#even if it's usually like. buying coffee for both of us or getting lunch someplace not me managing to fuck up driving on an empty street

[suituuup]

pieces - chapter eleven

Five years ago, Chloe dropped off the face of the Earth. Beca didn’t expect to see her again dancing in a strip club, out of all places.

rated: E (drug use and emotional abuse in early chapters)

ao3 link

*

Beca woke up the next morning to the birds singing, which was odd, until she remembered she wasn’t in NYC, but in Oregon, at Chloe’s parents’. A glance at her phone told her she had slept later than she usually did, and she burrowed herself deeper beneath the covers, exhaling a sigh. 

The smell of breakfast eventually lured out of the warm cocoon, and she made a stop at the bathroom before heading downstairs. 

Chloe’s mom was cooking at the stove, and she looked over her shoulder when Beca approached. “Oh, good morning, Beca. Did you sleep well?” 

Beca wasn’t usually one to talk in the mornings, at least not before she had her morning coffee, but she mustered a smile and made an effort. “Morning. Yes, thank you.” 

“Chloe told me you drank coffee in the morning. I put a mug out for you on the table, there’s fresh coffee in the pot. You like pancakes?” She asked as she flipped one in her pan. 

Beca could tell where Chloe (or at least college Chloe) got her morning energy from, and she stifled a chuckle as she moved to pour herself a much-needed cup. “Yeah. Pancakes sound great.” She leaned against the counter, cradling her mug between her palms. “Where’s Chloe?”

“Talking with her dad out on the back porch,” Alice said, adding the freshly made pancake to the pile. She turned off the stove and wiped her hands on her apron, focusing on Beca. “We didn’t have the chance to yesterday, but Mike and I wanted to thank you from the bottom of our hearts for what you did for Chloe. Thank you really doesn’t feel like enough. I’m not sure where she’d be without you.” 

“You really don’t need to thank me. I’m just glad she’s doing better.” 

“And for taking over those payments, too. It-- it feels like too much and…” 

Beca shook her head. “Like I said to Chloe, it really is okay, Mrs. Bea-- Alice. I don’t want to flaunt my money around, but I’m more than able to spare 2000 dollars a month, and I’m happy to spend it helping people who need it, like you and Mike. So please, accept it?” She smiled softly. “I know how much you mean to Chloe, and I’d do anything for her.” 

Before Alice could reply, the door at the back of the kitchen opened and Chloe stepped inside, holding it open to let her father wheel in. She cast Beca a smile. “Hey, you. Sleep well? Mom didn’t attack you with questions, did she? I told her you needed coffee first.” 

“I behaved myself,” Alice mumbled, sticking her tongue out before going back to her pancakes. 

Beca chuckled. “She did.” 

After breakfast, Beca helped herself to a shower, before Chloe whisked her away to show her around town. They drove down the main street, and Chloe parked in front of the local high school, cutting the ignition and stepping out. . 

“I feel like you were Head Cheerleader,” Beca said as she shut the door. The smell of the ocean made her smile and breathe in deeply. It was really nice to get out of the city for a bit. 

Chloe smirked, shaking her head as they headed down the sidewalk of what looked like the main street. “Nope.” 

“Softball? You had to be some sort of athlete.” 

“Wrong again.” 

Beca hummed as she thought. “Track?” 

Chloe slipped her hands inside her jacket pockets, walking backward so she was facing Beca. “You’re looking at Oregon’s 400m State Champion for the year 2006.” 

Beca’s jaw dropped. “Seriously? How come you never told me that??” 

Chloe’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Never came up. I’ll show you my trophy when we get home.” She pointed across the street. “This is the cafe my friends and I went to every weekend to gossip about the boys.” 

“Gossiping about boys, huh?” Beca asked, smirking. “Who was your high school crush?” 

“This guy named Ian. He was on the swimming team.” 

Beca cut her a glance. “You guys ever dated?” 

“He asked me out once. Then he asked another girl to prom. I was heartbroken.” 

“Aw.” Beca grinned. “Did you cross off the love doodles featuring his name from your notebooks while belting out to songs from your break-up playlist?”

Chloe shoved her shoulder as Beca laughed. “Shut up. I didn’t have a break-up playlist.” 

“But you had one for songs you liked getting off to?” Beca couldn’t help but tease. “Weirdo.” 

A bright laugh burst past Chloe’s lips. “I can’t believe I burst into your shower.” 

A fond smile spread across Beca’s features at the memory. “And I can’t believe I still auditioned knowing my stalker was part of the group.” 

“I wasn’t a stalker!” Chloe cried, her jaw-dropping. She giggled. “I just… sort of ignored the boundaries.” 

