#Valium chapter one

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Comet Donati [Chapter 1: History]

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+) and drugs, alcohol, smoking, astronomy, mental health struggles, Missouri.

Selected Chapter Quote: “You’re gonna love Aemond. He’s so fucked up. He’s like Disney World for therapists.”

Word count: 4.1k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

* * * I’m going to tag like a bazillion people since this is the first chapter of a new fic, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. I hope you are all doing well, wherever you are in the world. 🥰😘 * * *

@borikenlove​ @myspotofcraziness​ @teenagecriminalmastermind​ @quartzs-posts​ @tclegane​ @poohxlove​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @chainsawsangel​ @itsabby15​ @padfooteyes​ @arcielee​ @travelingmypassion​ @what-is-originality​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @randomdragonfires​ @aemcndtargaryen​ @jvpit3rs​ @sarcastic-halfling-princess​ @flowerpotmage​ @ladylannisterxo​ @thelittleswanao3​ @libroparaiso​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @girlwith-thepearlearring​ @minttea07​ @trifoliumviridi​ @deltamoon666​ @mariahossain​ @darkenchantress​ @doingfondue​ @atherverybest​ @namelesslosers​ @skythighs​ @moonlightfoxx​ @partypoison00​ @bellameshipper​ @coffedraven​ @greenowlfactif​ @catalina-howard​ @babyblue711​ @marvelescvpe​ @heimtathurs​ @ammo23​

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters! 💜

“You are a professional,” you tell your reflection threateningly, like it owes you money. Your hair is painstakingly tidy, your makeup neat, subdued, businesslike. You are wearing a black blazer, a white blouse, and Cookie Monster pajama pants. You are in your one-bedroom apartment in Kansas City, Missouri: grey, thunderous, humid as hell, June raindrops on the windows. “You have a master’s degree and hundreds of clinical hours and you are not afraid of clients. Not at all! Not even a little bit!”

You check your phone. 2:55 p.m.

“Oh God,” you whine to the checkered tiles of the bathroom floor, to the floral wallpaper. You clutch the cold porcelain of the sink: rose-pink, 1950s, diners and Thunderbirds, housewives and Valium. “Oh my God. Oh my God. I can’t do this. Oh my God.”

But there is no escape! You hurry, sweating profusely, to your laptop. You start the Zoom meeting and wait for your client to arrive, chewing your thumbnail until it bleeds, a scarlet semicircle of dull warm pain, a crescent moon like spilled merlot. You glance at your notepad again. David Mills, 25, married, anxiety upon relocating to a new city and beginning employment there.

Wait.

You confirm with a quick Google search in a new tab. David Mills was the protagonist in Se7en.

You sit back in your swivel chair, eyes narrowed with suspicion. The blue-white luminance of the screen glows on your face like moonlight. Your client is either a coincidence or a liar.

So what? People lie. People lie about therapy especially. So he wants some anonymity. Big deal.

“Strange,” you murmur to yourself.

You have no further opportunity to mull it over. A gratingly cheerful ding announces your client’s arrival in the Zoom meeting waiting room. No avatar, name still listed as David Mills.

“Okay. Okay. It’s fine. Here we go.”

You shake the tremors out of your hands and admit him. He pops onto the screen like a bloom of ironweed, like fireworks on the Fourth of July. It’s nighttime wherever he is. The background is dark and indistinct, shadowy; lamplight cascades across his face, topaz and fool’s gold. You are startled to realize that you already know him. And his name is definitely not David Mills.

“…Aegon?!”

He grins, sly and cocky but never cruel. “Hey.”

“Aegon Targaryen??!!”

“That’s me!” he concurs brightly. “What’s up, Stargirl?”

And instantly, you are transported back to almost exactly one year ago: a rooftop bar downtown, neon signs coiled in shades of violet and rhodonite and sapphire, night wind, constellations, ice clinking in misty glasses, locks of his hair skating between your fingers, the sting of his teeth on your throat, the Weeknd. “Hey,” you say softly. And then again, with more enthusiasm: “Hey! I saw you on Good Morning America last week!”

“Yeah? Was I good?”

“Jace was good. You were slightly offkey.”

“Aw shit. I usually am.”

“That’s okay. You’re the hot loser, right? That’s your character?”

“That’s me, baby. That’s why it works so well.”

It’s impossible: time has passed, thousands of miles have opened up between you, and yet it’s like he’s right here in the room, he never arrived, he never left, he’s always been here for life to grow up around like the framework of a house, a trellis, a skeleton. “How did you find me?”

“I couldn’t remember your name, but I figured you must have finished school by now. So I Googled therapists in Kansas City. Do you know how many there are?”

“500,” you guess.

“712,” Aegon says. “At least, that’s how many I scrolled through before I found your photo.”

“Wow.” You’re smiling; you can’t take your eyes off him. A lot of girls have that problem. That’s why he’s worth $100 million. “Couldn’t remember my name, huh? I guess I didn’t make much of an impression.”

He chuckles, a little bashfully, sweeping his blond hair off his face. “No. No, you definitely made an impression.”

So did he. In the downstairs bathroom of the bar, tucked beneath a staircase, stark white florescent lights and red walls, lip biting and ripped seams on your dress. He’d finished in approximately thirty seconds—which, oddly, felt more like a compliment than anything else—and then promptly snapped off the condom, dropped to his knees, and went down on you until you came not once but twice, a rarity for you. But that wasn’t the best part. Afterwards you’d gone back up to the roof together, sat in a quiet corner booth until the bar closed, talked about anything and everything with your bodies folded unconsciously into each other, origami, blended watercolors, whispers and murmurs, your palm on his thigh, his fingertips ghosting the underside of your wrist.

“So,” Aegon says through the laptop screen. “Are you, like, kind of unemployed currently?”

“No,” you reply, palpably defensive. Embarrassing! “I’m clearly working right now. You literally made a virtual appointment with me. I’m just…getting my practice off the ground.”

“Yeah but you seem lowkey unemployed.”

“You are so fucking rude.” But you’re laughing.

“I’m just saying, you had a lot of appointment times available. A lot.”

“I’m recruiting clients!” you exclaim. “I’m not like you. I can’t simulate sex with microphone stands to sell tickets.”

“That was one time!”

You smirk at him, eyebrows raised.

“That was…four times. That I recall.”

“I’m a professional. A serious, grown-up, certified professional.”

“You’re a glorified hobo, admit it.”

“You’re a dollar store Harry Styles.”

“Fuck,” he sighs, clutching his chest. “Okay you win.”

“Why did you do this? Why did you track me down in order to make some fraudulent therapy appointment?”

Now Aegon is something you’ve never seen from him before. He’s nervous. “I, uh…I need your help.”

“Really?”

“Well, not me specifically,” he amends. “We need your help. Comet does.”

Comet. What he means—what screaming fans all over the world mean when they drop this name in Reddit threads or Twitter hashtags or Tumblr gifsets—is the boy band Comet Donati. Three albums, five members: Aegon, Jace, Luke, Cregan, Daeron. The lineup has changed recently. Everyone knows why. “Help with what?”

“I mean…I’m sure you heard about what happened.”

“Yeah,” you say, somber now. Six months ago a piece of rigging collapsed during soundcheck at the Nippon Budokan in Tokyo. It hit Aemond, costing him six inches of flesh on the left side of his face, his sight in one eye, and his position as the undisputed, archetypal fearless leader of Comet. The celebrity gossip sites had reported that he was taking time off to recover, and then that his younger brother Daeron would be filling in for him at a few shows, and then suddenly Daeron was the fifth member of the band, and everyone was so charmed by his distinctly buoyant, sunshine-and-rainbows quality that Aemond faded from the discourse almost entirely, a ghost, a phantom, an antiquated word like telegraph or courtship or laudanum.

“So things are different now,” Aegon continues. “Things are…not always easy. And I think it might be a good idea to have you around.”

“Look, I’m not…like…” How can you put this? It’s something you have difficulty admitting out loud. “I’m not a real therapist, you know? You’re right, Aegon. I’m basically unemployed. I’m fresh out of my master’s program, I don’t have anywhere near the kind of experience that someone would need to adequately help Comet. So, maybe I could recommend some people to you, but other than that I don’t think I can—”

“It has to be you,” Aegon says.

You shake your head, gazing through the screen at him, through the space and the time. “Why?”

“When Comet performed in Kansas City…when we met at the bar that night…” He is hushed, meditative. “I don’t really remember what we talked about. But I remember exactly how you made me feel.” He smiles, the sort of smile you didn’t know he had in him: soft, pure, nostalgic, without edges. “I think Aemond could use some of that.”

The walls fall down around you, this apartment, this city, this life. “Where are you right now?”

“Capri.”

“Where?”

“Capri,” he says again, amused. “But we’ll be in Rome tomorrow. You can meet us there.”

“In Rome,” you repeat, like it’s Mars or one of Jupiter’s moons.

“Catch the next flight out. The band can reimburse you. We’ll get you a contract of some sort. Nothing too long-term, so you won’t be locked in or anything. A few months. Then we can reassess.”

“Okay, but…I don’t feel comfortable serving as an official therapist to you or anyone else in Comet, Aegon. The circumstances are less than orthodox. And not just because of the…um…bar bathroom situation.”

“Fine, whatever.” He’s high on the victory; the details don’t matter so much.

“Okay,” you say. And then again, giggling wildly at the ludicrousness of it all: “Okay! I guess I’ll see you in Rome tomorrow!”

“Cool. Let me give you my WhatsApp.” You exchange information, and then he grins at you, crafty and radiant through the screen. “You’re gonna love Aemond. He’s so fucked up. He’s like Disney World for therapists.”

“We’ll see,” you reply distractedly, already opening Expedia in a new tab.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Midwest, the East Coast, the Atlantic Ocean, the Mediterranean Sea, Southern Europe, green to blue and then green again as the plane descends into the Leonardo da Vinci Airport of Rome. You roll your single carry-on bag through the corridors, peering out the windows at cloudless cerulean skies and towering stone pines. Aegon meets you at the bottom of an escalator. He’s wearing cargo shorts, a neon green tank top, and matching Crocs. He’s slightly chubbier than you remember, just as beautiful, just as chaotically charismatic, the sun made flesh. He’s standing with a man you don’t recognize.

“Benvenuta, bella!” Aegon proclaims, nearly tackling you with a hug before taking your bag. He smells like beer, sunscreen, Axe body spray, summer air that unfurls warm and golden in the lungs.

“Oh, thank God,” the other man—possibly Italian, definitely gorgeous—exhales with great relief. “Aegon said he needed to meet someone at the airport and I was 90% sure that you would be a drug dealer. But you do not look like a drug dealer. You’re not a…are you a…?”

“No, I’m definitely not a drug dealer.”

“Okay. Great. Hello.” He extends a hand, tan and muscley. “I’m Criston, I’m the tour manager. It is my job to keep everyone alive and uninjured.”

“Four out of five isn’t bad,” Aegon says. And then, when Criston is clearly distressed by it: “Uh, anyway, there’s an Escalade waiting outside.”

The SUV is massive and black with tinted windows. As you follow Aegon into the backseat, several paparazzi appear on the sidewalk and begin snapping photos, calling out to you and expelling rapid-fire white flashes like lightning. Aegon ignores them. You’ve been travelling all day, and the sun is setting now in Rome. The sky is the color of embers, autumn leaves, Saturn. Criston climbs into the passenger seat and gives instructions to the driver. The Escalade wheels out of Arrivals, paparazzi sprinting down the sidewalk after it to take a few final pictures.

“So,” Aegon says, smiling. He pops open the mini fridge and hands you an ice-cold can of San Pellegrino. “Do you have a boyfriend back in Kansas? Or, maybe, boyfriends?”

“Missouri,” you correct him automatically. “And no. None worth mentioning.” A guy you’ve had lunch with twice, a guy you made out with at an Olive Garden, a guy you hooked up with back at UChicago who you’re still texting, guys who flit in and out of your mind like birds through the sky, impermanent, inconsequential.

“You still on the pill?”

“Yes.” You’re not offended. Aegon is teasing, and so are you. It occurs to you that talking to Aegon is a bit like talking to yourself; there are no awkward lulls, and he rarely says anything that shocks you. “But that’s not why I came to Rome.”

“That’s fine. That’s not why I invited you.”

As the Escalade zooms by iconic landmarks—the Spanish Steps, the Pantheon, the Piazza del Popolo—you ask Aegon about them. He has no idea; he makes things up instead.

“That’s the duck waterpark,” he says as you pass a fountain that’s over 1,000 years old. Then he points to a naked statue of an extremely buff Mercury. “That’s me before I started eating carbs again.” His only snippet of accurate trivia comes as you drive by the twilight-lit Colosseum. “Holy shit, that’s where Taylor Swift made out with Tom Hiddleston!”

“Surely more important things have happened there at some point in the past two millennia.”

“I doubt it,” Aegon replies, frowning out the Escalade window, taciturn. “I wish I got to make out with Taylor Swift in the Colosseum.”

Comet Donati is staying at the Anantara Palazzo Naiadi Rome Hotel, which closely resembles a palace. When the Escalade stops at the front doors, you drag your luggage out onto the cobblestones.

“No no no,” Criston says, grabbing the rolling suitcase from you. He gives it to a white-gloved butler along with a room number and then escorts you and Aegon to the top floor. It’s not until the three of you are in the elevator that you realize you are still wearing your highly unsophisticated travel-day attire: yoga pants, flip flops, a tie-dye hoodie with Louis Tomlinson’s face on it that you purchased from Etsy last winter. Aegon catches you scrutinizing your reflection in the mirrors that line the inside of the elevator.

“Traitor,” he says with a grin, massaging your shoulders. His eyes lock with yours in the mirror. His touch is—just as it was a year ago at that bar in Kansas City when you were home from school on break and he was a transient visitor, fleeting like a rainstorm—familiar somehow, pleasant and comforting but not profound, welcome without being necessary.

“Don’t hate him ‘cause you ain’t him. When was the last time you wrote a #1 hit single?”

“Never,” Aegon readily admits. “Although I got into the Top 5 in Norway once.” No, everyone knows that Aemond was Comet’s Louis Tomlinson: their best songwriter, their relatively unproblematic and grounded team captain, their protector, their compass. And now he has no official place in the band at all.

When the elevator doors open, Criston leads you and Aegon down the hallway to a bustling suite. Inside there are white leather couches and gold-colored lounge chairs, a bar, a staircase that leads up to the loft bedroom, people wandering in and out of air that is hazy with whispers and cigarette smoke. There are men in suits, women in short tight dresses, leather and velvet and sequins. You are woefully underdressed. Fortunately, so is Aegon. He is greeted with a dizzying array of cheers, waves, and toasts. Someone shoves an emerald green bottle of Peroni into his grasp. Kesha’s Your Love Is My Drug is vibrating through the speakers mounted on the wall: “What you’ve got, boy, is hard to find, I think about it all the time…”

“Hey, hey, listen up!” Aegon shouts, stepping on top of an ottoman, and the chatter lowers in volume like a radio being turned down.

You scan the smokey room until you’ve located all five current Comet Donati members: Aegon the disaster playboy, Luke the sensitive and kindhearted one, Daeron the energetic ray of sunshine, Jace the heir apparent in the power vacuum created by Aemond’s departure, Cregan the brooding, mysterious, sexy Northern Englishman. You know them, and yet you don’t. You know the characters they play, their reputations, their public personas…but that doesn’t mean you know them. Aegon is the only man you spoke to at the rooftop bar that night in Kansas City a year ago. So far, the mythical version of him seems quite consistent with reality.

Cregan is slumped at one end of the couch by the window and knocking back shots of what appears to be straight vodka. In the night sky beyond the glass, you can see stars and the illuminated Rome skyline: modern skyscrapers, ancient rubble. At the other end of the couch is Aemond. He’s smoking, drinking something iced and bloody pink, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, all in black like he’s trying to disappear. His left eye, the blind one, is an ethereal cloudy blue that reminds you of renderings you’ve seen of Neptune, Uranus, exoplanets, the Earth from space. He glances up at you and holds your gaze for just a few seconds too long. Then he looks away, bewildered, taking a drag off his cigarette.

Aegon introduces you to the room as you stand beside the ottoman, awkward and ashamed in your Louis Tomlinson hoodie. “She’s a friend,” Aegon says. “And she’s also a therapist.”

“Good, you need one!” Jace shouts through cupped hands, and there are tipsy titters and guffaws.

“Not for me,” Aegon snaps. “For you deranged bitches.”

As Aegon descends from the ottoman—klutzily, stumbling, clutching onto Criston like a baby lemur to its mother—Luke approaches to present himself. He has a mess of dark curly hair that falls over his face and large, honest eyes. There’s a black spiral notebook and a white gel pen in his left hand. He offers you his right. “Hi! I’m Luke Velaryon.”

“Yeah, I know. I spend a lot of time on Comet’s Spotify page.”

He groans. “I look so bad in that header photo.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s the nose. I have a pug nose. The label has been trying to convince me to get it fixed for years.” He turns to a girl who is practically hiding behind him: arrestingly beautiful in a fragile sort of way, gentle like a doe. “Maybe you can help Rhaena talk to people.”

“I have social anxiety,” she explains apologetically. Her voice is very quiet yet lyrical. There are weights tied to her confession, years of shame and despair. Luke throws an arm across her shoulders and hugs her to him, touching his forehead briefly to hers.

“That’s okay.” You give Rhaena a reassuring smile. “It’s super common, and there are a lot of strategies you can try that might make it more manageable.”

“It wasn’t a big deal at first, you know?” Rhaena says. It comes out in a rush like water through a cracked dam. Luke looks astonished but pleased. You have been known to have this effect upon people, a compulsive sort of disclosure that drains, empties, unburdens. Aegon is watching from several feet away, beaming between swigs of Peroni. “Luke and I met before he got famous and we could just hang out around the neighborhood. Ice cream, public parks, Pret a Manger, riding the Tube together. But now…now he’s always meeting new people and there are all these events I’m supposed to go to with him, and I can’t sleep properly for days leading up to each one, and half the time I end up hiding in the bathroom or being too nauseous to eat anything, and…”

Jace is at the bar and slurping a vesper: shoulder-length curls, flashy blazer with nothing underneath it, a contemplative appraisal of you. There’s a stunning girl sitting beside him that he’s not listening to.

As you are explaining the potential benefits of exposure therapy to Rhaena and Luke, Daeron bursts through the crowd to greet you. He’s their Niall Horan: warm, uncomplicated, disarmingly friendly, beachy blond hair, a golden retriever on two legs. He hugs you—spiritedly, like Aegon did—and then compliments your flip flops.

“So you’re our new therapist?” Daeron says eagerly, like this is something he knows they’ve needed.

“Well, I’m a therapist, but I’m not really your therapist. Because I can’t hang out with you guys all the time and also be your therapist. It’s unethical. But Aegon thought I might have some good ideas, I guess. In a strictly unofficial capacity.”

“Okay! Cool! And you and Aegon are…friends?”

“Um…yeah. Sort of.”

“Remember that show in Kansas City last summer?” Aegon tells Daeron. He’s supernaturally gifted at making everything sound blissfully casual, like there couldn’t possibly be more to the story. “I met her at the bar we went to afterwards.”

“Totally,” Daeron says. “Great city. Awesome barbeque.”

Criston asks him: “So, uh, how’s your mom doing?”

Daeron is puzzled. “Fine…?”

“Criston, please stop asking about my mom,” Aegon says. “It’s getting weird. It’s been weird. It was weird four years ago and it’s weird now. She has a husband.”

“Yeah, but is that…you know…is that still going well?”

“Yes, Criston.”

“Fantastic,” Criston mutters, pouring himself a Scotch. He uses the glass to gesture to you. “So what the hell am I supposed to bill her as? Aegon’s friend?”

“She’s a…” Aegon considers this, waving his Peroni around in the air. “Human resources mental health consultant.”

“She’s a what?”

“She helps resolve both intra and interpersonal conflict.”

“That sounds imaginary.”

“Well then you figure something out!” Aegon says, exasperated. “Isn’t this what you get paid for? To make problems go away? To keep us happy? To stop us from killing each other? You figure it out.” He saunters off to grace the drunken masses with his presence. Criston sighs and goes to stand by the wall with a herd of stone-faced businessmen in suits, record label guys, guys who only know how to see the world in terms of contract clauses and account balances.

Rhaena goes to stand by Jace’s companion, who—as you conjure up vague recollections of celebrity gossip sites—is named something like Bella or Bailey. Daeron is commandeered by a gaggle of adoring Italian women. Luke is showing Aemond something in his notebook: black pages, sparkly white ink. Aemond is nodding and giving critique, not that saccharine, generic, brainless kind of praise but authentic encouragement: try to think of a more specific word here, move that line up to the first verse, I love the use of this metaphor. Aemond’s voice dredges up memories you didn’t know you had of him on talk shows, in YouTube compilations, in songs you’ve been streaming on Spotify for years. Smoke drifts from his lips. Ice jangles in his organ-pink cocktail. And again, he looks up at you, inhaling poison as Luke makes his opal-ink edits.

“What’s that drink called?” you ask the bartender, and he squints across the room to where Aemond is seated on the snow-colored leather couch to discern it.

“A Bramble,” he says. “It’s named after blackberry bushes.”

“Can I get one?”

“Sure.”

You procure your drink and when Luke leaves the couch, you whizz past him like a meteor as you walk towards it.

“Hey,” Cregan flings impassively, not knowing why you’re here, not caring either.

“Hey,” you return.

And then you sit down next to Aemond, deliberately on his blind side. He glances over at you, his brow crinkling with confusion. Because—surely, undoubtedly—no one ever speaks about his injury, but it’s veined through everything they do, it’s a perpetual undercurrent that steers his life and yet cannot be voiced without breaching those vigilantly constructed levees of propriety. It’s the elephant in every room. It’s a ghost rattling doorknobs and tapping on windows. And sometimes the only way to free yourself of something is to throw the cage door wide open and set it loose.

“I accidentally wore your competitor’s merch,” you say. “I didn’t want you to have a good view.”

Aemond laughs, and the strangest thing happens: everyone in the room turns to look. On their faces are expressions of shock, bafflement, relief, wonder. Aemond shifts so he’s facing you, one elbow propped on the back of the couch. He sips the Bramble in his right hand, puffs on the cigarette in his left. And there it is, what people like to call a spark, but it’s something deeper than that: organic chemistry, neurotransmitter plumes, wells of marrow that sing to each other from beneath the darkness.

