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merrybloomwrites · 9 months

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You Can Start a Family (Extra: Sickfic Part 1)

Summary: Y/N gets sick and Mitch, Sarah, and Harry take turns doting on her.

Previous Chapters: One ; Two ; Three ; Four ; Five ; Six ; Seven ; Eight ; Nine ; Ten

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Grabbing extra blankets, you bundle deep under the covers of your otherwise empty bed. You hope that your cats will join you soon so you’re not completely alone.

It’s not like you have other people in bed with you every single night. Since you started dating Mitch and Sarah earlier in the year, and added Harry to the relationship three months prior, you’ve spent a decent amount of time alone. One might think that wouldn’t be the case with two boyfriends and a girlfriend, but they’re busy people.

Harry has been writing his next album, traveling twice for writing retreats with his collaborators to minimize distractions. On top of that he’s had meetings, photoshoots, and other projects that require him to be away from you for days at a time.

Meanwhile, Mitch’s album had dropped just a couple weeks prior, and he and Sarah were busy promoting that.

All in all, you were very used to sleeping alone. But for some reason you were really missing them tonight. They had all been home for just three days before they had to fly out to Los Angeles to prepare and rehearse for Harryween.

It had been a somewhat last-minute decision to actually do Harryween this year, since tour had ended a few months before. But the venue was open and most of the band was available, and they knew tickets would sell out immediately, so they decided to pull the trigger and go for it.

That meant that they needed to fit in all of the prep work the week right before Halloween, leaving you alone at home for days. They had left Sunday morning, and since it’s now Tuesday, it’s your third night without them.

You only need to make it until Thursday, and Mitch will be back for a couple of meetings, and then you’ll fly to LA with him for the two shows at the start of the following week.

Knowing that it’s only two more lonesome nights would normally help you, but for some reason you just feel so alone tonight. The bed feels too big and empty and cold. You are cold, freezing, bone deep cold. It isn’t even that chilly out, a mild fall evening.

It’s early to get in bed, not even 9 PM, but you feel exhausted. You wish you could just call them, but you know with the 3-hour time difference that they’re definitely still rehearsing, probably not even taking their dinner break for another hour.

You settle for playing their music, your go to when you just need to hear their voices to feel them close to you. It doesn’t take long before you fall asleep.

The blaring alarm wakes you the next morning, and even though you slept over nine hours, you’re still tired. You go to say good morning to the cats who joined you at some point in the night, and your voice comes out groggy. You clear your throat which only leads to a coughing fit. It doesn’t last long, and you’re fine while you get ready for work, so you figure it was probably just a tickle and not a big deal.

Wednesday is the same as Tuesday, most of your days truly blending together. You take a bath after dinner, hoping it will help the new aches in your joints that bothered you all afternoon, and you nearly fall asleep in the water. If it weren’t for your phone ringing, you definitely would have been out cold within a minute.

You dry your hands and grab the phone, checking who it is before answering.

“Hello,” you say, and notice your voice once again sounds a little rough.

“Hi love,” Sarah replies. “I’ve only got a minute, but I wanted to check in. I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“What are you up to?”

“Decided to relax tonight, currently taking a bath.”

“Is that so? Wish we could facetime,” Sarah says cheekily.

You laugh at how forward she can sometimes be and reply, “Get your mind out of the gutter Jones!”

“I know, I just wish I could see my beautiful girl.” You blush at these words as she continues, “How are you? You sound a little hoarse.”

“Yea, I’m okay. Not sure why I sound like this. It happened this morning and just came back. Maybe it’s allergies, the ragweed is pretty bad this time of year.”

“Okay, well just let me know if you get worse. Maybe do a covid test to be safe?”

“That’s a good idea. I’ll do one in the morning before Mitch comes home. Last thing I want is to spread something to you guys before the shows next week.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she reassures. “But always good to check.”

You’re about to ask how she and the others are doing, see if she could put Harry and Mitch on the call for a minute but before you can ask, she says, “Oh, I’ve got to go, we’re starting again. There’s a new transition that we’re struggling with a bit, so we’ve got to work on that more.”

“You guys will get it, you’re the most talented band out there.”

“Thank you, my love. Sleep well tonight, let me know how you’re feeling in the morning.”

“I will keep you posted. I love you.”

“I love you too. Good night.”

“Good night,” you say, and the call is ended.

You sit for a moment, your apartment feeling extra quiet again. It takes all of your energy to get out of the tub and finish getting ready for bed. It’s difficult to adjust to the cool air after the hot bath, and you quickly burrow into the pile of blankets you left on the bed, sighing in relief at the warmth they offer. Like the previous night you play music and immediately fall asleep.

The alarm is even louder than usual the next morning, and it hurts to open your eyes. You go to sit up and realize that everything in your body hurts. You take a deep breath to collect yourself, but that has the opposite effect. The second you breathe in you begin to cough, and it feels like minutes pass before you get it under control.

Forcing yourself out of bed you remember the conversation with Sarah the previous night and decide the first thing to do is take a covid test. You do that and as you wait the 15 minutes for the result you make a cup of tea and get dressed. You’re not sure yet if you’re going to call out sick. As a nanny to a toddler, the last thing you want to do is go to work sick and pass it on to the child. You choose to wait for the test results before deciding.

The timer goes off and you see that it’s negative. You call Beth, the mom you work for, and fill her in, letting her decide if she’s comfortable with you being around her son that day.

After telling her your symptoms she says, “I’m okay with you being around Ryan, but if you’re not feeling well, you should stay home. Take a sick day and rest. I know it’s exhausting taking care of a toddler when you’re not under the weather, and much worse when you are.”

“I’m really not that bad,” you reply. It’s not a complete lie, you already feel slightly better than when you first got up. You had taken a pain reliever and it was helping your achy joints, plus you had only had one more minor coughing fit. You assure Beth that you’re well enough to work and that you’ll see her soon.

She fusses over you slightly when you get to her house, mothering you a bit to make sure you’re not worse than you say you are.

“Call me if you need anything. I can get a substitute or Michael can work from home and watch Ryan.”

“I will, I promise,” you say, locking the door behind her as she leaves.

You feel fine all morning, nothing more than a slight cough. Ryan takes an excellent nap halfway through the day, and you make the mistake of laying on the couch during it. The baby monitor is right next to you, ensuring that you’ll hear Ryan when he wakes up, and the white noise coming through the monitor lulls you into a light sleep.

Beth has told you before that it’s okay if you rest while he’s napping but you normally never do. Today though, you can’t fight it and your eyes slip shut.

After nearly three hours Ryan’s babbling wakes you up. It’s immediately obvious that your short nap was a bad idea, and you feel awful as you get off of the couch. Checking the time, you note that Beth will be home in two hours and tell yourself you can push through to the end of the day, maybe with a little help from Bluey.

You’re relieved when Beth walks through the door, having gotten worse throughout the afternoon. She again dotes on you as only a mother can and tells you to take off the next day. You try to protest, since you’re already planning to be out for days the following week to travel to LA, but she won’t hear it.

“I will see you next Thursday. Not tomorrow. Rest. Get better so you can enjoy your boyfriend’s show.”

You smile and thank her before driving home. The second you enter your apartment you take off your shoes and climb into your bed. You don’t realize that you’ve fallen asleep until you jerk awake hearing the door open. You’re confused, and worried that someone is breaking in, but a moment later you hear Mitch calling out your name.

You try to shout out to him and let him know where you are, but as soon as you open your mouth you begin to cough. It’s even worse than the fit you’d had in the morning and Mitch rushes into the room, immediately rubbing your back to soothe you.

Finally, you start to catch your breath and you turn, curling into Mitch’s embrace as he wraps his arms around you.

“What’s wrong baby? Sarah said you didn’t sound great last night but this is worse than I expected.”

“It wasn’t this bad yesterday. It wasn’t even this bad when I got home earlier. I feel like shit.”

“What do you need?” he asks.

“I don’t know. This is helping though,” you say referring to him holding you. He squeezes you tighter for a moment and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

For a few minutes you stay like this until another coughing fit wracks your body. Mitch again rubs your back, his touch calming you even as you struggle to breathe. When you’re done coughing, he shifts so he can get off of the bed.

“Don’t leave, please,” you say, grabbing on to him.

“I just want to check if you have any medicine, I’ll be right back.”

“Please,” you say, refusing to let go if his arm. Deep down you know that you’re being clingy, but you can’t bring yourself to care in that moment.

“Okay, c’mere,” he says and gestures for you to wrap your limbs around him. Once you’re secure he carries you with him to the bathroom and places you down on the closed toilet lid. He opens the closet door and takes out the box of different medications you have in there.

“Have you taken anything yet?” he asks.

“I took some Tylenol earlier today, but it’s been a while.”

“Nothing for the cough?”

“No, it really wasn’t that bad before.”

“Okay, here, take this,” he says, handing you the small cup filled with cough syrup. You do as you’re told and he takes out the thermometer, holding it up to your head.

It beeps a moment later and he says, “Definitely a low-grade fever. How are you feeling?”

“I’ve had the chills, and I guess body aches.”

“Alright, you said it’s been a while since you had Tylenol?”

“Yea, I only took it this morning.”

“Here’s another dose, it’ll help with everything else.”

You take the medicine as instructed, too tired to even think and grateful that you have someone there to tell you what you need to do.

“Have you eaten today?” Mitch asks.

“Yea, I had a sandwich for lunch,” you answer.

“But no dinner?”

You shake your head no.

“Okay,” he replies. “I’m going to heat up some soup for us. Do you want to wait in bed or come with me?”

“With you,” you reply, holding out your arms so he’ll carry you again. He smiles at how adorable sick you is, and he picks you up with ease, loving having you in his arms.

He places you on one of the bar stools at the kitchen island and you rest your head on your arms as he gets food ready. Normally you’d be asking him how his flight was, how rehearsals had been going all week, but instead you just rest your eyes, comforted by the sounds of another person in the apartment with you for the first time in days.

A few minutes later Mitch places a bowl of chicken noodle soup in front of you. He sits on the stool next to yours with his own bowl and puts a sleeve of crackers between you two. You lift your head up and thank him before starting to eat. You’re feeling a little better now that the medicine has had time to work, and you’re able to finish your dinner.

As soon as you and Mitch are both done eating you rest your head on his shoulder.

“Bedtime?” he asks, and you nod your head yes.

He cleans up the dishes and the two of you head to the bathroom to get ready. You lean against Mitch as you brush your teeth, too tired to stand on your own. He keeps a firm arm around you, making sure you don’t fall, and leads you into the bedroom.

Once you’re both in bed you immediately move to lay on top of him, needing to be as close as possible.

“Is this okay?” you ask, and he replies, “Of course, baby. I’ve missed my human blanket.”

You smile and melt into the embrace, his arms wrapped around you, making you feel safer and more content than you have in days. It doesn’t take long before you once again fall into a deep sleep.

Mitch, however, stays awake for some time after you. It’s still fairly early, especially since he’s on west coast time. Once he’s sure you’re asleep he pulls out his phone, careful not to disturb you with his movement.

He sends a text in his group chat with Sarah and Harry, telling them about how sick you are. It’s obvious how worried they are in their replies and Mitch assures them that he plans to take you to the doctor in the morning if you’re not feeling better.

The moment he wakes up the next day he can tell something is wrong. He feels like he’s in an oven and he immediately realizes the heat is coming off of your body as you lay sprawled on him. Carefully he reaches over to the side table and picks up the thermometer to see what your temperature is.

He grimaces as it beeps loudly in the quiet room, but you remain asleep. He checks what it says and grows more worried. While yesterday you had a mild fever, it’s much higher now. Just as he puts the thermometer back down you suddenly wake up coughing.

Mitch helps you sit upright so you can breathe easier, and after it passes he hands you a glass of water, encouraging you to take small sips.

Your whole body is aching, and a violent shiver shoots through you.

“Baby, I think you should get checked by someone today, okay?”

You want to refuse, saying it’s not that bad, but you don’t have the energy to fight so you simply nod to agree.

The start of the morning is hazy. You and Mitch shower together so he can help you and make sure you don’t slip in your weakened state. You get dressed and throw your damp hair up into a bun and join Mitch in the kitchen for breakfast. A shower and food have done you some good, and you’re feeling more alert. You make an appointment with a doctor, happy to see an opening in just an hour.

Mitch insists on cancelling his morning meeting to go with you, but you tell him you’ll be fine. He concedes by just pushing it back a little bit so that he can drive you to your appointment.

As he drops you off he tells you for the hundredth time to text him with updates and let him know when you need to be picked up, reassuring you that he can leave his meeting if he needs to.

“I’ll be okay Mitch. I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself. I have for a while now.”

“I know you can, I just- we all just like to take care of you.”

“And I love that about the three of you. But I will be fine. Now go, I need to check in.” He grabs your hand for a moment and squeezes tightly before letting you go.

You go into the office and the woman at the front desk hands you the typical forms to fill out. After handing those back you wait for a little while, happy that you thought to bring a book. Focusing on that helps you not focus on how crappy you’re feeling.

Once in with the doctor you tell her your symptoms and she does her normal physical assessment.

“Well, there are a number of things this could be. We’ll test for covid, flu, strep. But, we’ve had a number of cases of fungal pneumonia recently, so I want to check you for that as well. Seems there could be something nearby that’s causing these infections.”

With that she sends you off to the lab next door where they do a number of tests, including a chest x-ray to know for sure what’s going on. You text Mitch to fill him in while you wait for the results.

You get called back into your doctor and she informs you that you do in fact have fungal pneumonia.

“I’m going to prescribe you itraconazole, an anti-fungal drug. You can continue taking cough medicine and acetaminophen to treat the symptoms of the infection.”

You nod to show you’re listening and ask, “Is it contagious?”

“No, fungal pneumonia is not contagious. To get it you need to come in contact directly with the spores. Did you visit the wetlands recently?”

“The one’s over near Creek Road?”

“Yes.”

“Yea, I went there Sunday afternoon. Why?”

“Most of the patients I’ve recently diagnosed with this have been there. There must be something on one of the trails that’s infecting people.”

You continue to nod, finding this mildly interesting. If you weren’t sick you’d probably find it fascinating, but you’re too tired to think about it too deeply. She asks about your hike, writing down the specific areas that you walked to send over to the rangers at the Wetlands so they can determine where the danger is.

“I’ve sent your prescription to the pharmacy you listed; it should be ready soon.”

“Thank you,” you say, and she leads you out of the room.

You sit in the waiting room and text Mitch that you’re done, and he tells you he’s outside, his meeting having finished a half hour prior.

The drive home is quiet, with a stop at the pharmacy to pick up your prescription. When you get back to the apartment you head straight for your bedroom, exhausted from the morning’s activities. Mitch joins you a few mimutes later, bringing lunch and your medicine with him.

He Facetimes Sarah as finish your food, and she and Harry answer. They ask how you’re feeling, and you shrug, too tired to come up with a full response. You take the medicine that Mitch gives you, and you fall asleep while they’re still on the phone, comforted by the sounds of their voices.

They stay on the call expressing their concern and Mitch assures them that he’s taking care of you. A few minutes later they hang up, and Mitch carefully cleans up lunch. He’s about to lay down next to you again when you wake up.

“Hey, how are you doing?” He asks.

“The same I guess. Don’t you have another meeting to be at?”

“Yea it’s in a little while, but I can cancel and stay home with you.”

“Mitch, really, I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes I’m sure! Go, you’ve got important stuff to do.”

“You’re important,” he replies.

You nearly respond sarcastically but instead you find yourself blushing at his words. He leans down to kiss you, and you’re very grateful that you’re not contagious and can still do this when sick. It’s the first kiss you’ve shared with him since Sunday, and it feels like home.

He pulls away, pressing a kiss to your head and gets ready for his meeting. He checks in with you again before leaving and you reassure that you have everything you need and plan to stay in bed watching movies the whole time he’s gone. He walks out of the room and comes back a minute later, one of your cats under each of his arms. Mitch places them on the bed with you, gives you a final kiss and a “love you” and leaves the apartment.

Mitch is gone for a movie and a half, walking in partway through the 2nd live action Scooby Doo.

He sees what you’re watching and looks almost guilty.

“What?” you ask after seeing his expression.

“I was on the phone with Sarah and Harry while I drove home. They’re concerned about you traveling when you’re not feeling well.”

Your first instinct is to immediately reply that they’re being ridiculous, that you’ll be fine. But instead, you say, “We have 2 full days until the flight to LA. Let’s just play it by ear and decide on Sunday, okay?”

“Okay, that’s fair,” he replies.

“And even if I��m not better by then I could always just fly out Tuesday. You guys will look silly without your Daphne!”

“I still can’t believe you convinced us all to have Scooby Doo as the costumes for Harryween.”

“I can’t believe you chose to be Scrappy Doo.”

“Well Pauli already claimed Scooby. What was I supposed to do?”

“Pick a normal villain from the show, like everyone else?”

“But I wanted to be a dog for Halloween!” he practically whines as he plops in the bed next to you.

You smile fondly, loving when you got to see this side of him. You weave your fingers through his hair and you’re both quiet for the rest of the movie.

Mitch dotes on you for the rest of the weekend, insisting that you do nothing other than rest and get better. He prepares food, brings you your medicine, and carries you with him whenever you’re feeling particularly clingy.

While you hate being sick, you love the excuse to slow down for a few days. Everything is always so hectic for the four of you, and a weekend of nothing but cuddles on the couch with comfort movies and shows in the background is nearly perfect. It would be completely perfect if Sarah and Harry were also there. And if you didn’t still feel like crap.

You slowly got better, and by Sunday morning you were confident that the anti-fungal medicine was working, and you were officially on the mend. It took a lot of convincing the others, but by Sunday afternoon you and Mitch were seated next to each other flying back to Los Angeles.

It’s late when you land, and you go directly to Harry’s place. He and Sarah are waiting outside and rush to the car to help with your bags. The boys bring the luggage inside and Sarah wraps an arm around your waist and walks with you.

You spend the first few minutes there telling everyone repeatedly that you’re fine, just a bit tired. And you’re telling the truth. Your fever is gone, the chills and body aches going with it, and you have only a mild cough. Even if you hadn’t been sick the last couple days you’d be tired after traveling coast to coast.

That night you sleep in between Harry and Sarah, Mitch on Sarah’s other side knowing the other two needed to feel you close to them.

You wake up in the middle of the night, knowing you’re about to have another coughing fit, and try to sneak out of bed so you don’t wake anyone. Unfortunately, Sarah is wrapped around you so tightly that you can’t escape. You start to cough, turning into the pillow to try and muffle the sound but the others wake up anyway.

They all fuss over you, Sarah rubbing your back in an attempt to soothe you. Finally, you stop coughing, but you keep your face pressed into the pillow. You don’t want them to see the tears in your eyes, knowing how much more worried they’ll be if they see that. You can’t help it though, between the breathlessness and the chest pain the coughing brings, your eyes have no choice but to water.

You try to calm yourself with some deep breaths, but that just causes you to start coughing again. This time you turn into Sarah, needing the comfort her hold brings you.

“Sorry,” you eventually say. “I didn’t mean to wake everyone up.”

“Are you okay, love?” Harry asks. “That didn’t sound good at all.”

“I’m okay, my lungs are just a bit irritated.”

“Are you in any pain?” He questions. You know he’s very familiar with lung issues, having dealt with asthma in the past, and you know that he’ll be able to tell if you’re lying.

“My chest hurts a bit, but it’s really not that bad.”

He gives you a look, like he doesn’t believe you, so you hold his hand and say, “I promise, it’s not that bad. It’s already getting better.”

“C’mere,” he says, pulling you to him. You straddle his lap, tucking your face into his neck. You melt into his embrace, loving the feeling of his strong arms wrapped around you. Even though you still feel sick, being surrounded by the three people you love fills you with warmth.

Somehow you fall asleep still sitting up with Harry holding you. When you wake up the next morning you’re still in that position. Harry is asleep beneath you, leaning back against the headboard.

The last thing you want is to wake him again, especially since there’s a show tonight. You open your eyes and see Mitch and Sarah are also sleeping, wrapped in each other’s arms. It’s a perfect start to the day, and you note that you feel much better than the last few days.

It’s not much later that everyone begins to stir. It’s already mid-morning but there’s enough time before they need to be at the venue, so no one is in any rush to get up. Sarah does demand that you switch to her lap, saying that everyone else has gotten more cuddles with you and it’s her turn. You go willingly; something about her soft embrace that comforts you immensely.

Eventually you do all get up to eat and shower before going together to the Forum. You stay backstage and get ready while they do soundcheck, wanting the set list to remain a surprise until the show. You love the group costume that was chosen for night 1, everyone dressing as their own version of Barbie or Ken, you included.

When the others get backstage they compliment you on your look and you smile bashfully at the attention. It’s a bit chaotic with everyone getting ready and having a quick dinner. Finally, you say good bye to the others, give Harry a kiss, and head to the floor to watch the show.

You don’t go out yet, knowing that the fans will notice you once you do, and you don’t want to give away the costume theme. As soon as the show officially begins you walk to the fenced off section for friends and family in the back of the pit.

You’re still not feeling 100%, and the lights and loud music are a bit disorienting, but you don’t let that show. This is your first time attending Harry’s concert as his official girlfriend, and you know that people are going to be watching you, judging you.

Even though you’re still a bit under the weather, you have a great time at the concert. You’re so happy that the set list was a surprise, and you know a fan nearby got your reaction to the start of Canyon Moon, one of your favorites that you hadn’t heard live before.

As always, harry puts on a perfect show. You love watching the fans and checking out all of their costumes. He does the whale to close out the concert and your face hurts from smiling so much. You feel exhausted, and look forward to getting home, but it was worth pushing through.

To no one’s surprise you fall asleep on Harry’s shoulder during the drive home. Sarah and Mitch are in a different car, since you had run out with Harry the second the show ended. You wake up at home, laying on the bed while Harry is taking your shoes off.

“Hi, lovey,” he says as you sit up, your legs dangling off the end of the bed with Harry standing between them. You reach your arms up, placing your hands on his face and gently pulling so he knows to lean down. As soon as he’s close enough you press your lips to his in a sweet kiss.

“Hi baby,” you say once you break the kiss. “You did great tonight.”

“Yea? Liked the show?”

“Loved it. Always do.”

He smiles at that, dimples popping out on each cheek. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Good. Sleepy, but otherwise I feel fine.”

“That’s a relief,” he replies. “Hated seeing you sick. Hated knowing you were sick, and I couldn’t be there to make you feel better.”

“Well, I feel much better now. All healed up.”

He flashes his dazzling smile again, and you pull him in for another kiss.

“Let’s get ready for bed,” he says as he breaks the kiss a minute later.

The two of you are halfway through your nighttime routines when Mitch and Sarah get home. Before long the four of you are cuddled in bed, Harry quietly humming something that sounds oddly similar to “I’m Just Ken.”

The four of you go out the next morning since you want to see a bit of the city. They each choose a couple of their favorite spots to show you before you all need to get to the venue. You again get yourself ready as they do another quick soundcheck, one of the stylist’s helping you with the red wig you’ll need as Daphne.

Once Harry is in his Fred costume the two of you take some pictures together. Night 2 is the same as Night 1, except you’re a bit more worn out from walking through the city all morning. As much as you insist to the others that you’re not sick anymore, that’s not completely true. Your head is pounding by the end, and you feel slightly dizzy. On more than one occasion you feel like your heart is beating out of your chest, it’s racing so fast.

You do everything to keep a smile on your face and not show how you’re feeling. For the first time ever, you feel relieved when the show is over. You enjoyed it of course, but you can’t wait to lay down, which will hopefully stop the world from spinning.

You’re quiet on the drive home, but still able to hide your symptoms from Harry. Once home you get ready for bed, falling asleep before Mitch and Sarah even get back.

The next morning is slightly chaotic as the four of you need to be at the airport fairly early. It’s not until you’re all seated on the private plane that they pick up on the fact that you’re kind of out of it. You claim to just be tired, but you know that they don’t buy it and are all watching you closely.

You’re seated next to Sarah and fall asleep on her shoulder shortly into the flight. When you start to wake up a couple hours later you shift, tucking your face into her neck. Mitch catches Sarahs concerned face, asking, “What’s wrong?”

“She feels warm,” Sarah answers. She places her hand on the back of your neck, noting how hot your skin has become. The boys are both immediately worried, each reaching over to feel for themselves.

You lift your head up and give them all a look, silently asking why they’re all touching you.

“How are you feeling?” Harry asks. “Be honest with us, please.”

You take a moment to assess before answering, “Kind of dizzy. And cold. And sore.”

“Anything else, love?” Sarah says.

“Maybe a bit nauseous? But not that bad, really.” Despite your insistence that you weren’t going to throw up, Mitch gets up to grab an airsick bag just in case.

“How long until we land?” he asks as he sits back down across from you.

“About an hour,” Harry answers before he turns to you and asks if you need anything.

“I’m fine,” you reply. “Can you just, uhm. Can you maybe sing?”

“Of course I can love. Any requests?”

You shake your head, tucking back into Sarah’s side. Harry begins to sing, and you take deep breaths, trying to keep any nausea and dizziness at bay.

It’s a difficult hour, and a rough landing has you nearly reaching for the airsick bag but you’re able to hold it back.

You all get home mid-afternoon, and you immediately start to unpack. You know that if you don’t you’ll just leave the suitcase for days. When you’re done you head back to the living room where you find Harry sitting on the couch.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“Ordering dinner. Don’t think anyone is up for cooking tonight.”

You sit next to him, putting a random show on TV for background noise. You grab a blanket, wrapping yourself in it to fight off the chills. You lean against Harry who wraps an arm around you. Mitch and Sarah join you two and you guys finish ordering food and sit together quietly while you wait for it to be delivered.

Once it’s there you all move to the kitchen table. You don’t have much of an appetite but try to eat some of your dinner. The others notice that you don’t eat much, but they don’t push it, knowing that your stomach is still bothering you.

Everyone changes into comfy clothes after dinner, and you head back to the living room couch. You’re in between Harry and Sarah, Mitch trailing behind in the bathroom for a minute. You wonder what’s holding him up but understand when he walks out with your medicine box.

He takes your temperature, frowning when he sees you once again have a high fever. You take the medicine he hands you before curling into Sarah’s side. Her hand slides through your hair and rubs your back, and you focus on those comforting touches.

You all watch a movie before deciding it’s time to head to bed. You stand from the couch, taking a moment to steady yourself as a wave of dizziness washes over you.

Your heart is beating incredibly fast again, and you’re having trouble catching your breath. The others stand around you, asking questions that you can’t hear over the pounding of your heartbeat.

You meet Harry’s eyes for a moment before everything goes dark and you collapse into his arms.

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@akkatz @pandeebearstyles @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @theekyliepage @numafarawayglxy @booberry019-blog @hillzrry @ssareidbby @gem1712 @acesofspadess @houseofdilfs @shaquille-0atmeal-1 @kissitnhekitchen @amateurduck @poguestyleskye @n0vaj3an

AN: Thank you again for reading this story! There will be a part 2 to this!

#harry styles x reader #mitch rowland x reader #mitch rowland x sarah jones x reader #sarah jones x reader #mitch rowland x harry styles #sarah jones x mitch rowland x reader

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d-romanov · 5 months

Text

float around and ghost my friends

[title- phoebe bridgers. natasha romanoff x teen!reader, minimal platonic peter x reader]

2.5k words

You didn’t have a normal childhood, but you mama encourages you to have a normal highschool experience and lets you go to a party. It doesn’t quite go how she wanted, or how you expected.

trigger warnings: underage drinking + drinking to cope, suicidal ideation?, depression, it’s sad ngl but it’s got a hopeful ending (probably)

Living your life after a childhood of pain and misery is hard, it is so, so hard. You wonder if the man across the street is just a stranger or someone there to take you back, if the light flickering meant someone had found you, if the loud noise down the hall was a body against a wall. God, if you started thinking too hard about it you wouldn’t stop.

Thank god high school would only make it worse!

Growing up as a Hydra lab rat they still had to keep you occupied, lest you go catatonic and ruin their tests. You saw plenty of shows and movies about high school, about how important the dance next saturday was, when everyone’s classes were, the like. You understood, to an extent, that parties were a big deal. Parents went out of town, kids got shitfaced, snuck back into bed past “curfew.” fun times.

It’s been a little over a year since you were found by the Avangers, and just a few months since Natasha Romanoff finalized the adoption paperwork for you. Even if you couldn’t call her mom as much as you wanted to you were happy, truly content for the first time in your life. You had friends, family, and a mother who wanted nothing more than for you to enjoy your new life.

Which is why, when peter had invited you to a party being put on by someone in his class, your mom urged you to go.

—

You haven’t been sleeping much in the last few weeks. Insomnia and trauma-induced nightmares were taking their toll on you, but you could handle a bit of sleep deprivation. Besides, you weren’t about to concern Natasha more, she’s had enough on her plate lately.

No, no matter how long you stayed awake shaking, shivering, not breathing waiting for a sound in the hallway, you wouldn’t bother Natasha. Though, that didn’t stop you from being a bit more clingy during the day before calling it a night.

“It’s an opportunity for you to have fun outside the tower, детка, you should go.” You sat cross-legged on Natasha’s bed, watching as she put away laundry. It was calming. “I’m only a call away if you and Peter wanna ditch, but I want you to enjoy yourself.”

Her encouragement throws you off. “You know what happens at those parties though, don’t you?” You shift so you’re laying down against the pillows, “Shouldn’t you be making me stay home?”

Natasha laughs. “Hon, highschool parties aren’t nearly as crazy as movies make them out to be, and i know you. It’s not like you’re going to get wasted or make out with any boys.” You pull a face and Natasha laughs again, and you laugh with her.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” She presses a kiss to your forehead and you smile up at her.

“I’ll go.”

—

You’re already regretting it, and you’ve only been in the house for 20 minutes. Peter don’t ditch you per se, but you haven’t seen him since you settled on the couch. The music pulses through the floor and you can feel the bass in your teeth. You’re pressed in at the far end of the couch hugging the armrest, clutching a soda can in one hand and hovering over Natasha’s contact in you phone with the other. A bark of laughter from the kitchen throws you out of your thoughts and you notice someone pouring out shots. somewhere in the back of your mind you wonder when the last time you had a drink was, to which your brain unhelpfully answers “too long.”

Aside from anesthesia, the best pain relief you had in your old life was alcohol. You understood that it wasn’t healthy, even back then you knew that, but it kept your thoughts from racing and helped you sleep at night.

A small crowd was formed around the kitchen counter, and you watch as two boys get locked into a fierce competition of Cup Pong.

You watch one of them, a lean, blonde boy from the soccer team, fading fast. only two of his cups have been emptied, he’s clearly a lightweight and already wobbling by his third shot. The other boy is one you recognize from your history class. he’s loud, obnoxious, and goading on the other boy who’s finally thrown the ping pong ball properly and landed it in a cup.

The loud one sinks in another two balls, and you see the blond visibly swallow. you don’t know what comes over you because in the next moment, you down his two shots in one go.

“Woah-hoh-hoh! looks like someone’s up to the challenge!” His face breaks into a shit eating grin, “Too bad you picked a battle with the undefeated champ here.” you hear a few whistles in the growing crowd and smirk, You can feel the buzz hitting your head and it feels good, you feel good for the first time in days.

“Undefeated, huh? Well, this is gonna be really embarrassing for you then.” You’re cocky, but you don’t care, you just wanna get drunk.

He quickly bounces another ball, landing in your forward cup, the second misses. Your two land and it’s a battle keeping your face straight. Your opponent is intimidated, but he hides it behind a grin and his height, but he’s too obvious. You know he’ll hit his limit far sooner than you’ll hit yours, so you tease him a bit.

To throw him off, you miss your next two throws, and his second lands. as soon as the cup is empty you begin to sway. you’re in no drunken state, there’s barely a buzz at this point, but he doesn’t know that. As far as he knows, you’re just as much of a lightweight as the blond before you.

He’s hiding his own swaying body by leaning forward on the counter, but you can see in his eyes he’s getting drunk, and thanks to the alcohol of choice being vodka, it won’t be much longer before he’s out. You were hoping for a bit more fun, but his head start in the is game threw that off a bit. You strike fast. Two balls, two cups, one throw, it’s impressive to the crowd but for you it’s child’s play. He down the cups, slower than before, and you can see sweat forming on his forehead.

He misses his next throw and you can’t stop yourself from being a bit disappointed. then again, you only have one cup left versus his, you huff a laugh.

“I mean, it’s a little unfair of me to be beating you. You had a head start in the game, why don’t we level it out?”

The crowd is rowdy and you see his face twist into a grimace. He’s getting agitated while you’re loosening up, happily putting on a show for everyone around you.

You pour yourself two more shots and take the one after the other. You revel in the burn, you feel lighter, higher, ready to put this stupid kid in his place.

—

You win that game, you win two more games, and everything becomes a blur. You think your phone buzzes a few times through the night but you ignore it in favor of pouring yourself another drink and laughing your ass off. It’s the first time you’ve ever felt normal, and even if you don’t know anyone’s names they’re funny enough, and you can forget about the past for the night.

You’re not noticeable in school, you hide yourself in the back of the class and only talk to peter and his friends. You’re allowed to leave class whenever you need to thanks to a plan you’re mom had set up with the school, so it’s not like you usually stick around enough to talk to anyone. You’re just some new kid lost in the crowd there, but now, here, people are talking to your face instead of whispering behind your back and avoiding eye contact. you finally feel free.

You get up and unsteadily return to the kitchen for another shitty bear. You look over your shoulder and throw your hands out. “Peter!!” you shout, ending in a giggle when you see his face, he’s looking at you funny. “hiiiii!!”

“Are you drunk??” Oh never mind, he sounds mad.

“Nooo?” You giggle again, he doesn’t believe you but you don’t really care.

Peter rubs his hand down his face and starts to guide you to the door.

“Where’re we going i was having funnnn,” You whine, pushing against his insistence you leave.

“(Y/n) i already called natasha, now drink this and sit tight.” He’s frustrated and hands you a water bottle, you pout and plop onto the grass, lazily sipping at the bottle.

You’re not sure how much later it happens, but Natasha’s car pulls up on the curb. She steps out and she looks pissed, if you had any energy left you’d probably be scared. “Hi мама,” even drunk and half asleep you still know you sound like a pathetic mess, and right now you really just want to catch up on all the sleep you’ve missed.

She kneels down next to you on the grass and moves your sweaty hair from your forehead, you notice her face soften. “Hi малышка, let’s get you home.”

“Are you mad at me?” You blurt out. Your voice is small, and you don’t mean to sound so weak but the alcohol in your system makes you feel vulnerable. “I don’ want you to be mad at me i was jus’ so tired.”

“No hun, i’m not mad. We’ll talk in the morning when you’ve sobered up, now up you get.”

If you weren’t so out of it you would’ve seen the heartbreak cross her face.

She hoists you up with your arm over her shoulder, and you’re grateful for it because without her you’d have fallen face first into the dirt.

You hear her ask Peter to open the door, and as soon as you’re in the car you’re out like a light.

—

Anyone could tell from a mile away that Natasha loved you. Since the day you were found she’d always cared and wanted the best for you. You were the child she’d always wanted, and she’d do anything for you. And anyone could tell that seeing her kid so small, so sad, was breaking her heart.

Peter’s phone call had been confusing, something about you getting too competitive to think straight and then too drunk to stand. She’d shown up expecting a slightly drunk teenager, not you. Not you sitting in the grass, on the curb, nursing a water bottle and looking so utterly defeated. She didn’t know what to do, she just wanted to take all your pain away.

Getting you home was the easy part. Apparently, getting you out of the party had also sucked all of your energy, and you were cooperative getting in the car, hell you were asleep as soon as the door shut. Natasha dropped Peter off at home before returning to the tower, after getting some context to the situation of course. Now it was time to get you to bed, and figure out her next steps.