“Which is what stalkers do,” Beca pointed out with another smirk. “It’s cool. I’m glad you did, in hindsight. I got to meet the people who would end up becoming my best friends for life.” 

Chloe narrowed her eyes, amusement flashing in her features. “When did you get so cheesy?” 

A groan flitted past Beca’s lips. “Ugh. Gross, right?” 

As Chloe laughed, Beca realized how much she had missed the banter. Every little piece of Chloe Beale surfacing never failed to make her smile. 

Chloe’s step faltered when they came across a baby shop, her eyes lingering on the window. 

Beca smiled, nudging Chloe’s shoulder with her own. “We can go in if you want?” 

A matching smile spread across Chloe’s features as she nodded, and they both stepped inside the medium-sized store.

“Jesus, kids need that much stuff?” Beca asked as she glanced around the various items, muttering an apology when the employee glanced at her. 

Stifling a giggle, Chloe headed to the onesie section and browsed through the rack. “Oh Bec, look,” she said, holding up a simple, white onesie that read little bean in cool lettering. The smile that lit up Chloe’s face as she looked at the item was the first one Beca had seen reach her eyes since Chloe had been back in her life and the sight of it made her heart swell.

Chloe must have felt her staring, and she glanced up curiously. “What?”

“Nothing,” she cleared her throat. “You’re just… glowing.”

“I think you should get it,” she added not to make it awkward. “It’s adorable.”

After their stop at the store, she and Chloe headed to the wharf for lunch. It was a sunny, warm spring day, and they sat on a bench in front of the sea to eat their sandwiches as Chloe shared more memories about growing up in her hometown. 

“So how did you and Sarah meet?” Chloe asked following a lull in the conversation. 

Beca finished chewing her bite and swallowed, washing it down with a sip of soda. “I used to go to the coffee shop pretty often for lunch. We would talk for a bit each time. I was clueless to her flirting, it was only when she left her number that I realized she was into me.” 

Chloe chuckled, eyeing her with a raised eyebrow. “You? Clueless to flirting? That doesn’t sound right.” 

Beca’s eyes rolled skyward as she fought back a smile. “Bite me, Beale.” 

Chloe giggled. “Sorry. She seems like a great girl, though.” 

“Yeah,” Beca breathed out, trying to ignore the way her stomach flipped. “She really is.” 

And she meant that. She cared a lot about Sarah, but ever since their talk about a month ago, she had been questioning her own commitment to their relationship, going back and forth about what she wanted. The fact that she had been so oblivious about Sarah’s needs to take the next step because she felt comfortable with where they were at was the first red flag that she wasn’t all in. 

People should feel the need to move forward after fourteen months together, right? 

Sarah was kind, funny, loving, and everything Beca imagined in a significant other, but whenever she found herself trying to picture their life down the road, two, five, ten years from now, her mind went blank. 

“You okay?” Chloe asked, her head tilted as she gazed at Beca. 

“Yeah,” Beca breathed out, shaking those thoughts out of her head and focusing back on Chloe. She cleared her throat. “What’s next on the list, Beale?” 

After buying ice-creams from her favorite shop, Chloe took her to her favorite beach, and they headed home around three, as Chloe felt like taking a nap. 

Over the next two days at her parents’, they baked, took walks in the forest or by the sea, and had movie nights with Alice and Mike. Beca made sure to give the three some family time as well, spending a couple of hours every day working on her laptop in the guest room. 

That last night in Oregon, she found Chloe on the swingset in the garden, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Beca approached with two hot chocolates, handing one over before lowering herself on the other swing. 

“I’ve yet to find a prettier sky than this one,” Chloe mused aloud, craning her neck to look at the starry darkness above them as she cradled her mug between her palms. 

“It’s pretty dope,” Beca agreed softly. She glanced at Chloe, and finally plucked the courage to word the thought that had been going in a loop in her mind since their first night in Newport. “Have you given some thought about moving back here?” 

She was hoping Chloe would stay with her, to be completely honest. They had just rekindled, and Beca didn’t want her to live on the other side of the country. She could also feel some sort of attachment to Bean, which sounded ridiculous as they weren’t even born yet. But she also understood that Chloe might want to be with her parents, someplace that is close to her heart.

“I don’t know yet,” Chloe admitted, clearing her throat. “I’m concerned about disrupting their lives with a newborn baby. Mom’s already got so much on her plate with taking care of dad, and I don’t know if me being around while I’m still recovering is the smartest idea, with my dad feeling so guilty. I want him to focus on his health. But I guess it would be simpler, right? For you, I mean.” 

Beca shook her head. “I told you you could stay as long as you’d like. My place is your home, and I…” she cleared her throat, shrugging as her gaze flickered back to the stars. “I like having you around.”

