#*gasp* should i wear my guillotine earrings

[areyougonnabe]

Short Term Memory

But there can often be a lot of “thinking you love someone” before the loving truly begins.  — The Man In The Red Coat by Julian Barnes

Now I am superlatively, actually awake. — The amnesiac composer Clive Wearing

Aziraphale knows it in Eden.

He watches the demon, Crawly, sprawled loose-limbed underneath the boughs of an eternally blooming magnolia, lazily swatting at the plump bees that buzz around his head, and knows he is in love with him. 

On this plane, in this body, Aziraphale is subject to all the forces the Almighty has created. Gravity, yes. Electromagnetism, the strong and weak nuclear. And, it seems— love as well.

Adam and Eve certainly didn’t take long to get down to it, after all. Aziraphale, having observed the Garden and its inhabitants closely, knows of no possible love other than the kind that blossoms at first light, and does not wither ever after, even as the sun falls below the horizon. That is the only reference he has to compare this feeling inside him to, the sensation that throbs deep within him when he lets his eyes linger on Crawly, on the dark pool of him beneath the tree.

“I love you,” he whispers, so softly not even the bees can hear, just to know how it feels. 

***

On the Ark, Aziraphale thinks of how foolish he was, to believe that he’d loved Crawly after just a few scant days in a garden, hardly even speaking to each other. Longing gazes and yearning sighs does not a true love make. 

He hadn’t known then, not really, the true appeal of an argument that went on long after sunset, ideas and perspectives finding purchase before being wrestled triumphantly to the rhetorical floor. He hadn’t known all the different tones of Crowley’s voice, the demon’s magical ability to parrot and mimic, to mock and decry, to leave Aziraphale wheezing with laughter one moment and incandescent with offense the next. 

But now that he does, now and only now— can he believe himself to finally, fully be in love with Crowley. 

***

In Rome, Aziraphale cannot countenance his own sheer idiocy.

How could he have possibly loved Crowley, when they’d never shared a meal together? It was a childish infatuation, before this moment, before he’d ever seen food make its way past those full lips, before he’d ever seen that tanned throat bob as it drank down a dark wine. 

Crowley’s hair is shorter, now, too, and Aziraphale finds it almost laughable he’d thought what he felt for this demon was love, when only on this day has he first seen the pale nape of Crowley’s neck, the full uncurtained juncture of his ear and jaw. 

They order course after course, jug after jug. Aziraphale does not want the night to end, because now, and only now, for the first time in nearly four thousand years, does he really and truly know that he is in love. 

***

It is the fourteenth century, and Aziraphale has not seen Crowley in ninety-six years. Every year that passes without sight of him, in this monastery high on a mountainside, hurts deeper than the last. 

It was pure folly to have thought himself in love, in those times he could go centuries without seeing Crowley, and not have each separated year be a brand new wound upon his heart.  

Love is only really proven by pain in its absence, surely. So only now, assigned to this most sacred of places, where Crowley could not tread even if he wished to, is Aziraphale absolutely positive he knows for the first time what it actually means to love.

***

London burns, and Aziraphale gathers his precious books, his artifacts and keepsakes, into a bag that rightfully should not be able to fit them all, and escapes outside the city walls. 

There is a familiar dark shape waiting for him there, lingering in the shadow of Aldgate. Aziraphale can smell the telltale scent of Hell on Crowley, the acrid stench of a bad deed done well clinging to his smoke-stained skin. 

He doesn’t need to ask where Crowley has been. His own side has warned him, in many recent holy missives, about increased activity from Below during these tumultuous times of plagues, wars, dissidence. He knows Crowley had something to do with the flames now consuming the city; to ask for details would be to invite pain. So instead they exchange mumbled pleasantries, avoiding each others’ gaze, but not willing to separate, not just yet.  

“A pity,” Aziraphale is saying. “All those homes, and oh— St. Paul’s! That interior was simply divine…” 

Crowley grimaces, ash-faced, and shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.” 

“Oh. Oh, yes, of course.” 

Silhouetted against the smoke, Crowley is wicked, and foul, and demonic, and Aziraphale loves him. Oh, he does, he does, he does. 

Only real love could withstand such conditions, such determined attempts to exterminate it. Whatever Aziraphale felt before this awful day, it was untested and as such untrue. 

It is only now, faced with such inarguable evidence of Crowley’s nature, and feeling a tide of affection rise within him nonetheless, feeling the urge to gather the demon into his arms and hold him there, whisper words of forgiveness and comfort, does Aziraphale know that he is finally in love at last. 

***

It happens again, and again. Aziraphale curses his own stupidity, as each and every time his past self is proven idiotic, infantile, naive, simply misled. His heart bears a succession of false claimants to the crown of love, each overthrown in turn. 

He did not truly love Crowley until Paris, when the demon snatched him from underneath the hanging blade of Mme. Guillotine, for love is only love when it surprises, amazes, does the impossible.

He did not truly love Crowley until St. James Park, when he refused to provide him with the means to his own destruction, because love is not love if it bends to every harmful whim, accepts every poor decision without question.

He did not truly love Crowley until the bombs fell on St. Mildred’s, because in that moment he knew Crowley must love him as well, and love is only love when it travels both ways, amplified by actions on both ends, miracles done in the maintenance of it. 

He did not truly love Crowley until he handed over a thermos full of holy water, because love is not love unless it is trusting, rather than rigid and unforgiving.

He did not truly love Crowley until they shook hands in the back room of his darkened bookshop, promising to save the world together, for love can only really be love when it is committed to, promised, sealed with a touch. 

***

“I love you,” Aziraphale says, between kisses to Crowley’s cheeks, his throat, the corners of his lovely mouth, here in the darkness of the demon’s flat on the night after the end of the world. “Crowley, I love you.” 

“How long?” gasps Crowley. “How long have you loved me?” 

“I— if you must know, I don’t believe I ever have, not until this moment. Not really.” 

“You can’t be serious. You’re lying, you’ve loved me longer than that—”

“A childish crush. A mere obsession. Darling, I swear, I never truly loved you before now!“ 

“That’s not true. You’re being ridiculous.” 

Aziraphale finds it in himself to be primly offended, even as Crowley’s fingers find the buttons of his shirt, opens them, and press into Aziraphale’s skin, shockingly cool as they travel up his chest, exploring him, claiming him. 

“I’m not!”

“You are, though. You wanna know how I know? That you’re wrong? I’ve watched you. I’ve known you, better than anyone. That— that damn look in your eyes, it hasn’t changed in six thousand years, no matter what you think. I’d’ve noticed if it had, believe me. You’ve loved me from the very start, angel. From the beginning.”  