You nod to his cigarette, Benson & Hedges according to the shimmery gold pack that lays open on the glass coffee table. “You think that makes you cool?”

“I know it does,” he says. His gaze flicks down to your Louis Tomlinson hoodie…or what’s under it, perhaps. “Wouldn’t work on you though. Too far gone.”

You hold out your hand. After a few seconds, Aemond passes you his cigarette. You—very stoically, very nonchalantly—take a single drag and then erupt into a coughing fit, eyes watering, lungs gasping, surrendering the cigarette emphatically. Humiliating! Irredeemable!

“Told you,” Aemond notes. But he’s rubbing your back with a hand that is large and strong and yet careful. You smile at him. Aemond smiles too.

Criston pulls one of the suit guys aside and says: “Get her on the payroll.”

#aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x you #aegon targaryen ii #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #aegon x you #aegon x y/n #hotd fanfic #hotd

[littlemissmiller]

𝑆𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑟 𝐻𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑠

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏: 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐇𝐢𝐦

Pairing: drug dealer!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

Summary: Your last summer before college and Coriolanus is still just as in love with you as the first time he saw you, but all of high school you’ve been taken. Meanwhile Coriolanus isn’t looking forward to college, but at least he can still make money dealing drugs. During the last week of school, he notices how fragile your relationship has become and something makes him think he still may have one last chance with you before the summer is over…

Warning: 21+ (mentions or drugs/ drug use) eventually smut, mentions of masturbation (m and f), mentions of oral (m and f receiving), jealously, slight obsession, possession, toxic relationship.

Word count: 4k

A/N: hello all! my first series! soooo i’ve had this idea in mind for a while, but it felt like a summer write/read and i figured since a good amount of y’all are high school age or older this would appeal more and now that the school year is over i figured y’all have more time to read too. also i have another joel fic so that is coming soooon (closely followed by a billy fic) i’m so excited about this one like…i had so much fun writing it and i’m guesssing it’s gonna be like 12 chapters long…idk we shall see :) i hope you enjoy ❣︎

☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎

Coriolanus was ready for the summer. He was so sick of school, even though he excels at it. He barely has to study and usually did his homework last minute and still got all As. His grandma had encouraged him to go to college next year, even though school didn’t quite interest him anymore. He thought about joining ROTC once he got to campus, but truthfully, why would he give up his little side deal for some army pricks and a “free” ride to college when business was about to be booming.

In his junior year, Coriolanus had taken up dealing drugs. Mainly he stuck to weed or psychedelics like mushrooms or acid, and occasionally ecstasy. He didn’t dare sell hard shit and he always made sure his stuff was clean. He had help. From time to time, his friend, Sejanus, would steal from his mother’s medicine cabinet. Xanax, Valium, whatever Mrs. Plinth’s psychiatrist would prescribe, he would manage to steal a few whenever his mother decided not to take her meds that day. It was a system that worked well for Coriolanus, and a system that he would need to maintain. Which is why he decided to go to college only about an hour away from his town. Being from a small, rural town in Illinois didn’t leave Coriolanus many options except the big public school close to the city. A booming college town, where Coriolanus knew he’d be able to expand his “customers” and still manage to keep up his means of getting the drugs he sold.

Luckily enough for him, Sejanus was attending the same college as Coriolanus. Which meant “visits back home” were opportunities for Coriolanus to stock up on his stash and sell. He would be able to tag along with a homesick Sejanus frequently, or at least that’s what Coriolanus predicts given how nostalgic he has seemed to become in the last couple of months. It’s Sejanus’s new favorite hobby. Recalling old memories and moments from the past. Some of which Coriolanus didn’t even realize how much those mundane moments Sejanus’s brain clinged to. How much he cared about their hometown and especially his family. Coriolanus didn’t understand. It wasn’t like he was going halfway across the country, unlike you.

You were bound for California, had big dreams of becoming a cancer researcher for a children’s hospital, and absolutely over the moon to be going to Stanford. Coriolanus wasn’t as thrilled. He had long desired you, wanted you as his own, but since the first week of freshman year you had been so out of his grasp. Too distracted by someone on the football or basketball team, and by your sophomore year you had gotten with one of those football players, Devon. Coriolanus still saw you around however. You and him had shared every AP science course since sophomore year and you considered Coriolanus to be a school friend. That was all. Yet, all of the science classes you and him had spent together left plenty of room for you to chat about Devon. And for some reason you felt safe to talk to him about whenever he would do something to upset you. But you never left him.

So, Coriolanus had watched you from afar, longing to have you all to himself. As high school went on, you only grew more and more beautiful and Coriolanus would often imagine you laying bare before him on his bed. When he was home, he couldn’t help but jerk himself off to the image of you with your hand on your wet core, playing with your clit in between your fingers. That’s all he could picture as he pumped his length in the shower most nights. One hand against the wall the other stroking himself as he pictures you begging for him to fuck you. Your soft pleas tumbling from your beautiful lips like a prayer.

Why couldn’t he have you? Why did some himbo athlete have to have you when Coriolanus was clearly superior to him. He didn’t blame you though. Devon was popular, which made you popular by default and after being in a relationship for so long, he knew it wasn’t easy to just leave someone like that. If anything he blamed himself for not getting to you first. For not asking you out when he had the chance.

Not thinking you’d be interested, the one time Coriolanus had gotten an opportunity to ask you out was freshman year. It was after biology class right before winter break and Coriolanus wanted to take you to a movie. You were his lab partner that day and it’s all that was on his mind. When just the right moment arose, he first asked if you wanted to meet later that night to finish the lab so they would have less homework over break, but mainly to see if you were free to hang out. Coriolanus was quickly let down when you informed him that you would’ve liked to, but your family was going out of town to visit your grandparents for the holidays.

“I’ll just have to finish it when I get back from break.” You had sighed

And that was the only real time he’d had talked to you still single. What a pity given it was the last week of school now. Exams were nearly over and Coriolanus had told himself to give up on you, but he couldn’t seem to let you go. Even though it was the last week, and graduation was this weekend, he still desired you deeply. More than the day he met you. Coriolanus watched you in AP Literature as the class went over the study guide. You twirled your hair, bored and just as ready for the relaxing summer break as he was. He tried not to gawk, but he couldn’t help it. You looked so god damn precious today. Your green plaid skirt just barely followed the dress code and your white shirt was ruffled around the edges and fit your body nicely. Your black converse high tops dangled above the floor. All he wanted to do was take you into a bathroom stall, bend you over, bunch up your skirt and admire your ass. He bet it was soft and round. He imagined a pair of cotton, white panties under it all, soaked. His cock started to harden in his jeans, so Coriolanus moved in his seat to hide his stirring erection.

The bell rings about ten minutes later and thankfully he’s settled down enough to where his bulge isn’t quite so obvious. He snatches up his book bag and looks up. As the last few students file out, you are asking the teacher a few questions. Coriolanus gets up and heads for the door. As he passed you, you finish your conversation and quickly move to catch up to him.

“Hey!” You shouted

Coriolanus paused at the door, turning his head to look at you

“I know it’s exam week and you are busy, but this physics lab is going to be the death of me.”

Coriolanus couldn’t believe it. Were you about to ask for his help outside of class? You had always been going to him for help with your science classes. Even though you had managed to score higher than him on every exam in science, for some reason physics was killing you. So all semester, you had been asking Coriolanus for help during class, but only during class. You never asked to finish your work with him after school.

“Are you asking for my help?” He smiles

Personally, you don’t want to take away from his time since Coriolanus seemed like the type of man that valued his free time and didn’t like to bother with school outside of school. In addition, his mysterious, stern demeanor was intimidating and you didn’t know if you were bothering him while he was trying to make money. You knew he dealt drugs and frankly, the idea of that scared you too so much as you need his help and your science classes and in all honesty, you were just afraid to ask him for anything at all.

But Coriolanus always assumed it was because of how protective Devon was. Which was also true. He didn’t like you talking to other guys outside of class, and he was particularly wary of Coriolanus. It was no secret that he was handsome. As beautiful as the guys at school thought you were. Coriolanus had built his own reputation as someone who slept around. And as much of a neanderthal as Devon was, he damn well knew that Coriolanus looked at you like you’re his prey.

“Yes” you sighed

“I don’t mind.”

“Really”

“Not at all. I’m free tonight.”

“Thank you so much. You have no idea, I’d seriously be lost without you.”

“Of course!” He chirped

“I appreciate it. Wanna meet up at Panera after school?”

“Sounds good.”

You smiled, waved and walked off

Fuckfuckfuck you said “lost without him.” That felt so personal. And your sweet smile. Why are you so perfect. Your hips sway as you walk away and Coriolanus’s cock starts to get hard again, until he see’s something that makes him want to repulse. Your boyfriend approached you from the other end of the hall. Devon came up to you,hugged you and groped your ass. What an obnoxious ass, can’t he tell you don’t like that kind of attention in school. He gave you a sleazy smile and Coriolanus turned his attention away.

After school, he headed to Panera as instructed and waited for you. You pulled up, your boyfriend dropping you off in his 2016 White Mercedes C-Class. You walk inside and find him sitting in the back.

“Hey. I’m going to order food. Did you get something?” You asked

“Nah I’m not all that hungry.”

“Okay!” You smile and walk to the counter to order.

You came back quickly, sat beside Coriolanus, putting her book bag between them. You pulled out her physics textbook, laptop and the lab. As you explained why you were confused, Coriolanus explained the material to you, but was so tempted again. So tempted by the way your knee peaked at him and when you crossed your legs, letting more of your thigh show, and he nearly fell apart. He hated how desperate he was for you. How badly he wanted you. He’d do anything just to hear you instruct him to get on his knees and bury his face in between your thighs.

When your food came, he refocused his attention on your homework. Why couldn’t he control himself? Why was he so drawn to your temptations today? You always looked so beautiful, but Coriolanus felt feral.

“Ugh what am I going to do next year without you in my science classes!” You sighed

There you go again. Making everything sound personal and intimate. Clever as always, Coriolanus replied.

“Well good thing you have my number right?”

“Yeah, but we won’t be in the same class and I don’t want to bother you.”

“It’s not a bother” he follows up quickly

“You’re always so sweet. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime…” he smiles

Your phone buzzed, it’s Devon. You pick up and he seems annoyed. You tried to calm him down but somehow he figured out that you’re here studying with Coriolanus.

“You’re being ridiculous ok. Let’s just talk when we get back to my house…busy…with what?” You speak in a harsh whisper. “Ok whatever… just come back and drop me back home. Ok please?”

Coriolanus acted like he didn’t notice, but he watched in agony as tears welled up in your eyes. You took a deep breath, close your eyes, and swallowed your sadness along with the last sip of your Cola. Even though he should mind his own business, he couldn’t contain himself. He had to ask if you were ok. Besides, it's not like you don’t already confide in him during class anyways.

“It’s ok. I’ll be good.” You said, your lip quivering

You excuse yourself to refill your drink and Coriolanus packs up his things.

What a fucking insecure dick.

Coriolanus knew that you’re not the type to cheat. If anything Devon would cheat on you in a second. As protective as he was of you, he seemed to have a different set of rules for himself. Coriolanus saw Devon at parties, how’d he flirt with other girls when you weren’t around, or check out the cheerleaders at games. Yet you couldn’t have any real guy friends, and he truly couldn’t stand Coriolanus.

“You sure? I could give you a ride home since he seems…”

“No it’s fine…he’ll be here soon anyways. I appreciate your help.”

Your lip quivers slightly and you hide your face as you pretend to yawn. It’s something you’ve learned to help you to hide your tears and prevent you from falling apart into a big mess. But Coriolanus saw right through it because he had seen it before. He wanted to hold you, tell you to dump Devon and be with him instead. He would kiss you, to show you just how serious he was. He imagined delicately stroking your chin with his thumb and forefinger, guiding your face to his and kissing him deeply. He would be slow, tender, his lips simply ghosting over your own. He would still hold you daintily, his breath fanning over your face as he told you how much he loves you.

You look outside, turning away from Coriolanus, stifling your cries as a single tear rolls down your cheek. Coriolanus can’t help it; he has to say something.

“You know if you ever need someone to talk to I don’t mind. Sometimes it’s easier to tell someone you’re not as close with. Because then it’s like you’re speaking into a void and it doesn’t really matter what you say. But at least you got it off your chest.”

You pause for a moment and look back at him. You contemplate the offer and as much as you want to just talk his ear off about all the ways in which your boyfriend sucks, you’re afraid that he’ll just be more upset with you, thinking somehow he’ll find out.

“It’s ok. I’ll just vent to my mom when I get home.”

“You sure?” He asks, trying to hide his desperation

You reach out and touch his forearm gently. Your affections burn on his skin, your fingertips branding him.

“I’m sure. Thanks anyways.”

You release him, giving him a small smile. You feel like you should apologize and he simply smirks in approval, his eyes following your hand as it leaves him. Then your phone buzzes again. It lights up with a text from Devon and Coriolanus glances outside at the parking lot. He sees your boyfriend pull up, park, and exit his vehicle. For a moment he thinks your boyfriend is about to walk in, but he simply pouts against the car like a grumpy toddler.

“Good luck with your other exams. I know you’ll do fine.”

You walk off, quickly gather your things and walk out the door. He watches you leave and his eyes peer out the window. You trot along to Devon’s car innocently, scared like a newborn deer. He stares at you hawkishly, arms crossed. He shoves his body back into the car once you make it onto the other side, starting it up and you disappear behind the door as it closes. Coriolanus hangs his head in frustration and sighs. You didn’t deserve him.

You belong with him. You belong with Coriolanus.

He felt a tinge of unease thinking about it, not wanting to become as possessive and obsessive as Devon, but he really meant it. He felt he would know how to treat you like a queen. Give you lots of nice things or if you needed cash to buy something you wanted, he’d give it to you. Sell more weed and Xanax to get you whatever you want. But if he could have you, hold you, treat you right, and tell you how much he loves you, he felt like you would want it just as much as he did.

When he gets home, Coriolanus heads up to his room. His cousin and grandma were out shopping for their dresses to wear to his graduation. Coriolanus had picked out a nice pair of black slacks, and a white button up. He wasn’t one for ties normally, and given the heat, he didn’t want to feel too constrained. It was hanging up in his closet, facing him as he enters his room, along with his cap and gown. He sits down at his desk, placing his book bag down and getting his laptop out. He decides to check his grades one last time even though he already knows what it will say. He logs on to his school's website.

Coriolanus C. Snow

Student ID: 1008452024

Current Standing: Senior (Academic Honors)

Current GPA: 4.0

Accumulative GPA: 4.3

Spring Semester 2024

AP Physics A

AP Literature A

European History A

AP Calculus A

Political Science A

Latin Studies A

The corners of his mouth slid up into a half smile. He was of course not upset with himself, but knew that school was the only thing he was really good at, but completely hated. He was still going to go to college, just to get a degree of anything and why would he miss out on the opportunity to sell to his target market. Even though he hated school, and was dragging his feet to go to college, Coriolanus had bigger ambitions. He thought that even if it meant four more years of school and lectures, getting a degree might lead him towards a better career. Coriolanus often heard of people getting into politics and getting intern jobs working for Senators and Representatives. It was truly the only thing that appealed to him. Even though he excelled in nearly every course, politics and civics seemed to have taken over his attention more than his other subjects. And his teachers noted how he seemed to have more interest in those classes versus science or math. So he thought that maybe college could offer an opportunity for him to get him to a place of power, which not even he realizes how much he desires that kind of control.

Then his phone vibrates, taking him off guard and away from his thoughts. It’s you. He immediately picks it up. He can sense your emotions through the phone and the immediate sniffle you give him, confirms his suspicions.

“Hey what’s up?”

“Oh I just had a quick question on this lab I realized I left the last question blank. Do you think we could FaceTime real quick?” You ask tentatively

“Sure.”

You transfer the call to FaceTime him and he picks up. He put the phone against the wall and your beautiful face appears. It’s slightly blurry because of the connection, but Coriolanus can still make out your beautiful features although they are covered by your clearly upset face. You had been crying, hard, your eyes slightly red and puffy.

“So what’s up” Coriolanus continues quickly

“Yeah so it's talking about how I’m supposed to connect my parts of the equation to the students equation in the problem but also explain the reasoning for why part b) works with part a) and show mathematical reasoning.”

Coriolanus smiles and begins to break down the problem in the lab and you start to frantically scribble down on your page, occasionally glancing up showing that you understand and are following along. All the while, he’s just as focused on your beautiful, round eyes, as they concentrate on his words. He tries desperately not to picture those same pretty eyes looking up at him, you on your knees, naked and sucking his cock. He knows that your eyes would look just as attractive and engaged by him. He shakes his head to refocus, but he’s hard under his desk. Luckily it’s just a video call, because his bulge is ever so apparent. Once Coriolanus finishes explaining it, you smile and sigh in relief.

“That makes sense. Thanks Coriolanus…”

“See, next semester I can still help you like this, you know.”

“I guess you’re right” you smile back “is that your bed?” You ask, pointing behind him.

“Yeah.” He confirms, turning around to look at it.

“I like the comforter. Your room looks cool by the way” you follow up

His bed sheets are navy blue plaid with red and white stripes in a grid style pattern. He looks around his room and admires his decor. Coriolanus occupies a room on the top floor. It wasn’t quite cramped like an attic, but it was close to the roof. It was cozy, with a slanted wall. The back wall was uncovered brick, with a wood ceiling. Coriolanus had put a few of his favorite band posters up as well as some vinyl covers. He tried to keep things simple with his bed against one wall and his desk against the other. He had a laptop that sat on his desk and a TV that screwed onto the wall above his desk, which he easily fit his PS4 under.

“Maybe you should come see it in person sometime” he suggests, not realizing what he has said.

When he does, he mentally kicks himself for being so forward, and your eyes dart down to the ground in your own room.

You stupid ass.

As he curses himself, you glance back up with a smile

“Hopefully I can see it at your graduation party. Assuming you're having one?” You follow up

“Possibly. I wasn’t sure, but my family wants to throw me one. What about you?” He asks

“Oh yeah I’m sending invitations out to the whole grade. We are having it at our country club, me and Devon. It's kinda a combination party I guess.” You explain

“Oh fun”

“It’s gonna be at the end of June so when you get the invite, let me know. You can text me and I’ll tell my dad.”

“Yeah sure. Well I won’t keep ya any longer.” Coriolonaus nods, his lips sporting the most charming smile and you match his expression.

“Ok well, if I don’t see you much at school then I’ll see you this weekend at graduation?” You imply, unsure if he would even bother going since he almost never attended non-mandatory school events.

“Yeah, I’ll see you there for sure”

“Hey just real quick, earlier today with Devon, it’s just he gets a bad temper and makes assumptions”

Coriolanus nods, not wanting to scare you off, but he’s invested in having you tell him what more upsets you.

“I’m sorry, that sounds frustrating.”

“Well I guess you’ve always been there to listen so I just wanna say thanks for all these times. You know it’s funny though we get into these fights and I talk to you and feel better then he goes back to normal, well at least for a while then he gets back into his ways, so I’m just hoping he’ll mature more in college. Stop acting like a toddler sometimes” you smirk

Oh you poor thing, you don’t even realize how bad he truly is. You don’t even realize you're stuck in his toxic cycle. Coriolanus wishes he could swoop in and take you away. Treat you better. Coriolanus gives you a sympathetic smile and continues to show he’s listening to you. After a few silent moments, you say goodbye and hang up. Coriolanus feels like he can breathe again. You overwhelm him to a degree he didn’t even think was possible. Which he feels it between his legs, his cock is still rock hard.

Fuck you get him so worked up it’s unbelievable. He knows he’ll have to handle his member in the shower before dinner, but for now he smiles to himself. Coriolanus leans his chair back, mouth agape as he sighs at the ceiling. Maybe he could have a chance with you after all. He doesn’t want to get too hopeful, but something tells him he might just be able to get his chance with you before the summer ends.

꧁🝮❤︎︎🝮꧂

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus fanfiction #coriolanus smut #coriolanus snow x fem!reader #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #fan fiction #tbosas #tbosas fanfiction #tom blyth characters #tom blyth #tom blyth fanfiction #smut #smut fanfiction #hunger games smut

[storiesbyrhi]

Complete Total word count: 80,833 Eddie Munson x Chubby!Reader

When Eddie Munson finds you in the midst of a panic attack, it is the beginning of something.  A fic featuring body and sex positivity, Eddie in a dress, soft small moments, scary big truths, and all the usual special feelings you’d expect from one of my stories.

Warnings: Anxiety; fatphobia including internalised; drug use; bullying; body issues; discussion of body function and fluids; period shame/stigma; disclosure of sexual assault (chapter 2); disordered eating and thoughts of food; shitty/abusive/critical parents; porn magazines; mild smut; no beta

Chapters:

1: Valium 2359 words The beginning of the end. 2: Carrie 3358 words The very first circle of Hell is Hawkins High, and while you have yet to find a Heaven, there’s safety in presence of Eddie. 3: Honey 4823 words It’s been three months and Eddie can’t repress the feelings anymore. Bonus: Fic title context reveal and Eddie’s acoustic guitar. 4: Starcourt 4322 words Quality time. Acts of service. Words of affirmation. Gift giving. Physical Touch. All the languages of love are here and accounted for. 5: Buzzkill 5879 words Time to face the fallout of the night before, and to step boldly (and topless) into the next phase of your relationship with Eddie.

6: Monstrous 5721 words Lightning strikes twice, which maybe you could survive, but the storm isn’t over. 7: Prizes 4511 words This machine slays dragons.

8: Interlude 1323 words A short interlude to pay tribute to Cliff Burton, born February 10 1962 – died September 27 1986, aged 24. 9: Halloween 6680 words ♫ Boys and girls of every age. Wouldn’t you like to see something strange? ♫ Nah, but it is the spooky season and that means two things: softness and smut.

10: Royalty 8055 words The dream keeps on getting better, but really… how long can this last?

11: Afterglow 4752 words Eddie in a dress again, end of year exams, and Eddie turns 20.