—

“Mmmn?” You can barely open your eyes, everything just feels so heavy and faraway. Behind squinted eyes you recognize that it’s Natasha pulling you from the car.

“Come on sweetheart, let’s get you to bed.”

Your short nap didn’t help you much. “‘M tired,” You croak out, cringing at the taste of your dry mouth.

“I know you are bub,” She pull one of your arms over her shoulders and leads you through the tower’s garage to the elevator. “That’s why we’re gonna get you cleaned up in into bed.”

Your response isn’t more than an affirmative grunt, but you can get the words past your throat.

Eventually, after a blur of motion and lights and almost getting sick on the way up, you’re in your room. You don’t want to be in here.

Natasha guides you to your bed, keeping you steady as you sit down. Before she can pull away your hands grip her shoulders like a vice.

You don’t even realize you’re crying. “Don’- Мама don’t leave. Please don’t leave.” You don’t want to be alone. You just want to sleep but you can’t sleep because when you sleep your mind attacks and attacks and attacks and you can’t keep dealing with this forever you’re so tired.

“Hey hey, no i’m not going anywhere детка. Im not leaving, but i need you to breathe, please.” You can’t stop yourself from closing your eyes. You hate the way she’s looking at you, she looks so sad and you’re the one doing this. God look at you, look how pathetic you’ve become.

“I ju- I just wanted everything to stop. i wanted to be normal in sorry. i’m sorry мама i’m sorry i’m just tired i’m sorry.” The words get caught in your throat and choked out in a sob. You try to pull back, hide in you pillows and shut out everything, but natasha’s returned grip is solid and fierce, yet gentle, and kind, and she pulls you into her chest as you fight every cry that bubbles up.

“Let it out малышка, don’t fight it. It’s okay, i’ve got you. I’ve got you, love.” Her hold on you grows tighter and you can almost feel your chest open just from her words. No matter how much you were taught and built against it from birth, Natasha was your lifeline.

Minutes or hours later, you’re cries turn to whimper and the bone-deep exhaustion makes itself known again. Your arms feel so heavy, you can barely keep your puffy eyes open and you just want to sleep for the next month.

“Hey,” Natasha says it so softly she’s worried you’ll miss it, but she doesn’t want to startle you. “Let’s get you changed. I’m just gonna grab you some pajamas, okay?”

You must’ve nodded, because natasha moves and you faintly hear your dresser draws move. You’re half asleep as natasha helps you change into comfier clothes, you’re eyes aren’t even open once she’s tucked you and herself into bed and holds your head to her chest.

“I love you so, so much малышка. Got to sleep, okay? I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Your answer is a whisper “I love you, мама.”

You’re out like a light, you limbs heavy and mind blissfully quiet. Natasha hardly sleeps, thinking only about you and the conversation you need to have.

——

part 2!!!

#mama nat #natasha romanoff x daughter!reader #natasha romanoff x teen!reader #natasha romanoff #natasha x reader #natasha romanov x reader #natasha x daughter!reader #natasha x teen reader #peter parker x platonic reader #my writing

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apparitionism · 8 months

Text

Tabled 7

And with this at-long-last final part, Tabled (my lengthy @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange offering for @barbarawar ) comes to an end. Does that end justify the tortuous (and torturous) trip? Probably not, but something something journey destination... it all began with “Myka sits at tables and tells lies,” and part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, and part 6 gave what I hope was a reasonable explanation for how Myka might have so fallen, as well as how she could have begun to scramble up (spoiler: with a lot of help). Anyway, she’s just got back to South Dakota—having come to a tentative understanding with Helena—only to find Mrs. Frederic waiting for her at the airport (!!).

Tabled 7

Myka has spent an evening, a night, and the entire subsequent day on her trek back to South Dakota, so her trip as a whole has now stretched to over thirty-six hours, during which she’s had emotional nadirs, shocks, and acmes; adrenaline overloads, ebbs, and re-overloads; minimal amounts of minimally palatable airport food; and far too much coffee, both interior and exterior. She desperately needs a shower, clean clothes, and, above absolutely all, some sleep lying down in a bed. Some sleep that way.

So she’s having trouble processing what she sees. Has Mrs. Frederic divined her ultimate intention and thus appeared here to prevent her from burning it all down? This possibility should strengthen her resolve; instead, it makes her want to turn and run away.

Unfortunately, she’s now through security, and she can’t turn around. Thanks a lot, DHS.

But please, she goes on to pray, not another table. And: Extra-please, not another lecture about children.

Can the people around her in the airport see Mrs. Frederic? They seem to be moving more slowly, less noisily, than reality usually offers. Or are they? It’s hard to know, here in this quiet, draggy little transit-place...

Mrs. Frederic puts a bow on the weird by pronouncing, “I have spoken with several people today. Yet you are my determinative interlocutor.”

That sounds like Myka might be a very few words away from being sent to a penal colony. Or, no: bronzed. The ultimate irony. Utterly Warehousian.

“I have for you the following salient information,” Mrs. Frederic continues, and Myka doesn’t even bother bracing herself, because she’ll have to take it, regardless. She might as well be rattled by the full impact. “I am prepared to have words with Agent Lattimer.”

She should have braced. “You are?” she asks, wishing she could sound indifferent about the prospect, wishing the idea of such words didn’t add fuel to her gut’s terror that Mrs. Frederic knows all about Myka’s meeting with Helena, a terror now compounded by the prospect of her telling Pete of it, and the further prospect that his having been told will be an additional, far higher bar over which Myka must clamber.

“Should those words occur,” Mrs. Frederic says, and now Myka does brace, “your brief liaison will seem but a dream to him.”

What... what? No bar, no clamber? Instead, deliverance? Myka, whiplash-befuddled, is struck dumb.

Mrs. Frederic waits. Her patience, as long as it lasts, is admirable, if surprising. Then she quirks an eyebrow.

It makes Myka think of Helena—and that allows her to breathe. To soften.

Mrs. Frederic softens too: she lowers the eyebrow. “Is that truly what you wish?” she asks, carefully, as if she’s prepared also to withdraw credit from the source who conveyed to her the substance of Myka’s wants. As if Myka, given one last beneficent chance, can surely be gentled into exercising her better judgment and choosing the certain path.

The sliver of solicitude allows Myka to consider Mrs. Frederic’s motives with a new charity: she may have been driven not by stereotype, as Myka has suspected, nor malice, as she has feared, but rather by a thoughtful assessment of availability—i.e., here are the Warehouse’s extant resources, and here is how they may best be deployed to ensure an acceptable balance of efficacy and safety.

Myka has spent a great many hours on airplanes and in airports preparing herself for the burn-it-down possibility, but the fact of the matter is that she, too, cares about efficacy.

She cares even more about safety.

The additional fact of the matter, however, is that she wants a future untethered from such calculations—except as reckoned by, and between, her and Helena.

So if Mrs. Frederic is willing to help fix what she had a heavy hand in breaking? There’s probably a downside, but Myka will suffer it for this unexpected upside.

“Yes. It is. Thank you,” she says.

“No,” Mrs. Frederic says, now differently severe. “Agent Jinks.”

“Steve? What about him?”

“Thank him.”

****

Myka finds the B&B dark and silent, lacking even a video-game glow and hum from Claudia’s room. Sadly, the quietude doesn’t yield sleep; rather than knitting up her exceptionally raveled sleeve of care, she tries and fails to keep “here’s how this might go” scenarios from playing in her head until she can reasonably go downstairs and begin making morning noises.

As the others appear, she tries to act as if nothing has changed.

Claudia enthuses, “Storms no match for you!” which is flattering but of course entirely untrue.

Pete is in his too-early-to-do-more-than-grunt mode, but he seems to care more about his bowl of Lucky Charms than he does about anything to do with Myka, which tells her that Mrs. Frederic has almost certainly had the promised words with him. The way that buoys her—her shoulders move down and away from her ears, where she hadn’t even realized they’d taken up residence—is probably unseemly, but she doesn’t care.

Then Abigail walks in, and her eye-flick between Pete and Myka suggests she knows everything, which she probably does, but even if she all she might have had were suspicions, they’ve probably been confirmed by Myka’s radical change in posture.

A twinge of guilt at having allowed her body to reveal her relief visits Myka... but she quashes it. That guilt is about parts of the past she’s supposed to be ignoring. Practice. Practice.

When Steve emerges, he busies himself with the first steps of making scrambled eggs. Myka reads this as a tactic, for on workdays Steve generally eats two unheated Pop-Tarts at speed. On lazier mornings, he might undertake toast, but eggs are the rarest of production numbers... and indeed, no one but Myka waits through his meticulous preparation.

“You want some?” he asks, but he’s already sliding his results onto two plates. “Airports,” he says, handing her one.

“So hard to find something normal,” she agrees, “and even when you think you might have, you’re still in a place that isn’t.”

“Sounds like you’re talking about every day here.”

His affect effortlessly encompasses both “perpetually surprised new guy” and “perpetually resigned old hand.” Myka loves him for that facility. “Not about these eggs, though,” she says around mouthfuls, “so thanks.” She pushes her empty plate away. “And, also, thanks.”

“I’ve never seen anyone eat food that fast, so thanks back for the demonstration. But also thanks why?”

“You’re welcome, and also you know why: I have you to thank. Or so I hear from someone who miraculously shifted her thinking about what’s best for me,” and she concludes, “you miracle.”

He gives a little smile and head-shake. “You said to protect you, so that’s what I did. Differently. Once I figured out you were telling me things had changed.”

His figuring? Correct, regardless of anything Myka might have intended to be saying. “Things did change,” she acknowledges, “like you said they would. But listen, what you did. The risk. You shouldn’t have taken that risk for me. In fact people in general should stop taking risks on my behalf.”

His smile grows wider. “We will when you will. Reciprocally.”

“No, no,” Myka says, “I need to take more. On my behalf and everybody else’s.”

“All the more reason you should have the right backup.”

“Well, so should you,” Myka says, fully aware, and fully remorseful, that she hasn’t provided any such thing.

Steve’s smile shifts in a way she doesn’t understand. “I think I’m going to. Maybe in not too long? You know Claud’s doing a lot more Caretakering now.” The doorbell rings. “Oooh, if that’s who I think it is, somebody’s timing is something.”

“Is it?” Myka asks. She trails, a confused duckling, behind Steve as he heads to the door.

“I think you’re about to meet my new partner,” he says.

Myka doesn’t bother asking “Am I?” as he swings the door open, because questions are not being answered sensically.

Her exhaustion is comprehensive, so it’s no surprise she’s hallucinating. She says it aloud, directing a slack-jawed “I’m hallucinating” at both Steve and the doorway-framed Helena as they stand before her, their smiles bizarrely rhyming blends of sheepishness and pride.

They don’t respond. This supports the hallucination conclusion.

Myka moves her right hand, minimally; in this way, she touches Steve, a little backhand to his torso. The purple cotton of his shirt is softer than her knuckles expect.

With her left hand, she reaches out, reaches through the doorway, and pushes, probably harder than she should, against Helena’s right shoulder. Nothing there is soft. The shoulder resists.

Fine. Not a hallucination. Not even a hologram. Everyone’s physically here, breathing and taking up space.

“Her timing,” Myka says to Steve. She’s not quite ready to speak directly to Helena. “It’s definitely something.”

Helena says, “Ssh. Let me reveal my shortcomings to my new partner in my own time.” She’s surpassingly beautiful, here in this moment: glowing with mischief and morning sun.

It’s too much. Myka squints and looks away, back to the comfort of Steve. “Your new partner?” she asks him. “Really?”

“Seems so,” Steve says, right as Helena offers, “As I understand it,” and Myka hears a harmony as their voices overlap. She hadn’t seen this coming, but she might have heard it, if she had thought to listen close enough.

But how could she have thought to, before today? “You both make the world turn a little faster than I’m comfortable with,” she tells Steve.

His smile persists. “Call me on that, no problem. But you really want to argue with H.G. Wells, who by the way is standing right here”—and he gives her a little “you really are, right?” look, which she answers with a minimalist palms-up “I suppose” shrug; more harmony—“about how time moves?”

“If history is any guide,” Helena says to him, “that and many other elements of the oeuvre.”

“I just didn’t think I’d be doing it this morning, is all,” Myka says. She’s trying to bring herself to speak to both of them, but Steve remains her direction of safety.

His brow wrinkles. “If this isn’t okay...”

It would be nice to be able to reassure him, but. “No idea if it’s okay.”

His face clears. “I appreciate your telling the truth. And I guess your voice is less agitated than it could be.”

This garners a snort from Helena. “My dear new partner. Your understatement is a balm.”

“We’ll see if I can keep that up,” he says, visibly nervous.

Myka is, now, able to address Helena. About Steve. “He can. Not always understatement, but the balm part.”

“I’m glad to know it,” Helena says, directing at Steve a formal incline of head.

That incline. Its sweet propriety. Glad. Glad. “I’m glad you’re here,” Myka tells her.

“Thank you,” Helena says. She doesn’t need to add “for saying.” Her hair is shining, here—here!—in this morning sun that illuminates the entryway. Such light visits this space every morning, but Myka has never before seen it ignite Helena’s hair.

This day: new.

“I have something in the car for you,” Helena goes on. “Wait.” She exits the doorway, moving out of the sunbeam’s path. A bright loss.

Myka turns back to Steve. “Wait,” she echoes, shrugging. “There’s not enough time in the world for me to explain to you why that’s ironic.”

“Your own private irony.”

“But you did spare me some waiting. Some not-knowing waiting. And way more than that,” she says, because it needs saying, “you spared me the hard part.”

“I don’t know her very well yet, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”

“Oh,” Myka says, because of course she’d meant detaching herself from Pete, but Steve is (also of course) wise and right: each day, however few or many she and Helena manage, will no doubt have its hard parts. Each day of those few or many might itself be the hard part. “But how did you... I mean, did you have this plan all along? Partner and all, and Mrs. Frederic started nodding along as you said it all out loud?”

“Oh god no. I was just trying to ease her away from the you-and-Pete thing, as gently as possible. Turns out she wanted H.G. back ages ago.”

No. No. “She what.”

Steve nods, looking sick. “But—and I hate to be the one telling you this—she thought you didn’t want H.G. back.”

Myka feels sick. The non-sense of this day... no: of these days. “She what,” she says again.

“Because you left her in Boone, she said.”

“Helena was forced to stay in Boone!” she protests, or tries to.

“But you didn’t fight anybody on it. So she thought you were okay with it.”

Of course. Here’s Myka’s inaction again, kicking her legs out from under her. “But if she wanted to bring Helena back, why didn’t she just... do that? Once she decided it was safe to let her out of Boone?”

“Like I said, she thought you didn’t want H.G. to come back. So she was trying to make sure it wouldn’t matter so much to you. If it happened. If you had something else to focus on.”

“Pete,” Myka says, the very idea a heaviness. “Kids?”

“I’m not saying I can read her mind, but yeah, I think that’s how that went. I can tell you she was really surprised to hear you were meeting with H.G. yesterday.”

“In a hotel room in an airport in Chicago,” Myka says. The base fact of it. “Do I want to know how you explained that?”

“All I explained was the airport in Chicago,” Steve says. “I didn’t know about the hotel room part.”

Right. Myka hadn’t said that part out loud. “It’s not what it sounds like.”

“Interesting utterance,” he says, cocking his head, like he’s waiting for more. “Not an immediate lie, But the eventual truth-value, plus my possible eventual headache, depend on what you think I think it sounds like.”

It’s a privilege, this glimpse into the complications of his gift; nevertheless, Myka winces. “I think you think it sounds like what I think it sounds like,” she says. “Like I wish it didn’t. Because I swear to you, it’s not that.”

She prepares herself to dig in and hash out the truth-values, but Steve says, “I get it. No dirty work in those words.”

No dirty work: it’s a diploma. In reverse. Disqualification.

“Anyway I don’t think I made a lot of sense explaining any of it to Mrs. Frederic,” he finishes.

“Enough to save me,” Myka says.

“Yes. Because if you could be happy.”

“You said that before.”

“I did. But now I mean, if you could be happy.”

“If... then?” she asks, logic being what it is.

“Then maybe I could too,” he says.

Myka wants to put an immediate stop to the idea that he would look to her, for that can’t help but end in abject failure. But she gets out only a weak “Don’t” before he continues, “Because I was thinking of a saying: ‘Happy wife, happy life.’”

“I’m not your wife.”

“Better for both of us. I’m just saying it’s a saying. About a person and somebody else. There might be a better word for where you and somebody else are—or, I guess, where you might be headed?—but it wouldn’t rhyme with life. And it’s probably important to rhyme with life.”

Myka’s heart hears him, but she shies away, scoffing, “That’s a leap. Not the rhyming. The saying.”

“Isn’t it always?”

“I don’t want to give you false hope.”

“But if we could both acknowledge that there is hope.”

She’s not sure. She’ll probably never be sure, but in the face of doubt and fear (and “endless wonder,” that misleading canard), she determines to acknowledge it. For Steve’s sake. “Okay,” she says. “In the full knowledge that you’re the one who made the hope possible.”

“No,” Steve says. Serious. Simple. Unfraught. “That’s not what I did.”

Myka has no counterargument. All she can do is say “thank you” yet again, quick and quiet, for suddenly Helena is appearing in the doorway, taking over the space. Myka suspects she’s been waiting for their conversation to end—speaking of timing, this reminds her of the hotel lobby—and she doesn’t know whether to hope Helena was eavesdropping their words or simply their tones.

She’s holding two cardboard coffee cups. Myka gestures for her to hand one over, but Helena shakes her head. “You haven’t texted me.”

So Myka dashes to grab her phone, and “Gh” says the message, the first purchase her fumbling fingers could find, sent as fast as she could remind those fingers how to do that.

Helena sets the cups down on the hall table when her own phone noises (and now Myka doesn’t know whether to be pleased or distressed that a text from her yields a generic ding). She extracts it from the interior of her jacket and smiles. “I bought these, in hope, in the Sioux Falls airport,” she says, “but they’re now cold. No doubt terrible.”

“‘Worth every penny,’ I once heard someone say about coffee,” Myka says.

“Fewer pennies here. In any event, worth to be determined.” Helena is jaunty; it’s very her, but on the edge of too her, hinting that she’s less certain than her initial doorway presentation implied. As Myka now meets Helena’s gaze, she imagines—but hopes she isn’t only imagining—that their vulnerabilities might for once be commensurate.

Helena doesn’t look away.

Steve says, “You know, ‘I was making eggs’ buys you only so much late-for-work in this job.” It’s a transparent attempt to excuse himself, but he does add, “I’m really looking forward to getting to know you, partner.”

“I hope to impress you,” Helena says.

He snort-giggles, then composes himself. Minimally. “H.G. Wells—who isn’t lying!—hopes to impress me. Okay.”

Myka can’t begrudge him his surprised delight, even if it does delay his departure. “Welcome to a world of endless... surprise. She kind of wrote the book.”

“A lot of books,” Steve augments.

Helena waves a hand. “That was Charles. So wordy.”

Steve’s brow furrows—which Myka reads as a bit of confusion over how to negotiate the Helena/Charles disjunction. He says, “Okay. I’m going to the Warehouse,” clearly (smartly) choosing not to start now.

This time he does leave, though Myka is tempted to stop him, to cling to the surer footing afforded by his buffering.

Coward.

But. Then.

Alone, precariously so, Myka and Helena situate themselves across from each other at the dining room table, their promised-coffee cups before them.

Myka supposes she should have foreseen this arrangement—table, coffee—and she should at the very least have queried the book as to what would ensue. Not that she’s had any time for that, which probably means she should now do that, should go and do that, before she finds a way to undercut its foreseen future and make blunders that will prove unsatisfactory.

“Surprise,” Helena says.

“Yes,” Myka concurs, trying for Steve-ish understatement. It doesn’t work; she knows she sounds distressed.

“May I explain?”

“I wish you would.” That comes out better, but Myka realizes that she is literally on the edge of her seat. She sinks backward, trying to make the movement look like relaxation. That probably doesn’t work either.

“The invitation from Steve,” Helena begins, but upon saying his name, she stops. “Before I continue: ‘H.G. Wells who isn’t lying’?”

“He can tell if you are,” Myka says, and she’s gratified to see in Helena’s ensuing eyebrow contortions that she’s conducting the “what exactly have I said to Steve” inventory everyone does when introduced to that fact.

Its result: “Well. Then it’s fortunate I haven’t. To him.” She seems inclined to reflect on the revelation’s full compass.

Myka does love (love!) to watch Helena think. But right now... “Explanation?” she prompts.

“It isn’t complicated,” Helena says.

“That’s unusual.”

Helena bows her head; she smiles, from that bow, up at Myka. It’s flirty. It’s beautiful. “It is,” she says, and she seems to be affirming Myka’s words and her thoughts. “Steve and I had a conversation during which I explained how you and I had left our... situation. And then, a bit later, came his invitation, which I understand was extended at the behest of Mrs. Frederic. The opportunity—the freedom—to be myself again? It was too enticing to refuse. Of course I never would have accepted in the absence of our rapprochement, but given that? Steve was so convinced, and convincing, that all would be well.” She raises her head fully now. “And it cut short the waiting.”

“I said I would hurry,” Myka says, resentful, unsure of why she’s jumped to that.

“Your return required so many flights. Any number of delays might have ensued.”

“Due to the flights?” Myka asks, but she can’t unhear the clear disjunction between those sentences.

“And everything else,” Helena acknowledges, with a head-duck.

Myka knows that duck; it’s worry. “You didn’t trust me?” she asks, but in the question she finds the reason behind her resentment: offense at the idea that Helena had such worries to begin with.

“Can you blame me?” Helena asks this with a little flinch, as if Myka’s judgment must be harsh.

“Yes I can,” Myka says, but soft. “You were supposed to be ignoring all that.”

Her answer causes Helena to raise her head again and smirk—or, no, this isn’t her smirk; rather, it’s a lip-twist that’s more... conspiratorial. She says, “And yet the foundation of trust is past experience. If I ignore the past, on what basis could I trust you?”

Playful, but a jab. Myka retreats into sarcasm, acknowledging it hit the mark: “There’s a flaw in my big idea? Shocking.”

Helena nods, slow with a sigh, as if in sadness at Myka’s imperfection. But she turns serious to say, “In any case, after all that’s happened, I certainly didn’t trust fate either.”

Fate. How they’ve been subject to it... but are they now trying to chivvy it, in a way that will backfire? Myka pushes her fear into words: “What if it’s too soon?”

“Then regret will haunt us to the end of our days,” Helena says, and Myka has to nod to the truth of it. “But consider this: rather than wasting precious time on such questions, shouldn’t we rather be grateful that, after such complications, there is even a whisper of a chance that it may not be too late?”

Too late, too late, too late. Those words have truly haunted Myka. Miraculous that they might not apply. “I don’t want coffee,” she says. Truly.

“What do you want?” Helena asks, like she might really not know.

Well, maybe she doesn’t anymore, given the vast conceptual distance between Myka’s initial saying and now. “I did tell you. I don’t know how many hours ago; I haven’t counted. I’d have to use my hands.”

“Save your hands, but tell me again. I challenge you, however: change the vocabulary.”

Myka can do that. Only a little, here and now, but she can do that. “To save the world. Our world.”

They are breathing at each other and the table is in the way; Myka ideates the drama of grasping its edge, flinging it sideways, clearing her path—but that’s not who she is. Now, more than ever, she needs to be herself.

She stands up and steps decorously to the side and around, slow, savory, even as her body threatens to effervesce.

“Can we do this?” she asks, but she knows, through her inexorable movement, with all its effervescent potential, that they will. Regardless now of consequences.

“I have no idea,” Helena answers.

These could be words of delay, but not here and not now, because regardless, regardless, they will—and at once they’re both moving, as if pressure from a familiarly heartless authority will relegate Helena yet again to disembodiment if they don’t make this fast, and thank god, god, god this once they’re fast enough; they meet and hands are at waists but they’ve touched with hands before... even so, the infinitesimal pause they both take before those hands pull and define is understandable but then over, and their at-last kiss begins as an action but swiftly transforms into a state of being: pressure, presence, soft, sharp, warmth, weight, low, lasting...

After some time—how much time? is this kind of time measurable?—they break apart into staring silence, in the stunned after of the prospect they have spent so long before.

“I can die now,” Myka is moved to murmur, even as she feels its banality as a response to this experience, this knowledge. Because she has at last truly gained the knowledge: she had hoped to gain it, and yet she now understands she had never fully believed she would, if only because fundamental questions—e.g., “what would it feel like to kiss Helena?”—aren’t often answered.

“You most certainly cannot,” Helena ripostes, bracingly practical. “One kiss is no culmination.”

Myka might object to the description of what just happened as “one kiss,” but she’s too busy being unable to process how an actual culmination might feel.

In fact she’s unable to process anything. “I have to sit down,” she says. Of all things, lightheadedness had not been among her expectations. It should have been: because of course her blood is nowhere near her brain.

Passing out will help nothing. Probably. So she backs awkwardly around the table, her logic, such as it is, being: I have to sit, and that is my chair; if I reach it, then I can sit. Fortunately, her reasoning bears out. She breathes into the relief, as she sits, of still being conscious.

Helena says, “If you can’t stand, then I’ll sit beside you.” More logic, here spoken as indulgence.

She situates herself in the closest chair and scoots it nearer, inch by accommodatingly sweet inch, and then she’s in fact sitting beside Myka, like they’re on a carnival ride together, and now they’re both turning sideways—with Myka devoutly grateful for her continued (seated) consciousness—as they steal (back) these kisses, these presses and exultations, that should so long before this have belonged to them.

“This is not enough,” Helena breathes, sultry against Myka’s mouth.

Myka makes a noise of agreement, and she moves for more, to start the movement to more.

Her hands have made their way to Helena’s shoulders, and are anticipating her hair, when she and her hands are startled by a crash-clatter from across the room.

Myka wishes she could simply ignore whatever such noise signifies... but that wish is unrealistic. She removes her hands and opens her eyes.

Claudia is standing in front of the sideboard. Much of the china that had previously adorned it lies around her in ruins. “I swear to god, this is not what it looks like,” she says. She glances down, then shakes her booted foot. A teacup handle falls from it, producing a tiny clink of pain as it hits the floor.

“It looks like you were trying to blink in but got the coordinates wrong,” Myka says. “That’s happened before. But this time you got tangled with the plateware?”

That yields an eyebrow-raise and a finger-point, then: “What I should’ve said was, ‘This is not what it looks like even to someone who knows all the words to my extensive back catalog of Caretakery mistakes.’ The thing is, I blinked in, saw something I was in no way supposed to be seeing, turned my back on that—faster than fast, and I swear I would’ve tried to blink back out but I can’t reset that quick—and I guess I did Wonder Woman arms, because...” She waves down at the china. “This stuff. Or ex–stuff. Unless you’ve got a lot of glue? Which you might. You were pretty stuck to H.G just now, like in a way I’ve never seen before and like I said was in no way supposed to be seeing, but it’s the most spectacular news of this century or any other because all the feels I can’t even!” She clasps her hands up high and squeezes her eyes shut, as if the scene Myka and Helena are presenting is too glorious to behold.

Myka turns from this emotional show to look at Helena. A half-beat later, Helena turns to Myka. Lacking any ready response, they both turn back to Claudia, who opens her eyes, drops her hands, and says, “Your faces are telling me all those words happened out loud.”

“Unfortunately,” Helena says.

“Hi?” Claudia offers, with an apology face.

Helena smiles. “Hello, darling,” she says, warmly.

Their interaction is lovely to witness, but: Warm, Myka thinks, because that’s how Helena’s body is, next to hers. Why, why, why has Claudia appeared now?

“I’d run over and hug you,” Claudia says, “but I see that seat’s taken. Instead I’ll just say I missed you.”

Myka can’t help herself; she accuses, “Not enough, you spy.”

“She called me. Was I supposed to be like ‘oh, it’s H.G., I better not pick up’?”

Myka’s immediate thought is YES. She says in its place an umbrage-laden, “You could have told me.”

“Maybe you don’t understand what you looked like every time you came back from seeing her,” Claudia says. “You think I wanted to make you look like that?”

Helena shifts position beside Myka, legible as a “you are failing to ignore the past” caution; Myka adds to it a self-admonitory on this day of all days. “Fine,” she says. “Not fine at all, but fine.”

“Anyway Artie’s already shouting about how you’re both late for work,” Claudia says.

Myka sighs. “Artie. Shouting. So everyone knows?”

“Well not about this. Which I double-pinky-swear I never meant to know about, even though it was always something to hope about. All Artie knows about, and probably even hopes about, is who works here. There. At that place. And is late. For it? So I guess we should get going?”

Myka can easily imagine agreeing that yes, yes they should get going: result being that she and Helena would proceed to the Warehouse. That place. Additional result, as history has shown, being that something would happen to once again put the promise of this day out of reach.

She sees, now, that she has to act against such results. Act against them. Act.

And she sees something else, something both sickening and enlivening: all her lies, those interventions against truth? They were acts. Sinful ones, but her agency in telling them has fortified her with the necessary heft for this moment.

Her lies were practice.

Morally inexcusable practice, but: she was a feral little fabulist. Now she must put ends before means. Use the muscle; ignore the exercise by which it developed.

So. “No,” she says.

Her refusal disturbs the space, shaping it into a new kind of silence.

In its wake, Claudia offers appraisal: eyes narrowed, jaw tilted. Eventually, she says. “Not entirely sure who I’m talking to now.” She squints tighter, sly-red-fox. “By the way,” she says, calculatedly casual, “your book buddy says hi.”

If anything could knock Myka out of her certainty... certainly, it’s guilt. “Oh god,” she says.

Claudia’s narrow tension relaxes. “Steve and I figured out you were the one doing ‘unauthorized use.’ And it took us a while, but we also figured out what you were unauthorized using.”

“Thanks for not telling on me,” Myka says.

Silence again, until Helena breaks it with, “Myka used an artifact? Was this for personal gain?” She doesn’t look at Myka.

“I literally would never. And neither would Steve.”

Myka wants to say Could we ignore that too. Instead she confesses, “For personal... desperation.”

Now Helena looks. “So at last you understand,” she says. It’s a softer condemnation than Myka might have expected, not that she had expected anything, because until this moment she hadn’t made the connection. Not through the clean line of “so at last.”

But then a new connection, or rather consequence, strikes her: “What’s its downside?” she asks Claudia.

“You don’t know?”

“I didn’t care.” At that, Helena grasps Myka’s hand, tight, and Myka knows she’s going to have to think very hard at some point about this newly realized kinship between them. Right now, though, she’d rather think about the fact that Helena is holding her hand. But for that niggling consequence. “Do I need to care?” she asks.

“It’s a downside, so yeah? But with this guy, it’s a downside-with-a-twist.” She pauses, as if waiting for... guesses? Applause? When neither Myka nor Helena responds, she says an aggrieved, “Anyway, it’s the same as the upside.”

This baffles Myka. “Seeing the future? How is that a downside? I mean maybe in the Cassandra sense, if nobody believes you, but—”

Claudia interrupts, “OOC of you to get that wrong. But I guess OOC is your new IC thing, Ms. ‘No’? Anyway I don’t think you grokked what the artifact is.”

“A book,” Myka says, because... it is? “A future-seeing book.”

“Book, schmook. And future-seeing... schmuture-seeing? It’s an oracle. It doesn’t see the future; it predicts it. Literally, it says in advance: you ask it a question about the future, and it answers. It says it. In advance of that future.”

Helena chuckles. “Etymology strikes again.”

To which Claudia nods. “Right?”

“I still don’t get it,” Myka says. “Saying versus seeing? In my defense, I’m very tired.” She is sorely tempted to put her head down, heedless, here on the table, but she feels Helena tighten her handhold again, a press intelligible as Stay with me. She breathes deep and refocuses.

“Its answer is a decision,” Claudia says. “About the future.”

Helena looks at Myka, then at Claudia. “Now that is power.”

“Also right,” Claudia says. “But it can’t make that decision if nobody asks it to. Myka.”

“I did ask it,” Myka concedes, “but now my head hurts. Are you saying that if I hadn’t asked, then none of this would have happened? Would be happening?” She can’t argue with the outcome, but: upside, downside? Her head does hurt.

Claudia’s face empties. She says, “Asking questions has consequences, Agent Bering.”

Has Claudia been taken over by... something? Myka can’t help it now: “What?” she asks. The word rings a little less desperate, here at home, as a thing she tends to say. But she’s no less lost.

“Sorry,” Claudia says, turning back into herself. “I was trying on my spooky-Mrs.-F suit. Bad fit so far.”

“The art of the gnomic utterance,” Helena intones. Her own utterance doesn’t quite rise to gnomic, but Myka can see more clearly than ever the helios toward which Helena-as-Caretaker might have troped. Losses. Gains. How can Myka place herself in relation to so many competing ledger columns?

“Did you just insult Mrs. F?” Claudia asks, her obvious confusion breaking into Myka’s reckoning. She might as well have said her own Myka-esque “What?”

“What?” Helena then asks, thus squaring that circle.

“The red hat?” Claudia says, gesturing at her own head. “And doing magic or whatever in your garden?”

Sense at last. Myka doesn’t quite suppress a laugh. “Gnomic,” she says. “Means terse. Mysterious. Not gnome-related... or actually, it is, but not those gnomes. Different derivation.”

“Etymology strikes yet again,” Helena says. She suppresses her own laugh—Myka hears it behind that overly serious observation—but not her smile.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” Myka tells her. The fact and experience—correct, appropriate—of their speaking together. “Claudia,” she says (and Claudia is looking at them like they’ve both lost their minds, which they probably have, but not about this), “go to the Warehouse. Keep everybody there. All day. Please.”

Claudia brings her hands together once again in a dramatically audible clap. “I get it. I mean I’d say something about a booty call, but I know that’s not it. You need your day.”

Our day? Our days. Our days, our weeks our months our years.

“Yes,” Myka says.

Helena follows up with, “We do.”

“Hey, but I’m no oracle,” Claudia says. “No predictions here.”

Myka and Helena give her incomprehension again.

“Not ruling out booty call,” she clarifies, laughing, but she backs away as she speaks, now blessedly making her exit—unlike her entrance, through the B&B’s front door.

That means Myka and Helena can—must—make their move. And they do, rising from the table, stepping toward the stairs—but not yet up them, for Myka can’t wait; her hands are at last finding Helena’s hair, and as they do, as she touches and feels, she says, in wonder, “It’s just us. It’s never been like this.”

“Why would you comment on it?” Helena demands, as if Myka taking even an instant to reflect threatens to make the entire situation evaporate. Her hands are busy too, running along Myka’s arms, not quite grasping, but then grasping, and then Myka can’t comment on anything, because her lips are busied, back in that new state of being.

The journey to her bedroom: she had in the past allowed herself to imagine such travel, but carefully, the fantasy within strictures. Policed possibility. The walk, but not its end... not, in fact, the culmination, the sense of which had increasingly eluded her, a frustratingly constant receding of possibility, as if her body were teaching itself over time to echo Helena’s incorporeality, her sensation waning, from body to limbs to fingertips alone, until all vocabularies of touch became words not near enough the tongue.

But now everything is nearing, nearing and blurring, boundaries dissolving, everything her body, her body everything, the stairs the hallway the room the clothes the hands the lips the skin the stumble the fall...

****

Myka slow-motions into consciousness, unable to discern where she is, knowing at first only that wherever it is, she was exhausted before she got there. Got here.

That’s mostly because she can’t remember the preceding events, and experience has established that extreme fatigue is one of the few states that interferes with her otherwise reliable recall.