This revelation does not square with Aziraphale’s understanding. It does not slot neatly into his narrative. “But I know,” he insists. “Everything before now, before this moment— it was nothing. It was all in my head. I feel it now everywhere, my dear.” 

“I can tell,” Crowley smirks, his hand now traveling downwards. The smirk turns into a smile as he finds purchase, and Aziraphale gasps, shudders, clutches Crowley tighter.  

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” Crowley goes on, “seeing as we’re here now, after all.” 

“Oh, but it does! Love is not love unless it is spoken aloud, and only now am I speaking it, so only now do I truly love you, Crowley—” 

“If I let you believe that you’re right,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale remembers their friendly sparring as the Ark traversed those many waters, remembers how naively thought he knew love then, “will you keep saying it?” 

“Saying—” 

“That you love me.” 

“Clearly, you’ve—ah!— known this whole time,” Aziraphale says, still managing petulance even as Crowley’s swift touch between his legs increases in speed, sending shocks of sensation rocketing upwards, “so why do you need me to prattle on?” 

There is silence, for a moment, just the sound of breathing from the both of them, coming heavier now, the sound of fabric rustling between them, and the sound of skin on skin, hot and human. 

And then Crowley speaks, right into Aziraphale’s ear, in a voice so low, so close, it makes Aziraphale shake with the dearness of it, or maybe that’s just the rising tide of pleasure inside him—  

“Let me count the ways. Because it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve heard. Because I deserve to be told, after all this time. Because—even though I’ve known, all along, doesn’t mean I ever really let myself believe. Because I love you, too.” 

Aziraphale falls apart, then, beneath the weight of Crowley’s affection, physical and otherwise, cresting over into ecstasy, unlike anything he’s known, from his own touch or that of others. 

“I take it back,” he gasps, winded, “what I said before, now I love you, now I really love you, Crowley—” 

And he goes on, until Crowley throws his head back in joy, lets out one of those pure, gleeful laughs, and cuts him off with another kiss. 

#my writing #THIS TURNED OUT WAY LONGER THAN I EXPECTED HERE HAVE IT #i'll put it up on ao3 tomorrow #good omens #rated M below the cut fyi

[apopcornkernel]

they say i did something bad (but why's it feel so good?)

an akumanette fic.

AO3

-----

hi i got possessed by taylor swift to write a songfic, please dont kill me for not updating soon!

-----

Chapter 1: metamorphosis

Everyone has a breaking point.

Marinette seethes, furious.

Lila has gone too far. This morning, she had spread the word that she had accidentally eaten a bug that was allegedly in a macaron that came from her family's bakery.

Her parents could lose their income, their bakery even, if word ever got around that they were "violating" sanitation protocols.

Her sickly sweet smile as she threatened her family had infuriated Marinette, her rage rolling off her in waves. It was the push off of the cliff. The final, fatal stab in the back.

The snapping of the rope that held up the guillotine blade, silver metal, sharp and deadly, racing towards her neck.

Then and there, she decides to let Hawkmoth akumatize her later. Just to get it over with, to punish her sufficiently, and never again be an akuma.

And why shouldn't she indulge her anger, just this once?

After all, everyone had a breaking point, and Ladybug had just reached hers.

-----

During lunch break, she goes home.

She climbs up to her balcony, still seething, willing Hawkmoth to come. Right on cue, a black butterfly—black as the liar's heart, she thinks bitterly—melts into the lucky charm bracelet she had started wearing everywhere for reassurance.

(Heh. Reassurance. It hadn't helped her one bit.)

She removes her earrings, wordlessly entrusting them to Tikki, right before the akumatization consumes her entire flesh and soul.

-----

Dame Vérité rises from the ashes of Marinette's anger, brilliant and shining.

Her left hand is raised, palm up, a golden feather hovering above it. A wickedly sharp, icicle of a scepter is in the other. A dainty golden chain encircles her left wrist in place of her charm bracelet. She holds herself like a queen, head high, feet hovering above the ground, too perfect to even touch the imperfectness of this world. Her sheer black veil flutters as she glides towards her school, looking for all the world a bride in black. Her dress is fit for royalty, black as night and streaked with blood red, rippling as she wafts through the air. Her midnight hair ripples down her back in waves, a river of darkness. Her pale feet are encased in intricate silver sandals.

She is a wonder to behold: beautiful, graceful and terrible.

She descends through the open space above their school, making her way towards the cafeteria. She silently pushes the door open, floating inside to shocked faces and dropped jaws.

(Adrien slips out of the room silently, using an alternate exit.)

She glides forward, sapphire eyes pinned on a certain Lila Rossi who sits in the central table, surrounded by her classmates. The Italian brunette manages to hold her gaze, but she can sense the fear in her. Somewhere deep inside, the liar knows her reckoning has come.

A cryptic smile knifes her pristine face, the curve of her scarlet lips promising danger.

"Lila Rossi," she intones, her voice resounding through the room. "I am Dame Vérité. Surrender, and I will spare your life. If you don't…" Her voice holds glee. "Then I'll have no choice but to make you surrender."

Lila tries bravado. "Marinette—that is you, right?—I'll never surrender."

The class gapes, astonished at the revelation that this cold, cruel being was Marinette. Alya herself is too shocked to even take her phone out.

Lila continues, blathering as she tries to stall for time. "Besides, Ladybug is my best friend. She'll save me, anyways!"

No sooner have the words left her lips when Dame Vérité holds her left palm up, feather and chain both glittering in the artificial light.

After a moment, the feather sinks down onto her palm, its shine dulling.

Dame Vérité smirks. "For all the idiots in here, this is the feather of truth. When you lie, it gets heavier, and if you are truthful, it stays shining." Her words slice through them, tearing Lila's illusions to shreds. "Ladybug, in fact, is not this liar's best friend. Nor have you ever been to Achu. Nor have you ever been a fox heroine."

At that, she saw Alya clench her fists out of the corner of her eye.

"Lila Rossi is a liar," she declared, heavy authority in a tone that brooked no argument. "And I, as Lady of Truth, have a duty to punish her accordingly."

She pointed her silver scepter at the brunette's neck. "Come along, now, Lila dear. You wouldn't want me to hurt you, would you?" she says in a sugar sweet tone, malice buried in her words.

Lila meekly follows, a sharp contrast to her earlier bravado. It seems she is now scared for her life.

But before Dame Vérité can whisk her prey away, the doors bang open for the second time. A black blur flashes towards her as she swiftly glides out of the way, leaving Chat Noir to skid to a stop before he hits a table. Lila takes the opportunity to hide under a table, tears streaming down her face.