12: Villains 5748 words The Seniors graduate. It’s the beginning of the end…

13: Pretending 5158 words Tis the season to be sorry. Fa-la-la-la-la. La-la-la-la. Deck the halls in boughs of worry... 14: Nineteen 4484 words Happy birthday, angel. 15: Christmas 3605 words It was the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

16: Fireworks 4459 words 1986 comes to an end, and Dustin just wants a beer.

17: Glory 5617 words 1987.

#Mine #Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson Fanfic #Eddie Munson Fanfiction #Eddie Munson/You #Eddie Munson/Reader #Eddie Munson x You #Eddie Munson x Reader #Eddie Munson x Chubby!Reader #Chubby!Reader

[universitypenguin]

Part Three

The Princess & the Lawyer - Part III

Summary: The bargain is re-negotiated. Lloyd insists on an addendum, then the promise is fulfilled.

Word Count: 4,841

Warnings: No minors. 18+ readers only. Explicit sexual content, dirty talk, mentions of drug use, addiction, brief hint of child abuse in Lloyd's past, previous criminal activity by Lloyd mentioned, and mention of virginity (the reader insert character is a virgin).

Masterlist

Prior Chapter: Part II

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

Despite the two drinks he’d consumed, Lloyd was clear headed.

It’d been years since he’d over indulged in alcohol. He was leery of the substance, a natural byproduct of having a raging drunk for a father. Of course, not recognizing the genetic dominance of addiction, he’d gone another direction: drugs. Starting in middle school, he’d smoked weed in bathroom stalls with the rebellious crowd. Then he’d taken to popping an Adderall now and again, to help him concentrate on schoolwork. A few years later, Xanax had been a glorious discovery that made everything just a little bit easier. At Princeton he’d gained access to a wider variety of drugs. Prozac, Vicodin, Percocet, Valium, Ecstasy, Ketamine… and Cocaine. 

The white powder was his biggest weakness. 

He’d taken the first bump sophomore year and been hooked from the get go. His habit was set by the time he’d gone to Cambridge. The NSA hadn’t noticed his addiction problem when they recruited him. Or maybe they hadn’t cared. He never could guess what went on in the head of the decision makers at “The Fort.” He’d worked there four years before getting caught on a random drug screen. Everything had been smoothed over and three more years passed before he’d gotten the ax for a second failed test. 

Things were easier in the private sector. In France, his top desk drawer had been stocked with all his favorite substances. Cocaine, Vicodin, and Xanax. By that point, weed did little for him, which should’ve been a red flag. Detoxing cold turkey in a Paris jail cell had been one heck of a wake up call. Unless he’d experienced that episode himself, he’d still be telling anyone who cared to listen that he was only a recreational user. A person could run their mouth all day, parsing facts and dressing up the truth, but biochemistry didn’t lie. 

He was familiar with being numbed. That was why he was particularly unhappy at the moment. 

You were plastered to him, arms linked around his hips, rambling. Lloyd guided you up the front steps, catching you by the waist as your toe caught on the top stair. He suspected your last drink was hitting, because you were suddenly drunk as a skunk. 

“Careful,” he said. 

“Mmmh.”

You weaved a path down the front hall and turned into the kitchen. Lloyd took a glass from a cabinet and filled it with water. He handed it over and you wrinkled your nose. 

“Don’t you have scotch?”

“You’re way past your limit, Princess. You need to dry out a bit.”

You waved him off. “Nah. I’m more fun when I’m drunk. Is that a bar cart?”

He stepped in front of you, blocking the path to his living room bar. 

“Princess. If you have another, you’re going to pass out in the guest room.” 

“I’ve had way more than this before and didn’t even have a hangover the next morning.”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes as you finally took a sip of water. 

He wondered what he was going to do with you. An hour ago, agreeing had been the only course of action. He didn’t want to risk your safety, and the idea of you taking home a random man disturbed him. Now, his fears had cooled and his more rational brain clicked on to sort through the details. 

You were his soft spot. Everyone from the corner office to the janitorial staff knew he was wrapped around your pinky finger. His buddies often teased him that when you found a serious boyfriend, he’d be devastated. Fortunately, you’d never shown much interest in the courser sex. Until these past few months. 

His friends had been right. Your dating had gotten under his skin, irritating him like a bad rash. The disappointment you showed recounting a romantic misadventure was like a punch in the gut.  Aiden’s disregard for your time, feelings, and effort pissed him off to no end. He’d always been protective of you. Introducing a threatening entity had driven that instinct into hyperdrive. It wasn’t devastation or jealousy he felt, but a helpless anger that melted into hurt. Every sting dating inflicted on you made him bleed. His reaction ran deeper than mere empathy; he could feel your pain. It was as if you were a Voodoo practitioner’s effigy, used to crucify him from a distance. Your dates were a torment he was helpless to escape. 

Lloyd caught your eyes wandering around the room. 

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking this is a big step up from dodging Aiden’s roommate.”

“I bet. Come on.”

He took your hand and led you to the sofa. Lloyd settled into the far left corner. You tucked your knees up and settled, facing him, on the middle cushion. He caught the scowl, presumably because of the distance he’d put between you. It was deliberate. Between the bar and home, reality had sunk in. His worries about your capacity to consent were even stronger now. He needed to test your commitment before this went any further. 

“Wouldn’t the bedroom be more comfortable?”

“I want you clear headed, so we’re going to wait for that buzz to taper off.” 

“But we agreed. You said-”

“I know. Now, I’m stipulating that you’re completely sober before we have sex.” 

Your chin lifted. “This is an addendum to the original contract.” 

“No agreement is perfect on the first draft.” 

“I’m not so drunk I can’t consent.” 

There was a sharpness in your tone that made him suspect you’d been planning on the assistance of liquid courage to get through this. His instincts were usually correct where you were concerned. He felt a rush of gratitude that Aiden had shown his true colors. The boy couldn’t be trusted with this much vulnerability. 

“The addendum isn’t about consent. It’s about your mental state. I want you sober, meaning fully self possessed and aware, not tipsy and buzzed.” 

You pouted. 

“Princess, I have a serious question.” 

“What?”

“Have you texted a friend about where you’re at, who you’re with?”

“No. Why would I? I’m with you.” 

His heart fluttered. Lloyd didn’t know why your casual displays of trust always affected him like this. Even so, he devoured them as if he were a spoiled house cat gobbling down expensive, sushi-grade tuna.

“Alright. But if you’re with someone you don’t know well, make sure you have a friend who can come get you. Just in case.” 

You batted your lashes at him and primped, fussing with a lock of hair. 

“Why can’t we just get started?”

“Because you’re nervous. And still too impaired to satisfy the addendum.” 

“You know, tacking on a bunch of last minute qualifiers to a contract you’ve already signed is rude.” 

“Firstly, I didn’t sign anything. It was only a verbal agreement. And secondly… don’t mistake me for someone who cares about being polite.” 

Your eyes narrowed, and your hands went to the buttons of your blouse. Lloyd seized your wrist.

“What are you doing?”

“Hurrying this along. The agreement doesn’t say I can’t take my clothes off before I’m sober.”

“Let’s obey the spirit of the law, not just the letter.” 

He didn’t expect you to comply. When you lowered your hands he let go, but didn’t relax. Sure enough, you looked him in the eye and kicked off your pumps. They landed under the coffee table. 

“So much for the spirit of the law.” 

You twisted around, range of motion limited by the tight skirt, and crawled into his lap. His lips quirked when you burrowed into his chest, like a kitten nuzzling up to its litter mate. You laid your head on his shoulder, closed your eyes, and moaned when he rubbed your back. You looked so relaxed he almost expected you to fall asleep. 

Then you said, “How long until you agree that I’m sober enough?” 

“An hour and a half.”

“You’re not trying to back out, are you?” 

Lloyd took a hold of your chin. He tilted your head back and watched as your eyes dilated, then fixed on his mouth.

“I won’t leave you hanging. I promise I’ll take care of you.” 

Your lips parted, drawing his eyes. They were still swollen from earlier. He’d kissed the lipstick off and appreciated seeing the plump, unpainted flesh. If you let him kiss you every hour, you’d never need to buy another lip enhancing cosmetic again. 

Lloyd rubbed his nose over yours. He kissed you deep, loving the way your mouth opened instantly for his tongue. He couldn’t help but devour you. When he pulled away, your mouth was positively bee stung. He nipped at the full bottom lip and you shuddered, thighs clenching. Fuck. You were going to be a firecracker. 

You tugged him close and drew his head down. Following your lead, he rolled onto his back. You swung on top and took possession of his mouth. Your lips were satin smooth, and you tasted like whiskey. His hips jerked when you sucked on his tongue. Lloyd groaned at the press of your soft breasts into his hard chest. He doubted anything would ever feel as incredible as having you on top of him, showing him how much you wanted him without hesitation. Lloyd caught your hips as you gyrated against him. 

“Slow down, sweetheart. We have all night.”

You scoffed, and he smiled at the displeased sound. 

“Just remember, you can stop anytime you want. I’ll understand.” 

“Why are you trying to push me out the door?” 

“I’m not. But your feelings could have changed.”

“If they have, they’re more definitive than before. I want this, Lloyd.” 

Relief uncurled in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t want to stop, but he was terrified of damaging your relationship. His jaw tightened and he took a deep breath.

“I… care about you, Princess.” 

The words caught in his throat. It was difficult to shove them past the mental fortifications and articulate how he felt. Your fingers seized on his shirt, as if preparing to hold him down. Belatedly, he realized you’d taken the statement as another attempt to shirk his end of the deal. 

“I’m not backing out. I don’t want to hurt you. What I’m trying to say is that I need you to be clear about what feels good, and what doesn’t.” 

Your expression softened. 

“Okay.”

Then you went for the buttons of his shirt. Lloyd laid back and enjoyed your enthusiasm. How could men think your virginity was a turn off? You were so vivacious. He lifted his hips to allow you to pull out the tails of his dress shirt and finish unbuttoning. Your fine motor skills appeared to be intact. If he were evaluating your ability to drive, he wouldn’t have been comfortable putting you behind the wheel yet, but there were signs you were sobering up. 

“Mmmmhhh… chest hair…” 

Your hands sank into the thickest area, between his pectorals. You licked your lips and stroked. Lloyd’s muscles tightened at the caress. 

“You’re warm,” you said. 

The blood in his veins was blazing from your light, innocent touch. Most of it had flowed south, bringing him to a painful state of arousal. He groaned when you rubbed your thumb over his nipple. Then your mouth was on his chest, trailing kisses down his sternum. 

He hissed. “Fuck.”

You nuzzled the area where his oblique met the swell of his pectoral. Your teeth grazed it, then licked at the sweat. You made a noise like a purr. Lloyd shut his eyes and groaned. He felt as if he were a frog being boiled alive. Your tongue swirled over his nipple and he snarled. He caught the back of your neck and dragged you away. Your exploration was affecting him all too much; if you kept this up, he’d lose control. It was imperative that he remain in control tonight. You wiggled in his restraining grip, but he didn’t let go. 

“Can I take off my clothes now?” 

Lloyd growled. “No.”

“I’m not drunk.” 

“But you’re not sober, either.” 

“Can we at least go to the bedroom?” 

Lloyd flipped you in one smooth move, making you gasp. He used his weight to pin you down and kissed you. 

“Drunk you is willing. But we’re staying here on the couch until you’re totally clear headed. How about you show me all the heavy petting you’ve done? Emphasis on the showing.”

You groaned. He laughed at your frustration. 

“When you’re sober, we can get around to the new stuff. Okay, Princess?” 

You sighed and ran your hands over his shoulders, up his neck, into his hair. He met you halfway for a kiss. It was soft and tender, but sizzling with more passion than any of the sex he’d had in his twenties. When you parted, he was panting, shaken by the intensity. You cupped his face, your eyes filled with emotion. The ease with which you offered such vulnerability captivated him. Like a triple dose of Xanax, it went straight to his head. The sight of your dilated eyes, full of passion, and the gentleness in your touch was dizzying.

Suddenly, he appreciated the danger he was in.  He’d never be able to keep his emotions compartmentalized with you. Fear surged, and he resisted pulling away, only because that would invite another Aiden into the picture. He pushed the negative thoughts away and drew you into a kiss. 

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

Your teeth clashed with Lloyd’s as your tongues battled for dominance. 

His control just wouldn’t crack. Everything you’d done with the boys you’d dated hadn’t even tripped him up. He kept himself in check while teasing you until you were shaking with desire. This time his kiss was hotter, less restrained. You could taste the wildness. You moaned, arching your back and grinding against him, hands fisting in his shirt to hold him close. His mouth veered off to explore your cheeks, the underside of your jaw, and behind your ear. You gasped when he licked behind the lobe and shuddered at the tingle that ran down to your toes when he repeated the action on the other side. His mustache tickled, making you squirm. 

Without warning, Lloyd reached under your skirt. His big, rough hand pushed between your legs. The feeling was new, and thrilling. He nipped at the pounding artery in your throat. You whined. The high pitched cry was startlingly loud in the quiet room. 

“Steady, Princess. You’ve got half an hour of sobering up left.”

You parted your legs and circled his hips. Using their strength, you drew him tight against your heated core. His hand slid to your hip, and he inhaled sharply. 

“Just fuck me right here. On the sofa, on the floor, I don’t care. Please?”  

“You’re all wound up from just a few kisses? Poor baby. I’m going to enjoy taking you apart.”

“I’m ready.”

To prove it, you ground your aching sex against his crotch. The thick ridge under his belt made it obvious he was just as affected as you were. You couldn’t figure out why he wouldn’t give in. 

He flattened his hand on your belly and pushed you down, easily breaking the clasp of your legs. You struggled to hold on, longing for more contact. His eyes flashed in a silent warning as he moved to his knees between your spread legs. You were shocked when he took a fistful of your skirt, right in the middle of the garment, and bunched it up. He eased it higher, over your hips, and took your hand, placing it on the knot of fabric. 

“Hold that, sweetheart.” 

You scrambled to comply. Lloyd gave a low murmur of approval. 

He watched you as he stroked your inner thighs, exploring the sensitive skin. His thumbs rubbed at the hollows of your groin and traced the seam of your panties. The whole time, he studied your expression. You couldn’t help but shiver. His lips curled into a knowing grin. Lloyd stroked his thumb over your cloth covered clit. Your whole body jerked. 

“Lloyd!” 

His index finger slid under the thin cotton. You trembled as the back of his knuckles brushed across your folds. Your panties were soaked with evidence of your desire. He kept rubbing at the cleft of your body, spreading the slickness around, never using enough pressure to give you what you needed. The wildfire of lust inside of you ratcheted higher with each stroke. He slid his fingers down for another pass, pushing the joint of his forefinger into your opening, collecting your juices, and rubbed delicately across the heated flesh, then up, around your clit. You shuddered, tossing your head back, moaning. 

“Please…”

“Shhh.” 

This time he pressed on the little bundle of nerves. Your legs stiffened. You whined and bucked as he did it again. He returned to your opening, collecting more slick, and caressed you again. His fingers move higher and higher… your breath caught in anticipation.

Lloyd stopped. 

“Breathe, Princess.”

You gasped. “Please… oh! Damn it!” 

He pulled his fingers out of your panties and readjusted them. He pried your fingers from the skirt and shoved it down. Your choked noise of protest was ignored. With one arm around your waist, he hauled you onto the far end of the sofa, opposite the corner he’d first sat in. Your back was snug against his front as Lloyd’s arm banded under your breasts. With his free hand, he cupped your right breast. You moaned, arching into the touch. His lips grazed your temple, a soothing sensation amid the raging lust. 

“Someone came prepared. Did you shave, or wax?”

“W-w-wax…” 

He grunted. “Your boy toy wasn’t worth the effort. I’ll make sure you’re treated right. Unbutton your shirt.”

Your hands couldn’t undo the fastenings quickly enough. When you went for the clasp of your bra, Lloyd tightened his arm, preventing you from reaching for the closure. You keened, the firestorm in your belly a painful ache and the heat unbearable. Lloyd kissed your temple again. His fingers teased along the curve of your breast.

“It’s okay. Remember to breathe. It’s just a little foreplay.”

“This… is… torture!”

He chuckled. “Aw, Princess. I bet you did all the teasing with your dates. I think you took charge, set the pace, and never really knew what heavy petting meant.” 

He squeezed your breast, his thumb stroking over the cup of your bra, across the nipple.

“Fuck!”

“Mmmmhh… Have you ever been touched here? Like this?”

“Yes.” 

He petted your nipple through the unlined lace and you arched into his hand. Your brain scrambled as electricity sizzled down your spine, straight to the pulsing muscles in your sex. 

“It wasn’t like this,” you gasped. 

“Well, it takes men a while to figure out how to make a woman smolder.” 

“Smolder?! I’m going to combust!”

Your chest was heaving as he used both hands to lift your breasts, teasing around the peaked nipples, but never touching them. He smoothed his hands down your sides to the waistband of your skirt. His hands were a little rough from calluses, but the toughness was pleasant. Your back bowed as he rubbed your belly. He held you tight, chuckling at your moan. 

“Princess, you need to learn some patience.” 

His hands moved to your shoulders and massaged the tight muscles. You cried, so strung out from desire that you couldn’t form words. You were frothing, livid that he could torment you so effortlessly. The lace bra was suddenly too abrasive on your hypersensitive skin. Your nipples were seized into pinpoints, tighter than ever before. They sizzled, craving his touch. Lloyd plucked at them and you cried out.

“Put your arms around my neck.”

You obeyed, hopeful that compliance would earn you relief. 

He delved into your left bra cup and lightly pinched the nipple. Then he pulled away to knead your breasts through the material. You sobbed, your hands gripping hard around his neck. 

“Come on, honey. Stop whining.” 

“Please. I need more.” 

Abruptly, he undid your bra and pushed it aside. You hissed as his fingers stroked and twisted without the barrier of lace between your bodies. It was electrifying. Your hips wouldn’t stay still. Lloyd’s hand seized your throat. You gasped, not in fear, since the pressure was light, but in excitement at the dominance. He forced your head back and took your mouth. 

He squeezed your throat when you moaned, and it made you quiver. The other hand kept tending to your breast, stroking your nipple. His tongue thrust into your mouth. You whimpered as wetness flooded your panties. He pushed you onto your back, situating your hips on the center cushion. Moving like a predator, he braced his hands on either side of your waist, lingering over your body. Slowly, he lowered his head until his lips touched your sternum. You shivered, so caught up in the moment you couldn’t help but react. 

Desire raced along your nerve endings, straining them until they frayed. Heat poured off your skin. Lloyd licked at the underside of your breast, then lifted it to his mouth. He sealed his lips and drew deeply. Your body jerked. He was merciless as he suckled. It was almost too intense, but so good you couldn’t even cry out. He released the bud and had latched onto the other one before you could take a breath. This time, a yelp escaped as he worked the tender flesh with his tongue. Your arms went around him, fisting in his shirt. 

“Fuck! Lloyd!”

He turned ravenous at your cry. Your body rippled as he lavished attention on your breasts. When your legs jerked together, he slotted a muscular thigh between them, forcing them open. Lloyd made a sound of pleasure as he licked at your straining nipples. You shivered. He nuzzled your collarbone, tasting the sweat that had collected in the hollow before licking it up. 

His mouth slanted over yours for a brief kiss. Then he patted your thigh. 

“Put your legs around my waist.” 

Once you’d locked your ankles around his waist, he stood up. Lloyd squeezed the globes of your ass, his broad hands spanning the entire area. You clung to his shoulders for balance and shivered at the possessive touch. You wanted all the barriers between your bodies gone so you could feel his rough hands on your skin. 

Lloyd carried you towards the bedroom. As he moved, the friction of his chest hair made you gasp. He paused. 

“You okay, Princess?”

“Y-y-yeah… sensitive… your chest hair…”

Your brain was still fuzzy. He caught the meaning and grinned. Then, very deliberately, he pivoted to the wall. Bracing a hand over your head and trapping you with his weight, he pressed himself against you and rubbed. Your muscles went taunt. You quivered, then shuddered. Lloyd crushed you into the wall, flattening you so there was no escape, even as you squirmed. You mewled, keening with physical awareness, and trembled with a tension you’d never felt before. 

“Lloyd! Damn it, please, please…” 

You caught at his shirt, jerking a fist full of material. When he eased back, you moaned at the loss. Lloyd laughed, his eyes dancing with pleasure. 

“Alright, I’ll play nice.” 

In the bedroom, he shut the door and set you down. His eyes were glowing with heat as he stared at you, skimming along your curves like a touch. Awareness sizzled.

“Take it off. Everything. Now.”

Lloyd stepped back. He made no move to undress himself, much to your disappointment. 

His face darkened as you undid the buttons on the waistband of your skirt. You unzipped and shoved it past your hips. Your shirt and bra went next. Getting the uncomfortable lace off your skin was a relief. Finally, you were left in nothing but a pair of Brazilian briefs. You stepped closer to Lloyd and his eyes narrowed. He hooked his fingers under the thin strap on your hip. 

“Everything. Off.” 

You swallowed hard and complied. 

Just as you’d shoved the scrap of material down your legs, Lloyd grabbed your hips and pushed them flush to the wall. You jolted in surprise when he knelt and pushed your legs apart. The broad hands on your inner thighs were a pleasure all of their own. 

Lloyd grunted and glanced up from under his lashes. He nuzzled your folds, his mustache grazing sensitive skin. One leg was jerked over his shoulder as he leaned in, adjusting his position for better access. You were struggling to remember to breathe through the bubbling excitement. Your blood felt thick as if lava was moving through your veins rather than liquid. 

A soft cry escaped when he parted your labia with his fingers and flicked his tongue at your entrance. He teased for a moment, then flattened his tongue, slurping at the wetness that oozed from your body. You grabbed at the wall for balance, and finding it too slick, gripped his shoulders. Lloyd purred. His face was now buried between your legs. You couldn’t see his expression, but his groans vibrated with contentment. Drinking from the wetness of your pussy, he explored higher, each stroke raising just a half centimeter above the last, working towards your clit. 

By the time he licked at the tender bud, you were a wreck of shivering muscles. Your knees were too weak to bear your weight. Lloyd flicked, circled, and stroked. He treated the bundle of nerves like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever uncovered. He was gentle, even more so than you would have been. Despite his delicacy, you were so wound up that every stroke of his tongue was overwhelming. 

