her dearly beloved husband. 

“Gabriel?” She asked softly.

She heard his breath caught in his throat. “Emilie…” In a few quick strides, he was on her, embracing her, kissing her, weeping on her. “I’ve missed you so much…” 

“I’m here darling, I’m here…” She whispered, shedding tears of her own. 

They stayed that way a long while, just in each other’s arms. Occasionally sharing kisses and words of love. 

Finally, Gabriel pulled away to look her up and down. “You must be exhausted.” 

“I’m actually not. I slept on the plane, and then I’ve been nervous ever since landing.” 

“Nervous? About what?” 

“About being gone, seeing you again, what I’m going to see…” 

“Oh.” He huffed. “Well, did you want to shower? Are you hungry?” 

“Yes to both.” 

“I’ve packed some clothes for you. Why don’t we get you all settled in, and then I’ll tell you the whole sad story.” 

“And Adrien?” 

“He’s home.” 

“When will I get to see him?”

Gabriel gnawed on his bottom lip. “Well…soon, I hope. But, he’s changed a lot.” 

“So have you.” Emilie pet his hair. “You’ve gone gray.” 

“I think I look distinguished.”

“You look old.” 

“You haven’t aged a day, my love.” 

Emilie smiled softly, leaning in to give him a small kiss. “Flatterer.” 

“But about Adrien…you see, he’s not speaking to anyone. I’m hoping that seeing you again will give him that spark.” 

“Does he know what happened?”

“…not quite.”

“What does he think happened to me? Does he think I’m dead? Would seeing me shock him?”

“I think it might be a little shocking, but he just thinks you disappeared. Makes things a little easier to explain.” 

“Speaking of explaining…” 

“Shower, dinner, then I’ll get to it.” 

--

At 3 AM, Gabriel hustled out of La Grande Paris, having done far too much damage. Good thing it was dark, or half of Paris would have questioned why the Gabriel Agreste was leaving a hotel late at night while a mysterious woman screamed obscenities at him from a balcony. 

[grlwtskulltattoo]

Fall For You - Prologue

Characters - Jax Teller x OFC (Katrina)

Summary - Katrina leaves an abuse relationship and heads home after finding out about her father’s passing. Old feelings come back to the surface for a person from her past. Story will follow the events of the show as much as possible. How might have Jax’s story changed with a different woman in his life

Word Count - 1292

Warnings - NSFW, Hardcore Smut, Violence, Angst, Adult Language, Dark Themes, Fluff, Miscarriage, Pregnancy, Accident, Mentions of Physical and Emotional Abuse.

Will add to the warnings as the story progresses. Warnings cover the whole series. Some parts will be more mild than others.

A/N - Feedback is welcomed and encouraged, and may help motivate me to continue. All mistakes are my own. If you would like to be tagged in future parts, please send me an ask to be added to the list. 

Katrina looks over her left eye in the bathroom mirror. Gingerly touching the edges of the fresh bruise around it, testing it's tenderness before she conceals it with makeup. The fight her and her boyfriend, Vince got into the night before replaying in her mind. He was angry the moment she walked into their apartment after she got off of work. Apparently he had made dinner reservations at some fancy restaurant and failed to mention it to her. By the time she got home from work it was too late. If she had known sooner, she might have been able to ask her boss if she could take off early. Instead, she came home to Vince's explosive temper. Of course she didn't help the situation by going toe to toe with him. 

It used to not be that way between them. The first year of their relationship had been great, they hardly ever fought. He treated her with respect, gave her space when she needed it and actually acted like he was in love with her. The last few months, however, all of that changed. Now he treats her more like an object that he owns. He has to know where she is at all times. He dictates who she can or can't hang out with, and it seems lately that list gets shorter and shorter. The last couple weeks he has been extremely short tempered, and quick to raise his hand to her. She can't seem to talk to him anymore without him blowing up at her. She is so done with this, with him, she just has to figure out what her next move will be. She has left an abusive situation in the past, and it seems she'll have to do it again.

Katrina is finishing up with her makeup when her phone starts to ring. She glances at the caller id, but doesn't recognize the number, other than it's a California area code. She hesitates picking up the phone, but the curiosity of who it could be gets the better of her.

"Hello?" She answers cautiously, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

“Hello, is this Katrina Morgan?” A male voice inquires. 