"Oh! What a nice surprise!" she croons out. "A little kitty. Would you like to be my pet, chaton?"

He grins rakishly, stalking towards her. "Sorry, but the only one I answer to is my Lady."

Dame Vérité suppresses a laugh. If only he knew…

"Well, your Lady is gone, so there isn't anyone you can answer to, anymore." She isn't lying, and so her feather grows bright.

He laughed. "As if I'd believe an akuma!"

"You should," she proclaims. "I am Dame Vérité, and I hold the power of truth in my hands, chaton. That feather that just grew brighter? That's the feather of truth."

Chat Noir blanches. If this akuma is Lady Truth...and that is the feather of truth...then does that mean what she's saying is true?

Her next words punch through him, leaving him gasping for breath. "Ladybug. Is. Gone," she says, each word sounding like a thunderclap.

He wheezes, unbelieving of the truth. No. That couldn't be! he thinks frantically, unwilling to accept it.

The akuma smiles, red lips, red as blood, slicing through his heart. "You're all alone now, kitty."

-----

I SWEAR ILL TRY TO UPDATE SOON!

like and reblog if you enjoyed it =))

#miraculous ladybug #ml fanfic #akumanette #akuma!marinette #lila rossi salt #lila's going DOWN #i did something bad #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #lila rossi #poppy writes

[melodyalanaroster]

I Didn’t Kiss The Grim Reaper, I Kissed Alana.

“Alana?” Castiel gasped as he looked at the blonde who had stopped for a second in the middle of a sprint. “Cas!” Alana gasped as she stood stunned. “What are you doing here? What’s going on?” Castiel stood there, shocked to see his old friend, once a cheery, frequently blue clothed girl was now a black leather wearing, serious, figure. Suddenly, a boy with dark eyes, dark hair and a guillotine tattoo on his neck appeared. “Mels! We’ve gotta get back to base!” he called as he ran off. “I know!” Alana called after the boy. She turned back to Castiel, who was still stunned. “I promise, one day, I’ll explain everything!” She called to him as she ran off.

Months later, a music agent got a very interesting phone call....

“Cassy, baby! I’ve got news for you and the band!” they cheered. Castiel and his band mates all looked at the agent. “What news?” Castiel asked. “Have you heard of the organization, the Red Death Regimen?” the agent queried. “You mean the group that Team M.R.V.L belongs to?” “Contract killers?” “The group that brought down that global child trafficking ring over the past few years?” “The Patron Saints of Lost Children.” “The Judges, Jury and Executioners.” the band mates all asked. “Yeah, I know about them.” Castiel answered. “Well, they’d like Crowstorm to perform a private concert for them! They’ve even paid triple what I’d normally ask for private concerts.” Castiel looked at the agent cautiously. “Who is to say they’re not luring us to a trap? Someone might have a contract against us.” he asked. The agent handed Castiel their phone. “Lady Azrael said this file would give you incentive. She said to use earbuds.” Castiel grabbed a pair of earbuds, plugged them into the phone and hit play. Seconds later, his ears were filled by the sounds of his own voice and someone else’s... Lysander’s. “Only one person I know could even have this song.” he thought. His face grew even more serious and he looked at his band mates. “Do you all wanna do it?” He asked. “It would be huge for us.” “We might get to meat the Senior Staff.” “Who knows? Maybe we’ll get up close and personal with Team M.R.V.L...” “That would be pretty cool.” the band mates all stated. “Fine. We’ll do it.”

It wasn’t long before the members of Crowstorm and their agent were flown to the R.D.R’s base. “Now, I’ve been told that for now, this meeting is strictly confidential, so we won’t be able to say that you’ve gone international yet. But, eventually, we will get to say that you’ve all played for them.” the agent explained as they walked into a grande foyer. “Doesn’t look like anyone is here.” one of the band mates stated. “What an unwise statement. For, there is always someone here.” A woman with white hair and silver eyes commented as she walked up to them. “Gentlemen, as you might already be guessing, I am Azrael. I bid you all welcome to our fine base.” She greeted. “Any reason why you’d want us when you could have any musician in the world come and play for you?” Castiel asked. Azrael cocked her eyebrow. “You must be Castiel. To answer your question, it’s because a very special event in R.D.R history will soon be taking place, and as multiple members of the organization thoroughly enjoy your music.” She explained. Suddenly, a scoff could be heard throughout the foyer. “Azrael! Surely you can’t be spoon feeding these gentlemen such pathetic lies! I do believe they are owed the truth.” the person who scoffed called. Castiel recognized the voice instantly and looked in it’s direction. Descending a flight grande staircase was the same woman he had been worrying about for months.... Alana. Wearing an all black outfit consisting of long boots, skinny jeans and a spaghetti strap top, she commanded the attention of all of the base’s visitors instantly. “Melody... Come now... No reason for this insolence.” Azrael replied. Alana looked at Azrael, coldly. “What are you gonna do? There’s nothing left that you can take from me.” She then looked at Castiel and grinned. “I promised you an explanation... Well, here it is. Long time, no see Cas.” Castiel was overwhelmed with emotion. “Melody Alana Roster! What the hell! You go off to Toronto to care for your mother and you end up as Azrael’s protege!” he yelled as he began scolding her. “Castiel!” “What the hell, man?!” “Don’t screw this up for us!” “You do realize that’s the Grim Reaper... Right?” “Castiel? I don’t think it would be good for the band if you disrespect one of the most dangerous people in the world...” the band mates and agent all began blabbering. Alana flinched, grinned, then raised her hands to quiet the other visitors. “At ease everyone. It’s okay. I was expecting this.” She chuckled. “Do you want a private tour?” She asked as she held out her hand to Castiel. “You’d better give one hell of an explanation.” He smirked as he took her hand.