So she begins to sort it out, blinking sleep-weighted eyes. Her initial perception is that she’s lying in a bed—a bed blessedly recognizable as hers—yet she also seems to be perceiving something else, something absurd: that Helena, of all people, is speaking to her. Speaking unclear words, near to her, while she is in this bed that is hers.

I’m dreaming.

The words resolve: “Are you all right?” Helena asks, and Myka snaps to.

Not dreaming.

She is in her bed, and Helena is here. Their skin is... together. Helena, propped on an elbow, is regarding Myka in full recline.

Myka wants to answer Helena’s question with a strong “yes.” But she isn’t at a table and she doesn’t want Helena to be reminded of her feral fabulisms, not here not now, so instead she dares to ask, “What happened?”

“I believe you fell asleep,” Helena says. “In the middle of things.”

Myka’s first thought is that she can’t imagine a worse blunder. Her second is that of course she can. Her third, which she formulates second by second and piece on piece as her memory returns, is the one she says out loud. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Helena shakes her head. “I brought you coffee. That was all.”

It’s a damning pronouncement. “You’re saying I could have caffeinated, but instead I ruined everything.” Myka raises her left hand to cover her face. She’d use her right one too, but Helena’s body is trapping that arm. Move, she wants to say. I need both hands. To cover her shame.

Helena uses her free, unpropping hand to remove Myka’s, revealing her face. She interlaces their fingers. “Your sleep has addled you. I’m saying that I brought you a small gift, but in return you’ve given me a far greater one.”

New bafflement. “I have?”

What could possibly be sufficient penance here? “Not the right one.”

“Witnessing your fulfillment of a bodily need.”

Helena offers a considering head movement, a cerebral back-and-forth. “Isn’t it? Proof that you trust me enough to lost consciousness—in this way—so near. Differently meaningful, but meaningful all the same. Particularly to someone who, as you know, occasionally forgets to ‘ignore it.’”

Her words have such depth, in sound and meaning, that Myka can barely process any of it. Particularly given that they are lying down in privacy... and far more.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she asks. Blunder some more, the book would no doubt reiterate... but she’d rather get her guidance, here in this moment, from Helena.

“Enjoy it.” Helena says, and she laughs—this sound not deep but high, high and so happy.

Myka has never heard this laugh from her. It’s as much a directive as her words are. “Enjoy it—I didn’t know,” she says. That comes out more terse than she intends... because she can barely speak. The joy in the room—occasioned by everything, but especially by that new, new laugh—is so thick, interior and exterior to bodies and souls, that forcing words through it takes great effort.

“Know what?”

Myka would worry about her answer sounding too intellectual, if this were anyone else. In her bed. But it’s Helena. Thank god, it’s Helena. So she feels safe to say, “It’s a corollary. Follows from ‘ignore it’? I think?”

“Yes,” Helena says, gratifying Myka immensely, “yes, ignore it, about the past; enjoy it, about the present; and thus one additional corollary, this one about the future.”

“Ask an oracle about it?” Myka tries.

Helena frowns—exaggerated, comic. “That doesn’t follow, either poetically or epistrophically.”

“It does follow epistrophically.”

“Minimally so,” Helena sniffs. The acknowledgment, itself minimal, further pleases Myka, even as Helena goes on, “But it should scan as well. My proposal does.” She pauses, doubtless for effect. Myka tries to think out what the teased proposal might entail, but she doesn’t get far before Helena pronounces, “Absolve it.”

“That does scan,” Myka acknowledges.

“Thank you. This next doesn’t, but I know you’ll want to take on blame for how our future unfolds, so I add: absolve yourself as well.”

Ignore it; enjoy it; absolve it. These strategies—despite Myka’s having insisted on the first—are all antithetical to her way of being in the world.

But she’s been unhappy, being in the world. Unsatisfied.

Now she is being satisfied, a new state that only this skin-to-skin with Helena could possibly have brought about.

She deliriously doesn’t care whether Claudia has kept, did keep, is keeping everyone else away.

This is hers and she can and will enjoy it.

This is hers and Helena’s and she can and will see to it—she can and will ensure—that they both enjoy it.

She has never before ideated such power—could never have, but here it is, in her hands, in her body, in giving and taking: power. And if she’s still too tired to remember, on next waking, that she had it, it’s all right. She’ll have another occasion to exert it. More anothers.

“Did you just say ‘more anothers’?” Helena asks, speaking and breathing with exertion.

Apparently there’s still room, in and amongst the joy and the power, for embarrassment. “Out loud? Are you sure?”

Helena calms enough to say, with indignation, “My hearing is quite good.”

“Evasive answer,” Myka says, recovering a little. “I’ll take it as a no.”

“Evasive?” More indignation.

“It wasn’t a yes,” Myka points out.

Helena runs a hand through her hair, as if in preparation for more argument. “I propose we table this debate,” she says instead.

“Good idea,” Myka says. “Because instead of talking, or asking about talking, you should be kissing me.”

“So should you. Vice versa. Me. Kissing.”

Transportingly charming near-incoherence... “You’re right,” Myka says, her heart overflowing. “So be quiet.”

“You first,” Helena ripostes, with what sounds suspiciously like a giggle.

Myka wants to keep that sound active, so she doesn’t comply. And they continue to speak together. Through it all.

This time, Myka stays awake. That’s probably a blunder too—but it’s most satisfactory.

****

In the weeks and months that follow, Myka takes time, as she finds it, to visit the book. Often, its pages ruffle and sigh, their invitation clear: Don’t you want to know? To know more?

The temptation is real, compounded by what she feels as an exertion of pressure from the volume: Did I not gift you this future? it seems to whisper. Surely you could gift me the opportunity to exercise. To provide still greater definition.

Then again, that could simply be her guilt—her ongoing struggle to absolve it—talking.

On one such occasion (though not the only one), she hears footsteps. The rhythm, the particular ring of heel-strikes: she knows the confidence of those strides. The knowing is calming, if not itself absolving.

“Back already?” she asks without turning around.

“Absurdly simple retrieval,” Helena says. “Steve found the entire exercise an insult to the considerable intelligence he and I bring to bear on any mission we undertake.”

Helena’s interpretations of Steve’s thoughts are often baroque—often, seemingly, more suitable to her own thoughts. But when she offers such interpretations in Steve’s presence, he doesn’t wince. “Really?” Myka says, just to make sure.

“He said aloud that he was bored.”

“That’s something,” Myka concedes.

“And you?” Helena asks. “Have you contrived to place new parameters on the future?”

“I keep telling you I won’t.”

“And yet I continue to find you here,” Helena says. More seriously, she offers words that have become customary: “If you could be happy.” Steve’s utterance, shared among the three of them, has become a mantra.

“You know that’s a work in progress,” Myka says, and although that’s customary too, it’s also true: while she knows she can be, and while at certain times she genuinely is, she is by no means consistent in that achievement.

Nevertheless she has to admit, now as always, that the book has been right. The blunders—the many, many blunders, even as she’s perpetrated them, even as she’s dealt with their aftermath—have been satisfactory. Such are the components of that work. Of its progress.

Helena nods. She lays her hand upon the book, as it lies there on the shelf, as if swearing an oath. “Everything is,” she says.

****

Myka sits at tables. She tells lies. But the sitting and the lying, as activities, are now uncoupled.

Coffee, too, has shed its significance; it’s a beverage, not an event.

However: she keeps a stained shirt in her closet as a reminder of earlier, pained, connected times—of, also, the work that was even then in progress, even as she was failing, spectacularly, to recognize it as such.

She needs the reminder, because with regard to the past, “ignore it” doesn’t always work. Nor does “absolve it,” as the future unfolds.

But on the best of present days, ignoring and absolving intersect. And on those best days, Myka does, in fact and in practice, enjoy it.

END

Instead of shoehorning thoughts into tags, here’s what I’ve got:

Did both Myka and Helena get let off the hook too easily? Your call... but I’m inclined to embrace the idea that instances of grace might manifest as the reward for hard work, and acknowledging culpability may be the hardest work of all. I mean, Elton John wrote a song about it, so put that on whichever side of the ledger works for you. Also, I like it when people help Myka in ways she doesn’t know how to ask for. She seems (to me) to be very bad at asking for help. Or maybe I mean that she seems disinclined to ask for help even (or especially) when she should.

Generally the only way to come out the other side of the hard stuff is to go through. But sometimes you do have to set some things aside if you want to move forward... and that’s what this story, at base, has been about. I hope. I offer all gratitude to @barbarawar for giving me the impetus to think it through in this particular way, at my snail-in-a-school-zone pace. Finally, if there’s a timeline in which Helena becomes an agent again and she and Steve don’t become partners, I don’t want to know about it. The potential perfection of their pairing thrills the bejesus out of me.

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #Tabled #B&W holiday gift exchange #part 7 #barbarawar #at least it's done now #certainly did not intend to focus on this for over half a year #but I'm sure it happened because I needed to learn some lesson or other #and a narrative takes as long as it takes #now back to work on other tales #which are obviously taking as long as they take #Confection Run Propagator Sound I see you

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norah-posts · 1 year

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Bambi and the Freak

Modern!Older!Eddie Munson x Dark-skinned!College!Reader

Summary: Being a student in an university is not a big thing in your life.

But falling in love with a long-haired metalhead?

Well, it’s an unexpected thing.

NSFW 18+ - minimal use of y/n, roommates to friends to lovers, angst, smut, mutual pining, mention of bullying, sexual tension, emotions, mention of loss of a parent

Author's note: Since English is not my first language, I like to give to me new goals and a lot anxiety because of that. So maybe there will be some grammar mistake, but I'll try my best (I hope I wrote it good, because that shit kept me awake for a few nights). Anyway have fun and I hope you'll like it! (Oh God, I'm so nervous...)

Chapter one: The Metalhead in the house (wc: 3k)

This will be a typical boring Friday night.

Lucas has a party with his basketball teammates, Max is working at her night shift at the bar. But Eddie… Eddie stays at home that night which is suprising, because he uses to hang out too on Friday nights with his coworkers or his friends. But tonight he doesn’t.

You and Eddie are standing in the kitchen, watching Max as she gets ready for work. She takes out her lunchbox from the fridge and puts it in her bag, while she complains about how much she doesn’t want to work tonight and how tired she is. You and Eddie nod in understanding.

Max stops at the front door, she looks around to see if she forgot something, then look at you and smiles, ’’Alright then. Have a nice evening, lucky people who have Friday night off. I hate you! Bye bye!”

’’Bye!”you and Eddie say in chorus as Max opens the door and leaves you alone with Eddie.

This is your first time to being alone with him. Eddie has been living with you, Max and Lucas for a few weeks. He got a mechanic job nearby, and since Hawkins is too far, he moved in your apartment, which you share with Max and Lucas.

A two-bedrooms apartment is not too big for four people, but four of you can handle this situation. Max and Lucas share one bedroom, the other is yours. and Eddie sleeps on the couch in the living room which is in the same space as the kitchen. This means after Eddie fell asleep you must be quiet if you want anything from the kitchen. But it’s okay because he isn’t at home much, only at night, except when he is somewhere else at the weekends. But that weekend, Eddie stays home for mysterious reasons.

You glances at Eddie and turn around immediately when you see that he is looking at you with those dark eyes. To avoid his eyes, you go to the fridge, open it and take out the stuffs for your dinner. While you take the ingredients on the kitchen counter you start to apologizing to him, ’’I’ll be quick and I will not bother you, I promise.”

’’You’re not bothering me” Eddie says and you smile a little under your nose.

You and Eddie haven’t talked much with each other before. He is nice and all, but he is not your friend, he is your roommate and that’s all. You didn’t try to get to know him and he didn’t try to get to know you. You know guys like Eddie well. Long hair, chains, lot of rings on his fingers, wearing black boots, listening metal music and always being loud – these are the ingredients of a metalhead. Eddie is that kind of guy you see on the street, you try to be invisible to not catch his attention You’ve met too many guys like Eddie in the past, and you can tell these guys are not very nice. They are the worst. They find pleasure in insulting you with racist words. They don’t care that you are a human like them. They like to joke about your history, when your ancestors were slaves.

But Eddie is different. Even he looks like those guys, you know that he is not racist. Lucas said he knew Eddie from high school and Eddie was the only guy who was nice to him. Eddie showed to Lucas and his friends that the high school isn’t a nightmare, it can be fun if you are with the right people This story melted your heart, and you became a little curious about Eddie, but you didn’t dare to talk with him. And he didn’t too with you.

Until the moment, you hear his deep voice, ’’Are you cooking something?”

’’Yep” you nod as you take out the cutting board from the kitchen cabinet. ’’I found a recipe on Pinterest. I thought I’ll try it.”

’’What kind of recipe?’’

You take out your phone from your back pocket, open the recipe and hand the phone to Eddie. He looks at the screen with furrowed brows then looks at you with raised eyebrows. ’’Marry-me chicken?”

You can hear the judgment in his voice, but you don’t care, you just shrug, ’’There’s parmesan and a lot of garlic.”

Eddie gives back your phone to you. ’’Yeah, I saw it. It can kill a hundred vampires,” he smirks.

’’We don’t hurt vampires. They’re hot,” you say as you slice the chicken breast with a knife.

’’Hot? They want to kill you!”

’’Not if the vampire is Edward Cullen and he loves you,” you grin at Eddie and he shakes his head in disbelief. He mutters something under his breath, then to your suprise he takes out a black hair band from his pocket and starts to tie his long hair into a bun.

’’What are you doing?” you ask in shock when Eddie walks up to you.

’’I’ll help you cook,” he replies, glancing at your phone’s screen and taking out a plate from the cabinet. ’’We have to eat all the food, you know. Garlic protects us from vampires. And who knows? Maybe I’ll put a ring on your finger at the end of the night, if it’s really good,” Eddie gives you a cheeky wink and pours flour into the plate.

You giggle and give Eddie a slice of chicken breast, and he dips it into the flour. This happens for a while. You cut up the chicken, Eddie dredges it in flour, and while you’re working you glance at him for a few times.

You just noticed how tall is he. You have to lift your head to see his face. You look up at him for a few times and you notice his strong jawline, his straight nose and his kissable lips. Kissable?! Your strange thoughts make you turn back to the chicken as fast as you can and try to calm down.

’’You’re okay?” Eddie asks and tilts his head down to scan your face what is burning under your skin.

You swallow and nod, ’’Yeah.”

’’Are you sure? You’re panting,’’ Eddie furrows his brows as he continues to stare at your face.

’’I’m fine. It’s just a little hot here, isn’t it?” you fan yourself with your hand to chase away the burning feeling and smile at him awkwardly.

Eddie looks at you like you are an idiot then turns aways from you and glances back at your phone screen,’’The next step is put them into a pan with oil and butter.”

You nod and squat down to the lower cabinet for a pan. When you straighten up you notice Eddie’s eyes on you. ’’What?” you ask.

He shakes his head and mumbles, ’’Nothing.” You raise an eyebrow at his answer and put the pan on the stove.

The next few minutes pass in silence. Only the sizzle of butter can be heard in the kitchen as Eddie takes the chicken breast into it. Now the chicken is sizzling too, and both of you are waiting. Eddie stands next to counter with one hand on it. You rely on your elbows on the counter and watch the food starting to be cooked. There is nothing but the silence. The silence what is coming to be awkward and you glance at Eddie for a moment. To your suprise he stares at you and when Eddie catches your eyes he chuckles a little.

’’What?’’ you ask.

’’Nothing,’’ he grins and shakes his head in disbelief before looking back at you. ’’You know, you are not like what I thought at first.”

’’Well, you are not too.” you grin at him. ’’I thought you will be mean with me.”

’’Mean? With you?” he raises his brows.

’’Yeah.” you nod and start to rocking on your heels nerviously. ’’The guys like you, you know… They’re not very nice to girls like me.”

’’Like you?’’ Eddie asks back, then looks down on you and back. ’’You mean, because of…?” he touches his arm with his hand reffered to his skin and you nod. ’’Oh…’’ That’s all what he says.

You shrug like it’s not a big deal but for some mysterious reasons Eddie starts comforting you. ’’They were idiots because if they were smart, they would know that we are all the same under our skin. I mean flesh, veins and blood, and this is my personal opinion, but these people are colored, not you, because white guys like me go out to have a sunbath and they’ll have red skin after thirty minutes, but you…” Eddie points at you. ’’You will reamin as beautiful as you are right now.”

You blink at him in shock. These things what Eddie said are shocking and strangest thing is that Eddie thinks you are beautiful. Unsure what to say, you clear your throat and look away for a moment to collect your thoughts. What can you say to that? A ’’thank you” is not enough.

Suddenly, a knock breaks the atmosphere between you and Eddie. You raise your head up curiously and straighten while Eddie goes to the door and opens it. A small smile crosses his face as he welcomes the unexpected guest. ’’Harrington!”

’’Hi! Hi Bambi!” Steve Harrington smiles at you as he enters the apartman and you smile back at him.

’’Hi, Steve! How are you?” You ask sweetly, follow Eddie with your eyes who steps to his bag on the couch.

’’I’m good. You? What are you cooking?” Steve looks at the pan on the stove and before you can answer, Eddie walks back to Steve and hands him a small bag of weed. ’’Thanks.” Steve nods and puts it into his back pocket. ’’Would it be a problem if I’ll pay for these later?”

Eddie rolls his eyes at him. ’’Yes, it would be a problem if you don’t get out in five seconds.”

Steve grins at him then waves to you with a ’’bye, Bambi, nice to see you” as Eddie closes the door behind him. You shake your head and chuckle, then turn to the stove. While you take out the chicken breasts into a plate you see Eddie in the corner of your eyes, still standing by the door, watching you work.

’’So, are you a drug dealer?” you ask him to break the silence.

He snorts and walks past you, ’’What can that guy say whose mother died when he was a kid and whose his dad was shit?” he asks mockingly.

Now you are the one who snorts and says, ’’My mom died too and I’m not a drug dealer.”

’’I’m sorry for your mom.” His voice is serious and when you look up in his face you see his face is serious too, like he really mean it.

’’It’s okay,’ you shrug and turn back to the food. ’’My dad wasn’t shit as yours, so…”

’’Yeah, Sinclair said your father is doctor and you have siblings.”

’’I have four brother and one sister,” you nod and grin at Eddie when you see his jaws dropped. This is a frequent thing for you, everybody gets shock when they find out that you live in a big family. Eddie can’t say anything too just ’’Wow!” and you giggle.

’’Do you have sister or brother?” You ask and Eddie shakes his head.

’’No, just me and my uncle.”

’’Did you live with your uncle?”

’’After my dad got into trouble and went to the jail, because the real work was stinky for him and he found the worst way to make money.”

’’Oh… Sorry about that.” And you mean it, because you can’t imagine how hard it must have been for Eddie, but you can see it in his eyes when he nods and says, ’’Yeah…”.

You feel like you have to say something to make him feel better, so you start with a smile on your face, ’’But you are better than him, right? I mean you have a real job so you’ve outgrown him.”

Eddie snorts and nod with a little laugh, ’’Outgrown him is a little bit too much, because I’m still dealing with drugs, but yeah… Maybe you’re right.”

You smile at him and asks, ’’Are you doing it?”

’’You mean, the drugs?” And you nod. ’’Sometimes.”

’’I’ve never try it before,” you confess to him shyly.

’’Really?” Eddie raises an eyebrow.

’’My brothers used to smoke weed sometimes, but I didn’t dare to try it because I was scared,” you explain and Eddie nods in agreement.

’’Weed can be good if you have good company.”

Without thinking you ask back, ’’You mean, your company?”

Eddie snorts and nods again, ’’Yeah, my company. We can try it if you want to.”

You lift your head up for his answer, ’’Now?”

Eddie laughs and shakes his head, ’’Maybe next time when the others aren’t home again Okay?”

You nod, ’’Okay.”

*****

Eddie said you’ll have to wait because he is too poor to give you a ring, but he’ll work on it. The marry-me chicken was great as the night was also with Eddie. You and him ate together and talked for hours about everything that came to your mind. Eddie is really nice and smart, even though he failed in high school twice. ’’The education was not for me, because I was too lazy,” he said on that night.

The atmosphere between you and Eddie has changed a bit since that dinner. It became like between friends. Not best friends, just simple friends who live together. Sleepy smiles and greetings every mornings. Little questions about yours and his day in the end of the day before you two go to have some rest.

In the middle of the week, you sit at the dining table with your friends. Beverly and Mia are your classmates, and have been friends since the first day of college. Mia says all the time ’’Black girls should stick together”, and Beverly and you agree with her, so three of you spend a lot of time together. Just like that afternoon when Eddie comes home from work.

’’Hello, ladies!” He grins at them and looks at you for a moment as he takes off his shoes. Three of you smile at him and turn back to your textbooks. You need to write an essay due next week and you got an idea with the girls helping each other out.

You see in the corner of your eyes that Eddie goes to the kitchen sink, drinks a glass of water and sighs a big when he swallowed the last gulp. Then he turns around and goes to the couch where are his stuffs. You don’t see him, just hear the sound as he rummages in his bag. You look up for a moment to the girls and you see they’re watching Eddie curiously.

You want clear your throat to catch their attention from Eddie, when a hand touches your shoulder and you almost jump, but you don’t, only a shiver runs down on your spine. It’s Eddie’s hand on you. It’s warm and you can feel how strong, even if his touch is affectionate, when he squeezes your shoulder softly when he says, ’’I’m gonna take a shower. Can I use your shampoo?”

You nod in your textbook and you don’t dare to look up to Eddie or your friends. For a moment it felt like the whole world disappeared around you while Eddie’s hand was on you, but after he let it go you wake up and feel the heat around your face.

You don’t move or look up, until you hear the bathroom’s door voice as Eddie closes it behind him. You want to take a deep breath, but it’s stuck in your lungs when the girls lean closer and start to whispering, ’’What the hell was that?” and ’’Did you see the fact that the metalhead wants the chocolate girl?”

You roll your eyes sarcastically but your mouth twitches, ’’Eddie is just nice.”

’’Yeah, he would be so nice between your legs,” Beverly adds and Mia continues, ’’You know what the rumours say about the guys like Eddie?”

You furrow your brows at Mia, who smiles mischievous and shrugs. ’’They like it rough. Really rough.”

Beverly giggles and covers her mouth with her palm, ’’Now I see why he has handcuffs on his belt.”

’’It doesn’t mean anything,” you say, avoiding the fact that Beverly took a good look at Eddie’s belt.

Mia holds up her hands and shakes her head, ’’I don’t make the rules. I’m just saying the facts about the guys like Eddie. They like to bite if you know what I mean.”

Beverly snorts, ’’You sound like who has experiences with metalheads”. To your suprise, Mia nods and giggles. ’’I had a one-night-stand with a guy. He was creepy, because he wanted to biting my black ass and girls, that shit made him so hard. He fucked the life out of me and left me alone in the morning with bruises around my butt. He was a freak with a beautiful white cock.”

You and Beverly screaming with laughter, you bet Eddie hears your loud joy in the bathroom. As you calm down, you remember the first time you and Eddie met.

A few weeks ago int he kitchen Eddie extended his hand to you and he introduced himself as Eddie Munson. You looked into his dark eyes, as you told him your name - Bambi. He nodded and shaked your a hand a bit as he looked down on you. It was like he eating you with his eyes, which is not mean too good. He looked at you like a predator. A white-man predator who knows he will break you because of your dark skin. You’ve seen this look too many times, and it gave you anxiety as always.

Eddie smirked when he looked up into your eyes. ’’This name is fits to you, because you look at me like Bambi, when the hunter killed his mom. I won’t bite you, unless you ask for it.” He gave you a wink, what made your face burning. But thank God, he let go your hand.

#eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #stranger things 4 smut #stranger things #eddie munson fluff #eddie x fem!reader #eddie munson x dark skinned!reader #eddie munson x black!oc #eddie munson x black!reader #bambi and the freak #norah-posts

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silverstonesainz-archive · 2 years

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𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏

MASTERLIST

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : time flies by when you don't pay attention to a clock 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 5.1k words 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : explicit language, sexually suggestive dialogue & descriptions

5:00 AM. It’s five in the morning when Sophie wakes up to her daughter crying in her crib next to her. The sky is just shifting from pitch black to a beautiful blue, and she could see wisps of clouds littering the otherwise clear sky. Her eyes burn, begging for just five more minutes of sleep. Five more minutes and then she’ll get up. But the cries are louder, shrill and desperate for comfort. It forces Sophie out of bed. She picks up her daughter and bounces her in her arms as she tries to comfort her child.

“Are you hungry Elise?” Sophie whispers, pressing a soft kiss onto the side of her baby’s head. “C’mon, let’s go get your bottle ready.

It’s three hours later, 8:00 AM, when Sophie finally gets to sit down. Elise, or Ellie, is on her play mat, reaching for the rattles and stuffies hanging above her as Sophie tries to make herself some breakfast. She keeps a watchful eye from the couch, a bowl of cereal under her chin. She watches as Elise kicks excitedly, a smile on her face as she finally grabs hold of a giraffe hanging above her. Her little fingers grip with as much force as a baby has, until the plushie slips from her fingers and bounces above her. She laughs and Sophie smiles.

8:30, she carries Elise downstairs to the seamstress shop. Sophie’s Stitch. The little shop she took over for an old Greek woman in the midst of her pregnancy, when her swollen feet and aching back no longer allowed her to work in the restaurant in the city. She had very minimal knowledge on sewing, but just a year and half of practice Sophie would consider herself fairly talented. Though the shop doesn’t do very big projects, they do a lot of tedious work that most shops in the city don’t prioritize. Teddy, her apprentice, is already waiting by the door, busy tapping away on her phone and doesn’t even notice Sophie unlocking the door.

“C’mon Teddy,” Sophie sighs, holding the door open, “we have a long day today.”

The young girl throws her phone in her purse as she walks in. Sophie flicks on the lights, and walks over to the little playpen in the back of the shop to set Elise down on her back. She waves a rattle over her daughter, to which Elise reaches for and grabs excitedly.

“So I’m gonna run a few errands today, so it’ll be you in the shop. I just need you to finish the dress that lady brought in a few days ago for me, because she’s supposed to pick it up before closing.” Sophie explains, not bothering to look up at the young girl who is already setting up her station. Elise shakes the rattle in her hand, smiling up at her mom with a big smile on her face. “I need to shower, but I’ll be back down before Ellie’s next feeding. So just give her some puffs if she starts crying.”

Teddy nods, taking Sophie’s place above the baby girl and allowing her to walk away without rattling Ellie. Sophie can hear the gentle coos over her apprentice, the soft greetings she gives Elise as the baby shakes the rattle over and over.

Her shower is hot. The water soothes and softens every muscle in her back and arms, and she can feel herself relax. Just thirty minutes of bliss. Thirty minutes of Sophie and the scalding hot water. She doesn’t take much longer than that, not wanting to spend too much time apart from the baby downstairs. Her baby. She values her alone time, the few moments of quiet time by herself. But she’d trade the quiet in a heartbeat for her daughter. Elise was her world now, and it felt wrong to be away from her longer than she needed to be.

She walks back into the shop, hair still dripping wet but otherwise ready in every other way, with a warmed bottle in hand. As she expected, Teddy is already bouncing a very upset Elise in her arms. The young girl looks over at Sophie, wide eyed and stressed.

“She didn’t want any puffs, and I tried to give her some water but she did take the sippy.” Teddy rambles.

Sophie nods, offering her a smile. “She probably just wants some milk, don’t worry Teddy.”

She takes her daughter, pressing another kiss against her cheek. She coos soft words as she walks towards the back of the counter and begins to feed her daughter. Elise holds the warm bottle, her cries quieting as she drinks her milk. Sophie reaches over to pull down a pink dress to hand to Teddy, and begins to explain the last of the adjustments that she was unable to finish from the night before.

By the time Elise finishes her bottle and burps, it is just half past nine. How only four hours have passed when it feels like a whole day is beyond Sophie. She tries not to think about it, about the way time seems to tick by quickly. Sophie only writes a couple notes down in her book, however many inches and yards, before she tries to get some work done. Every now and again, between fabrics and threads, she’ll look over to see Elise sitting up on the mat as she pulls apart the cloth books or swings a giraffe from side to side. She’s a good baby, only fussy if she’s hungry or mom is just a little too far away.

At eleven, Sophie picks Elise up and rests her on her hip. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me. And I’ll bring down some lunch, I’m making pasta. From scratch.”

Teddy grins, “From scratch? Must be a special occasion.”

Sophie smiles, looking at her daughter who stares back at her with wide eyes. She taps the tip of Elise’s nose, to which the baby giggles. “Something like that.”

When she gets back to her apartment, Sophie puts Elise down for a nap. It doesn’t take too long, the baby already tired after being up for six hours. She nods off in Sophie’s arms, and soon she is laying the tired baby in her crib. Once she’s sure that Ellie is fast asleep, she gets to work on making fresh pasta like she promised.

It’s nearly noon when there are two taps on her front door. The knock on the door tears her attention away from her cooking. Sophie wipes her hands on her pants as she walks over to unlock and open it.

“Before you get mad at me,” Mick says as he enters the apartment, walking past Sophie and over to the dining table, “I have my key. My hands are just full.”

She rolls her eyes, not bothering to say anything as she shuts the front door and goes back to her cooking. Mick lists off the items he brought over as he unloads the grocery bags, putting things away into cupboards and drawers. He moves around like he lives there, like he owns the place.

“Can you just chop the basil up for me?” Sophie asks as she stirs the sauce simmering in the pot. “I’m about to drop the noodles.”

Mick nods, slicing the herb next to her. “So I brought some decorations, they’re in the bag on the table. And Mom’s making a cake right now too.”

“Aw, Corinna.” Sophie coos, “She’s too sweet.”

“She loves Elise, calls her her grandbaby and everything.” Mick smiles, dropping the basil into the sauce after Sophie drops the cooked noodles. “Speaking of, where’s my girl?” Mick reaches over Sophie’s shoulder with a fork to pick at the food. Sophie elbows his side, nudging him backwards.

“Stop Mick,” She chuckles, shaking her head, “Well I put her down for a nap, but it's been a little over an hour. You can check in on her, I’m almost done making lunch.”

She doesn’t have to turn around to know that there’s a huge grin on her best friend’s face as he walks off and towards the opposite end of the apartment. Sophie turns the heat off and puts the pot on top of a different burner. She was tired, it's all she’s really felt for the last two years. But then she hears that precious little laugh, the incessant babbling and all the tired washes away. She turns around in her place, watching as Mick carries her daughter into the kitchen. Curls in disarray, bug eyed and still glazed over with sleep, and her dimples deep as she laughs loudly. Mick brings Ellie over, and Sophie presses a kiss against the girl’s soft cheek.

“My little Ellie,” Sophie greets, pushing her daughter’s curls away from her forehead. “Did Uncle Mick wake you?”

“She was wide awake when I went to check on her,” Mick pinches Ellie’s cheek gently, which elicits a giggle from the little girl.

Sophie watches as Mick takes her daughter, dancing her around the living room. Ellie shrieks in pleasure. Her daughter was a spitting image of her, except for her bright blue eyes that are always wide and curious. She took her brown hair and complexion, even her nose. But those baby blues… Bright blue eyes that take her back to that night in London… or was it Rome? Sophie shakes away the memory of a pair or two that she knows, walking over to pack the cooling food into a tupperware.

“Alright Ellie, mom’s gotta go run errands, so Uncle Mick is going to take you to see Nana Cori, okay?” Sophie looks up at her daughter, who just smiles widely. She didn’t understand her mother, Sophie knew that, but the response was appreciated. With a diaper bag packed and lunch for his family made, she walks over to give her daughter one more kiss. “Be good, okay? I love you.”

Sophie smiles at her daughter’s smile, poking a dimple on her left cheek.. She watches them from on top of the stairs as Mick buckles her in, waving when she sees her daughter’s little hand waving from the backseat of the car. She stands there until the car disappears, and then she’s slumped against the wall as she catches her breath. She keeps true to her promise, bringing down a portion of the meal she cooked for Teddy before leaving for the city.

Time really flies by when you don’t pay attention to the clock. And really, when did Sophie ever have the time to read one? Between her daughter and the shop she runs under her home, there was barely any time for her to breathe. There was still so much to do and so much left to achieve, and Sophie can’t help but feel like she’s drowning. Nothing ever really goes according to plan, Sophie thinks to herself. And maybe that should’ve been a given, should’ve been common knowledge even in her naivety. But even so, she can’t help but let the anxieties of a life she never planned for get to her. She’d been living with this dread for the last two years, unsure if she’s doing enough for Elise. No matter what she does, or how she does it, she can’t help but still feel like a failure.

Sophie spends the better part of her day in the city, running in and out of shops and picking up various items before returning home and to her shop.

“Hey, has it been busy today?” Sophie asks, dropping the multitude of shopping bags onto the floor behind the counter.

“No,” Teddy replies, holding the pink fabric up and inspecting her seams, “Just one jacket that needs fixing, a tear underneath the left sleeve. But I can get to it after this. I’m almost done.”

“Nonsense,” Sophie waves her off, grabbing the navy blue blazer and taking it to her station, “I have time before I need to start decorating. I can get this done so you don’t have to worry about it.”

The two girls carry on a conversation as they work on their respective projects. The tear is an easy fix, only taking Sophie ten minutes to complete before she steams and hangs the blazer up. She only stays in the shop a while longer, sifting through her bags on the floor as she keeps Teddy company.

The door chimes as it opens, letting the two girls know another customer has arrived.

“Hi there,” Sophie greets, standing up and dusting herself off, “How can I…”

She trails off, throat running dry. There they were, those god damn blue eyes.

“Sophie?”

His accent is thick, voice filled with surprise as he stands in the threshold of the shop. His eyes are wide, curious, almost reminiscent of her daughter’s and it sends a shiver down her spine. But he still looks good, almost as good as he did nearly two years ago. The white linen shirt hangs loosely on his body, beautifully contrasting against his tan skin. His scruff has grown thicker than she remembers it, but it contours his face beautifully. He looks like was cut from the same cloth of gods, the way he stands there. But he was anything but that.

He was the worst person she’d ever met. Even if it was one weekend in Rome, she’ll never shake the feeling of anger towards him and the feeling of disgust for herself. Those texts from a woman pining for him from far away, his precious Baby, whoever she may be, still haunt her. And standing here now, years after she had walked out of that hotel room, she can’t stop those same emotions from crawling up her spine.

“What are you doing here Pierre?”

“What are you doing here?”

She shakes her head, “I asked you first.”

Pierre chuckles, fingers coming up to his chin to rub his beard. He had to laugh, because otherwise he’d stand there looking stupid. He’d never understand why she was mad. He should be mad, pissed even. He didn’t walk out without a word, didn’t disappear into the night like he normally would. No, he stayed. He stayed in bed with her, held her, fucking spent a whole day with her only for Sophie to disappear without a single word. No note, no kiss, not a single warning. And yet here she stands, face contorting into what he assumes to be anger, like he fucked up.

“Here for some meetings, might be some potential business for me here in Kamari.”

“Not what I meant,” Sophie spits, “I mean here. In my shop.”

Pierre looks around confused, “This is yours?”

“Sophie,” Teddy squeaks from her seat. Both adults turn to the girl, who lowers in her chair, “It’s his jacket.” She points to the navy blazer behind Sophie.

Sophie picks it up and roughly sets it on the counter. Pierre begins to walk further into the shop, only stopping when he notices the girl take a step back. She looks pale, a sheen of sweat coating her skin. She looked like she was going to be sick. But even then, he acknowledges the softness of her tired features, how round her eyes are as they dart around the room and effectively avoids his gaze. He likes the way her hair is tied out of her face, only a few strands falling around her face. She looks beautiful, like an angel.