“Lloyd!”

“Hang on, Princess. You’re doing great.”

Your hands clenched on his shoulders. It was just in time, because his lips fastened around your clit and he sucked, slow and firm. 

Your knees gave out. 

With a cry, you fell, only to be caught by a brawny arm. Lloyd used the wall and the bulk of his body to hold you in place. When he released your clit, you drew a sharp breath of relief, blinking away tears. 

“Holy shit… Ah!”

He sucked and tapped with his tongue. Your body jerked at the intense sensation. Lloyd growled. He released you, rising to his full height. 

You shuddered against the wall, chest heaving as your head spun. Lloyd wrapped his arm around your waist, holding you upright. His free hand slid into your drenched folds. You lurched onto your tiptoes when he teased your clit. Automatically, you grabbed his wrist to ease the pressure. 

“Let go.”

The tone brokered no discussion, and you released him. He murmured approval and drew you closer. At the moment, he was the only thing keeping you from sliding down the wall. Your hips rolled and your spine twisted as he stroked your clit. You were so wet. His touch was feather light, but so intense that you were already going stiff as your release built. Lloyd kissed your temple. You whined and rutted against his hand, begging for more. 

“You’re so sweet. Kiss me and taste it.” 

Your head fell back against the wall at his demand, your mouth already open in submission. He took your lips, and the added sensation made you quake. You moaned at the tangy zest he pushed into your mouth. 

Fuck, it was so much. Tears streamed down your cheeks as he kept up a steady rhythm on your clit. It was different to feel his big, rough, hand rather than the familiar softness of your own. He gripped you tighter and plunged his tongue deep into your mouth. On the heels of that sensual assault, his finger sank into you. 

His tongue muffled your gasp as he took the access even deeper. You moaned, bucking, taking the digit further, as he eased the kiss into a lazy thrust and parry of your tongues. Your inner muscles rippled around his thick finger. It was much longer than your own, and fit snugly against that sweet spot you could never reach. 

You pushed your hips into his hand and growled in a silent demand. Lloyd broke off the kiss. His finger was still slotted into your pussy as he narrowed his eyes at you. 

“Demanding little princess, aren’t you?” 

“Fuck me,” you said, breathless. 

Lloyd’s lips twitched. He ground his palm into your clit. You keened, your arms snaking around his neck to stay upright as you shuddered. Then he crooked his finger, brushing a spot that made you squeak in surprise as your body rippled. You felt the touch everywhere. Each muscle coiled and quivered as if he’d found a master key to your whole body. 

“Lloyd! Ah, Lloyd…” 

The next curl of his fingers sent electricity zapping through every nerve ending in your body and you wailed. He abruptly withdrew his fingers and raised the creamy digits to his lips. You watched, dazed, as he licked them clean.

“Get on the bed, Princess."

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

Next - Part IV

#lloyd hansen x y/n #lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen x you #lloyd hansen x female reader #lloyd hansen x fem!reader #lloyd hansen smut #the princess and the lawyer #the grey man #the gray man #lloyd hansen #minors dni #no minors #18+ only #lloyd hansen fanfiction #lloyd hansen fanfic #the grey man fanfiction #the gray man fanfiction #lloyd hansen fic #lloyd hansen imagine

[eupheme]

Hi Jess! So I have some more thots about Alfred and Dove. I know you’re super busy with your other projects, but if any of these ideas give you inspiration I would love to read them. Your Alfred POV + prequel was everything I wanted and I couldn’t believe how detailed and rich your descriptions were for that chapter!! You are so talented and always come up with such great ideas! I can’t wait to see what you come up with next with these two love birds! Again use whatever you want from the ideas bellow.

1. Alfred is given a benzo (klonopin or Xanax or Valium) by the Bruce and Alfred’s doctor because he is super anxious about the first party at the new manor going well. After he takes the meds all his gentlemanly attitude goes out the window. He becomes super seductive and flirty with Dove and silly (but still sweet) party animal with everyone else. Can include Dove and Bruce loosing him for a period of time while Alfred is under the influence at the party. The amount of mischief he gets into. Bonus points for the guests not even noticing anything is wrong with Alfred and he is crowned king of the party lol and Bruce is thrilled. The party ends with Dove up against the wall with Alfred inside of her in an empty hallway.

2. Alfred and Dove are flying to meet Bruce in Europe while he is there for work. AKA mile high club on Bruce’s plane 😂

3. I would love to see Alfred jealous in person with dove. I leave the setting to you. Then dove making it up to him 😉

I can’t wait to see what you come up with!! 💕

-csboz

ahh my love!! I have been keeping this safe in my inbox (and rereading!) - I love these ideas so much 💖 sharing this now because I’ve been working on #3 for a while now (jealous!alfred omg pls I love that!!) and I should have it ready later today! Thank you so much for thinking about me and them!!

(The first one made me smile, I bet he would be so smooth and have so many moves to bust out and mischief to get into - they would both be like ?????!! watching him, haha!! and that end, omg 😳 - I will have to think about that!!) (and screaming over #2!!) 💕

#hi ily my friend #this made my heart soar to read #csboz my beloved #csboz #fic: penny for your thoughts

[sisterspooky1013]

Gaslight, Chapter 19/48

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

Morristown, NJ

The revelation that she was never meant to be a mother is one that it took her decades to come to. Once she did, a lot of things about her life that have always puzzled her suddenly made sense.

That’s not to say that she didn’t love her children. In fact, that’s what made the revelation so hard to come by. She’s always loved them, from the moment they took their first breaths. It wasn’t the children themselves that were the issue; it was the mothering.

Fox was the sweetest baby. His cherubic little face made her heart ache when the nurses placed him in her arms at the hospital. She was told again and again by friends and neighbors that Fox was such a good baby, so curious and easy to care for. He hardly ever fussed compared to most of their children. This left her wondering why she felt such vehement resentment towards him for needing her so much when he wailed for milk at 2:00 am.

Women are meant to be mothers. That’s what she’d always been told. She expected it to come to her naturally, as easily as walking and talking. But that wasn’t the case, and she felt defective and ashamed. She hoped that things would be different the second time. Then Samantha came along and made her aware just how easy of a baby Fox really was.

It was constant. Someone was always needing her, crying for her, tugging on the hem of her dress. Bill was never home, and when he was, he may as well have been an apparition for how much help offered. When Fox started school it got a little better, and when Samantha joined him she at least had school hours to herself. She’d start to think that maybe she missed them, and then they’d walk in the door squabbling and something thick and sour would rise in her throat. Hatred. Not towards the children themselves—she was intelligent enough to understand that they were simply behaving as typical children do. But the mothering. The mothering made her want to swallow a whole bottle of valium with her nightly glass of wine.

And then there was Carl, always lurking around somewhere in the background. Sometimes he ignored her, and other times he showered her with gifts and attention, cornered her in the pantry and promised her the world. They could run away together, make a new life in Guam or Puerto Rico. She strongly considered it, especially when Fox was out of diapers and it seemed likely that Bill would be able to find some kind young woman to marry him and be a proper mother to Fox. But then she realized she was pregnant with Samantha, and Carl told her that he wanted to be around to see the children grow up. He wasn’t even their father and he was still more interested in being a part of their life than she was.

Shortly before Samantha disappeared, he asked her a bizarre hypothetical question regarding which of the children she would give up, if she had to choose. She balked, but he pressed her, and finally she said Samantha. Not because she loved Samantha less than Fox, but because mathematically, there were fewer years until Fox left home and she could be free again. By the time she realized that the question wasn’t hypothetical at all, it was too late. The heavy guilt she wore draped over her shoulders like a shawl didn’t allow her to enjoy having only one—highly self sufficient—child to look after. It didn’t allow her to feel relieved when Fox moved across the Atlantic ocean to attend college. It didn’t allow her to feel anything, really, ever again.

Many years later, when Samantha was long since gone and Fox was away at Oxford, she met a young woman at the Country Club who was vibrant and self-assured. They got to talking, and it came to light that the woman was well into her forties, though she looked and acted more like she was twenty-five.

“How old are your children?” she’d asked the woman, wondering how someone could find such joy in life amidst all the mothering.

“Oh, I don’t have children,” the woman corrected her, seemingly unoffended.

“I’m sorry. Were you not able to?” she asked, feeling a pang of jealousy.

“I could have, as far as I know,” the woman said plainly. “I just never wanted any. Kids are great, but I’ve just never had any desire to have my own. My husband feels the same way, so we’re well matched in that regard.”

She almost felt silly that she’d never come to the same conclusion herself. She knew that she wasn’t a great mother, but until that moment she’d always chalked it up to a personal defect. At that moment, she understood that she wasn’t meant to be a mother at all; she never should have had children in the first place. But it just wasn’t an option you considered in her time. Young women grew up and became wives and mothers. Regardless of whether they wanted to. Regardless of whether they were any good at it.

But by then it was too late. Fox and Samantha were gone, literally and figuratively. She hoped that as two adults, she and Fox might find their own way to relate to one another, to cultivate a relationship that was not predicated on her having birthed and raised him. But she found that his wounds were too deep and too raw, and her guilt over having inflicted them still too heavy. She was proud of him, so very proud of who he became in light of how little she and Bill did for him aside from providing food and shelter. But even that motherly pride was not something she felt entitled to. Fox became the man he is despite her, not because of her.

The Paget’s Carcinoma diagnosis felt like poetic justice, in a way. Her breasts, which were designed to feed and nurture babies, would ultimately be the end of her. The grisly, painful end. She knew that she could call up Carl, enlist the help of his mysterious doctors and unorthodox treatments, but why? Why keep on living this way? Fox would never forgive her for how she failed him, nor would she forgive herself. She made her decision, and she felt at peace with it. Her hand was on the phone, ready to call Fox and say her final goodbye, when it started ringing and she found Carl on the other end.

He presented it as a second chance. A way to right all their wrongs. He couldn’t bring Samantha back, but he could give her a dignified death, and make her loss less traumatizing for Fox than what really happened. He could re-write history, make her the kind of mother who baked cookies for Fox’s friends on Friday afternoons and cheered for him on the sidelines of his basketball games. And she and Carl could finally be together, Bill nothing but a footnote in the deleted scenes. It would be like everything had gone the way it was supposed to, and Fox would truly be happy. That was the selling point that finally won her over: a chance to give Fox the mother he deserved, and the life that came along with it.

It was like a game for Carl to construct the optimal childhood. Did they take Fox and Samantha to Disneyland before she died, or did they just take Fox by himself afterward? Why not both?! Carl coached his Little League team, Teena was the chair of the PTA. Samantha died peacefully in her bed with her family by her side. They carried on, made new memories, flew to Oxford for Fox’s graduation. Fox met Diana at the Academy and they were married on the Vineyard. It all felt so incredibly perfect.

But seeing Fox’s face when Diana brought him by for dinner, calling him by the name of Carl’s other, forgotten son, made her nauseous. The placid, comfortable looks on Carl and Diana’s faces baffled her. How were they so unbothered? She’s not sure this was the right thing to do. She’s not sure that Fox is really any better off now than he was before. She’s not sure she is.

Her reverie is interrupted by the ringing of the telephone.

“Spender residence, Teena speaking,” she says roughly, her throat thick with emotion.

“Hey Mom, it’s me.”

Her shoulders slump with the weight of the guilt.

“Hello, Jeffrey, how are you?”

“I’m okay. I wanted to ask you about something, and it’s going to sound really strange, but I need you to hear me out,” he says, his tone severe.

Her heart pushes up into her throat. He knows something.

“Okay, I’ll do my best,” she tells him, half hoping he’ll give her an opening to just come out with it.

“Was I…when I was born, was there another baby? Was I a twin?” he asks, and her fear is replaced with confusion.

“What? No, of course not.”

“Mom,” he says, his tone pleading. “Is there any way there was another baby? Were you given any medication that might impact your memory, like that…what was it that they used to give women in labor so they wouldn’t remember the pain?”

“Twilight sleep,” she answers flatly.

“Yes, twilight sleep. Were you given anything like that?” Fox—Jeff—her son, replies.

“No, Jeff,” she says tightly. “I was alert and I remember my entire labor with you, and your birth. There was only one. Why are you asking me this?”

Clearly something has tipped him off, and she’d feel safer if she knew what. There is a pause long enough that she almost asks if he’s still on the line.

“Can I share this with you in confidence? You won’t tell Dad…or Diana?” he asks.

It’s painful, all that she’s done to him and is still doing now. But this moment in which her son is trusting her with sensitive information, where his inclination in a time of difficulty was to reach out to her—his mother—is such a balm on her heart that she feels tears flood her eyes.

“Of course, Jeff,” she assures him. “You have my word.”

“Twice in the past week, someone has mistaken me for another man. A man who goes by ‘Mulder.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

I, Elizabeth Ann Kuipers, take you, William Richard Mulder, to be my lawfully wedded husband.

We proudly introduce our son, Fox William Mulder, born October 13th 1961 at Martha’s Vineyard Hospital.

“No, Jeff, I can’t say that it does,” she lies. Why do lies always come more easily than the truth?

Fox sighs, and she pictures him running his hand over his head and across the back of his neck like he’s done since he was a child. Since Samantha was taken. Since his life turned down a darkened path.

“Okay,” he huffs, disappointed. “Sorry to bother you, Mom. How are things going? How’s Dad?”

“Dad is fine,” she says, thinking of Bill, cold in the ground. As much as he saw and was party to in his time on Earth, she’s glad he did not live to see this. “We were just going to watch some television.”

“I won’t keep you,” he says. “Thanks for talking with me, Mom. I love you.”

Her chest becomes so unbelievably tight that she cannot form words, just an insufficient, “Mmhmm.”

The line goes dead, and she replaces the phone back on the receiver.

“Who was that, dear?”

She looks up to see Carl in the doorway, that unsettling smile on his mouth. She liked him better when he didn’t try to replicate normal human emotions. When he just told her sweet lies, fucked her over the sink in her powder room in Chilmark, and let her believe that life could be anything but miserable.

“No one. Telemarketer,” she answers. Lying doesn’t always feel bad. Sometimes, it feels very, very good.

She was never meant to be a mother, but maybe she can be a friend to her son. Maybe she can slip him a key to the exit, even if she’s the one who locked the door in the first place.

Tagging @today-in-fic

#the x files #x files fanfic #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #xf fanfic #x files #the x-files #xfiles #thexfiles

[nerdragenewvegas]

A WELL TIMED SCANDAL - CHAPTER 6 NOW UP

Cooper Howard x Reader, pre-war setting, kinda slow burn, Cooper Howard is horny it makes him feel guilty.

Chapter 6 - There's A Pill For That

Chapter CNs: PTSD flashback/anxiety attack, some prescription drug use, cheesy movie script excerpts. Also discussion of some religious trauma I guess.

『 Cooper’s a dad, isn’t he? You wonder what his daughter’s like as he wanders to your coffee table and picks up a spare copy of the script. How old is she? Can’t be that old if she’s with her mother full time, so at least this isn’t super weird. Johnny told you that one of the reasons Cooper agreed to this whole thing was so he could keep supporting her while the HUAC trial keeps him out of work. His wife is some kinda executive at Vault-Tec, you know that much, so it’s not like his daughter would starve without his input for a while. He must really care about her, must really want her to have the best.

You let this ruminate in silence, watching him reading through the script. He’s probably a good dad. Like, a really good dad. God, that’s so hot.

He turns his attention to you, lifting the script up in a gesture, almost making you flinch in the way it brings you out of thought, violently yanking you away from daydreams of what he must look like manning a grill or assembling flat-pack furniture. “Wanna give it a go?” He asks. You nod quickly, grabbing your glass of water and taking your rolled up copy of the script from your bag, hoping your face just feels warm. It’s the Valium, you tell yourself as you make your way to the lounge area and take a seat on the couch, setting your glass down on the coffee table. 』

#cantiquefics #cooper x reader #cooper howard #fallout tv series #fic #fallout

[minefield-of-a-ninja]

28 DAYS: CHAPTER ONE

Summary: Dean Winchester is an addict and an alcoholic, a USMC veteran, a father, and an older brother. As Battalion Chief with Lawrence Fire & Medical, Dean comes under investigation when he makes a dangerous and impulsive decision, defying his superiors and abandoning the team he is supposed to lead. He is given the choice to go to rehab for 28 days, or jail. His lawyer insists on rehab, and Dean begrudgingly abides.

Chapter Characters: Dean Winchester, (mentions) Gordon Walker, Victor Henriksen, Jo Harvelle, Casey (Wood), Sam Winchester

Chapter tags, warnings: sexually explicit, emergency action, fire, drug use, thoughts of death and dying, teen endangerment

Chapter WC: 3k

Author’s notes: Inspired by the film 28 Days and following canon themes from SPN, this is a fic about Dean, a firefighter who goes to rehab, not about Dean as a firefighter. Thank you to my brilliant and insightful focus puller and long-time friend @brrose-apothecary for making that distinction, and many more thanks to her and to @stusbunker for their unending support, readings, and conversations about things that matter.

If I use terminology related to firefighting, drug use, or addiction recovery, I will be sure to define it in the notes.

Triple V = vodka, Valium (diazepam), and Vicodin (hydrocodone)

K = Ketamine

text divider by @talesmaniac89

CHAPTER ONE

Everything’s hot and slick and right on the edge of falling somewhere even hotter. 

Every song is for you, every come hither look and sultry laugh, every praise, invitation, everything worth a fuck is for you.

Hands and lips and tongues, beguiling; teeth and nails, punishing — all the sensations of our earthly bodies are shards of crystal swathed in satin and velvet, tied with pure golden thread.

There’s a lustful cacophony, a symphony surrounding you, everything sounds like fucking, and it sounds like it’s coming from inside of you — like it’s part of you. 

No matter how loud it gets, it’s never too loud. Nothing’s ever too much or enough.

You want more, more, more, fuck yes, more.

“Winchester,” Dean mumbles, squinting at the incoming number and the time. His vision swims from side to side before he figures out that it’s 4:45 AM and the call is from dispatch.

“Chief, we have a conflagration at Midland High School, north on highway 59.”

Dean murmurs a swear as he rolls to his back and drags a hand over his face. 

He was at Gordon’s until 3:30 this morning, when he downed a Triple V and then walked six blocks back to his place to crash. He hasn’t even had time to dream, but his dreams aren’t usually the good kind anyway.

“A’right. Chief Novak in?” He swings his legs over the side of his bed and slumps upright as he slides the drawer to his nightstand open.

“Yes, sir,” replies the dispatcher. “All hands, sir.”

She doesn’t apologize for calling him on his morning off, and she shouldn’t. This isn’t the first time, nor will it be the last time that Dean’s called in on his day off. As Battalion Chief, it’s his duty to lead big jobs like conflagrations.

He’s fucked up, though; his brain isn’t firing on more than one single cylinder at this point, so he’s going to need an extra pick-me-up this morning.

“Thanks, Mia,” he rumbles before disconnecting the call and dropping his phone to his pillow. 

He lifts a small mirror from inside the drawer upon which lies a razor blade, a small amount of white powder, and a short, thin stainless steel tube. Dean deftly cuts two thin lines with the blade and quickly snorts them.

Before running out the door, Dean blasts himself with a 45-second cold shower while brushing his teeth and pockets a small vial of blow for later; there’s no telling how long this’ll last.

Dean and his team pull up to the school amidst a scene of first responders, police, and news crews. His most recent ex... whatever she was to him, Casey Wood, is the reporter closest to them. 

Dean drops from the driver’s side of the truck to his feet and throws her a wink which earns him an eye roll and a cold shoulder. Snapshots of Casey crying, throwing things, and slamming doors whirr through his mind, as he secures his gear.

“Casey, Casey, Casey,” Victor sing-songs as he joins Dean.

They always banter as they gear up, but Dean’s a little more on edge this morning than usual. Casey's name so casually on Victor’s lips raises Dean’s hackles in a way it doesn’t usually. He recognizes it and steels himself to keep up the facade.

“The things that girl can do with her mouth,” Dean says with a wicked smirk.

“Whoa-ho-hoooa!” Victor hoots.

It’s a cheap shot, and Dean knows it. Casey’s fucking smart and tough. She never faked anything in her life, she said what she said, and she loved him, too, if he’d have let her.

“Good morning, misogyny!” Jo hops down next to them, buckling her harness.

Dean feels unreal and unmoored, but they’ve got a job to do. He closes his eyes and breathes, then shrugs out an eye roll. 

“Aww, c’mon, darlin’, I appreciate her skill. That ain’t a hateful thing,” Dean slams the door shut, and Victor snorts beside him. 

Jo glares at him in disbelief. “You’re a fucking pig. Let’s go.” She turns on her heel and slaps her hand against the side of the truck as she walks, hurrying up the other two members of their team.

Dean blinks rapidly. He’s queasy and buzzing. He remembers the vial in his pocket, under layers of uniform and gear, and berates himself for not having better access to it. His mind starts to spin around excuses to stay back and dig it out before Victor claps him on the back.

“You heard the lady, boss.” Victor grins, and Dean flashes a tight smile in response. They’re fully suited up as they jog to catch up with Jo, Zeke, and Nick.

Under lights and camera, Casey tells the story of the day.

“Fire Chief Castiel Novak has informed us that a group of Midland High School boys has admitted to starting the fire,” she reads from the teleprompter to the camera. 

“One of the four arsonists was injured in the blast and is trapped inside the school’s chemistry lab with dangerous chemicals and potentially open bunsen burner outlets,” she continues. “The boy’s cries can be heard through an external window broken for ventilation. The other three boys are currently being examined by paramedics onsite. 

“Just now,” she pauses and motions toward the retreat of Dean’s team, “Battalion Chief Dean Winchester has arrived to lead the rescue team. We’ll provide more details as we receive them.”

Dean’s team is always the same. They know each other like they know their own selves. Some of them have known each other their whole lives, like he and Jo Harvelle. Dean and Victor Henriksen have known each other since middle school. Zeke Gadreel and Nick Iblis served two tours in Iraq together, and no matter how unhealthy or co-dependent their relationship may be to outsiders, Dean’s grateful for their bond.

He talks the way through even if he repeats himself because he needs it to stay grounded, and they need to hear his voice. This is where he shines, leading his team and making them feel safe.