And she did.... Answering each and every question he fired at her to the best of her ability... Eventually, they stopped before a door. “Alana... What room is this?” Castiel asked. “It’s my bedroom.” She grinned as she opened the door and motioned for him to go in. When he stepped through the threshold, he wasn’t entirely surprised. After everything she had told him about the time they had missed, the dorm was a bit expected. The bed was small and covered in Deadpool, the shelves were covered in books and CD’s, the vanity was bare except for a hairbrush and a comb, the dresser had a photo album on it with framed pictures, most of the walls covered in framed photos and posters, stars hung from the ceiling and leaning against one wall was a life sized Mirror of Erised. “It’s not much, but it’s home.” Alana continued to grin. “It’s lovely.” Castiel smiled as he took in every detail. Noticing the Crowstorm stuff tucked away, he couldn’t help but chuckle. “You said Renee was the real fan of the band.” Alana blushed. “It wasn’t the band Cas. You’re my friend... Of course I’ve done my best to keep up with your career.” He walked over to her and touched her hand. “You’ve supported me this entire time?” “Yes, I have. I can’t be able to keep track of everyone else... But, with you I can because of how much momentum you’re gaining... I listen to music all the time... It helps me with my conditions.... And, listening to you really helps because it reminds me of what I am at my core... I even ripped the CD you and Lysander gave me so I can have all of your music on a playlist.” Castiel’s fingers slipped between hers. “Oh Alana... I wish you could come back with me...” Alana perked up. “But I am coming back! Soon too! The official reason for Crowstorm even coming here is to start my re-integration process! There’s even a second base being worked on in Amouria!” She babbled. “Wait, what? What do you mean?” A look of shock washed over Castiel’s face. “Do you know about The Black Tower?” “Everyone knows about it. It’s the tallest building in Amouria now.” “I really shouldn’t be telling you, but I’m gonna anyway. It’s gonna be the new Main Base for us. There’s even a penthouse apartment towards the top that Azrael and the Red Death say is all mine. It’s state of the art and can sustain itself. I’m even gonna enroll at Anteros for my final year of college! Castiel, I’m coming home!” She explained. “When will you be back?” “When the Tower is finished.” “When will that be?” Alana thought for a second. “How about this, when I return to the Tower, I’ll give you one hell of a light show. Alright?” Castiel thought for a second. “And what if I’m not around?” “Then I’ll find out when your next concert around that time is and I’ll attend.”

A couple of hours later, the band was setting up for the concert. “So, Cas? What’s your deal with Lady Melody?” the bassist asked. “Alana? She’s an old friend.” “Do you know why we were commissioned?” the drummer asked. “It’s a long story, but let’s give this all we’ve got.” Castiel smiled as they entered the stage. When the band entered the room, the entire Senior Staff were sitting in the seats. Castiel looked at Alana and noticed her smiling. “Hey! Mels! It’s not every day you’re this bright!” Renee commented. “She’s right! You’re getting warmer, ice queen!” Derek laughed. “I knew this would work!” the Red Death laughed. “Yeah! Maybe you won’t be so hollow!”, “Mels with true substance back in her eyes? That would be awesome!”, “Maybe she’d be a lot more cheery!” the other Executioners commented. Alana looked at Castiel then back at her fellow Staff Members. “It’s only the beginning. I really do hope everything works out!” she cheered. Noticing the band was nearly ready, they all turned their attention to them. Castiel took a hold of the mic and smirked. “You know who we are.” he announced.

The concert went really well. Playing Crowstorm’s biggest songs, everyone had a great time. “Hey! Mels! Maybe you should do a duet with Castiel!” Nora cheered. “Or, maybe you should get up there and show them boys how to get it done!” Veronica suggested. Alana laughed nervously. “Nah! You know I don’t sing for an audience.” “BULLSHIT! You brought the entire base to their knees when you sang “MIssing” by Evanescence just a few months ago!” Lyra cheered. “Alana? Have you been singing?” Castiel grinned. “It’s a long story..” Alana continued to laugh nervously. “Maybe one day we could do a duet.” Castiel suggested.

After a while of everyone mingling and casually chatting, the Agent looked at their phone. “Cassy? We’ve gotta get back to Amouria. You’ve all got a recording session the day after tomorrow.” Castiel looked annoyed. “Can’t I catch up with my friend?” Alana touched his arm. “It’s okay, Cas. You know you’ll see me again soon.” she smiled. “I’m gonna watch out for that light show you promised.” he grinned. Alana hugged Castiel, then turned to his band mates. “It was nice meeting you all! Take good care of him for me!”. The band mates all smiled at her. “It was an honor meeting you!” “Don’t worry, he’s usually the one taking care of us!” “I can’t believe our Castiel is your friend!” “It was lovely meeting you!” the band mates all beamed as they turned and started walking to the door.

Suddenly, something clicked in Castiel’s brain. Before everyone realized what he was doing, he had already turned around and was striding towards Alana. He took her face in his hands and placed his lips on hers. Her eyes widened and the shock made her slightly stiff. “What the fuck!” she thought as his lips caressed hers. When he removed himself from her, he looked at her and blushed, not daring to say a single word. “Cas...” She gasped. “Come home safely.” he breathed as his hands ran from her chin down her arms and to her fingers before he removed himself from her completely and began to walk off. She stood there, shocked, and began to touch her lips with her fingers. “Holy shit!” “Mels, isn’t Castiel Nathaniel’s sworn enemy?” “Someone other than Nathaniel kissed our Melody!” “Damn, that was a power move.” the Senior Staff members started muttering. “Mels? Are you okay?” Nora asked. Alana continued to run her fingers along her lips, her eyes still wide. “I’m going to my room.” she croaked as she began zombie walking back to her bedroom.

In the car, Crowstorm was having an important discussion. “You kissed her! You bloody well kissed her!” the bassist called. “One of the Patron Saints of Lost Children is your friend and you never told us?” the drummer asked. The other members of the band looked at him with total shock. “Castiel? Why did you kiss the Grim Reaper?” the agent asked. Castiel gave them a passive look. “I didn’t kiss the Grim Reaper. I kissed Alana.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

HOLY CRAP this was interesting to write! But I’m so glad I did it! It was gonna be an AU blurb where Castiel and Alana get together... But now I’m guessing it can be the part where there can be a fork in the road. Part of the fork can lead to Alana’s Canon, where she gets with Nathaniel. The other part of the fork can lead to the AU where she’s with Castiel. It takes place about six months to a year before University Life.... So, it’s definitely a Time Skip story... But, as it is a Time Skip Story, it takes place after “You’re Not Worth My Time” and “OH SNAP!”. Credit for cutting out the foreground from Episode 10 definitely goes to @luxxesitacdm. I changed Alana’s clothes and added the glasses myself. So, yes, as part of Alana’s canon, Castiel is the first of the MCL group to learn what she is. This has been the plan for months... But I didn’t know how I wanted to execute it.

#my candy love #my candy love university life #my candy love castiel #mcl #mclul #mcl castiel #mclul castiel #mcl crowstorm #mclul crowstorm #mclul oc #mcl oc #mcl fanfiction #mcl fanfic #mclul fanfic #mclul fanfiction #amour sucre #sweet amoris #amor doce #Sweet kiss #sweet love #Sweet flirt #sweet crush #Corazon de Melon #corazon de bombon #cdm #cdm castiel #mcl alana #mcl alana roster #melody alana roster #slodki flirt

[dangan-ronpa-imagines]

Happy October! Guess who’s back?