“I’m not gonna hurt you Sophie,” Pierre chuckles, trying to ease the tension in the room.

“Just take the jacket and get out Pierre.”

“How much?”

“I don’t want your fucking money. Just take the fucking jacket and leave.”

Pierre scoffs, “What the fuck is your problem Sophie?”

Sophie doesn’t answer his question, instead grabbing the bag of decorations and handing them to Teddy. She gives her quiet instructions to leave the shop and go up to her apartment, tasking her with decorating it. Teddy nods, practically running out of the shop before the two could talk any more.

“What the fuck is my problem?” Sophie finally responds as the door shuts, “You’re my fucking problem Pierre. You being here right now is my fucking problem.”

“How? I haven’t seen you in nearly two years. I’m just here to pick up my jacket Soph. I breathe in your general direction and you freak out. What the fuck is that about?”

Sophie picks up the jacket, walking around the counter and pushing it into his chest. “I sewed up the tear, there is no other damage to your jacket. It’s on the house, so please, leave.”

Pierre’s hand grips the fabric tightly, yanking it from her grasp and slamming it back on the counter. Sophie jumps at the loud sound, taking a step away from the man. She can hear him panting, trying to steady his breathing as he rests his weight on his hands. His shoulder rises up and down, head hangs low, as he tries to calm himself down.

“You don’t get to treat me like this.” Pierre finally mumbles, “You don’t get to treat me like I did something wrong to you. You walked out on me, Soph. I woke up the next morning alone, after what I thought was a pretty great night, albeit a great fucking weekend. You left and now you’re mad?”

She can feel the tears brimming on her waterline, the large drops falling onto her cheeks. She takes a few steps forward, putting more space between her and Pierre in hopes that breathing becomes easier. It doesn’t work, her chest still feels as tight as ever.

“I just want to know what happened. Why’d you leave? What happened?”

Sophie could feel her heart ache in her chest, mind returning back to that night in Rome. She can see the affectionate nickname mocking her, reminding her that she was just another notch on his belt. A reminder for Pierre that he simply can. She remembers how stupid she felt, how for the briefest of moments before seeing his phone, that she felt that for a moment Pierre might be someone worth sticking around for. Tears continue to fall on her face, and she has to turn away from the Frenchman who looks at her, waiting for her answer.

“Please just leave,” She finally responds, her voice weak and shaky.

He doesn’t want to. Pierre wants to scream more, to fight and beg and pull an answer from her. He wants to pick at her brain, figure out at what point between meeting and a kiss goodnight did it all go wrong? It’s been nagging him for years, and now he wants his answer.

But he sees the tears on her face, hears her sniffles, watches how her shoulders shake as she tries to hide her frailty. He sees just how broken she is in his presence, and he refuses to cause her anymore pain. He’d have to get his answers another time.

Pierre pulls a hundred euros out of his wallet, putting it on the counter in place of his jacket, and walks out without another word. The moment the doors shut, Sophie crumples to the ground. She’s gasping for hair, tears still falling only faster this time around. She’s stricken with emotion over seeing Pierre for the first time, and her daughter comes to mind. She thinks of her sweet Elise, and suddenly she’s crying more.

“Soph? What’s wrong?”

Mick is quick to her rescue, helping her up onto her feet and holding her close against his body. His hand runs over the back, rubbing gently as he shushes her cries. He doesn’t pry, doesn’t ask for an explanation. He simply holds her until she’s no longer crying.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks softly. Sophie shakes her head against his chest. “Okay. Whenever you’re ready then.”

Mick cups her cheeks, forcing Sophie to look up at him. His thumbs swipe against her wet cheek, wiping away any evidence of sadness. He smiles down at her, but his eyes still read with worry. Mick sees how torn she looks, the tension in her golden eyes. It’s obvious that something is bothering her, he can read her like a book. If only he could pick her brain. He feels helpless in this situation and wishes that there was more that he could do for her. But Sophie was more stubborn than he can be, and he knew that in due time she would tell him. He just had to be patient, a skill he was still working on.

“I’m fine. I am. I just had a moment.”

Mick nods, “That’s okay, we all have our moments. Now c’mon, we have a party to put together.”

Sophie closes up the shop, following Mick back up to her apartment. Teddy already did most of the leg work, pink streamers and balloons scattered all around. Elise was napping in the other room, and Corinna was just frosting the cake with pink frosting and pearlescent sprinkles. The four adults do their best to go about it quietly, putting balloons up and turning the expanse of Sophie’s living room into a pink wonderland. It’s nearly five in the afternoon when everything is basically put together and when Sophie is able to look in on her daughter.

Ellie is fast asleep in her crib, breathing steadily. Sophie can’t help but feel overwhelmed again as she stares down at a piece of her. A whole year has passed since she’s met her baby girl. In all the journals and dreams she had about the “perfect life,” never did she imagine that a beautiful baby girl would join her so soon. But that was the thing about life, it never goes as planned. It’s never really quite that simple.

She got that dream studio apartment, in the city of her dreams, filled with art and plants, but with one addition. Just another piece of her.

It isn’t long until Elise begins to stir, eyelids slipping open to reveal her bright blue eyes. “Hi there birthday girl. Let’s get you ready.”

She slips the girl into a white dress and a headband with flowers perched on the left side of her head. Elise is patient, allowing her mother to dress her in the frills and pomps. And when all is said and done, after Sophie has taken a multitude of photos to last a lifetime, she picks up her daughter and kisses her cheek. Sophie holds her child, tears blurring her vision, and she feels her world come together. In her arms she holds her purpose. She holds her flesh and blood, she holds the only person she could ever imagine loving for the rest of her life.

When she walks in, Corinna, Mick, and Teddy are grinning ear to ear. They greet the little girl, pressing kisses on her face and cooing at her. Corinna takes the baby from her, and Sophie takes a step back to watch the scene before her unfold. She takes a good look at the people in the room, three people who have been a part of her and Elise’s life since she was growing in her belly.

“What are you thinking about mama bear?” Mick asks, bumping shoulders with her.

Sophie manages to muster up a smile, even with her mind swirling over a million things. “I just can’t believe she’s one. I feel like it was yesterday that I was holding her for the first time.”

Mick nods, slinging his arm over her shoulder. “I can’t believe it either Soph, I can’t believe it either.��

“Hey you two, let’s sing happy birthday.” Corinna waves the two over and they crowd around the pink cake Mick’s mother had made for the occasion.

Sophie takes her daughter from Corinna, holding her close as Mick lights the candles. The singing is soft, the moment intimate. Just three other people here to celebrate a milestone in her daughter’s life. The only three they needed.

“...Happy birthday dear Ellie, happy birthday to you.”

Sophie leans forward, blowing out the candles for her baby. The three people clap around them, Mick leaning in to press a kiss to the back of Ellie’s head. He takes the baby from her as she and Teddy begin to serve food and cake. And in that moment, she looks up and watches as Mick makes faces at Ellie, who giggles with glee. She watches the way her little hands grab the man’s face, the way her nose scrunches excitedly. Then like clockwork, the guilt she had been feeling for years begins to brew in her stomach. She thinks of how long Uncle Mick will be enough for her, if he ever will be enough at all.

She’s afraid of the questions her daughter might ask the older she gets. Afraid of the day her daughter will look up at her with wide eyes and ask where her daddy is, just as Sophie has done before. She clearly remembers her mother’s answer, the bitterness in her voice as she describes her father to be one of the worst people to walk the planet. Sophie remembers the resentment she felt for the father she never met, and the need of male validation that she grew up with. It makes her feel sick, and it’s the last thing she wants her daughter to feel.

But what would she say? Will she describe her father to be the gentleman who bought her drinks at a bar? Or is it the artist she met in Florence? Perhaps it’s the man who she met at a wedding but effectively walked away from? There was no clear answer, not even on her daughter’s face could she tell who her dad was.

The small party only lasts for a couple more hours before Teddy bids goodbye and Corinna has to leave to tend to her own home. Mick hangs back, cleaning up around the apartment while Sophie gets Ellie ready for bed. 8:00 PM and Elise is covered in soap and suds as Sophie washes the food and dirt she’s managed to get on herself throughout the day. She watches her daughter splash around, playing with bath toys. They stay like that for a little while longer, Sophie wanting to savor every single moment of this. To enjoy the moments where who her father may or may not be doesn’t matter.

8:30, and Sophie is giving Ellie half a bottle, bouncing her to sleep. Mick sits on the couch, watching as Sophie paces around the room with a little bounce in her step. He admires the way she looks at her daughter, noticing the soft expression on them and how they sparkle as she looks at Ellie. It isn’t long until the baby is fast asleep and Sophie gently laying her down in her crib.

“Teddy said a man came by and that you were really upset about it,” Mick finally says as they walk into the kitchen.

Sophie sighs, “Yeah…”

“Who was it?”

She shakes her head, “It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t it though? It has to matter enough that you were on the floor crying. Who was he, Soph?”

She leans against her kitchen counter, hands gripping the edge as she tries to steady her breathing. She tries not to let the memory of the earlier encounter shake her, but the image of Pierre standing before her, the sound of his voice, is enough to have tears glossing over her eyes.

“It was Elise’s father.” She mumbles. “Or… god, her potential father. I don’t know.”

Mick raises his brow, “I thought you didn’t know who it was?”

“I don’t. I don’t know if Pierre is her father Mick. I look at her, and I still honestly couldn’t tell you which one it is.” Sophie spins around and rubs her eyes with her hands. “It might be him… I don’t know, they have the same eyes.”

“Pierre… so the asshole from Rome?”

Sophie nods, “Yeah.”

Mick bites his bottom lip, nodding as he tries to think of a way to console her. But nothing comes to mind. This situation is way out of his purview, and he didn’t think he had a place to say anything about her situation. But he looks over at his best friend, the clear distress in her features.

“It felt weird, seeing him after all this time,” Sophie confesses, “And I felt so angry, but then I thought of Ellie and… fuck Mick. I don’t want to deprive Ellie of her father, I don’t want to feel so much anger towards the man who could be her dad. I don’t want to turn out like my mom.”

“Hey,” Mick interjects, “You aren’t turning out like your mom. From the little you’ve told me about her, and from what I’ve seen in the nearly two years of friendship, I can tell you that you are more than she ever was for you. Sophie, I see how much you love Elise. God, everyone can see how much you love that little girl.”

“Thanks Mick,” Sophie mumbles as he joins him at the kitchen table.

“And what does it matter who her father is? She has Uncle Mick anyways.” Mick winks.

“That she does.” Sophie smiles, tapping her fingers on the old wood. “I don’t know, I think I’m just shaken from seeing him. It wasn’t what I was expecting, especially on Ellie’s birthday. What are the chances he goes to a seamstress out of the city, and mine specifically you know?”

The man nods, rubbing his chin. “Just a sick coincidence I think.”

“Probably.”

She hopes it’s a sick coincidence, that maybe the universe was playing games with her. And maybe Mick is right. Who cares who Ellie’s father is? She raised her all by herself for a whole year, hell carried her in her belly for nine months without help from any of her potential fathers. And while maybe they didn’t have much of a say in the matter, it doesn’t change the fact. It had always been her and Elise, and Mick and his mother and Teddy. Not a dad in sight, not for her and not for Ellie. And yet everything was alright. The world spins round, time continues to tick on by.

Pierre suddenly appearing again after a year and some months after Rome was a sick twist of fate, a pebble in her track. He didn’t matter, and he won’t matter after today. Not to her and not to her daughter.

At least she hopes so.

NOTE: here's chapter 1! if you haven't caught on, this is based off mamma mia, and the titles is What You Mean to Me (as said in the photo)! mamma mia my comfort movie and i thought it'd be really fun to do my spin on it with some f1 drivers. i hope you enjoy this chapter, and i really can't wait to release more.

once again, my shout out to the lomls @bigdiccricc & @vamossainz55 for talking me off a cliff and listening to me ramble.

TAGLIST HAS BEEN DISCONTINUED if you want to be notified for updates, follow @carlosjpg and turn on notifications.

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sleepyfallboy · 1 month

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New story teaser

This particular day had started far earlier than he would have liked because he woke up to a coughing fit so bad he got sick. It had woken Gin up as well, unfortunately. They must have spent a good two hours of their morning just sitting on the bathroom floor. It almost irritated him. Not because of Gin being there, no that probably made the experience a little easier. She helped remind him to breathe when he could, she would rub his back and let him lay on her lap between coughing fits. They’ve been getting worse. He has medication, but it doesn’t do much good. No, what annoyed him is that he’s always tried so hard to take care of her, to provide for her and now, it’s getting to a point she’s almost having to take care of him. Especially when he is coughing so hard that he’s throwing up and choking on his own blood. These fits usually leave him so exhausted, so drained. Sometimes they leave him bedridden for the day. Today probably should have been one of those days. He’s been faint, even after having been convinced to eat. Any movement that’s too quick, or if he begins to get too hot, leaves his vision swirling and his body unsteady. Not to mention how many times he’s fallen into coughing fits that day. It is a huge inconvenience on his job. It makes it hard for him to keep up with the standard he pushes himself towards.

If it’s a day where minimal goes wrong. Where most things can be handled by Black Lizard or some other small field force that he can command, it’s easier. He can focus on things that won’t require him overexerting himself, or pushing himself. Today was not one of those days. Oh no, today was a day where people decided to get mouthy, they decided to get pushy, and they decided that they could act against their commands just a bit too much. Nonstop. Then there was some random who knows who they were that decided they wanted to try their hand at destroying the city that has been built up and is very, very protected. It was a day. A long day. A day that started around sunrise, and now, the sun already gone on the horizon, did he get to stop. He was leaning against a wall, a cloth over his mouth. The weretiger was hovering, fidgeting. God it bothered him so much when he did that, but most of all he hated the look the weretiger had on his face at the moment. As each cough wrecked through Akutawagawa, he could see the look of concern and pity on the younger man’s face. They had already sent Kyoka back home, it was late and she had been tired. She had tried to argue with Atsushi, yet when Akutagawa began to cough, the weretiger wouldn’t let her convince him to go and save whatever conversation was oh so important for later. Akutagawa wishes she had tried harder. Just to spare him the present embarrassment. His body was shaking so hard that even the wall barely supported him. As his weight sank to the ground, he felt hands helping move him.

“Are you alright?” Atsushi finally asked, still seeming jittery.

Akutagawa swallowed, lowering the cloth from his face slowly. Even in the darkness, he could see the red that tainted the fabric and he knew the weretiger most definitely could see it, probably smell it too. “I’ll be fine,” he replied, swallowing. His throat was raw. Days where his illness was bad, usually resulted in a couple of days of semi-mutism. It tore up his throat.

“You don’t seem-”

“Why do you care? You should be going home to rest.”

“I won’t be able to sleep… Don’t change the topic on me either,” Atsushi argued. Akutagawa felt the sigh leave him more than heard it. His eyes shut. His headache wasn’t going away. “Are you sick?”

“There’s nothing that can be done. It isn’t worth worrying about. It’s just a bad day,” He muttered, forcing himself to stand slowly. His entire body trembled with the effort, his legs barely supported him, his arms didn’t want to push him up. His vision swam with darkness just from the movement. No, definitely not a good day. The fact it was a long day probably hadn’t helped. Once again, he felt arms go to support him. Before, he probably would have quickly pushed Atsushi away from him, yelled at him. However he was too tired, and they’ve grown closer. Sorta. Slowly. Atsushi was tolerable, at worst, maybe decent company at best. “Why won’t you be able to sleep if you go home?”

“Jittery,” and oh so honest. “It’s just been a rough day. I was going to walk around a while.”

“This late at night? I thought you would have learned by now that only crazy people walk around Yokohama at night,” Akutawgawa mumbled.

“Maybe… Let me help you home… or, let me call Gin.”

“Gin stayed the night with Tachihara, she’s probably fast asleep right now. Don’t wake her. I can get myself home,” he muttered.

“I’m not letting you walk home by yourself,” Atsushi argued.

“I’m not letting you walk me home.”

“I’m not asking. I’m telling. Let me walk you or call someone who can come get you.” It’s been interesting. These last few months, the weretiger has definitely gotten bolder, more confident in himself, more sure of himself. It was such a change from the sniffling, nervous teen he first met. It wasn’t a bad change. Just a change. Sighing, Akutagawa didn’t have it in himself to argue.

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd sskk #sskk #bsd atsushi #bsd akutagawa #shin soukoku #atsushi x akutagawa #one shot #drabble #work in progress #fanfic #ao3 writer

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filthforfriends · 1 year

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Familiar and Sweet

Vic x Tommy

Word count: 6k

Another installment of friends helping friends when they need to get railed properly.

She held the key card up to the light, testing if the plastic was at all translucent. It looked the exact same as her own, except this one opened Thomas’ hotel room. So many considerations that Victoria literally examined the tangible representation from different angles. They were friends with benefits when she occasionally ran out of other coping mechanisms. Thomas thoroughly enjoyed himself and it’d always been their normal. You can only put adolescents alone in a soundproof practice room for so many hours, before they come up with alternative ways to amuse themselves.

It made Ethan and Damiano nervous. They cited Fleetwood Mac, one of Victoria’s favorite bands, and that couldn’t be playing fair. Thomas had sat in the corner staring at his hands and not speaking for the duration of the 20 minute argument. So they minimized hookups and Damiano stopped complaining when he realized the miracles Tom could perform on Vic’s mood during the occasional triste.

Tonight, Victoria wasn’t out of coping mechanisms. She wasn’t on the verge of any sort of emotional implosion, besides being pretty damn homesick. Or maybe familiarity sickness was a better descriptor. After enough nights out, enough travel, even Victoria got tired of the energy it took to be experiencing everything for the first time, everyday. Humans are built for familiarity and her little piece of sweet-tempered familiarity was one keycard swipe away.

She’d tried cuddling up to all the boys since they worked constantly, and work necessitated them being together. It was comforting, but Vic wanted a little more than leaning against Damiano’s chest while they shared a joint, or going for a piggyback ride on Ethan. Her last two hookups with Thomas had been too brief for either of them to do the deed properly. In general, getting dick was far from challenging, but after a couple crappy hookups that novelty exhaustion made it impossible to get off with new people. Vic wanted someone who knew what they were doing, whom she didn't have to explain her preferences ad nauseum. Vic wanted Thomas, and supplementation had proven futile.

He’d set his second keycard down on an end table at breakfast and forgotten about it. Hypothetically, Victoria really had meant to give it to him. She decided on this course of actions, plus some quality time with her travel toys. On the other side of the wall, she could feel Thomas rehearsing softly. Even without an amp the vibration of the steel strings carried through the insulation. She could text Tom to come get his key card, but going over there herself would make more sense. Then what?

In the shower, Victoria bargained with herself. It’d be really comforting to share those very not casual cuddles she and Tom couldn’t do in front of the others. It’d been so long since they’d made out and Tom had a gentle mouth and soft lips. When they were broke and had to share a hotel room, her and Thomas always bunked together. In hindsight, being held every night had made those rough, early years doable. Fuck it.

Victoria puts on a shirt and underwear before grabbing both key cards. She looked down the hall before slipping out of her room and into Tommy’s. The door beeps loudly when it opens and he is mostly asleep.

“Huh?” Thomas groaned, shielding his eyes from the light of the hall.

“Shit! Sorry Tommy.”

“What’s up?” he yawned as she let the door fall shut behind her.

“Can I sleep here?”

“Mm, yeah,” he murmurs. He doesn’t even bother asking questions as Victoria climbs in behind him. She pulls on his shoulder so Thomas flips on his back and Victoria lays on his chest. There's that familiar smell she loved last time, plus a soothing hand stroking under her t-shirt. Tom isn’t surprised when he feels neither bra nor pants on Vic, because he knows her well enough not to expect either. Her leg is slotted between his, resting on his boxers. The pressure makes Thomas partially erect. Neither pay any mind. If he wants something, Thomas knows he can ask, and Vic hopes he will too.

Everything about him is calming and soon she’s getting sleepy, even though Victoria intended to do a great deal more than be held.

“Want me to scratch your back?” she whispers, knowing the answer. He hums in enthusiastic agreement, removing his hand from under her shirt. Thomas turns over and Victoria straddles his glutes after giving his cute little butt a light smack. He snorts at the gesture, but melts into the mattress as soon as Victoria’s blunt nails run along his freckled back. Because she missed this, Vic is generous enough to massage Tom’s shoulders too.

“You’re gonna be a hunch back if you don’t fix your posture,” she comments. By the light from the bathroom, she can already see the red lines her nails are leaving. Thomas is so pale that anything shows up on his skin. Victoria moves to his lower back, pressing her hands into the muscle then scratching lightly. Thomas shivers in delight at the sensation. She rolls down the elastic waistband on his boxers and he’s sweaty underneath. Victoria grins at getting Thomas a little worked up. She gives him another playful smack, this time on the other cheek, before getting off.

Tom doesn’t flip onto his back right away, expression sheepish, which is how she knows he’s got a boner. She scoots towards him, leaning in carefully for several seconds. Tom looks at her, her lips, and then his eyes close for a chaste kiss. Victoria keeps their mouths pressed together for a couple moments, before pulling away and gazing at Thomas amorously. Realizing that he needn’t be self-conscious about his arousal, Tom flips over to his side and does the thing that Vic keeps trying to explain to people. Along the side of her head, Thomas pushes all four fingers into Vic’s hair and runs his hand all the way to the back of her skull. He makes a fist, then gently tugs backward. It's the feeling a hairbrush gives, but intensified, with no sensation of pulling.

It’s such a relief to get what she’s been craving that Victoria outright moans. She’d even tried doing it to herself, but it didn’t quite work. Tom does the same motion behind her ear, warm palm cupping her neck. She completely relaxes in his hand, so his lips against hers are a wonderful surprise. Victoria almost doesn’t have time to reciprocate when he pulls away. She gives chase, finding Thomas’ mouth again, and this time the kiss has some substance to it. Even so, she opens her eyes and pulls away, scanning Thomas’ suitcase.

“Lube?” He reaches behind himself and onto the table for an opened single-use packet. He probably had it to make jerking off a little more pleasant

“Mm, why don’t we masturabate together?” she wonders out loud, grabbing the packet. “Boxers off,” she orders, squeezing a bit of gel into her hand and letting it warm.

“I don’t know. That's a good ahh,” he moans, when Vic gets his cock in a fist.

“You still like it this way?” she asks, full strokes from base to tip, thumb swiping along the slit. Tom’s head falls backward and his lips part. Apparently he’s been missing the ease of hooking up with someone who knows exactly what he likes, too.

“Christ Vic, yeah that’s — that, mhm.” He shifts his hips to get more comfortable. “And if at the very top, just tighten?” She applies pressure as she approaches the ridge of Thomas’ cock, and his face twists. “Little less, just a little, fuck yeah, okay.” His eyes fall closed and once Victoria is confident in the rhythm, she resumes the kiss. Thomas doesn’t even try biting or french kissing when he’s distracted, just these passionate touches with a hint of tongue, where his lips are plush and relaxed. It's a lovely way to kiss.

Thomas' hand pushes up the back of Vic’s underwear, caressing and kneading her ass. She tries to shimmy in a way that might bring his hand between her legs, but Tom isn’t getting it. However, he is falling out of time and his cheeks are bright pink. Not wanting this to be the conclusion of the evening, she lets go of his cock. Thomas whines in betrayal and Victoria feels guilty.

“I know Tommy, I’m really sorry. I promise I’ll make you cum, but I want to do more,” she pleads. Still pouting, Tom opens his eyes and Victoria bumps their noses together affectionately.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, again. Of course, sweet Tommy doesn’t hold it against her for a second longer. He pushes a hand down the front of her underwear and feels how wet Victoria is, and has been.

“Couldn’t stand fucking another stranger?” Thomas asks. Victoria whines and nods, peeling her underwear down and kicking them off. Meanwhile, he carefully pushes a finger halfway inside.

“Thomas I just touched myself. Go faster.” He turns one finger into two, both taken without strain. Victoria searches for where she set down the lube packet, meanwhile Tom moves at lightning speed. He extracts his hand, jumps off the end of the bed, grabs Vic under the knees, and hauls her down to meet him.

“What the fuck are you – oh my fucking god,” she moans. Tom presses his face between Vic’s legs, tongue tracing her hymen. She gets a handful of his hair and falls against the mattress, chest heaving.

“Thomas, you are my favorite person in the whole world.” He hums between her legs, shaking his head back and forth. His pointed tongue finds her clit almost immediately, and Vic is spasming in pleasure. It’s so much better than a vibrator. Thomas’ mouth is hot, wet, and attentive.

“Can you – with your nose, you remember?” Tom resituated so his nose was sitting against Victoria’s clit while his tongue found its way between her labia. “Of fucking course you do,” Vic moans, pulling his hair. He nods against her, throwing both her thighs over his shoulders. Tom gets a tight grip with his hands and uses it to press his face against her cunt securely. Vic mewls, back arching. His tongue laps at the area in the center of her folds, right above her opening. Every time he shifts position, Thomas’ nose delivers a little extra friction. It's substantial enough that a ball of pressure is tightening in her core, and the prospect of actual release makes Victoria a little more desperate than she’d like to be.

“Tommy, I think I can cum. Oh my god, Tommy please make me cum. I’ll do…I’ll do anything. Fuck!” He inserts two digits forcefully, curling them upward to locate her g-spot. When he finds it Tom rubs back and forth with the pads of his fingers gently. He preferred very intentionally applying light force to erogenous zones. It prompted more blood flow to the area, and thereby more sensation Patience was key. So few people understood that you couldn’t rush someone's body towards orgasam.

Upon finding Victoria’s clitorous with his mouth, Thomas holds the little cluster of nerves between his lips and applies suction. The contrast had Vic seeing stars as her toes curled.

“You’re so amazing,” she panted, the tension inside her increasing. “I’m so close Tommy, just please, please, ah!” The tip of Tom’s tongue flicked against her clit. He made his hand movements a little rougher and Victoria’s heels began pounding on his back. This is always how she acted before a good orgasam: undulating her cunt against his face while kicking him, both accidental.

“Please! Tommy, thank you,” she whined, finding the edge. With no situational constraints it was easy to prompt Vic’s orgasam. Nothing was hotter to Thomas than the woman he just got off thanking him as she came. He didn’t mind the taste of Vic’s pussy which meant she got stimulation all the way through her climax. When Victoria squirmed, he had to hold down her hips with his forearm. She squealed thanks as he pushed his tongue inside her cunt, feeling each contraction of pleasure.

As soon as the aftershocks began, Tom pushed Victoria’s legs apart to get a breath of air. He stood up, towering over her as she twitched on his hotel bed, smiling drunkenly. As soon as Vic got her wits about her, she sat up and took Tom’s cock in her mouth. He was looking around for more lube in case they needed it, when suddenly his tip was against Vic’s soft palette. It knocked the wind out of him, so much so that Thomas had a hand on Victoria’s shoulder for balance's sake.

His head fell back, eyes closed as Tom enjoyed the sensation of Victoria’s mouth, then throat. Because of variation in gag reflexes, it wasn’t fair to expect every girl to know how to deep throat. Secretly however, it was Thomas’ absolute favorite sex act. His cock was long enough to where he could really enjoy it, but not so girthy that Victoria’s jaw locked up.

“I forgot,” pant, “how good,” huff, “your blow jobs were.” Victoria hummed in gratitude, prompting Thomas to let out a groan of intense pleasure, eyes squeezing shut. “Fuck’s sake,” he grunted as she sucked down harder, one hand grasping his hip. She moaned around his cock, like the taste was pleasant or she enjoyed the sensation. It was for Tom’s benefit, since his biggest turn-on was his partner getting off. His cock twitched in Victoria’s mouth when she tightened her free hand around the base of Tom’s shaft. He stops her ministrations before he gets too close to finishing.

“Okay, okay, condom,” he huffs. Vic kisses Tom’s hip and walks over to his suitcase. He’s still recovering, trying to make himself last for Victoria’s sake. She’d been horny enough to wake him up in the middle of the night.

“They’re – they’re on the side.” She stands up, condom in hand. “Which you know already,” he grins, catching his breath. Victoria resumes her previous position, rolling the rubber onto Tommy’s shaft herself with care. She takes him into her mouth once more before Thomas pulls her into a standing position. Wordlessly, Vic turns around and her hands have barely hit the mattress by the time Thomas enters her from behind. After a couple awkward thrusts he pulls out.

“Bed’s too short,” he grunts.

“Yeah. Bathroom?”

“Mhm.” She stumbles into the adjoining room and props her forearms on the counter. The dimmer set of lights is on, because Tom could never sleep in complete darkness. Iit takes Victoria’s pupils a second to adjust, squinting. He’s right behind her, pillow in hand.

“Elbows,” he instructs, having Vic’s arms rest on the cushion rather than the hard edge of the bathroom counter.

“God love you Thomas.” He thrusts in again and this time everything makes sense anatomically. Instead of rapidly pistoning up and down, Tom applies pressure thrusting forward first, then up. The movement isn’t frenzied, making sure he’s actually approximating the location of Vic’s g-spot correctly. He is, and she falls forward while crying out in satiation. It’s a disproportionate reaction, but Vic had been laboriously searching for this stimulation and finally finding someone who could give it to her was heavenly.

“That desperate, are we amica?” he chuckles.

“Shut up and fuck me,” she quips. Thomas does exactly that, increasing his pace. Usually Victoria loves rapid thrusting. However, it’d been too long since she’d been penetrated deep and slow and Tommy knew how to do it properly.

“Wait, wait, can we go slow this time?” she pants.

“That sounds really good,” he agrees, also a little breathless. He kisses the back of Victoria’s head and meticulously inserts his entire shaft into her pussy, grinding a bit at the end just to be sure. In this position it's a straight shot all the way to the back of her vaginal canal. When she clenches, he knows he’s hit that special spot tucked right up against her cervix. She moans pornographically, muffled in the pillow.

“Good?”

“Mm, mhm. That – you told me about, uh.” Victoria interrupts herself with a mewl. “I read about it. A-spot?” Vic had mentioned after their last hookup that it felt like her g-spot changed positions, only to have Thomas inform her that there were two completely different erogenous zones internally. He’d been surprised she didn’t know, but once he saw how insecure that made her, he assured that it wasn’t common knowledge.

“Yeah this, fucking hell,” he groaned. Thomas tried adding a little speed for the last couple inches and Vic collapsed on the counter-top instantly. She started releasing these really desperate whines from the back of her throat.

“You close?” he panted, unsure what to make of the sound.

“No, just feels really fucking good,” she moaned, stamping her foot to externalize some of the sensation. Vic had started sweating from arousal herself and Tom ran a hand up from the base of her skull, tugging her hair as he had earlier. She outright wailed in a way he hadn’t heard in months, pushing Thomas’ hand between her legs to her clit. He felt kinda bad for teasing her for being so pent up.

Blindly, he searched for her clit, but Victoria was there to help him. She guides his index and middle finger to the sensitive bud, showing Tom exactly how she wanted to be touched, and not releasing his hand until she was sure he got it right. Victoria tried to sink into sensation, giving the clitoral stimulation time to work its magic. While she was absolutely getting wetter, she wasn’t getting closer to orgasam. Maybe letting Thomas choose how he rubbed her would have been better, because her own instructions weren’t yielding results. Meanwhile her pussy was literally throbbing, certain places growing so sensitive that it was no longer enjoyable. Touching herself first may not have been the excellent idea she thought it was.

Tom could recognize Victoria’s noises of frustration, when she got in her head. It happened regularly during sex and made Vic absolutely furious with herself. With other partners she’d fake an orgasam to get it over with, but Thomas was patient. Maybe that's why she craved these interactions: no performance anxiety.

“That was fun for me. Let’s do something you like,” he announces, pulling her off the counter. Victoria stumbles over to the bed, scooting up. Thomas grabs a new packet of lube, ripping it open with his teeth and squeezing a generous amount onto his fingers. He knelt between Victoria’s parted legs, massaging some onto her clit. Her eyes rolled back and she murmured something encouraging that he couldn’t quite understand. When Tom went to lubricate his shaft, he realized he’d grabbed way too much product and wiped it on the sheets.

“Kneel with my calves on your shoulders,” she instructs.

“Okay, okay,” he pants, knowing exactly the position Victoria was requesting from experience. Thomas sits back on his heels, pulling Vic down the mattress to meet him as he had earlier. After putting her legs up, actually getting inside involves some effort. She holds her pelvis up while Tom angles his cock down. It’s an awkward position to transition into, but once the tip is inserted, he hauls Victoria onto his lap and thereby down on his cock. Her right hand is gripping his flank while the left is twisted in the sheets. Wanting to make the position more secure, Thomas pulls Vic so tightly against him that the backs of her thighs rest on his stomach and his sack is nestled under her ass. She can feel the soft, fragile skin, warmer than everything else and is careful with her weight distribution.

Tommy thrusts forward and back, hitting Victoria’s g-spot on every stroke. Having her abdomen curled like this made that erogenous zone much more accessible, and he can see her enjoying it. Her entire face reddened and saliva collected in the corners of her mouth. Victoria arched everywhere, all the way down to her feet. Even though sex always involved skin to skin, this was a lot of physical contact for a stranger. It’s not the kind of position you whip out during a first hookup, and they were never anywhere long enough for a second date.

It was intimate, forcing you to look at the other person’s face, which meant you were constantly worried about your expression. Thomas knew he had a double chin from this angle, and Victoria was the only person with whom he didn’t give a fuck. She was equally grateful no matter how ragged he looked. Right now, the majority of Vic’s body was on his lap. The hand that had been strangling the bedding relaxed and her head lulled. He held her up with one hand and the other found her clit, but she flinched at the direct contact.

“Too much,” she groaned. Tommy applied his lightest touch, barely there and wondered why Victoria was oversensitive already. Then he remembered she’d already masturbated tonight. Sex following the amount of time she’d likely spent with a vibrator would make anyone uncomftorable.

“Next time ask me first,” he panted. Her hips were still jolting from minimal stimulation, nails digging into Tom’s thigh. He stilled his hand and tried to remember the location of the ice machine, because lube was definitely not the issue. Impeding Tommy's thinking abilities was the amount of time he’d been sporting this boner. He needed Vic to cum so he could cum, but that required clitoral stimulation. Watching her breasts jiggle every time she took a heaving breath was not helping the situation. The giant t-shirt had fallen around her neck in a rumple of fabric, leaving her essentially naked.

Thomas looked down to where their bodies met. Each out stroke his shaft glistened with Vic’s natural lubrication. When he pushed his hips towards her, not all of the discharge made it back inside. She was so wet that it dripped beyond the pink rim of her cunt, stretched around Tommy’s girth. The pale skin of her taint began glistening too. Eventually, a milky white drop, likely a mixture of lubrication and pre-cum ran down her body and fell on Thomas’ thigh. Their skin began sticking together, and the flower of Vic’s vulva was wetted with her arousal too. He could smell her cunt: tangy and alluring.

She started hysterically whining again, both hands strangling the bedding and Tom heard stitches rip. Meanwhile, Victoria was trying to understand why g-spot stimulation was radiating so deeply inside her core. She anticipated a surprisingly intense orgasam, but the pressure kept building, like a tightening knot. Her mind wasn’t clouded as in the moments before climax, but there was certainly some pent up facet of her sexuality that was demanding attention right the fuck now.

Tom knew Victoria was about to cum hard when her hand went searching for his. Even though her physicality isn’t what he’d come to expect of her orgasams, desperate hand-holding was a tell-tale sign. Sometimes Victoria got intimidated by her own pleasure, and needed Thomas to make her brave, because she couldn’t do it alone. Knowing it was the home stretch, Tommy stopped holding back his orgasam so they could cum together. He let it rise inside him, just as inevitable as the tide rolling in.

