#just put it out of its misery instead so we can start the clock on a reboot by competent storytellers

[rappaccini]

debating how much i want to Acknowledge It at all, but for now, in brief, i wish season 3 a very swallowed-whole-by-stranger-things, and the show the speedy cancellation it's been long overdue for.

... i don't generally like to gloat, but i'll make an exception: told you.

#tuatv #somehow s3 was worse than even my lowest expectations. like an even worse fanfic come to life. #i think it comes down to ‘s2 was bad but the show could’ve been saved if s3 brought it.’ and… yeah. it’s over. no redeeming it now #just put it out of its misery instead so we can start the clock on a reboot by competent storytellers

[jamespotterthefirst]

For A Long Time Now (Ethan x MC)

Book: Open Heart, Book 3

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Lilac Allende)

Words: 2K

Warning: Implied adult situations

Premise: He can finally tell her the three words he meant to say for a long time.

Author’s Note: The non-premium Ethan love confession is supreme and nothing will convince me otherwise. This is named after it. 

I.

The bright beams of moonlight illuminated the small, charming bedroom when Ethan awoke. One glance at the digital clock on her bedside informed him it was almost two in the morning. With a sigh that sounded louder in the still darkness, he sank back into her pillows, his heart beating a content, steady beat at the prospect of having just a few more hours by her side. 

A few hours, though a miserable consolation, were welcomed if it meant having her in his arms, peaceful and beautiful. Ethan glanced down at her, unable to avoid feeling awestruck. Her steady breath ebbed and flowed gently, caressing his skin as she slept against his chest, her ear pressed against the heart that beat for her. A few hours were a small but welcomed triumph.

Soon, dawn would break across the sky, announcing the beginning of a new day and bringing them closer to their inevitable end. 

It was as though his misery was a force so strong, it pressed into her because at that moment, she stirred 

“Mmmm.” She let out a small hum of protest twisting and tangling her limbs further in the sheets. When she opened her eyes, she blinked slowly at first then rapidly, pushing away sleep.

“Hi,” she greeted, her fogged expression melting into a tired but breathtaking smile.

“Hey,” he returned with a small smirk. 

Lilac bit her bottom lip against a second smile, this one playful and coquettish. And just like that, they were drawn to one another again, plucking kisses with hot, languid strokes of their mouths. Their movements became slow, lazy, as though they had all the time in the world. 

His heart ached when he realized how untrue that was.

Lilac, lips bruised from his kiss, beamed at him when they broke apart. 

“Why are you awake this early? Don't tell me you actually get up at two in the morning to start your day.”

“Three thirty, actually.”

Lilac made a sound of faux disgust that made him laugh. “If you made me get up that early daily, I'd murder you.”

His stomach gave an involuntary swoop at the implication. She meant if they spent many nights together, not just one night before their return to attending and intern. If they woke up next to each other every morning, stealing kisses as they prepared for their day. If they had more than just mere hours left to be together. 

Lilac seemed to catch the meaning of her words because she blushed. She opened her mouth, mortified, perhaps to dissuade the tension in the quiet bedroom with characteristic rambling. Ethan summoned a crooked smirk before she could get the words out. 

“Not even if I woke you up to do this?” 

In one graceful stroke of movement he had her on top of him, straddling his waist. His lips trailed slow, delicate kisses along her throat, inspiring the most delicious of moans. By the time he reached her jaw, she was breathless. 

“Ethan,” she whimpered, begging him for more. 

He was happy to oblige, fulfilling every one of her panting pleas until, with mingled cries and moans, they collapsed against the heap of pillows. 

“You can absolutely wake me up like that in a few hours.” She snuggled against his chest as she said this, this time listening aptly to his frenzied pulse. 

Ethan chuckled, pulling her close. 

They remained silent for a moment, contently listening to the distant lull of the city. As his breath slowly returned to normal, his eyes scanned the space of her bedroom, taking in every detail he could commit to memory. 

There were many pictures of whom Ethan assumed were her family—lively, kind-faced people, some who shared her same nose, others her smile, few her eyes. Then, in the many frames cluttering the desk, were the familiar faces of her friends, laughing and smiling in just as familiar places: Donahue's, the coast, even Edenbrook. For a wistful moment, he allowed himself to imagine a photo of the two of them framed and placed at her bedside. Lilac would be kissing his cheek and Ethan would fail to fight back a smile, no doubt looking the happiest he'd ever look in his life. 

For a moment he imagined they were just Ethan and Lilac, not Dr. Ramsey and Dr. Allende. 

A swirl of dark clouds slowly floated away, leaving the moon unobstructed. 

In the full light of the moon, he realized they could be both. Ethan wasn't her direct supervisor. If he pulled some strings and asked another attending to be her supervisor, perhaps they could… 

Lilac shifted slightly and hummed meekly, tilting her face up to him. “What are you thinking about?” 

Her voice was thick with exhaustion, both from her trial earlier and from the celebration after. 

Her lids appeared heavy with sleep, already halfway closed. Ethan almost chuckled at the sight, brushing a lock of hair away from her face. 

“You.”

Lilac smiled despite the veil of sleep starting to overwhelm her, savoring the single word. With another small sigh, she snuggled against his chest, her hand sliding up to rest by his collarbone. 

God, he loved it when she did that.

Ethan paused. 

Love. 

A foolish concept he once scoffed at or tried to explain away with scientific facts. Yet, he loved many things about her, he knew that as extensively as he knew medicine.

Ethan swallowed, fingers absently playing with her silky hair.

He loved her.

There was no point in denying what he had known for weeks, what he had felt since perhaps the moment she held his hand on the loveseat of the NICU. As he held her then, Ethan doubted that was an accurate estimate of when his feelings started. He was already in the middle by the time he was forced to accept the undeniable fact that he was in love with Lilac Allende. 

I love you. 

Thinking the words felt like an echo. Merely replaying them in his mind was no longer enough. Simply thinking them felt like a travesty, a complete lack of respect for the beautiful, brilliant woman in his arms. He had to say them, professionalism and propriety be damned. 

He could figure the rest out later. 

She had to know. 

“Lilac?” 

“Hmm?” 

The sound was soft, distant. When he glanced down, she was asleep, breathing peacefully against his chest. With a sad but resigned smile, he pulled her close and kissed her forehead instead. 

-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -

II.

June and Baz filed out without a backward glance. Lilac, however, lingered behind as was her custom. Of that much, Ethan was certain before he even turned around to face her. His eyes locked with a pair of curious green ones and his stomach dove, an involuntary reaction to her.

“Can I help you with something, Dr. Allende?” 

She arched an eyebrow at him. “So formal,” she commented as she stepped into his embrace. “That's not what you called me last night.”

The false innocence she injected into that little whisper drove him insane. His fingers clenched her hips, wishing for nothing more than to fold her over his desk. Instead, he smirked down at her. 

“I don't believe I called you anything last night.”

“Mmm, you didn't. You were too distracted making out with me. I doubt you could string two words together.”

Lilac kissed him again, this time taking great care to push her body against his. Ethan groaned into her mouth, convinced this type of torture was worse than any other. They had only shared hungry kisses on several occasions, but Ethan never allowed it to proceed any further, even if his body protested that decision often. 

He didn't think he could bear the pain of separation when she inevitably moved on next year. 

“Maybe I’ll let you call me that in bed,” she murmured.

Ethan groaned again. 

Luckily for him, her pager interrupted their moment and Ethan was spared from making a fool of himself by trying to stammer out a reply. Lilac glanced down and sighed wistfully.

“I have to go,” she lamented, making little effort to move away. “They’re going to have the results for the Senator’s lead testing soon.” 

Ethan barely heard her, too busy memorizing the curve of her lips, the cluster of freckles on her nose, the exact shade of forest green with flickers of gold from her eyes. 

“Are we still doing dinner at your place tonight?” she asked, completely unaware of his lovestruck admiration. “You owe me that Gregorian stuffed chicken from last time.”

Overwhelmed, Ethan merely nodded.

With one last smile, she craned her neck to kiss him goodbye, her hand lingering on his jaw when they broke apart. 

Ethan watched her approach the door, a sense of urgency gripping him. After everything they had been through that year, his heart beat just as relentlessly for her. That much was clear from their recent slip in conviction. If Ethan was being honest, his heart had never faltered once, not even when he tried to put distance between them by escaping to Brazil. 

Every kiss since the one they shared outside his apartment was proof of one irrevocable truth. 

He never stopped loving her.

He doubted he ever would. 

“Lilac?”

“Hmm?” 

She halted right as she reached the door, looking over her shoulder curiously. 

I love you. 

Ethan opened his mouth, throat straining against a sudden knot. Before the words formed, that constant, miserable thought pushed its way to the forefront of his mind.

She might leave at the end of her residency. She deserves the entire world at her feet and you could never tie her down. 

“Ethan?”

“See you tonight.”

-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -

III.

The real celebration occurred at Lahela's apartment later that evening. At least, that's what the surgeon deemed in a loud and almost incomprehensible cheer when they arrived. When his eyes landed on Ethan by Lilac’s side, however, a small moment of surprise pierced the silence, before he cheered louder than ever, proclaiming, “The Chief is here. Now, it's a real party!” 

Ethan had to admit that this cohort of young doctors knew how to celebrate in style. It didn’t take long before they broke into the impressive selection of drinks at the kitchen counter. The only regrettable aspect of the whole affair was the music. 

“Don Julio 1942, bitches,” Lahela proclaimed, brandishing two sleek bottles of tequila. He seemed to remember Ethan was in the room for he grimaced briefly. “Sorry, Dr. R!”

“The only thing you have to apologize for, Lahela, is taking so long to serve us our shots,” Ethan returned without missing a beat. 

“Amen to that,” Lilac responded enthusiastically from his side. 

After many rounds of high quality shots, their group grew in numbers as other hospital staff arrived and crammed the small apartment. Though no one excluded Ethan from their small cliques—quite the opposite, everyone was too eager to talk to the new Chief—he was happier observing from the sidelines. 

No, he was happier observing her, laughing and celebrating with her friends, from afar. It was like being a spectator to the most beautiful and moving art piece he had ever seen. She deserved all the revelry and acclaim pouring over her that night. This was an exciting chapter in her life that she had fought hard to earn. Ethan did not believe the sun itself could contain the pride blooming in his chest. 

After a couple hours, the late evening found Ethan at the terrace of Lahela’s apartment, a blanket of the deepest purple overhead. 

“Too important to hang out with us plebeians now that you’re Chief of Medicine?”

It was Lilac, standing at the sliding door, cheeks flushed and smile radiant in the moonlight. 

“That has literally never been true about any administrator,” he returned, though smiling just as brightly. He couldn’t contain the elation now that the floodgates had opened. 

Their bodies found each other, as they always would, joining in an embrace. Ethan kissed her forehead, the movement something close to second nature. “I’d argue your new job is more worthy of such praise,” he murmured. With a small nod toward the party, he added, “And theirs.”

Lilac pulled her chin back to survey him with pride. “Spoken like a true leader.”

A rumble of collective groans and cheers erupted from inside the apartment as a new song blurred through the speakers. 

“Bryce is on an eighties-only lockdown,” she explained with a laugh. “He does that when he’s had too much to drink.”

Ethan scrunched up his nose. “Then we got out just in time.” 

Lilac laughed, the sound a comfort to Ethan. They stood there in each other’s embrace, overlooking the twinkling lights of the city, reminiscent of another time long ago on a different balcony. Even then, his heart beat fiercely, desperately for her. Back then, he fought so courageously (and foolishly) against the three words that seemed the only truth in the universe. 

He didn’t have to deny himself of happiness anymore.

At long last, he didn’t have to fight them anymore.

“Lilac?”

“Hmm?”

She glanced up at him.

“I love you.”

 Her smile rivaled the stars above their heads.

“I love you, Ethan,” she replied without hesitation. 

He didn’t dare believe he could ever be happier. Then she kissed him, pouring her feelings into every movement of her lips, and he realized his happiness was boundless by her side. When they pulled apart, breathless and grinning like teenagers, Ethan let out a low chuckle.

“It’s an outrage to tell you that with Starship playing in the background.”

Lilac laughed, her eyes sparkling with unshed, happy tears. “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now is a fitting song if you think about it.”

Ethan made an exaggerated face of disgust that he was sure would make her laugh. Pure satisfaction coursed through him when it did.

 “Luckily for you, you can tell anytime you want now,” she told him.  

He kissed her again, spurred on by uncontained elation. 

“You can rest assured I will.”

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

Author’s Note: I am not okay after that confession. I had to write something. Part I takes place right after her trial in book 1; Part II is right before her attack in book 2; Part III after that confession kljdlkfk

A few notes:

I still plan to write for Lilac and Ethan as time and creativity allows. If anyone still wishes to read them, then they’ll be here for you <3. If anyone still wants OPH content, you can count on me for that. I don’t plan on letting go of this story for a while. 

I’m going on a trip to the East Coast next week, including Boston (eeeek). I will leave a queue of random stuff but also two fics. One will be Chapter 1 of my OHTY Rewrite. The second will be a short ficlet I wrote a while ago

I am currently working on the next chapter of both Pictagram series. Hopefully I can post those when I come back!

Whether you leave the fandom or stick around (or something in between), I want to sincerely thank everyone who has supported this crazy journey of mine for the past year. Writing has always been my passion, but I stopped doing it for years before Open Heart. It was this book, these characters, and YOU who motivated me to write my little heart out. You guys gave me my happiness back and for that I am extremely grateful.  

I love you guys! 

*Tagging in a reblog*

#Open Heart #Ethan Ramsey #Ethan x MC #playchoices #Open heart: third year #OHTY

[barzzal]

close to you

summary: there’s nothing more excruciating than to lose someone you’ve never imagined losing. but what happens when they’ve already left right before you can even acknowledge them leaving? mathew is yet to find out.

↳ pairing: mathew barzal x you

↳ warnings: falling out and break ups 

↳ genre: angst.

↳ length: imagine; 1.3k

↳ masterlist: the barn

↳ track: close to you by rihanna (listen to this it’s all that there is really)

note: unsolicited barzy angst fic because i was sad and listening to rihanna, (plus you guys know how much i love angst) this is totally unplanned and written in the past hour so im sorry if there’s sum typos bc i didn’t proofread this :<< hope u still like!! feedbacks are very much appreciated! <3

You were slipping away and he knew it. 

Mathew’s mind was running wild. His thoughts were coming in one after another and no matter how hard he tried to shut it out of his head — there it was again. 

The cyclical pattern of his seemingly endless misery. 

The thought of losing you. 

Days with you were spent either in total silence, eating lunch with the television on in the hopes of drowning out the numbing noise that was now in every corner of the home you have built with Mathew; or you know, the mandatory screaming match you indulge yourselves with even over the smallest of things.

Things only escalated the more you try to talk about it. Neither of you really knew how and when it started. And neither felt the need to say a word.

All that you and Mathew did was to watch your years crumble before your own eyes. Years that got shattered with each night spent in an ice cold bed, backs facing each other, not bothering to say a word.

“What happened to us?” his voice crisp and clear even when whispering.

You feel his gaze and you begin to resent yourself for staying up so late. You see him in the corner of your eye, patiently waiting — silently pleading that you’d look his way. 

You didn’t. 

Instead, you close the book you were reading and take your glasses off. You sigh just as you put it on the bedside table. Mat does nothing but watch you silently, all whilst ignoring his chest growing all the more heavy each time you push him away. 

You turn to him, still not meeting his eyes before you turn your night light off. You answer with a meek reply, “I’m tired, Mat.” 

“Y/N.” he calls you once but it seems like it’s been hundreds of times for him. He wanted nothing else but to reach out to you — to hold you. Maybe then he’d feel less insecure. Maybe then he’d feel less afraid of facing the fact that you’re slowly fading away farther off his reach. 

He knows you heard him but he doesn’t get a reply. And you know he’d be grateful to take on crumbs you’d be willing enough to spare. However, just like the other times he’s tried, your mind numbing quietude was all he had to hold onto. 

You try to drift away faster into sleep for you did not want to spend the night hearing him pick out on almost every meaningless thing you’ve done for the past couple of weeks. You were just tired. Insanely tired. And Mat had very little, perhaps almost nothing to do with it. You were lost.

“Do you still love me?” you hear a catch in his throat that instantly tugged strings in your chest. 

You fall silent, finding it hard to voice the words Mat had wanted to hear. 

Do you still love him?

You didn’t know. 

“Baby, please talk to me.” he pleads the longer he basks in your silence. Silence that Mat knew well enough to mean just one thing. 

“Please.”

Finally, as if it was the nearest he’s gotten to a win, he sees you shift, turning to face him. 

To say the least, you weren’t sure of how you feel towards Mathew. Being with him through all these years have been good, yes — but days weren’t always sunshine. It wasn’t always a calming afternoon walk holding each other’s hands, swaying it in the air, whilst you listen to birds chirping beautifully all year ‘round. Being with Mat came with its own sacrifices. Ones you cannot point out no matter how hard you tried and ones that just made him so hard to love. 

“I’m sorry.” you murmur. You avert his gaze, keeping your eyes low on the sheets you’ve once shared wrapped around your naked bodies in search of warmth in each other’s embrace. 

You never left Mat’s eyes because leaving you was the last thing he wanted to do. He hesitates to take a few strands that went astray to your face just so he could tuck it behind your ears like he always does. When you lean closer, nudging him to do just that, he feels a kindling fire in his chest. An all too familiar feeling he has deeply missed. 

His touch did not make you want to pull away nor did it burn you like it used to. A sad smile creeps up his lips once you finally take the leap and look in his eyes. 

“I know you are,” he says, clearing his throat. “And it’s okay. I understand.”

Mat wanted to. He truly does. He wanted to be selfish and just think about his own good. Letting you go wasn’t something he pictured doing because he knows that you know it has never crossed his mind. 

Mat wanted to do everything against what willed his heart. But he knew too that letting you keep him at bay just to spare his feelings would do more damage than it could fix and he just couldn’t afford having to lose you twice. He could barely walk through this conversation now. Therefore he’s certainly sure he wouldn’t be able to handle losing you more than once.

“I think I need to figure out some things on my own.” you tell him earnestly. A thing that you’ve wanted to let out ever since coming home to Mathew felt more work than it’s worth. 

“Are you gonna be gone for long?” he asks, voice thick and impending to break at any moment.

“I don’t know.” you answer with candor, an apologetic tone masking your words.

Nonetheless, no matter how much you did not want to spend the night breaking Mathew’s heart, he lets you rip one final bandage — exposing a long overdue wound that was without a doubt far from healing, “I won’t really know unless I try, right?”

“Okay.” he smiles, eyes softer than it ever was.

“I’ll be exactly where you left me.” 

The night grows deeper as the two of you sink in what seems to be the hardest falling-out you’ve yet to go through. A break up that would definitely stick around Mathew’s end for he has never loved someone as much as he loved you. Perhaps, even more to put himself in the most selfless position he would willingly let himself into. 

“What do we do now?” you ask, your voice low and on the brink of letting out a thick sob. 

Mat takes your hand and entwines it with his. He holds you tight. He lets his forehead rest on yours, breathing out the pain that’s successfully wrenched his heart in seconds. 

He pulls himself closer to you — pouring all he has left to give. Slowly, as he finally let himself pull away, he says, “We sleep.” 

No matter how much you wanted to say your piece, you just could not find the words that fit. And so, you do the sanest thing you could give him, leaning closer to every bit of his touch as if the clock had only started ticking. 

You see Mathew’s eyes glisten from the moonlight shining from across the room. If only you knew how bad you��re going to miss it. If only you’d appreciated it while you had the chance. If only you knew that the last thing Mat wanted was to see you right before he closed his eyes. 

“Good night, y/n.” he says, still holding your hand close to his chest.

God, if you had only known those eyes will be gone the moment you open yours, you would’ve held onto his hand a bit longer. Long enough before he emptied his closet the morning after. Long enough before he had the chance to wipe out every single trace he’s left your apartment. Perhaps even long enough for you to change your mind.

#mat barzal imagine #mat barzal fanfiction #mat barzal fic #mat barzal x reader #mat barzal angst #hockey imagine #nhl imagine #hockey fic #nhl fic #barzzal imagines #letters to barzy

[fanfic-scribbles]

Smile

Fandom: MCU Captain America/Avengers

Summary: Bucky gives you some reasons to smile.