Helloooo DRI fam!! So uh, life kinda happened, and with the shit that went down a few months ago, I admit it did put a damper on my motivation and outlook of the fandom for awhile. So my apologies on bein’ MIA for a minute.

BUT I’M BACK! AND GUESS WHAT?!?! IT’S THE FIRST DAY OF HALLOWEEN!. SPOOPY TIME! And that means it’s Goretober prompts! Now I admit, we may miss a few, just bein’ honest. With school, work, life, and well, time zones, it can get a little hectic, but I’ll do my best, and I know the gang will be awesome! I mean, I am about 2 hours late of October 1st, on this specific prompt, but at least it’s done.

BEHOLD: 

DRI’S GORETOBER 2018! Thanks to Mod Oddish’s sexy stylin’ calendar and everyone’s ideas, it’s happening! Les do dis.

~ Mod Panda

Goretober prompt day 1

8:04 p.m.

You look at the ominous clock looming above the cafeteria as you stumble in. You yawn and have no energy, still drained from the previous execution. You replay the scene as it’s burned into your eyeballs, living again and again in the back of your skull as you witness Mondo turn into butter in mere seconds. It still felt….unreal. It stilll feels like a sick prank, but the fact that Mondo wasn’t there, watching Kiyotaka fall apart, and Chihiro’s bloody body pierced into your memory...it’s all too real.

8:42 p.m.

You didn’t realise you were zoning out for that long; in fact, you didn’t even realise a pair of red fierce eyes were staring straight into yours across the table, wearing a small smile as her hands were neatly folded on the surface with her teacup aside.

“Holy fuckin’ Jesus Christ Celeste!” you yelp, finally noticing her presence. You lower your voice into a whisper. “How long have you been sittin’ in front of me?!”

Celeste’s eyes turn into a mischievous crimson red as she smiles and chuckles, covering her mouth in a ladylike manner. Her pale long fingers reached for her dainty cup as she starts to trace her dark grey fingernail around the rim.

“Fancy seeing you come back to life, (y/n). You should honestly be cautious of your surroundings,” she hums. As she picks up her dainty cup, right before she takes a sip, she casually answers, “You’re in grave danger as you should know; this is a killing game.”

You stare at her for a few moments, watching her pale lips sip the milky brown tea from her cup; the aroma of milk and vanilla black tea wafts in the air. Her right pinky is up as she tilts the cup for more, eyes closed as if she’s savoring the flavor. You raise your eyebrow as your thoughts are still stuck on the last thing she told you: This is a killing game. Again, reality hits you harder as you groan and throw your head back, slumping into your seat. You exhale dramatically, racking your brain to find something simple to calm your nerves, then straighten back up. You squint at Celeste’s cup; the aroma of her tea still hangs in the air, soothing your nerves.

“Tea.”

Her eyes open abruptly and her ears perked up. “I beg your pardon?”

“Tea,” you murmur. “I need tea.”

You slide out of your chair swiftly and make your way to the kitchen, as you frantically swing open cupboard after cupboard until you find an assortment of teas. Peppermint, green, oolong, hibiscus, chamomile, earl grey, peach. No sign of black vanilla. *sigh, earl grey it is.* As you grab your cup and heat the water, you stare at the tiles of the kitchen wall. The empty spot on the knife rack from Sayaka’s attempted murder, the water bottles lined up against the sink, a butter knife near a tub of butter...butter in general just made you shudder ever since Mondo was churned. There’s no reason to talk yourself out of believing it’s a prank anymore; the feelings, the people gone, it’s all real. As you dip your teabag into the cup, you slowly make your way back into the cafeteria, seeing Celeste has yet to move from her spot. Placing your teacup in your previous spot, you sit down and inhale the smell of your tea. Bergamot and black tea. You frown, still unhappy.

“Celeste, did you have to take the last of the vanilla tea?” you complain. She opens her eyes and flashes you a smile.

“Survival of the fittest,” she sings. It makes you think when the next killing will happen. What can go wrong, and other possibilities. You can’t help but be on edge and you’ve taken refuge in your hot cup. How can anyone be so calm after these last few killings? Who’s next? You take a sip of your tea to try to calm down.

“Fuck,” you gasp. You burn your lip. You turn your attention away from your burn and quickly walked to the fridge. You dig through the fridge for a moment to find milk, a delicious way to cool off your drink. You cradle it in your arms as you walk back to the table and pour enough to make it cloudy and warm.

“Ahh, a London fog,” Celeste marvels. “Spectacular choice.”

You smile to yourself for a second as you mix it and took a long, slow sip as it warms your tired bones and clears your mind, even for a mere few seconds. You close your eyes as your hands take to the warmth of the cup.

“Celeste, is this how you unwind in these situations? ‘Cuz you make it look easy,” you admit.

You slowly open your eyes, watching her finish her tea as she casually mentions, “Whoever can adapt to any situation will be the survivor. That’s how you win. Sometimes, you just need to step away from it just to re-adjust before you do anything irrational.”

Noted. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Tonight, I bid you adieu,” she announces. Celeste then stands up to push her seat in, then curtsies to you as she walks away. You just nod your head and awkwardly bow in your seat as you and the clock are the only ones left in the cafeteria.

9:44 p.m.

The clock ticks loudly as you realise it’s almost time for you to make your way back to safety: your room. You stretch in your seat as you sigh, staring into your cup one more time before you finish. As you stand up, your head starts to spin. You shake your head, maybe it was just me getting up to quickly. You open your eyes again, but they feel heavy. Everything is spinning faster. Your breath quickens as your chest becomes heavy.

What the fuck is happening?

You panic. You start to run, yet your strides are sloppy. Your body betrays you; your legs give out and you fall onto the floor. You attempt to cover your face with your arms, but your arms also betray you as they don’t move they way you want them to. BAM! Your face hits the floor. Your breath hardens, your mouth hangs open. You can’t close it. You feel drool drip from the side of your face as you taste blood on your tongue. You gasp like a fish out of water, trying with all of your might to get back up. Your eyelids become heavy as you grunt loudly, desperately trying to get somebody’s attention that you’re out in the open, that you need help. Your mind is racing and you quickly run out of ideas to plead for help. You breathe as deeply as you can, and with all of your strength, you let out a blood curdling shriek. Unfortunately, for you, it was cut short. Your eyes were covered suddenly and without a doubt, a knock on the head immediately cut your scream a little too short.