“Yeah…who is this?” Katrina feels like the voice on the other end of the call sounds vaguely familiar.

“This is Deputy Chief Hale, from Charming PD. I’m sorry to inform you that your father passed away in a fatal car accident yesterday.”

“David Hale?” Katrina asks in surprise.

“Yeah.. It’s me, David.” He confirms. 

Katrina remembers David from high school. He graduated a year before her. She had no idea he became a cop. Of course she wouldn’t know since she left her hometown as soon as she graduated, almost 11 years ago.

“Was he drunk?” Katrina asks, even though she already knows the answer.

“Yes, it appears he was under the influence when the accident occurred. He hit a tree on the outskirts of town.” David pauses. “You are the only next of kin we’re aware of, so I wanted to make sure you were notified.”

“Yeah, thanks David. I’ll try to make it back there, so that I can take care of his affairs.”

“Let me know when you get into town and I’ll offer any kind of assistance I can to help you through this trying time.” David says with sincerity in his voice.

Katrina is touched by his concern and offer of help. She recalls that David was always a sweet guy in school, especially when he stood up for her when some of the girls from the cheerleading squad were trying to start shit with her. They were just jealous that she was friends with the guys they all had crushes on.

“Thank you David. If I have any problems I’ll reach out.”

They say their goodbyes and Katrina hangs up the phone. She walks into her bedroom and sits on the edge of her bed. She’s a little surprised that David was able to track down her phone number, given the fact that she left without anyone knowing where she was going. Cutting all ties with her hometown and her past. But then again, he is a cop, and probably has the resources to track that information down.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about her dad being gone. Relief maybe. Like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. A little sadness for the relationship they could have had if he wouldn’t have turned into an alcoholic asshole after her mom died. In Katrina’s mind, her father had passed away a long time ago, when her mother was taken from them after losing her battle with cancer. It was then that he turned to liquor and drugs as a means to cope with the loss. He had turned cold and mean, only concerned with how and when he was going to get his next fix. He was constantly taking he’s anger and frustrations out on her. That was one of the reasons she left Charming as soon as she graduated high school. To escape the verbal and physical abuse at her father’s hands.

She saved up what money she was able to get her hands on and purchased a bus ticket out of town. She moved to Las Vegas and got a job as a waitress at a casino. After a couple years she became friends with a tattoo artist at a parlor inside the casino. He took her under his wing and taught her how to do tattoos as well as being the only artist she trusted to do ink on herself. She has been working part time doing both, hoping one day she’ll build up her portfolio enough to just do tattoos, and eventually open her own shop. 

Katrina pulls some bags out of her closet to start packing her clothes and important items. She came to Vegas with only one bag containing some of her clothes and her most prized possessions. That’ pretty much all she’s planning on leaving with. She grabs her bags, takes once last look through the apartment to make sure she hasn’t forgot anything, then walks out the front door. Locking the door behind her, she’s ready to close this chapter of her life. She only hopes that Vince takes the hint. When she turns around to head to the parking lot, she almost bumps in to her neighbor, Tiffany.

“Hey Kat, where are you heading out to?” Tiffany asks, confusion evident on her face because of the bags Katrina’s carrying. 

“I just got a call that my father passed away, so I’m heading home to take care of things.” Katrina answers her. She doesn’t usually talk to her neighbors very much.

“Oh I’m sorry to hear that. How long are you planning on being gone?”

“I don’t know yet. Depends on how long it takes to get all his affairs in order.” Katrina doesn’t want her neighbor to know she has no intentions of coming back, because that would raise too many questions that she doesn’t feel like answering.

“Okay....Well have a safe trip.” Tiffany replies.

“Thanks.” Katrina gives a half assed wave goodbye as she walks towards the parking lot.

Katrina secures her duffle bag to the back seat of her Harley sportster, and slings her backpack over her shoulders. She climbs onto her bike and fires it up. After she cinches on her helmet, she backs up her bike and takes off towards California. She’s happy to have Las Vegas in her rear view, but also nervous about what awaits her in Charming. It’s amazing that the place she ran away from all those years ago, would be the place she would be running to now....

[celebratorypenguin]

Fic: The Places Where You Bend

Rating: R for language, sexual situations, and aggressive behavior McLennon

Summary: It’s 1967, all hell is breaking loose, and Paul doesn’t know if he can do this anymore.