Quick facts: Romance – Bucky Barnes/Reader – Female Reader

Warnings: Fluff, puns, cheesy jokes, so cheesy

Words: 3344

A/N: I’m going to admit it upfront, about 40 percent of the time spent on this fic was spent on writing it. The other 60 percent was spent on finding the jokes. Also, this story is semi-inspired by the fact that my face is not nearly as expressive as it feels (I basically look like the polite cat meme when I really try and I can’t do it for long before my face hurts too much) so this goes out to other people who get accused of resting bitch/asshole face. And get written up for it. Anyway, please enjoy this goofy little Bucky/Reader get together.

  ~

‘How do you make a tissue dance?’

‘Put a little boogie in it.’

Bucky snorts and coughs when he accidentally breathes coffee instead of air. ‘That’s disgusting,’ he texts back but Sam just replies with an obnoxious smiling face. Bucky shakes his head and goes back to his coffee. It’s actually not so terrible today.

He doesn’t hang out in a dive, but this coffee shop is a type of quiet he almost never sees in the city. It’s too far from the tourism path for convenience and just outside the neighborhood purview where there are many other local (better) favorites. It’s clean enough and decently sized, but it’s decorated like it was supposed to be trendy ten years ago and the place is barely staffed, to match its perpetually nigh-empty interior. There was a short-lived attempt at hiring another person, but after a ridiculous amount of turnover the owners, or whoever, apparently cut their losses and the only constants that remain are Bucky, the lone customer, you, the person actually working the counter, and your manager.

You’re nice. You always speak kindly to Bucky and, when you think you can sneak it, upsize his cup without comment or charge. Also, one time when his glove broke and slipped off, you hadn’t even commented on the arm; you’d even helped him stop panicking enough to see it hadn’t gone far and helped secure it temporarily with a rubber band.

Your manager, meanwhile, is a dick who glares at Bucky and once made a snide comment about him leaning too close to the register, and only talks to you in demanding barks. Like now– but the five minute “hushed” conversation is winding down and soon it will be safe for Bucky to go get his refill.

“I’m writing you up,” the manager says.

You jerk back in shock. “For not smiling enough?”

“It’s what we got marked down for, it’s what’s going on your record,” he says, turns on his heel, and retreats into the back to do jack shit. Bucky glares at his back as he goes. His harsh expression turns to a milder frown when he looks at you, hunched over and staring at the counter with a dead expression on your face.

He looks at his phone, looks at his empty coffee cup, and makes a quick decision.

“Can I get a refill?” he asks when he’s in front of you, startling you out of your stagnant misery. You look up at Bucky and after a second force an unnatural smile on your face. He winces on your behalf.

“Of course,” you say softly, and turn to refill the cup.

When you hand it back to him Bucky shuffles, hesitates, but finally asks, “Why are colds bad criminals?”

You blink. “Uh…why?”

“Because they’re easy to catch.”

You blink again, and then let out a startled laugh. Bucky smiles slightly at the sound, and smiles more at the more natural, smaller turn of your lips as you say, “That’s…that’s a good one.”

“It’s pretty terrible.”

“All the best ones are,” you say, and the door chimes making Bucky break away. But as he watches you talk to the delivery man like normal he nods to himself. He leaves with his coffee to start the day and fires a quick text to Sam: ‘Where do you get your dumb jokes?’

~

The next day when the door chimes and you see your one regular customer, you let yourself smile a lot more naturally than you have been. Your face is starting to hurt and your boss is probably napping in the back, so you take the chance to relax.

“Hi,” you say. “The usual?”

“Please,” he says, polite as ever as he hands you exact change and you go to fix his cup. When you bring it back he asks, “What did the fish say when he swam into a wall?”

“What?”

“Dam.”

You giggle despite yourself. Bucky’s smile is small and guarded, but you haven’t had a moment yet where you haven’t been grateful to see it. Maybe this ‘smiling’ business is all it’s cracked up to be. If only it didn’t hurt your cheeks so much.

But as he tips his cup to you and goes to his favorite corner, you find you don’t mind the ache as much.

~

Every time he comes in now, he brings a new joke.

“What do you call a fake noodle?”

“An im-pasta.”

“What does a clock do when it’s hungry?”

“It goes back four seconds.”

“Why did the bike fall over?”

“It was two tired.”

The delivery is fairly flat but there’s always at least the hint of a smile and, you don’t know, it might be his absolute seriousness that sells it, because every one of them raises your spirits. You don’t know why he’s suddenly telling you jokes. For anyone else you might think they’re flirting, but you don’t get that impression here. He’s handsome, always looks put-together in quality clothes even if they seem picked for comfort over anything else, and even before this he has always been unfailingly polite. If he wants someone, he has to have someone just as lovely. Right?

You can’t help but think about it even after he comes back. And the wonderfully terrible jokes, thankfully, don’t stop.

“Why did the mushroom go to the party?”

You keep pouring the coffee while you ponder an answer. “I don’t know,” you decide and lift your head as you hand Bucky his drink.

The way he smiles is very fetching– not quite a smirk, it’s a little too unsure for that, but it tilts up to the side and gives him a boyish charm that would make anyone weak in the knees. “Because he was a fungi.”

It makes a smile big enough for you to feel, but considering how self-conscious you are now you quickly tell him, “I liked that.”

“I know,” he says. “You smiled.”

“You can tell?” Maybe you aren’t as bad off as you thought. Or maybe he’s just being nice. But he seems honest, and he nods decisively.

“I get not being the most…expressive.” He shrugs. “But anyone can still see it, if they look.”

The implication that he cares enough to look stuns you both to silence. He ducks his head shyly and lifts his coffee cup in thanks before retreating to his corner. When you finally have working vocal cords again you say, “Have a nice day.” It might be the first time you’ve ever really meant it.

~

“What’s the opposite of coffee?”

Bucky’s eyes widen and narrow in quick succession as he goes from surprise to contemplation. He weighs your question with all the dramatic seriousness you could hope for before he says, “I don’t know. What is the opposite of coffee?”

You grin when you say, “Sneezy.”

His smile is bright and he nods his head. “Not bad, not bad.” He leans on the counter, looking more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him. It’s…shockingly warming. You have to remind yourself not to get too close. He showed up out of the blue and he can be gone just as quickly. Just because he’s nice doesn’t mean he has any attachment here. In fact, you hope he doesn’t– you’d question his sanity otherwise. “Why did Mozart hate chickens?”

“I don’t know,” you say, eager to hear the answer.

“Because when he asked them for their favorite composer, they said, “Bach! Bach! Bach!’”

You laugh– that is, of course, when your supervisor pokes his head out of the back and scowls at you. He should be happy that you’re ‘smiling enough’ but you know full well anything you do is never going to be good. You freeze whatever expression is on your face as Bucky’s mood darkens and your heart sinks. “Enjoy your coffee,” you say, infusing meaning into every word. That ekes out a small imitation of a smile as Bucky raises his cup and goes to his seat.

Your supervisor starts to stalk over to you but you are saved by the sudden ringing of a phone, and he blessedly turns on his heel and goes to answer.

You sigh and start cleaning up the counter. Bucky is in his corner, hunched over and quiet as usual. He looks fine, but you feel bad for the interruption, even though you get the impression he understands. Still, this is one nice thing you’ve had in this otherwise miserable job and you’re not going to lose yet one more good person to your superior’s shitty attitude.

You push out a roll of receipt paper, scribble ‘Why did the espresso keep checking his watch?’ on it, and stick it in your apron. You walk over to wipe down an untouched table and, before heading back, make a little detour to drop it next to Bucky’s arm. He grabs the paper as you’re scooting away (plausible deniability in case your boss comes out) but it isn’t until you’re back behind the counter that you realize what that just looked like. Does he think you just dropped your number? He hasn’t opened it yet. Is he trying to figure out a way to let you down? You suddenly regret playing into this so much; he was just trying to be nice, he probably didn’t expect you to latch onto it so–

He opens the paper, reads it, and shoots you a little smirk. You breathe a sigh of relief and mindlessly wipe things down and rearrange well-organized creamers and straws until Bucky comes up for his customary pre-leaving refill. You’re a little disheartened it’s that time already, but it means you’re that much closer to the end of your shift, at least.

“Why?�� Bucky asks quietly. It takes you a second before you remember the receipt paper and you surreptitiously check the back to see the door is closed.

“Because he was pressed for time,” you say quietly as you hand back his cup.

He chuckles. “I like it,” he says and takes a sip. “Thanks,” he adds as expected, but then he winks and you…you just stare at him as he leaves.

Should you have dropped your number?

~

A few days later, Bucky is caught off his guard and pays for it.

“What’s this?”

Bucky doesn’t get to his coffee cup fast enough and Sam snatches it and reads. “Sam,” Bucky grumbles but there it is, Sam’s eyes go wide and he turns that stare on Bucky. “Don’t look at me like that,” Bucky snaps and snatches his drink back.

“You’ve been using my jokes to hit on a dorky barista?” Sam asks and follows him across the room.

“I’ve been using jokes from the site you steal yours from to share with the nice woman who makes my coffee,” Bucky says and sits in a chair. He never stays for Sam’s group VA sessions and he should have left sooner, damn it. “I wouldn’t use yours. They’re gross.”

“Potentially inappropriate for a lady,” Sam says. Bucky opens his mouth to argue but, no, that’s exactly it, even though Sam’s tone implies something completely different from what Bucky would have said. “What’s her name?”

“Bucky?”

Steve has never been more of an actual hero to Bucky than he is right now. Right on time to walk back home with Bucky, Steve wanders in, sees the two of them, and stops. “Oh, should I…”

“Let’s g–” Bucky is immediately stopped by Sam’s hand on his shoulder.

“Bucky’s got his eyes on someone,” Sam says, immediately centering himself as Bucky’s most hated arch-nemesis.

…Okay, maybe not, but if Bucky didn’t have real problems he would be.

“I do not,” Bucky grumbles, because he knows it’s pointless and Steve is immediately sitting in front of them and leaning in like he’s the last girl at the sleepover.

“Really Buck? That’s great!” Steve says. “Have you…are you going to make a move?”

“No,” Bucky says and quickly runs down the situation, hoping that it will clear things up but knowing his friends too well. Indeed, Sam and Steve share smirks before looking at him again.

“You’re a real hero,” Sam says, only partly joking.

“I hate you,” Bucky says, ducking his head down. He doesn’t really blush anymore, if he ever did, but the motion is instinctive.

“You don’t.”

“I wish I did.”

Steve grins, as does Sam, and Bucky wants to duck into a hole. Goddamn mother hens, they’re going to want to–

“Should we come by?” Sam asks and leans back in his chair. “Be real wingmen?”

“No,” Bucky says, harsher than he means to. Sam and Steve don’t look bothered– they’ve weathered worse emotional snaps than that– but they wait for him to explain and Bucky doesn’t know if he can. Because what if this is leading to something? Is he ready for that? He thinks he might like you, but would he be okay putting in the effort of getting to know you? What if he can’t handle it? What if Steve and Sam walk in and they’re all you see? Both of them are plenty distracting, and charming, while Bucky can hardly put one foot in front of the other, some days. And what if this isn’t leading to anything, you’re just nice, and it’s nice, but Sam and Steve find out and look at him with all the pity they can muster?

“I just…want to see it through. On my own. Whatever this is.” ‘Or could be’ he leaves unspoken, because hoping for anything still feels like too much.

“Okay,” Sam says first, because of course he does, but Steve nods along quickly. It’s enough to make Bucky exhale deeply and relax muscles he didn’t know he had tensed. He rolls his eyes and stands up to cover for it.

“You’ll keep us updated though, right?” Sam asks, an easy grin on his face as he lounges in the chair.

“Like I’ll be able to avoid it,” Bucky mutters, finishes his drink, and lets Sam know they’re okay by throwing the empty cup at his head.

~

The fact that you’re running out of coffee-related jokes is stressing you out. You wanted to keep on theme but too many more days of this and you’ll be scouring the internet for whatever jokes Bucky hasn’t used yet. There are some coffee-related puns, but…the ones you like carry a romantic hint to them, and you were hoping to save those in case Bucky showed any interest. So far you haven’t picked up on anything, but you’re also very oblivious, and your roommate thinks you’re an idiot and he’s obviously into you.

But he might not be.

You do what you’ve been doing since your boss snarked at you about flirting on the clock and get Bucky’s cup ready with maybe your favorite joke.

‘How did the hipster burn his tongue?

He drank his coffee before it was cool.’

And smile proudly at it. Your small handwriting is getting better– Bucky barely has to squint at it this time, and he gives you a conspirator’s smile when he slides his twenty-dollar bill across the counter at you, with the neatest print writing along the margins.

‘What do you call an alligator detective?

An investi-gator.’

It’s cute and you snicker to yourself as you gather his change and place it gently in his gloved hand. He doesn’t retreat to his corner right away, though, and shuffles in place. “I was…I just wanted to say…” But then his eyes glance to your side and his face freezes in an unfortunately familiar way. “Thank you for the coffee,” he says woodenly and raises his cup just so.

“Of course. Have a nice day,” you say as robotically as possible and watch him go. Your supervisor clears his throat pointedly and you pretend like the place isn’t as clean as it was since the last time you went around. But now you’re thinking. About how awkward Bucky looked, and how he mentioned wanting to say something…maybe…maybe he is open. To you. Potentially.

Tomorrow, you decide with a thrill of nauseating adrenaline. Tomorrow you’re going to bring it up.

~

The next day you arrive at the shop at your usual time in the pre-dawn cold only to find an extra padlock on the door and a note in the window.

You stare, dumbfounded, and read the note. You read it again. And again.

‘Out of Business.’

But nobody called you.

You immediately grab your phone and dial your supervisor’s number. When he doesn’t pick up you call it again because this cannot be real. The job was shit but it was a job, and you knew what to expect, and you’ll never see Bucky again, will you?

It takes almost half an hour for the asshole to pick up– or maybe more, as the sun is starting to show up– and upon answering, he snaps, “What?!”

“What happened?” you ask, just as unkindly.

Your boss grumbles unintelligibly but you wait. “Did you see the sign?”

“I was working yesterday; no one mentioned anything about this.”

“Corporate called last night.” He yawns loudly. “I tried to call you.”

That’s a lie if you’ve ever heard one, but your tongue gets tripped up in anger and he says, “Sorry but there’s no room at the other branches for you, your last check is in the mail,” and hangs up.

You stand there for a while, trying to blink away tears at the sudden upheaval of your life. You should have found a replacement job while you had a chance. You should have asked your co-workers where they were going. You should have given Bucky your number.

You stand there for a little while, debating spending money you shouldn’t on a nice breakfast to wallow in, when the sound of footsteps coming up behind you makes you turn around.

“Oh, Bucky,” you say and rub your face. You think you’ve managed to hold it in, but it’s chilly and any exposed skin feels frozen.

“What’s going on?” he asks and peers around you at the note.

“Um…” You gesture uselessly. “Apparently this location is no longer in business. Just found out.”

Bucky’s jaw drops. “That asshole didn’t even call you?!”

The amount of anger on your behalf startles you. Startles both of you, actually, but just as he’s about to say something you laugh and say, “At least that asshole isn’t my problem anymore.” You sigh. You have savings, and the other job, and there’s always some other crappy job waiting for someone like you. But there’s something here that won’t be, and you pull out your phone and start typing. “Um…Bucky…there’s something I wanted to say to you. But it’s hard to say.”

“Okay?” he asks. You squeeze your eyes tight, brace yourself for impending rejection, and hold out your phone.

‘I like you a latte,’ followed by your phone number, hopefully gets the point across. After a few seconds your phone buzzes and you jump and bring it back, hoping no one texted you anything terrible while Bucky was staring at your phone.

It’s a new number, and the text reads, ‘It’s hard to espresso my feelings for you.’

You look up at him and he’s smiling, mouth parted slightly, and you start smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. But it’s okay. “I only had two more coffee jokes left before that line,” you confess and save his name to his number.

“Maybe you can tell them to me over breakfast? My treat,” he says and extends his arm.

You don’t even have to think about it. “Your treat this time,” you say, and link your arm with his. “In return, I’m going to show you where to get some good coffee.”

“Oh I don’t know,” he smirks at you. “The last place had its perks.”

Lacking a good comeback, you push your face into his shoulder to muffle your laughter. He leans into you, and doesn’t pull away even when you’ve gotten under control.

It’s the beginning of a brew-tiful relationship.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #avengers reader insert #captain america reader insert #fluff #stupid jokes (affectionate) #puns

[mca-attack21]

Shape Shifted - part 2

Hi guys! This is the next part of the Stiles Sis Fic series based loosely (and even that is generous) off of season two episode two. For the rest of this series and more of my writing, click here.  Enjoy!

You were starting to contemplate how you were going to explain what was about to happen to your father, when by some miracle he got called back into the station. Your relief was short-lived though as with every minute that passed, Isaac was struggling more and more. His senses were on overdrive, he felt every muscle in his body, and both his senses and emotions were heightened. He felt the fear of the hunters, the sadness of losing his dad, the anger at his dad for being in this position in the first place. But he also felt safe being with you and an overwhelming need to protect you, he was trying to channel into that and ignore everything else. What had you called it earlier? Finding an anchor. Maybe for now you could be his anchor. 

“Isaac, you still with me?” you asked after he had zoned out for a minute. 

“Yeah, sorry.” 

“You have nothing to be sorry for, you’re doing great. I just wanted to check in, is there anything you need?”

“Just keep talking, it helps. Keeps me focused.” 

So, you decided to catch him up on everything that had happened in your life since that fated night before school when Scott got bit. Before you could finish though, you were cut off by Isaac’s sudden shift in demeaner. His teeth were clenched, breaths forceful. He tensed up and was on the verge of losing control all together. 

“Isaac,” you said cautiously. 

“You have to go, I don’t want to hurt you!” 

“Listen Isaac, this is the worst of it. Right here, right now, you just have to fight it out a little longer and it will all be over.”

“I can’t! Please go,” he struggled, all but growling. 

“Isaac I’m not leaving, and you aren’t going to hurt me. You are the strongest person I know, you just need to focus on what it is that makes you human. Find an anchor. I believe in you, you can do this,” you reassured him, taking a step towards him. 

Isaac recoiled away from you, afraid of what he might do. Deep down he could feel it, the bloodlust, he could hear your pulse, he could...  what were you doing?

He looked at your hand which had reached for his now clawed one. You gently took it in yours and carefully placed it over your heart. You were grounding him the way you used to do when he had panic attacks. He could feel your heart beat and the calming rise and fall of your chest.

“Hey, look at that,” you spoke. 

Isaac looked up and realized for the first time that his claws and fangs had retracted. His senses were still heightened, but it was more manageable. He glanced at the clock, he had made it. Relieved, he pulled you into a tight hug and you let out a breath that you hadn’t even known you were holding.

“Congratulations on making it through your first full moon.”

The two of you didn’t say much else, electing instead to crawl in your bed and allow the exhaustion to take over.

Meanwhile:

When Scott and Stiles arrived at Scott’s house, the plan was for a quiet night in. That was at least before Allison called. Apparently, she overheard a conversation between her grandfather and her dad in which it was revealed that Isaac’s dad was killed by something supernatural, but not a werewolf. If that wasn’t bad enough, they were sending hunters to Isaac’s house, with the intention to put him out of his misery if he so much as looked at the full moon. On top of that, they were apparently suspicious of Lydia as well.

“We have to do something, if Isaac’s at his house Y/n’s there too,” Stiles realized.

“You’re right, but with the hunters there we can’t just show up or they’ll expect something,” Scott added.

“I’ll go,” Allison decided, “his father was just killed, so I can say I was just checking in on him as a friend. Besides, nobody knows that I know about him or their plans.”

“You are not going alone, it’s too dangerous,” Scott argued.

“I’m an Argent, they won’t do anything to me, besides, I can handle myself,” she reminded.

“They might not, but if this is Isaac’s first full moon, I’m not taking that risk. I’ll meet you there,” Scott decided, hanging up before she could object.

“I gotta go. See if you can sneak into the morgue or the station or something and get photos of what happened to Isaac’s father. After that maybe swing by and check on Lydia,” Scott instructed as he searched for a hoodie. 

Before Stiles could say anything else, Scott was sprinting out the door and towards Isaac’s house. Careful not to be seen, he made it inside and was soon met by Allison. It was soon revealed that neither you or Isaac were there.

“Where should we check next?” Allison asked, “Scott?”

“I thought I could control this,” Scott struggled.

“It’s okay Scott, what do you need me to do?”

“You have to leave. I can’t - It’s not safe,” Scott said as his breathing began to speed up. 

“I’m not leaving you Scott, there has to be something we can do,” Allison decided bravely.