Internally, Vic was screaming at herself to just have whatever this weird orgasam was, so the pressure could release. Tommy pouted his lower lip, making quiet, guttural grunts. His abdominal muscles flexed and his cock twitched. He’d been so patient, waiting for Vic to finish. They’d been at it so long that despite using the bathroom right before showering, she already had to pee again. Victoria finally realized what this sensation was, and sprinted towards it at full tilt. This wasn’t orgasam, not yet at least. She was on the edge of something much more powerful.

“Tommy, tommy, please just a little bit more,” she cried out. “I’m so close. I’m so fucking close, just fucking PLEASE!” Thomas was startled by how desperate Victoria’s voice sounded and tried to hold on. Very quickly it became impossible because of Vic’s natural reaction to nearing climax. She tensed everything and moaned freely, like there wasn’t a soul for miles. Even as he came, Tommy tapped into the perpetual motion of his body, moving against Vic’s while his mind went blank.

Victoria felt herself release two seconds before the evidence appeared. Thomas was nearing the end of his orgasam when she squirted on his stomach, chest, and neck, rabidly rubbing the ridge of Tom’s cock along her g-spot as she did so. She humped him like she’d never known shame in her life, mouth wide open as the pleasure coursed through her. More ejaculate landed on the base of his cock. Tommy wrapped his free arm under her back as support, letting himself be used. It was the best part of the entire evening by far.

When her hips finally slowed, Tom couldn’t help his curiosity. He lent down and gently licked Victoria’s pussy with the tip of his tongue. Her ejaculate was tangy as well, and mildly sweet. It was a pleasant flavor, something he’d like to taste again. Thomas looked at himself and between Victoria’s legs. Her orgasam had been explosive. Squirt was everywhere, a clear liquid that clung to Tom’s chest hair. His pubic hair was soaked, as were the inside of her thighs. The dimpled tissue of Victoria’s cellulite was soft and malleable in Thomas’ grip. He held her appreciatively, running his hands along her legs.

“That was so fucking sexy, Vic. I can’t believe how much you squirted,” Tommy exclaimed in admiration. Vic felt giggly, enjoying the fact that Tom’s cock hadn’t softened much. She was appreciating how endearing the soft spot under Tommy’s chin was, when she noticed it was wet. He followed her eyes and felt a little pang of insecurity.

“It got under your chin,” she clarifies, following his train of thought. “Sorry about that.”

“Oh!” Tommy laughed, wiping away.

“God I needed that so bad,” she hums.

“Yeah, you did,” Thomas agrees. “You’ve got to teach people how to make you squirt because it's not that hard, amica.” She groans dramatically.

“But I always get in my own head!”

“I’ve noticed,” he responds, kindly. Thomas pulls out by backing up, placing Victoria on the bed. She notices that he’s still mostly hard as he ties off the condom. Thomas was usually a one and done type of guy, but if he was aroused enough he could do a round two. Deciding on at least trying, Victoria slides onto the carpet and crawls so she's knelt in front of Thomas. He sits on the edge of the bed, experimentally giving his cock a couple pulls. Instead of administering a normal blowjob, she calibrates way down. Victoria uses only her tongue, licking up his shaft, around the ridge, into the slit. Tom tastes like silicone, which isn’t awesome, but dicks generally taste unpleasant anyways.

“You wanna try to go again?” Victoria grins and nods adamantly. “Okay,” Thomas huffs. “Suck just the head, really gentle. Like really gentle.” Vic starts by simply closing her mouth and sealing her lips around Tom’s shaft. She presses her tongue against his frenulum and applies the tiniest bit of suction. He bites his lip, eyes fluttering, a hand to Victoria’s cheek. She’s absolutely thrilled to feel his cock perking up inside her mouth, and hums happily.

“Alright, can we do something boring?” he murmurs. Victoria nods again. She bobs her head slightly, hell bent on getting Thomas all the way hard. He was already erect enough to enter her, and a couple thrusts would do the rest. He holds her chin between his index finger and thumb, lifting her mouth off of his shaft.

“Could we maybe just do missionary?” Victoria suggests. “Or is that too boring?”

“Mm-mm,” he affirms, helping Victoria onto the bed. She crawls up to his pillows, finding an open lube packet on her way. Vic holds it up victorious, after laying down. Tommy takes it from her, squeezing the remaining gel directly onto his cock and slicking himself up.

“Can we – not like, normal missionary, but how you do it,” Victoria tries. “The way you sort of –”

“I know how you like missionary, Vic,” Tommy reminds her with a wink. She always got anxious that he would forget. Maybe it’d been too long or there’d been too many other lovers in between. It was irrational, because she didn’t have this fear with literally any other position. Maybe because missionary was so universal, that after enough repetitive, mediocre sex she started to wonder if her memory was just imagination.

Tommy crawled between her generously spread legs, entering her cunt with ease. This was the part where Vic held her breath, in fear he’d just start thrusting like everyone else. Instead, Thomas walked his hands forward, bringing his body higher and his cock against her g-spot. Once his collar bones were eye level, Tommy rested the full weight of his pelvis against Victoria’s clit. Instead of moving in and out, he rocked up and down. The down stroke stimulated her clitorous externally, and the up stroke stimulated it internally. This motion, as opposed to thrusting, would make Thomas last longer. It didn’t get him the heavenly friction that deep strokes did, but considering this was round two, that was a good thing.

Victoria sought out a grip that could intensify the sensation, but Tommy’s entire back was slippery with sweat. Curling forward, she was able to reach the round muscle of his glutes. It might scandalize a new boyfriend, but resting both hands on Tommy’s ass, Vic could make the movement of his hips more severe, pulling his cock deeper inside her pussy.

The g-spot stimulation was simply unmatched. Everytime he rocked up, Thomas surged forward so far that only the top half of his cock was penetrating, the lower half brushing her clit. With a grip on his ass, Vic could make sure that every pulsating inch possible remained inside her. On the way down, she followed with her own hips to keep Tommy close and found that made the grinding so delicious she could barely stand it. Organically, her hips took to mirroring Tom’s. They both set into a rhythm that allowed Vic to let go with her hands, and wrap her legs around Thomas’ back instead. The same glorious friction was achieved by Victoria resting her heels on Tommy’s tailbone. They undulated forwards and backwards, Vic’s legs keeping Tom tightly against her.

It was so precisely what she’d been craving for weeks that Vic began to cry in satiation. Fucking finally. After squirting and now with her favorite stimulation on the planet, of course she found orgasam.

“I’m gonna cum, but please don’t change anything,” her voice wobbled. “Don’t change anything,” she whispered, tearing running down her cheek. For Thomas this stimulation was decent, but he could feel Vic shaking underneath him. Not just her legs, but her entire body trembled, all the way to her finger tips. He wondered, nay hoped, that she might squirt again. Tom had met few people who were even capable of squirting twice in a row. He’d never been the cause personally.

At first he thought Vic was humming in pleasure, but he soon realized that the noise was whimpering. Looking down, he saw her eyes screwed shut, and her face wet with tears. Her heels dug into his lower back painfully, trying to bring his groin closer so Vic could rub herself against him more thoroughly. Tommy wanted to stop and check in, but she’d literally begged him not to change anything. Still, the sound bordered on wounded. It was these unsettling, repetitive high pitched sounds.

Her climax might have snuck up on Thomas, but Vic was waiting in glorious rapture for all these sensations to reach a peak. The anticipation was almost deadly, but Tommy was so effective in his movement that she was cumming in no time. Vic took a sharp breath, a couple more tears falling, and moaned low and husky.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” she chanted, until her voice broke. Victoria’s mouth fell open and she cried out three times, while avidly grinding against Tom. Her heels pounded against his back. No one had the guts to just blatantly use his body like Victoria did. She didn’t even ask and always milked climaxes for every bit of pleasure she could glean. In the most intense moments, Thomas was a very willing surface from which she could attain friction. It turned him on so violently that his heart pounded in his ears.

He could feel the necessity of his own orgasam, but Victoria was still cumming. True to form, she was using Thomas’ body to extend her own pleasure as much as possible. Brow furrowed in focus, breathing deep, she’d managed to milk her orgasam for at least a minute. He couldn’t interrupt, forcing himself not to. She’d begged him not to. Thomas extended all his focus to not cumming, to the point that it ached and his body cried out in descent. They should have taken the extra 30 seconds to put on a condom. It was a stupid, amateur move.

As soon as Victoria’s eyes tried to flutter open, Tommy tried to back up. Problem was she had maintained an iron grip on his waist with both her legs for the better part of 15 minutes. That grip had been the source of her pleasure and Vic’s critical thinking skills hadn’t returned yet. Thomas had a look of urgency on his face that made Victoria’s eyes go wide. He struggled for speech. When he managed, Tommy’s voice was high pitched and desperate.

“Pull out! Let go! Let go!”

“Oh, shit!” Vic relaxed her legs and Tom wrenched backwards. He took a heaving breath, wincing at how cold the air was without her warmth. The second their bodies parted Victoria pulled Tommy against her, so he wasn’t alone in his climax. That would be so unfair.

He fell forward into her arms, warm again, surrounded by Victoria’s feminine softness. As soon as his cock brushes her stomach he’s cumming. It was close, too close. Less than a couple seconds. Tommy makes a choking sound, then collapses. His cock twitches painfully as ropes of semen are ejaculated between their bodies. Vic is already looking forward to a shower, but for now Tommy needed her attention. She rocks them side to side. The soothing rhythm is a distraction from how long Tom’s been incapacitated by pleasure, and how vulnerable being guided through his climax like this feels.

Victoria pushes his hair from his face to help with this disorientation. There's a significant lag between when the ejaculation stops and when Tommy comes back into his body. He freezes, then sits up hastily upon realizing how long Vic’s been stuck with him splayed out on top of her. Thankfully, her expression is one of amusement, not annoyance.

He fingers combs the back of his hair compulsively, glancing at Vic. She’s wearing that cocky, wry grin that she’d mastered years ago. Her expression said I know I just rocked your world and she was right. It's enough to have Thomas bashfully avert his eyes downward. Of course, on the way he runs into the evidence of a collective five climaxes and checks on her expression again, before bursting into squeaky laughter. It breaks the silence and Tom is smiling so wide his gums show. The huge spike in oxytocin is whats got him giggling, he’d never laugh at her after sex.

With another partner, Victoria might apologize for squirting on them without warning, but Tommy is a little bit nasty and they both know he’s into it. He liked being used by his partner for their pleasure to the point that it bordered on a degradation kink in Vic’s opinion. One of the many perks of their unique friendship.

Notes: Whipped this one out in three days so excuse any errors! I've written two other one shots with these two, but never anything in depth *wink* Thanks for reading!

-XOXO, Eden

taglist: Get on it!

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#maneskin #måneskin #thomas raggi #må #thomas maneskin #vic de angelis #Victoria de angelis #victoria maneskin #thomas raggi smut #thomas raggi fic #thomas raggi imagine #victoria de angelis imagine #victoria de angelis smut #maneskin smut #maneskin fanfiction #maneskin imagine

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leqclerc · 7 months

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bloom like a flower in the spring Sebastian/Charles 507 words

Sebastian steps off the train with nothing more than a simple black duffel bag to his name. His clothes are comfortable, nondescript, and he’s wearing a cap. He looks every part the anonymous tourist.

Charles is unable to keep the smile off his face as he waves him over.

“Seb. You made it,” he says by way of greeting, sounding entirely too relieved, like they haven’t just been texting.

“I told you I’d be here,” Sebastian says simply. Charles looks at him for a moment, glad for the low light obscuring his blossoming blush.

“I know. But thank you anyway.” His eyes catch on the duffel bag in Sebastian’s hand. “Do you want help with this?”

Sebastian waves him off, flashing a grin. “I can carry my own baggage, Charles, don’t worry.”

Charles leads them out of the dim underground station and onto the street. The morning is chilly and cloudy, but the sun still manages to glow behind the opacity—Monaco valiantly making its annual attempt at doing winter.

Sebastian’s curiosity gets the better of him then, and he bends to carefully peek inside the cream-coloured gondola of the pram. The bedding looks plush and luxurious, soft to the touch.

“Hi,” he murmurs, unbidden.

Bean is comfortably nestled inside, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. One of her small hands is balled into a fist by her face. Her pale eyelids look translucent in the sunlight. She shifts, a little sigh escaping her mouth. Sebastian wonders what she’s dreaming about.

“She’s sleeping,” Charles tells him, somewhat needlessly. There it is again, that note of affection in his tone. Sebastian’s smile softens.

“The traffic doesn’t bother her?” he asks, falling into step beside Charles. He’s no stranger to bustling cities, but the noise is still somewhat jarring compared to the relative tranquility of the Swiss countryside.

“No, no. I guess she is used to it.”

Charles falters for a second, afraid he’s revealed too much, but Sebastian seems too distracted by Bean to dissect his phrasing. Small mercies.

They turn off the main street and onto some narrow side street tucked away out of view. It’s quieter here, more private. A woman is hanging up her laundry on the balcony six floors above them. Sebastian catches a glimpse of blue beyond the apartment blocks, boats swaying on the water.

Every so often, Charles’s eyes drift from Bean’s face to Sebastian’s. Giddiness washes over him, watching Sebastian against the backdrop of the azure harbour, casually walking down the streets Charles calls home. If he looks long enough, he can almost pretend Sebastian belongs here.

Charles stops on the sidewalk outside a beige apartment building, shooting Sebastian a look that somehow manages to be both expectant and shy. Sebastian helps Charles get the pram up the front steps with minimal jostling.

In the two years that they’ve been teammates, Sebastian has never once visited him, not like this.

Now, Charles can’t shake the feeling of being on the edge of something, a breath away from a nosedive.

“We’re here,” he says.

#f1 rpf #fic tag #*mine: fic #written in may 2021. set during the 21/22 winter break #casually reposting some older fic bc im feeling nostalgic :( and i love this fic verse #bean au

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goatsandgangsters · 1 year

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shadow and bone episode 6 liveblog: all two minutes of it before I turned off the TV

wow Baghra sure doesn’t…….. give a flying fuck that Alina plans to kill her son. which would be fucked up in a vacuum, but like. in the books, her motivation THE ENTIRE TIME is “saving him.” her ENTIRE THING is that SHE DOES NOT CARE about anything but herself and her son’s survival. EVERYTHING ELSE is expendable, the entire country is expendable, even Alina is expendable. BUT SURE!!! LET’S JUST NOT CARE THAT THE ONLY ONE OF YOUR MANY CHILDREN YOU BOTHERED TO RAISE AND THE ONLY CONSTANT OVER LIKE 800 YEARS OF YOUR LIFE IS GONNA GET MURDERATED

I am paused two minutes into the episode debating if this show is worth finishing

Darkling stans, I’ve always thought our section of the fandom unfairly vilified Baghra. but I am now maintaining that opinion only about book!Baghra. this is extremely cruel writing.

god. even book!darkling—an objectively worse and Deader Inside person than his show counterpart—had the decency to be extremely fucked up over Baghra’s death. and she just isn’t phased by the reverse prospect at all?

how did book!darkling, an objectively worse person who did far worse to everyone around him, get a more sympathetic treatment than what we’re doing now? like, what was the point of all the work they did to humanize the character and make him more three-dimensional, who DOESN’T EVEN DO HALF THE HEINOUS THINGS AS HIS BOOK COUNTERPART, only to turn around and take away sympathy for him that existed in the books

I was already expecting this liveblog would be a big rant about the decision to have baghra HELP alina with the amplifiers even though that is so outrageously counter to Literally Everything She Stands For And Believes In, but this just decked me in the face, so we might not even get far enough for me to do That Particular Rant

I’ve turned off the TV

an hour has passed, I’ve taken a shower, I’ve continued to debate with myself if I should just be done with the entire franchise and care about things that are actually good, instead of caring too much about things because I wish they were good

we’ll see what I decide. I’m gonna sleep on it

don’t tell me anything / be very vague. I can ask Kara specifics for my mind-making-up-process but I still want to have control over what/how much info I take in to make that decision

I really……. didn’t foresee a world where I wouldn’t like season 2

because like, I read the books. on the whole, I enjoyed them. even though objectively 5 of them are mediocre at best. I made it through. I had fun. they’re not good, but they’re entertaining, and that has value. and that was always my assurance. “well, if nothing else, the show won’t be WORSE than the books.” and I’m not so sure about that right now.

all things considered, I’m actually the world’s most easy-to-appease Darkling Stan. I don’t want a different ending. I like both deaths, in r&r and row. honestly, all I’ve ever wanted is for the narrative to be less heavy-handed on lecturing the audience, stop telling me how I’m supposed to feel, and respect the tragedy of someone who’s fought so hard and so long that there’s nothing left of him. Respect that that’s tragic.

and based on season 1, I thought, perfect, you’re golden, on the right track, just keep this up. I’m looking forward to that sweet sweet tragedy

and I do not understand how this version of the character—who is nowhere near as bad as his book counterpart—is being treated with even less sympathy. I don’t understand it. his own mother doesn’t give a shit??? you can’t even give him THAT? there is not a single soul in this whole entire world with even a scrap of sympathy, despite the fact that there are multiple characters in the book who feel that? they trust the audience so little?

my ask was so minimal. respect the tragedy of the character. and right now, it seems like they’re doing a WORSE job than the book did.

#episode 6 verdict (minutes 1–2): I made it through rule of wolves but I might not make it through this #don’t tell me anything / be very vague #I can ask kara for specifics for making-up-my-mind but I still wanna have control over what/how much info I take in to make that decision #sab liveblog

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ollieofthebeholder · 10 months

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to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev. || AO3

Chapter 31: January 2010

Gerard slips into the room, closing the door as quietly as he can behind him, and gives his eyes a second to adjust. It’s dark, not necessarily by design, but it is well after sundown and the curtains are tightly closed. The green glow of the luminescent hands of the alarm clock on the nightstand gives texture to some of the shadows around it, but little more than that.

“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice as low as possible. “How is he?”

“Sleeping. I think.” Melanie’s voice is barely above a whisper. She sits at the side of the bed, both hands wrapped loosely around one of Martin’s. “He’s not fighting things that aren’t—that I can’t see, anyway.”

Gerard comes closer and sits beside Melanie. As usual, he’s struck by the difference between this room and his own, or Melanie’s. Gerard’s room, one of the few spaces in his life he’s always had control over, can be most charitably described as organized chaos, his clothing spilling out of boxes rather than bothering to put it away and the carpet and wall behind and beneath his easel splattered with long-dried paint, all the furniture and woodwork painted or stained as dark as he could get it and a haphazard collection of tapes and CDs littering the area around his stereo. Melanie’s, especially these days, frequently looks like a small localized tornado has swept through, and her walls are so covered with band posters and pictures cut out of magazines and photographs of the three of them that you can’t see the original wallpaper, but the furniture is the same white gilt-edged furniture she inherited from her late mother that she’s used her whole life.

By contrast, Martin’s room is neat as a pin, all his belongings carefully tucked away out of sight, the walls perfectly blank and painted in clean, light colors. The furniture is cheap but serviceable, although the bed is of surprisingly good quality and size (or would be if Gerard didn’t know it used to be Roger and Lily’s), and everything is laid out very precisely and logically. There’s no decoration, no personalization, no expression of individuality.

Gerard knows that at least part of that is because Martin always had trouble focusing on his homework as a kid if there was literally anything to distract him, but damn, he’s a grown adult with a job now. Surely he can let himself have something. On the other hand, part of it is also that he’s ever so slightly paranoid about losing things the second they’re out of his line of sight and thus minimizes the clutter and places for things to hide as much as possible, and Gerard isn’t sure how to alleviate that. Especially not since there’s a good reason for him to fear it.

He reaches out and gently lays the back of his hand against Martin’s forehead. “Jesus. He’s still burning up.”

“Maybe we should take him back to the A&E.” Melanie’s voice wavers uncertainly. “That doctor said he’d be fine with a bit of rest, but…it’s been three days.”

Gerard worries at his lower lip for a moment. He’s never going to forgive himself for this.

He’s been touring the continent for the last few months, mostly in the south, trying to get away from…everything. Chasing he doesn’t know what. Freedom? Change? He never planned to be gone forever, just long enough for things to settle a bit. His thought was to take a year, learn a few things, and then come home in time for Martin’s birthday in August. It was when he’d called to find out if Melanie had got the Christmas present he’d posted from Athens that he changed his plans.

It’s been an unusually cold, wet winter, and while Martin never complains, and wouldn’t have said a word even if either of them had been in town, Gerard likes to think he would have at least bought his brother a decent pair of boots. Instead he’s been walking around in shoes that aren’t waterproof with the soles nearly worn through, without a warm enough coat, and the car finally gave up the ghost three weeks before Gerard left the country. No wonder he’s sick now.

Bronchitis. Not as bad as it could be, but bad enough, and Martin let it go untreated too long, according to Melanie. Unsurprising, since he’s been alone for the last few weeks, between Gerard being thousands of miles away on holiday and Melanie trying to get that ghost-hunting show off the ground, and also because it’s Martin, who will run himself into the ground to take care of the people around him but would rather chew off his own arms than admit he needs it too.

Gerard is just thankful Melanie made it home from her filming a couple days before Martin collapsed while trying to re-shelf some books. And that he called her when he did instead of a few days earlier, because if he’d moved on to another country, she wouldn’t have been able to let him know what’s going on.

“They discharged him, though, right?” he asks. “I mean, he was at the A&E and they said he was good to go home?”

“Honestly, I think they were overfull and didn’t consider him a priority,” Melanie grumbles. “But he was awake…sort of…and we got an official discharge with a prescription, but the second I got him home…” She nods at the bed.

Gerard swears softly under his breath. “I’m rubbish at this.”

“Me, too. I thought I could do this because Martin always did it for me—and for Dad and Lily—and I thought I’d learned from watching him, but…” Melanie won’t meet Gerard’s eyes. “Martin never let it get this bad when it was us.”

“We weren’t here.” It’s a weak excuse and Gerard knows it. Even if he’d been in London, the likelihood he would have noticed anything until it was too late is slim to none. Since the incident with that early edition of Stand Still Like the Hummingbird a few years back, he’s become adept at spotting when Martin’s mental health is starting to fray, but hell, Gerard can barely tell when he’s starting to actually get sick with something serious, let alone when Martin “it’s supposed to do that” Blackwood is. Besides, Martin isn’t the sort to give in to illness. Partly it’s the same situation as Gerard and the migraines he’s finally outgrown—that his being sick was never taken seriously growing up, that he was expected to suck it up and deal—but partly it’s that he focuses so hard on taking care of others that he won’t let himself be sick. For him to be like this…

Gerard hears an odd sound, only obvious because of how quiet the room is—a faint rustling, a riffling of cardboard—coming from Melanie’s direction and frowns at her. “Neens? What are you doing?”

Melanie stills, her head still bowed, looking at whatever is in her hands. “I won’t lose him.”

“Melanie.” Gerard’s stomach lurches as he realizes what she’s holding. He reaches over and covers it with his hands. “Do you actually think you can cheat Death?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, yes, you can, but—Melanie, you know you won’t like the consequences.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.” Melanie’s voice is nearly inaudible. “To be trapped by one of Them forever, if it means you and Martin are okay…I’d put up with a lot for that.”

Gerard gently cups Melanie’s chin and turns her head in his direction, forcing her to look at him. “He will never forgive himself if you bind yourself to one of the Fourteen for him. Ever.”

Melanie’s eyes brim with tears, and she pushes his hand away roughly, but she does put the deck of cards in the drawer of the nightstand. “I fucking hate you.”

“So what else is new?”

They sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Martin’s raspy, labored breathing. Finally, Gerard breaks it, just because he can’t stand the sound. “Bets on whether we’ll be able to get him to stay in bed once he wakes up?”

“He’s going to stay in this bed until he’s well if I have to tie him to it and sit on him,” Melanie says fiercely. “If he gets up he’ll just get sick again. I mean it, Gerry, I am not losing him. Not him or you. Not to something like this.”

“It’s not the way I’d want to go out,” Gerard agrees. Not that he thinks he’ll have the luxury of dying of old age, not with the life they lead, but getting taken out by something preventable like a virus just feels anticlimactic and unfair. He’s sure he’ll end up dying at the hands of one of the Fourteen, probably in agony. He just hopes it’s not in front of Melanie or Martin.

Melanie lifts her hand and begins brushing Martin’s hair back from his forehead in soft, rhythmic strokes. After a moment, she begins humming, then singing softly. Gerard recognizes it as the old seamen’s hymn, the one Martin sings sometimes when he feels sad or lonely. When he feels the fog closing in, as he puts it. Gerard joins in as soon as he remembers where the words are going, trying to keep his voice as low as possible.

The tattoos on his joints give a dull, pulsing throb, and Gerard realizes they aren’t just singing for no reason, even if Melanie thought they were when she started. Something is trying to get at them, probably the Lonely, and the song is helping to push it back. Maybe.

Martin’s breath hitches, then evens out. Slowly, almost painfully, his lashes flutter open, and he squints up into the darkness. “Melanie?” he croaks. His eyes widen suddenly, and he tries to lift a hand to her face. “Melanie, your—eyes—”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Melanie says gently. She grabs at something on the bedside table—Gerard is about to reprimand her for going for the cards—then comes back with Martin’s glasses and slides them onto his face before leaning over to kiss his forehead. “There. Better?”

Martin blinks slowly once, twice, then nods. “Yeah,” he says, sounding uncertain and disorientated. “What…time is it?”

“Half-two,” Gerard says with a quick glance at the alarm clock. “In the morning, not in the afternoon.”

“Gerry…?” Martin tries to sit up. Both Melanie and Gerard make noises of concern and try to stop him. “What…are you doing…here?”

“I came back when Melanie told me you were sick.” Gerard concedes the inevitable and gets up to help Martin into a reclining position, leaning against the headboard and propped against his pillows so he can—hopefully—breathe. “What, did you think I’d just say ‘oh, well, that sucks’ and keep traipsing across the continent?”

“I mean…yes?” Martin blinks at him, evidently confused. “I’m not sick?”

“You are,” Melanie says, her voice wavering between exasperation and worry. “The doctor at the A&E said it was bronchitis.”

Martin turns his confusion on Melanie. “When was I at the A&E?”

“Three days ago. You fainted at work and they called an ambulance for you.”

Martin coughs, a wheezing, rattling thing that sends a spike of anxiety up Gerard’s spine, and Melanie hands him a glass of water that she’s evidently had waiting for him. “Okay. Maybe I am sick.” He takes a sip of water, then looks up at Gerard, guilt written all over his face. “I’m sorry you cut your holiday short.”

“I’m not. Traveling alone was starting to get old anyway.” Gerard sits on the edge of Martin’s bed and pats his leg under the blanket. “And since I’m here, I can help Melanie force you to stay in bed until you’re actually over this.”

Martin opens his mouth to protest, but Melanie forestalls him. “Shut up. You’re not putting me through this again. If you try to get up too soon, you’ll just get sick again, and next time it might turn into pneumonia. You are going to stay in this bed until your fever’s been down for at least twenty-four hours without medication and I’m satisfied you’re back to normal.”

Gerard can’t help but smile a little. “Dr. King has spoken.”

“You can shut up, too.”

Martin sighs. “If I went to the A&E from the Institute, I’ll have to have a doctor’s note to go back to work anyway. Good job I’ve got plenty of sick time, I guess.”

“Have you taken a sick day since you started?” Gerard asks.

“No, not really. A personal day here and there, but nothing like this.”

Melanie hesitates. “There was a text a couple days ago—I didn’t recognize the number and it’s not saved in your phone, but whoever it was told you that you had plenty of time built up, and not to come back until you were ‘properly well’ because ‘the Library needs you at your best’. So I think you’ll be okay.”

“That’s…not as comforting as you might think.” Martin lets his head bang gently against the wall and closes his eyes for a moment. “All right. You win. I’ll be good.” He yawns, then breaks off into a coughing fit. “Ugh. I think I’m going back to sleep for a bit. Um, I’ve still only got the sofa, but—“

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not leaving you.” Melanie scoots the chair closer to make her point.

Gerard nods in agreement. “Get some sleep, both of you. I’ll be here.”

It’s a sign of how sick Martin is that he complies immediately, letting his eyes drift shut and his shoulders relax. It’s also a sign of how little sleep Melanie’s had in the last three days that she folds her arms on the side of Martin’s bed, rests her head on them, and falls asleep barely a heartbeat later. Gerard slips out to the living room long enough to grab the knitted throw Martin made when he was twelve, then tosses it over Melanie’s shoulders before settling onto the end of the bed cross-legged to watch them.

He doesn’t regret coming back. Not in the slightest. The trip’s been good for him, but he’s glad to be home, even under the circumstances. And when Martin is better, he’ll be gladder still. For now, he sets himself to keeping an eye on his brother and sister. He doesn’t doubt for a minute that Melanie’s been wearing herself to a thread with fretting, and she needs looking after as much as Martin does, in a way.

That’s his job. He may not be as good at it as Martin—nobody is, really—but he’s still the big brother, and he still feels a need to look after them. He probably always will.

After all, he loves them, and love is worth the work put into it.

#ollie writes fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#tma fanfic #gerard keay #melanie king #martin blackwood #illness tw #death mention

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graftisms · 1 year

Text

JOSHUA & NAOMI — DAY THIRTY-SIX

location : daybeds / living room

featuring : @heatwayve

JOSHUA

josh wasn't mad about dylan raising naomi's heart two days ago, really. feeling that way would mean that she would be able to use him and jenny raising each other's against him, and it's not like the two ex-couples aren't exactly in the same place, relationship wise. except... the next day, josh sees naomi and dylan talking outside, sitting awfully close, like old friends. the day before, it may not have bothered him so much, but it's hard not to compare the two of them to what his relationship with jenny has resorted to: absolutely nothing. didn't naomti tell him that dylan thought naomi was shitty or something? there's no way that conversation is any type of closure for them. he meant to bring it up with naomi later, but it had fell by the wayside by the time they were actually together, conveniently finding some alone time that would end up being needed after not being able to sleep outside.

until today, one day later, when josh comes into the kitchen to find naomi and dylan talking in close proximity again, not unlike they had back when they were together. he wants to intercept but naomi's hand on dylan's arm makes his blood boil enough to know that if he says anything now, he's surely going to regret it. but it lingers on his mind even after the text about the recoupling. josh has kept himself uncharacteristically quiet and hands off with naomi since then, spending more time with marcus and miles then wanting to be alone with her. so far their relationship since getting back together has been bliss, a honeymoon stage that josh hadn't thought they'd ever get. it only makes sense that he'd be the one to break it, unable to keep his mouth shut after a few minutes of minimal talking on the daybed. "so, what's with you and kangaroo boy?" he asks, trying to keep an air of nonchalance. "you two bffs again?" cue the sarcasm.

NAOMI

naomi does notice the slight shift in josh's mood that morning – she'd honestly sort of expected him to come up to her after the text came in, say something to her about being excited about tonight. either to reassure her or to look for reassurance himself, it'd hardly matter. but he doesn't do that, wrapped up in some conversation with miles, which doesn't make any sense to begin with because there's no way he can understand the guy well enough to be that riveted by his conversation. he's not really chatty when they do finally have some time together, naomi mostly complaining about how charlene kept her up all night. but if she knows josh at all, it's that he can't keep something bottled up for very long – not someone who can just push down or hide his feelings when he's bothered. so, when he finally speaks up, naomi's lips curve upwards knowingly, despite the nonchalance in josh's voice. she likes knowing him so well, gaze flickering across his face, the features she could recite from memory, as she sits up. "dylan," she corrects the nickname. since they came back from casa, josh started using dylan's name more, at least around her – it doesn't miss naomi that the nickname's back. "and yeah," she swings one of her knees over josh's waist so she can situate herself on his lap, leaning over him on the weight of her hands, "we're friends." dylan and naomi were friends much longer than the four-or-so days they were actually together, and while it's not the same, it still meant something. if anything, naomi thinks josh should probably have less to worry about if dylan's able to easily transition into being amicable with her, and . . . logistically, she thinks josh should see that it's better for both of them. she thought he understood that about her vote, too. "that's it, though," she adds, eyeing josh skeptically.

JOSHUA

the thing is, josh isn't mad at naomi, nor does he not trust her. at least, he trusts where they are in their relationship right now, at the surface. he doesn't think that in this moment they'll be anything large enough to get in the way with them, which is why he didn't bother approaching her after the text that came in this afternoon. to him, it was a no-brainer that they'd finally get a bed to themselves again. so he knows the feeling of dread that settles into his stomach when he sees naomi and dylan is completely irrational, but it doesn't stop his defenses from flaring up anyway. when he replies to naomi, hands firmly planed on her hips, it feels almost like an out-of-body experience, because he knows the territory they're veering into isn't a good one. "i thought he shit on you when you came back from casa." honestly i can't remember what he's been told about naomi and dylan post-casa already, but i'm going to pretend he knows the gist: that dylan dragged her to filth. "why do you wanna be friends with him?" it'd be a better question if he didn't sound so judgmental about it.

NAOMI

naomi already knew that her terse answer wasn't about to assuage whatever's going on in josh's head right now, but she can't help but tense slightly at the tone of voice he takes with her. there's irritation building in her chest at the judgmental way he seems to imply that she's ill-intentioned – or worse, stupid – for continuing to talk with dylan, to hold on to an amicable relationship with him in a small villa. "yeah, well, of course not," arms fold over her chest, but even as she pulls back a bit, she can still feel his body heat radiating off of him, warmth of his calloused hands resting on her hips. but where she's sat still makes her feel like she's got the upper hand, thighs pressed to either side of him. "we'd just come back from casa amor and i coupled with someone else, emotions were running high. along with whatever you said to him while you were over there, of course he was pissed," teeth dig into her lower lip for a beat, because at the end of the day, it does still sting. the way dylan had written her off before he saw her face again. but that's not what this is about: it's about the guy who came back fighting for her, for a connection so strong she can feel herself buzzing under the pressure of his gaze. "but we both apologized, and we talked it out. we were only together for a few days, and we were friends before, so – i don't know. why wouldn't we be on good terms, josh? do you not trust me?" she asks, gaze darkening at the notion. that'd be fucking rich.

JOSHUA

he doesn't want her to pull away from this conversation just because of the road it's taking, grip tightening on her hips in an effort to make her stay. "yeah, and so did he," he argues, knowing it's a baseless one. it's not like josh didn't tell dylan personally to bring someone back, because naomi was going to dump him. still, the fact that they were able to supposedly make up so quickly seems stupid. it certainly makes it seem like the relationship was pointless to begin with. so why does their friendship bother josh so much? "so, what? you guys are back to the way things were before you got together? all buddy-buddy and flirty?" it's not like josh had been blind to it even before jenny came in, but he hadn't really thought twice about naomi giving dylan the time of day. he wants to go back to that level of confidence between them, but even as he's shaking his head at naomi's question, josh knows it's not as simple as she makes it sound. "of course i trust you," he says, a little impatient. mostly with himself, not really sure how to make sense of his jumbled up emotions to form a rational argument (probably because there isn't one). "but you have to see why i wouldn't love the idea of you two as besties. it's bad enough i have to deal with you and marcus, who is like in love with you. i don't care about that, because i trust him. but i don't trust dylan."