Two corridors over from the lab, he stops.

“A’right, we’re gonna do this clean and sharp. Keep your eyes and ears open and listen to Cas.” He taps the com in his ear as the team triple-checks each other’s rigs. “We know there’s one kid in here, based on testimony from the other little fuckers who started this thing, but let’s not rule anything out.”

He makes eye contact with each and every one of them for final confirmation before he nods one last time and turns toward the worst of the smoke. 

“Like I said, eyes and ears open.” 

When they reach the lab, Dean makes a motion to hold, and his team complies.

“Cas, you there?” he asks.

“Hold in position,” Chief Novak states over the radio. “We’re going to try to cut through the roof for sightlines.”

Dean pulls a glove off to test the heat. “Door’s hot as an oven, Cas, and I can still hear ‘im cryin’ in there. Fuckin’ kid.”

Dean grits his teeth. His daughter Emma just started school at Midland this fall. She’s a freshman. This kid’s probably in her class. 

Not that he’d know; Emma hasn’t talked to Dean in five weeks.

“All stop,” the head chief states with new information.  “Dean, we can’t open the roof.”

“Fuckin’- of course not.” Dean sighs and pulls his glove back on.

“If we get too much oxygen in there before we know what other chemicals we’re dealing with, the explosion will blow the door and the rest of the roof off that lab with you and your team in it.”

Dean nods his head as the chief rattles off everything they all fucking know. He’s about to come out of his skin from the heat and urge to rip the door off the hinges all by himself just to be done with it.

“Right,” he mutters, rolling his neck and picturing the precious, unattainable vial in his pocket.

The boy’s screams roar over the din of the event, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut tight. His mind scrambles around memories of his baby brother crying in his arms as he ran from his home’s blaze more than 35 years ago. He shakes his head to clear it, which only serves to make his stomach lurch.

“Dean? You OK?” Jo asks, concern marring her soft face.

Dean doesn’t answer her. “Has anybody got eyes on the fire line?” he asks, assessing his gear for anything he can unload, anything that might weigh him down.

“Chief,” someone utters, and the uncertain eyes of his team are burning hotter than the fire. Zeke takes a step toward him, and Dean snarls.

Chief Novak’s voice cracks through the com. “Dean, I’m telling you, we couldn’t open the roof the way we opened the hallway. The oxygen will-” 

“Yeah, Cas, I heard ya the first time, and this ain’t my first fuckin’ rodeo.” Dean turns to his crew, dropping rope and gear.

“Dean, y’heard Cas-” Victor reaches for him.

“Get out,” Dean says, and Victor drops his hand and turns to Jo. “I’m goin’ in alone. Now!”

+

“All stop! All stop! All stop!” 

+

An invisible force pushes Dean from behind, and he lands on his shoulder. 

The kid rolls in one direction, and Dean rolls in the opposite. A boom sounds, and the smoke takes on a remarkably orange hue. 

On autopilot and half-conscious, Dean crawls to check the kid’s pulse before a rush of bodies, shouts, and lights knock him out cold.

“Fuck, that’s good, Case.” Dean brushes her hair to the side so he can watch his cock disappear between her stretched lips like a shining piston into a slick cylinder.

Casey hums, slowly bobbing her head, and twisting her fist around his girth. Her other delicate hand rests on Dean’s denim-clad knee as she kneels between his booted feet on her living room rug.

There’s still enough K in his system that every slide of her tongue feels like magic skittering along his dick. He slides a hand into her hair and twists it. 

Twenty minutes ago, Casey tried to slam the door in his face, but not before calling him a liar. He didn’t lie, though. He fully intended to be there for dinner with her parents; he just lost track of time. 

Besides, why in Hell would she want her parents to know she lets him in her house at all, let alone inside her body?

“I’m so sorry, sweet girl,” Dean mutters, gripping the base of his cock and gently lifting her by her chin. “Lemme make it up to you.”

He’s on call starting at 6 AM tomorrow, so it’s good he’s there. Casey won’t let him do anything stupid. Instead, he can sober up and fuck it out, go to the station fresh in the morning.

As he pulls her from the floor to lay her back against her couch cushions, she looks at him like he’s something extraordinary, and his belly flips. 

“You’re too good to me, Case,” he whispers, twisting his body and hers, sliding his hands up under her dress, and wedging his shoulders under her thighs. 

Her eyes soften, and he can’t stand looking into them so deeply. He brushes his thumbs up along the satiny edges of her panties before closing his eyes and dipping in to press kisses to the damp fabric. 

Casey moans, writhing under him with a smile.

She thinks he lied to her, but she still lets him in. Dean doesn’t lie; he just sucks at keeping promises. He’s better at apologizing.

He slips his fingers inside the leg of her panties to lightly knuckle her slit as he reaches around one long lean thigh to lace his other fingers with hers over her smooth belly. When he pulls the fabric of her panties aside to kiss and lick her bare pussy, he groans at her heat and taste.

He wants to dive in and devour her, but this isn’t about what he wants. 

Casey’s free hand lands on the back of Dean’s head, and she rolls her hips up into his face.

“That’s right,” he breathes and slides his tongue down one side and up the other of her clit. “Take what you want, princess.”

“Dean,” she whispers, twisting his hair in her fist. “I just want you...”

Dean wakes up in the hospital. He’s hooked up to machines and bags of fluid. His tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth and painful when he tries to separate it. He draws a deep breath and immediately hacks, wincing from the pain that radiates from his shoulder, chest, and hips. 

“Fuck,” he groans in a broken whisper.

Dean hates hospitals. No one likes hospitals, but Jesus fucking Christ, Dean’s never had a single positive experience in one. He can’t breathe. It’s all in his head, but that doesn’t make it any easier to try.

“You dislocated your shoulder,” Sam speaks from somewhere in the room. 

Dean freezes and closes his eyes. He doesn’t bother to find his brother by sight. If Sam’s there, this is bad. 

“Broke two ribs and strained your hip. You’re lucky to be alive, and not just because of your injuries.” Sam’s voice draws closer with each word.

“You here to finish me off?” Dean asks, trying for a joke, but he doesn’t have much of a voice. He ends up sounding like he’s choking, which is appropriate.

Sam doesn’t laugh. “I’m here to tell you that you’re done, Dean.”

Dean scoffs, shifting in his bed, increasingly agitated by the tubes and wires attached to him but without the energy or brain space to do anything about them. He clears his throat and swallows. 

“Done with what, exactly?” he asks, finally laying eyes on his brother.

He looks good — healthy and strong. Sad, though. Or maybe he’s mad, Dean can never tell anymore.

“Your bullshit, playboy, disaster of a life,” Sam replies with clear contempt.

Dean stares at him, waiting. He doesn’t have a comeback. He’s out of them. 

Sam starts to pace. “Your team got the fire and hot spots out about eight hours after you collapsed. Cyrus Styne, the 16-year-old kid you went in after, is in critical condition.” 

Sam stops no more than a foot from Dean’s bed, looking him dead in the eye. 

“You tested positive for marijuana, hydrocodone, diazepam, and cocaine, and your blood-alcohol level was .23. That’s almost three times the legal level of intoxication. I don’t even fucking know how you walked into a burning building-”

“Hmm. And did I consent to these tests?” Dean murmurs, derailing the very clear direction Sam was headed with his diatribe. 

For the first time since the last time Dean saw his brother, Sam is obviously confounded by how Dean isn’t dead already — so is Dean. 

Sam scoffs and shakes his head. His gaze is strained, and his jaw is tight. “Dean, I... I can’t get you out of this.” 

Sam has worked magic in the past. One of his greatest efforts was winning joint custody of Emma for Dean. Sam works by the letter of the law, but the best lawyers know how to make the law work for them and their clients.

Dean is suddenly very, very tired. He can’t remember the last time he did anything to make Sam proud. He doesn’t even know if he ever has.

“I need a cigarette,” he mumbles before looking up to study the ceiling.

“Look, the only thing I could do was get them to agree to 28 days in a rehab facility-”

“Ugh, Sammy,” Dean wails, sitting up and immediately tugging at the IVs and monitors. An alarm goes off, and Sam turns his back and moves toward the large window overlooking the parking lot.

Three men rush into the room, two orderlies and a nurse, to restrain Dean. He immediately gives up, feeling wasted, sick, and terrified.

“Your other option is jail,” Sam mutters from the window, and Dean’s stomach drops. His throat convulses as he attempts to swallow back the bile rising in his throat.

The orderlies stand back as the nurse assesses the damage Dean’s done with his little outburst. Dean closes his eyes and breathes as he re-fastens the patches and IVs. 

He won’t cry, he won’t cry, he won’t cry...

“You’re suspended from the department, probably indefinitely,” Sam continues quietly. “I can’t even get Cas on the phone. You endangered the lives of your entire team and everyone onsite. Your team, Dean. Jo. Victor. Casey was there.”

Dean burrows into the thin, lumpy bed, shivering from the feel of needles in his veins and the low vibration of the monitors attached to his chest. He doesn’t see when the nurse and the orderlies leave, but he can feel the shift in the air.

“I know.” 

He doesn’t know any more about the fire than what Sam’s told him, but he damn well knows what an absolute disappointment he is to his little brother. 

“Dean, why-” Sam sighs, sounding as weary and distraught as Dean feels.

Dean is silent as he stares at the ceiling, and Sam doesn’t seem surprised. 

“Forget it.” Sam grabs his jacket from the visiting chair and starts to shrug into it. “As soon as you can be released from here, someone’ll pick you up to transport you to the facility. Text me a list of what you need from your apartment, and I’ll make sure it gets packed.”

Sam draws a final breath before leaving the room, and Dean wills himself to sleep.

Chapter 2

Please let me know what you think!

Series Masterlist

MJ's Masterlist

#Dean Winchester AU #Dean Winchester is saved

[saremina]

More Love&Abuse oneshots? Sure why not. How about Joker's POV for the first chapter of Somewhere Between Love and Abuse.

Joker kinda wants to sigh, but he doesn’t. On principle. Jonny and Happy are arguing—oh, sorry; discussing heatedly—on the front seat about something pointless. Joker tuned them out a while back and he refuses to pay attention to them to see if their conversation has grown more interesting. Maybe he should’ve gotten Punch or what’s his face… he’ll call him Shorty. So Punch or Shorty, maybe one of them should’ve tagged along instead of Happy. He gets along with Jonny too well for them not to have proper conversations that turn into these stupid, pointless heated discussions.

“It’s philosophical,” Happy insists on the front seat, and Joker grits his teeth. “That’s why it’s better.”

“I’m not saying it’s not, but the new stuff is good too,” Jonny replies. Happy groans and shakes his head. “The action is better, for one.”

And now Joker is paying attention to them. No, he doesn’t want to hear this. He does not want to pay attention to their stupid not argument. Nope, it’s not for him, thank you very much. Just stop listening to them. Stop listening—no, stop listening!

God he misses having Harls around to distract him. He can't believe he misses having her around to distract him. There's a secret he'll be taking to his grave. An early grave he’ll put himself into if he doesn’t stop listening to that stupid argument.

“But that’s—”

Joker pulls his revolver out and points it at the front window, placing it squarely between Jonny and Happy. “Will you shut up already? I can’t think with you gossiping like housewives at the grocery store.”

“Sorry, boss,” comes the reply from both men, in perfect unison no less.

Joker holds the revolver in place for a few seconds longer before pulling it back.

Now that the chatter has ended the radio fills the silence, but it’s not loud enough to demand Joker’s attention. He settles back in his seat and returns to staring out of the window.

Where was he? Right, Harley. She’d come up with something to do—a distraction to pull Joker out of his funk. He hasn’t gotten anything done in a few weeks, now. People will start noticing soon. At least he’s out of his home for a change, even if it’s just to drive around. He even got his makeup on. That should count for something. He’s prepared for action, should action come looking for him.

He’s just… tired. Even after spending the last few weeks doing nothing but sleeping (thank you Prince Valium for helping with that) and lounging around in an oversized hoodie and sweats that should’ve been washed at some point during the last week, at least (they were comfy, okay? He’d wanted comfy and he can live with small blood stains on his clothes).

But he’s out now, so… progress?

And now he’s painfully aware of how much Harley occupied his time and kept him out of his head. What would she tell him to do now? Nothing, probably. She’d come up with something to make him laugh—really laugh; not some momentary ‘ha ha that’s mildly amusing’ shit, but something that’s actually funny.

It’s not that Joker misses Harley specifically; their fun together had run its course and Joker is more than ready to move on (he is, really). Harley had been… fun. She’d been fun, and an interesting experiment, and yes, it’d been nice to have someone who got him and put up with him around.

And the sex had been good.

The other… ‘relationship stuff’ hadn’t been bad, for the most part, either. Yeah, Harley got kinda grating at times, but it was nothing Joker couldn’t fix by… well. The saying is ‘you shouldn’t hit a lady’ not ‘you shouldn’t hit a psychotic bitch’. Not that Joker considers Harley a bitch (most of the time), but that’s what most people call her so it’s gotta have some truth behind it.

But Harley is gone, by (mostly) mutual agreement no less. They’d talked about it (after Joker had lashed at her and shot over her head a few times, and maybe torn a ligament in her wrist), and they’d agreed it was time for them to part ways.

The spark that was there in the beginning just wasn’t there anymore. And you need a spark. Rom-coms can’t be wrong about that.

So it was (mostly) mutual, and Joker isn’t complaining that Harley is gone. The peace and quiet is nice, it’s just that he’s… alone. He doesn’t know if he just got too used to having someone there—or even just the knowledge that he had someone waiting for him when they were apart for longer periods, be it because of a fight or Arkham or whatever—but it’s beside the point.

The point is, he’d rather not be alone. Which is a fucked up realization to come to while he’s been driven around aimlessly for three hours on a Sunday night.

Maybe he should go bother Batsy. But that would lead to pain and running and maybe Arkham, depending on how determined Bats is to catch him, and Joker doesn’t want to go to Arkham, and he doesn’t feel like running.

“I want a drink,” he says, startling Jonny and Happy who had been in the middle of a silent argument. They probably hadn’t realized realize Joker noticed it.

They probably don’t realize he knows the argument is about him. Normally he might let them in on that little fact to get them to stop, and to remind them that they don’t get a say on matters concerning him, thank you very much now stop or get stabbed, but right now he’s just tired.

“Any particular place?” Jonny asks.

“No.” Joker rests his forehead on the cool window and sighs. “Just get me a drink.”

“Yes, boss,” Jonny says and continues to drive in silence.

The car pulls up next to the Corner Pocket, which Joker supposes is as good as any place; it might be less, ah, flashy than his usual haunts, but the staff doesn’t mind criminals—even Joker—being there. As long as they don’t cause too much trouble. And they do make a mean mojito so Joker doesn’t complain.

Jonny hurries to get the backdoor open and let Joker out before he can do so himself, and Joker steps out, straightening his coat. He doesn’t bother picking his gloves from where he’d tossed them.

The air is warmer than it was last Joker was out, and the familiar noise of the city is… comforting, in a way. The cars and sirens and shouting and occasional gunfire are familiar; a white noise that lulls Joker into serenity better than anything—save for having the Bat by his side.

Happy pushes the door open and Jonny enters first. Joker follows him, allowing Jonny to survey the area for risk factors since he doesn’t have the interest to do so himself. Happy follows, and the door closes behind him, trapping them in the beer stench and the old rock music playing quietly in the background. There’s not that much of a crowd, which is unusual for a weekend, but not unheard of. At least it should assure relative peace.

So. One drink. One strong, knock you off your feet drink, and Joker is heading back home because there is nothing to do in Gotham tonight.

…Or maybe there is.

Because that looks an awful lot like Bruce Wayne.

Now that could be fun; a few minutes of distraction and a pretty face to look at. Wayne’s probably not into guys, so anything more than one sided flirting is most likely off the table. Or if he is into guys, he’s not gonna go for a criminal of Joker’s statue. Rich people who don’t admit they’re not acceptably straight as an arrow are like that: hiding who they are and super careful not to let anyone know so they’re insanely picky about their partners, or firmly locked in the closet.

It’s an image thing as far as Joker can tell. That, and fear of public backlash, even in this day and age. It’s ridiculous.

“There’s a good corner table—”

Joker ignores Happy in favor of beelining to Wayne. Who wants a table when there’s a billionaire to pay for a drink?

“And there he goes,” Jonny sighs, but Joker ignores him as well. He fixes a casual smile on his face and forces himself to relax, and focuses only on the fun he’s about to have, shoving his sour mood down for now.

Wayne doesn’t react as Joker approaches. He’s got a look on his face—like something’s bothering him. Well, well, Joker isn’t the only one in need of a distraction, then.

Joker slides next to Wayne and leans over the counter. “Can a guy get a mojito around here?” The bartender nods and leaves the woman he’d been serving to get Joker his drink. “He’s paying—thanks, by the way.” Joker turns to grin at Wayne. And wow he does not look happy to see Joker. Not happy at all.

But he pays for the drink so who cares? Joker makes sure he’s got his nice smile on and tilts his head, studying his new plaything—assessing him.

“So what drove Bruce Wayne of all people to a place like this, hmm?” Joker leans into Wayne’s personal space just a little, curious to see if he’ll stay still or back away.

He stays still. He’s not even really scared. Anxious, yes. Concerned and apprehensive, sure, but not scared. Now that is interesting.

"I wanted to get a drink without someone taking my picture," Wayne replies and raises his tumbler. He even smiles, but it looks so painful Joker would’ve told him to stop if he didn’t do it himself.

“Well, in that case you’ve come to the right place. They take all the nosy journalists to the back and give ‘em a crash course in baseball,” Joker says, keeping a close eye on Wayne to see how his joke landed. Not that well, by the looks of it. Oh well, nobody’s perfect. Hopefully Wayne has some sense of humor under that… muscle.

That is a lot of muscle wrapped in a stupidly expensive suit. Wow.

Maybe Wayne is one of the secretly gay billionaires. Or at least open to experimentation. Maybe more alcohol would help with that.

Wayne downs his drink a little too fast. “I should get going. Got an important meeting in the morning and I don’t want to be tired for it.” He forces a smile again and stands.

No, that won’t do. Joker isn’t done playing with him yet. He hasn’t even found out if Wayne will at least respond to flirting when he’s drunk. He is not leaving.

So Joker pulls a knife from his pocket and drives it between Wayne’s fingers—wouldn’t want to scratch him just yet—the thunk of the blade sinking into the counter loud in the space between them. It takes a few seconds for Wayne to process the situation. When he turns to meet Joker’s eyes, Joker slips back into a nicer facade and laughs under his breath. “Have a drink with me first.”

Now Wayne is getting scared. “A drink. Okay. I can do that.”

Of course he can, that was never in doubt. Joker still studies him for a moment longer, assessing how likely he is to bolt—not very; he’s more of a weaselly sort—before pulling the knife from the counter and sitting back.

Best let Wayne collect himself a little. And what is that? Joker purses his lips and picks the boring, white straw from his drink and tosses it behind the counter. That will not do at all. Fortunately the drink itself is good enough to make up for the oversight.

Wayne is still just standing there like an idiot when Joker puts his mojito down. “So get a drink and sit down. And relax, will ya? You’re making me anxious.” Wayne sits and orders a whiskey (boring and predictable) and Joker watches him try not to fidget. He gets his drink quickly. The bartender glances at the straw on the floor as he leaves.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Joker smiles as he returns all of his attention to Bruce. “Now tell me something about yourself.” He sips his mojito and leans his elbow on the counter, ready to learn more about his new drinking buddy. Like whether or not he’s into clowns. Or guys. Or maybe both (a guy can dream, right?).

“I’d bore you.”

Joker stares at him, unblinking, and sips his drink. “No. I want to get to know you. That’s the whole point of having a drink with a stranger, isn’t it?” Joker frowns and drums his nails on the counter (he should’ve redone his nailpolish before heading out), waiting for Wayne to fall in line.

And as Joker expected, he does just that in seconds. “I’m really not that interesting, but, um, I don’t know.” Oh he’s cute when he bites his lip all nervous like that. He should do that more often. “I backpacked through Europe once.”

“That’s interesting.” Joker leans into Wayne’s space and sucks on his lower lip out of habit before catching himself. Don’t push the poor guy too far too fast.

Wayne’s eyes flicker down—it’s so brief Joker dismisses it as meaningful—and he shrugs. “It wasn’t really that special. People make it sound more fun than it actually is. What about you?”

“I’m an open book.” Joker sips his drink, trying to decide if he wants to entertain Wayne’s attempt at deflecting. It might be interesting. It’s not like prying is the only way to push someone’s buttons. “Why? Is there something you wanna know?”

“Why are you talking to me?”

Jeez, couldn’t he come up with anything more interesting? Such a low effort question! “Having a drink with a cute stranger in a seedy underground bar is on my to-do list.” Wayne raises an eyebrow, like he’s not sure if he believes him. Joker rolls his eyes and moves the mojito around the counter absently. “I have a to-do list. One point is singing See You Later Alligator to Croc without getting mauled to death, but I’m still working on that. So drinks with you with it was.”

The biggest issue is that Croc is fast and he doesn’t appreciate that song at all, and any good will they have won’t protect Joker from his wrath.

“Glad I could help.”

Joker ignores Wayne’s tone and fixes a look of exaggerated surprise on his face. “Please don’t tell me you don’t have a to-do list!”

Wayne glances at Joker and—oh, now that’s a real smile! Joker should really see if he could make it last for longer than a few seconds; it’s a nice smile.

“I don’t have a to-do list.”

To see if he can get another smile out of Wayne, Joker adapts his most shocked expression and presses a hand over his heart for added effect. “How do you live your life?”

It doesn’t get Wayne to smile, but he relaxes just a bit. That’s a start. “I manage.”

“Of course you do. You don’t know any better.” So what happens if Joker touches Wayne? He sighs as if some great tragedy has befallen Wayne and pats him on the shoulder. He tenses, but doesn’t flinch, and he relaxes again after Joker draws back. That’ll need a bit more work.

Work… table! They need a table. Wayne’s less likely to bolt from a table (people always are) and it will be cozy and nice and Joker is tired of the stools. “We’re getting a table.” Now where’s—ah! Joker leans over the counter to make sure he won’t be ignored. “Give us another round, would ya?”