After some thought, it was decided that Allison would lock him in the freezer. They same way Isaac’s dad had done to him on far too many occasions. She reluctantly tightened the chains around it before locking them. She had originally planned on staying by Scott’s side, but she heard noises coming from upstairs. She thought that maybe it could have been you and Isaac, so she cautiously made her way up.

But instead it was one of her father’s men who had come to take out Isaac. She knew that she had to keep him from going downstairs and discovering Scott at all costs, especially if he wasn’t fully in control.

Upon seeing her, the many questioned why she was here and where Isaac was. Before she could lie though, a lizard-like creature burst through the window. She screamed and raced forward to get a knife before backing herself into the corner. The creature didn’t even glance in her direction, its sole focus on the hunter before it. Before she or the other hunter could react, it swiped the back of the hunter’s neck and then brutally shoved its claws in his stomach and dragged them up through his chest. Allison screamed again at the gruesome sight, not prepared for the horrifying gurgling noises that followed.

In the basement, Scott was doing everything in his power to escape the freezer. He had never heard Allison scream like that and he knew that she was in danger. He could protect her if he could just get out! He furiously pounded at the lid until it finally popped open. Within seconds, he was upstairs standing between Allison and the...what is that thing?

But as soon as he arrived, the creature darted off into the night.

He didn’t even consider following and instead turned to Allison holding her arms as he looked for any sign of injury, “Are you alright? Did it hurt you?”

“No I’m fine. It didn’t touch me,” she said softly trying to ignore the shock of the whole situation. Scott pulled her into a tight hug for a moment before his eyes met the body and pool of blood that were mere feet away.

The scent of the blood was nauseating, and the smell of Allison’s fear was not much better. “We have to get out of here, before more hunters show up” Scott said leading his girlfriend away from it all.

Meanwhile: 

Stiles had completely struck out at the police station. The case photos that he snuck in to get weren’t even in his dad’s office. And as he was trying to sneak out of the office, he was caught by one of the deputies. Lying on his feet was not a strong suit of Stiles’ and he was forced to sit there and wait until his dad came to collect him.

He was agitated as this was supposed to be a quick in and out so that he would still have time to check on Lydia. He pulled out his phone and debated whether or not to call you, he knew you were probably still mad at him, but he was both worried about you being alone with Isaac (especially with the hunters involved) and he knew that you would be far more likely to get a response from Lydia than he would. 

He swallowed his pride and dialed your number only for it to go straight to voicemail. So either your phone was dead, you are ignoring him because your mad, or your in trouble. Great. He decided to call Scott next but once again, there was no answer. Feeling a growing sense of dread, he decided to call Allison, and then he realized that he still didn’t have her number.

Before he could call anyone else, his dad arrived with a disapproving look.

“You know that it is a crime to break in to the police station, in to the sheriff’s office, so do you wanna tell me what the hell you were thinking?”

Luckily for him, Stiles had been provided with enough time to think of a valid excuse, “Honestly, I was trying to figure out what you knew about Isaac’s dad’s case. Y/n and him are close and I wanted to see if there was anything that I could do to help.”

“You can help by being there for him, not by committing a felony and trying to get me fired,” your dad rolled his eyes.

“Do you know where Y/n is?” Stiles tried changing the subject.

“She is at the house with Isaac, where I am supposed to be to keep an eye on him as he is still technically a suspect in a murder investigation,” his dad sighed, Stiles had good intentions, though he always seemed to have a knack for putting his nose where it didn’t belong. “Come on, let’s go home, we’ll talk about this later.”

Stiles felt somewhat relieved, though he still didn’t like the idea of you being alone with Isaac. Then he realized that he needed to distract your guys’ dad so that he wouldn’t accidently find out about Isaac’s secret. However, that wasn’t a problem as he was soon called to a crime scene. Another murder. He told Stiles to go straight home, and then quickly left the station.

It was as Stiles got in Roscoe that Scott called him back. He briefly explained what had happened and what he saw of the creature. After Allison had calmed down, she went to Lydia’s so she would have an excuse for being away from home. At this point it was after midnight, and the power of the moon was starting to dwindle. Scott asked is Stiles had heard from you at all, and Stiles told him that he knew you and Isaac were at your house, to which he was headed now, but that your phone was off. Stiles also told Scott that he should go home and lay low, but he doubted his friend would actually listen. 

When he pulled into the driveway he mentally braced himself for what he was going to find. His thoughts went back to Scott’s first full moon and his bloodthirst and complete lack of control. And that was Scott, he couldn’t even imagine what it would be like for someone like Isaac who had been through everything that he had been through. He made his way upstairs and hesitated momentarily outside your door. He took a deep breath and opened it, allowing the light from the hallway to flood in. He was slightly shocked to see that you Isaac were laying on your bed. There were no signs that anything out of the ordinary had happened.

The light woke you up and you squinted to see who opened your door. It was Stiles, you rolled your eyes debating whether you wanted to deal with him right now. As he started to close your door, you forced yourself out of bed careful not to disturb Isaac.

“Lydia was completely fine tonight,” you say from Stiles’ doorway startling him, “I figured you would want to know,” you turned away.

“Y/n,” he called after you, “I am sorry about earlier.”

“I know you are,” you said sincerely, “and it’s fine. We can talk tomorrow about what happened today and Isaac, and everything else.”  

You decided to grab a glass of water before heading back to bed when you noticed that there was someone pacing outside your front door. You recognized Scott and stood there and watched him for a moment. It was weird, in all the time that the two of you had been friends, you couldn’t remember ever getting into an argument with him. You would be lying if you said his words hadn’t hurt you, but you reminded yourself that they weren’t truly his words. So you turned the lock on the door, “You know, you could have knocked, rung the doorbell, called, text, or even yelled instead of standing out here like a dork. Maybe my brother is starting to wear off on you,” you joke half-heartedly.

“Y/n I-” Scott started.

“You were dealing with the full moon, and said some things that you didn’t mean. But you are a high school student with the weight of the world on his shoulders and you didn’t ask for this. Every time you turn around it seems like there is one more obstacle between you and any chance that you have of living a normal life. It’s okay Scott, even you are allowed to have a bad day every once in a while.”

“That’s not an excuse, and I really am sorry.”

“Well, I accept your apology and later I promise to catch you up to speed on everything that happened. But its late and I’m exhausted.”

“Are you sure we’re okay?” Scott asked, confused at how you could possibly not be mad at him. 

“We’re good, I promise. Now come inside and get some rest, you can have your choice of Stiles’ room or the couch,” you said, grabbing him some blankets.

As Scott laid down on your couch, he started to think. Maybe Isaac being a werewolf would be manageable, after all the two of you were close and Scott knew that would work in your favor later on. Derek had to stop though, with the hunters on high-alert this was the worst possible time to be converting innocent teens into werewolves. His thoughts then drifted to that creature he saw and how scarred Allison was. One thing was for sure, tomorrow was going to be a long day.

#Stiles #stiles stilinski #stiles stilinski imagines #stiles stilinski sister #stiles sis fic #stiles imagine #Scott McCall #Scott x Allison #scott mccall imagine #scott mccall imagines #isaac lahey #isaac lahey imagine #isaac imagine #isaac lahey x reader #isaac x reader #teen wolf #teenwolf #teen wolf fandom #teen wolf series #teenwolf imagines #teen wolf imagines #teen wolf x reader #tw imagines #tw imagine

[benedictscanvas]

the future is bright (with you, my dear) - spencer reid x reader

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Mentions of death, serial killers, the general criminal minds stuff but nothing graphic

A/N: Okay, so, confession: this is very self-indulgent! I’m not very well, but desperately wanted to get something out to you so I’m sorry if the quality isn’t up to scratch! But I just wanted to write something super fluffy and comforting that could just wrap me up in a nice soft blanket. Hope you enjoy! :)

---

(ways to say i love you) number 16 = “it’s okay, i couldn’t sleep anyway”

The ticking of the clock in the hotel room was unrelenting. It wormed its way into your brain and stayed there, until you were hearing it echoing in your head and you didn’t even know whether it was real anymore. Eventually, after minutes, hours, you didn’t know, you huffed as you got out of bed and took the clock off the wall, taking it into the bathroom and putting it in the tub.

When you returned to bed and you could still hear it, it was only a few minutes before you returned to the bathroom and took the batteries out. You threw them in the tub angrily and practically stomped back into your bed like a child might.

The case was slow. Agonisingly so. You’d been here for days and yet you still felt no closer to catching the unsub than you were when you began, despite having three more dead bodies left in the woods since then. Some of you were tired, some of you were cranky and some of you were just pissed off. You found yourself a mixture of all three.

It was all swirling around in your mind, and you could swear you could still hear that damn ticking, so you only heard the knocking the third time it happened and a soft utterance of your name accompanied it. You recognised the voice, and it was the only thing that had you hopping out of bed, grabbing your long cardigan from the peg and wrapping it around yourself, only wearing a tank top and shorts in the hot climate.

When you opened the door, Spencer was already halfway down the corridor.

“Spence,” you hissed, watching him wince and turn around, “Are you okay?”

“I’m so sorry, Y/N, did I wake you?” he whispered and you smiled as you shook your head, beckoning him into your room so you could talk properly. Rossi, who was currently in the pissed off stage of the case, would only come out of the room and glare at the two of you if you stayed in the corridor any longer.

Instead, he followed you inside, still murmuring his apologies even after you’d sat him down on the end of the bed next to you. You crossed your legs on the bed and wrapped your cardigan tighter around yourself against the chill of the cheap hotel.

“Spencer, seriously,” you said, resting a hand on his forearm to stop his mumbled rambling, “It’s okay. I couldn’t sleep anyway.”

He paused at that and tilted his head in that adorable manner he sometimes did.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, just can’t sleep. This case is…”

You trailed off but he nodded. He understood. He always did. People thought he didn’t always understand people, didn’t always pick up on things but in your experience? He picked up on your cues before anyone else, understood you better than anyone else. Best friends ever since you’d joined the BAU together, inseparable on and off cases: if there was anyone you wanted at your door when you couldn’t sleep, it was Spence.

“I know,” he said sympathetically, placing a hand over yours on his arm. He glanced behind him and looked back to you, a newly amused smile on his face, “Where’s your clock?”

You bit your the inside of your cheek.

“Never had one,” you lied, unconvincingly. It wasn’t your best work.

“All the rooms have one, Y/N,” he said, eyebrows raised as he stared at you. You muttered your answer incoherently, “What was that?”

‘It’s in the bath, okay?” you said exasperatedly, pouting, “That stupid ticking was driving me to distraction.”

He chuckled at you, shaking his head fondly.

“Of course it’s in the bath.”

“Anyway,” you said pointedly, “What are you doing awake? And here?”

His gaze was cast downward almost immediately, and you frowned. You squeezed his arm a little, because you were still holding onto it. You didn’t have the heart to let go, but luckily neither did he. It was nice to have a bit of human contact amongst all the human misery you saw day to day.

“I don’t know,” he said weakly, shrugging his shoulders, “I was just lying there staring at the ceiling and...well, I had a feeling you might be too.”

Now he was lying to you, but he was seriously trying to. It was a serious lie. Your frown only got worse, the lines of your face deepening. Now you did have the heart to, so you removed your hand from his arm and leaned back away from him.

“Spencer, why are you really here?” you said, the room changing all at once, but you added with soft eyes, “You never have to lie to me, you know?”

He was biting his lip and you just wanted to reach up and and pull it away from his teeth, run your fingers gently over his jawline, smooth out all the worry lines he’d gained since you met him. Sometimes, you wished he hadn’t seen everything he had seen, wished you could save him from it all. But sometimes, you also wished you could kiss him. Some things weren’t meant to be.

“I know,” he said guiltily, “Sorry. It’s stupid, though, and I don’t want you to think I can’t handle the case or that I’m not thinking clearly or-”

“I can guarantee that whatever your reason for knocking on my door, I’m not going to think anything like that. Ever, Spence.”

He looked at you with a look in his eye that you recognised as love. You knew it to be the completely platonic kind, but it made butterflies stir up a frenzy in your stomach regardless.

Ironically, platonic friendship was one of the furthest things from Spencer’s mind in that moment, but there was no way for you to know that.

“Okay,” he relented, “You know how me and Rossi went to the crime scene today? Well, when we pulled the sheet back from Shelly Peterson’s body there was a moment...well, it was such a stupid moment because I knew you were back at the station and we’d spoken on the phone not five minutes prior but-”

You sighed gently.

“She looked like me?” you interjected, nothing but kindness in your tone, none of the teasing he might have worried about or the wrinkled nose at the stupidity of his thoughts. None of that.

“She did,” there were tears gathering in his eyes and you had to will yourself not to cry right along with him, “A-and I just...I haven’t really seen you since because we were working on separate parts of the profile so I couldn’t sleep until I-”

He wasn’t finishing his sentences. It wasn’t unlike him sometimes, when he was a little shaken up, but it still worried you each and every time. You were so used to him being eloquent, beautifully so, speaking at a hundred miles an hour but still making more sense than people who spoke ten times slower. When he lost the ability to speak fully coherently, you knew he was really fighting an mental battle.

“Until you came and saw me?” you finished for him again, knowing he wouldn’t mind. They were words he couldn’t bring himself to say, but also ones that he needed you to know. You would happily say them for him if necessary, “Spencer, that’s not stupid.”

You had noticed your resemblance to the victim earlier that day too, but hadn’t said anything. JJ had given you a look but you’d brushed her off quickly, not wanting to draw attention to it in front of the team. They must have noticed too, it was hard not to, but nobody said anything. It went unspoken. For you, though, it had only been in pictures and you could imagine you might have reacted a little differently had you actually been at the scene like Spence.

“It felt stupid,” he said quietly, “I think Rossi thought I was losing it. I just kept...staring at her. And I knew she was Shelly Peterson, of course I did, but it felt like I was staring right at your dead body. Y/N, I don’t think I can ever do that for real. No, actually, I know I could never do that, I’m not capable, I think- I think it would kill me.”

His words were chilling. His voice got louder as he started finishing his sentences again. It was as if he was so determined never to have that nightmare become reality that he had to tell you now, he had to tell you right this second that there was no scenario in which you were allowed to die.

“Well, that’s okay,” you said confidently, not being able to help yourself when you reached up and took his chin between your thumb and forefinger, begging him to make eye contact with you, “Because I’m not going anywhere, Dr Reid, and neither are you. You’re not allowed to. I won’t have it.”

“But-”

“Nope,” you stopped him, because his thoughts were consuming him and you desperately wanted to bring him back to you, to this moment, here in the hotel room where the two of you were safe. Where the two of you were together. “Creating geographical profiles side by side, that’s how we’re going to live out the rest of our days. We’re going to go to crime scenes and trade theories away from the group if we’re not sure about them. We’re going to force each other to get a few hours sleep on the jet whenever we can.”

“Yeah?” his voice was still timid, but now it sounded like he was simply getting more overwhelmed with every sentence you spoke. You swallowed the sentimental lump in your throat and continued on, reluctantly letting go of his chin now that he’d dared to look at you.

“Yeah. We’re going to spend weekends together. In the park. At my apartment, at your apartment. We’re going to sit at our desks across from each other in the bullpen every day. Chat as we do paperwork. Get each other coffee. Eventually, I’m going to learn that however much sugar I put in will never be enough.”

“Would be great if you learnt that sooner rather than later,” he joked with a chuckle, even though there were more tears in his eyes. You swatted his arm playfully, your own choked laughter filling the small room.

“We’re going to be as old as Rossi one day, with a few grey hairs, and there will be new FBI recruits that ask each other in hushed voices, ‘Is that Doctor Reid and Agent Y/L/N? I’ve read all of their books!’ and we’ll sign a few of them if they’re lucky,” you explained, feeling a few tears of your own surfacing as you imagined Spencer with grey hairs around his temple.

You could picture him, years in the future, walking over to you on the jet and sitting down with that small groan that Rossi let out quite often when he sat down, a customary groan that slightly older people seem to do even if nothing hurts and nothing is stiff. Spencer would groan as he sat down and you would laugh at him, tease him for being too old for all this now, and he’d remind you of this very moment.

“We’re going to co-write books?” he said dreamily and you knew he was picturing scenario after scenario of your future now too. You hoped it might get the image of your dead body out of his mind, at least for a while, replace it with images of you laughing at his ridiculous philosophical jokes just because he thought they were funny.

“We are indeed,” you hummed happily.

“How do you make our job sound so...romantic?”

You hadn’t expected that, but you tried not to let it show on your face. Instead you just furrowed your brows in confusion and hoped he didn’t see the fear in your eyes at the prospect of being found out.

“Romantic?”

“Yeah,” he said, seemingly unfazed by what he was saying, “We have one of the worst jobs in the world, see more evil than most people will ever even hear about, but you make it sound like we’re going to live out this...romantic ideal.”

You took a deep breath.

“Our job is awful...basically all the time, I know. But I suppose, on the occasion that it isn’t awful, it’s usually either because we save someone or because- well, because you’re around.”

Spencer paused, staring at you and your gaze drifted down to his lips before snapping back upwards again. He saw that. Definitely. Your tone had changed, but he was the one who had mentioned romance, so you were only following his lead, you told yourself.

Was he closer than he had been a second ago? Your mind was playing tricks on you. When he spoke, his voice was breathy and barely there.

“Sounds pretty r-romantic to me.”

You held your breath.

“Is that a good thing?”

Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes.

“I think you missed some stuff out of our future,” he said and all you could think was that he hadn’t said no, not yet, and that if he was about to let you down gently then you weren’t sure you would cope, “I know we’re going to work together for the rest of our lives. Create profiles and catch killers and write books. But I’m also...I’m also going to love you for the rest of our lives. Do you think we could fit that in?”

You exhaled slowly, just so he wouldn’t hear how shaky it was. Your grin was infectious, clearly, because he was grinning too, you could see it through tear-blurred vision. You wouldn’t answer his question directly, he hadn’t answered yours after all, but you spoke up quickly to make sure he had no doubt about your answer.

“We could...go on coffee dates?”

“Movie marathons under mountains of blankets?”

“Kissing in the rain?”

“Kissing under the stars.”

“Kissing everywhere.”

“Moving in together?”

“Getting a dog? A cat?”

“Getting down on one knee?”

Voices growing softer and softer, the questions soon melted away into the dim glow of the hotel room and the future felt closer than it ever had before as you shared your first kiss.

(and your second, and your third, and your…)

---

tags: @justkurotingz @yes-sir-hotchner​

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #Criminal Minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fluff #spencer x reader

[kjack89]

AITA

My bestie’s latest quarantine hobby is trolling through AITA on reddit and sending me ones she thinks will make me mad, so. I got inspired.

E/R, modern AU.

The sun was bright and the mood, all things considered, was high, as the crowd gathered by the river in preparation for the march downtown to call for defunding the police. Black Lives Matter was leading the protest, and Enjolras had volunteered Les Amis to serve as support and allies in whatever way they could, which mostly meant making sure folks were wearing masks and that no one decided to try something stupid with the cops.

“Good crowd,” Courfeyrac remarked, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as he glanced around before looking back at Enjolras. “As much as I’m sure it’s killing you that they’re only calling for defunding and not abolition.”

“Yeah, well, not even a year ago, no one was talking about defunding the police,” Enjolras pointed out, a little sourly, adjusting his mask, which was emblazoned with WHITE SILENCE IS VIOLENCE. “I’ll take what progress I can get.”

Courfeyrac smirked. “You sound practically moderate.”

Enjolras scowled. “Take that back, or—”

His threat was cut off by the arrival of Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire. It was hard to tell by the masks all three wore, but Enjolras was pretty sure that all three were grinning, and judging by the way Bossuet was swaying, just slightly, it wasn’t just because they were in a good mood.

“I’ll take it you three decided to hit up a brunch spot on your way here?” Enjolras asked, even more sourly than before.

“A man has to eat,” Joly said innocently, which would have gone over much more believably had he not giggled at the end.

“Besides, we only ordered one drink,” Bossuet assured him.

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let me guess,” he said dryly, “you each ordered a bottomless mimosa.” He didn’t wait for any of them to confirm it. “And how many refills of said drink did you also order?”

Joly and Bossuet looked at each other and laughed, and Grantaire pulled his mask down to grin lazily at Enjolras. “Let me put it this way,” he said, “more than one and less than ten.” He paused. “Probably. I did lose track after about seven.”

Snickering, Joly and Bossuet headed over to join the rest of Les Amis, but when Grantaire made to follow, Enjolras blocked him, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “You’re drunk,” he said accusingly, and Grantaire’s grinned widened.

“Well, I’m sure as shit not sober.”