NAOMI

it's like he can feel her urge to pull away and create distance before she does, hips held flush against his almost like a challenge. she takes it, sinking her weight into josh as she leans forward to retort, "yeah, someone that he's proper obsessed with. not everyone i break up with is like..." like you. a frustrated exhale, like she's trying to release all of the irritated weight out of her chest. it doesn't quite work. even when she hates him, she adores him so much more. "the way things were before?" naomi echoes, getting angry, and it shows in her eyes, glaring with a certain fire behind them. "back when i never would have done anything with him until you went behind my back? fucking hell, josh. you know how important it is to me that we're a team in here if we're together, and that means i've got your back. this is not like how things were before. it better not be," naomi adds, voice louder than the thrum of her now-speeding heart. "i don't know why i'm the one that suddenly needs to prove that i know what the fuck i'm doing!" there's a cursory look back around the villa, like she's self-aware that she's just raised her voice and hopes no one's listening in. attention back toward him, her lips press together and she's even more annoyed at the mention of marcus. she flips her hair back over her shoulders as she leans down closer to josh, her hand on his chest. she feels a bit possessive over him, too, over what it took for them to be this close again now. "i can handle myself, okay? i'm not gonna let anyone else touch me. and if you can't get on board with that, then you're not gonna touch me either," she adds stubbornly, only lingering for a moment before she sits back to pull herself out of josh's grasp.

JOSHUA

"what, like he wasn't obsessed with you, too?" josh snorts. he loves adela as a new friend he hadn't expected to grow fond of, but it's hard not to see her as dylan's new flavor of the week. the facts seem pretty clear to him: if josh hadn't played a factor in dylan and naomi, the two would probably still be together. granted, josh did play a factor, which is why he's not expecting naomi to jump ship any time soon, but he doesn't love the idea that dylan very well could be waiting in the wings for josh to fuck up again. (josh's audacity.) "not like what?" he asks, eyes narrowing a bit, assuming she means his less-than-stellar breakup with jenny. he can tell from the spark in her eyes when she's had too much, naomi immediately turning angry. it doesn't help his own fuse, scowling back at her. "jesus, naomi. i'm not asking you to prove anything. can i not say something that i don't like without you immediately playing victim?" okay, that part he hadn't meant to say, but it doesn't make it any less true. "hey, stop." she pulls out of his grasp, but he's able to grab her legs before she's completely out of reach, trying to tug her back over to him. by now he's completely sat up, hazel eyes darkened with exasperation. "we are a team, stop. though i'd feel more like a team if you didn't try to shove what i did in my face every chance you get, jesus. i don't doubt that you can handle yourself, but... i don't like him," josh says, voice lowered. "and i don't like seeing you two together. how would you feel if jenny and i were hanging out like old friends, huh? i don't imagine you'd like it very much." though it does briefly occur to him that naomi very well might not care.

NAOMI

"not like us!" she fires back, annoyed that he's asking. even her reply brings heat to her cheeks, can remember a time when they stood across the room in this villa strictly not friends, swearing they weren't anything. but god, at this point, josh will always be something to her – whether she likes it or not. "dylan and i were friends before, we tried it for a bit, and it didn't work," naomi tries to break it down simply enough for an idiot to understand (hopefully.) never mind the fact that they didn't work is sitting right in front of her, but he should know that. "he said it would mean a lot if we could try to be friends again. to have each other's backs in here and all. it's not how i'd normally do things, but nothing in here is normal, so i said yes, we could try," her words are controlled but her voice is shaky. as much as josh tries to compare it to his jenny situation, naomi thinks he's dead wrong for it – it's not like dylan fucked max in the shower (though that would've been great tv, too.)

"what the hell, josh?" brow furrows, blood running hot, "you can't just accuse me of 'playing the victim'," cue some sarcastic-ass air quotes, "every time you don't want to admit you're in the wrong." she grabs at his wrist, tight, wrenching her legs out of his grasp – but she can't help but stay in his orbit, fingertip jammed into his chest as she levels her gaze with his, meeting the ire in his hazel eyes halfway with a fire that burns behind her own. it's not like she can storm off until she gets the last word, anyway. "you're the one that started bringing up the past!" she argues. though that's his best argument yet: i don't like him. it actually gives her pause, heart clenching – until he starts getting sassy again. "you know that's different. you and jenny were never just friends," she rises from the bed now, leering over him a bit, but there's a way her voice cracks – maybe from anger or something else. naomi's used to treating everything like business, especially in an argument – you negotiate to win, you negotiate to get what you want. she's used to that. this feeling she has is different. what do you call it when you're concerned about someone's else situation as you are about your own? it triggers her flight instinct a little, the urge to push it away. "you're being a colossal ass. are you trying to make a case against picking you tonight? because you're killing it."

JOSHUA

"friends," he repeats, with a scoff. "you two were never just friends, naomi." the way josh sees it, dylan had been waiting in the wings for him and naomi to implode weeks ago, conveniently timed with him having enough with rhys back then. now he's the only other person here who's gotten the opportunity to kiss naomi whenever he wanted to, having seen all of her and been tangled together under covers... he doesn't notice his one hand gripping hard onto the edge of the bed, knuckles turning white. josh can understand the importance of naomi and dylan being on decent terms, which is why he hadn't batted an eye when she had voted for him over josh's best friend in the villa—a friend of hers, as well. he had assumed it would be for strategy, but never did he think that strategy would go to friendship. and there's a difference between being cool with someone, and feeling the need to chat them up every single day.

josh is vaguely aware he's being nothing more than a jealous boyfriend, but not enough to stop himself. another first for the canadian.

"but that's what you're doing," he argues, dark eyes blazing back at her. it's been over a week since they've argued—really argued, not just josh trying to diffuse the situation—and as frustrating as she can be, like trying to argue with a lawyer, josh had forgotten the way she made him feel. there's a fire that burns in him right now that's reminiscent to the day he had punched a hole in the wall, though today it's definitely less intense. "i tell you something bothers me, and you've already written out a whole dissertation on how i'm wrong and you're right. can you just fucking listen to me for, like, five minutes?" it's getting increasingly hard not to make a scene while on this daybed, around other people. he tries to keep his voice down. "i brought up the past because he's someone you used to fuck in the past, yeah, and now i feel like i can't go one day without the two of you laughing about something together. i'm not... i'm not a jealous person," josh lies, through grit teeth, "but any idiot wouldn't be happy to see it." he's getting off the bed now, so he can leer straight back down at her. "why, will you pick dylan otherwise?" he taunts back at her, jaw tightening.

NAOMI

"seriously, josh? i told the guy good morning, you're acting like i offered to suck his dick." brow furrows for a beat, unsure if josh is pulling this from a place of insecurity or mistrust, but her initial intentions with dylan were always friendly – they probably would have stayed that way if luke had. she and dylan built a relationship as something that felt solid and safe to her, someone she'd grown to trust to have her back – sort of the natural place to run when she felt betrayed by josh. because if she wants josh, there's no one there at the bottom of the cliff on belay. she's got to pull her way to the top on blind faith. but she knows she's just as much of a risk as he is, and she can tell he knows it, too – the threat of the same precipice reflected back in his eyes. maybe that's what this fight is really about. dylan still makes her feel safe, and josh makes her feel like the room is burning.

"a whole dissertation," naomi repeats with a deadpan tone, rolling her eyes, "it's not like i want to have defend myself to you, which – you didn't start by saying it bothered you, you started by asking me what the fuck i was doing." in her opinion, he basically asked her to explain herself. but she is listening now, arms folded over her chest indignantly. she hates how much she still wants him in the throes of an argument, maybe even more. it's a concentrated effort not to look at his lips as he tries to keep his voice in a lower cadence. "nom de dieu! you are! you're totally jealous and possessive and you're..." just like me. a flash of recognition in her dark eyes, the uncomfortable feeling of feeling like she's being mirrored back at herself. it's harder to argue when she completely gets it, though it doesn't keep the venom out of her tone. honestly, the realization makes her angrier. "well, yeah, at least we can both agree that you're being an idiot."

her arms fall at her sides as josh rises – predictably, so he can leverage his height over her . . . another thing she finds both incredibly hot and incredibly infuriating. her breath comes out heavy. "oh, fuck off!" she's rising higher on her feet with each word, like her own ire can make her taller. "maybe i should, since apparently we're still a thing!"

JOSHUA

"that's not..." josh's voice trails off, sighting. he's starting to regret bringing this up in the first place, wishing he had listened to adela telling him how dumb he was being. "that's not what i'm saying." after returning from casa, josh had felt like he had been able to crack the code that was fighting with naomi. before their breakup, a lot of their arguments felt like they were speaking two different languages, and the time apart (and josh's insistence on making things right) had somehow given them the tools to translate between the two. but it's hard not to feel like they're once again on two different pages, arguments in two different languages, his attempt to translate not any easier when the way she throws his words back at him makes his anger spike. an irrational part of him thinks she's misunderstanding him on purpose, though there's a look in her eye that makes him hesitate, heels dragging before he can throw another jab back at her.

"fine, you think i didn't say it before? i'll say it now. it bothers me," he tells her, hands raising a bit in mock surrender—before shoving them down, knowing people are probably watching at this point. eyes flicker over to the villa for a moment, trying to guess how long it'd take to move this party elsewhere. "i don't know what the fuck you two have been talking about, just that i keep seeing you together, and it fucking bothers me. i know nothing is really going on, but..." josh struggles to finish that sentence, cheeks starting to burn a little. the more they go over this in circles, the more he's starting to doubt himself. at least, doubt that he has any kind of case against naomi, who is totally treating this like a dissertation. "forget it," josh scowls, not enjoying being called out on being jealous and possessive, especially because he knows she's not wrong. "i'm not doing this here. you look like you're gonna topple over on your toes like that." jerking his head over towards the house in a follow me motion, he heads inside, arms folded over his bare chest in annoyance.

NAOMI

honestly, she's not entirely sure how this became an argument, something so silly and small when they'd been over the moon with each other last night – and even this morning, searching for his face across the fluorescently lit bedroom. but considering it was a fight that ended things for them, maybe there is a part of her that needs this now, that jumped on the chance to fight back just to see if everything they built back over the past few days was actually going to stick. to know that she can still raise his blood pressure the way he raises hers, to be sure that he'd fight back. "i'm not going to fall," indignantly, almost childish as she spins back on her heel. as if years of dance lessons haven't taught her how to stand on her toes. she keeps up with him as he goes inside, not wanting to look like she's trailing after him. it's the look on his face that does it, rarely seeing his cheeks burn hot like that, expression on his features reeling her back in like a moth to an open flame. "we talk about his sister, stuff going on in the villa. i don't know why i need to clarify, but it's not serious," she sighs, fingers running through her hair.

"i don't know what you can say to me in here that you couldn't say out there, but –" naomi's eyes seek out josh's again, fully closing the door and leaning back against it. there's a brief pause as she studies his face. she's completely ready to storm back out if she doesn't like where this goes. there's frustration building up in her chest, tired of talking in circles about this. "tell me what you want then. you brought this up, what do you want me to say to you right now? that i'm not gonna talk to him any more?" her expression is a little incredulous, definitely challenging, one eyebrow arched slightly because, well, like hell is she taking orders.

JOSHUA

she might not see the need for the location change, but already josh feels better tucked away from everyone else in the living room, away from prying eyes and ears. it's able to make him think a little easier, without the sun beating down on his already warm neck, able to focus more on naomi's dark eyes peering up at him. she leans back against the door and josh takes a tentative step closer towards her, eliminating a good chunk of distance between them when he reaches for her hand, gentle in all the way his tone moments earlier hadn't been. when she asks him what he wants, josh feels like the one cornered against the wall, because he doesn't actually know what he wants from her. honestly, he would love to tell her not to talk to dylan any more, but he's not that much of an idiot to know it would go well for him. "i'm sorry," he says quietly, in a voice far more leveled than before, his free hand reaching out to pinch her chin between his fingers. "i didn't mean to make it a big thing. i guess... can you really tell me shit between you two are over? like, actually over? you don't feel anything for him?" because at the end of the day, that's the part of this that josh can't really wrap his head around. he looks at jenny, and while he has no regrets about being with naomi over her, he can't exactly say that he feels nothing for her, either. it's why they'd never work as friends, and he'd never bother trying. "maybe i'm a little jealous," he adds with a sheepish smile, like a peace offering, dimple flexing in the corner of his cheek. as if he's not more than a little jealous. "but it's not like a lot of time has passed. can you blame me?"

NAOMI

"josh..." his name comes out more gentle than she intends it to, vaguely confused as he reaches out to touch her face. it's a jarring shift in tone from the way he'd raised his voice outside, words harsh and clipped as he fired back at her. maybe josh breathes easier now that it's just the two of them, but naomi's breath hitches, feeling claustrophobic and warm. their back and forth tends to feel like a choreographed dance, but the way his voice softens into an apology feels deceptively real. "what? you're all pissed at me outside and now, suddenly it's all fine? you're sorry?" she asks. and of course, naomi doesn't like the question he asks – she'd been trying to turn it back around on him and now she feels defensive. the emphasis he puts on actually doesn't help. "can you stop?" she pulls his hand away, grabbing it and pressing it into his chest. "yes, it's actually over! i told you it was over the night you came back, and it's like, six feet deep in a casket now. you are the only person i want to be with in here, literally all i want, and i'm actually so pissed off that i have to defend that right now!" right now, hours before the recoupling. though, yeah, she fucking loves that he's a little jealous. the stupid curve of the indent in his cheek makes naomi's heart clench, her gaze softening for only a moment as line of sight drifting down toward his lips. it's the fact that she can feel all of that – the impending weakness – that has her drawing back, freaking out. "i don't – i don't blame you," maybe that's the worst part, "but we've only been trying this a few days, we're not even coupled up again and we're already fighting about . . . i don't even know. i just –" her expression pinches, features drawing together in aggravation. the limited sleep isn't helping. "i can't do this right now, okay?" she turns back to the door, not really trusting herself to think straight in this close proximity.

JOSHUA

the thing about being with naomi is this: when they're good, they're great, and when they're not on the same page, it's like they're reading two different books altogether. in their recent few fights, josh has somehow taken the role as the mediator—a role that most people in his life would find laughable, seeing as he rarely ends an argument without ignoring the problem or letting his fists hash it out. but fighting fire with fire never solves anything, and if there's one thing that doesn't lack between the two of them, it's fire. so maybe he shouldn't be shouldn't be surprised when she continues shooting words back at him with her annoyed tone from minutes before, but his hand that she presses into his chest curls into a bit of a fist anyway, unable to fight the flash of irritation he feels. what does she want to do, just keep arguing? sometimes he thinks she likes him better when he's fighting with her, considering how often she tries to get a rise out of him. right now is no exception. "what the fuck do you want me to say, naomi?" he huffs, taking a step back to create more space between them. "yeah, sure, it's over. but that's not what i asked. do you feel anything for him?" because those are two pretty clear distinctions, and her evasiveness feels like an answer in himself.

josh's nostrils flare a bit as he breathes through his nose, trying to calm himself down—but her pointing out that they're already fighting feels unfair, when he had been trying to reach an understanding moments ago. it's obvious from the panic in her hazel eyes that this is too much for her, but just once, he wished that she'd meet him halfway, instead of the other way around. it had taken a great deal amount of humility on his part to even admit that he's jealous, that he cares about something so stupid and small, and instead of talking about it, she's already looking for an exist. when she turns away to leave, josh can't help but laugh coldly. "y'know what, whatever. don't even bother, it doesn't matter." he's just as done with the conversation as she probably is, turning to go the other direction, where he can find somewhere to lick his wounds in peace.

NAOMI

the familiarity (or habit) of being aware of how much space is between them is enough to make naomi's throat feel tight. she knows that this not all josh, either, she's not dumb to what this really is or what that text this morning implied. despite the fact they've only addressed it in sarcastic insult, choosing each other tonight would be making a real commitment to try. to admit her own fault in their past shortcomings, to hope for something real now, and to put her pride on the line. it would go far beyond 'agreeing to giving him a chance.' being back in a couple together is a commitment, a step toward the future that josh keeps not-so-subtly implying they could be hurtling towards. naomi's starting to want it enough to feel protective of it, to be scared she won't get it. she's arguing about one thing, but her nerves about tonight are underscoring all of her motivations for escalating this fight.

josh's laughter is like ice water in her veins, but she whips her head back around to face him with an impassioned glare. "you really want to talk about it? because no, i don't feel nothing. but if everything i feel for you isn't enough for you, if it doesn't matter, then you can go fuck yourself," there's an intensity in her eyes as a result of that everything, a torqued up version of the expression she wore when she explained when and why she realized she could be falling for him. naomi's just too stressed and scared and tired to unload what she's really thinking for him right now, to give him any kind of apology and emotional catharsis that he might have been looking for with his olive branch. tonight, she'll have to boldly decide if she can really do this. so, she turns around and heads out the door to work it out the way she's done it best up to this point. alone.

#joshua & naomi ;#joshua ;#joshua & naomi 026 #we have so many threads lol

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aphrodite-made-me-write-it · 2 years

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Habits - Part 2

(A/N) this ended up longer than i meant it to be bc i was editing it and thought,, lemme add more. dunno. anyway, hope yall enjoy! staying up late to work on some oneshots and the series update a;lskdf;lak figured i’d queue them as i finished them. almost midnight, so fingers crossed! once again, read that fic i linked in the first part bc it’s fantastic and send that author love.

Rating: E (Explicit for p0rn with minimal plot. it’s more relevant in this chapter, i think, but it’s v much just smut. 18+ only)

Warnings: fuckboy!yelena; PISSED!Natasha; R gets railed by a strap on; yelena is the jealous type; natwanda is very background sorry; emotionally abusive parents; mentions of past physical abuse; dw r’s parents are p much ignored in this lmfao they play such a minor role i kinda forgot they existed lowkey; this is a bit angstier than the first

Pairing: Yelena Belova x Fem!Reader; Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff (background)

Chapter Word Count: 10.8k

Total Word Count: 30.1k

Synopsis: It’s been a few years since you last saw your childhood best friend, Natasha, and her little sister, Yelena. Transferring colleges leads to you needing a roommate, and that roommate just so happens to be Natasha. Not much has changed between you, you’re still thick as thieves. Her sister, however, is a completely different story.

OR: The part where you build a glass castle and it comes crashing down.

not my gif

Russian Translations: Malyskha - Babygirl / Milaya - Sweetie / Kratsoka - Gorgeous / Lyubov’ - Love / Dorogoy - Darling

You wake up feeling way more relaxed than usual. You can’t recall having slept so soundly in your life, and the bed feels so much more comfy and warm than you can remember it ever being. You turn over, snuggling deeper into the blanket that feels strangely human.

Wait.

You open your eyes and nearly jump out of your skin when you meet a sleepy green gaze. Yelena blinks slowly as she takes you in, the gears in her mind still slow with the morning.

“Natasha is going to murder me.” You whisper, moreso to yourself than Yelena.

The blonde stretches her arms and legs with a long groan, releasing you from her hold so that you can sit up as much as you can on the stupid couch. You force your gaze away from her naked body, instead focusing on the hall leading to the front door.

“Doubt it,” Yelena says at last, her already deep voice even huskier with sleep. Oh god. She’s so hot. “I won’t let her.”

“You’re her little sister.”

“Yes, and?”

“And I’m her best friend.”

“And…?”

“And she’s going to kill me.” You whine, biting your lip.

Yelena scoffs. “Shouldn’t the person on top be the one she kills? How does she know I didn’t seduce you?”

“I don’t think she’ll care, seeing as you’re her-”

“Oh, enough with that shit.” Yelena sits up, doesn’t even bother to cover her chest. “You want this. You want me. I know you do.”

You meet her eyes uncertainly, but you don’t deny it. Why lie now, when she’s already proven her point? “But if she-”

“I’m an adult. You’re an adult. We’re adults who want to have sex.” She shrugs. “She can’t do anything about it.” You’re finding it harder and harder to resist that logic when she keeps looking at you with obvious want. Sensing your crumbling resolve, Yelena continues: “If you really don’t want to, we can stop. But I think you do want to.” She leans in close, her breath warm on your ear. “I know you want to. You were practically dripping last night, malyshka.”

You inhale sharply. Yelena smirks, clearly well aware of what she’s doing to you. Your heart is hammering in your ears, thunderous. “We can’t let her find out.” It’s a pathetic whisper, because you’re desperate for a way out of this that doesn’t ruin your entire friendship with one or both of your favorite human beings.

“You have a beautiful mind,” Yelena purrs, beginning to pepper kisses along your neck. “And a beautiful body,” her hand finds yours where you’re covering your breasts. She eases your hands, her kisses skirting along your collarbone.

You move your hands to cup her cheeks, redirecting her mouth onto yours. Yelena hums, smiling with her victory. She maneuvers herself on top of you, easing you onto your back while her tongue and teeth make you forget everything but her.

Your phone buzzes from somewhere on the floor. You freeze. Yelena sighs, lets you reach around blindly for your jeans. Several missed texts - and calls - from Natasha, and another text from Carol.

Natasha’s don’t surprise you.

did you make it home ok? (11:23pm)

your silence tells me no (11:30pm)

did you end up fucking carol? (11:34)

answer your fucking phone dumbass (11:47pm)

wanda says you’re probably asleep. if you dont text me before noon tomorrow i’m going to hunt you down. (12:01am)

final warning before i rush to the apartment. (11:45am)

You hurriedly type out a text: sorry! just woke up! i was just really tired!!! Im alive, no need to terrorize my peaceful sunday. (11:46am)

“Who is it?” Yelena asks, laying back down on top of you as if you hadn’t moved at all.

“Nat,” you whisper, frowning. “She was gonna come check on me. If we’re going to keep doing this, we should set some ground rules.”

“Ugh,” Yelena groans, “I hate rules.”

“And I don’t want Natasha to catch us with your hand between my legs.” You huff, chuckling a little.

Natasha responds:

she lives! (11:49am)

almost brought wanda and yelena to drag you out of bed (11:49am)

i’ll be home late. Wanda wants to spend our last day of freedom indoors ;) (11:50am)

You wrinkle your nose. tmi. enjoy ur sex day. (11:50am)

She sends a slew of emojis in response and you roll your eyes, almost clicking out of the messaging app when you remember Carol texted you.

hope you made it home safe last night! sorry if i came on a little strong, i think i just misread the situation. I promise im not a total horndog. I’d love to buy you a coffee sometime? :) (8:21am)

Yelena tilts her head to read your screen and groans again. “Jesus, can’t she take a hint?”

You snort. “She’s actually being nice, Yelena.”

Her arms tighten around you. “But I’m nicer.”

“I’m not going to go out with her,” you surprise yourself with the confidence in your voice. “And you don’t have to be, like, jealous of her.”

Yelena smiles, ducking her head to blow a raspberry against your collarbone. “I’m not jealous.”

“You sound a little jealous.”

“Maybe I just don’t want to share.”

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. Remember that thing I mentioned earlier that you said you hated? This is one of those magical things. I believe the word is-”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Yelena nibbles at your neck.

You smile, unable to help yourself, and set your phone on the coffee table. You comb your now free hand through Yelena’s hair. “And… you won’t, um- do anything with anyone, either?”

“Of course not. You’re the only one that I want.” The tenderness in her tone makes your heart melt unexpectedly. She kisses your neck, leaning back to meet your eyes again. She looks so overwhelmingly fond of you, you can’t help connecting your lips. It just feels right, laying here with her.

Her eyes dart to your neck, a new grin on her face. “Can we continue where we left off, or…?”

You breathe out a laugh. “You’re insatiable. Sure, but we should move it to the bedroom. This couch sucks.”

You’re in for a long Sunday.

(“Holy shit, Lena,” you gasp, several hours later, when you finally get a look at yourself in the bathroom mirror. Your neck, collarbone, and torso have hickeys of varying severity, the ones most visible unfortunately being the ones that are the hardest to cover.

“What?” The blonde in question slips in behind you, sliding her hands to your hips as she looks at your reflection admiringly. “I don’t see a problem?”

“What the hell am I gonna tell Natasha? That I was wrestling with an octopus?”

“Does my sister often see this much of your body?” Yelena snickers.

You roll your eyes, but lean back into her embrace. “No, but when she sees the entire continent of Europe on my neck she’s going to be a little bit suspicious.”

“You’re so paranoid. She and Wanda are way too absorbed with each other to notice something as ridiculous as a few hickeys.”)

- - - - -

“Holy fuck, were you wrestling with an octopus?” Natasha asks, catching you in the kitchen much later that evening. Yelena had left two hours ago, and you’d spent most of that time sleeping.

“Uh- something like that.” You had hoped your hoodie would cover most of the damage.

Natasha grins that shit-eating grin you’ve come to know and love. “You hooked up with Carol, didn’t you?”

“Um-”

“Told you she was hot.” Natasha brushes past you to open the fridge. “So that’s why you slept ‘til noon.”

“I always sleep ‘til noon,” you scoff. “You’re the freak who gets up with the sun.”

“That’s literally when you’re supposed to wake up.”

“Says who?”

“Humanity.”

“I don’t associate myself with those.”

The rest of the evening, Yelena occasionally texts you and you do your best to hide it from Natasha. If she notices the constant checking of your phone, she doesn’t comment. In fact, she looks damn pleased with herself at what she must believe was a successful setup. You’re definitely just digging yourself into a deeper hole.

You talk about upcoming classes, and then you start to feel shitty about yourself so you go to bed early. You’re tired anyway.

(The longer you hide this, the worse it’s going to get. You should just say something to Natasha. ‘Hey, by the way, your sister sort of came onto me and now I think we’re dating. That’s fine, right?’)

(You’re so, so fucked.)

- - - - -

Your last real Halloween was - surprise surprise - when you lived in Ohio. After that, you were too old to trick-or-treat and didn’t have enough friends to be invited to parties, so. Yeah. Naturally, upon hearing this, Natasha is insistent upon throwing a Halloween party to make up for every single one you’ve missed.

Your last time celebrating, Yelena was just small enough that you could all get away with scoring free candy off the neighborhood. You’re positive she hated it, but you sure as shit loved free candy so she didn’t put up too much of a fuss. (It’s shocking, to think back to what she’s done for you and you alone.) You and Natasha had been pirates that year, so in memory you’re pirates this year. Of course, you’re adults now, so the costumes are a lot more risque than they had been years ago.

Yours is a corset with one of those flowing tops and a ridiculously tight pair of pants. This is the last time you ever shop for pants online, you swear this to every god you know by name. Unfortunately, Natasha had invited Carol under the impression that she was your regular hookup given that Yelena hadn’t stopped her habit of leaving hickeys wherever she wanted.

Speaking of- you know Yelena was invited, but she likes to show up late. She’s probably working on her homework - as much as she pretends that she isn’t, Yelena is somewhat the academic type and at least gives effort into her assignments, albeit last-minute. You keep looking at the door, expecting her to walk in, and after about half an hour of this Natasha starts to notice.

“Who’re you waiting for? Carol’s over there,” she frowns, confused.

Of course, Carol is talking to one of her friends. You recognize the woman, but you’re too distracted to place a name to a face right now.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” you clear your throat. “It’s- I’m not looking for anyone.”

“Yelena’s on her way. Says she got caught up.” Natasha frowns at her phone. “I think she’s hooking up with someone. She’s been in a good mood lately.”

“Oh?” You force your voice to remain even. “Any ideas on who it might be?”

“Not a clue. She’s learned how to hide her tracks.” Natasha sounds genuinely frustrated at this. You laugh at her pout.

“I’m sure it’s nothing. Can’t someone just be happy for the sake of being happy?”

She eyes you warily, but her response is cut off by the front door opening. Speak of the devil, it’s Yelena. She’s wearing what you can only assume to be a military uniform of some kind. She’s wearing the vest you bought for her, as well as camo pants and combat boots. Her cheeks have solid lines of black, the main indicator of her costume.

It hits you, very sharply, how goddamn gorgeous she is. It’s honestly an outfit she’d probably wear on a normal day out, but she looks so good in it, you forget to breathe for a second. The rest of the party feels muted, somehow, in comparison to the beam of light Yelena brings to you just by entering the room.

Of course, you have to play it casual. A cordial greeting, an inside joke to show Natasha that you’re totally normal, not at all having sex with each other.

Drink two, and this is when you start feeling Yelena’s eyes on you. She’s always so aware of you, you doubt her gaze ever left you since she’d entered. Still, you pretend you don’t notice, even when Carol starts chatting you up.

“You look great,” she says, smiling that friendly smile of hers.

You aren’t flirting, but you aren’t exactly ignoring her advances, either. It’s a relatively innocent conversation about classes, when lacrosse season starts. Easy stuff. Basic shit, really. It’s enough, though.

You felt your phone vibrate.

Your room. Ten minutes. (11:38pm)

It’s from Yelena, of course.

You can’t count down the minutes fast enough. Natasha is long-gone in her conversation with Steve, Wanda and Pietro, and Carol has returned to her friend. Perfect timing. Nobody even notices your absence.

Yelena is, unsurprisingly, waiting for you. There are more guests than usual, so locking the door and barring entry shouldn’t raise too many eyebrows. At least, in theory, it shouldn’t. This is honestly the most risky situation you’ve found yourselves in since you started this whole thing.

The moment the door is locked, she’s on you. She’s kissing you hard, like she can’t get enough of you, her hands pawing at your corset like an overager teenager. You try to laugh at her eagerness, but it’s cut off by a squeal when her hands grip your ass.

“You’re forgetting who you belong to, malyshka,” she warns lowly. You gasp when she pulls you impossibly closer. “This is the perfect time for a reminder, don’t you think?”

And that’s how you find yourself half-naked with Yelena between your legs, eating you out like it’s her job. Her tongue flickers against your clit, urgency in her actions. She wants this to be quick, but you have the sense that she’s battling against her urge to make you last longer.

You’ve been keeping quiet for the most part. Or, as quiet as possible when you’re being gravitated towards a mind-shattering orgasm. Yelena is just unfairly good at making you want to scream, so you end up biting your pillows and your fist to keep from making too much noise.

And when you finally - finally - reach that precipice, Yelena is right there, holding your hand above your head and swallowing your moans. Once you’ve caught your breath, she settles herself over your face, and you make quick work of returning the favor.

When you return to the party, you’re positive your makeup isn’t as nice as it had been before your impromptu session with Yelena. If Natasha notices, she doesn’t comment. Still, this is the first time since you’d started this whole thing that you feel that raw, unnerving guilt gnawing away at the back of your mind.

(Part of you wishes she’d just find out already. That she’d question why you and Yelena always seem to disappear together, or why you have so many of Yelena’s shirts.)

(She never does.)

(You hate what you’ve become.)

(You love your bad habits.)

- - - - -

“I don’t understand where this is coming from.” Your mother’s tone is, predictably, nothing short of cold and clipped as she talks to you. “Why would you spend Thanksgiving in Ohio? Are you seriously contacting your father again?”

“No, mom, I’m not contacting Dad.” Your handful of weeks fucking (dating?) Yelena in secret were going incredibly well. Unfortunately, when things go well for you, there tends to be something to completely destroy whatever scrap of happiness you’d found for yourself. That something, typically, is your mother. “I’m going to spend it with Natasha’s family.”

A pause. “The Russians?”

“Yup.”

An even longer pause. “I just don’t understand. I take you out of that hellish state, I make sure you get into a good college - that I pay for, by the way - and this is how you thank me? Leaving me for your father? Don’t you remember what he did to me? To you?”

You cringe. “Mom, I’m not-”

“As if leaving me for strangers is any better!” She snaps.

“I’ve known her since we were like, seven! I haven’t seen her parents in years, they practically raised me when you and dad couldn’t be bothered-”

“Don’t take that tone with me. I don’t know what you think you’re referring to, but that is not how I remember the situation. Fine, you had one friend growing up and I’m happy you’ve reconnected, but this is ridiculous.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, tasting blood. “You said you were working that week, anyway.”

“And I’m not allowed to want to come home to my child?” She scoffs. “If you want to be ungrateful, fine. You had better come here for winter break.”

With this, she hangs up, and you finally let the stupid tears you’d been fighting come freely to the surface. You would, literally, rather die than cry in front of your mother - even if it’s on the phone. Maybe it’s just a stubborn habit you’ll never kick.

Yelena was the one to ask if you could go. You were genuinely excited to see Alexei and Melina again, even if it meant pretending you weren’t betraying their eldest daughter by getting railed by their youngest. There’s no proper etiquette of tricking your best friend into letting you follow her to Ohio because you’re fucking her little sister, so it took a bit of hinting on Yelena’s end to convince Natasha to ask their parents and, eventually, you.

School work was already piling up, so that’s probably not helping the uncontrollable crying. You never could manage your emotions well when work was piled up. Feeling stupid and just sad, you reach for pretty much your only source of comfort lately: one of Yelena’s ridiculously large hoodies. They’re big on her, so the sleeves go easily past your fingers. It smells like her.

“(Y/N)?” The door opens, temporarily surprising the sobs out of you. You look up and find Yelena in the doorway. Her expression changes instantly. She’s at your side, pulling you into a tight embrace. You sink into her hold, burying your face in her neck. “What’s wrong, milaya?”

“Nothing,” you sniffle. “It’s stupid.”

“Nothing that makes you upset is stupid.” Yelena murmurs, kissing the top of your head.

“My mom,” you offer lamely. “She’s just pissed I’m not going to hers next week.”

Yelena holds you tighter. “Is she going to try to send you back to New York?”

You snort. “No, she wouldn’t do that unless I somehow got pregnant.”

She sighs. “There go my plans…”

“Shut up,” you laugh, pulling away in an attempt to wipe away the wetness still on your cheeks. Yelena takes your face in her hands, though, and thumbs the tears away for you.

“Are you okay?” She asks, frowning.

“I’m fine. She’ll get over it.”

“So you’re still coming?” The hopefulness in her voice makes your heart swell. You connect her lips with yours without thinking about it, matching her growing smile with one of your own.

“Of course I am.” You pause. “Why’d you come over, by the way? Not that I’m complaining.”

“Oh!” She looks uncharacteristically sheepish. “My roommate is out until after classes tomorrow. Do you want to come to mine?”

You’ve only been to Yelena’s dorm once when she’d first moved into it. It’s small, but it’s removed enough from Natasha’s circle of friends and acquaintances that you and Yelena might actually get some quality time together without worrying about jumping apart at any sound from the hallway.

It’s changed a lot since then. Yelena’s roommate is the studious type - Maria Rambeau is her name - and her mother was in the air force; her side of the room has all sorts of cool pictures of her mom and Maria as a child. She’s also on the lacrosse team with Yelena, or so you’re told, so the two get along pretty well.

Yelena’s side of the room couldn’t be more different. Where Maria keeps her things tidy and organized, Yelena’s more of the ‘organized chaos’ type. Sure, things are haphazardly thrown about, but everything has a place and you’ve no doubt she could find anything in her half of the room. It’s also pretty obvious where the dividing line is, too, which makes you laugh because the same thing had been the case when she and Natasha shared a room as kids.

(For years - until you and Natasha were fifteen, actually - Yelena couldn’t sleep alone. You think it has to do with the orphanage in Russia, but you’ve never pried and you don’t plan on it.)

She unceremoniously shoves her folded laundry off of her bed and into the basket they’d certainly just been pulled out of. You take your spot closest to the wall while the blonde grabs her laptop.

She doesn’t hesitate to wrap an arm around your shoulders once she joins you, and you lean into her without question. It’s strange, how quickly you’ve adapted to this. It’s like you and Yelena were just always meant to be this way. Inevitable. Your dirty little secret has become a bad habit, and you can’t get enough of it.

Yelena, to her credit, at least gets through the first twenty minutes of the movie before she starts peppering kisses along the fading hickeys on your neck. You pretend not to notice at first, dedicatedly staring at the screen even when her kisses become heavier, more insistent. (She’s cute when she’s impatient.)

Eventually, your indifference makes her growl a little in frustration and you can’t resist laughing.

“What’s the matter?” You ask, feigning innocence.

Yelena arches an eyebrow at you. Very much an, ‘are you serious right now?’ look. “Oh, we’re playing this game, now?”

“What ever do you mean, Yelena?” You bat your eyelashes at her. “I’m not doing anything.”

She juts her lip out into a pout. “(Y/N).”