The Places Where You Bend

***

October, 1967

***

No power outage, no technician strike, nothing short of an earthquake, could bring the recording studios of EMI to quite as complete a standstill as one John Lennon in full strop.

John stood beneath his microphone, glasses askew, tie long-gone, shirt unbuttoned to the navel. His right hand held a crumpled lyric sheet; his left was holding the neck of his guitar far too loosely for safety. "Take the damn pop filter off," he yelled in the direction of the control room. "I want the consonants to explode!"

George Martin's voice came over the intercom, the weary schoolmaster explaining a rule to a truculent little boy. "We've been over this, John. The input capacity simply can't contain it, and you'll get clipping--"

"Which is what I want in the first place," interjected John.

"You'll get clipping, and distortion, which I know you also want, but you have to trust me to find a different way that won't wreck the control board."

"I don't need a different fucking way, I need for you to make THIS way work!" From his vantage point at the piano, Paul could see John's entire body quivering, tightly-wound. "Or else we need a different studio!"

"Johnny, stop, please," Paul murmured. He wanted to be anywhere on the planet except where he was, especially when John was in Full Bastard Mode.

"You don't know what the hell I want, Paul, not with your moon-June-spoon-loon-Hello-Goodbye granny shit, so stay out of it!"

"John," Ringo said quietly. He was halfway hidden by the screen around his drum kit, making his eyes, large and round with distress, even more piercing than usual.

"Oh, what is it YOU want?" John demanded, turning on Ringo. "Your opinion, from the very back of the room, is exactly what we don't need right now."

"John!" Louder, more forceful, this time from George, who looked up from his guitar with his brow angrily furrowed. "Stop it."

"Don't," John began, completely balling up the lyric sheet as he pointed a thin finger at George, "don't you dare start in on me. This is my song and I know how it's supposed to sound, and it's THEIR job to make it sound like that."

"So contradicting the only people in the room who know how this equipment works is your great idea?" George tossed his head and blew a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. "You're going to scream at them and insult them until you get your way?"

"Fuck you!" shouted John as he waved the Epiphone toward George. It grazed the leg of a nearby stool and flew out of his hand, landing on the floor with a sickening crack.

George was up in a flash, rushing to the guitar as if it were a child in peril. "Oh, fuck," George mumbled, his lean fingers running over the body of the instrument. "Fuck, John."

John stood still. His face, which had been an angry red, drained to a sickly greenish-white. Ringo stood up. "I think he's gonna--" He didn't have time to finish his warning before John ran to the trash can and started retching over it.

"Down," Paul said softly, coming up behind John and pressing on his shoulder so that he ended up kneeling in front of the trash can. Paul crouched behind him with one hand holding John's glasses in place and the other rubbing slow circles on his back as John gagged and spat up a clear, sickly-sour-smelling fluid.

George choked a little as the stench wafted over to him but continued examining John's guitar. Ringo covered his face with his jacket and leaned against the wall behind his drum kit.

"Is he going to be all right?" George Martin's disembodied voice held more concern and affection than anyone would have expected, given John's outburst.

"Yeah," Paul answered, not taking his eyes off of John.

"What brought all this on?" asked Ringo, who was pointedly looking away from where John was vomiting.

"He had a really bad trip last night and hasn't put anything in himself besides coffee and ciggies." Paul sighed, remembering how John had nearly bitten his head off for suggesting that a sandwich might not be the worst idea in the world.

Finished at last, John rocked back on his heels and wiped his mouth with his sleeve while Paul held his body upright. "I'm in the fucking room, you know."

"It'd have been hard to miss," George said drily, "between the tantrum and trying to use your guitar as a cricket bat. You've bent the tailpiece good and proper, and the neck needs to be reset. I don't see anything seriously broken on the body itself. This time," he added. "Try it again, and you'll need a whole new guitar."

John blinked short-sightedly and sighed. "I'm sorry," he muttered. Paul prodded him in the ribs and inclined his head toward the control room. "Sorry," John repeated. "I've had a shit day and now it's a shit night. We'd better knock off for now, all right?"

"Yes, I think that's best," George Martin assented. "Paul, will you lock up, and then see that John gets home in one piece?"