“Put your mask back on,” Enjolras ordered, less concerned for himself, as Grantaire was part of his quarantine bubble, and more for everyone else milling around before the march started. Especially any journalists who might love to get a shot of BLM protesters breaking the mask mandate. “And go home, Grantaire.”

Grantaire slowly pulled his mask back up over his mouth and nose, smoothing it into place before looking at Enjolras plaintively, all trace of humor vanishing from his expression. “Let me stay here,” he said, his voice soft, and not just from the cotton that covered his mouth.

Enjolras shook his head, well aware that even if Grantaire might suddenly sound sober, he wasn’t. “Go home,” he repeated. “The last thing we need is your drunk ass picking a fight with the cops or something worse and turning this whole thing into a riot instead of the peaceful protest its organizers intended.”

“What, you think I’m incapable of going two or three hours without starting a brawl?” Grantaire asked, incredulous.

Enjolras arched an eyebrow. “I think you’re incapable of a great many things.”

Grantaire’s lip curled. “Like believing, thinking, willing, living and dying?”

“Only you seem to think you’re incapable of dying,” Enjolras said quietly, before repeating, one more time, “Go home.”

But Grantaire shook his head, taking a step toward him. “If you’re so worried about it, then send Bahorel home, too!” he insisted. “Send home Joly and Bossuet who are just as drunk as I am. Or else let me stay.”

“No.”

Enjolras said the word calmly, but Grantaire recoiled as if he had shorted. “And why not?”

“Because I trust them!” Enjolras burst, his temper getting the better of him, and he scrubbed a hand across his face before adding, what he hoped was a calmer way, “I trust them to actually listen to my instructions and keep themselves out of trouble.”

But something in Grantaire’s face clouded as soon as Enjolras had said that he trusted them, and Enjolras had a bad feeling that he hadn’t really listened to the last part. “Right,” Grantaire said, a little dully, already turning away. “Well. I’ll see you later, I guess.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras sighed, reaching out to catch his arm, but Grantaire shrugged him off, wandering towards the river, the hunch of his shoulders the only indication that he had any care in the world. Enjolras stared after him for a long moment, his expression troubled.

----------

Four days later, Grantaire rolled over in bed when his phone buzzed. He picked it up off his nightstand, saw that it was a text from Enjolras, and immediately tossed it down again, groaning.

He hadn’t talked to Enjolras since that morning of the BLM protest, and at this rate, he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to. Not when he knew that Enjolras didn’t trust him.

Joly would tell him he was being dramatic, and Bossuet would tell him to just text Enjolras and apologize and move on, and since Grantaire wanted to hear neither of those things, he also wasn’t talking to Joly or Bossuet.

Instead, he rolled over onto his stomach, grabbing his phone and stubbornly ignoring the text message from Enjolras still sitting, unread, in his messages. Instead, he clicked on twitter, figuring if he was going to sulk, he might as well sulk while reading about someone else’s misery.

A half hour later, Grantaire had scrolled through what felt like half of twitter before he stumbled upon a random tweet that linked to an ‘Am I the Asshole?’ post on the subreddit of the same name, and he glanced at the clock before deciding he had enough time to waste a couple of hours on a whole new level of misery.

He might’ve kept scrolling for hours, when he stumbled upon an AITA post that was surprisingly familiar.

Suspiciously familiar.

Like he had lived it.

He hesitated for only a moment before clicking on the post.

Posted by u/RadianceoftheFuture 8 hours ago AITA for kicking my friend out of a protest?

So I (25M) was attending a BLM protest the other day with the social justice organization I run. One of my friends, who we’ll call ‘R” (28M), showed up drunk and, IMO, looking to start a fight. This was the last thing I wanted, since we were there to be good allies, and starting fights or inciting a riot as white folks who will get away with it ain’t it. So naturally, I told him to go home.

Now here’s where I may be the asshole. R started arguing with me, and pointed out that some our other friends who were also there were also drunk, and one of our other friends who was there has a history of starting fights, so he asked me why I wasn’t making them leave. I told him it was because I trusted them.

Which is true, but not exactly how I wanted to word it, and I could tell that he was hurt by the implication that I didn’t trust him. And I do trust him, but I also didn’t want to spend the entire time worried about him. Anyway, he left, and he hasn’t talked to me since. If I’m the asshole, I want to apologize so that we can go back to being friends, and even if I wasn’t, I still want to figure out a way for us to talk again. I miss him. So tell me, AITA?

Grantaire stared at his phone, torn between something warm spreading in his chest at the fact that Enjolras cared enough to ask anonymous strangers on the internet about this, and freaking out because Enjolras had posted about their disagreement on the internet.

The man had only two speeds, it seemed, and somehow, Grantaire always ended up dealing with Enjolras on the highest speed.

Numbly, and mostly in an attempt to gather his thoughts, Grantaire scrolled through the comments on the post, unsurprised to see a decent mix of judgements from the redditors. More than expected YTAs (you’re the asshole), plus a number of NTAs (not the asshole), and, predominantly, a smattering of NAH (no assholes here).

Halfway down the page, he paused, realizing that the person who had written the post had responded to a question.

u/oldcoats_oldfriends - 7 hours ago INFO: why do you trust your other friends and not R?

u/RadianceoftheFuture - 6 hours ago Because R has a history of getting himself in trouble, whether by running his mouth off when he shouldn’t or picking fights with guys twice his side, and the trouble he gets into tends to happen after he’s been drinking. So when you put the two together, I was worried he’d do something stupid and get himself locked up or worse. And since keeping an eye on the rest of the protest was important, I knew I couldn’t afford to be distracted by also keeping an eye on him.

And for the record, I trust R with a lot. He’s not as ideological as a lot of us, doesn’t even have a lot of the same beliefs, but I know he would never do anything to hurt the cause, or me. Of course, he might not HELP the Cause, or me, but still. I’ve never once doubted that R would take a bullet for me, if it came to that. I would just never in a million years want him to.

Grantaire swallowed, hard. Of course he would take a bullet for Enjolras, or more, but it had never occurred to him that knowing that might make Enjolras worried. Worried that Grantaire would do something stupid.

If only the man knew that Grantaire worried about Enjolras in exactly the same way.

Hesitating for only a moment, he decided to leave a comment of his own.

u/MyFullGlass1832 - 1 minute ago NAH. Sure your friend shouldn’t have been drunk and you were right to kick him out, but drinking doesn’t make him an asshole (though not talking to you might). I am curious why you would have been worried about him. He’s a grown man and not your responsibility.

He quickly closed out of reddit, not wanting to do something stupid and refresh until Enjolras responded, but he only half-paid attention to the tweets he scrolled past, glancing at the clock to see if it was still pathetic for him to check for a response.

But to his shock, when he finally gave in and checked forty-five minutes later, Enjolras had answered, and something in Grantaire’s stomach twisted to know that he was still checking the thread, still seeking a resolution.

u/RadianceoftheFuture - 39 minutes ago Maybe ‘worried about’ is the wrong term, but he’s my friend. I didn’t want him to get hurt, or worse, because he was drunk. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s gotten hurt on my watch, and everytime it happens, it’s awful. And not just because he won’t shut up about it for the next six months - I always feel so guilty, like I should’ve been protecting him. I know that’s not realistic, so the very least I can do is send him home when I think he’s liable to hurt himself. That way I can sleep at night knowing I did what I could.

The breath caught in Grantaire’s throat, and his chest felt tight, especially as he read the follow up comments.

u/valiant.artisan - 34 minutes ago INFO: Are you and R gay?

u/tremble_b4apoppy - 26 minutes ago Dude you may be in love with R.

u/timidinrepose - 21 minutes ago OMG this is the sweetest thing I’ve read all day.

u/Lymantria_dispar - 12 minutes ago. Pretty sure this might go a little beyond just friendship. Either way, I’m glad you care about your friend, and even though you weren’t TA, you should call him and explain why you told him to go home. 

Grantaire couldn’t seem to stop his stupid smile as he stared at the computer, and this time, he didn’t hesitate, opening his text chain with Enjolras without reading any of Enjolras’s previous texts. He didn’t need to read them know.

NTA.

He sent the text and held his breath, wondering if Enjolras would acknowledge it, immediately, or try to play it cool. His one word answer indicate the former: Sorry?

But Grantaire wasn’t nearly as willing to play it coy. Not anymore. Your AITA post. I’m giving you my judgment. NTA.

In his mind, he could see Enjolras blush, that same way he did when he was frustrated, two spots of color rising high in his cheek as he stared at Grantaire. You saw that?

Even in his mind, it was a beautiful sight. Yeah

Then you should know, I agree with the majority opinion.

The image of Enjolras blushing disappeared, leaving Grantaire blinking at his phone, his brow furrowed as he tried to think of what the majority option would have been. Oh?

NAH.

Grantaire grinned, but before he could respond, Enjolras texted, Want to come over? I think I owe you an explanation in person.

I thought you’d never ask.

----------

u/ RadianceoftheFuture - 45 minutes ago UPDATE: AITA for kicking my friend out of a protest?

(Original.)

Thank you all very much for your feedback in the original post. There were a variety of perspectives on this, but some of the comments on the original post made me realize that I may in fact feel something more than friendship towards R, and it’s a good thing I figured it out, because he found the post, and even commented on it without me knowing! Anyway, we talked, I explained how I felt, and it turns out R’s had a thing for me pretty much since he’s known me. Anyway, we’re dating now, and while this isn’t exactly going to solve my problem of worrying about him, I also think he’ll be on somewhat better behavior now. For my sake at least.

We still have a lot to work on together, but we’re moving in the right direction. And to think, I probably never would’ve figured it out if it weren’t for reddit, of all the websites. 

u/MyFullGlass1832 - 3 minutes ago WIBTA for hijacking my boyfriend’s reddit post to tell him that I love him?

u/ RadianceoftheFuture - 2 minutes ago YTA for sitting literally two feet away from me and responding to a reddit post when we could be doing something far more exciting.

u/MyFullGlass1832 - 1 minute ago ...good point.

#enjolras x grantaire #exr #enjoltaire #enjolras #grantaire #les miserables #fanfiction #modern au #reddit au #that pained me to type #anyway #developing relationship

[bugsandchatons]

when you weren’t mine to lose (5)

Summary: Change is a scary thing, especially when it feels like nothing has stayed the same.

It’s been a year since Marinette became the Guardian of the Miracle Box - a year of struggling beneath a burden she never asked for, a weight that has her leaning on her partner more and more as the hours fly by, of letting him come to her, too, when he needs a soft place to land. A year of falling for the boy who takes on the world by her side with a smile made of sunlight, and fighting the growing urge to tell him what he means to her.

After all, they’ll have time enough for that when Paris is safe.

But when the unthinkable happens, Marinette learns the tragedy of loving someone quietly, and the lines she’ll cross to save him.

[[AO3]] {from the beginning}

*****

[five: where the light goes]

Tikki had tried to warn her, to the best of the kwami’s knowledge, what it might be like when the Akuma took over. The nature of the Butterfly Miraculous was to influence, she’d said, not total control - when used negatively it was strong in its coercion, but not irresistible. 

Still, Marinette’s not sure if she could have fully prepared herself for the heavy fog that rolls in over her mind, blurring everything but the violet splash of the butterfly sigil in front of her eyes. 

Hold on to your purpose. Go back, change the timeline, save Chat Noir.

Over and over, until the words stuck.

“Ladybug,” the smooth voice that washes over her is a horribly familiar one, now. “I must admit, I’d begun to wonder if this day would ever come.”

She clenched her fingers into fists. Hold on. Go back. Save him.

“Your partner has died,” Hawkmoth says. The cold flash of agony that ripples through her is muted, pushed back and away somewhere in the distance. “So our purposes have aligned for the time being. We’ve both lost someone who, together, we can restore. Bring me both the Ladybug and Black Cat Miraculous and we can fix it. You need me to put everything back as it should be.”

Ladybug takes a deep breath in. His request is a siren song; the need to comply is just as strong as the tidal wave of her own anger, her own misery. She buries them together and, little by little, the fog recedes. 

Go back. Save him. 

Despite how it might feel otherwise, he only had as much power over her as she allowed him. She’s Ladybug, and even broken, she would not bend to any will other than her own. “You’re right about that,” her voice sounds far away to even her own ears, “but your plan won’t work. Chat’s Miraculous is broken.”

For a moment, he’s quiet. She can feel it when his disbelief gives way to fury in a steady, rising throb behind her eyes. “I can fix it, but not within the limits of my own Miraculous.” She lets this hang in the air, but still, Hawkmoth says nothing. Ladybug continues, “But I’ve seen what you did for Queen Bee. When she was akumatized, nothing stopped her from using her powers as widely and often as she wished. With the enhancement of your Akuma, I could fix everything.”

“Very well,” Hawkmoth concedes, his voice ringing with displeasure. She feels the leaping need to appease him, but she can control it - she has him. He’s listening to her now. “The Miraculous you wear grants you the power of creation, but even our powers have their restrictions. Without limits, you are unstoppable. Fix what has been destroyed, and then you will bring the Miraculous to me.” She feels his smile and the smugness that radiates from it. “You and I aren’t so different after all, are we?”

The fog threatens, shifting closer and looming at the edge of her vision. The pain behind her eyes blossoms until she’s nearly seeing stars.

Through it all, she can feel Hawkmoth’s glee. He believes he’s already won. Even now, that’s what matters most to him - bringing back the boy he’s convinced is his son is secondary to besting Ladybug. It makes her sick.

Go back. Save him. The thought calls Chat to mind, sharp and clear despite the press of shadows; all bright green eyes and beatific smiles. It’s the best thing to take with her, Ladybug thinks, as she finally falls.

She closes her eyes and gives herself over to the touch of his dark magic until she’s immersed in an icy cold that steals her breath. For a moment, she struggles - submerged, trapped beneath the surface - before she uncurls her fingers, one by one, and lets go.

It ends almost as quickly as it came over her, and then she’s not quite Ladybug any more.

“Hmm. What shall we call you, then?”

She presses a hand over her own racing heart and rises to her feet. The name comes to her at once and she takes it, branding herself before he can do it for her. “Ouroboros.”

“Ahh, creation and destruction, life and death. An interesting choice. Now,” he commands, “fix his Miraculous.”

There it is again - the overwhelming tug to give in. She’s not sure if she could fix Chat’s Miraculous, even now. It’s tempting to try.

“I’m afraid that’s not what I’ve got planned.” The pounding behind her eyes intensifies, and she grits her teeth against the split of pain. “We are not the same, Hawkmoth. I won’t sacrifice a life to save another. I will find a way to save him, though.” 

She had what she wanted, now; a do-over, a second chance.

Reset the clock. Go back. Save Chat Noir.

She clasps her forearms - one hand finds the Snake Miraculous on her left wrist, the other curls protectively over Chat’s ruined ring, tied to her right.

Creation and destruction, she thinks. Together, always.

The end of everything, or the beginning of it.

She closes her eyes and thinks of where the light goes when the night inevitably comes to claim it, and of the sun’s sure return to chase the dark away, An indomitable circle, infinite in its ability to rise again and again. With that in mind, her pain ebbs away to nothing.

*****

The next time Ouroboros opens her eyes, it’s a new day - or, perhaps more accurately, an old one. She gasps, drawing in shallows breaths of cold morning air once, twice, before exhaling and rubbing her palms over her temples. The heavy fog in her mind is gone, as is the agonizing pressure of Hawkmoth’s power struggle.

“When you jump back in time, Hawkmoth should no longer have a hold over you,” Tikki had told her. Like Timetagger, Ouroboros remembers. He’d left the man holding his leash behind, and so had she.

So far, so good.

She looks first down at herself, then at the statue of Ladybug and Chat Noir, lit to sparkling as the dawn breaks. In the shining bronze, she can see what has become of herself. 

Her suit changed. Where there’d always been red and black spots were now soot-black scales, as though she’d been doused in fire and risen from embers. A violent splash of color streaks down a single line from chest to belly, scarlet like a red-bellied snake - a clear warning that this new species was venomous. The mask over her eyes looks as if it's been painted to her nose and cheekbones in charcoal.

In ashes.

She turns away and glances dispassionately down at her gloved hands. She’d need a disguise if she wanted to traverse the city.

As if in answer to the very thought, a dark hooded coat materializes in her waiting palms. Ouroboros supposes she has the limitless powers of creation to thank for it. She pulls it on over her head and lifts the hood to cover her hair. Her reflection in the statue shows her that, while not quite incognito, she could now make her way across Paris without immediately causing a panic.

The urge to seek Chat out and tuck him away somewhere safe is an overpowering one. To just see him, even, would be enough.

She has hours before the battle. She knows what she should do: find a place to hide, at least until school lets out, then place herself near enough to Trocadéro to watch for Mirror Image’s akumatization. Tikki had warned her not to be seen until she had to be - that any changes to the course of the day before the Akuma battle could affect her ability to change what she had to when the time came. She knows when and where Ladybug will be throughout the day to avoid her, but Chat -

Ouroboros pauses, her breath hitching in her chest. She knows where Chat Noir is right now.

Everything else vanishes. With only that in mind, she runs across the park, scales the building across from the bakery, and perches - just one shadow among many on the rooftops.

She doesn’t have to wait long. There, backlit by the rising sun as he climbs out of her skylight, is Chat. 

The sight of him, whole and vital and breathing, feels like a punch to the stomach for all that it fills the cavernous empty space inside of her.

God, there he is.

Her knees hit the rooftop and a sound somewhere between a sob and a gasp shakes out of her chest. Relief, unfettered, sends cold chills down her spine until she trembles with it. It wasn’t until she saw him again that she realized just how terrified she’d been that none of this would work.

A shadow falls across her. She looks up and all she can see is green before she ducks her head back down, wishing she could drown in him instead.

“Hey, are you okay?” Chat Noir offers her a hand, his brow furrowed. His frown only deepens when she places a shaking gloved hand in his. “How did you get up here, anyway?”

Something inside her crumbles. She wants nothing more than to throw her arms around him, to press her cheek to his chest until she can feel his heartbeat, until it’s all she can hear. He reaches out towards her face and pauses, his hand freezing in midair when suspicion wars with the concern in his expression.

When he doesn’t touch her, she raises her own hand and finds tears on her cheeks. When had she started crying?

His gaze is sharp, but his voice is still gentle when he asks, “Do you need help? Have you been akumatized?”

“I-” her voice fails her. She swallows and tries again. “You’re in no danger from me.”

Chat watches her warily, rocking back on his heels. He’s probably never seen an Akuma that didn’t attack first and ask questions later, but even his troubled look is so far and away better than his empty one. The life in his eyes is a balm to an open wound and the love that strains to burst out of her is enough to keep tears flowing.

“Come with me,” he offers her his hand again - his left, the one without his Miraculous - and she’s so proud of him, for his boundless kindness even in the face of caution, for the bravery that pours from him so effortlessly. “We’ll find Ladybug and she can fix everything.”

The sob that bursts out of her this time is broken and raw. To have to hurt him while he heals her is a cruel twist of fate. “Kitty-” 

He tilts his head and she sees it when his guarded confusion gives way to horrible, wretched understanding. His mouth falls open, then he snaps it shut and whispers, “Ladybug?”

Ouroboros bites down on her lower lip. She should never have approached him. She can do nothing to help him now, and if the absolute devastation on his face is anything to go off of, she’s more likely to get him akumatized than anything else. “It - it’ll be okay, Chat.”

“You - you’re not Ladybug,” he says slowly, his voice thick. “She can’t - she would never allow herself to be akumatized.”

If only he knew. That was the funny thing, wasn’t it? She didn’t deserve his unwavering faith. He held her up so high without realizing that she was as fallible as any other person, and all it took for her to tumble down was for him to be ripped away from her. When it all came down, Ladybug was not unbreakable. 

“Never say never,” she murmurs.

His throat bobs as he struggles for words. She reaches out for him, only to think better of it a moment too late - his eyes snap to her arm and widen even further, and she realizes at once what he’s seen.

Nestled above the ruined Black Cat Miraculous on her wrist is the lucky charm that Adrien had made for her birthday. Ouroboros watches his shocked expression give way to a fragile sort of uncertainty right before his gaze flicks back to the building he’s just left.

Her heart breaks for the second time. She knows now, and so does he. He might not understand, but he knows.

There’s no way this moment doesn’t change everything, in any given timeline.

“Hey, kitty,” Ouroboros steps closer, pitching her voice low to soothe, “I shouldn’t have come here, but it’s going to be okay. I’m...I’m gonna fix it like you said, okay?” 