“Yelena,” you whine mockingly. “If you want something, you should just say it.”

“I want to fuck you.” She grabs one of your hands, guiding it into her lap. You freeze when you feel it.

“Have you been packing that this entire time?” You breathe, suddenly sounding hoarse.

Yelena grins. “Maybe.”

She’s mentioned her strap once or twice in passing, but usually you went at it like rabbits whenever you were alone in your apartment together. You haven’t exactly had the time to go out and buy one yourself, but Yelena apparently bought one a few days after you started your… thing.

It’s a little bigger than you’re used to, but you think you’ll manage seeing as Yelena’s favorite pastime is bringing you to the edge and easing you away from it just before you could reach it.

In minutes, she’s tearing off your clothes, the laptop set precariously aside. It’s easy to fall into this, easy to succumb to the tender kisses and the promises of pleasure she brands into your skin with every touch and kiss. It’s getting easier to ignore the guilt, too. Too easy, probably.

Maybe, part of you thinks, maybe Natasha will be less angry when she finds out just how deep you’re in it with Yelena. Not that you and the blonde talk about it very much, but there’s something heavier and needier in your interactions than just lust. Something deeper. You have a feeling Yelena is waiting for you; always, she’s waiting for you. She’s too patient with you. You haven’t taken the first step in your entire fucking life.

Your thoughts are interrupted when Yelena bites down on your inner thigh, earning a mixture of a hiss and a groan. You look down at her, meeting her gaze. The warmth in her eyes is almost too much to bear.

“Eyes on me,” she instructs.

Yelena has learned every inch of your body and exactly where to touch you to make you weak with pleasure. Her tongue is the perfect weapon, bringing you to near-tears until she stops suddenly. You gape at her in distress, whimpering while she chuckles at you.

“Patience, malyshka. I don’t want to hurt you.” Yelena eases herself on top of you again, kissing you gently while the tip of the strap prods against your entrance, then your clit. Your hips twitch impatiently. Yelena grabs them with one hand and pins them to the bed easily, preventing any movement much to your dismay.

“Yelena,” you whine. “Please.”

“Aw, but I like watching you like this.” She rubs against your clit again, slowly, tantalizingly. “So desperate for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I’m desperate for you. Please just fuck me.”

Yelena hums, slowly easing the strap inside of you. Your breath catches and Yelena places kisses on your neck, cheek, and then lips while reminding you to breathe. Yelena likes to fuck you roughly, sure, but there are so many little moments like this where she’s so gentle with you that it reminds you, sharply, of how much she actually cares about you. (And how much you’re starting to realize you care about her.)

When you’re adjusted to the size, you give Yelena an almost imperceptible nod and she begins thrusting inside of you. You always thought that people who said sex with someone you’re deeply fond of was better, but every time you have sex with Yelena your disbelief is put to scrutiny. It’s just better, you can’t explain it. Something in the way Yelena watches your face for signs of discomfort, or signs of pleasure; or maybe it’s the way that, even when she starts pounding into you with purpose, she always - always - kisses you like you’re the only thing in this world that matters.

Yelena grabs one of your legs and hitches it around her waist, finding a spot deeper inside that makes you see stars. You’d been trying your best to keep quiet - you’re certain these dorms aren’t perfectly soundproof - but this completely breaks that willpower. You’re keening, back arching high as your hips twitch helplessly in Yelena’s grip and your nails rake down her spine. The blonde is glowing with this small victory, hissing in either pain or pleasure or probably both.

“You look so pretty, spread out for me,” she murmurs, biting teasingly at your earlobe. “Like you were made to take my cock like this.”

You let out a harsh breath when her fingers find your clit, releasing your hips as her other arm supports her weight. “Fuck! I’m- Yelena I’m close-”

“I know,” she hums, examining your neck with pride. “You know how to earn it, malyshka.”

“Please,” you rasp obediently, “please, Yelena. I need to- I’m so close I- please let me-”

You’re cut off by an animalistic moan as the blonde pounds into you, the breath knocked clean out of your body. She leans back enough to look at your face, your eyes threatening to close as you barely hang onto the edge.

“Look at me,” she purrs. You force your eyes open again. “That’s it. Good girl. Cum for me. Go on, that’s it…”

Your orgasm quakes through you, sending you into a series of whimpering moans of her name. She murmurs in Russian, encouragement you think; it doesn’t really matter what she’s saying, honestly, because it’s always so fucking hot when she does that.

While Yelena slows down, you happen to glance over her shoulder at the mirror that just so happens to be at the foot of the bed. When you notice how flushed you are - how completely, utterly wild you look - beneath Yelena’s rocking body, you feel an unexpected wave of arousal.

Yelena pauses in her thrusts, following your gaze perhaps out of instinct, and when she looks back at you she’s got a shiteating grin on her face.

“You like watching me fuck you?” She asks, almost sounding impressed. You nod mutely, blushing out of embarrassment. “Well, why don’t we give you a better look, krasotka?” She pulls out of you unexpectedly, the sensation causing you to gasp. “Hands and knees for me. Face the mirror.”

You aren’t a narcissistic person. You aren’t even the type to gawk at yourself in the mirror for that long when getting ready. Yelena brings a lot - a lot - out in you. You find yourself following her orders without question, body practically buzzing with anticipation.

When she pushes into you again, Yelena is relentless. Ruthless. You can hear the shitty old twin bed groaning with every thrust but you don’t care. You can’t tear your eyes away from the image of Yelena pounding into you, fingers bruising your hips, her cheeks flushed and eyes dark.

Catching your gaze in the reflection, Yelena grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls. “That’s right, malyshka. Look at me when I fuck you. Look at how beautiful you look, taking me like this. You’re mine, aren’t you?”

“Yes- yes- I’m yours-” you gasp, watching the way your bodies move together. “Fucking hell, Lena-”

“And who makes you cum like this?” She moves a hand to your clit, toying with it almost boredly.

“You! Only you!” Your hips twitch against her movements, all your muscles tensing when she finds that spot deep inside you again.

“Gonna cum again for me?” Yelena rasps, thrusting harder and faster. “Go on, lyubov’. Cum again.”

Your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head. The wave of pleasure is so intense you swear you actually blackout. Yelena lets you ride it out, pressing kisses on your shoulders and the back of your neck as you struggle to move again.

When you’re able to breathe, Yelena pulls out and removes the strapon. You connect your lips in a slow, passionate kiss before rolling her onto her back. Your limbs feel like jelly, but that’s fine. You don’t need arms and legs to eat Yelena out.

You’ve come to learn that, while Yelena enjoys fucking you as roughly as she pleases, she prefers softer sex herself. You think she gets off on the intimacy more than the actual sex itself. She likes soft kisses, lingering touches. Her body is an instrument, finely tuned, and you’ve learned just how to play the perfect melody

She doesn’t make much noise, but you revel in the little gasps and moans she makes in your descent down her body. Her body is far more reactive than she is vocal; hips move constantly when you find those sensitive spots of hers. (Her stomach, her thighs, just between her breasts, under her ear-)

Yelena breathes out your name like a prayer when you finally give her what she wants. You suck softly on her clit, looking up to find so much intensity in her green eyes you’re tempted to look away. She always looks so enraptured by you. Like you put the stars in the sky. It’s almost overwhelming.

(Almost.)

But when one of her hands finds yours over the fucked up blanket, fingers slotting between your own, and the other cards through your hair, you feel like - maybe - you’re putting stars in the sky right now. This moment, this little world you’ve created - it’s just for you and Yelena.

Yelena’s hold on your hand tightens. She’s already close. You ease her into her first orgasm with practiced precision. You don’t slow down, moving your free hand to press two fingers inside of her. She keens at the sensation, eyes never leaving yours.

When she comes again, she pulls you up to her mouth so she can kiss you hard. It’s a lazy, slow kiss that makes your heart ache and sing all at once. After a few moments, Yelena pulls her blanket around the both of you. You lay your head on her shoulder, feeling so tired you can barely think.

Sleep, as it always mercifully does when you’re next to Yelena, comes surprisingly easy.

- - - - -

You wake up only a few hours later. You have to get back home before Natasha’s last class finishes up. You get dressed reluctantly, mind still a little slow and body far less willing to leave Yelena’s side. The blonde offers to walk you out and it’s damn near impossible to resist those eyes of hers. She even gives you one of her hoodies again, taking back the other one (“Now it smells like you, take this one.”)

You’re in such a doofy, happy haze you don’t notice someone saying your name until you feel Yelena’s entire body go RIGID. Alarmed, you turn around to find Carol - yes, that Carol - hurrying towards you with that puppydog grin of hers. Yelena immediately has an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close against her. If looks could kill, Carol Danvers would be on the floor in an instant.

“Hey, Carol,” you greet, forcing a smile. “Sorry about- uh, that um-”

“It’s fine,” she shrugs it off like it really is nothing. “I was actually going to ask you why Natasha thinks we’re dating?”

Your jaw drops. “She- she thinks what?”

Carol glances at Yelena nervously, but you’re pretty sure it’s not out of fear. “She was asking me how things were going with us.”

“W-what did you say to her?”

“I said you were probably too busy for a relationship.” She looks at Yelena’s arm around you. “But I see that I was wrong in that assumption.”

“It’s… a weird story. C-can you do me a favor and, um, not tell Natasha about… this?”

Carol looks between you and Yelena several times. You can’t read her expression, but it’s certainly more surprised than it had been when she initially saw you and Yelena together. “She… doesn’t know?”

“Not exactly.”

“Your own best friend doesn’t know that you’re dating her little sister?”

You cringe. “It’s-”

“A weird story?” Carol nods, looking immensely uncomfortable. “Uh, yeah, sure, I’ll keep it under wraps. Only ‘cause Yelena is our best addition to the team and I can’t have her hating her captain before we even start the season.” She gives the younger woman a casual smile. Yelena relaxes ever so slightly, but she doesn’t remove her arm. “But you should probably say something to her sooner rather than later. Y’know, kinda like how you should tell people you’re into someone else before you give them your number?” At your expression, she snorts with laughter. “I’m kidding! It’s fine. I could tell you weren’t all that into it. I thought you were just getting over a breakup or something.”

“Well, this was a fun chat.” Yelena clears her throat. “Bye, Danvers.”

“Later, Belova. (Y/N).” The two women share a respectful nod in departure.

You wait until you’re in the stairwell to kiss Yelena on the cheek. “Look at you, being all jealous again.”

“Can you blame me? She was obsessed with you.” Yelena scoffs, but there’s a smile fighting at her lips.

“She texted me like three times and it was to make sure I made it home alive when I ditched her at a club.” You roll your eyes.

You make it to the ground level, and Yelena pauses.

“Do you think she was right?” She asks.

You frown. “About what?”

“Telling Natasha.”

You feel like you’ve been punched in the gut. The thought of losing Natasha hits you full-force. She’ll never forgive you for this. This is her sister - her baby sister - and you’re sneaking around with her.

“(Y/N)?” Yelena presses.

“I don’t know,” you admit, a lump rising in your throat. “I-I mean, we’ll have to eventually, right?”

Yelena studies your face for a long moment. “Is there a problem with that?”

You feel something hot stinging at your eyes. You blink it away. “Besides losing my best friend?”

“You won’t lose anybody.” Yelena takes your face in her hands. Ever tender, her eyes warm and expression soft. “I won’t let that happen.”

“You can’t promise that, Lena,” you lean into her touch, closing your eyes to hide the stupid tears rising in them. “You guys are all I have, you know?”

“I know.” She presses a kiss to your forehead. “And so does she.”

“Not yet. Please?” You meet her gaze again, desperate for that warmth. “I’m not- I’m not ready for-”

“Okay,” she kisses you gently. “Not yet.”

(You wonder how long you can make this ‘not yet’ last.)

- - - - -

“I had the weirdest conversation with Carol today,” Natasha says casually, sitting beside you on the couch and propping her feet up on the coffee table.

“Oh?” You ask, trying to sound a million times less anxious than you’re suddenly feeling. You keep your gaze on the TV, not even caring about whatever it is this week’s baking challenges are. “What was it about?”

“She says you guys haven’t talked since you ditched us at Woody’s.” Natasha is definitely not buying this. At all.

“Oh,” you clear your throat. “Yeah, we, uh, haven’t.”

“Which is weird, ‘cause I could’ve sworn the next day you had a million hickeys on your neck.” She pauses. You can feel yourself starting to sweat. “And you’ve got a few more today.” She’s pawing at the collar of your shirt so you swat her hand away irritably.

“Am I not allowed to have a fuckbuddy?” You ask lamely.

“Of course you are! It’s just weird that you feel like you need to hide it from me, that’s all.” Natasha eyes you for a long, long moment. You should just do it now, get it over with. So what if there are no witnesses to whatever crime she decides to commit against you. “Do you not trust me or something?”

“No!” You look at her fully now, well-aware that the blood has drained from your face. “Of course I trust you, Nat! You’re my best friend.”

“So why all the secrecy?” She presses. “Is it someone I know?”

“D-does it matter?”

“I guess not.” She pauses, then looks down at your shirt. “Oh, are they on the lacrosse team with Yelena?” You must look really fucking stupid, because Natasha takes this as confirmation. “You can’t tell me you’re keeping it from me ‘cause Yelena had a crush on you all those years ago!”

“W-what?” You croak, suddenly able to breathe.

“You didn’t know?” Natasha snorts, leaning back against the cushions. “I thought it was pretty obvious. Doesn’t help that her first ‘real’ girlfriend was like a spitting image of you.” She scoffs, shaking her head. “It was cute, though. Her first crush.” She nudges you with her shoulder so you laugh awkwardly.

“I had no idea,” you offer.

You are a really, really shitty friend. (And, probably, an even shittier girlfriend.)

- - - - -

“(Y/N)! Look at you, dorogoy, you’ve grown so big!” Melina exclaims as she pulls you into a tight embrace. You return it eagerly, burying your face in her shoulder and laughing with delight.

“Melina! It’s been too long!” You release her just as Alexei pulls you into a hug. He reeks like motor oil, though he’s done his best to clean up for the occasion. He likes to work on old cars in the garage - or, he used to, and it seems like he hasn’t given that hobby up yet despite being terrible at it. (Lucky for him, Melina is often there to help.)

“We have all the food ready and waiting for you girls- you must be Wanda! Natasha has told me so much about you!” Melina moves onto the other dinner guest as Natasha moans about not embarrassing her.

You follow Alexei and Yelena into the kitchen where all three of you promptly grab a bottle of beer and clink them together before drinking.

“So, (Y/N),” Alexei begins, eyeing you with joy. “Has my daughter told you about-”

“Dad,” Yelena warns, but is promptly ignored.

“-the time I went ice fishing with my father?”

“Please stop!” Yelena yelps, grabbing your hand. “She doesn’t need to hear that story!” She begins dragging you away, her father’s booming laughter following you into the dining room.

“Is that the one where his dad pees on him?” You ask, chuckling.

“Yes.” Yelena groans, blushing hard. “I told them not to be embarrassing but with Wanda I think they’re both determined to turn over all the dirty family secrets.” She mutters a curse in Russian, causing your laughter to bubble back up.

“I like your parents,” you tell her, grinning. “I wish mine were this fun.”

Yelena gives you a sympathetic smile. “I don’t see his car outside. I don’t think he’s home.”

You shrug. “He’s probably at the bar. He’ll be home later, though.”

“And you’ll be here.” Yelena hasn’t let go of your hand. She squeezes it now, the most PDA you’re both willing to risk at the moment. “I wish I could have protected you then. Did Natasha ever tell you about how I almost went over to your house with my lacrosse stick?”

“No.” You blink in surprise. “When was that?”

“When you first told us… about…” She winces, and so do you. “I just picked it right up and stormed to the front door after you’d left. I was terrified he would hurt you again. Furious at the thought of it.” She breathes out an almost disbelieving laugh. “I think, even then, I knew-” she cuts herself off, looking alarmed.

“Knew what?” You press.

Yelena opens her mouth to respond, but the conversation of Melina, Natasha, and Wanda cuts her off. You drop her hand, nearly jumping away from her as you take a long swig from your beer. (You don’t miss the wounded look Yelena sends you.)

The rest of the meal is spent jovially, but you can sense something is off with Yelena. She’s quieter than usual, less willing to join in the conversation. Natasha must notice, too, because she sends several concerned glances towards the blonde.

Natasha and Yelena still shared the one room, but the guest room was offered for Natasha and Wanda to share while you and Yelena took the girls’ childhood bedroom. You fall into bed a little tipsy, but being in such close proximity to your alcoholic father has you on edge tonight.

Even worse, Yelena hasn’t said much since she entered the room five minutes after you. You were already in your pajamas, laying on Natasha’s bed staring up at the little glow in the dark stars that they had all over their ceiling for as long as you could remember. There’s also a very distinct tiny handprint from one of those sticky hands Yelena had thrown up there when she was nine. It took a full year for it to come down, subsequently scaring the shit out of Natasha when she was sleeping.

“Is everything okay?” You ask when she begins to undress.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Her clipped tone tells you that no, everything is not okay.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me so we can talk about it?” You offer, sitting up.

She finishes getting into her pajamas in stony silence. You wait quietly, but your heart is roaring in your ears. What have you done wrong? “We don’t ever talk about things. Why are we starting now?”

“Where is this coming from?” You frown. “Yelena, just tell me-”

“Does this mean anything to you?” The question shocks you to the core. Yelena turns to face you and to your absolute alarm there are TEARS in her eyes. You haven’t seen Yelena cry since that day your mom drove you away from here. She gestures between you, apparently taking your silence as misunderstanding. “Us. Does this mean anything to you?”

“Of course it does.” You keep your tone low, eyeing the bedroom door warily. Wanda and Natasha were just down the hall. Melina may not care about overhearing and Alexei sleeps like the dead. “Why do you think it doesn’t?”

“You still haven’t told Natasha.”

You flinch. “I-”

“If this meant anything to you, you wouldn’t want to keep hiding it. Hiding us. We can’t keep this a secret forever and Natasha is my sister. I want to tell her how happy you make me. I want to go out on dates, show the world that you’re mine.” She pauses, sounding timid all of a sudden. “Don’t you want that for us?” The way her voice cracks brings hot tears to the edges of your eyes.

“Of course I do,” you swallow thickly around the lump in your throat. “I want that. I do.” You hate yourself. “But I don’t want to lose Natasha over this. Your family - it’s the only family I care about.”

“You won’t lose Natasha.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“You can’t promise that you’ll lose her, either.”

As usual, Yelena is her most convincing when she sounds so sure of herself. So confident. Has she ever doubted anything in her life? (Yes, you realize, she has. Your feelings for her. Because you’re an asshole.)

“Okay,” you relent softly. “I’ll tell her.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Tomorrow? Just- let me think about what to say to her. Please, Lena.”

Yelena takes a slow, steadying breath. Her shoulders rise with the action as her eyes clench shut. You bite the inside of your cheek, hoping beyond all hope that she isn’t going to do what you’re most terrified of. (With a shock, you suddenly realize that losing Yelena is possibly more painful that losing Natasha.)

“I’ve waited this long,” she murmurs at last, opening her eyes. “I can wait a little longer.”

She just looks defeated.

(You hate that you’re the reason she looks like that.)

- - - - -

You don’t sleep well that night. It has to be the fact that your father is a few houses away, but the nightmares keep waking you up to the point that you just end up staring at the glow in the dark stars again. In the years that have passed, their light is dimmed. Still, you can make them out enough to count them.

After your sixth attempt at sleep, Yelena’s voice cuts through the darkness:

“Come over here.”

You slip under her blanket, enveloping yourself in her smell and clinging to her embrace. She chuckles when you shiver from your brief trip through the cold distance between the beds. You get comfortable in her arms, wrapping your own around her so you can bury your face in her shoulder. You let silence surround you for several long minutes, listening instead to her breathing and her heart.

“Yelena?” Your voice must startle her. Her heart picks up the pace. “You know I’m in love with you, right?”

If she didn’t stiffen so much, you’d assume she hadn’t heard you. She nudges you gently so you prop yourself up on an elbow, looking down at her. You wish you could see her more clearly.

“You love me?” She asks in disbelief.

“Of course I do.” You inhale shakily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel like this didn’t mean anything to me. It does. It means… it means a lot to me. You mean a lot to me.”

Her hold on you tightens, and so does her embrace. “I know you’re scared of losing Natasha.” She pauses considerably. “And maybe she’ll be mad. But- she’ll come around. Friendships like that don’t just end.”

You sigh, press a sleepy kiss to her neck. “I hope you’re right.”

Silence.

You’re just on the edge of sleep when Yelena says, “(Y/N)?” You hum in question. “You know that I’ve been in love with you since forever, right?”

You smile, unable to help yourself. “I know.”

- - - - -

You wake up to soft kisses being pressed all over your cheek, forehead, chin, nose - it takes you several long minutes to give in and open your eyes. Yelena is smiling lovingly at you, her eyes shining in the morning light.

You return the smile, smoothing some of her messy hair away from her face. “Morning.”

“Morning,” she kisses you sweetly.

You spend the next ten minutes or so just laying there, holding each other. Sometimes you kiss lazily, but mostly you just grin at each other like idiots and bask in the delicate world you built for yourselves. You can’t believe how stubborn you’d been about these feelings before. They’re so beautiful, so wonderful and they make you so happy you could cry.

“I love you,” you tell her quietly.

“I love you, too,” Yelena murmurs, kissing you with more purpose.

Your hands find themselves under her shirt, fingers tracing her spine while her own hands pull you on top of her. You straddle her waist, biting back a surprised noise when you feel her squeeze your ass.

“Your family’s probably downstairs,” you whisper.

Yelena rolls her eyes. “You can’t be quiet?”

You blush. “You know you don’t let me stay quiet.”

She chuckles, grinning wickedly. “Fair point.”

“And we should tell Natasha before she overhears us getting it on in here.” You kiss her again slowly. She hums thoughtfully against your lips.

“Fine.”

You slip off of her and you both get dressed with several shared glances and giggles and kisses. It’s hard to separate when you leave the room. From the kitchen, you hear idle chatter. Once ready, you and Yelena head downstairs to join the rest of the family for breakfast.

Over the food, you and Yelena once again share glances and smiles. Natasha is certainly picking up on something. You can sense it, the way her eyes keep moving between you, Yelena, and whatever gears are turning in her mind.

You decide that it’s probably better to do this in front of the family. Why wait to make the announcement of your relationship to them? You wish you could broadcast it to the world. It’s a shame Wanda has to be here for it, though, because you truly have no idea how this is going to end.

It’s when the dishes are starting to be cleared by Melina, Alexei, and Wanda that the subject is brought up, but not by you or Yelena.

“So, how long have you been sneaking around to fuck my sister?” Natasha says it so casually you actually choke on your coffee.

“Natasha!” Melina scolds from the kitchen. The house is suddenly so silent, you swear you hear a few leaves falling outside.

“W-what?” You stammer, going pale. Yelena looks between you and Natasha, her hand automatically finding yours under the table.

It’s the calmness in Natasha’s expression that frightens you most. She looks at you evenly, almost emotionlessly. “How long have you and Yelena been going behind my back?”

“Nat,” Wanda begins, but Natasha shakes her head sharply.

“No. I want to know how long my best friend thought it was appropriate to sleep with my sister without telling me.”

“Natasha,” you begin shakily.

“Girls-” Melina warns, stepping into the doorway.

“How long were you lying to my face?” Natasha continues, standing slowly. You stand, too, and so does Yelena, who never disconnects your hands. Natasha eyes them with little to no change to her expression. “Well?”

“Since… since right before school started.” You admit. “The night I left you guys at that club.”

It happens so fast you don’t even register that Natasha had moved. There’s just a stinging in your nose, your eyes watering as the crack rings in your ears. Several voices shout Natasha’s name, and then Yelena’s as the blonde grabs her sister and pushes her against the doorframe beside Melina.

You reach out to grab Yelena, but to your amazement your face is spewing blood. Your hands fly to your nose again, the liquid flowing freely from it. Well, yeah, this is pretty much how you saw this going.

“Nat, I’m sorry-” You start.

“You’re only sorry because you got caught.” Natasha snaps, shoving her sister off of her. Alexei intervenes, now, murmuring his daughter’s name. She backs away from him, glaring at you. “You lied to me. For weeks. For months.”

“I didn’t mean to-”

“Didn’t mean to what? Fuck my sister or lie to me about it?”

“Both? I don’t know!” Tears are freely falling from your eyes, now, but you aren’t sure if it’s from the pain in your nose or the anguish of the situation. “It just- it just happened and then I fell in love with her and-”

Yelena stops the next punch with surprising speed and strength. Alexei cuts in between the two before Natasha can reconsider the next swing’s target. You stay rigid in your spot, unable to move or speak.

“Fuck this.” Natasha backs away from her family and turns on her heels to walk out the front door. “And fuck you.” She throws over her shoulder, slamming the front door so hard it shakes.

Wanda is the first to react to this, though a handful of silent seconds go by. “I’m gonna go talk to her.” She stands, looks at you with sympathy. “She doesn’t mean that. I know she doesn’t.” She pauses, looking towards the door again. “She’s been suspecting it for a while.”

You don’t respond. You just let the awkward silence settle until the Sokovian is out the door and you’re left alone with Yelena, Melina and Alexei.

Seemingly remembering your injury, Yelena rushes to your side again and gently moves your hands away from your nose. You hiss in pain as she examines the damage closely.

“I think it’s broken,” she notes, eyes watery with unshed tears. “(Y/N), I’m so sorry, I didn’t think-”

“It’s okay,” you sound nasally. Ridiculous. “It’s okay, Lena.”

“I’m sorry about Natasha.” Melina snaps into mother mode in an instant. “Let me get you something for that.”

You wish everyone would stop apologizing. They shouldn’t be. This punch is very much well-deserved. If anything, this was an undrreaction by Natasha’s standards.

“It’s fine,” you reply uselessly, because Melina is already off to get medical supplies and Alexei is staring between you and Yelena with wide eyes.

“So… you two…?” He asks.

Shyly, you nod. Yelena seems relieved by this answer, releasing her hold on your cheeks to wrap her arms around you.

“I’m getting blood on you,” you frown.

“I don’t care. I’m so sorry.” She kisses your forehead. “I shouldn’t have forced you to-”

“You didn’t force me to do anything,” you pull back from the embrace to look her in the eyes. “I wanted to do this. Well- not this, specifically.”

“She punched you in the face,” Yelena’s bottom lip trembles. The surefire sign that she’s about to start crying. Now your hands find themselves at her cheeks, thumbs smoothing away the tears just beginning to fall. You lean your forehead against hers. She looks terrified.

“I know,” you sniffle, wincing at the pain the action causes. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s-”

“Put this on your face,” Melina is holding a pack of frozen peas and a rag in her hands. You pull away from Yelena, accepting the objects. Melina grabs your forehead and tilts your head around, looking closely at your nose. “It doesn’t look too bad. Definitely broken, though.”

You let her manhandle your face, cleaning the blood off while Yelena says something about getting you a different shirt. She returns with one of her own, apparently not thinking about it, and she almost freezes when she gives it to you. You accept it gratefully and excuse yourself to the bathroom.

The second - the instant - the door shuts, it’s like everything crashes down around you. Natasha knows. Natasha knew. She had possibly been waiting for you to say something, which any good friend would have done. You’ve been lying to her. You never lied to her before. And the first lie you tell her is this.

You are awful.

You try to keep the stupid sobs quiet when you change out of the bloodied shirt and press the rag to your nose. The blood is already starting to slow down, so that’s something, at least. Still, the pain of it is incomparable to the hollow aching feeling in your chest.

Your stupid phone starts to ring in your pocket. You take it out, answering in a stuffy-sounding tone. “Hello?”

“(Y/N)? Your father called me. He knows you're in Ohio.” Your mother doesn’t often sound worried for you - at least, not in any capacity that doesn’t come off as totally forced an artificial - but she sounds genuinely afraid. “What happened? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, mom,” you look at yourself in the mirror, looking anything but fine.

“Stay inside.”

“Okay.”

Pause.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Mom, I don’t want to talk about it right now,” your voice wavers. You hate when she gets like this almost as much as you hate when she acts like you’re an ungrateful child. There’s always that stupid part of you that believes she’ll stay like this, stay like she cares, but you always - always - remember those months she left you behind. You’ll never forgive her for that. (Especially not when she won’t even admit that she’d done anything wrong.)

“Okay.” It comes out a little colder, but not quite what you’re used to. “Call me when you get back to college, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” you sigh.

“I love you, (Y/N).”

“Love you too, mom.” You hang up and take several slow breaths. You can’t hide forever. Time to find Natasha and face her. She’s already gotten the worst out of her system.

You wait until your cheeks aren’t as red and your eyes not as puffy, splashing some cold water on your face and carefully avoiding the areas that sting at any slight touch.

You turn the knob and almost slam right into Yelena.

“You’re crying,” she says immediately.

You blink up at her. It hits you just how much you love her. It’s so intense, you’re nearly knocked off your feet. No matter what happens with Natasha - this, this, is worth it. She’s worth it. Natasha might never speak to you again, but losing Yelena is, at this point, unfathomable. This is your family. Yelena, Alexei, Melina - yes, Natasha, too. Even if she hates your guts forever.

Instead of explaining yourself, you just lean up to kiss her. It surprises her, you think, because she takes a beat longer to respond than usual. Kissing hurts a little, though, so you pull back and try to mask the pain. Of course, ever vigilant of your wellbeing, Yelena notices and holds the stupid pack of frozen peas to your nose with careful attention.

“I’m gonna talk to her,” you state softly, moving your hand to cover Yelena’s over the pack of peas.

“I’ll come with you.” Yelena offers, but you shake your head.

“No. I have to talk to her alone.”

Yelena looks ready to argue, but thinks better of it and nods hesitantly. “Fine. But… at least keep your phone with you.”

“She’s not gonna beat me to a pulp, Lena,” you laugh. “I think she got enough of her anger out with that one punch.”

“I’ll make her pay for that.” Yelena says darkly and you roll your eyes.

“No, it’s fine. I deserved that.”

“No-”

“We’ve been lying to her, Yelena. You know how she feels about lying.” You sigh.

Yelena frowns, but doesn’t argue.

When Melina deems your nose safe enough to travel with, you take off after Natasha. You know exactly where she’d be, because it’s where she always goes when she’s upset. The park isn’t far from her house, either.

Sure enough, she and Wanda are sitting on the old swing set, feet dragging idly on the mulch. When you approach, they stop talking and Wanda stands up. She makes some kind of excuse, but you don’t hear it as you wither under the glare of Natasha.

Hesitantly, you take the spot Wanda had once occupied and mindlessly move yourself back and forth. Natasha doesn’t speak, so you don’t either. You just sit in silence, your nose throbbing without the pack of peas.

Finally, Natasha breaks the silence: “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

You look at your feet, afraid of what emotions her face might show. “I was… scared. I thought you’d hate me, I guess.”

“I don’t hate you.” Those words are enough to make you weak with relief. You feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, but you shove them away and keep your gaze steadily downward. “But I’m pissed that you didn’t say anything.”

“She’s your sister, Nat,” you finally look up at her. She looks hurt. “I thought you’d assume the worst.”

“Why would I ever assume the worst with you?” Natasha shakes her head, exasperated. “Honestly, I had a feeling something was up when Carol told me you guys never hooked up. Yelena’s been acting happier than usual. Completely different from how she was when I left for college. Then I thought you were wearing her top, but she’s got so many stupid band shirts it’s hard to keep track…” She scoffs, almost amused. “I should have known, but I thought you’d at least be a decent friend and give me a heads up if you were even interested in Yelena.”

You cringe. “I know. I’m sorry. I really should have told you but it happened so fast-” you stop yourself, blushing furiously. “I thought it was just, y’know, for fun or whatever but-”

“Watch it,” Natasha warns, narrowing her eyes. “That’s my sister.”

“Right,” you croak. “I just- I thought I needed to just, scratch an itch. But it just didn’t go away, and I couldn’t stop thinking about her, and I felt so guilty because I knew hiding it from you was wrong but I didn’t know how to tell you and-”

“(Y/N),” Natasha holds up a hand and you flinch. The guilt on her face is gut-wrenching. She grabs the chain of her swing. “I don’t want you to ever feel like you can’t trust me. You’re my best friend. Of course I want you to be happy. And Yelena is my sister. I want her to be happy, too. I want you both to be with someone you deserve.” At your pained, fearful expression, she quickly adds, “And I do think you deserve each other. In the best way.” You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, and Natasha snorts.

“Seriously,” she says, “Lena has had a crush on you since we were kids. I’m surprised it took this long to happen. I can see how much happier you make her, even if I didn’t know what the source of that happiness was ‘til now.”

“Nat-”

“Even you seem different.” She observes you with a new sort of expression, almost admiringly. “You seem lighter. When we reconnected, you were still the same lost kid who didn’t know what to do besides what her mom told her. I can see how much easier it is on you, now.”

You actually feel yourself crying. It’s so dumb, you hate crying in front of others. Natasha slides off of her swing to pull you into a hug. You return it happily, heart swelling.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter guiltily. “I should have told you. I knew the whole time that I should have told you. But I was a coward.”

“You were,” Natasha agrees. When she pulls back from the hug, she looks at your nose. “How’s your face?”

“Broken.”

“I’m not sorry.”

“That’s fair.”

Pause.

“But we’re okay?” You ask, just because you can’t ever get over the fear of losing someone you care about.

“We’re okay,” Natasha confirms.

She returns to her swing.

It’s almost like when you were kids again.

- - - - -

The walk back to Natasha’s house was spent in companionable conversation. She asks you a little bit about your relationship and intentions with Yelena - she does, in fact, threaten your life if you dare break Yelena’s heart but you assure her that’s nowhere in the cards. You’re in it to win it, as far as you’re concerned, and Natasha agrees that you’ve already won it.

The entire family is waiting in the living room. They must have been talking before you returned, because the silence is unbearable. Finally, you tell them everything is fine, and they all seem to breathe a bit easier. Melina mentions always seeing you as a daughter, Alexei tells you he couldn’t approve more.

At the end of the night, you find yourself back in Yelena’s arms in her childhood bed.

In the darkness, your only focus is the steadying beat of her heart that always picks up when you lean your head against her chest. You can’t ever be certain what awaits you in the future - you don’t even care anymore. As long as you have her by your side, that’s all that matters.

“Yelena?” You ask. She hums. “I love you.”

The blonde wakes up enough to press a loving kiss to your forehead. “I love you, too.”

Maybe - just maybe - everything is going to turn out okay.

~part 3~

~~ Gen Tag List ~~

/To be added, let me know if you want to be tagged for all my works, a specific series, or a specific character <3

@nobody13 @fireflyglass @swords-are-cool @artapdarkstr @pasta-bandit @multi-images @women-am-i-right @fanboy7794

#MIGHT make an epilogue for this in december #just bc i have some domestic cute fluff w yelena that could fit here if i tweak it a lil bit #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova imagine #yelena x reader #yelena imagine #gxg imagine #nobody13 #fireflyglass #swords-are-cool #artapdarkstr #pasta-bandit #multi-images #women-am-i-right #fanboy7794

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gucciwins · 3 years

Note

ahh are you angel was so good!!! is it possible for you to do a follow up where he gets released from the hospital and they go back to her house and she fusses over him a lot and takes care of him and he's like really stubborn and insists on doing things himself and walking about when he really shouldn't? I LOVE YOUR WRITING BTW!!! so so so good!

Hello lovely, thank you for such a kind message. I was writing and I wanted it to be sweet but there's actually a pinch of angst involved. Anyways, if you take the time to read this I hope you enjoy firefighter harry being stubborn at home. This is a follow up to Are You Angel?

Word count: 3331

Trouble Follows

Are You Angel?