As soon as he has his drink, Joker grabs Wayne’s arm and pulls him to the table at the far end of the bar. Jonny and Happy sit straighter as Joker passes them, but at least it’s because they’re curious about Wayne and not because they weren’t paying attention to what’s happening around them.

Joker pushes Wayne into the corner of the booth to minimize his chances of escaping, and slides next to him and presses a little closer than is socially acceptable. And look! He’s got a pink straw! Awesome.

“And now what?” Wayne asks, sounding so adorably unsure Joker smiles to himself.

“Now we get wasted.” Joker looks Wayne over. He doesn’t seem… too uncomfortable. “Why? Did you have something else in mind? I should warn you, I don’t kiss on the first date.” Joker winks. Wayne’s fidgeting draws a laugh out of him. Oh he’s cute alright. Should Joker say he’ll make an exception for Wayne? No, it’s too soon for that.

Maybe later.

“I should be going home,” Wayne starts. Joker grits his teeth, even if he doesn’t drop his smile. Maybe a more proper stabbing is in order. “Or not,” Wayne says a little too quickly, but at least he figured his mistake out on his own.

“Smart man,” Joker says and nudges Wayne’s shoulder before focusing on his drink (the straw, at least. It’s a nice straw). He gives Wayne a few seconds. Just a few. Enough for him to settle down again. “Tell me about the fundraiser a few weeks back; that sounds like an interesting story.” He turns back to Wayne, watching the way he frowns and bites his lip (and that’s… yeah) as he thinks.

And wow, okay, Joker might have a bit of a crush on the way Wayne chuckles. And the face he makes when he does that. Does being a billionaire just automatically give you a really nice smile? No, there are billionaires with really shitty smiles. It’d be better if it’s just a Wayne thing, actually.

The point is, Wayne has a nice (or attractive, if you wanna get accurate) smile, and Joker pays more attention to it than Wayne’s recount of the fundraiser. The story coming out of Wayne’s mouth is still funny enough to draw genuine laughter out of Joker, which… not a lot of people can do that—at least not well enough to get Joker to double over.

Maybe he’s just needed a good laugh and this is a fluke. His standards must be lowered. But Wayne just really captures the scene—almost like he knows Harv and Crane. It’s great.

And—huh. Okay. Wayne gets them another round. That’s… that’s not what Joker expected. It’s not unwelcome (and maybe he’s done trying to bolt), but it’s unexpected. The good kind of unexpected, though. And Wayne looks pretty now that he’s not so anxious—more like he does in pictures, but… more genuine. More real.

And that’s his cue to create a distraction. No need to start getting deep with someone who might be a one night stand at best (if a small miracle happens, really). Since blowing something up would involve effort (and Wayne going back to panicking) and ruining the nice buzz Joker is developing, he opts to share a story of his own.

But which one—ah! Time to see how Wayne reacts to Arkham shenanigans.

His mind made, Joker turns to Wayne, grins, and starts reenacting the wonderful food fight of January 5th.

#batjokes #Love&Abuse verse #sare writes fic

[abovethemists]

To Have and to Hold - Final Chapter

Summary: After five years of marriage, Belle and Gold have hit a rough patch. However, their plans to separate are put on hold due to a shotgun wedding and three weeks of utter chaos.

A/N: I finished something! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy.

(Chapter 1) (Chapter 2) (Chapter 3) (Chapter 4) (Chapter 5)

Read it on AO3

*

By mid morning, they had started to panic.

In the ten minutes it took Alasdair to get dressed and go after Neal, he had seemingly vanished from Storybrooke. He wasn’t answering any of their calls and after thinking to check, Belle realized his phone was still plugged in on his bedside table.

“Great,” she said as she stepped back into the hall where Emma was looking anxious. “He could be anywhere.”

Emma shook her head.

“He’s probably with August or Will or one of his other friends. He wouldn’t just bail on me. I know it.”

Belle nodded, trying to be supportive. But she knew how badly Alasdair and Milah’s divorce had affected Neal. Couple that with pre wedding jitters and…well, she hated to think about it.

“What do you want to do?” she asked Emma.

“Go to my mom’s,” Emma said with a decisive nod. “We’ve got enough going on without provoking the beast.”

Belle quickly got dressed and gave Emma a ride back to the Nolan’s. On the drive they decided not to tell Mary Margaret about any of the morning’s events. She was likely to be stressed enough as it was. But upon entering the farmhouse, Belle found a mimosa shoved into her hand and a large group of women assembled, talking and laughing to a soundtrack of pop music as if it was a bachelorette party.

“There she is!” Mary Margaret exclaimed, swanning into the living room. “My baby girl, the bride! Oh, look at you. You’re so beautiful.”  

Emma looked down at her jeans and tank top, then glanced aside at Belle who shrugged.

“How many of those have you had?” Emma asked, nodding her head at Mary Margaret’s own champagne glass.

“Just enough to take the edge off,” Mary Margaret said brightly. “I made you a virgin mimosa.”

“Oh, so orange juice,” Emma deadpanned.

Mary Margaret ignored her, turning to Belle. “How did last night go?” she asked in a sing-song voice.

Belle glanced around at the crowd of women, most of whom she didn’t know well.

“Um,” she said, taking a sip of mimosa to buy some time.

Mary Margaret winked at her. “I saw the way Mr. Gold was eyeing you all night. My advice did the trick, didn’t it?”

Emma was looking between the two of them with disgust on her face.

“I need coffee,” she said, walking off toward the kitchen.

“Decaf only, young lady!” Mary Margaret yelled after her before moving further into the living room, dancing along to the music and sloshing champagne and orange juice on the hardwood floors.

Belle just watched her, wondering if the morning could go any more off script. Mary Margaret hadn’t said a word about them being over an hour late. A few of the bridesmaids were having their hair and makeup done in the downstairs bathroom and Belle was informed it would be her turn next. She smiled tightly. The last thing she was concerned about was her hair.

A few minutes later, Emma came back to the living room, blowing on her cup of coffee.

“I have no idea what happened to momzilla. Who is this calm, loopy, lady?”

“I gave her a valium,” said Lily, Emma’s maid of honor, stepping out of the bathroom with her hair freshly curled.

Emma and Belle swung around to look at her.

“What!?” Emma exclaimed. “You drugged my mother!”

“What’s the big deal? It’ll just calm her down a little. You should have seen her first thing this morning when you weren’t here. I thought she was gonna have a panic attack.”

“And she’s drinking on top of that? Is she going to be able to stand up by wedding time?”

Lily just shrugged, not a care in the world. “I’ll carry her to her seat if I need to. Enjoy your day, Emma.”

She gave her a wink before continuing on and Emma looked at Belle with a worried expression.

“I guess she won’t panic about Neal?” she said, the end of her sentence going up into a question.

“Yeah,” Belle said. “Speaking of, I’m gonna go check in on Alasdair.”

She excused herself to the front porch, setting her mimosa down on the railing and calling her husband.

“Any sign of him?” she asked, as soon as he picked up.

“No,” Gold growled out. “I checked Granny’s, the shop, the high school, even the Rabbit Hole. He’s nowhere to be found.”

“Well he couldn’t have gone far,” she reassured him. “His car is still at the house.”

“Perhaps he caught a bus out of town?”

“In his pajamas,” Belle said flatly.

“Well, I don’t know. You saw the mood he was in this morning. He probably doesn’t want to be found.”

Belle nodded.

“I’ll call Will,” she said, and she heard Alasdair grunt on the other end of the line. “Oh come on,” she said with an eye roll. “After last night you can’t possibly still be jealous.”

“I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

“Well your son is probably with him.”

“Fine,” Alasdair said shortly.

“Hey,” she said, feeling slightly nervous. “We haven’t been able to talk this morning. Are we…”

“We’re okay,” he returned, his voice softening.

“Okay,” Belle repeated. What exactly did that mean?

“Call Will,” Alasdair said. “I’ve got a few other places to check.”

A quick call to a very sleepy and obviously hungover Will yielded no results. He hadn’t seen Neal since the night before. Neal’s other groomsmen proved just as helpful.

Belle checked her watch. It was already noon. Then Ruby poked her head out on the porch to tell Belle it was her turn for hair and makeup.

Thirty minutes later her hair had been twisted up into an elegant knot, and her makeup was ready for the runway. Belle didn’t think she’d ever worn so much in her life, not even for her own wedding. It wasn’t her style, but it also didn’t matter.

She found Emma, who was being oohed and ahhed over by the assorted women as they all passed around her wedding dress on a satin hanger and pulled her aside.

“Did you find Neal?” she asked under her breath, her eyes looking strained.

Belle shook her head. “Not yet, but we will. I’m going to go help Alasdair look, alright?”

Emma nodded, still looking worried, and Belle excused herself from the festivities.

“Aw, Belle,” Mary Margaret called after her. “You have to stay! We’re going to play a game!” She shook a box with neon pink writing that claimed to be an adult themed party game.

“I’m sorry,” she said with a shake of her head. “Gotta help the groom. Don’t have too much fun without me!”

"Buzz kill!" Mary Margaret shouted after her.

*

Belle felt like she was constantly checking the time and wishing to God it would slow down. The wedding was in six hours. Now five. Neal was going to stand Emma up and ruin his life and relationship and it was all her fault. If they’d just told Neal the truth all those weeks ago, when he’d first come home to tell them about the engagement, they could have avoided all of this. But she hadn’t wanted to admit their marital issues aloud. If only she could go back in time even further, to last July and the blow up fight she’d had with Alasdair. If only she could keep herself from saying such hurtful things. If only Alasdair had told her how badly she’d wounded him.

But there was no use wishing for things that would never be.

After combing the streets in her Volvo with no sight of Neal, Belle met Gold back at the house, getting out of her car just as he pulled up in the Cadillac.

“He’s not at the cabin,” Gold said with a grimace, getting his cane beneath him as he stepped out of the car. “Not that I expected him to be, but it was the last place I could think to look.”

Belle let out a sigh.

“It’s a small town, Alasdair, there’s only so many places he could be.”

“I’m all ears if you have suggestions.”

“Did you check in with Milah?” Belle asked.

Gold leveled her with a look.

Belle let out a sigh of frustration.

“Look, she’s his mother. He may have gone to see her.”

“The very person responsible for the trauma he’s dealing with right now?”

“One of the people,” she said sweetly.

Alasdair’s mouth had flattened into a very grim line, and Belle shook her head.

“Let’s not act like we’re not all a little responsible for this,” she said. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe we should have told Neal about our split from the beginning instead of keeping it a secret. Maybe he could have talked some sense into us before we made ourselves miserable for months.”

Alasdair’s face softened and he shook his head. “No,” he said. “You’re not to blame, Belle. You only wanted to protect Neal, to make sure his wedding day was a happy one. I’m the one he’s angry with.”

Belle reached out a hand to take Alasdair’s free one, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“It’ll be alright,” she said. “As long as we find him before 6:00, that is.”

“Right,” Alasdair said with a nod. “I suppose I’m off to speak to Milah then.”

Belle gave him an encouraging smile.

“I’ll keep looking around town in the meantime.”

She turned to head back to her car, but Alasdair caught her hand in his own.

“Thank you,” he said, pulling her back around to him.

“For what?” she asked, confused.

“For loving my son,” he said with a little nod. “You didn’t…you didn’t have to be a mother to him, but you have been. From the very first. I know we couldn’t have a child of our own, and it’s a pity Belle. Because you’re the best mother I can imagine.”

Belle blinked, not wanting to let the tears fall and ruin Ruby’s hard work on her makeup.

“Of course,” she said. Because what else could she do?

His thumb rubbed against her palm and Belle stepped closer. Everything between them was still so uncertain. She needed confirmation, something that would show her they were on the right track. Gold’s eyes were tracing over her face, from her coiffed hair to her red lips.

“You look very pretty,” he said, and Belle couldn’t help but blush. She’d become unaccustomed to compliments.

“I feel like a Sephora exploded on my face.”

Gold looked confused.

“It’s just a lot of makeup,” she explained.

“Ah, well, you certainly don’t need it. But you look lovely all the same.”

He bent his head, kissing her cheek lightly, making sure not to disturb her makeup and then pulled away with a wink.

“I’d better find Neal, because I certainly plan on dancing with you tonight.”

Belle let out a startled laugh. “I look forward to it.”

With one last kiss pressed to her knuckles, Gold went back to the Cadillac, turning it in the direction of Granny’s B&B.

Belle stared up at the pink Victorian. With any luck, she’d be moving her stuff back in soon enough. Well, what little she’d managed to move out. Their separation that had caused so much pain and heartache all seemed so arbitrary in hindsight. She’d never even managed to move the bulk of the things in her closet.

With that in mind, she darted inside to get her dress for the wedding, just in case they found Neal at the last possible second and she had to get dressed on the fly. It was simple, a dark blue a-line dress with delicate cap sleeves. She had a pair of peep toe shoes that went perfectly with it and she scrounged the shoe rack at the back of the closet for them. With a groan, she realized she’d forgotten them back at her apartment, another inconvenience of her short separation.

Belle checked the time again. It was 2:00. The wedding party was supposed to all be at the Magus Mansion by 4:30 for photos before the ceremony. At this rate, she wouldn’t have time to change.

Well, she could do so at her apartment. She’d take the dress over, grab her shoes, get fully ready for the wedding, and with any luck Neal would have come to his senses by then and turned up none the worse for the wear.

The library was closed for the day, a concession to the wedding festivities. The caretaker's apartment was located at the back of the library, a heavy metal door guarding the concrete stairwell that had maimed her suitcase. Belle hadn't been by the apartment in the past few days, and she was surprised to find the stairwell door unlocked and propped open slightly. On edge, she crept up the stairs, wondering if perhaps she should call the sheriff. It wasn't as though anyone had been squatting there while it laid empty for five years. She had found the dusty little apartment exactly as she'd left it. The apartment door was similarly unlocked, and it swung open with the barest push as she stood in the doorway, holding her breath.  But the sight that met her inside made her sigh in relief.

Neal was sitting on her squashy little sofa, a lone shadow in the dark apartment. His v-neck t-shirt and plaid pajama pants were a far cry from the way he should be dressed at this hour and the expression on his face was anything but that of an excited groom. She flicked the overhead light on and Neal winced at the sudden brightness.

“Everyone’s looking for you,” she said, trying to sound lighthearted. “Something about a wedding and a runaway groom.”

Neal looked up at her with his big brown eyes, so similar to his father’s, but said nothing.  

“What are you doing here?” she asked, motioning around at the apartment. “How did you even get in?”

“Hide A Key is in the same place,” Neal said flatly, holding up a small silver key.

Belle cocked her head to the side. “I didn’t know there was a hide a key,” she said, reaching over and snatching it out of Neal’s hand. She turned it over on her palm, wondering where it had been all these years.

“Emma and I used to come hang out here…” he trailed off. “Back in high school. When we wanted some alone time .”

“Oh,” Belle said, her eyebrows raised. “ Oh . Not sure how I feel about that, to be honest.”

Neal just shrugged. “Not like we need it anymore. But something made me come here today. Thinking of simpler times, I guess.”  

Belle sat down beside her stepson, the old loveseat sagging toward the middle with the addition of her slight weight.

“Looks different now,” Neal mused. “The furniture was all covered up and there was nothing really here back in high school. But I guess you’ve moved back in, huh?”

“I…” Belle puzzled over her answer. “Sort of, I guess. Not that I’ve spent much time here lately.”

“Because you’ve been pretending you and Dad are still together, pretending to be happy, lying to me.”

He didn’t sound angry anymore, just resigned. There was a hollowness to his voice that hurt Belle more than any amount of rage could have.

“Neal, we never wanted to lie to you,” she said, chancing a hand against his arm. He didn’t shrug her off which she took as a good sign. “We just didn’t want to ruin the happiest time of your life with our own silly drama.”

Neal let out a humorless snort. “Is that what a divorce is? Silly drama? Not in my experience.”

Belle sighed, rubbing her hand against Neal’s arm. “No, I suppose that’s understating things isn’t it?”

He was silent for a long moment, before looking aside at Belle.

“What happened between you two?”

“Life,” Belle said. “Stress. Mostly we stopped seeing each other, stopped saying what we really wanted. We’re trying to change that.”

“So are you getting a divorce?” he asked.

“No,” Belle said assuredly, shaking her head. “Because I love your dad more than I’ve ever loved anything. He’s frustrating and annoying and so, so stupid, but I love him. And when you find someone you love that much, you never give up on them.”

“But how do you know?” he asked. “How do you know that Papa is right for you? How can you be sure it’s not going to fall apart again a month from now or a year?”

“Do you think that’s what’s going to happen with you and Emma?” she asked, deflecting his question with one of her own.

Neal shook his head.

“Before this morning, I would have said no. I would have said I was completely certain that we’d be together forever. But if something can shake you and Pop, what makes Emma and I any different?”

“Well, none of us can predict the future,” Belle said. “I can’t tell you you’re not going to have tough times. Even the happiest marriages do. Life isn’t perfect and neither is marriage, but the difference between a happy marriage and an unhappy one is your investment. Eventually something will go wrong, but if you stand together, you and Emma can face anything.”

She gave his arm a comforting squeeze and Neal finally shook her off, raking his hands through his hair and over his face.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he said, his monotone voice muffled by his hands.

“Hogwash,” Belle said, swatting him lightly on the shoulder. “You and Emma love each other. You’re having a baby. What’s a little party with a white dress in comparison to that commitment?”

“I’m just…” Neal paused, looking beside himself as his hands dropped to his lap. “I’m worried I’m making the exact same mistakes my parents did. I mean, Belle, you think they’re bad now, you should have seen them when they were married. That divorce was the best thing that ever happened to any of us and it still wrecked them for years afterward. Every childhood memory I have is tainted with whatever fight they were having at the time. I can’t do that to my kid.”

“But that’s not you and Emma,” Belle said empathetically.

“Not now,” he countered. “But Mom and Pop got married, they had me. They must have been in love at some point. And it still turned out how it did.”

“No we weren’t,” came a voice from the doorway. Belle jumped, looking up to see Alasdair standing there. He’d somehow dressed for the wedding, cutting an impressive figure in his tux with a boutonniere of fresh greenery and baby's breath pinned to his buttonhole. “No love is needed to make a child, and sometimes you have all the love in the world and it still doesn’t happen.”

“Alasdair,” Belle breathed.

“Your mother and I weren’t in love, Neal, never,” he continued, coming to sit on the other side of Neal, the small sofa sinking even further toward the floor. “We had been seeing each other, not exclusively as I came to find out, for about a month when you were conceived. Liverpool beat Man U in the FA Cup Final, spirits were high, the lager was flowing and we were careless. Your mother and I didn’t love each other. We barely knew each other. And within six months of being married she resented me for trapping her with a baby, no matter that was never my intent. We were never happy, son. Don’t let our failures color your relationship with Emma. The two couldn’t be more different.”

Neal looked up at his father with disgust.

“So I’m the product of a drunken one night stand brought on by football euphoria?” he asked with a snort. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Alasdair shrugged, his lips curving up in a smile. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

Neal shook his head with a laugh, dragging his hands over his face again. Belle considered it a win.

“Neal, I might think you and Emma are too young for all this, but the fact of the matter is you’ll be bound to each other regardless. That baby is going to be the most extraordinary thing to ever happen to either of you. It will change your life, for the better, I promise. Of all the mistakes I’ve made in this life, you were never one of them. Being your dad is my greatest joy. And whatever the two of you choose, Belle and I will support it and support you.”

Belle’s heart gave a little leap, hearing Alasdair speak of them as a unit.

“We’ve got you, Neal,” she said with a little smile.

Neal heaved a deep breath. “Where’s Emma?” he asked, looking up at Belle.

“She’s with her mother, getting ready.”

Neal nodded. “I should probably put on real pants,” he said, looking down at his flannel pajama bottoms. “And then we need to talk.”

By the time they reached the Magus Mansion, Belle and Gold fully dressed for the wedding and Neal in the backseat in jeans, it was after 4:00. Belle sincerely hoped Mary Margaret’s valium was still in effect or she was sure the other woman was having some sort of conniption fit.

The photographer was already setting up in the gardens and the manager told Belle that Emma was getting some last minute touch ups in the bridal dressing room upstairs. They rushed inside, Neal taking the stairs two at a time until they reached the solid oak door labeled “Bridal Suite”.

Neal knocked on the door tentatively.

“Come in,” came Emma’s voice from inside, and Neal cracked open the door.

“Neal!” Emma exclaimed in a relieved voice at the sight of his reflection in her mirror. Emma was sitting in front of an antique vanity as her mother wove little white flowers into her hair. Belle had a glimpse of the white lace of Emma’s long dress before Mary Margaret gasped, spinning around and moving her body in front of Emma, trying to block her from view.

“What are you doing? You can’t see the bride before the wedding!” she hissed at Neal. “It’s bad luck!”

“Mom,” Emma said exasperatedly from behind Mary Margaret’s back. “It’s okay.”

“What are you wearing?” Mary Margaret continued, looking Neal up and down. “It’s time for photos. You and the groomsmen are first. Where is your tux?”

“Mary Margaret,” Belle interrupted, coming to take her friend’s hand. “It’s their wedding day. Let’s give them a minute?”

“We don’t have a minute,” Mary Margaret hissed out. “We are on a very tight schedule that no one seems concerned with but me.”

“Please, Mom,” Emma said, standing and gazing at Neal with a wary look on her face.

Mary Margaret looked torn, looking back and forth between Emma and Neal.

“Fine,” she said, throwing her hands up. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She stomped out of the room, her heels clacking angrily against the hardwood floors. Belle supposed the champagne and drug laced euphoria of the morning had definitely worn off. She gave Neal an encouraging smile before closing the door on the engaged couple, giving them their privacy.

There was a striped upholstered bench on the stretch of wall across from the dressing room and Gold settled himself upon it, his cane balanced between his knees. He looked as calm as could be, a marked difference from the frantic mother of the bride.

“What are they talking about in there?” Mary Margaret whispered, pressing her ear to the door. “The wedding is in less than two hours and Neal isn’t even dressed yet!”

“Give them some space, Mrs. Nolan,” Alasdair said, and Mary Margaret wheeled around.

“We are on a schedule!” she exclaimed. She seemed to realize almost immediately that she had yelled at Mr. Gold. No one yelled at Mr. Gold. “I’m sorry,” she continued. “I’m a little on edge. Today has to be perfect.”