That had always been Brian's job, making sure someone was on John-sitting duty. But Brian was dead, the boys were adrift, and the day-to-day tasks had fallen on George Martin's shoulders.

Paul dragged John to his feet. "We'll just go to mine. It's closer." He peered into John's pale, sweaty face. "If you puke in my car, though, I'm tossing you out into the road. Preferably in front of a bus."

"Here, hold up a sec." Ringo loped over to them. He fished in his pocket for a moment before coming up with some wrapped pieces of candy. "Sherbet Lemons. Zak gets carsick and these are the only things that help," he said, offering the sweets to John.

"Ta, Ritchie," was all John said as he unwrapped a candy and popped it in his mouth, but Ringo seemed satisfied. He gave John a playful punch in the arm.

"Go sleep it off, wouldya? You're impossible when you're coming off the stuff."

John's lips were set in a tight line. He nodded at George, who was packing John's guitar gently in its case. "I'll see to this," George said gruffly as he followed Ringo. As the door closed, they could hear him mutter, "Never thought I'd live to feel sorry for our Paul."

"Fuck," John groaned. "Let's get out of here."

"No." Paul folded his arms and stared John down. "Not until you tell me what the hell's going on with you. Snapping at the engineers? Slinging your guitar at George? Picking a fight with RINGO, of all people?"

"Yeah. Like you said, last night was a rough trip." John covered his eyes with his hand.

"Don't fucking hide from me, John!" Paul snapped, grabbing John's wrist and wrenching his arm downward. "If you want to put your two cents' in on my music the way you always have, that's fine, but you're not gonna call it names in front of George Martin and you're sure as FUCK not gonna do it in front of Ringo and George, is that clear?"

"Since when do you get to give ME orders?" spat John.

"Since no one else has the nerve to say two words to you! Since no one does anything but run around like chickens with their heads cut off since the day Brian--"

"Don't you bring Brian into this!" John stood toe-to-toe with Paul and twisted his arm free from Paul's grasp. Red finger-marks stood out against the light skin. "This has nothing to do with him!"

"It has everything to do with him!" Paul's voice was strident, even in the muted acoustics of the studio. "You were always his little golden boy and he was twisted around your little finger--"

"And you resented him for not falling for the McCharmly allure!"

"--from the moment he whisked you off to Spain!"

Paul heard himself screaming those last words, his heart hammering as he spat verbal venom out of frustration and grief and, yes, even jealousy. He knew John was aware of every single emotion coursing through him, so he wasn't surprised at all when John spoke again in a teasing sing-song.

"I tried whisking you off to Spain, but we didn't make it there." John leaned forward, breathing hard, and rested his forehead against Paul's. His eyes sparkled with mischief. "You've been jealous? All these years?"

"Piss off, Lennon," growled Paul, acutely aware that he was becoming aroused.

"Jesus, I can't believe you! Do you know why I went with him?"

"I can fucking GUESS!" Paul shoved John in the chest, backing him up to the piano. Touching John always sparked something deep and dangerous inside of him. "So you could get everything you wanted, the hell with the rest of us."

John stumbled slightly and half-sat on the keyboard. Paul ground against him, too hard to be pleasurable for either of them. "I was trying to make sure we stayed Brian's top priorities," John said quickly, his sour breath puffing against Paul's face. "He fancied me. He liked rough trade, Paul, you knew that about him from the get-go. And I'm as rough as they come." He looked away. "You always knew that, too. You had bruises for a week after...after the night Brian died."

Fresh anger coursed through Paul at the memory of that night. John's hands, heavy and insistent on his thighs, had left purple marks that hurt almost enough to dull the pain and shock of the awful news.

Paul ground against John again, wanting to relieve the pressure in his groin, and if that meant jamming John's ass further into the sharp edge of the keyboard, so be it.

"That's right, Paul, you can take out your frustrations on me. You could treat me the way Brian liked to be treated, slap me around the way you think I deserve." John suggested. At Paul's horrified glance, he added, "You know damn well that I don't mind a bit of rough. Now and again. As long as the marks don't show."

Paul really, really did not want to know about that.

"And right now," continued John, "you're angry enough to do it."

"Maybe I am precisely that angry." Paul tried to sound convincing but his mind's eye was showing a Technicolor film of John splayed naked across the piano, begging to be fucked, and that ruined any chance of his voice conveying any toughness.