_____

Harry was living in bliss.

Although he was injured and healing nicely, the doctors have told him. He enjoyed it because he was living with his girlfriend, who cared for him and made sure he didn’t overdo it.

It’s been two weeks, and he swears he couldn’t love Y/N anymore, but it grows every day. He adored her and was so thankful for how she was caring for him. She’d make him breakfast, and they’d either share it in bed or on the couch. She made his coffee just how he liked it and left him different baked goods every few days. He’s happily putting on weight from all the treats she makes.

Then after seven-thirty, she would head to work and, like clockwork at twelve, would be making her way into the house. She’d remove her sneakers and set up the lunch she stopped by to pick up, and then she’d wake him up with soft kisses all over his face, helping him sit up because of his bruised ribs. Y/N would let him sit at the table the only time. They’d chat about how her day was going too far; then, he’d discuss the book he decided to read. He is currently reading Normal People because Y/N wanted to watch the show, but Harry said she had to wait for him to read the book so they’d be able to discuss both. Y/N thought it was the sweetest thing and smothered him in kisses. Harry likes it when she does that.

After lunch, she’d tuck him to the couch and let him rest while she made her way back to work. Then Harry spent those last few hours at home sleeping, watching Survivor, another thing Y/N got him hooked on. Harry even upgraded her Hulu because he could not deal with the commercials. He didn’t have the patience for that. Y/N told him she wanted to apply to be on any of those shows but didn't know if she’d do well; Harry doubted that. He knew she could do anything she put her mind to. Instead, she told him they should look into applying to do Amazing Race together, which he has not ventured into yet but surely will soon.

Y/N would finally come home around five, and Harry would be in the bedroom either getting ready to shower or lying in bed. He would honestly wait for her because he liked it when she helped him undress, then she’d join him in the shower where she’d let him kiss her all over. He’s honestly dying for a taste of her. The problem is the doctor does not clear him, so it’s a no to sex from her.

Honestly, the shower was part of his favorite day, he’d get to stand, and she’d just let Harry hold her. He’d whisper how he missed her. Then he’d try to tempt her by whisper sweet nothings in her ear about how he missed the taste of her on his tongue, how she could just as easily ride his face, and the one he knows that almost always gets her is how he missed being close to her, as she squeezed him tight when he slipped inside of her. She always took a step back, avoiding eye contact because she knew if she looked at the look in his eyes, she’d give in.

Y/N would look at his chest, her eyes scanning over the scars on his skin until she landed on the purple bruise of his ribs. “Not until that is healed.” She’d half-smile at him.

Today was different. He went to the doctor’s with Mitch, Y/N not being able to get out of shift as they were full of patients for the day but promised to come straight home so they could cook dinner together. He squeezed her tighter before she left this morning, hoping for good news.

Harry walked into the hospital with a smile, greeting the staff. He didn’t have to wait long until his name was called, Mitch staying in his chair, looking at a magazine of National Geographic. Harry fixed his hoodie, walking towards the nurse who guided him to room 205. Carla, the nurse, checks his blood pressure, his height, and weight letting him know he gained five pounds that the doctor would be impressed. Harry smirked, knowing he’d tease Y/N for helping him put on weight. Carla smiled and told him the doctor would be in shortly and informed him to change into the gown provided.

Dr. Vazquez walks in fifteen minutes with a knock on the door.

“Mr. Styles, good to see you.”

“You as well.” He smiles.

“Right, well looking over your charts, everything looks good but still got to look you over.”

“Go right ahead, doc.” Harry sighs with a slight grin.

Dr. Vazquez washes his hands then gloves up. He walks over to Harry, standing right in front of him. First, he looks at Harry’s arms seeing that the burns healed, with minimal scarring. Then he moves over to the gown, seeing there are no longer bruises on his leg. Harry had to do physical therapy for a week as a precaution, but he aced all the drills and then was cleared. He lifted the gown to expose his stomach.

“Does it still hurt, your ribs?” Dr. Vazquez asked as he felt around the area of the bruising.

“No.” Harry lied.

“Hmm…” Dr. Vazquez touched Harry gently on the bruise, and Harry hissed. “Think it still does. It looks like you will need that extra week to recover at least until the bruising goes away.”

“Another week,” Harry repeats.

“Yes, I want you to heal properly.”

“But my job,” Harry exclaims, not believing he has to be out for another week.

Dr. Vazquez sighs, “You’re going back to the job Harry. I understand how much it means to you. If I let you go back early, you could break a rib if you aren’t careful. Now, I want you to go home and keep doing what you’re doing. You’re in great health overall.”

“Except the bruise,” Harry mutters.

“I’ll let you get dressed. See you next week, Styles.” As Dr. Vazquez is turning the knob, he turns around. “Thank Y/N for the oatmeal cookies. They were delicious.”

Harry nods and hops down from the bench wanting to get dressed and go home.

Mitch drives Harry home; it’s silent all the way there until he parks in front of Y/N’s house, which is technically his. He’s not sure, but it feels like home, at least with her, it does.

“You alright, H?” Mitch asks, shifting to look at Harry.

Harry sighs, leaning his head back against the seat. “No, got another week and another checkup.”

“That’s alright; you need to heal properly,” Mitch responds.

Harry shrugs, “I guess.”

“We still on for dinner at seven?”

“Yeah.”

Harry gets out and makes his way to the front door. He sits on the couch, and the more he sits there, the angrier he becomes. He’s not mad at anyone, just the situation. Harry isn’t sure how long he sits there, letting his anger simmer, but it’s been a while because he hears the front door unlock and Y/N enter.

“Hi darling,” She greets from the door, where she slips her shoes off and sets her purse down.

Harry doesn’t answer, continues to sit there, too lost in thought.

Y/N smiles seeing him sitting there.

She hurries over him, desperate to hug him. She sits next to him on the couch, carefully slipping her arms around his waist as not to hurt him.

“Missed you.”

Harry sighs, kissing her head softly. “Me too.”

“Going to make you a tea, Ms. Waters was telling me it strengthens your bones and to make it even better, it smells like lavender although she said it might need some sugar if you don’t want it to be bitter.”

Y/N isn’t worried. Some days she comes home and does all the talking because he had a few rough days, and sometimes she’d be quiet, and Harry would cuddle her, commenting about everyone’s gameplay in Survivor.

This is the most stable relationship she’s been in. Yes, it is insane for Harry to move for the time being, but she’s not opposed to him moving in so soon. She loves him, and that means she sees a future with him. It may or may not end in heartbreak, but she wants as much time with Harry that she can get.

Harry was just as thrilled. Most of his clothes could already be found in the drawers she opened up for him. She has uniform shirts hanging in her closet. She buys his favorite fabric softener. They’ve been domestic from the start.

This is love, and she wants it for as long as Harry will give it to her.

Y/N came out with the mug, placing it on the coaster for Harry.

Harry stared at Y/N, thinking about every single thing she does for him. He was thankful he really was because he loved her, and this was showing him just how much she loved him, but he could do things independently.

Harry goes to sit up, and Y/N is there instantly to help him. Harry isn’t sure why, but it bothers him.

This seems to be the last straw after the day he had, and Harry shrugs her off.

She steps back, not a word is said.

“Y/N,”

A frown on her face, he called her by her name, not one of the sweet nicknames he has for her.

“You’re suffocating me. I can do this on my own. I’ve been hurt before, and I didn’t need you.” Harry says harshly.

Y/N flinches, taking a step back.

Harry instantly feels the guilt seeping in.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’re feeling this way,” She says as she takes small steps back to increase their distance. “I’m going to go for a walk.” Shoes in hand, she opens the door and walks out before Harry can say anything.

Harry sighs because he didn’t mean to make her upset. He really is a dick.

Now she’s outside and upset. Harry hates that he drove her out of her own home because of his stubbornness.

He’s not sure how to apologize, but in the meantime, Harry can think about it before she comes back.

_____

It’s been over an hour, and Harry knows she should be home soon. He tried calling and texting her, but she’s ignoring his cars, rightfully so. He feels time goes by slowly now that she isn’t there to keep him company.

Harry wants to apologize and hold her close. He misses her and her sweet smile that’s reserved just for him. He feels awful because he’s not even sure if she took a jacket, and it’s a cold night. He did this and just wants her home, even if it means her being upset with him.

There’s a knock on the door, and he rushes over to open it but frowns when he sees Mitch and Sarah.

“Well, what a welcome,” Sarah says sarcastically at his expression.

“Sorry, thought you were Y/N,” Harry sighs, moving back, allowing them to enter.

Mitch and Sarah share a look, “Shouldn’t she be here?”

“She should, but I’m a dick, and she went on a walk to get away from me.”

“Harry,”

“I know, I felt awful right away, Fuck, I’ve never yelled at her-- we don’t fight. It’s not us, and now she’s not answering my calls.”

Sarah looks around the room before her eyes land on the bag next to the mushroom key holder. “The phone that is sitting next to her bag.”

“Fuck,” Harry frowns. He picks it up, seeing all his missed calls. He scrolls then stops when he sees Frankie’s name.

With Frankie, will be home soon.

It was sent fifteen minutes ago.

“She’s with Frankie.”

Harry leans against the wall, sighing in relief. “Should we be here when she gets back?” Mitch asks.

“No, we need to talk. Raincheck?”

Sarah nods, “Of course. Keep us updated.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Mitch walks out first, then Sarah before they share a look. Sarah sighs, turning to look at Harry. “Listen, you don’t have to tell me what happened, but Y/N loves you. I’ve known her as long as you have. From the way Y/N has spoken about you to Frankie and me, it’s like you hung the moon and stars for her. It might be easy to treat her as a target but know this; she will never stand to be mistreated because she knows her worth. So, swallow your pride and fix this with your heart and not your ego.”

Sarah walks away before he can respond. Harry is about to shut the door when a car pulls up; he recognizes it as Frankie’s, a red pick-up truck.

He smiles; she’s back.

Y/N gets out of the car, greeting Mitch and Sarah with a hug. She frowns when Harry assumes they tell her they can’t stay for dinner. She pulls a bag out from the passenger seat and hands it over to them. Harry feels himself soften because even though she was upset, she still passed to get dinner.

Heart of gold she has.

She’s absolutely perfect, and he might have messed it all up.

Y/N hugs Frankie before moving towards Harry, a bag of food in her hand. She doesn’t meet his eyes but walks past him into the house.

Harry closes the door behind him and watches her set the bag of food that he can now see is Thai food from his favorite place three blocks away. She stands there, nervously playing with a robin ring on her index finger, slipping it on and off.

“Uh…you’re right, I’ve been suffocating,” she says softly.

Harry sighs, “No.” But it’s like she doesn’t hear him because she keeps going.

“I can stay with Frankie for a while, this is your home as well, and I won’t kick you out. Or, if you want your own space, Mitch said he could drive you over to your apartment. I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Harry feels the tears coming, god he doesn’t deserve her or her sympathy let alone her love.

“You don’t need to go anywhere. I want you right here. Need you right here.” Harry takes a small step toward her hoping she won’t back away.

Y/N doesn’t, but she also doesn’t look at him either. It breaks his heart.

“Will you please look at me, angel?” He pleads.

She lifts her head, eyes red and swollen. He did that. He made her cry.

Maybe he does deserve to feel this hurt.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean a word I said. I was upset and angry, and I took it out on you when I shouldn’t have. It’s not an excuse for what I did, and you don’t have to forgive me, but I’m so sorry.”

“Why are you upset?”

“Ribs aren’t fully healed, and I was ready to go back to work.”

Y/N nods because she knows what he means. He was ready to go back to work because he has been spending so much time with her.

“Right, because you need to be away from me. I got it.”

“God, no. Baby, no.” Harry cups her face. “Not at all.”

“Then what, Harry!” She tries to shout, but it comes out soft as tears begin to fall down her face. “I love you, but you’re not making any sense.”

Harry sighs, “I’m afraid that if I don’t go back soon, then everyone will see me as weak, that you’ll see me as weak.”

“Harry,” she whispers.

“I know, it’s ridiculous. I love how you care for me but me not being able to do the same kills me.”

“But you do,” she smiles; it’s the first one since she came back. “You watch my favorite shows and read books I’ve read because you want to discuss them with me. You try all my desserts without a complaint. You let me take care of you. You love me because you smile at me every morning and without fail greet me with a kiss.”

Harry lets his tears fall, wanting to soak in her words. “You love me in the little moments as well as the big. I’m sorry, I left. I wanted to give you space, clear your head as I did the same without upsetting each other more.”

“I’m sorry, I pushed you out of your house.” Harry presses a kiss on her cheek. “Will you forgive me?”

“Course, H.” Y/N wraps her arms around his waist. “Don’t like fighting.” She tells him as she nuzzles her face in his chest.

“Me either.” Harry sighs in content, happy to have her back in his arms where she belongs. “Were you serious about me moving in? I mean, we’ve only been together five months now.”

“Said it in the heat of the moment.” Harry nods, not letting her see his frown. “But it doesn’t mean I didn’t mean it. Five months may seem like little time, but with everything we’ve been through, it feels much longer.”

Harry smiles, “Yeah, I hate when people say this, but I do mean it. It feels like you’ve been a part of my life from the start.”

Y/N nods, knowing what he means, “Let’s make this our home. I want you to leave your shoes by the door and help me do laundry on Sundays. I want it all with you.”

“Getting to wake up to you every day and come home to you every night, there’s nothing I want more,” Harry confesses.

“I love you, Harry.”

“And I love you, my angel.”

Harry pulls her in for a final hug, not wanting to stop touching her, just needs her in his arms for the rest of the night.

“Dinner time?” He asks.

“Yes, please.” Y/N goes to pull away, but Harry holds her tight.

She looks up at him, eyes red but no longer sad. “Kiss, please?”

Y/N smiles at him fondly, giving a slight nod. Harry leans in, brushing their lips together softly, nervous she might pull away, but she doesn’t; instead, she presses herself closer to him. It’s a kiss that centers him, that reminds him he didn’t mess it all up, that at the end of the day, she came back to him. The kiss is soft, and Harry feels all the love she’s pouring in, and Harry hopes she can feel it from him as well.

Harry pulls back, pressing a final kiss to her lips.

“Now, dinner or shower first.”

“Shower want to hold you, angel,” Harry confesses.

“Alright, but no funny business.” She teases.

Harry gasps, “I would never.”

She giggles, making her way to the bedroom, with Harry following behind.

Harry leans against the doorway, watching Y/N set her clothes for the night on the bed, then going to his drawers to do the same. He wants this forever; he wants her to fluff his pillows, to warm his blanket, to run her fingers through his hair, to massage his back, relieving all the tension he has built up. He’s decided he’d let her shower him in love and bask in it because it doesn’t mean she sees him as weak; it’s her way of showing she wants to take care of him and who is he to deny her of that.

Harry feels his heart grow when she heads to the bathroom but stops turning to him with an outstretched hand; he steps forward, intertwining their fingers.

Yeah, he’s going to love her for a long time.

_____

Here's more firefighter harry because this wrote itself and in a matter of two days. will eventually write more for firefighter harry but will be focusing on other work :)

#harry styles #requested #harry styles x reader #harry styles writing #harry styles au #firefighter harry!#harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #harry styles blurb #harry styles Drabble

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chaosangel767 · 2 years

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hi there👋😀

can I please ask for a hc about Ikerev boys taking care of mc while she's on her period? (specifically her first period after they start dating)

I'd like to see how they find out about it and how they react and then what they do to make her feel better😊

if you don't mind I ask this hc for these characters: Lancelot, Jonah, Edgar, Kyle, Luka, Sirius, Oliver.

thank you♥️♥️♥️

Hey Anon! I am so sorry this sat in my inbox for so long. I have been working on it very slowly. I normally only take 5 characters for HC's so I did all the Army boys (Feel free to ask for more when my regular requests are open). For now though I hope you enjoy. I tried to be as diverse as possible with symptoms cause there are a ton and it effects everyone a little differently.

First Period HC's - Lancelot, Jonah, Edgar, Kyle, Sirius and Luka.

Suitors: Lancelot, Jonah, Edgar, Kyle, Sirius, Luka

[HC]: how the boys take care of Alice while she's on her period. (Her first period after they start dating) How they find out how they react, how they make her feel better.

Warnings: graphic period symptoms

Lancelot

He knows the basics about periods but didn't register that you'd get one.

He gets really worried when you say you aren’t feeling well and gets worried when you are more tired than usual, starting to fuss over you.

You blush when you end up sitting him down and tell him what’s going on and that you aren’t sick.

He ends up getting you a heated stuffed animal for your cramps and makes sure your workload is minimal.

He is very attentive to your needs and ries to be more sensitive with your moods. He talks a little less, not wanting to upset you because he knows he can be a little callous.

The first couple of days is rough, he doesn’t fully understand your mood swings or how more/less affectionate you are feeling.

He makes sure you are comfortable and if you need more affection he will rearrange his schedule to cuddle you and work from bed. Or he will wrap you up in his mantle and let you sit on his lap at his desk.

You like playing with his collar or medals and will pepper kisses along his neck.

If you are feeling less affectionate and more withdrawn, he lets you use your old room and will leave the door open so Shine can come comfort you and he can help you with anything you need.

Jonah

Jonah has zero clue about periods. He scolds you for your acne issues, and makes a comment about you looking bloated. Jonah’s words really upset you, and you storm out of his room and go down to the infirmary in tears, feeling exhausted and just wanting to sleep.

Kyle lets you in the infirmary and helps you feel comfortable. He gives you pain killers and lets you get some rest, fending off Jonah. Jonah gets worried when he goes half the day without seeing you and storms into the infirmary to see you curled up with a pillow sleeping.

Kyle pulls Jonah aside and gives him the rundown about periods and that he needs to leave you alone. Jonah feels absolutely terrible and buys you some of your favorite tea and dessert from Central Quarter.

When you finally wake up you see Jonah sitting worriedly next to your side with some fresh tea and a dessert. He apologizes for being rude earlier, offering the tea and dessert. You explain to Jonah what usually happens during your period.

If you need more affection he will cuddle you and dote on you more, letting you snuggle into his side while he works on the bed.

If you are less affectionate he will either back off of touching you and let you stay in his room, or you can go to your old room for a few days to have some space.

Jonah insists on making sure you eat, even if it is a little bit and making sure you get plenty of rest. He loves giving you massages so you feel better, absolutely spoiling you if you let him.

Edgar

Innocent boi I know what they are but is oblivious to you getting them.

When he notices you aren't feeling well he casually tries to pry to see why. He is worried about you, but if symptoms are manageable you ignore him and try to go about your day, not bothering with much.

You skip meals and just crash after dinner and he finally gets you to tell him why. You are a little shy about the questions he asks but you tell him everything.

He loves doting on you so he is happy to cuddle you, and wrap you in blankets. He is good with his hands and will massage your body or draw you baths to help with the pain. He is another one that will go and buy a heat pack for your stomach. He does anything he can to make sure you are comfortable.

He knows when you are moody and is good at calming you down, or avoiding confrontation with you. He knows the best ways to work through your mood swings and if he doesn’t know what to say he will either just hold you or let you calm down.

Kyle

Being a doctor he knows about them and he knows that you will get yours eventually.

His worry is triggered when you don't eat breakfast and is just pushing your food around your plate. He tries to coax you into eating something gentle that will help an upset stomach.

He'll watch you closely as you attend patients. Kyle is quick to notice the way you'II occasionally wince on hold your back or stomach.

He will quietly pull you aside and confirm his suspicions before making sure you are okay to continue working. He keeps a heat pack out of sight of the patients so you can rest and use it if you need to.

If you insist you are okay he will watch you through the day and make sure you take breaks as needed.

If you start to need to rest he will set you up in his office so you can rest and relax or he will send you to his room so you can wear his shirt and curl up. He will avoid going out with Blanc and Oliver during this time, so you can have him all night long. He only works when necessary and spends the rest of the time looking after you, staying nearby and studying.

Sirius

Growing up with his younger sisters means he's aware and ready for this. He's had your bathroom stocked with supplies and he notices the changes in your attitude.

You don't mention it to him but because of how attentive he is he picks up on it immediately.

Sirius subtly checks to see if you need a couple of days off.

If you agree to take a few days off, he'll think of a reason and will check on you often, sometimes letting you rest on his lap while he works.

If you insist on working he'll change his routine around a little so he is always near you and watching you to make sure you're okay.If you seem to be tired and not looking okay. He'll force you to lay down and will bring you tea and cuddles.

When you are having cramps he will give you something warm to hold for pain relief. If you want affection and cuddles he will allow you to cuddle up in his lap while he does paperwork. If your pain is really bad he will let you squeeze his hand and will just hold you closer.

He will never push food on you if you don't feel like eating and will just give you worried looks.

Thankfully he remains calm if you start snapping at him and will just assess if you need affection or space and will give you either.

Luka

Like his brother he is completely oblivious to female cycles. He has very little idea they exist and gets extremely worried when yours starts.

He notices you are more sluggish and sore than usual and tells you to get some sleep, letting you sleep in one of his shirts and wrapping you up so you are warm. He gets even more worried when you sleep and still seems tired, not sure why you are so fatigued.

Sirius, who has been silently helping you through them until now gets the hint at what is going on and calms Luka down. He gives Luka a brief rundown of what happens and Luka feels a lot better.

He goes to find you again and checks on you, doting to see what you need. He loves giving you any affection you may need and will happily curl up with you to cuddle you.

The innocent bean has no idea how to handle your mood swings, please try to be gentle with him, he just wants you to be happy and it completely stresses him out that you are a crying mess. He just holds you close and plays with your hair, trying not to provoke you.

He will happily make you anything you are craving but will be super worried if you don’t eat. He tries to force you to eat something small so that your body has a little bit of food to run.

#Ikemen revolution #ikerev #ikerev Hc's #chayaasks

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stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale · 3 years

Text

hi I’m here to review the Clementine comic. it’s not good.

Does this even need an introduction? You know why I’ve gathered you all here today. You know the comic exists, and you probably know that it’s not great and we’re all upset about it.

Myself included. I am not okay. At all.

Skybound could’ve literally spit in my face and I’d come out feeling better than I did reading this comic, because this comic is an insult to the original Telltale games and Clementine as a character.

This comic is a fancy fanfic. Glorified fanfiction. It’s not canon, and Skybound and Tillie can pretend that it is, but it’s not. Bold of them to assume we’d just accept this from people who didn’t work on the original games and never wrote for Clementine before, and based on this comic alone, any chance of us taking it seriously is gone.

I’m gonna go through every single page, every panel, of this comic and give you my review. So I guess if you’re worried about spoilers [though at this point why would you?] then be warned, spoilers for the entire comic ahead.

I also wanna add that I have nothing against Tillie Walden. I know a lot of dingdongs are harassing her on insta over this comic and that’s not okay. You telling her how much you hate her isn’t going to change anything. If anything, you keep being assholes to her and she’s just gonna block everything out, even things simply critiquing her work in hopes that it helps her improve.

You’re allowed to be upset about the comic and share your feelings about it, but don’t take it out on the actual human being like that. Besides, like I’ve said before, if Tillie wasn’t gonna make the comic, Skybound would’ve found someone else to do. This was coming no matter what because Skybound wants that coin.

That being said, I’m not going to hold back my opinions on this comic. Skybound and Tillie made this comic, they put it out there and asked for money for it, therefore I’m allowed to explain why it’s garbage as well as ponder over the questionable intent and whether or not Tillie actually has played these games. Y’know, it’s like how I have nothing against Kent, but sometimes he says things I disagree with and well, y’know how it goes.

Alright, this is gonna be long, so let’s go--

The first few shots we get are of the school, two people sleeping, and Clementine’s empty bed. Nothing super note-worthy, we have no idea who is sleeping in the beds, it’s just there to establish that it’s early and everyone’s still asleep.

The drawing of the school looks fine? Not super accurate, but I can give it a pass since it’s a few years later, I assume. What I can’t give a pass is how you managed to already mess up on the first page of your comic.

Because..... why are you implying that Clementine’s room is upstairs? First of all, seems kinda dumb to put Clem, who has only one leg and has to walk with crutches, upstairs. Also, if you’ve played TFS and paid any attention to where her room is actually located [the dorms] then you’d know there isn’t any stairs leading to their floor. It’s the side building next to the admin building, you walk through the door, go down the hall, take a left and their dorm is right there sooo.....

Oh right, it’s probably done this way so that we can have such a suspenseful moment where Clementine is sneaking out while the others are asleep and her foot makes a creeeeeeakk that could wake everyone up, thwarting her plans of abandoning everyone quietly so she doesn’t have to deal with any consequences.

Because yeah, Clementine is sneaking out with all of her supplies because apparently, she’s been planning an escape from this place for a while.

And just look at how gosh darn happy she is about it. You can’t see or hear me, but know that I’m laughing. Don’t worry, I will talk about her abandoning everyone later.

But first, I have a gripe with Clementine's design in this comic. It doesn’t look like her. This art of her right here is the most accurate we get throughout all 12 pages, and it’s the best looking, too.

Moving on, she slams the door shut while this walker changes faces and hair between panels, so that’s cool. I will say, I like the idea of the Ericson crew putting spikes on the door. That’s fun.

Though Clementine slamming the door shut while trying to sneak out seems counter productive but it fits with the theme this comic has of inconsistency, so it works.

Next we have Clementine going to what I believe is the fishing shack by the river, and she’s going through some things that she’s stashed away, telling us that she’s been planning this escape for a while.

Oh good, she has a map. Well at least now she won’t get lost out there in the woods while she makes her escape... also that last panel with her profile.... why does it look so funny? Like this page of the comic doesn’t look too bad, but there is something off putting about her eye there and how she has zero expression.

And it turns out that rustle was a walker, and Clementine is super inconvenienced by this and gives us our first piece of witty dialogue.

Yeah you dumb walker, can’t you see Clementine is busy running away from home and abandoning all of her loved ones without a single goodbye so she doesn’t have to witness the consequences of her selfish actions?? Gosh, so rude.

Just a heads up, the dialogue in this comic is stilted, emotionless, and bland. The words have no flow, no charm, and never feel like they should be coming out of Clementine’s mouth. Then again, the upcoming graphic novels this is tied to are for young adult/middle graders so I guess we have to dumb everything down so their baby brains can process it.

.....Why does her face look like that? Also, interesting that she decided to move her ponytail to the other side of her head.... which is a thing that happens throughout this comic, her hair will randomly change sides.

I believe it’s a metaphor for her changing and inconsistent personality.

So yeah, Clementine is just making off with the supplies she gathered [I’m sure Ericson doesn’t need ‘em anyway] and she’s just so gosh darn annoyed at all these small inconveniences bothering her.... because it’s just too early for this.

.....Again, why does her face look like that?

I’m sorry, like I get it, Tillie’s style is supposed to be purposely messy yet minimal but it doesn’t work. When you do a comic in a more messy style, usually it has charm and heart put into it. Effort goes into the messy look, and when things are minimal, that usually means more clean, yeah? So you put them together and just..... that is nothing resembling Clementine’s face.

Can we just--

Look at canon Clementine’s face. Look at the way her eyebrows are shapes, how wide her eyes are with her eye lashes. The dirt on her skin, the lines-- there is so much personality in her features. It doesn’t matter if she’s wearing a neutral expression or she’s expressing anger or joy or sorrow or whatever.

Now, is it fair to compare a model of Clem from the games to the Clem in this comic? Well, I assume that if Tillie is doing this comic, she would use references from the game to ensure that Clementine is recognizable, especially now that she’s no longer wearing her signature hat.

So why does she look like this? Why do I look at these drawings of her face and see nothing but a pair of eyes, a nose, and a mouth? You might as well draw me a simple smiley face. And I get that it’s a comic, and it’s a lot of work to draw the same character over and over again and you gotta cut corners somewhere, but maybe put some effort into the close up shots of her face so that we can actually see it’s her?

Other fan artists have made comics in their styles that shine bright with Clementine’s personality, so what happened here?

Anyway, surprise..... it’s not a walker annoying Clementine.

........Why does AJ look like that??? I’m sorry, I hate to do the same thing I just did but--

Just because you put Clementine’s hat on AJ that doesn’t automatically make it him. I just.... wow. This feels like there wasn’t a single reference involved, like if someone gave Tillie a basic description of AJ and she just did this.

But appearances aside, what is AJ saying? He says that he knew it, that Clementine’s leaving and I cannot stand this dialogue. It’s unnatural. Again, I know you wanna dumb it down for all of us because I guess we dumb.... but this conversation does not feel natural.

“I knew it. You’re leaving.” “AJ....” “I’m coming.”

Even if you changed it to, “I’m coming with you.” it would sound more natural. Hell, he doesn’t even question WHY she’s leaving, he just stands there like “I’m coming” like??? I’m sorry, have you ever heard a single word this murder baby has said? I assume you have because I assume you actually played TFS, right? Soooo.... what happened here?

.....whY DO THEIR FACES LOOK LIEK THAT KSAJDLKJAS:LKDJLKASJD:L--

So now we’re getting into it.... into the bullshit.

Clementine tells AJ to go back to the school, and AJ says that she wasn’t even going to say goodbye..... and then more bad dialogue that sound unnatural when you try to fucking read it.

First off.... AJ’s reaction to Clementine attempting to leave is barely anything. Again, I hate to keep questioning if you actually played TFS, but AJ would throw a fucking fit if he caught Clementine out here ALONE like this, attempting to leave.

And then he says “Like last time? You were going to come back?” this sentence makes my brain hurt. I just.... “Like last time, right? You’re coming back?” UGH

Wow, I feel nothing.

I’m sitting here watching these two imposters with fucked up faces who are supposed to be Clementine and AJ and I feel nothing.

I’m not even going to comment on the faces anymore. You can see it. You know.

So yeah... AJ tells her the #1 rule, and reminds her that she promised.

Y’know.... she promised that she would never leave him again? Remember? At the McCarroll ranch? That flashback that was in TFS? The one you would watch if you played the game?

Why is she looking straight at me when she should be looking at AJ as she says this? Is this Clementine’s way of telling me she’s sorry for what a shitty direction this is taking? I wouldn’t know because her face isn’t doing anything. Just because you draw a couple of tears that doesn’t mean I’m feeling the emotional heartbreak you’re attempting to convey.

I don’t have enough middle fingers for this.

Well, my hat’s off to you. Ya did it. Ya fucked up everything single part of Clementine’s character in the span of two pages, I’m almost impressed.

First off, the baby thing is weird. Why is she calling him that? She’s never called him that, which you should know.

Second, she’s not happy and that’s why she’s leaving. Clementine isn’t happy, and AJ can’t make her happy. Ericson can’t make her happy. So she’s going to go out on the road to.... what, be unhappy by herself?

I’m sorry, but apparently we need a few reminders here of who Clementine is, because this isn’t her.

This is Clementine.

Clementine fought for years to find a home, something she hasn’t had since she was an eight-year-old girl before the apocalypse. The motor-inn wasn’t a home, the cabin wasn’t home, the ski-lodge, Howe’s, Wellington, Richmond, Prescott, none of them were home.

She struggled for years, dealing with trauma after trauma while out on the road. She went from group to group, watching people she cared about die and she was powerless to do anything about it. Whenever she let her guard down and become comfortable, it bit in her in the ass and left her heartbroken.

She was there when AJ was born. She grew close to Rebecca while she was pregnant, she let herself do that even after everything she went through with Christa. Clementine had a bond with AJ even before he was born, and after Rebecca died, she did what she could to keep him safe, despite play choice.

She cried when she thought AJ died and when she found him in that car again. She swore to protect him, to raise him right and love him. All they had was each other.

And when she joined the new frontier and AJ got sick, she risked everything to save him and she was devastated when they took him away from her. When she found out he was alive, she is willing to go as far as helping Lingard overdose [INJECTING HIM HERSELF IF SHE HAS TO] to figure out his location. She did shitty things to find him, she killed people at McCarroll Ranch to find him again.

Clementine raised him and he is her family, do you understand that? She went to hell and back for him, she taught him how to protect himself, and even though she made mistakes she sacrificed everything for him. She promised him that they would have a home of their own one day, she talked about how much she wished for a world where she didn’t have to worry about fighting and killing and AJ could just be a happy kid.

She fought for Ericson, she watched her friends die or become mutilated by someone from her past. She allowed herself to be vulnerable enough to pursue a romantic relationship with Louis or Violet because she felt safe with them, felt safe at Ericson because it’s their home now.

And when Clementine was bit, she thought she was going to die but she still fought to make sure AJ would be safe and happy without her and it was heartbreaking. She’s dying and the only thing she cares about is AJ. Not herself, not what’s going to happen to her after she dies or turns... no, she tries to make AJ smile again, she makes sure he remembers the rules, and she tells him that she loves him.

Then he cuts off her leg, and she survives. AJ saved her fucking life, and she got to wake up at home and live to see her family again. She got to push AJ on a tire swing, she got to eat a hot meal and laugh with her friends, she got to make plans with her lover/best friend for what’s next for Ericson, and she got to talk to AJ and tell him the truth... and she asked him if she did a good job, and he’s honest with her right back.

Hell, she tells him to keep her hat. Her iconic hat. The one thing she has left of her father, possibly her more cherished item. She lets him keep it.

The last time we see Clementine, she’s happy. She’s sitting on the steps by herself, staring at her family with such fondness in her eyes and a smile on her face because she finally did it. She finally found a home where she can breathe. She has a bed to sleep in, she has AJ with her, she has a boyfriend/girlfriend who loves her and who she loves back, she has friends she can rely on.

Clementine smiles, and lets out a small laugh.

She doesn’t have to run anymore.

And now you have the balls to tell me that AJ and Ericson don’t make Clementine happy anymore.

She abandons everything to go back out on the road again, and that’s proof enough for me that you don’t understand a damn thing about Clementine or her journey.

“ I don't even know the person I'm talking about... It's like all we have in common is the same name.”

....Anyway.

Wow, Clementine found a car and kept is stashed. How lazy and convenient for this bullshit plot.

And this is the part where I have to tell this comic to fuck off.

What, you think if you throw in an incredibly inaccurate flashback next to a current pair of hugging Clem and AJ that I’ll feel anything but anger? That flashback is a slap to the face. It’s snowing, but the only time we’ve seen snow is in S2 when AJ was a literal new born, so why is he that big? Is that supposed to be from ANF because that ALSO doesn’t look like that AJ, and that’s not the outfit Clementine had on... AND there was no snow. This is cheap and meaningless.

Any fan of the series who has played through the games could tell you this.

So.... AJ runs into the woods and then we get this garbage.

This comic is awful. It misses the point of everything TFS, and the rest of the series, stood for. There is no heart here. I feel no happiness in reading it, and I don’t detect any passion behind it. It’s a lifeless comic that retcons everything in order to throw AJ away and start fresh with a new adventure for Clementine that makes no sense because the cow isn’t profitable unless it’s milked.

This isn’t canon, and it won’t ever be canon, and honestly? At this point, I have no faith in the graphic novel trilogy. It will take a lot to do a turn around from this, and I don’t even know if that’s possible.

Again, to reiterate, I don’t have anything personal against Tillie Walden herself. She’s just doing her job, and from what I’ve seen of her as a person, she seems like a sweetheart. I don’t want anyone giving her shit because I think the comic isn’t good or that you agree with me. All of my anger is directed at the comic itself, her work, not specifically her.... and a little bit at Skybound, because they’re the reason this is even a thing in the first place.

So yeah.... there ya have it.

#twdg #twdg clementine #twdg aj #twdg louis #twdg violet #i got mad while writing this up #i had to chill and make tea #i don't want to be mean but like.....#this comic makes me mad #it's dumb because it shouldn't make me mad but it does #and because it does that only makes me madder #hahaha #i am just not a happy camper right now #ugh #long post

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