Chat stares at her for a long time, his gaze raking over dark earrings, blue eyes, freckles, and black hair. He searches for an answer she can’t yet give him until the silence is all but unbearable. “I...I know you will, my lady. You always do.” 

Her heart turns over. Even when thrown face to face with the unbelievable, he still chooses to place his belief in her. She won’t let him down again.

He glances at her, then away, as if something about her hurts to look at. “Do you need me?”

She puts a hand to his cheek and something in his expression twists as he turns his face into her touch, his lips brushing her covered wrist. “Always, Chaton. I’m afraid I have to do this part on my own, but I’ll see you soon though. That’s a promise,” she whispers, before glancing past him, scanning the sky for any sign of a butterfly.

There’s not one to be seen, but she’s not surprised. With a teary smile, she meets Chat’s gaze once more before reaching for the Snake Miraculous.

As many times as it takes. Even if it's twenty-five thousand, nine hundred and thirteen times, she’ll save him. At least as long as he fought to save her, or until her breaths stop coming and her heart ceases to beat.

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug fics #ladynoir #ml fic #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #lovesquare #fic:when you weren't mine to lose #hope you enjoy

[shy-violet-soul]

Love in a time of COVID-19

Summary: Bucky won’t let anything get in the way of showing you he loves you & making you smile. Characters: Bucky Barnes x you; Steve Rogers; mentions of Clint Barton, Tony Stark, & Natasha Romanoff Ratings/Warnings: Character has Rheumatoid Arthritis, mentions of symptoms & treatments. Social-distanced-fluff of the highest concentration. Clint being weird & Bucky being goofball-y awesome. A/N: I saw the photo that inspired this on IG, and laughed so hard I just about cried. The marvelous OP graciously gave me permission to include it in my fic. You’ll find it at the bottom of the work. I thought we could all use some fluff in our lives these days!

I also have a friend with Rheumatoid Arthritis who is finding this time to be exceptionally difficult. Please support those in your circle who need some extra love right now.

Thank you @pinknerdpanda​ for beta-ing once again! All the social-distanced-hugs to you!

This work is a piece of fiction inspired by characters created by the MCU. Please do not copy/print elsewhere without my written permission

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He was convinced. People’d lost their damn minds.

Bucky had survived warzone trenches in Europe. Had lived through the Great Depression. And had never seen the level of human stupidity he’d witnessed the first few days of March 2020. It’s an airborne illness - why the hell were people buying 96 rolls of toilet paper at a whack? What were they gonna do, wrap it around their mouths and breathe through it?

The Avengers Tower was going through its own issues. Stark vowed to spend his self-isolation inside one of his suits; a good idea in theory until he realized he still had to pee. Steve kept expounding on the virtues of using the time to catch up on reports. Natasha spent her time snorting at the treasure trove of new social media memes while Clint thumbed his nose at the whole thing by licking every door knob he passed. Bucky was washing his hands more just because of that. Gross.

Yes, they were pretty well hooked up to do the shelter in place, social distance, whatever the hell they were calling this thing. Bucky couldn’t fault Tony (well, probably mostly Pepper) for the very streamlined system in place that kept the Tower stocked with all manner of essentials. And, the Stark Foundation was busily getting help where it needed to go while Bruce videoconferenced with Dr. Cho and Shuri on treatments and vaccines. They were good to go for the foreseeable future.

His only real worry was you.

Your rheumatoid arthritis made this whole thing much more dicey, and - if he was being honest - a frick ton scarier. The illness suppressed your immune system, which meant you had to be more proactive on a normal day with handwashing, etc. Throw in a virus with no vaccine and no treatment? ‘Proactive’ took on a whole new definition. Sanitizing surfaces and extra cleanliness efforts were easy to step up. But he knew how much you hated being cooped inside. It didn’t help that the humidity had climbed up into the 70-ish percent region. The heavy air, coupled with the bite of winter chill still hanging on to the calendar, had your already tender joints pitching all kinds of a fit.

Right now, you were curled up in your favorite spot - a well padded window seat overlooking Central Park. Bucky had switched on the fancy fake fireplace for you, had wrapped you in blankets and propped you with pillows. The light pouring in haloed a bright shine to your hair, which normally would have a smile on his face. But your wan face pulled a grimace from him instead. Your shoulders rose and fell with a sigh, and Bucky would have cheerly scrubbed every surface of the whole damn Tower to get you out and about and smiling again.

A knock on the door spun him on his heel, and Bucky stalked to the door. Everyone knew the protocol - no visitors allowed!

“What.” Not a question, but a cold, terse demand. Steve drew a deep breath as he measured the look being leveled at him. He’d faced firing tanks with less caution. His friend’s frown was fierce versus his blank murder stare. Bucky was mad but not in an assassinating mood. 

“Buck, I’m not gonna stay. I just wanted to stop in and say hi.”

“I’ll tell her you said so.” The door swung closed in his face. Steve rolled his eyes, throwing his arms up in disgust.

“C’mon, man.”

“No.” Exasperated, Steve couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his mouth. You and Bucky were a match made in heaven. Eidetic brain with the memory of an elephant, you were hands down one of the best analysts he’d had the privilege of working with. You chased after clues relentlessly, bulldogged in your tenacity. Straight up bullheaded in your obstinacy, though. 

If anyone could out-stubborn you, it was Bucky. Lord knows, he had enough experience chasing after a certain runt who couldn’t stay out of back alley brawls. Steve knew that, in odd moments, it still struck his friend that he didn’t need his help in the same ways. When Bucky’s muscle memory had him moving before his brain caught up if Steve coughed or sneezed. He could practically see the wheels turning as Bucky struggled to stitch together broken memories with current moments. A natural protector, Bucky needed someone to nurture. To cajole and wheedle and, if necessary, out-stubborn. You fit the bill to a tee.

“I don’t have coronavirus, Bucky!”

The door snatched back open. “Oh, yeah? And how do you know that?”

“I can’t get sick. Serum, remember?”

Bucky glared at him through squinted eyes before stepping back into the apartment.

“Carrier,” he hissed, slamming the door again.

“Was that Steve?”  Fatigue even hung heavy in your voice, the faintest gravel in the back of your throat threading a husk into your words. Bucky winced with you when you shifted in your seat, struggling painfully to stand.

“Yeah. Now I’m gonna have to wipe off the door knob again,” he groused as he briskly rubbed sanitizer over his hands. “Clint’s such a dumb ass.”

You snorted softly as you padded towards him. “I know. Who licks door knobs to prove a point?”

Taking in your stiff posture, Bucky leaned in close and pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

“Why’d you get up? What do you need? I’ll get it,” he murmured into your hair. Your sigh huffed softly against his chest as you gratefully leaned against him, glancing at the clock in the kitchen.

“I should probably take another dose of ibuprofen,” the words mumbled up, uncertain. The illness had dragged up new challenges - too many doses of the NSAID was ripping up your stomach. Steroids helped, too, but you couldn’t take too many rounds too close together, and you’d already taken one prescription a month ago when the wet winter had your shoulders and wrists feeling like they were grinding straight through to your bone marrow. Pepper and your doctor were trying to get a DMARD approved through insurance, but with all this new virus ‘fit hitting the shan’, the insurance company backlog was sky high. That left you with balancing growing joint discomfort against growing stomach unhappiness. Thank God for ice packs and Tony’s ridiculously over-the-top whirlpool baths.

Bucky held in his own sigh as he pondered your situation. “Let me make you some of that chamomile tea and some toast to go with it.”

He didn’t think it possible, but your shoulders sagged even more. “I’m really not hungry, Buck.”

Threading his fingers through your hair, he gently rubbed the back of your head the way you liked.

“I’ll make it with that raspberry rutabaga jam on it. You want that?”

The catch in your throat grew to a fist-sized lump fit to choke you. The throbbing in your shoulders and arms radiated in time with your heartbeat up into your brain. Your knees felt weird - rubbery, tender, like you weren’t sure they’d support you. You missed your job, you missed your friends, you missed outside. As much as you adored Bucky, you were lonely for the other pieces of your life. The misery in your heart swelled to mammoth proportions, and you couldn’t choke back the sob that broke from you.

“I want -”

Bucky’s gut pinched so hard it hurt when you started crying. “What, love? What do you want? Anything, I’ll get it for you.”

Crying just made everything hurt more, and you swallowed hard to shove down the tears, anxiety, and stress. You glanced up, seeing the stress that pulled tight lines into Bucky’s face. You tried to offer him a smile and knew you failed pathetically.

“Rhubarb, hun. It’s raspberry rhubarb jam.”

Bucky saw you trying, knew you were trying to make him feel better, and wanted to cry himself. He’d do anything to bring back your smile.

“Rutabaga, rhubarb, whatever. You go sit, I’ll bring it out to you with the ibuprofen.”

You shook your head as you stepped away from his urging embrace. “No, I need to move around a little.” Neither of you spoke as you moved to the kitchen, content in the quiet puttering as Bucky filled the kettle and popped bread in the toaster. Out of habit, he went to wash his hands when an idea hit him.

Staring blankly out the window, your thoughts drifted to your ‘to be read’ pile as you tried to decide between starting a new book from your oft-ignored stack or comfort yourself with a lovely reread. You were so lost in your musings, you didn’t track on the activity behind you.

“Babe, can you grab the butter and jam? I’m washing my hands.”

You turned around to step to the fridge, stopped in your tracks at the sight before you, and burst out laughing. 

Bucky had taken off his metal arm and put it in the dishwasher.

Hilarity pealed from you in waves, folding you over as you leaned against the counter. You tried to catch your breath and glanced up at Bucky. The proud-as-punch smile on his face set you off again, laughing so hard your shoulders twinged at you.

When a snort broke into your snickers, Bucky couldn’t help but laugh with you. Giddiness swirled with relief at your delight, and he felt prouder in that moment that he did receiving his U.S. Army Expert Marksmanship medal in ‘42. He knew he couldn’t carry your burden for you, but in this moment, he’d lightened it a bit. Moving in close, he gathered you to his chest with his other arm, relishing the feel of your giggles against him. You gasped for breath as you wiped the tears from eyes, then reached up to cup his face in your hands, smiling fondly into his twinkling gaze.

“I love you, you giant goofball. Thank you for taking such good care of me.” 

Bucky leaned down and kissed the tip of your nose.

“Gotta take care of my best girl.” Giving you the gentlest of squeezes, he then urged you back to your cozy nest. “Go sit. I’ll bring it all out in a few.”

Still grinning, you headed for your phone. “First, I gotta get my phone. This is going on Twitter!”

#shy vy writes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #rheumatoid arthritis #RA #steve rogers #love in a time of COVID-19 #covid19 #coronavirus

[titriwrites]

In Sickness and in Health

First of all, thank you to @devikafernando for allowing me to use Charlie from our collab fanfics over at @titrianddevikawrite. I know you can use the distraction too, maybe? (By the way, this is probably an AU from our storyline as I’ve got no idea how this is going to fit anywhere :D )

And secondly, @pipolaki requested “If I die, I’m haunting you first.” from this prompt list

Enjoy on AO3 or under the cut!

In Sickness and in Health

Charlotte Cromwell – no, she corrects herself – Charlotte Hiddleston makes her way home after an exhausting day in the hospital. It’s nothing unusual, hell, she’s had a hundred times more horrible days somewhere in the past. It’s just that it didn’t really matter then. Not as much as it does now. Because as much as Charlie loves her job and helping her little patients, it’s definitely nothing compared to the life she’s living at home now.

Tom’s waiting for her there. Tom and their two daughters, because yes, Evie’s ‘hers’ now as well, and just as loved as little Rose is – who by now has her own little personality and is keeping her parents busy with all the enthusiasm and lust for adventure a two-year-old can have – especially being the daughter of one Tom Hiddleston.

Okay, Charlie admits as she slips out of her shoes first and then loses her jacket, the last week has been kind of hellish at home as well with her very own little patients waiting for her. First, it was Evie bringing the flu home from school. Of course, it didn’t take long for Rose to catch it, too, no matter how careful Tom and Charlie had been. But now it seems like their children survived – Tom has probably suffered more than them, though – and Charlie’s just glad it’s over for now.

She checks the clock in the kitchen as she prepares her tea. 9 o’clock. She swears. She wanted to tell the children goodnight, but well, sometimes her job means that she can’t make it home to her own children in order to help others. Tom knows this and Evie gets it as well, little Rose is still too young to actually understand.

At least she can still hear the tv playing in the living-room, so she knows Tom’s still there and waiting for her. It is strangely quiet otherwise, though, no padding of feet on the floor announcing her husband making his way over to meet her. Maybe Tom’s fallen asleep? The two cats aren’t coming, either, but then again they may be out and about in the neighbourhood.

Charlie grabs the tea she’s prepared and makes her way from the kitchen to the living-room right next to it. She feels so at home in Tom’s house. It’s not the largest they could get probably, and it’s still the one Tom and Evie lived in with Emily, but it’s amazing how quickly they were all able to call it ‘theirs’.

And then Charlie stops before she’s reached the comfy couch Tom loves to lounge on. He’s indeed asleep. And slightly snoring, which is unusual for him, except for when he’s a bit tipsy – Charlie can’t see a sign of that anywhere – or when he comes down with the flu. You don’t really need to be a doctor to get it, do you?

She refrains from rolling her eyes, because just yesterday her husband told her how he never got sick and wouldn’t start with it now, but instead smiles sympathetically, puts down her tea on the coffee table and sits down next to Tom.

His skin is already a bit clammy and his hair sticks to his forehead. She rubs his shoulder softly, trying to get him to wake up without startling him.

“Tom?” she whispers. “Tom, love, wake up for me?”

“No,” is the mumbled reply, groaned into the pillow underneath his head.

Charlie smothers a grin. She’s seen him with a cold or the flu once or twice. She knows what state he’s in. Right after ‘I’m invincible, I’ll never get the flu’ comes ‘I’m perfectly fine, I simply choked and am not currently coughing my lungs out’. It’s paired with already being sick and the most stubborn pouts she’s ever seen on a grown-up’s face. But no matter how much Tom refuses to be sick, he actually is. So. No mocking him. At least not tonight. Tonight she wants to drink her tea, re-heat the dinner her family’s had and then go to bed, preferably with Tom.

“I think you’re already awake, though,” she whispers back. “And I can imagine you’re not feeling too good.”

“’m fine.”

“Fine.”

Blue eyes, a bit too glassy for her taste, stare back at her. With a slight cough Tom pushes himself up on his forearms, barely able to hold his own bodyweight. The hair that’s not stuck to his forehead falls in a mess of curls around his face. “Feeling good. How was your day?”

“Tom…”

“Charlie.”

She raises a brow. “You’re really going to do this? Even though we both know how this will end?”

The glare loses some of its power – that it didn’t even have in the first place – with the quiet sniffling Tom’s doing. “I don’t know what you mean,” he croaks out. “I just want to know how my wife’s feeling.”

Charlie chuckles. There really isn’t much else to do. Let him be stubborn, she’s going to prepare for tomorrow morning then. “Better than her husband I think,” she mumbles, but continues at Tom’s huff, “I’m a bit tired and a bit hungry. I’d love to eat some late dinner and then go to bed. Would you care to join me?”

He nods. “I’d love that. But no funny business if you’re tired.”

This time, she can’t smother the laugh that escapes her. “Understood. I’m the reason we’re not doing that tonight, my big, strong, healthy man. Thank you for looking out for me.”

***

Well, the next morning Charlie is awoken by her big, strong and healthy man moaning and groaning next to her in bed. And not in that sexy-bedroom-voice of his. It’s a little pathetic coughing that comes next and a very (very, very) weakly whispered, “Charlie, love? Help?”

She opens her eyes to a dark room, cuddled from behind by what seems to be a human furnace, but could just be her husband. The dawn is breaking outside, and Charlie can hear a bird here and there. Large hands rub her stomach and puffs of air meet her neck. Tom’s apparently so weak, he can’t even keep her in his arms as she turns around to face him.

Red cheeks, swollen eyes, red nose and dry lips. Yup, that’s the flu.

“How are you?” she asks, trailing a fingertip down Tom’s nose.

“Barely alive.”

Ah. So sometime during the night they’ve reached the next stage. Miserable Tom, who’s most certainly the closest to death any person has ever been without actually dying – probably, since the next 24 hours will be crucial.

“But still alive, that’s good,” she grins.

“If I die, I’m haunting you first.”

Charlie snickers, then attempts a shocked face. It’s not working and to be honest Tom couldn’t see it anyway, lying there in misery, eyes closed. “What have I done?”

“You’re mocking me. And you’re not doing anything to make me feel better and save me. You’ll regret this in one or two hours, when you’ll find me dead in our bed.”

“But you’re not really sick. You’ve told me so yesterday.”

“The situation has changed. It seems like this is a horrible flu, Charlie. It requires a broth, pain medicine and cuddles.”

Okay. She was wrong. He does have that low, sexy, bedroom-voice. Damn him, even sick he’s a sight for sore eyes and a heavenly voice to hear. She should also not be aroused by that.

“I don’t know, Tom. Maybe I should get the children and flee from this horrible illness of yours. Everyone fights for themselves, right?”

The answer is a whine and then a little tug on her sleeping shirt, right by her thigh. “Stop mocking me. I’m seriously ill. Don’t let those be the last words to me, and make me feel better.”

“Please?”

“Please.”

Charlie lives for that small smile around Tom’s lips as she moves a little closer and then rubs his shoulders softly , before she pushes some of his hair out of his face.

“Well, you asked so nicely.”

“I did,” her murmurs, sounding half asleep again.

“Tea and toast then?”

“An’ pills. ‘n cuddles.”

With a kiss on his nose, she moves out of the bed. “Coming right up.”

“Hm. Love you.”

She smiles. God, this man. “Love you too.”

Tagging: (I hope you’re okay with being tagged in this, since it’s not the usual blog, but “just” Charlie) @nuggsmum @hallotom @sinfully-lustful-darling @royallylazy @lasimo74allmyworld @ilovetardis @witkoa61 @hakimo2015 @antyc67 @wolfsmom1 @brinschk @crushed-pink-petals-writes @avenger-nerd-mom @jhangelface0523 @deathbyukmen @say-my-name-assbut @omninocte @sf0206 @frenchfrostpudding @hiddlepiggle @theblackthrone @honeybournehippy @muchobsessedwithpretty06 @justthelosersblog @letsgetlokid @noclevernamelbr @theduchessinme @craftynidan @bemynightmanager @inkededucatednnerdy @fairlightswiftly @okiejess1208 @ladyninasayers-ish @siochan-leat @evieplease @vertdragain @youareadistraction @patheimathos @nikkalia @thebluedreamofsky @mandapanda8 @lokilockedcougar @ms-cellanies @perfect-and-awesome @alexakeyloveloki @theheartofpenelope @hiddlescastle @messy-insomniac-bookgirl @pipolaki 

#tom hiddleston #one-shot #charlie + tom #real person fanfiction #tom hiddleston fanfiction #in sickness and in health

[jackbabewang]

Genre: Veeeeery slight angst, Fluff, Best friends to lovers

Word count: 3,050

Being together is that—

No matter how many days, weeks, months, or years go by, keep every promises made.

a/n: heavily listened to coming home while writing this, maybe you should too

When we first met

Jaehyun was the kind of person who endeared himself to everyone who knew him and you were swept off your feet the first time you saw him, roaming the corridors looking for your new classroom where they’d been relocated in the beginning of each year. The school personnel had this system going on ever since the dramatic increase in the number of students and to suit the new batch of each grade, or simply cause of the Pungsu-Jiri (Korea’s Geomancy or Feng Shui) thingy. Yeah, it was kind of unnecessary. 

Given plenty of time to break away from each other’s gazes if you wanted to, but neither did even with your feet continued walking yourselves in the opposite direction. 

How could anyone have such warm brown eyes as those? It was virtually impossible! 

Jaehyun changed your whole life as you knew it. You became best of friends, and whispered to each other on every occasion possible.

Twenty minutes into the class you spent sipping your Coke with your head bent, under the desk, behind the erected textbook to shield yourself. 

History teachers were obsessed with things that weren’t there any more. They lived in the past and expected us to want to live there too. You couldn’t imagine that any history lesson can be a thrill a minute, but with Mr. Lee in command, the expression ‘to die for’ took on a whole new meaning. Mostly everyone sat there sighing and thinking, “Why are the clock hands moving so slowly, has the battery committed suicide?” Mr. Lee was a very boring teacher. You meant very boring. He looked boring and sounded boring and everything he said was boring. He was Mr. Boring-Boring, Sir Boringest, Lord Boring of Boring-in-the-Brain. He droned on and on and on about nothing you wanted to know, then wrote it all on the board and told us to copy it down, or write an essay on it, or ask him questions. He didn’t get many questions, mainly because no one had been listening or trying to read his crabby handwriting.