John pulled out another piece of candy from his pocket and tried to unwrap it. His fingers shook enough that he fumbled ineffectually with the paper. "Fuck. You open it."

"Why the hell should I?"

"Because I'm bloody well going to kiss you and my mouth smells like a sewer."

"You just think you're gonna kiss me," Paul panted, his hips moving rhythmically against John's. "I don't wanna kiss a bastard like you."

"Sure, you do, you're just too scared to admit it."

Paul lunged forward. Surprised, John dropped the candy and stepped on it with his heel when he overbalanced and began falling backward. His ass landed squarely on the keyboard and created a loud tone cluster. Paul's head snapped up, his eyes widening as his brain shook and cleared itself like an Etch-a-Sketch.

"You wanker, you're figuring out what notes my bum just played," John teased.

Paul flushed, caught in the act, and he started to laugh. His anger dissipated but there was a knife's edge of hysteria in his voice. He clutched John's shirt as the laughter became harsher, threatening to become sobs.

Straightening up, John let Paul lean into him. "Hey, it's all right, it's all right," he soothed. When Paul looked into John's eyes, he saw so much regret and embarrassment in them that he wondered if hearts really could shatter.

"I don't know how much longer," Paul began, then he had to stop and clear his throat. "I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this thing, trying to keep the band together, trying to keep YOU together. It's too damn hard." His knees didn't hold him up very well at this angle and he slid down to the piano bench, tugging John's sleeve until they were side by side.

"We've made a right dog's breakfast of our lives," John declared as he slipped his fingers between Paul's.

"That, we have."

"Whatever the opposite of 'toppermost of the poppermost' might be, we're in it up to our asses."

Paul let out a little sniff of a laugh. "I've tried and tried to figure it all out, but I'm not even sure what the question is, anymore."

"I often wonder that, myself," admitted John. "I wonder how we could go from aspiring musicians in Liverpool to rich, pokers-up-the-butt assholes flinging guitars at each other. How in the name of bleedin' Jesus did we get to this point, Paul?"

Unable to speak, Paul just shrugged. John turned to him and took both his hands. "It wasn't an easy question, you know. I deserve an answer. We all do."

Paul looked at the floor, at his knees, anywhere but John's penetrating brown eyes. He could feel the center of his world, the John-and-Paul of it, collapsing in on itself. "I don't know how. All I know is that I'm scared, John, I'm fucking terrified!"

John lowered his glasses to the end of his nose and peeked over the gold rims until Paul met his gaze. "It's only me, Macca," he said with a rueful half-smile.

Paul took a steadying breath. "But which 'you' are you tonight?" John, who was shading his eyes with one hand, did not answer. "John, are you falling asleep?"

"Not hardly," John said, turning slightly toward Paul. His eyes were red and wet with unshed tears. "The lights in here are too fucking bright, is all."

Sighing, Paul put his hand over John's heart, concerned by its unsteady, quick thrumming. "Just how bad was that trip last night, anyway?"

"Bad enough. I still feel like shit tonight. And then to get into those stupid fights..." He shook his head. "Maybe I'm just hopelessly fucked up." He started to put his glasses back on properly, then gave up and let them stay halfway up his nose. "Maybe you should just punch my hard fucking head into the concrete."

With a heavy heart and trembling fingers, Paul reached for John's wrist, gently this time, and placed a soft kiss at the pulse. He rolled John's sleeve up above the elbow and traced the veins at the crook. First he used his fingers, then he leaned over and licked in the same spot.

"Paul." Paul shuddered at the sheer carnality of his name when John exhaled it with such fondness. "What're you doing?"

"I don't care about your hard head," Paul whispered. "I like these places better. The places where you bend, where your skin is soft." His breath caught painfully in his throat. "Where you can still let me in."

John nodded, then kissed Paul on the forehead and let his lips linger there as he whispered, "Take me home, Paulie. We can let each other in."

They helped each other up and prepared to leave the studio, John taking the offensive trash can out into the hallway while Paul fiddled with the lock on the door. He thought about taking his guitar and bass home but decided against it. He wanted to give John his full attention tonight, give him all his love and devotion.

Because nowadays, Paul told himself as he turned out the lights, you never knew if there'd be another chance.

*** END ***