“Why?” Alasdair asked with a shrug. “It’s a wedding. They’ll say their vows, they’ll dance, they’ll eat cake. Everyone will remember the lovely time they had at the open bar and little else.”

Mary Margaret stared at him as though he had three heads.

“Emma trips walking down the aisle because she didn’t get enough practice in her wedding shoes,” she rattled off, holding up a finger. “Neal’s tux pants are too short because he didn’t bother trying them on until five minutes before the wedding,” another finger. “The officiant imbibes too much at the cocktail hour and face plants during the ceremony,” a third finger.

Gold snorted.

“Crises, all,” he said sarcastically.

Mary Margaret crossed her arms against her chest.

“Fine,” she said, haughtily. “Emma and Neal decide to elope to Bali and I lose all my deposits and don’t have one single picture or memory of my only daughter’s wedding day.”

Gold just gave a little nod.

“I can see why that would upset you. But I don’t think we need to worry about it quite yet.”

Mary Margaret threw her hands up, pacing off down the hall and Belle sat down next to Alasdair.

“You can have all the love in the world, hmm?”

He glanced up at her with a puzzled look on his face.

“What you said to Neal,” she said, thumbing over her shoulder. “Back at the apartment. About love not being a necessary requirement to having a child.”

“Ah,” Alasdair said with a nod. “If it were, we’d have a house full.”

“Yeah,” Belle agreed, entwining her hand with Gold’s. He squeezed it reassuringly.

After fifteen minutes of relative silence coming from Emma’s dressing room, Belle worried Mary Margaret was going to wear a hole into the carpet with her pacing. A moment later, the door cracked open and Neal and Emma exited, holding hands and smiling. It was an odd juxtaposition; Emma looking ethereally lovely in her wedding gown which, Belle was pleased to note, was just as timeless as Mary Margaret had indicated, and Neal in his jeans and flannel button down.

“Oh, finally!” Mary Margaret exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “We’re going to be late!”

“Mom,” Emma interrupted her with a raised hand. “We have something to tell you all.”

Emma and Neal shared a loaded glance before she turned back to her mother and would be in-laws. “We’re not getting married. At least not today. Not yet.”

“What!?” Mary Margaret screeched, the pitch of her voice making Belle wince. “You had better be joking, young lady. There are 120 guests waiting in that garden to watch a wedding. I can’t just tell them to all go home.”

“You’re right,” Emma continued, coolly. “They came for a wedding and we’ll give them one.”

Mary Margaret let out a sigh of relief. “Thank God,” she said, “Neal, get your tux on.”

Neal cocked his head to the side, looking Mary Margaret over. “I actually think you’re a little underdressed.”

Mary Margaret glanced down at her conservative pink and black Mother of the Bride dress.

“What?” she said, looking confused and slightly panicked.

“This isn’t my wedding, Mom,” Emma said with a smile. “It never was. It’s yours. The dress, the flowers, the guest list. It’s the wedding you and dad deserve, but never got to have.”

“What are you suggesting?” Mary Margaret demanded. “I already got married twenty years ago.”

“You got married, yes,” Emma agreed. “But you didn’t get a wedding. Now’s your big chance.”

Mary Margaret’s mouth fell open as she shook her head slightly. “No,” she insisted. “This is your wedding.”

“I know you brought Grandma’s veil,” Emma cut across her.  

Mary Margaret looked sheepish. “I was hoping you might change your mind about the veil. But Emma, I can’t fit in the dress. I’ve had two children. I don’t have your figure.”

“I’ve put on a few pounds with the pregnancy and you’ve lost a few with the stress this wedding has put on you. We’re practically the same size.”

Mary Margaret was still gaping at her daughter like a fish out of water. Belle glanced aside at Alasdair to see that he was grinning, enjoying the spectacle before them. She couldn’t help it, she let out a laugh.

Mary Margaret spun around to look at the Gold’s as if she’d forgotten they were there.

“I think that’s a great idea, Emma,” Belle said, standing up and going to them. “You and Neal should get married when you’re ready to, on no one’s timeline but your own. And Mary Margaret, Emma is right. This is your wedding.”

Mary Margaret shook her head, still looking unconvinced. “But your father would never go for it.”

“I already texted him,” Emma said, holding her phone up in her hand.

“Mary Margaret?” They all turned to see David at the end of the hall. He walked toward them, stopping before Mary Margaret and dropping to one knee.

“What are you doing?” Mary Margaret asked.

David looked up at her, his face shining with love.

“I fell in love with you when I was sixteen, and I have fallen more in love with you every day since. We wake up every day and choose each other, no matter what life throws at us. So here I am choosing you again. Will you marry me? Tonight?”

“David,” she gasped out, her eyes wet with tears. “How could I ever say no?”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes!” Mary Margaret cried, breathlessly.

*

Mary Margaret Blanchard Nolan and David Nolan renewed their vows in the garden of the Magus mansion at 6:30 in the evening. After a bit of shuffling and a few announcements, the wedding transitioned to a vow renewal. The bulk of the guests were there for Mary Margaret and David anyway, Emma and Neal’s friends were happy enough to stay for the open bar, and Milah and Killian slipped away as soon as they realized they no longer had to be there. All in all, Belle thought it was as seamless as a canceled wedding could possibly be.

She and Alasdair found seats near the back of the ceremony, no longer required to be front and center as parents of the groom.

Emma was right, the dress did fit Mary Margaret beautifully as she walked down the aisle to a string quartet, a beaming smile on her face. Emma looked less at ease in Mary Margaret’s staid dress, but she was smiling just as broadly as she stood in as Maid of Honor. Little Leo cut a dashing figure in his tiny tux, promoted from ring bearer to Best Man.

“Do you, Mary Margaret, take this man to be your husband…again?” Archie asked. There was a titter of laughter throughout the congregants and Mary Margaret shook her head with tears in her eyes.

“I absolutely do,” she said.

Beside Belle, she felt Alasdair reach for her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. She glanced at him, but he was watching the Nolans exchange vows. His hand tightened around hers.

Belle leaned in against him, and Alasdair wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

“I love you,” he whispered against her ear.

She smiled at him, squeezing his knee with her hand.

“I love you, too.”

They would be okay, she realized. Because just like Mary Margaret and David, they chose to be.

*

The garden was alight with candles and fairy lights, illuminating the flowers and greenery in the failing early summer sunlight. The evening sounds of crickets and the lapping of the water in the bay against the cliffs below the mansion were all but drowned out by the music from August’s turntable, driving people on to the dance floor in droves. Belle and Gold were content to sit out the more frenzied music, sipping champagne at a cocktail table on the sidelines.

“Well, I’d say that was a successful wedding,” she said, clinking her glass against Gold’s. “Considering Neal didn’t actually get married.”

“I agree,” he said. “And best of all, I didn’t pay for any of this.”

Belle rolled her eyes fondly at him.

“What’s Neal’s plan now?” she asked, watching as the man in question twirled Emma around on the dance floor.

“They’re going to find an apartment together, get settled into their jobs, all the things they would have done without this silly ritual.”

“Silly ritual?” Belle asked. “If that’s what you think of marriage, why did you ever propose to me?”

“Because when a man is lucky enough to catch the attention of a woman like you, they lock it down as soon as they can,” he said with a wink.

“Mhmm,” Belle said, unconvinced by his flattery. “That’s why you’ve spent the better part of the past year trying to drive me away.”

A flash of pain crossed Alasdair’s face and Belle set her champagne glass down, reaching for his hand on the table instead.

“I’m joking,” she assured him. “Well, sort of. Just don’t do anything that pigheaded again.”

“I promise,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I realize I’ve probably got some feelings of inadequacy I’ve never really dealt with. Perhaps I should seek out a session with Dr. Hopper.”

“I think that’s a fantastic idea,” Belle encouraged him.

Her eyes drifted off across the reception before she caught sight of someone she hadn’t expected to see, a striking blonde in a red dress.

“Anastasia,” she called the blonde over to them. “You’re here. Will indicated you weren’t going to make it.”

“I didn’t think I could,” she said, glancing around the small garden fervently. “Have you seen Will?”

Belle nodded in the direction of the dance floor where Will and Neal were attempting to hoist David onto their shoulders and failing horribly. Ana’s big eyes filled with worry.

“There he is,” she said breathlessly, pressing a hand to her stomach. “Oh my God, how do I look?”

She turned back to Belle quickly. Ana was stunning as usual in her form fitting dress, her blonde hair falling loose over her shoulders.

“Beautiful,” Belle said with a smile.

Ana bit her lip, still looking worried.

“I think I really hurt him,” she said. “I don’t know if he’ll want me to be here.”

“He does,” Belle assured her. “I promise you he does.”

Ana just nodded before scurrying off to Will.

“What was that about?” Alasdair asked with a quirk of his eyebrow.

“That,” Belle said, turning to face her husband. “Is why you have absolutely no reason to think Will Scarlet is interested in me.”

“He’d be a fool not to be,” Gold shot back. “You’re gorgeous.”

“Did you miss the 22-year-old blonde glamazon?”

Gold shrugged, wrapping his arm about her waist.

“I prefer brunettes,” he said with a smirk.

The music changed from the pounding dance music to something softer and Alasdair dropped his arm from her waist, reaching instead for her hand.

“Care to dance, Mrs. Gold?”

“I would love to,” she said with a smile.

Alasdair led her out onto the dance floor, wrapping his arms around her as they swayed together to the music.

“We could do this, you know,” he said. “Renew our vows.”

Belle looked up at him. “Another silly ritual?”

“Our wedding was small,” he continued. “You deserve something lavish.”

“You said the same thing when we got married,” she pointed out. “I was perfectly happy with our wedding. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

It was at that moment that a cacophony went off, huge blooms of fireworks lighting up the darkening night sky. The assembled crowd gasped, which turned to oohs and aahs at the spectacle.

“That’ll be Leroy,” Alasdair said, unfazed.

“I beg your pardon?” Belle asked, looking up at him, the purple, red, and pink light reflected on his upturned face.

“I paid Leroy an obscene amount of money to shoot fireworks off his boat in the bay when Emma and Neal were pronounced man and wife. I suppose his timing was a little off.”

Belle stared up at her husband, the man she loved more than anything.

“You did that for them? Even though you were so grumpy about the wedding?”

Alasdair glanced down at her.

“Of course,” he said. “I know I’m not always the best at showing it, but I’m full of love, Belle. For you, for Neal, for Emma, for our future grandchild. I–”

Belle didn’t let him finish. She reached up on her tiptoes, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him, hard. Alasdair melted into her, his arms tightening about her waist. Neither of them had ever been much for PDA, but at the moment it didn’t matter. There was a wolf whistle from somewhere beside them, but Belle couldn’t be bothered to see who it was. She kissed her husband on the dance floor beneath a symphony of fireworks and couldn’t have wished for a single thing. She was complete.

One Month Later Belle drummed her fingers restlessly against her knees, trying, and failing, to keep the hope from blooming in her chest. She looked down at her wristwatch. How had it only been one minute?

She let out a sigh, staring at the marble tile wall of the shower across from her spot perched on the closed lid of the toilet. It was 6:00 in the evening. Alasdair was downstairs in the kitchen, whipping up a feast and none the wiser to her predicament.

She’d been here before, so many times in this exact position. During their years long fertility journey she’d taken dozens of pregnancy tests. Each time she’d tried to tamp down on that bubble of excitement. She knew all too well how difficult the disappointment was when you let yourself have the slightest bit of hope.

Belle chewed her lip, checking her watch again.

Three minutes.

She glanced over at the test, hanging precariously over the edge of the bathroom sink. She wouldn’t look early. The results weren’t accurate until after the full ten minutes.

“Oh this is stupid,” she sighed, burying her face in her hands. She and Alasdair had tried for ages to get pregnant, naturally at first and then with the help of science, IUI, IVF, none of it had worked. What were the odds they’d get pregnant when they weren’t trying at all?

But she was ten days late.

Belle’s unpredictable period had burned her before. She’d been a week late before and certain, so certain, that the miracle she’d waited for had finally happened. She’d been wrong then, and she was probably wrong now.

It’s why she hadn’t shared her suspicion with Alasdair. There was no need to. It would be all for naught, and bringing up what had been such a sensitive subject in their marriage again so close upon the heels of their reconciliation, was not something she was willing to do.

Six minutes .

But she’d never been ten days late. She’d stewed over it at the library all day, whether to stop by the pharmacy or not. In the end, her curiosity had gotten the better of her. She had to know. Even if it was a resounding negative, at least her mind would be put at ease, no more wondering.

She picked at her thumbnail, flaking off the pink paint still there from the wedding last month. Was it too soon? She and Alasdair had just started on their path back to each other, one filled with honesty and regular therapy sessions. A child, no matter how wanted, would throw their lives into upheaval. Could they handle the added stress? The inability to have a child had driven them apart, would a baby do the same?

Belle shook her head. She couldn’t think like that. And besides, she and Alasdair had turned over a new leaf. He would never try to shut her out for her own good again. They would communicate.

Although, not telling him about the pregnancy test wasn’t exactly a great start. She just didn’t want him to get his hopes up for nothing. It was probably nothing.

Eight minutes.

Would she have morning sickness? Would her feet swell? Would she curse the day she ever wished for pregnancy?

No. The test would be negative. They were always negative. She would wad the test up in toilet paper, bury it at the bottom of the wastebasket, try to push down the sorrow, and go downstairs and have a glass of red wine. She’d eat a delicious meal, have a relaxing night, and end it all with a mind blowing orgasm, courtesy of her insanely attractive husband who loved her and who was exactly enough. She didn’t need anything more.

She didn’t need a baby.

Belle breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t need anything more. She was perfectly happy. She had a wonderful life. She would probably always want a baby, but she didn’t need one to fulfill her. She was enough, just as she was.

The timer on her watch beeped out and Belle startled, rattling the toilet seat she was sitting on.

That was ten minutes then.

She almost didn’t want to check, to go ahead and chuck it away. This was just a backslide into her old ways. She’d bring it up with Dr. Hopper at their next session.

She took a deep breath, standing up and crossing the bathroom to the sink. The white plastic test stared up at her, an innocuous thing. She picked it up to read the result and did a double take. Where she was so used to seeing one solitary line, there were two. Two pink lines as bright as day.

Belle grabbed the box for the test, reading over the instructions on the back to make sure they hadn’t changed drastically in the last several months. But no. Two lines meant…

Her hand shook, a sob forming in her throat. It had happened. It had finally happened.

“ALASDAIR!” she screamed, throwing open the door and setting off at a run.

#rumbelle fic #rumbelle #fic: to have and to hold #raven's fic #this turned out long and clunky but at least it's done #i finished something

[grace-lightwoodd]

Lay my Curses All to Rest: Chapter 1

Read on ao3

Notes: Finished it just in time for the last day of gracetopher week! This isn’t canon compliant at all, and I have no idea how vampires work

—

When Christopher woke up after he died, he was thirsty. It was unlike any kind of thirst he had known in his life prior, and he knew he had to sate it as soon as possible.

He groaned as he pushed himself into an upright position and off the bed, nearly falling over when he did. The world spun under his feet and grayed at the edges, and he took a moment to steady himself against the bedside table, squeezing his eyes shut.

When he had recovered, Christopher stepped towards the door, crossing in front of the window as he did so. As soon as the first ray of sunshine hit his skin, he yelped in pain and slinked back into the shadows of the small room. He held up his hand to see the blisters that had blossomed on the portion of skin that had been exposed to the light.

What in the angel’s name had happened to him?

Well, logically, he could put the pieces together in his mind, but what he failed to figure out was how such a thing had happened. And, quite honestly, he didn’t know what to do now.

Normally, one in his position was to turn to another of his kind for help. But, since all the downworlders were frozen in place—all but him, notably— that course of action was impossible.

A silent brother could help him, Christopher thought, before he remembered that they were all in Idris, and surely he couldn’t go there anymore.

So he did the only thing he could do: he waited until nightfall, hoping nobody would see him lurking around in the institute, and as soon as the sun dipped behind the horizon, Christopher snuck out and rushed to the lab at his aunt Charlotte’s house.

He arrived in record time, and he was halfway down the cobblestone stairs when he heard a soft voice echo off of the walls, unmistakable to his keen ears.

“…and I only wish I could have told you—that I care about you, Christopher. And I did not think that kind of feeling to be real. I thought it was a conceit of novels and plays, that one could… could want the happiness of another beyond even their own, beyond anything else. I wish I had understood it more when you were… when you were still alive.”

It was the kind of thing that normally would have made his heart seize, and it made him acutely aware that his heart wasn’t beating at all. He wasn’t breathing, either. How had he not realized until now?

“So if you are here,” said Grace, breaking him from his thoughts, “please. I’m so close, with the fire-messages. I’ve gone beyond where you were, but I haven’t found the solution yet. I need your help. The world needs your help. Please.”

He rushed down the remaining stairs and closed the distance between them, lightly putting a hand on her shoulder. “Grace,” he said, wincing at how hoarse his voice was.

He heard her breath catch as she turned around, her eyes wide as she stared at him. “Christopher? How are you—“

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, offering her what he hoped to be a comforting grin. “You invented ever-burning Valium, Grace! Well done!”

She nodded, but her delicate features were twisted in some sort of unpleasant emotion that Christopher couldn’t quite place. She was staring at his mouth, he realized, and he became painstakingly aware of the sharp fangs that had protruded from his teeth.

He closed his mouth at once, but her gaze never faltered from him. “A vampire,” she muttered. “How curious.”

Christopher forced himself to turn away from her and towards the desk. “So. The fire messages.”

Grace cleared her throat, seemingly broken from her reverie. “Yes. Do you have any ideas?”

“Do you?”

“Well, you’re the scientist, aren’t you?”

“And you think that you aren’t?” He made a sweeping gesture in the direction of all of the scattered papers. “Look at what you’ve accomplished, Grace. You have gotten so much farther than I ever could. You only need to believe that you can solve it. And you can. You are a natural scientist, and a solver of puzzles. All you have to do is silence the voice in your head that says you aren’t good enough, that you don’t know enough.”

While he spoke, Grace had begun to rummage through the notes, carefully examining each page as if trying to find the missing piece of the puzzle in her hands. She stopped abruptly, turning to Christopher with a new light in her eyes. “It’s not the runes. It’s not the chemicals, either. It’s the steles.”

“It makes sense. As they are now, the steles themselves are unable to perform the task we need.”

“But if we added a communication rune, they could.”

Christopher grinned. “See? I knew you could do it.”

But his smile faded as a new wave of nausea crashed over him, his vision blurring as he struggled to maintain his balance. He reached out for something, anything, and Grace caught him, leading him to a chair.

“How long has it been since you woke up?” She asked, her eyebrows furrowed in something akin to concern.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Six hours, perhaps?”

“Have you had any… er…. sustenance?”

“No. I’m still trying to figure out what to do, in that department.” He didn’t tell her how desperately he needed something to ease the constant burning in his throat, how he had grown physically weaker with every passing minute that he denied himself, how his head felt as though it had been pumped full of helium.

She must have known, somehow, because she wordlessly offered him her wrist, giving him a slight nod. An invitation.

And as much as every part of his body wanted him to jump at the opportunity while he had the chance, he forced himself to take a step away from her, shaking his head. He wouldn’t let himself take advantage of her like that, he told himself, no matter how desperate he was. He wouldn’t hurt her.

“Grace, no, I couldn’t possibly—“

“Well, you’ll die if you don’t, and I won’t let that happen. Not after I just got you back.”

Christopher knew that he should have protested again, but he also knew that she was right. He was becoming weaker and more lightheaded by the moment, and here she was, offering him the cure to all of his ailments. Who was he to deny her?

“You can take as much as you need,” she said, and that was the only invitation Christopher needed.

As gently as he could, he took hold of her arm and lifted the pale skin of her forearm to his mouth, sinking his teeth into her flesh and drinking.

He faintly registered a light cry of pain as the relief washed over his body. He pushed himself away from her as soon as his nausea subsided, unwilling to take more than the absolute bare minimum. He averted his gave from her, unwilling to look her in the eye. “I’m sorry,” he said.

She shrugged, moving past him to grab a handkerchief. She pressed it to the new found to stop the bleeding “It’s fine. It barely even hurt. Vampire saliva acts as an anesthetic, remember?”

“I’m still drinking your blood. Which, might I add, is a whole issue in and of itself. I should be dead. Logistically speaking, I shouldn’t even be a vampire, and yet somehow, I am. I don’t understand it. I never went through a fledgling phase, I was never buried, but still, for all intents and purposes, I’ve become a vampire.”

“Maybe it was the poison that triggered the transformation.”

“But that wouldn’t have made me a fully-fledged vampire. It just doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t need to. Not everything has an answer, you know.”

“That’s because no one has found one, yet.

“Then we’ll find one,” said Grace. “Look, I understand your curiosity, and your need to have all the answers, and it’s admirable, but right now, the sun is about to rise. You probably ought to go, so you’re not trapped here until sunset.”

“Well, I don’t exactly have anywhere to go.”

“What about the Hell Ruelle? At least until all the downworlders aren’t frozen anymore, you can stay there undetected.” She paused. “Wait, how aren’t you frozen? If you’re a vampire now—“

“I don’t know,” Christopher said. “I don’t— I don’t know much of anything, anymore.” He stopped, forcing a smile onto his face. “But, hey, at least we got the fire messages issue solved, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Have a good night, Grace. Or, er, a good morning.”

“You should come back tonight,” said Grace. “So that we can finish the fire-messages, I mean.”

Christopher smiled. “I’ll see you then.”

—

Taglist: @ohcoolnice @my-archerboy @livingformyself @the-enchanted-dreamer @nezhcs @sapphic-in @thomaslightwood @vashs-posts @obsessedwithbooksandmusic @thrxughthenxght

(Please reach out to me to be added or removed!)

#gracetopher week #Christopher lightwood lives #kind of #christopher lightwood #grace blackthorn #grace cartwright #gracetopher #the last hours #chain of thorns #chain of iron #chain of gold #Bella’s fics

[mirandyficlists]

Any heavy angst story with sad ending? Better if it's slow burn too but one-shot/short story is fine, TIA ^^

Hey Nonnie

Well there is an Angst list here...