SLUUUURP— 

Reaching the bottom of your cup, though not too loudly, just loudly enough so that Mr. Lee, standing in the front, a few feet away, could hear you. 

“Who was that?” he roared, his eyes darting everywhere, scanning everyone, until they settled on you. 

Instinct was not about being the smartest, but it was about being in tune with your inner drive and you turned to your only friend. He first eyed you with confusion, then gave a questioning look over the top of his glasses

“Jung Jaehyun!” 

At the call of his name, his jaw dropped, eyes widened with disbelief, frustrated and full of rage at being your scapegoat. This girl! She’ll be the death of me. 

In the end, you compensated for your mistake by flashing him the widest smile in your footlocker collection of smiles.

The beginning: Promise of the youth

During the summer holiday, you secured a part-time job at a rental record store. Jaehyun would sometimes visit and you would play the newest music out dancing and clowning around when there were no customers in the store. 

“Hey, tell you something. That guy at the counter-” 

Jaehyun tilted his curious head to the direction of the said individual, not caring that the man would notice the two youngsters were openly discussing him. 

“Don’t be so obvious, idiot!” Your nudge turned him back to you, “He’s the store manager. Apparently he first met his wife here and they’ve been together since then. Believe it or not, it’s been fifteen years! Isn’t that amazing? I can’t believe anyone can fall in love for such a long time!” 

“You sure are a mathematician. And nosy.”

“I’m an expert when it comes to this.”

“Should put it into good use instead. Like, what? Education?”

“Shut up.”

When you met them, you didn’t understand what held them together. You remembered thinking, This is really an odd couple! After spending some time with them and learning their story, it all made sense. He was her anchor, and she was his ultimate challenge; but more than that, they genuinely seemed to love one another. 

“Gosh, I can't imagine how I'd be like when I'm thirty…” 

It was always the future—a perfectly vague, indefinite future that terrifies you. You wished you could stay like this forever, young forever, happy forever. Your needs are simple, far more so than the needs of an adolescent or adult. Just think of a child, laughing at the least thing that catches its fancy, the image of himself or herself in a mirror, or the way a family pet behaves. 

Here you have Jaehyun, the secret source of your happiness. 

His voice broke in upon your thoughts, “Thirty-year-old unmarried woman… There're tons of them!” 

“Thirty— I don’t want to be that—” You shuddered, fighting back waves of panic at the image of an old lady alone with too many cats. “If I’m still single at thirty, you have to marry me.” 

Your abruptness caught him off guard. He didn’t speak for a moment but there was a glint of mockery in his eyes, a mischievous smirk played on the corners of his lips, as if he wasn’t taking you any less seriously for it. 

“What kind of reaction is that?” So you nudged him in the ribs, laughing all the more when he made an overly dramatic wince. 

“I want to have a Harry Potter themed wedding… A sunflower bouquet… Ooh, and you know what? I’m gonna abandon the heels, they’re going to kill me!” 

He chuckled. What a lady. 

“How about you? Tell me about your dream wedding.” 

“That would be marrying the love of my life.” Then he grinned. The indentations in his cheeks called dimples, making his smile heart-meltingly sweet. His eyes crinkled almost closed when he smiled, too. 

“You’re boring.” 

“What were you expecting? Dyeing my hair blonde or pink or purple?”

“That would be nice too.” 

She fell in love

“Jung Jaehyun!” You shouted his name and started waving frantically. He recognized your voice immediately despite the muffling effect of your scarf. And his heart dropped to his feet when you barely checked the road for cars before you went streaking across it. 

Next to him was a guy you’d never met before. He was about the same height as Jaehyun, his right ear a bit pointed like an elf’s, and with a face like that, you damn sure would’ve remembered.

Grinning broadly, “This is my classmate, Sicheng.” 

“Hi.” As he spoke Korean with his delicate Chinese accent, the words dripped from his lips like honey. 

“And she is-” 

With a warm smile and you introduced yourself, interrupting whatever Jaehyun might have added. Though you’re already telling him of information which was much not needed.

“Oh… You both are-”

“We’re besties!” 

“We’re heading to the cafe for awhile, do you want to join us?” 

“Sure!” 

Then you fell for him and discovered that when it comes to romance, intelligence takes a back seat to stupidity. Jaehyun half agreed, half disagreed. To him, you’re always the latter even before your blind infatuation.

Cupid, that little rascal, had already fired his arrow into your heart and had no intention of letting you escape this magical feeling. And that’s how you described the whole theory of ‘Love at first sight’ to Jaehyun, who’d probably known it better than you did.

Then, she had her first heartbreak. 

“We broke up…” You showed up unannounced on his doorstep crying bitterly only for him to drag you to the courtyard, away from his dormitory where you wouldn’t be seen or heard wailing like a toddler who had lost her lollipop, where you wouldn’t be causing disturbance to the neighbouring students, and where he wouldn’t be mistaken for the one that shattered your heart into fragments. 

“He said I never stopped talking, said I talked too fast. He pretended he couldn’t understand Korean and talked shit about me in his Ching-Chong language. He said I’m annoying and loud…” You paused long enough to take a breath, and felt more tears streaming down your face. “Am I... Am I really that annoying?” 

Something about your current state made him want to pick you up and tenderly wrap you in a blanket of protection. It was laughable to hear you whining about ‘the Chinese guy’ you once fell head over heels for. He was trying hard to control his smile that wanted to show on his face, and shook his head instead. “No, not at all.”

“Am I loud?” 

Though afraid to fuel your outburst, “Sometimes…” It was a fact. 

“I am not loud…” You spun around and stomped toward the bench, your lips pouted in misery and your head placed in the south right now. 

When he patted your back in a futile attempt to calm you, you moved after his hand in double time. “Stop patting me…” A few incoherent mumbles of him being the annoying one instead, then, “Jung Jaehyun! If I’m still single at thirty, you have to marry me.” 

“You always say that.” 

“You need to swear it this time.” Wanting him to stay true to his words, you held his right hand up.

“Swear, what?” 

You rolled your glossy eyes and exhaled a breath in exaggerated impatience. Was he dumb or dumb?

“If I’m still single at thirty, Jung Jaehyun will have to marry me!” 

As he repeated, “If I’m still single at thirty, Jung Jae-”

“No!” You scolded and whacked him on the arm. “Idiot…” 

An uncontrollable smile stretched across your face as you slowly relaxed. He stared at you for a moment, grinning faintly, an amused glint in his eyes. There was magic in you, he decided. 

You slumped back into the bench, your eyes staring into space, your mind numb. Unshed tears blurred your vision and you caught the warm drops that slipped past with the backs of your hands. Naturally, you reached over and rubbed them on his jacket to try to wipe away the traces of madness. He never complained, of course. 

“You know… You do have a superpower…”

“What is it?”

“The superpower of making my tears disappear…”

As soon as the words left your mouth, you regretted them. Talk about being a charmer. “That’s gross…”

Chill crawled down your spine and he mimicked your shiver. “You are gross.” 

Long time no see

At eleven o’clock, files for the meeting laid in front of him that he probably wouldn’t even notice his phone buzzing. He looked down at the familiar caller ID flashing on the screen. 

Without thinking twice he picked up the call. 

Immediately connected through the line, your piercing cry blasted his ear. “He said he wanted to break up with me…” Unbeknownst to yourself that it was so loud the people next to him could hear you. He smiled at his colleagues apologetically and quickly excused himself from the room. 

He found what he guessed to be an unused room, hidden away down a relatively quiet corridor. Then he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed and one ankled hooked over the other. Even though he couldn’t see your face at the moment, he could paint a perfect picture of tears streaming down your face, snot hanging on your nose. 

“Okay, okay. Stop crying.” Jaehyun was laughing. You took no notice, but went on crying. The more you cried the more he laughed. Your sobs, like fulminations, were thunderous. “You’ve gotten stronger, you know that?”

“Huh? … What?”

“I said. Your howling has gotten stronger.” 

“No, it didn’t. Bastard.” 

“I’m in the middle of a meeting right now. Talk to you later.” 

Though the phone call was cut short, it made you feel much better. Instead of hogging him on, you decided to leave him a text message, saying, “Thanks for making my tears disappear.” It was that corny line again, that he couldn’t help but grin upon reading. 

“Hangout this weekend?” He replied.

Saturday of that week 

Jaehyun offered to pick you up at your place. 

“Hey.” 

It still hadn’t completely sunk in that how much you’d matured in the last few years. Medium height, you had long dark hair, which you’d forego your full bangs, soft romantic curls looked shiny and healthy, as did your skin. He could tell from the way your outfit moved along with your body that you had a woman’s figure with lots of curves. 

“It’s been awhile,” you started. 

Staring at you too much would be creepy though, awkwardly he put his hand up with a smile, he ushered you into the passenger seat and got behind the wheel of his car and drove off. 

“Broke up again?” 

“I’m okay. It’s not the first time for me.” 

He glanced over at you a time or two, perhaps worried, but you didn’t seem to be mad or crying. As he was about to speak, your cell phone’s high-pitched ringtone crashed into the conversation, shattering the moment in an instant. 

Incoming call: Jerk

“It’s him- He’s calling! Should I pick up? Should I?” 

“If you want to-” Once again he got interrupted as he was trying to talk some sense into you.

“Hello?” “What is it?” “Didn’t we break up already? Why are you still calling me?” ”You’re freaking weird. Why are you apologizing all of a sudden?” 

During your phone conversation, Jaehyun cast a rather wary glance at you before dragging his eyes back to the road. 

“Alright… I’m not mad anymore…” 

Upon listening to whatever you’re saying, though piece by piece, it sounded like you’re back together and things would be great again. After all, it was just the typical bickering between a couple. 

With a final assurance to your not-an-‘ex’-anymore that all was well and you really weren’t mad anymore, the call ended. Just as if reading your mind, Jaehyun shook his head in disbelief while you only grin at him sheepishly. At least the rest of the hangout could be enjoyed with none of pouting and sulking, you thought. 

Another six months

Jaehyun’s phone alerted him to a text, it was frank 

I’m getting engaged soon

Will hand over the invitation card when we meet next time

Two sentences of such simple words—as something bound to be, and bound to happen. Yet it left an impact on him. He swallowed to alleviate the tightening in his throat, but the feeling followed him, peaking and then fading, falling as petals fluttering from a dying bloom. For a second prior, he was really, truly happy for you. 

Somewhere on the other side, you felt a tremendous emotional effect after clicking your phone shut following the message delivered. Something ran over your head, and maddeningly ran through again and again. What was wrong? 

In a disoriented state of mind, you began rummaging through drawers and cabinets until you found the box you wanted. You pulled it out and opened it, revealing a stack of picture squares, a two carrot ring, and finally a limited edition Hamburglar figurine that both you and Jaehyun were lucky enough to redeem. The set of eyes stared dumbly at you as you silently gazed at the little thing that managed to hold such fond memories. 

Meanwhile, Jaehyun had always had the figurine with him, laid on his workstation somewhere visible so that he continued to be reminded by it. Too, he was fixated on the pair of acrylic painted eyes in remembrance of the past. 

The day before 30th 

Jaehyun had been waiting for you inside a cafe situated a block from the deadly intersection, sipping on a glass of iced latte, though the weather was nothing sort of a torrid summer. 

Upon agreeing to the meet up, he had sorted everything out in his mind and promised himself to confront you with a good-natured congratulation on your marriage none other than a dear friend should. 

Less than ten minutes later, you appeared on the other side of the glass, waving and smiling brightly. Pitter-patter of the rain drops hitting your umbrella steadily intensify as did something else… 

“Hi,” he greeted with a dimpled grin, and then wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, a smear of coffee on his chin when you snatched up his glass and took a long swallow. Again, he said nothing about your behavior that he had gotten used to, only glaring at you with the ever same expression of This girl! She’ll be the death of me. 

“Invitation card,” he said, reminding you what all this was about in the first place. 

But so nonchalantly, you uttered, “We broke up.” 

Your eyes caught the slight lift in the right corner of his lips, Jaehyun unable to stop a small smile from making it onto his face. Simultaneously, his brows raised in surprise. 

“You didn’t cry?”

Almost proud of yourself, “No.” 

“Lies.”

“Really,” you continued with the realization of the fact that, “Liking and loving someone is different.” 

Jaehyun convinced himself, to the bone, that you’re okay. Assimilating that you’d indeed matured to understand how relationship works instead of diving in blindly on the spur of the moment by acting upon emotional states like a teenage girl in love. Emotion comes and goes, rises and falls. Certainly, love doesn’t last forever. But the foundation of love is commitment, and he wished you’d learned that as well because… 

“Do you remember what day it is tomorrow?” your calm voice interrupted his chain of thoughts, as you stared at him in anticipation. 

“Of course I do. It’s your 30th birthday tomorrow.” 

Grinning and beaming with unbridled glee, for once you bet on your bold self saying that, “So, you still remembered our promise then.” 

As if he had been waiting for years, thought he was ready, but was somewhat embarrassed and gave you a warm, shy smile. The once dying bloom came back to life, thriving, lush and flourishing. The pent up feeling on that one, great heart, burst forth in an uncontrollable, deafening shout. 

“Tell me,” you coaxed his trigger to give his word of honour. 

“If you’re still single at thirty…” Nervously, he gulped and avoiding your intent eyes. “I’ll have to marry you.”

“You must keep your promise, Jung Jaehyun.” 

#nct scenarios #nct jaehyun #jung jaehyun #nct fluff #nct angst #jaehyun scenarios #jaehyun fluff #jaehyun angst

[rinusagitora]

The gray comes with you.

Fandom: BLEACH

Characters: Toushirou Hitsugaya, Rangiku Matsumoto

Pairings: HitsuKarin

Words: 1.4k

Summary: Alternate Universe. Ghost!AU. Chapter 1/?, updated on Sundays. WARNINGS- explicit violence;  Toushirou Hitsugaya hasn't lived an easy life. High school is no easier, as Toushirou is being hunted by violent bullies.

AO3

The screech of his alarm clock would open his funeral.

He groaned as he blindly ran a hand over his nightstand in search of his cell. As soon as he was upright, he felt the charge accumulated over his nine hour slumber slough off like water down the drain. It never ceased to amaze him how he stayed on his feet every morning when he was overcome by such a spell.

He opened his music app, played an upbeat pop album to hopefully wake him and cure the dread he woke with every morning with its contagious energy, and then bravely exited the confines of his bedroom.

His home was eerily empty. Momo began to leave earlier and earlier over the course of the last few weeks. She wasn’t home much, but when she was, she locked herself in her room until she left again in the early hours of the morning. His grandmother was a busy editor despite her age. That was alright, of course, but the house was made of early birds and it was surreal when not a thing stirred, like he didn’t belong.

He brushed his teeth, combed his air, quickly tired of his stupid music and tried to find something with more interesting sound, and he left home with a warm Hot Pocket in hand and a creepy podcast in his earbuds. His podcasts were like his friends, the only ones who spoke to him outside of what school required. And he didn’t mind it. Podcasts were only corny, they never made him limp.

The same couldn’t be said for his classmates.

Every morning, when the clock on the face of his school’s exterior appeared over the houses, he felt nauseous. His head turned side to side to scan for company.

The reason he lived most of his academic experience alone was his appearance. His hair was pale, his eyes were unearthly blue-green. The only thing that looked normal about him was his tan. Otherwise, he looked like a wraith. His classmates were unanimously suspicious of him. When he wasn’t ostracized, he wasn’t just picked on, he was often left injured.

He wondered if the omen was the misery it would cause his childhood, or something more sinister he was blind to.

“Hey, Freak-tsugaya!”

His concern was in the present.

He broke into a run for the school entrance. Bazzard and Cang Du, though meatheads, were expert predators. And he was prey, he had little option aside from running.

He rushed through the open front doors and ran head-first into Cang Du’s elbow. He heard the collision, he dropped like a brick to the floor, and stars exploded in his vision as his head landed on the hard tile. 

“Don’t you know to answer when I’m trynna talk to you, freak?” Bazzard asked as he writhed. “Where’ve your manners gone? Do we needa teach you some?”

His eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as Bazzard raised his fist. He rolled onto his hands and pushed himself up. Cang Du grabbed him by his neck. He was slammed into the shoe lockers four times. Pain did not capture how it felt: like he was beat against a curb corner instead of thin metal. He spat in Cang Du's eye and kicked him in the groin. Cang Du doubled over with a quiet grunt. When he turned to run, Bazzard grabbed him by his white hair and yanked him to the ground again. His face was stomped on. Blood flooded his mouth, he turned onto his side and spat out his front teeth and blood and mucus.

“What the hell are you sons of bitches doing!?”

Laughter followed in the wake of Bazzard and Cang Du. He cracked his eyes open to meet Rangiku’s grimace.

“Oh geez, they did quite a number on you,” Rangiku winced. She pulled him onto his feet and held him up by his waist. “Kotetsu-san is in today. Let’s get you patched up, kid. You poor bastard.”

He grasped Rangiku’s shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he told her.

“Me too,” Rangiku replied. “I think you lost some teeth.”

“They’re back there,” he said. “Those two are getting ballsier. I haven’t had any teeth knocked out before.” His tongue ran over the holes in his gums and the cut over his lip. He hoped he didn’t need stitches. He knew better than to hold his breath, though.

“Hitsugaya-kun, we should go to the police. They’re getting out of hand. I won’t be able to swoop in to save you someday, and that may be the day they end up maiming you. Or worse,” Rangiku warned him.

He would have frowned if his face didn’t ache so. He was already such a lonesome boy, Momo and his grandmother knew that. They had their own lives to grapple with and he knew his tribulations only put more stress on them. He couldn’t continue to tax them anymore. “Investigations are lengthy,” he lied, “I understand what you’re telling me, but I can’t do that to my family, Matsumoto.”

Rangiku frowned but said nothing more. He sat on a plastic chair upon entrance into the nurse’s office. The head nurse cursed as she turned around to greet them. He was passed a washrag to catch the blood that poured off his chin onto his top. His uniform was beyond salvaging by that time.

“Can I get a new shirt? I can’t go to class like this,” he asked. 

“You want a new shirt? Hitsugaya-kun, you should be going to the hospital. You need stitches!” Isane scoffed.

“I know you’re trained to handle minor injuries, Kotetsu. Let’s not make a big deal out of this. I just tripped.”

“And got cut that bad?” Isane retorted.

“Shit, I’m not exactly a tumbler.”

Isane’s eyes rolled. “Watch your language. I’ll wash your mouth out with chili peppers.”

“Now you’re only giving me incentive to act even more improper. Momo used to make the best stuffed chili peppers.” He missed his sister’s cooking…. “A-anyways, I would appreciate it if you stitched me up. I’ve got a quiz this morning I can’t miss.” 

“Alright, but I won’t like it.” Isane said. He watched as she prepped topical sanitation and sutures. Rangiku returned with a new shirt for him. He unbuttoned his soiled top and handed it to Rangiku in a bunch. He still oozed blood from the cut across his lips, so he chose to remain topless until he was sewn shut. At least his uniform slacks were a void for stains.

“I hope your sister’s doing well,” Isane said. “The last we met she was acting strangely. She was skittish, and she kept giving me different explanations for her black eye. Do you know anything, Hitsugaya-kun?”

He shook his head. He couldn’t figure out why Isane tried to carry on a conversation when he couldn’t move his face, but he would just be thankful someone took notice of his sister’s behavior too.

Isane made quick work of his face. It wasn’t pretty, but it was functional.

“Take an ibuprofen as prescribed on the bottle, clean the seams with isopropyl alcohol. See me again in about a month and a half so I can take those out. And don’t pick at them,” Isane instructed as he licked up the seam on the inside of his lip.

He thanked Isane and then he buttoned up his borrowed shirt. It was enormous on his tiny frame, but it was worn and comfortable so he supposed it didn’t matter.

“There’s an assembly this morning, Hitsugaya,” Rangiku told him as they left the nurse’s office. “Take a wild guess what it’s about.”

“Bullying again?”

“Bullseye,” she replied. The irony didn’t escape him. “You can crash in the faculty room until classes start.”

“I’m surprised the headmaster thinks it’ll do anything,” he snorted. “Who am I kidding? I’m totally unsurprised by bureaucracy’s naive belief that team spirit and making victims shake hands with their victimizers will fix everything. What a bunch of soft bastards.”