“I like living with you, too,” Chloe admitted, smiling softly. “And I like my therapist and my NA group.” 

And having a routine was essential for a recovering addict. 

“Then it feels like a no-brainer,” Beca concluded.

“What about Sarah?” Chloe asked after a moment. “Are you sure she’s okay with me living with you?” 

The mention of Sarah made Beca’s heart squeeze with guilt. The last few days only further confirmed how she felt. She wasn’t missing her like she was probably supposed to, even though it had been ten days since they had last seen one another, as Beca had been too busy to do anything besides working, eating and sleeping that week leading up to their trip. 

She had been sending Sarah check-in texts because she felt like she had to, not because she wanted to. 

Beca needed to sack up and be honest with Sarah, something she had been delaying because she was a coward and terrified of breaking her heart. But she knew deep down she was doing more harm than good right now by running away from how she truly felt. 

She knew deep down, that Sarah deserved someone better.  

“Yeah,” she replied absent-mindedly, swallowing, then mustering a smile. “Don’t worry about that.” 

She sent a text to Sarah later that night, asking if she could come over after they landed in NYC tomorrow night. The following morning, she and Chloe grabbed an early breakfast, as they needed to be in Portland at ten. 

“You’re welcome back here anytime, Beca,” Alice said, pulling back from the hug. 

A genuine smile spread across Beca’s features. “Thanks, Alice.” 

“Bye dad,” Chloe murmured, leaning in to hug him tightly. 

Mike closed his eyes and hugged her back. “Safe travels, Chlobear. Love you.” 

“Love you, too. So much.” She embraced her mom next, echoing the same sentiment before sliding into the passenger seat and shutting the door behind her. 

Beca slid behind the wheel and started the car, pulling out of the driveway and onto the main road as Chloe waved to her parents. 

“You okay?” She asked after a moment, glancing at Chloe briefly. 

“Yeah, I’m good,” Chloe replied with a firm nod. “Thanks for coming with me.” 

“No problem. A break from the city was pretty nice.” 

They landed in NYC a little bit after 8 pm. Beca had the cabbie drop Chloe off at her apartment, then headed to Sarah’s, riding the elevator to her floor. 

She knocked on the door and stepped back, wiping her sweaty palms over the denim of her jeans. Her stomach was in knots, and she wished she could fast-forward the next twenty minutes or so. The door swung open a few seconds later, Sarah standing on the other side. 

“Hey you,” she greeted with a small smile. 

“Hey,” Beca murmured, kissing Sarah’s cheek out of habit. “How was your day?” 

“Same old,” Sarah said as she shut the door, then moved towards the kitchen. “How was the trip? You want a beer?”

“It was nice,” Beca replied as she followed, leaning against the counter. “No thanks, I’m good.” She took a deep breath, knowing she had to do this now before she chickened out. 

“What’s up?” Sarah asked as she closed the fridge and turned around, leaning against the opposite counter.

Beca cleared her throat, nibbling on the inside of her cheek. “So, um. I’ve been thinking a lot about us moving in together and I…” Honesty. Honesty was the best policy. Rip off the band-aid. “I don’t see myself getting there.”

Sarah visibly swallowed, and she nodded slowly, glancing down at the floor for a few beats. Given her reaction, Beca could tell she had been sort of expecting it.

“I’m sorry,” Beca murmured, a lump rising in her throat. “I know I gave you false hope by saying we would figure something out, I just wasn’t sure how I felt up until recently.” She grimaced. “The last thing I want is to hurt you. But you deserve someone who can be all in.”

The tear running down Sarah’s face broke Beca’s heart. She blinked back her own, exhaling slowly. 

“Like you seem to be all in with Chloe?” Sarah asked quietly, stunning Beca into silence. 

“What?” 

Sarah’s eyes rolled towards the ceiling. “You’re oblivious to that, too?” When Beca didn’t say anything, she released a soft laugh. It was anything but humorous. “I see the way you look at her, Bec. I know the both of you living together was something that just happened because Chloe didn’t have anywhere to stay, but I can tell you like having her around. I can tell you have feelings, even if you don’t seem to realize it yet. I was hoping I was wrong, but you not hesitating on going on that trip when we hadn’t seen each other in over a week made it pretty clear that Chloe would always come first.” 

Beca’s brain was stuck on the first part. Did she really look at Chloe differently? Feelings? She cared about her, sure, but-- “That’s not—”

Sarah swiped her palm over her cheeks, nodding. “And you’re right. I deserve someone who looks at me the way you look at Chloe. Like I’m their person. Someone who loves me as much as I love them.” 