???

You wake up, face covered up. You feel your hands tied and legs tied together as your body is in an awkward position. You’re...kneeling? Your breathing is still labored, and with that, the only other sound in the room is the ticking of a clock.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. TICK. TOCK.

It sounds louder and louder with each second. You then feel wind blowing softly on your face, hearing a swoosh sound in between each tick you heard. What...what was that sound? What’s that from? Where am I?

You purse your lips and attempt to scream, only greeted with pain surrounding your entire lip and mouth area. It’s a piercing pain and it was agonizing. Your breathing quickens as your heart beats harder; you start shaking your head, attempting to shake off this bag off of your head, hopelessly trying to figure out what’s happening. You grunt and scream through closed lips as you suddenly feel the bag being pulled off, only to be greeted by a horrific view. The lips, sewn shut as it still bled down the neck. The face, smeared with bloody hand prints all around the bruised neck and cheeks. The right eye, swollen from what may have been a hard hit to the head. The left side of the skull, bleeding, slightly cracked and pulsing. Hair knotted up with a mixture of blood and saliva. The body is kneeling over a wooden stand, hands tied to the chest, as if it were a prayer, and feet and legs bound together as the weight rested on the bruised knees. You breathe and panic, only realising that the gruesome view was your own reflection.

You try to scream as you thrash your body around, desperately clutching to your life as you need a way out. The mirror falls over flat, and behind it, you witness a guillotine swinging like a pendulum. That breeze. The swooshing sound….that was the source of the calm before the storm. Your eyes tear up as the knot in your throat starts to form wildly, fearing for what will come next. You focus on the sound of the clock as validation that this is all very real. You close your eyes and tears streaming down your cheeks. Then suddenly...the scent of vanilla black tea invades your senses.

You snap your head back as you look around the darkness. You can’t call out to her, but you know that scent, grunting in an attempt to call her name.

“Ho ho ho ho,” she chuckles. “So you figured out it was me?”

More tears stream down your face, but they’re hot and angry.

“Like I told you earlier, adaptation is survival of the fittest, and the only way to do that is to play the game, “she bellows wickedly. “No hard feelings, I really liked you. But I want to survive and get out. I’m surprised the GHB didn’t kick in sooner; your nerves must have really gotten to you if it took that long.”

Another waft of the vanilla black tea  aroma consumes the space. You can barely see, but with the hint of light, you notice...she’s sipping on tea as she watches you suffer. She laughs again, followed by a sigh. The tea, you thought. She spiked my tea...

“How do you like my new toy?” she marvels. You stare at the swinging pendulum blade. It puts you on edge. It’s so close to your face, and it won’t stop swinging. Noticing how uncomfortable you are, she coos, “Ohh don’t worry, this won’t be used on you, dear….now….look up.”

Without missing a beat, you look up, only to see a slanted blade 5 feet away from you. Your body shakes as your eyes grow wide and tears become more adequate. You shake your head maniacally, begging for a way out. You watch her fingers reach out and grip an intricately carved handle and a glint of her smile. You groan and make animalistic sounds, begging for your life. Yet she doesn’t budge. She laughs wickedly as her breath quickens with every word.

“My name is Celestia Ludenburg, and I bid you, (y/n)....ADIEU!���

She forcefully pulls the handle as the blade drops rapidly onto your exposed neck. A crunch echos in the room as tears fall from your clenched eyes once again. As you open them, you see your body, slumped and bloody, on the guillotine bench. Your vision rolls over to Celeste as her wild, dilated red eyes are focused on yours; she wears a wicked smile as she curtsies to you once more before your brain realises it’s completely detached from your lifeless body.

~Mod Panda

#Day 1 #Goretober #Sorry if it sucks #it been a minute #it was fun #Celestia Ludenburg x reader #Celestia Ludenburg #Mod Panda #is gore NSFW?

[moonshinemonty]

For @xoheatherkw. Happy Secret Santa! Sorry this got posted so late, this was supposed to be short! And now it’s almost 3k!!! This got ENTIRELY out of hand. It has a very fluffy ending.

“Blech.” Kirsten manages a pitiful groan as she lifts her head from the toilet bowl, turning her head just enough to see Cameron hovering in the bathroom doorway. His brow is furrowed under his glasses, hair still fluffy from sleep.

“You still sick, Stretch?” He’s there in an instant, kneeling beside her on the tile, his hand tracing soft circles on her back.

Once, she would have hated it. Would have preferred privacy. But he’s warm, and the bathroom floor is cool, and the wave of nausea is already beginning to recede, so she leans her shoulder against his chest.

“I guess so. Three days in a row, Maggie’s gonna love that.”

He makes a dismissive noise from behind her, hand coming up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“She’ll be fine. Besides, that’s kind of how being sick works. You don’t get to schedule in one day wherever it’s convenient.” His voice is firm, like he’s already playing out the argument with their boss in his head.

Kirsten sighs.

“This is stupid. I felt fine last night, and now-”

“Now you’re going to rest while I make you some chicken soup.” He hops back to his feet, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. He scampers off, leaving Kirsten to roll her eyes and stand unsteadily to brush her teeth.

God, she’s sick of soup.

It’s all going fine, her stomach settled with the help of some organic gingerale and saltines. She even has a small bowl of soup to appease the worried glances Cameron keeps sending her way.

And then he brings out a little bowl of tapenade for himself, spreading it on a cracker, and Kirsten is face first in the sink before she even has time to register that horrific smell of olives.

She throws up the soup, and the saltines and the gingerale. She feels the hand on her back without hearing him come up behind her, and sighs, taking the glass of water he offers to rinse out her mouth.

“I want you to go to a doctor.”

She waves him off, turning around slowly so as not to antagonize her slowly settling stomach.

“I’m fine.”

He raises an eyebrow, and Kirsten blanches as she catches sight of her reflection in his glasses. She really does look awful, almost grey save for the splotches of bright red on her cheeks.

“You don’t seem fine. One or two days of something like this is normal, but you’ve been sick since Tuesday. You should be feeling better by now.”

“I am!” Kirsten insists, relenting a little under his scrutinizing gaze. “Except for when I’m not.”

He takes her hand, which she’s sure is sweaty, and a little clammy, and fixes her with that pleading look that she’s beginning to be painfully aware usually ends in him getting his way.

“Please?” He asks quietly. “I’m worried about you, Stretch. It’s probably nothing, but there’s no point in being sick for two weeks and finding out we could have done something about it.”

“You’re a doctor,” she mumbles, dropping her gaze and her voice.