Rangiku smiled sympathetically. “My thoughts exactly. You poor thing.”

He sat on the couch in the staff lounge alone. Rangiku had to supervise the hallways, and that was fine by him. He only realized how exhausted he was when he sunk into the gaudy-patterned cushions. He was too tired to occupy his time with mobile games or homework or even his thoughts. He was sore, he felt like he decayed in that place, like his flesh melted off his bones and his juices seeped into the floor. High school was built to enable the strong and murder the weak. He couldn’t tell who he hated more: the entire establishment, or his feeble self.

Later he peeled himself from the couch and made it to class without any fuss from his schoolmates. He lamely stared at the zigzagged hairline of the girl in front of him until homeroom began. He hoped his lumps wouldn’t interfere with his notes….

#bleach #hitsukarin #toshiro hitsugaya #rangiku matsumoto

[alexandermanes]

halloween week, day two - the hunt

hi! welcome to day two of my halloween week fic! This one is a werevolf au, tw for blood, graphic descriptions of gore and werewolf transformation

IT BELMANES CENTRIC OK BC I ALWAYS WRITE MALEX

summary: the pod squad is a wolf squad and jesse manes hunts them down 

ao3

The moon was set high in the sky as six pairs of legs galloped on the sterile sandy soil in Roswell, New Mexico; soft thick fur dancing in the wind. Usually people steered clear from the desert once the sun had set. Tonight was a full moon which always meant agonizing metamorphosis, bones cracking, nails and fur growing, eyes glowing, teeth piercing through flesh; blood, so much blood. With every full moon came the reminder of their curse, but it also brought a foreign sense of freedom, such as running through the desert as a wolf, something so primal and common amongst various animals, something that ordinary human beings could never experience it.  

Freedom wasn’t something Michael, Isobel and Max ever experienced since their conception; the lack of freedom was passed down from generation to generation. The curse was bearable, despite excruciating, but it had its perks, though the witch that cursed their bloodline could have never predicted that once their ancestors set foot in a supposedly uninhabited “new” land they’d be persecuted by men. Not just any men, men from the same bloodline. Man who they came to know as Manes men. Maybe the witch had predicted their fate after all, an addition to their misery. With each generation of their family the tale of their curse became more and more unclear, trapped in a fog set by time, the story’s veracity crumbled; instead of a single myth there were many and each family knew a tale that diverged slightly or enormously from the original one. However, the witch’s name or her family’s name were unknown, the only common denominators in all versions of the story of the family’s curse.      

For years the Manes have hunted them and for years they traveled through the country, hiding and never staying in one place for too long yet here they were, back in Roswell after all this time. The Manes were relentless, always somehow one or two steps behind, breathing down their necks even if indirectly, they were powerful people, hunters nonetheless. And hunters, like beasts, were drawn to the smell of shed blood. Though their families vowed to never harm a hair in a human’s head the target in their heads never seemed to waver, not to the Manes.

Soon, it would be dawn, and they would morph into their human form again, and the cycle would repeat itself for other five days until the full moon would transitioned to a quarter moon. Feeling the soothing approach of dawn, Isobel directed her pack, her brothers to the nearest cave, a cave they strategically left clothes and blankets in for once they were back to being bipeds again.

“So, what’s the plan, Iz?”, Michael asked as he put on his shirt, his back to his siblings, as they had their backs turned to him too. The bare minimum of privacy.

“Survive the week, move the next”  

Once the rustling of clothes ceases silence settled, an indication they were all decent, Michael looked at his siblings, something dark settled in his features

“Y’know, this would all be done with if we got rid of them”

“All of them?”, Isobel asked pointedly, her tone imbued in annoyance

“Well-“

“Well, all of them except your precious Alex, that is”

“He is not like them”, Michael remarked wearily and slightly offended on Alex’s behalf

“They are all the same. They are all monsters”

“Izzy-“

“Michael, please. I get it, okay? You’re in love”, her brother chocked on air as if her words were some kind of revelation, “doesn’t automatically undo all the things his family did to ours”

Michael and Isobel were tied by blood, but not like her and Max, Michael was her cousin but in every way that counted he was her brother and despite being a thick-skulled, one-track minded asshole sometimes, he was and forever would be her brother. Even if he fell for a Manes man, the same men that-

No, she was not going there.

“Let’s go have breakfast”, she offered and both brothers nodded, acquiescing silently

-

   Sunlight streamed through The Crashdown’s window’s, soft and feather-like warmth enveloped the siblings. The diner was mostly empty given the fact that it was early in the morning, before seven o’clock. They were greeted by a smiling and antennae-wearing Liz Ortecho, who seemed genuinely glad to see them after so many years, and it had Max blushing just by being the receiving end of her smile.

After ordering their morning coffee and skimming through the pages on their menu, finally they ordered their breakfast food.

“It’s good to be back”, Max sighed into his coffee

“Is it though?”, Isobel muttered under her breath, still analyzing the menu, her light brown wig looking a bit more like her actual hair

“Okay, Izzy. I’d get the morning crank, if it was all that this”, Max zig-zagged his finger in her direction, looking suspicious under his baseball cap, “was about. Which it ain’t, so talk to us, Izzy”, he looked at her with his puppy hazel eyes earnestly and all her irritation melted away and grew subsequently like a cart on a rollercoaster ride.

“Fine”, she squinted her light green eyes and glared at her brothers, “I’m tired of running”, she says matter-of-factly, “if they want to come for us I say let them try to take the first swing”

“Wait”, Max says at the same time Michael chokes on his omelet

“Isobel are you sure this isn’t about -“

“Don’t”, she interrupts him menacingly, green eyes sparkling with rage and something else entirely “don’t start, Max”

“Isobel”, he tries again

“Please”, she pleads a bit too loudly earning a concerned and quizzical look from Liz and Arturo

“Okay”, her brother relents, “but we still need to talk about this”, his voice is soft but his eyes are stern, nothing short of determination, “we’ve let you call the shots, wherever you pointed to we just followed behind. Now though, staying here? With the Manes around, in their hometown? We at least need to talk about it”

Michael and Isobel nod in acquisition knowing this problem will resurface sooner rather than later.

-

               In the afternoon, Isobel and her brothers plopped down and huddled together on the small sofa inside the Bunker beneath the Sanders Auto, ready to discuss what they’d postponed for too long.

“So”, Max started, “why are we here?”

“Uh, we can’t exactly go outside and walk around like actual p-“

“Enough with the games, Isobel”, uttered wearily

“Fine”, she shouted, she adjusted her posture, back straight, predatorily so, like a snake about to lunge at its prey

“I meant what I said when I told you I was tired of running”, Isobel explained more calmly, “So I said fuck it. We can start over here and if they try anything, well”, her unfinished sentence hung threateningly in the air.

After a couple of seconds, Michael spoke: “Then what?”

“You said it yourself, Michael”, her reply is devoid of any emotion except determination

“What? We kill them?”, disbelief embedded in his query

“You were right”, she turned her body towards her brother, assessing him with her piercing gaze, “This went on for far too long and I’m done with fleeing from a place to another, never settling down for more than a couple of months then moving across the country. I mean don’t you want more from life?”

“Listen, I’m all for killing the Jesse Manes and his minions. But don’t you think we need a plan? We can’t go in bearing our canines and growling, it’s gonna get us killed”

“Since when do you plan for anything, Michael?”

“Since it comes as a matter of life and death, Isobel!”, he screams, scrambling to his feet

The youngest fits the eldest, Max, a worried glance, prompting him to chime in, to say anything about their sister’s all but suicidal plan if you could call that a plan really. Max suddenly looks at both his feet and exhales deeply and turns to Isobel, his voice barely above a whisper:

“This is about Noah, isn’t it?”

Immediately, her eyes fill with tears at the mention of her ex-fiancé, she turns away and starts pacing, meanwhile Michael and Max stare at her, the first wide-eyed and mouth slightly agape, the other unfazed.

“Iz-“

“No, Michael. You don’t get to say anything!”, she points her wavering finger to him as tears pour out of her very soul, “You get to be happy, you get to be have the person you love because that person can protect you. I don’t”

In truth, Isobel loved Noah, she really did, though it might not have been the constant butterflies and fire in her belly like she imagined romantic love to be. In all her years, the constant moving and fear that permeated her life, no partner ever stood by her side like Noah did, not that she had had many, she never needed to, she had Noah, and he was loyal and understanding of her wishes, until he wasn’t. Not that blame fell upon him for their failed relationship, but neither did it fall on her: it wasn’t her fault. Eventually the lack of stability conjoined with lack of explanation as to why they had to move at all took a toll on their relationship and it came to bitter end. And Isobel, always fierce and defying, couldn’t find it in her to confess her secret to her, at the time, partner, because it meant risking the lives of everyone she loved. And it’s not like she had any friends, she had none, haven’t been able to keep people that aren’t related by blood to her.

Hopeless, Isobel lived her everyday trying to convince herself she wasn’t meant to find any happiness in this lifetime. Despite knowing not to risk the lives of her family, she yearned for something and as that struggle grew tenfold, she faltered and here they were. She tried to find happiness in anything else in her life but without Noah, her life seemed ever bleaker than before and something inside her cracked, like a clock’s engine giving out and suddenly she was unable function properly. Thus, she decided to drag her brothers back to Roswell in a moment of weakness.

“It’s not fair”, she croaks, “This curse, it took everything from us”

“Not the curse”, Michael corrected her gently and squeezed her shoulder tenderly, “The Manes”

“What’s the difference at this point?”, she sniffled, and fit her head on the crook of Michael’s neck, burying her woeful face

Max finally stands and trudges towards his siblings and puts his hands on the shoulder that’s not embraced by Michael

“Iz, you can’t. I know you miss him, but if you see him again you might break and he can’t know”, Max explained

“I just need to see him again, please”, she sobbed desperately

Max just looked at Michael, desperation creeping, he was out of ideas, and as for his brother, he just shrugged jerkily, already feeling desperate himself.

-

As dusk approached, and the colors of the sky grew colder and darker, the three sibling where once again in the middle of the sterile soil of New Mexico, which stretched out to the horizon and all around them, which meant they were away from humans, from their peering gaze and fragile bodies. Good, she thought, face stained with tears.

They stood there in their underwear in a circle, waiting for the moment the sun excused itself to give the moon space to make an appearance in the sky.

“Iz”, Michael tried meekly, “we’re gonna figure this out, okay?”

Isobel smiled at him weakly, as if mustering a smile was the most difficult task ever, and took his hand. Her brother, for all his confidence and snark he was one soft man.

Max took her other hand and declared it was almost time. Soon enough, they started to feel the effects of their transformation, the vibration beneath their skin, their molecules rearranging themselves, the hum in their ears growing louder. If only it was just vibrating into a wolf. If only. Their bones moved as if they had a life of their own, which in nights of full moons they did, it was a kind of pain you had no words for, their organs squished between their bone structure as their whole body shifted to a new form. The cracking and moving made an awful noise especially with their heightened senses. They fell to the ground, body accommodating their four-legged body. They’d scream if they could, but only whimpers come out. Blood streamed out of their ears, eyes and noses, and once their teeth sharpened and pierced their gums, blood poured out of their mouths as well. The hairs on their body grew, itching, long and thick as they became fur. Though the pain was excruciating, they stood in their wolf bodies for the sheer power of magic that coursed through them.

Fully transformed, they shook their bodies like a dog dripping with water would, shaking the after-effects of the metamorphosis. They assed each other, making sure they were okay. Isobel went in front of them, pearly white fur bouncing under the moonlight, her eyes emerald green, and Max followed behind, velvety black fur and honey eyes and finally Michael, golden fur and golden eyes, queued behind. They didn’t explore by themselves tonight, nor did they run free, they simply strolled aimlessly. Wandering. They roamed through the desert for what it felt like hours.

Something in the distance caught their enhanced hearing: a car, and it was speeding closer and closer, instead of running and hiding in the nearest cave they stood still. Something, instinct if you must label it, told them this was no ordinary vehicle filled with curious tourists or bored and unruly teens; this was deliberate, not an accident. So they braced themselves for the fight, knowing full well it was Jesse Manes and whoever planned to exterminate them specifically. Yes, them, their family, because even when they kept their noses clean, keeping a strict non-human (as food) for diet, the Manes were still relentless, with the exception of one Alex Manes who was disgustingly head-over-heels in love with Michael.

So they stood still, predatory stance and unyielding focus, and waited. A couple of minutes later, small spheres of yellow gleamed in the darkness of nightfall. They grew bigger and bigger until the trio saw them for what they were: headlights. A black SUV, menacingly approached them rapidly until it stopped about seven feet away from them. Out of it jumped, expectedly, Jesse Manes and someone else, someone who looked awfully similar to Alex but wasn’t. In their hands they wielded glistening silver guns which were probably loaded with silver bullets. How convenient. Arms steadily pointed at them, the siblings would have to prepare an attack that’d be quick and unexpected. No one moved, not even by inch, time seemed to have stilled and the air was as thick as their wolf fur, it was harder to breathe.

Then, something different filled the air. And of course, Michael smelled him before he saw him, his siblings who followed closely behind. The wolves’ laser-focus wavered, ears moving in a way that allowed them to pick out the sound of another car more efficiently. Noticing the distraction that took over the wolves, Jesse Manes looked at the other man questioningly who shrugged equally confused until the other SUV was parked behind Jesse’s. And out of it climbed none other than Alex Manes who without second thought shot who they realized now was his brother sided with Jesse. The shot was aimed at his knee, and he fell to the ground with a shout. Jesse had barely any time to react when a bullet pierced his chest, a clean shot to his heart and as he fell to the ground kneeling and before him stood a man, as tall as Max, maybe taller, dark hair and dark eyes, strong clenched jaw. His smelled like sweat and something incredibly sweet. He was the most beautiful thing Isobel had ever set eyes on. The clink of metal being hit brought Isobel out of her daze and she snapped her attention to her brothers seemingly unharmed. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw movement, she braced for an attack momentarily only to realize it was Alex, moving closer to them.

“Is he dead?”, Alex breathed out

“Yeah”, the other man whispered, his voice made Isobel shiver

“Can you take Flint to the hospital? I can take it from now, Greg”, Alex came closer to him and patted his shoulder, “Thanks for helping. You didn’t have to do that”, he pointed to their father’s lifeless body

“It’s fine, Alex. I should’ve protected you from him sooner”, Greg replied

Alex nodded in thanks and as Greg moved to assist Flint, who resisted the help accusing them of treason, he spared a glance to Isobel whose heart thumped so fast she thought she might have a heart attack. Then he turned back, hauled Flint up and sat him on the passenger’s seat then jogged to the driver’s seat. He drove away and took a piece of Isobel’s mind and her with him.

“It’s over guys”, Alex announced, “He is dead, and you’re safe now. My brother and I will handle Flint but we won’t let him close to you. I’ll protect you from now on”

Michael, the sap, galloped towards him, and wrapped his body around him, and rubs himself onto him like a house cat, leaning his very wolf weight on him and earning a startled laughter from his boyfriend, Alex, tumbled a bit but did not fall. Alex, who a moment before shot his own brother to keep them safe and now was gushing over Michael’s domesticated feline behavior. And Isobel knows she should feel guilty for judging her brother’s boyfriend so harshly, she should also feel relieved for being set free from the Jesse Manes’ claws. Except she feels confusion and longing directed at a man she’d just met.

She hoped she could introduce herself properly to Alex’s brother and she desperately hoped her feelings would be reciprocated.  And the very least,  possible she hoped she’d see him again.

#roswell new mexico #alex manes #michael guerin #isobel evans #max evans #jesse manes #werewolf au #belmanes #background malex

[ourladytamara]

Home Chronology

Home Chronology

Tamara - 2020

Content warnings: breathplay/asphyxiation, torture, consensual non-consent, electrocution, and implied murder.

Time’s an odd thing, when you break it down. It’s hard to explain without referencing itself and muddying your own explanation. We run our lives by time. Minutes, hours, days, months, years. And yet, humans are the only beings which crawl upon the Earth’s magnificent surface to burden themselves with time’s passage. Isn’t that strange? For all our worries with deadlines, dates, schedules, and the ever-forward tick of the clock, we have only ourselves to blame. If we decided tomorrow to ignore time entirely, returning to a sunlight-based way of living, we’d be free to live without chronology’s unnecessary burden - and, clearly, be all the better off for it.

But is that entirely true? Without a rigid system of dates and hours, we’d have a far more free-floating society, that’s undeniable - but we’d simply stop measuring time, not the flow of time itself - a delightfully regular thing, as it turns out; each day is only so long, of a generally standard length, and it is also only so long until the Earth, all of its worried little people aboard, goes a full revolution around the Sun.

For the sake of argument, let’s continue to use time. Additionally, for the sake of argument, of course, let’s take a girl. She had a name, but I might’ve forgotten to take it down before shutting her up; I’ll call her Jane Doe, since I imagine the police are soon to follow suit. Five foot four, a hundred and sixty pounds, give or take whatever her hair weighed. Decently curvy, I suppose, a nice body regardless. She’s raven-haired, (what remains of it, anyways) quite shy, kind of the nerdy type - still a virgin, I checked. In another life she might’ve found my study interesting, based on her apparent interest in psychology. Not this one, though - in this life, for the sake of argument, she’s strapped to a chair. Nude, shivering, terrified; the waterboarding was a bit overkill, I will admit, but fun nevertheless.

Impatience is one of my many vices. It’s difficult not to see my time as a precious resource, after all, and with so much to do I knew I had to work with Jane quickly. Getting back to my place from here would be another several hours, only so many of which before her coworkers began to look for her.

I took her from her cheap studio half past two in the morning. With some gentle coaxing I was able to silently wiggle open her half-latched window in only six minutes, and within thirty seconds I had her mouth in my hand and a syringe of propofol in her pretty pink vein. God, her smile - I knew it was more impulse than bliss, a flinch of her facial nerves, but I still wanted so badly to kiss her...

The basement took three hours and sixteen minutes to get ready. Plastic sheets cover every surface, tacked down to prevent even a single drop of fluid spilling. Our little Jane Doe’s chair is in the center of the room, just opposite the curtained-off stairwell. Harsh fluorescent light bathes her skin in burning alabaster - maybe she ought to thank me for the blindfold; they shine eight hours a day in total, but not all at once. Beneath the plastic on the ceiling is a layer of soundproofing foam to absorb what the house itself won’t, the concrete walls and soil will do the rest. By my estimates - and based on how dilated her pretty pupils were - it was probably around four when the propofol started to wear off, consciousness returning to her utterly bound and helpless form in waves of throbbing pain. No time had passed in her mind, yet her body ached with the strain of countless lost hours. She’d stopped measuring - the world hadn’t.

At around 6:30 in the evening I took the black rag around her eyes off and spat in her face. It’s the first thing she’s felt in over two days beyond the sticky crinkle of plastic beneath her bare feet and the cold, stale air. For an instant it’s terrifying - the second after it gets worse, once her eyes start to adjust. By my guess the lights have been off for the past hour and a half, or so; I didn’t notice if she was sleeping or not and I truly didn’t care.

A frantic “What are you doing with me?” formed in her throat before her eyes lept to the IV in her arm, then again to the plastic bag and roll of tape in my hand, silencing what little sound she’s able to choke out around the ball gag. Eyes wide like exhaustion-pink dinner plates, a scream leaked spitlike from the corners of her mouth, coating her hefty breasts in reflective shame. Disappointing. I was hoping it’d be a while before she noticed it, giving me enough time to interrogate her a bit more in her last few hours of relative sanity.

Like I was saying, time’s a funny thing. A lot of things in Jane’s life were about to be really, really funny - to me, at least - and time was possibly chief amongst them. Remember that disconnect between the measurement of time and its true flow I mentioned earlier?

Now we’re getting somewhere.

The clock’s catching up. It’s seven in the evening and she’s been crying for the last half-hour, in and out of lucidity depending on whatever I’ve been rambling to her about. My life, her life, things I want to do to her - I like to monologue for a bit before really getting to know my victims. Our culture kind of trains you to expect a villain monologue, doesn’t it? After all, without it, there’s so little to fill that precious length of time between the wake-up and the torture itself. Something about that humanizing little pause seems necessary if I don’t want to rush, and it gives me an easy outlet to let off some steam. It’s what I do instead of therapy - I guess I do a lot of things I shouldn’t do, instead of therapy.

“And that’s why I needed you to help me test it. Time itself is relative - hm, the bags? Oh, the plastic bags are important, too, but those aren’t as directly related as my relationship with my mother…”

Jane thrashes around in her bondage before giving out limply. Clearly she’s tired of listening; I wrinkle the bag in my hand and snap her focus back to me.