Angst and more angst – only some with happy endings.

$talks by chamilt6  http://chamilt6.livejournal.com/7850.html

4 Ficlets  by Surena13  http://surena-13.livejournal.com/20111.html#cutid1

5 Nights by Takeitback  http://dvlwears-prada.livejournal.com/1015788.html#cutid1

A Mean Sleep  by PoliticX  https://archiveofourown.org/works/12445407/chapters/28321845

A Short Flip Book  by ElasticElla  http://archiveofourown.org/works/3740617

Adapting  by NeoVenus22  http://archiveofourown.org/works/31622

All Sides  by giantessmess  journal purged but I have the fic.

Andrea On Her Mind, Always by LadyWithaQuill https://archiveofourown.org/works/28874823

Aut Viam Inveniam Aut Faciam  by Marry Griggs https://archiveofourown.org/works/463838

Battlefield  by Ubiquitousmixie  https://archiveofourown.org/works/327013

Beg Me  by Emeraldorchids  https://archiveofourown.org/works/8490628

For Bitter For Worse by Surena_13 http://archiveofourown.org/works/320321

Love Potion by Telanu  http://archiveofourown.org/works/750416

Sabotage  by ubiquitousmixie  https://archiveofourown.org/works/320595

Sunlight on the Garden  by Fewthistle  https://archiveofourown.org/works/903837

The Entirely Beautiful  by Needled_Ink  http://archiveofourown.org/works/97121

Also of course Character Death fics are also sad and heartwrenching...

Major character Death Mirandy Fics

A Perfect Ending by pure_ecstasy6  http://pure-ecstasy6.livejournal.com/13423.html

A Reflection of Who I am  by writetherest   http://archiveofourown.org/works/923141

And She Waited by Smartyshortiehttp://smartyshortie.livejournal.com/78550.html#cutid1

Almost Sorry by ll_alleycat  http://ll-alleycat.livejournal.com/5031.html#cutid1

Always by Ashaleia http://dvlwears-prada.livejournal.com/520605.html#cutid1

Au Revoir by lolwrwg  https://m.fanfiction.net/s/8113606/1/Au-Revoir

Bang Bang by jah728https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11410586/1/Bang-Bang

Beauty Through the Broken Glass by xhecticbankaix  https://www.fanfiction.net/s/4575999/1/Beauty-Through-The-Broken-Glass-Their-Broken-Past

Darkest of Days by quiethearted  https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13146308/1/Darkest-of-Days

Death by MirandaMeryl  http://mirandameryl.livejournal.com/16775.html

Everyone’s Waiting by mlgummer https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11131956/1/Everyone-s-Waiting

Fashion Icon Dead by Caroline the Poethttps://www.fanfiction.net/s/11897159/1/Fashion-Icon-Dead

If I’m Honest by A Fey https://archiveofourown.org/works/12450987

Indescribable Happiness by styx63  http://styx63.livejournal.com/1021.html#cutid1

Just Give Me a Reason by mlgummerhttps://m.fanfiction.net/s/11184153/1/Just-Give-Me-A-Reason

La Petite Morte by Lupitoniumhttp://dvlwears-prada.livejournal.com/10724.html#cutid1

Life Without Her by magicmumu  https://archiveofourown.org/works/40918419

Loss by Melanacious https://melanacious.livejournal.com/20097.html

Lucifer by Surena13 http://surena-13.livejournal.com/12849.html

Mondays by bandwidthlimit  https://archiveofourown.org/works/26899810

She Never Left by smartieshorty  http://smartyshortie.livejournal.com/75826.html#cutid1

Strong is Your Hold by AWomannotagirl  https://archiveofourown.org/works/8105422

The Box by mlgummerhttps://www.fanfiction.net/s/11003787/1/The-Box

The Fall and the Landing by Brithna https://archiveofourown.org/works/481161

The Parting Glass by Telanu http://archiveofourown.org/works/779835

There are Dreams That Cannot Be  https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8692075/1/There-are-Dreams-that-Cannot-Be

Till Death Parts us by ladyorleans http://lady-orlean.livejournal.com/3724.html

Till the Far Dawn of Victory  by Winter156  https://archiveofourown.org/works/12114129

Valium by Crazybecat https://archiveofourown.org/works/2316845

Wintersong by Emeraldorchids https://archiveofourown.org/works/9083047

[storiesbyrhi]

Angel of the First Degree - Chapter 1: Valium

Eddie Munson x Chubby & Inexperienced!Reader 2359 words

Warnings: Anxiety/panic attack; misuse of prescription medication; fatphobia including internalised; cigarettess; bullying; body issues; no beta; warnings updated each chapter

Synopsis: When Eddie Munson finds you in the midst of a panic attack, it is the beginning of something. A fic featuring body and sex positivity, Eddie in a dress, soft small moments, scary big truths, and all the usual special feelings you'd expect from one of my stories.

Chapter 1: Valium

Eddie rounded the corner, hands in his pocket already pulling out his pack of cigarettes. He’d moved too swiftly, unable to stop and slink backwards without being seen.

“Sorry,” he said, hands up defensively. “Didn’t know it was, ah, occupied. I’ll-” Eddie was about to say ‘go,’ when he saw the look on your face.

Your skin was blotchy, tears streaming down your cheeks. Bloodshot eyes, mouth open, gasping for air. He knew a panic attack when he saw one, even if he didn’t know they were a thing with a name.

“Are you okay?” Eddie asked.

You said nothing as you stared at him like an animal caught in the headlights. He thought you might speak, but it was clear you were chasing your breath.

“You… need to breathe. Keep going like that and you’re gonna pass out. And, you know, I’ve got a bit of a reputation already. Don’t want to add ‘seen with unconscious girl behind the woodwork shed’ to it,” he joked.

Nothing. No reaction from you. It was like he wasn’t even there. Eddie was almost going to give up, but there was a memory of you in his mind. Vivid. Formative. So, instead of leaving you he said your name once, firmly, loudly. It made you jump a little, startled.

“Come on. Sit,” Eddie said, moving to sit at your feet, cross legged on the shitty high school grass.

Complying, you sat, legs folded under you on an angle in front of Eddie.

He looked you dead in the eyes and said, “In through the nose, out through the mouth.” He demonstrated. You tried to copy it, but it took a couple of tries. Slowly though, it worked.

“There she is,” Eddie said, his voice back to being soft. “You’re okay.”

Eddie watched you avoid eye contact, pulling a drink bottle from your bag and gulp down water. It was quiet, the distant sounds of power towels and teenage laughter providing the only relief for any awkwardness. To kill time, wait for you, he got out the cigarette he had come to that hidden away spot for in the first place. He leaned back, the heel of his hands digging into the ground behind him for support.

“Thank you,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

“No problem… So, ah, what class is so awful that someone like you is skipping?”

Sniffling, you replied, “I’ve got a free period,”

“Ah. Of course…” Eddie took another drag of his cigarette. “Do… you wanna talk about it?”

God, when was the last time you had just… talked about it? Talked about anything? Months. Months and months. But what were you going to do? Spill your guts out to Eddie Munson?

“I’m okay,” you replied.

“You sure? I am an excellent listener.”

You looked at him, saw how casual and honest he was. He maintained eye contact while he lifted his face to exhale smoke up and away from you.

“I have to give a speech next period. In History,” you told him.

Eddie was confused. “I don’t know if you remember, but we were in the same English class last year,” he recalled.

“Yeah, I took a Senior class,” you replied.

“Yeah. Even though you were the only Junior in the class, you never got nervous. Always seemed real confident to me.”

He was right. The school counsellor had told you picking up an extra Senior class would look great on college applications, so you chose English. Eddie was repeating his Senior year for the first time then and spent the whole time sitting in the back corner not participating. Unlike you. You would speak first in class discussions. Joke with the other students, your friends. Eddie remembered, you were eloquent and sure.

“Yeah, well, that was before,” you mumbled.

“Before what?” Eddie asked.

Was he fucking joking?

“Seriously?”

Eddie shrugged, made a face that clearly meant he had no idea what you were referring to.

“You don’t… know?” you asked.

“I’m not exactly part of the Hawkins High popular crowd phone tree,” he joked.

“Yeah, well, neither am I anymore.” You didn’t say it with venom, but with sadness. Eddie saw the pain in your face. You pulled at blades of grass before braving eye contact again. “You really don’t know anything?”

“I mean… I don’t see you in the cafeteria with the rest of the pom pom party, but I figured, you know, Senior year. Smart girl. Probably spends her time studying.”

He really didn’t know about the… About any of it.

However, at some point, he noticed your absence during lunch.

“I’m… not friends with them anymore,” you told him, leaving it at that, a little thrown that you were telling him anything at all.

“Oh… Well, good riddance? Right?” The joke slipped out and he was sitting up straight, stubbing his smoke out into the grass. “Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean- I’m sure they’re-” He couldn’t think of a lie. He was sure they were all assholes.

“It’s okay,” you said with a weak smile. “But, yeah, I’m not on… Good terms with them,”

“And now you gotta give a talk in front of them, kind of thing?” Eddie guessed.

You nodded, thinking about it. The tightness returned to your chest and you were aware of how dry your mouth was again.

“No, no, no, you’re fine. You’re gonna do fine,” Eddie told you, reaching out and taking a hand. “Don’t freak out on me again.” He might have been able to coach you out of panic, but as soon as you stepped foot in that History class you were going to lose it. He knew it. You knew it. “Alright, fuck. Here,” he said, pulling a tiny plastic bag from his pocket. “You on anything?”

“What?”

Eddie smiled at the way you were innocently watching him. “Like, medications. Anything?” You shook your head. “Alright, well, I’m giving you half of one of these bad boys. It will just… take the edge off. Like, barely. Just enough.”

You watched him snap a small pill in half using a loose coin he found in his pocket. He held it out to you and nodded.

“What is it?” you asked, looking at it sitting in the palm of your hand.

“Just valium. Half the school is on ‘em. I promise it’s safe.”

There were reasons to not trust Eddie Munson, drug dealer, in that moment. Maybe he was just trying to get you hooked on his drugs so he could make lots of money off you. That’s what drug dealers did, right? Or maybe he was like all the other boys, only thinking of one thing.

There were reasons to trust him, though. His kindness, for one. It was a warm feeling you weren’t used to anymore. Secondly, you had very little to lose.

You swallowed the cut valium with the last of the water in your bottle.

“Thank you,”

“Again – no problem,” he replied. “You should probably just sit here for another five minutes. Make sure you don’t have a reaction or anything,”

“Does that happen?” you asked, the pitch in your voice indicating worry.

“No. No. I just… Ya know. Looking for an excuse to keep talking to you,” Eddie said, his delivery perfect. Flirty. Kind. A little bit of danger.

His smile stretched ear to ear and his teeth were whiter than you would have expected for someone who did… drugs. Do drug dealers do drugs all the time?

You blushed, looked down and busied yourself with looking for your compact mirror.

“What class are you skipping?” you asked him, suddenly aware you had no idea what he was doing out there, besides having a smoke.

“Ah, that would be English. Same class, third year in a row,” Eddie told you, exaggerating a wince. He caught the micro expression flash across your face. “I know, I know. Going for a fourth at this rate. It’s just… I didn’t do the homework, so…”

“What’s the homework? Of Mice and Men still?”

“Yep. I could recite that book front to back…. ‘What the hell do you suppose is eatin’ them guys,’” Eddie quoted. 

“Why haven’t you done the work then?” you asked. Eddie shrugged. “Is it an essay? What’s the question?”

Eddie was just happy to have gotten you talking, distracted from your own perceived impending doom.

“Uhhh… It’s like… Discuss the ways… the book is… similar to a play? And… does that make the book better or worse?” he recalled, doing a pretty good job at remembering the essay question. To be fair to Eddie, he had planned on doing it. He really wasn’t trying to fail again. But Wayne had to cover an extra shift, so Eddie had to do the laundry and grocery shopping. He would have time to do it all too, but he was shitty at time management.

You laughed. “That’s the same question from last year. It’s about how each section starts with these long, descriptive paragraphs. They set the scene the same way it would in a script for a play,” you told him as you fished out a notepad and pen from your bag.

“What are you doing?” Eddie asked.

“I can’t get you an A, not without the book and more time, but I can probably get you a pass?”

Eddie was stunned for a second, watched you begin to madly scribble out sentences, trying to use your thick thighs as a table, your legs still folded under you.

“Why?”

“As a thank you,” you said. “Now shush. Let me do this,”

“Well fuck, alright. Here, let me be useful, at least,” Eddie said, laying down on the grass. He took the notepad and put it on his chest, gestured for you to continue, then put his arms behind his head.

“You have to close your eyes if you’re gonna lay like that,” you told him, leaning down and letting his ribcage keep the notepad mostly steady.

“Like what?” Eddie asked, looking up at you. He didn’t like the frown you shot him, so he did what he was told and closed his eyes.

Relieved that he didn’t press the subject, you could focus on the homework without feeling the heat of embarrassment. You were sure that you looked horrible from his angle. Fat.

There were ten short minutes left until the next period when you finished. “Done!”

Eddie’s eyes opened and he sat up. “She’s gonna know I didn’t write this,” he said, flicking through the pages.

“It’s not against school rules to have someone else scribe your work,” you said.

“Look at you. Loopholes, huh? How do you know that one?” Eddie asked. When you hesitated, he smirked. “You’ve done this before,”

“Yeah,”

“You really are different. To how you were last year, I mean,”

“Is that… good?” you ventured.

“Yeah. I think so. You don’t?”

Jesus. That was a can of worms you did not want to open. You shrugged and went back to looking for your compact mirror. When you found it and saw your reflection you almost gasped.

“I look like a raccoon!” you squealed involuntary, furiously rubbing under your eyes trying to shift the mascara.

“A cute raccoon,” Eddie clarified. You shot him an angry look that he just chuckled at. “Here, lemme,” he said, pulling the bandana that hung from his back pocket out and picking up your water bottle. Empty. “Spit,”

“What?”

“No water. Spit. Unless you want my spit on your face?”

You hesitated, realising you didn’t know how to just… spit. The next best thing was taking the bandana and sucking on the tip of it, handing it back to Eddie despite knowing what it was for. You could have done it yourself, but he had said to let him, and there was something in that tone that made you want to comply again.

Eddie held your chin with one hand and wiped at your messy makeup with the other.

“There. Pretty as a picture,” he told you, letting go.

Checking his work in your mirror, you nodded. “Thank you. Again,”

“Think I might need to thank you for that one. Come on,” he said, standing up and offering you a hand. “You better get a head start.”

You brushed the grass off your knees and picked up your bag, slinging it onto your back. “What do you mean?”

“Can’t go out there together. You, seen with me, behind the shed? Social suicide,” Eddie said not sad but neutrally, which was way worse.

You’d already survived social suicide. Something Eddie had no idea about. When he found out what had happened, you were sure he would be disgusted by you too. He’d feel like the people who used to be your friends did. It would be the only thing Eddie Munson, the basketball team, and the cheer squad had in common, but it would unite them in their shared revulsion.

Until then, you could pretend.

“So, you won’t walk me to class?” you asked looking up at him.

That goddamn smile was solar power. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” you confirmed.

Eddie nodded once and began to walk with you in the direction of the main buildings. The bell rang as you approached, and soon enough you were surrounded by students. Most of them had their own shit going on and paid no mind to you or Eddie. Some of them were interested in your fall from grace.

The walk was void of conversation, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. At the door of your classroom, Eddie spoke. “Feeling okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I think the valium worked,"

“Good. That’s good… Well… knock ‘em dead, kid,” Eddie said, punching you in the shoulder so gently you hardly felt it.

“Thank you, for everything. I…”

“S’okay. Just… Remember. You’ve only got a year left here. Then you’re okay. Whatever else is going on, it doesn’t matter,” Eddie said, his gaze falling on your classmates as they approached. You nodded. “See ya around.” All you could do was nod, because how you felt as he stepped away from you was beyond your capacity for words in the moment.

CHAPTER 2

End Note: Future chapters will likely be longer; the overall word count is at 12,000 and I am nowhere near done. Let me know your early thoughts and feelings!

Find me on AO3 here. Want an Eddie Munson zine? Check it on on my Insta.

Eddie Taglist (Open): @solomons-finest-rum @ruinedbythehobbit

#Mine #Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson Fanfic #Eddie Munson x Reader #Eddie Munson x You #Eddie Munson/Reader #Eddie Munson/You #Stranger Things

[thefearandwonder]

Psychopunk: Only Cancer is Immortal

Chapter 8 Excerpt:

Trip offered her a thin smile. “You wouldn’t be the first person to mistrust PRISMA – some people in Syndicate even think the whole corporation’s central leadership is an elaborate deepfake meant to cover up a fairy cabal.”

“A what the fuck?”

“Fairies are spirits that live in computers. Most of the ones that live alongside us in Syndicate are helpful spirits, but some can be mischievous. My mother was a gijutsu-miko, she used to do exorcisms for people who got malicious fairies in their heads.”

Trip remembered his mother especially by the simple circle tattoos on her hands, the inked lines on her finger bones and chin, and the way her flowing sleeves would flicker the candles in a given room. The thought made his heart ache. He had not considered her for years.

“I remember,” he said, feeling far away from that dingy bus ride. “I remember one time when she had to connect her mind to a fisherman’s. He was an old man with legacy tech from the twenty-odds, and it was blackwalled, too – nothing going in or out, so his onboard fairies had turned strange. He’d take the jellyfish from his catch and just… throw them at schoolchildren while shouting in a language no one understood. Only happened once or twice in town, but it was enough to get the gijutsu-miko involved. She had to stay connected with him for a full day, and the only way she got him to comply was by drugging his bukubuku tea with valium. Eventually she got the fairy to stop believing in its own existence, but that took the old man’s oldest friend out of his head; he no longer hallucinated the fairy in his episodes and felt empty. A few weeks later he tied a tire to his neck and threw himself off of his boat into the harbor. My mother said she’d never use the ‘solipsistic hallucination’ ever again on a fairy.”

Mote’s eyes were wide and her face was as flat as it was mute. “… um, what?”

“Sorry. Uh… Gijutsu-miko are important in Syndicate. They go by many names, depending on the culture. Broadly, they’re just called psychopunks.”

“No offense to your culture or anything,” said Mote. “But the more you talk about it the more ratdick insane you sound.”

#cyberpunk art #novel #blair nishkian #post cyberpunk #ryukyu

[epichnopterix]

ap novel posting now: one thing I have noticed so far is that in one of the gym chapters he suddenly notes that the guy waiting behind him is an (f slur) who is "probably" checking him out which furthers his characterisation of believing/assuming he's so attractive people MUST be in love with him (jean, who is in love with me, gym secretary, who is in love with me, etc, with no evidence for this necessarily). but like also. he has mentioned like 2-3 times now that he's AWARE that Luis is clearly blushing in his presence and yet I don't think he's ever called him that? but to be fair 1 of those times he mentions he literally wouldn't put up with him talking to him if he hadn't just taken valium so. I can only assume maybe he tolerates him to a point (I have not gotten to the novel version of the bathroom scene (i'm assuming that's also in the novel and not just the film))

another thing is that, and I'm not sure if this was intentional or not, there's a scene where Bateman describes himself as wearing 1 kind of tie, then less than 2 sentences later describes it as a completely different kind of tie. not sure if that was a "keeping up with all of these brands is difficult even for him and it's all about buying expensive" or if the writer legit just forgot lol.

^ in a similar vein something like this happens with a scene where it gets really confusing who's talking because I swear another name is thrown in without warning but that too could be not-a-mistake and instead playing on the fact that these guys constantly mistake each other for another (with the people who care for him somewhat always calling him Patrick)

[dinaive]

What is Al-Jathum?

Al-Jathum is the kabus (incubus, evil spirit, nightmare) that descends upon a person in his sleep. 

Ibn al-Manzur said: 

“Al-Jatham or al-Jathum is the kabus that descends upon a person at night… the one that descends upon a person when he is sleeping is called al-jathum.” (Lisan al-‘Arab, 12/83) 

He also said: 

“The kabus is the one that descends upon the sleeper at night. And it was said that it is the precursor to epilepsy. One of the linguists said: I do not think that it is an Arabic word; rather it is al-naydalan; it is also known as al-baruk or al-jathum.” (Lisan al-‘Arab, 6/190) 

Reasons of Al-Jathum

The “jathum” may be caused by a physical reason, such as eating too much or taking too much medicine, or it may be due to being overpowered by the jinn. The former may be treated by cupping and reducing the intake of food etc. The latter may be treated by means of the Quran and reciting dhikrs that are prescribed in Islam. 

Ibn Sina said in his medical book al-Qanun: 

Chapter on al-kabus: 

“It is also called al-khaniq (the strangler), and in Arabic it is also called al-jathum and al-naydalan. 

Al-kabus is a disease that a person feels when he is falling asleep and imagines something heavy pressing upon him, squeezing him and constricting his breathing, hence he cannot speak or move, and he is almost suffocated because of the obstruction of his airway. When it goes away, he wakes up immediately. This is the precursor to one of three things: epilepsy, apoplexy or mania. That applies if it is due to physical causes and there is no other non-physical cause.” 

Modern doctors say the same. Dr. Hassan Shamsi Basha has divided kabus into two categories: temporary kabus and recurrent kabus; he regards the former as being due to physical causes and the latter as being due to the effect of the jinn. 

He says in his book al-Nawm wa’l-Araq wa’l-Ahlam (sleep, insomnia and dreams): 

1) Temporary kabus:

This happens for two reasons:

A- Vapours that rise to the brain through the breathing channels when first falling asleep, so the person afflicted feels that he cannot move or speak, or he feels a kind of panic. This is the precursor of a physical epileptic seizure, and it also happens when one is exposed to psychological pressures.

B- Administration of medicines that can cause kabus such as:

(i) Arazrabine

(ii) Beta blockers

(iii) Lifod B

(iv) Antidepressants

(v) After stopping the use of tranquilisers such as valium.

2) Recurrent kabus. This kind of kabus indicates that a person has been harmed by evil spirits. End quote.

Conclusion  

Jathum refers to kabus, which is not a myth or fable, rather it is something real that does happen; it may be caused by physical factors or it may be caused by the jinn. 

For more, please see these answers: 2355 , 145543 , 104215 and 160880

And Allah knows best.