“I’m not that kind of doctor.”

When she looks at him again, she knows she’s lost.

“Alright,” she says. He smiles, cupping her cheek in his hand, soft and sweet. She leans into it, as has become habit.

“I’ll call Ayo.”

Kirsten just nods and drops into the nearest stool with a sigh.

She makes sure he puts the tapenade away before he calls the doctor.

“Sorry.” Ayo makes an apologetic face as she slides the needle into Kirsten’s arm. The blonde just shrugs with one shoulder, careful to keep the one being poked still.

“I’m kind of used to it at this point.”

That earns her a smile, the kind shared between people who have seen a lot together. Kirsten considers her a friend, though they’ve never actually socialized outside work.

“So you started feeling sick on Tuesday?”

Kirsten nods.

“I woke up nauseous, couldn’t keep anything down all day. Since then it’s like I’m fine one moment and the next I’m throwing up my saltines.”

The darker skinned girl frowns, her brow drawn thoughtfully.

“Any other symptoms?”

“I’ve been tired,” Kirsten says slowly. “It’s sort of hard to tell at this point if that’s because I’m sick or because I haven’t really eaten in 3 days. And I’ve been having these really vivid dreams, so I’m not sure how much rest I get even when I’m sleeping.”

“Alright.” Ayo finishes drawing blood, twisting the vacuumed vial to seal it, and slides the needle out. “Well, I’ll run some tests back at the lab and get back to you. I’m sure it’s nothing, but we should know for sure before you stitch again even if you’re feeling better.”

So many question marks, Kirsten thinks. For all they know she could be a vegetable by thirty as a side effect of the stitching. It’s not like they really had the time or opportunity to do clinical trials before she came along, and Marta-

She tries not to think about Marta too much.

Kirsten is napping when Ayo calls. Cameron tries to answer it right away, she can tell by the muffled curse followed by a quiet hello?, that drifts in from the hallway after the ringtone wakes her.

She yawns, stretching, and notes that she feels better than she had that morning. Though, by now, she’s learned not to trust that.

“Am I dying?” She asks, blinking as she rounds the corner into the still sunny living room. Cameron jumps a little, and she smirks at him.

“Ah, no.” He says. “I mean, I don’t know.” She raises her eyebrows. “Ayo wants you to come in, she wouldn’t tell me why.”

“Oh.” Kirsten frowns. “That sounds kind of ominous.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

He doesn’t sound sure, but he likes to worry, so Kirsten decides to leave him to it.

“Alright, I’ll head over to the lab now.”

By the time she’s dressed and steps back out into the hall he’s waiting for her, keys in hand.

“I can get myself to the lab, Cameron.”

She allows him a certain level of fussing, given that he worries so much, but she’s starting to feel coddled.

“I know you can,” he mutters, shifting his weight onto his back foot. “I just-do you not want me to come?”

“No.” She blinks, and his face goes blank. “I mean, I don’t not want you to come.” She relaxes when he does, the doubt in his eyes fading.

God, it’s still strange to know he cares that much. Sometimes she forgets. Even stranger still, to know how that feels because she reciprocates it. The way she still has nightmares about losing him sometimes, wakes up gasping and pressing her cheek to her chest.

Is it worth it?

Yes. She can answer that in a instant, even when it hurts.

“Um,” Cameron is still watching her, a little hesitant. “So should we-”

“Oh,” she nods. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Cameron fiddles with the radio, and it isn’t until the third station in as many minutes that Kirsten realized just how nervous he is.

“Hey.” She puts a hand on his bicep, and he glances at her. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Cam. After everything we’ve been through I don’t think the flu is going to be what takes me out.”

He tries to smile. It comes out more like a grimace.

When he goes to change the channel again, she swats his hand away.

When Ayo asks Cameron to wait outside, Kirsten is momentarily afraid he’ll actually faint on the spot.

“Why?” He demands immediately. “Is something wrong? Is Kirsten-”

“Cameron.” Ayo sighs patiently. “It’s just policy. I’m still a doctor.”

“I’ll be out in a minute,” Kirsten presses a quick kiss to his cheek. It’s been a few days since they’ve had any real physical contact, she’s been afraid to get him sick. So when she notices that his eyes have darkened, just slightly, and have dropped to her lips, she gets distracted.

“Uh, Kirsten?”

She blinks, looking back at their friend and doctor, who’s wearing a smug smile she hasn’t seen in a while.

“Sorry.”

Ayo just shakes her head, still smirking.

“I’ll have your girl back in no time, alright?” This is addressed to Cameron, who doesn’t look like it’s alright at all, but Ayo ushers Kirsten into the examination room before he has a chance to argue any further.

“So,” Kirsten says bluntly, sitting on the little padded table. “What’s wrong with me?” She can feel the weight of it in the air, has felt unbalanced since she woke up from her nap, as though an invisible guillotine is hanging over her head. She placated Cameron because she didn’t want him to worry, but truth be told, she has a bad feeling she just can’t shake.

“I don’t know that much about your relationship with Cameron,” Ayo says slowly, leaning against the wall with a tablet in her hand. “So I’m not sure if this will come as a shock.”

“My…” Kirsten frowns. What does her relationship with Cameron have to do with it? “I’m not easily shocked these days.”

“I’m sure that’s true.” Ayo smiles at her, and Kirsten scans the expression for any sign of pity or concern, but doesn’t find anything. It comforts her an infinitesimal amount. “Kirsten, you’re pregnant. I ran the blood test three times to be sure, and I checked your other vitals and levels, and it makes sense.”

She pauses, gives Kirsten a chance to react. To reply.

But all she can do is stare.

“Kirsten? Are you alright?”

“I-you-“ Her mind spins, running over dates, thinking back, trying to remember, trying to convert Ayo’s words to something she can understand.

“Okay, so I’m guessing you weren’t trying then.”

“I…” Kirsten says faintly. “No. We’ve only been together a few months, we haven’t even talked about-are you sure?”

“I’m sure. You’re about six weeks along, which…” the other woman looks a little unsure for a moment. “-Gives you options.”

“Options.” Kirsten repeats vacantly. “Like-”

“Whether or not you want to go through with the pregnancy, adoption…The baby-”

For some reason, that one word cuts through all the static in her head when nothing else has.

“The-“ She inhales sharply. “Baby.”

“Yes.” Ayo’s smile makes a reappearance. “They do tend to make an appearance after a pregnancy.”

“Pregnant.” It’s difficult to say anything at all, so she continues to parrot the doctor’s words back at her. “So the nausea-“

“Morning sickness. It tends to be worst in the first trimester for most women. And the fatigue and vivid dreams are common symptoms as well.”