“Hmph. You spend all that time in the dark and yet it’s almost like you’re ready to go back in!” I say, ignoring her whines as I step closer, plastic in hand. Truthfully I was getting bored of my one-sided therapy appointment - I’ve been over it countless times with countless other girls just like Jane, of course, but it often helps to repeat what I already know. “And here I was, about to tell you your plans for the evening! You really make bad company, you know - no wonder nobody’s looking for you yet…”

Tears well up in her eyes, which I quickly lick clean from the source; the saltiness of dehydration gives me an indication of how marinated her misery really is. They’re salty, coppery, almost acidic. I’ll have to adjust her intravenous drip to give her a bit more water, but for now she’s ready.

“How long’s it been?” I ask, my voice a layer of soft buttercream atop knives and needles. “Not in a cosmic sense, this time, I’m asking you literally - how long do you think it’s been since you got here?”

I slide a finger between her lips and gag and separate them just enough to allow her to whisper.

“W-why are you doing this to me?”

I pull it out and strike her across the face with a loud, fiery clap.

“How long has it been since you got here?”

“Ten hours!?”

“Wrong.”

Another slap.

“But that’s good.”

I need a subject as divorced from any concept of the current, measured time as possible. To Jane she may as well be, and have been, here forever, been born here and died here, her fifty-odd year lifespan compressed into the 72-odd hours she’s been in my captivity. Ideally I’d let her stew longer until she’s a bit more unresponsive, but I’m unfortunately short on time.

On average, human beings can go two minutes or so without oxygen. That’s a tiny, precious sliver of time which could separate life from death, a desperate gasp from the cold and twitching grip of Hell. Little enough time to prove my hypothesis, I hope.

See, even though our concept of how long things are - 24-hour days, 7-day weeks, and so on - is pretty much entirely bullshit, I’m curious to see how closely it matches the linear march towards entropy, the metronome of the universe to which everything’s set. If a mind completely divorced from outside bias is able to accurately guess a physically-measured length of time, it means time is innate - and probably a whole lot less bullshit than we might think.

That’s a lot of flowery language to tell you that I’m going to put a plastic bag on this girl’s head until she stops breathing. Basically, I need Jane’s sleep-deprived estimate of her own breath to match as closely as possible to the time on my stopwatch. If I’m right, and time turns out to be bullshit, she should be way off. I’ll give her a margin of twenty seconds or so.

If she’s further off, well, I have some other things in my bag for that, but those’re for later.

I unfurl the staticky, filmy plastic bag, a red ‘THANK YOU’ design emblazoned across the front, adding a tiny pop of color to my black getup and the monochrome walls. Jane starts sobbing again, trying to spit her gag out and succeeding only in covering herself in more slobber. Poor bitch; out of pity I wipe it up before striking her again. Obviously she knows what’s coming, but I have yet to explain myself.

“You need to tell me how long I have you in the bag once I cut you out, okay?” I command, my tone unwaveringly firm. “If you’re close I might even let you go. Try to be as accurate as you can - down to the second, if possible.”

Unfortunately this doesn’t do much to assuage her fears, and so with a tightening cinch of her leather bondage I get to work. Seconds pass, and still she refuses to acknowledge my terms.

“I’m doing this regardless of your agreement, so it’s only better for you if you just listen to me, honey; all I need you to do is keep time.”

She tries to pull against the newly-strengthened leather as I pull the limp plastic bag over her head. Ignoring her movements, I twist the mouth of the bag around her throat and pull it off, tightening the seal and utterly depriving her of air. In my secondary hand I have a stopwatch, now ticking up from zero. One. Two.

“Remember, doll, get as close as you can and I’ll consider letting you go. Alright?”

In response she simply screams futilely into her gag and throws her head back against the chair. It’s like she’s not even trying, I think as I grip her by the shoulder to prevent the worst of her seizing. Fuck, if I knew she’d be so uncooperative I would’ve just gone with the backup girl - currently tied up beneath the floorboards, for easier storage - instead of wasting my time with this one. Fifteen seconds, now, and she’s about to run out of air in the bag.

...hm. A wicked thought crosses my mind as I tie off the bag and leave it, stopwatch still ticking, and reach into my bag of tricks. I was saving this for her second try, of course, but if the bitch is putting up this much of a fight I may as well skip a step. Out comes a vibrator wand, the white shaft wrapped in the power cord; it’s clearly well-used, visibly beaten up in many places that a vibrator really, really has no right to. Beside it, a stun gun, the two-pronged kind you slam into would-be attackers. Fully charged, it emits a high-pitched crackle as I test out the trigger, much to Jane’s onlooking horror.

Data is important, but sometimes reinforcing the hierarchy is a bit more important, and Jane clearly needs some reinforcement. Despite my repeated efforts to persuade her through kindness, she refuses to take to my commands, threatening everything I went through to procure her by giving me an ultimately-disobedient subject. That won’t do; while it pains me to introduce… outside variables into my experiment, it’s a safeguard for my work’s future if I nip this rebellious attitude in the bud.

A buzz as I fire up the twin prongs of the handheld taser, lightly jabbing it into Jane’s tender inner thigh. That seems to work; five seconds of pained sputtering later, she relents, finally nodding to my request.

“Good! I was starting to worry that I’d need your replacement sooner than expected,” I declare, keeping it vague to scare her, “but I’m glad you’ve decided to come around.”

Another jab snaps her back into position. 45 seconds pass, and Jane’s starting to get red in the face. Sweat drips down her chest and cascades off her tits, prompting me to lick it up before it spills onto the less-than-cleanly chair beneath her. At this point I can tell she’s struggling to decide if the taser or the bag is worse; it’s a struggle I can taste in every shallow breath as I work my tongue up her naked body. Zap, again - this time to her lower stomach, just above her crotch. Never at her heart, of course - this is as high as I’ll go, as I have… prior reservations at the morgue with a woman and a chest-bound taser.

Of course, that lucky lady isn’t getting the vibrator. Taser in hand and eye on the stopwatch, I dart to the wall outlet, five seconds passing as I plug the extension cord in. White plastic trails across the dirty concrete as I hurry back to my position above Jane. Click - a different buzzing. I push the white plastic tip into my subject’s clit and hold it there. Seconds pass in a fugue of revulsion and pleasure.

By the first minute she’s entirely cherry-red. Every inch of flesh is a magnesium flare of color in the drab, plasticine basement; wherever I place a finger, flesh or electric steel, lights up bright, bloodless white. She’s like a doll, porcelain cast in the colors of twilight; sometimes you can’t help but wax poetic, can you? A minute and ten, and finally I feel her drop limp in my arms, eyes drooping closed as she runs out of air.

In short seconds I grab the scissors and snip away at the now saliva and tear-soaked plastic film, ripping it where the blades fail to give sufficient air. I snap the stopwatch and glance down at the final time - 0:01:09:29 - before moving to hold her mouth open to breathe.

“And I didn’t even have to snap at you! How nice of you, my darling - I had a feeling you’d come around.” I coo, keeping my voice low to comfort her. “How long do you think that was?”

Jane stares at me with anger in her puffy, red eyes. She’s clearly fixing to spit at me, to scream and writhe with every ounce of adrenaline she has; despite the fire in her, she still remains limp beneath my touch. Beneath her sits a patch of wetness distinct from her tears and slobber. Panting, breathless, she motions to speak.

“45 seconds,” she begins with a gasp, “and… f-fuck, uh, 50 miliseconds...”

A wide smile spreads across my face. I hold the stopwatch in front of her and give a long, intimate look at the extent of her failure. My wrist digs the vibrator in a bit, eager to try and make her cum at the peak of her despair - yet, sadly, she simply slumps in her chair, tears welling in her eyes as she starts to silently sob.

“You do remember what I told you, right? You have to get it as close as possible.”

Jane sobs, convulses, and drops unconscious in the seat before me.

“Disappointing.”

I click the vibrator off and crack my neck.

An inconclusive result, I’m afraid. That’s one of the funny things about time, I suppose; I spend so long preparing for such a quick experiment, only to walk away empty-handed. It’s likely I owe it to my own tainting of the results, I will admit. Impatience is, after all, one of my many vices, but not one nearly as intense as my disdain for insubordination.

Jane and I will try again tomorrow, I think. For now, I’ll let her get a few minutes of rest in, lights still blinking and feet still cold and grimy. She’ll need the rest if I’m to get any further in my experimentation - and maybe, it’ll go a ways to showing her how very, very precious her time is, indeed.

[neonlustmusic]

Pathos is the Los Angeles-Based Philosophical Post-Punk Band You Always Wanted

Pathos is a 4-piece band out of Los Angeles that makes fast, introspective hardcore post-punk. Their latest release is a 2019 EP titled Allergies to Living People. The EP, a breath of fresh air in the current smog of L.A.-based bands, features honest and cathartic songs which see the band practicing self-analysis or self-reflection. The themes and attitudes expressed on this album make the band similar to Minor Threat or Black Flag. I think they could appropriately be called a millennial academic’s Black Flag. For anyone wanting a smart punk band, a band that has read some philosophy, but also doesn’t try to indoctrinate you, Pathos is the band for you.

Having been following the band since their debut in 2017, I can affirm that Allergies to Living People, the band’s 3rd EP, is their best offering yet. It is a dark, fuzzy, melancholic, and moody collection of sounds that reminds me of Joy Division and Surf’s Up-era Beach Boys, but with more emphasis on nausea.

Clocking in at just under ten minutes, ATLP is loud, angsty, emotional and self-examining. Touching on several existential topics, the EP could be seen as an intro to Camus or Sartre, putting into practice that essential tenet, “the unexamined life is not worth living,” which is interesting considering their debut EP is titled Examined Life. On ATLP, however, the band takes that tenet and puts it into practice. Imagine the singer live-streaming human activity and offering real-time analysis and biting commentary. That’s Pathos.

But if you’re thinking of the privileged brand of existentialism, you would be mistaken to think the songs contain anything like ennui. The songs could have easily drifted into hopelessness and apathy. Instead, the songs are filled with optimism. The lyrics are concrete, rooted in authentic experience, most obviously the singer Art Ramirez’s attitude and perspective. And he uses that as a springboard to excellence, not into the deep end. The band flirts with wallowing in melancholy and then ghosts the misery, never texting her again.

The intro song “Benign Indifference” puts the punk back in post-punk. It’s a great introductory song, and the fastest one on the EP. After getting that explosion of energy right at the start, the EP progresses to more nuanced and ambiguous territory.

Using distorted, surfy, dreamy riffs, the band hits its high note on songs like “Easy Free,” where Ramirez says “In the present life,/hurt don’t go away/But I’d rather have fun today/But It’s hard when everything around sucks/It never ends.” There is something Sisyphean about that statement. It’s an expression of despair/existential angst, a response to the difficulties of being a young working-class person in Los Angeles, but it also addresses the situation from a point of maturity. It’s not wallowing in despair, it recognizes it, and builds from it, despite the difficulties involved.

On ATLP, the band seems focused on affirming life even if it sometimes leaves a bitter aftertaste, as illustrated on “Awful Taste All the Time,” even if the realities are uncertain, frustrating, and disappointing. The band seems to be responding to the prompt: yes, the world is terrible and nausea-inducing, so how do we live our lives? We just have to deal with the cards we are dealt, and open our eyes, and be the best we can be, the album seems to be saying.

On “Awful Taste All the Time,” Ramirez offers his actions as a template: he speaks about breaking away from chemical dependencies as crutches, and instead facing difficulties head on. The songs speak of troubles only to emerge with a positive outlook: the demand to live without apathy towards others, since many people may be going through the same struggles. In other words, living responsibly. Simone de Beauvoir would be proud.

The Existentialists, however, were responding to the atrocities of World War II. Pathos can be seen responding to the horrors of being a millennial American who is also a critical student of history, wise beyond his years, one who must endure the common class struggle and modern racist world.

While the band’s early music was critical of society and confrontational, like on “Long Gone” a song from their first EP, where Ramirez says, “I’ve got your attention/My tired brown skin making you reactive/I’m the weirdo in a dark dirty corner/Fuck the manager I wanna see the owner,” today, the band is meditative, but calculating, offering a double dose of focused music with mature themes. Compared with earlier releases, Allergies to Living People is the logical next step, and here the music is more ambiguous, rewarding repeat listeners with increased insight.

Continuing the strive towards excellence outlined in the music, the band itself is very much aware of the societal structures that oppress individuals and they seek their dismantling. In 2020, the year of worldwide protests and demonstrations, the band showed their support for the movement with fundraisers for local Black Lives Matter chapters, an appropriate move for a philosophical punk band like Pathos.

Don’t let your parents or Twitter tell you that a Philosophy degree is worthless. It’s actually a very efficient lens for millennial punk bands. And if you’re looking for a smart band with teeth, Pathos is that band.

Follow Pathos on Instagram: @thepathos Follow Pathos on Twitter: @wearepathos

Bandcamp link: https://thepathos.bandcamp.com/album/allergies-to-living-people

#Spotify #pathos #band #los angeles #nlp #music review #featured

[kaiunkaiku]

Sickdays 6, May 21st: Noisy

Fandom: MCU

Summary: "He considers trying to find his phone and calling Bruce because really, even if he’s no stranger to debilitating aches this is getting too much even for him. But that would mean talking, or looking at a screen, and both concepts are awful."

Warnings: Tony sucks at taking care of himself, mentions of needles, the whole thing is just a migraine fic

IT’S STILL THE 21ST IN AMERICA SO I’M TECHNICALLY NOT LATE

For @taylortut

Ao3

The world is so goddamn loud. 

It’s really not, he knows, but his ears have lost that memo somewhere, buried under the mountains of work littering the surfaces in the lab. Tony presses his hands harder on his ears as the soft, mechanical whirring of automated processes in his lab slices into his brain. He’s already resigned himself to painkillers, but that was hours ago and his head is still splitting in two, every noise and every glinting light making it exponentially worse. 

He doesn’t know what time it is; he doesn’t even know what day it is. He muted JARVIS when everything was starting to get too much so he can’t ask him, because unmuting him sounds like a world of pain. He has no idea how long it’s been. He feels like he’s been in pain forever. 

(He has been in pain forever, but this specific pain has probably lasted significantly less than that.)

He’s tired as hell. He can’t sleep because his head hurts like hell. He would probably feel better if he could fall asleep. 

He considers trying to find his phone and calling Bruce because really, even if he’s no stranger to debilitating aches this is getting too much even for him. But that would mean talking, or looking at a screen, and both concepts are awful. He found out some time ago that even his own voice grates at his ears. Hours ago? Maybe? Days? How long has it been? 

His thought process isn’t what it should be. It’s halting every few steps, sometimes crumbling altogether, and he can’t string two coherent thoughts together even when he can make them separately. Sleep deprivation, probably. Maybe dehydration. Definitely a migraine. He’s gonna throw up if he tries to put anything in his mouth, water included. 

Turns out, he doesn’t have to venture away from his ratty couch in search for his phone after all, even if the idea is sounding increasingly tempting while also sounding absolutely dreadful, because at some point of Tony wallowing in his misery the door to his lab opens and someone walks in. The footsteps sound like bombs going off in his head.

“Tony?” Bruce’s voice is low, not quite a whisper but almost, but Tony can’t suppress the groan he makes at the stab the word takes at his brain anyway. 

“There you are. Talk to me.” Tony cracks one eye open and comes face to face with Bruce hovering over him. A warm hand is placed on his forehead; it feels both comforting and painful, the act itself welcome but the contact burning on his hypersensitive skin. 

“Hi there, Brucie,” Tony breathes out, letting his eye fall back shut. “Nothing to talk about. Jus’ a headache.” He tries to give Bruce a crooked smile, but he’s fairly sure it comes out as a grimace. 

“Tony, nobody has seen you in three days. You muted JARVIS sixteen hours ago. He’s been freaking out a bit.” That long? Huh. “That’s not just a headache. Have you taken anything for it? When’s the last time you drank water?” 

Tony presses the heels of his palms to his eyes and takes a deep breath. Exhales slowly through his mouth. Bruce’s hand on his forehead shifts, moves closer to his hairline and travels into his hair. It’s probably greasy and disgusting as hell. If he’s been in his lab for three days he probably hasn’t showered in at least four. 

Right. Bruce asked him something. 

“Dunno,” he mumbles. Was there something else? Yeah, the painkillers. “Uh, took a few pills at some point. Didn’t help. Time’s all,” he makes a wavy gesture with one hand that bumps into Bruce’s arm,” screwy.”

“I bet,” Bruce huffs. Tony gets the feeling he’s smiling a little. “You should be in medical, but the place is a nightmare.” The hand disappears from his hair. Tony is inclined to agree – he avoids doctors other than Bruce whenever he can already, and SHIELD medical is its own kind of hell. The lights are always too bright, there are people bustling around, and he’s had several anxiety attacks there. So. Not a fan. Especially now.

“So how about my lab instead?” Bruce asks. Places his hand on Tony’s shoulder so that he can rest his fingers at his throat and feel his pulse. “I think we need to get some stronger painkillers in you.” Tony can picture Bruce’s expressions in his head. It’s nice to have something to focus on, besides the pain, even if it is exhausting. 

Bruce takes his hand and pinches his skin lightly. “And water. You’re dehydrated.” 

“I will throw up anything you put into my mouth and I will pass out if I stand up,” Tony says. His voice is hoarse; scratchy. If it were anyone else he would be vehemently denying everything and anything, but Bruce is… Bruce. Bruce has been an exception for a while, now. There’s something soothing about having an exception. And the possibility of feeling better sounds awesome. 

“You know that means an IV,” Bruce warns gently. 

“I know,” Tony says. He contemplates his next words for a moment, waits through the surge of anxiety it brings to say them sincerely, to really mean them. “I trust you.” It’s difficult. It makes him hold his breath for a tad longer than he needs to in order to keep the pain in check. 

(Nothing’s keeping the pain in check, really. But deep, controlled breaths do a little.)

Bruce takes his hand and squeezes. 

It’s quickly determined that he, in fact, cannot stand at all – can’t even sit up. The attempt leaves him shaky, makes his blood roar in his ears (why does even his own body have be so goddamn loud, please, make it stop–), and requires Bruce to think about an alternative solution. 

He suggests moving the equipment down to Tony’s lab. 

“Clint’s hanging around, I can have him help me carry the equipment,” he says. “Thor and Steve are also here, and I think Sam is, too.”

“No Rhodey?”  Tony asks. 

“No Rhodey,” Bruce confirms. “Sorry.”

Rhodey would be his first choice for everything, always. He’s the one person that has stuck with Tony all these years, more family to him than anyone else. But Rhodey has his own life that doesn’t revolve around Tony, so he can’t always be there. Barton is the least horrible choice out of the rest of the Avengers, having seen him running on caffeine fumes with a migraine before. He doesn’t need Thor’s booming voice, and he especially doesn’t need Rogers and his condescending hovering.

“Barton it is, then. Can you turn off the lights?” 

Bruce squeezes his hand again, and turns off the lights as he exits. 

With Bruce gone, Tony is left alone with his blinding, brain-splitting headache. His fingers crack as he presses them to his eyes, and it’s like fireworks right by his ears. There’s a clock, somewhere. Why does he have a clock that ticks? Why would he ever get an analog clock? Pepper’s doing? Is the god-awful ticking even a clock? 

He has no idea how long Bruce is gone, but this time the door opens and there are two sets of steps walking in, accompanied by the clinking of medical equipment. Tony squeezes his eyes shut and moves his hands to cover his ears. Bruce starts setting up what he needs, giving quiet instructions to Barton who quietly does what he’s told. The lights are on again, but Tony finds that far less of an issue than the steps and the clinking and the talking and the ticking and the whirring echoing in his ears. 

Then Bruce turns to Tony. He takes his wrist and gets him ready so he can stick a needle into him, and calmly talks through the entire thing. He explains what he’s doing step by step, pausing for a while to give Tony a moment to calm down when everything gets too much for a second. Bruce lists the chemicals he’s going to be injecting into him, and finally picks up a woven blanket from the backrest of the couch and settles it on Tony. 

It doesn’t take long for the painkillers to kick in. Bruce dismisses Barton, who shuts the lights off as he leaves, and picks up a StarkPad from a nearby table as he settles on a chair. Tony can feel the the pain first shifting, and then starting to dissipate – it’s like it drains away and reveals a slightly soggy but mostly functional train of thought. 

He’s exhausted. He knew that already, of course, but the absence of pain leaves him with a chance to actually fall asleep. 

So he does. 

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