Kirsten looks down at her still flat stomach, staring so hard her head begins to ache, like the bump is hiding there if she just looks harder enough. She hasn’t really though about having children. Certainly not now, when their lives are so dangerous and unpredictable and even her relationship with Cameron is…new.

“I really don’t know if it’s safe to stitch in your condition,” Ayo continues. “I’ll have to talk to Cameron about it, and-“

“Cameron.” Kirsten jumps to her feet so abruptly that Ayo flinches. “I have to tell him.”

“Uh, yes. You probably should.”

“I have to go.” Kirsten murmurs, still half dazed, reaching for the door.

“We should talk about-“

“I can’t,” Kirsten says, without looking back. “I just…I need a minute.” Her emotions are swirling like birds around her head, mixing with fragmented thoughts and static.

“Kirsten.” Cameron half shouts her name, and by the impatience in it, she gets the sense he’s been calling her for a while. They’re sitting in his car, Kirsten refusing to speak in the lab and Cameron refusing to drive home until she tells him what happened.

“Sorry.” She says quietly. Something in her expression is obviously worrying him, though she has no idea what the mixture of feelings and blind panic in he head are manifesting as on her face.

“What’s wro-”

“I’m pregnant.”

It just…comes out. She’s a little afraid to look at him, but in the end curiosity wins out.

He’s just…kind of…frozen. Mouth hanging half open, chest still, eyes huge.

It’s not entirely reassuring.

“Cameron,” she whispers. She’s supposed to be the calm one, but she’s anything but calm, and if he can’t talk her down-

“What.”

It’s a million questions and not a question at all.

“I’m pregnant. I didn’t…I don’t know how…and what am I going to-” Her voice started low, but it’s rising with each word, the panic and shock setting in like a wave of adrenaline. Her chest feels like an elephant is sitting on it, and she struggles to drag in enough air.

And then his hands are on her face, and his touch is steadying, but it’s the clarity in his green, green eyes that brings her back.

“Hey. Breathe, Kirsten.” His voice is soft and familiar and she tries, focusing on that clear green and his obscenely long eyelashes and the faint freckles spattered across his nose.

“God.” She closes her eyes as it passes, exhausted. “I have no idea what I’m going to do. I have no idea how this happened.”

When she opens her eyes again, his expression is wry.

“I have a few ideas.”

Despite the tension of the situation, she smacks his arm.

“And it’s what we are going to do. You’re not in this alone, Stretch. You’ve got me, always.” He looks so sure that she nearly bursts into tears. This whole emotions thing was hard enough before the pregnancy hormones, but she’s slightly mollified to know that she hasn’t been completely unreasonable the past few weeks for no reason.

“A baby, Cameron? I can’t even keep a plant alive! I yelled at my fridge last night for being too loud.” She’ll be a terrible mother. She’ll be clueless and clumsy and something bad will happen.

Her hand splays protectively across her stomach entirely of it’s own accord. The movement isn’t lost on Cameron.

“I think we could figure it out,” he says slowly, eyes still on her hand covering her stomach. “If you-if you wanted to.”

Does she? A year ago she’d have said no. Absolutely not. She had no interest in children.

But now-

Those eyes, she realizes, staring at him. A child with his eyes, and curly blonde hair, and-

Oh. She suddenly wants it with a fierceness that knocks the breath out of her and she realizes, painfully, that Cameron has yet to answer his own question.

“Do you?” She asks. His eyes finally snap back to hers, wide and searching. “It’s so soon, and if I can’t stitch we won’t have jobs and the hours aren’t exactly ideal for kids-”

“Do I- Kirsten.” He says, and it actually hurts the way he says her name, she can feel it down to her bones, toes curling. “I will support you whatever you decide, but I would be ecstatic to have kids with you. Now, five years from now, ten years from now. But you are what I want no matter what.”

“You’re such a dork,” she whispers, fingers combing through his hair. He smiles.

“You’re the one who’s crying.”

Surprised, she lifts the hand on her belly to her face, finding it wet.

“Hormones, I guess,” she says with a sigh. “That’s going to be fun.”

His gaze on her turns sharp.

“Going to be?” He says carefully. “As in-“

“As in, I guess the next seven months are going to be really interesting for both of us.” She smiles tentatively.

“And,” he sounds a little breathless now, “-after that-”

“It probably doesn’t get any less interesting when the kid is actually around,” she murmurs, watching his reaction. For a heartbeat, nothing, then-

A blinding smile.

“We’re gonna have a baby?” It looks as though his face might split in two with the force of his grin, and she can’t help but return it.

“Apparently.”

And then he’s kissing her, as deeply as the centre console and the confined space of the car will allow, and she’s climbing into his lap far more eagerly than is probably appropriate for the very sketchy parking lot, and it isn’t until he groans her name and pulls back that she’s willing to let go.

“This is maybe not the best spot,” he says raggedly. “For…well pretty much anything, but especially that. Drug deals, maybe.”

She laughs, dropping her forehead onto his shoulder.

“Sorry,” she says, lips pressed against his neck. “Hormones.”

When she straightens up to slide back into her own seat, he’s grinning at her, an entirely different glint in his eye.

Her hand pauses on the seatbelt.

“What?” She asks.

He shrugs, turning his eyes forward as he starts the car.

“Just thinking about how interesting the next few months are going to be.”

She chokes on a laugh.

“Oh really? And what makes you so sure I’ll-”

He leans over, just long enough to slide his hand slowly up the inside of her thigh. She gasps, biting her lip. Okay, so the pregnancy hormones might work to his advantage just a little. But as quickly as she can blink, his hands are back on the steering wheel, guiding them home through the L.A. traffic.

He wakes her up at three am, looking slightly frantic, and her heart seizes with fear.

“Wha-”

“I love you. I didn’t say that, I can’t believe I forgot, but I love you. So much it hurts sometimes. You’re amazing, and I love you.”

It’s a lot, for three in the morning, but she places a hand against his jaw and says-

“I love you, Cameron. But if you wake me up for something like this again I’m going to murder you.”

His teeth flash white in the moonlight, and he presses a kiss to her forehead.

“Goodnight, Stretch.”

She settles back against her pillow, eyes falling shut.

“Night, Cameron.”

It’s so faint that the next morning she won’t be sure if she dreamt it, but she’s almost certain that right before she falls back to sleep, she hears him add:

“Goodnight, baby Goodkin.”

#stitchers #Camsten #cameron goodkin #kirsten clark #stitchmasinseptember2017