“Me ending things doesn’t have anything to do with Chloe,” Beca said softly, truly believing that. She knew the next words were going to sting, but she needed Sarah to believe it, too. “I just… don’t see this going anywhere.” She hung her head, feeling like the worst person in the world for breaking someone’s heart. “I’m sorry, Sarah.” 

“Yeah. Me, too.” Sarah cleared her throat, pinching her lips together for a moment, seemingly trying to keep a hold on her emotions. “I think you should go.” 

Beca nodded, another apology laying on the top of her tongue. She swallowed it back knowing it probably wouldn’t make Sarah feel any better, and pushed to her feet, quietly walking out of Sarah’s apartment.

#bechloe #beca mitchell #chloe beale #pieces

[purplesurveys]

1017

survey by lets-make-surveys

1 - Are you one of those people who can watch TV shows and movies over and over again without getting bored? Yeah this is pretty much my approach to all of my favorites. if a show or movie is able to join that club, then I automatically have no problem watching it over and over. Case in point, Friends for TV shows and The Proposal for movies.

2 - If you drink coffee, do you like it plain or would you rather have something like a latte or something flavoured? I never take coffee black. I mean I’ve had a few sips of it from friends’ cups before, but it just made me miserable loooool.

3 - How did you used to dress ten years ago? Do you dress in a similar way now? Ten years ago I was 12 and had no fashion sense whatsoever. I just put on whatever hand-me-down I got or whatever my mom would get me when she’d go window shopping. Didn’t really start putting in effort in my outfits until the end of high school.

4 - When you’re grocery shopping, do you buy known brands or are you happy to go with the generic store version? Known brands, because most of the time they end up having a better quality as well. 

5 - Do you have a close relationship with any of your cousins? I’m super close with only one cousin, the eldest one on my mom’s side. He’s pretty much like an older brother to me and my siblings. Everyone else on my mom’s side is too young for me to get truly close with; my cousins on my dad’s side are too shy and also live too far away for me to be able to keep up a close relationship with them.

6 - Who was the last person to sleep over at your house? Does this person stay over often or was it more of a one-off? Gabie, I think. She stayed over a lot before, but obviously not anymore.

7 - Does bad weather put you off going out if you’ve got plans to do so? Have you ever cancelled plans due to the weather? Only if a typhoon is really strong; like now, and how they actually had to cancel work today because of the power outages everywhere and because residents in other cities are already being brought to evacuation centers where they can be safe. I had no idea work suspensions were a thing lmao so I was glad to read the message today; I didn’t know how I was going to work with only data and limited battery for both my phone and laptop (power’s been out in our house since 1 AM). :(

8 - When you’re on vacation, do you prefer doing the typical tourist things, or would you rather explore somewhere off the beaten track? I will enjoy a tourist thing or two, but otherwise I’d focus on the less-explored or less-visited attractions. It’s usually the museums or historical landmarks, which is a shame.

9 - Did your family travel a lot when you were younger? From the time I turned 11, which I think was the time my dad got a good promotion and money got a lot better at home. We’d go for vacations locally and abroad every time he was home, which was every 5-6 months.

10 - When was the last time you went shopping for clothes? Did you get anything decent or find any bargains? Around March, I think. Yeah, I found two tops that were both bargains.

11 - Is it true that accessories can make or break an outfit? For sure. With me, it’s bags.

12 - What is your worst memory from high school? What about the best? The absolute worst that I can remember was when we had to role-play as our chosen character in the novel we were taking up in Filipino class; and for some wild reason I chose the most extravagant, bitchiest, flamboyant character...for whom I do not have even the slightest acting chops. When I got to the front of the classroom that’s when I realized my mistake, blanked out, realized I wasn’t going to be able to act as her, and fumbled for the next five minutes. 

My favorite bits from high school were the lunch periods I spent with my friend group. Even if we don’t talk anymore, I’m just grateful I was able to find a home in a group in high school.

13 - Is there any trait in a potential partner that would be a total dealbreaker for you? Right now my biggest dealbreaker is if they aren’t Gabie...lol. Other than that, I imagine being hugely turned off by poor hygiene.

14 - Do you insist people use coasters if they’re putting drinks down in your house? No. I wish we did have coasters as I find them aesthetically pleasing haha, but my mom doesn’t find them necessary

15 - Have you ever been arrested? Were you guilty of whatever it is you were arrested for? Never been.

16 - Name five items on the shelf nearest to you: I don’t have shelves in my room.

17 - After meals, do you wash dishes up right away, or do you leave them in the sink and do a whole days worth at once? I leave them in the sink and soak it with water and dishwashing soap for an hour or so, so that by the time I get back to it it’s easier and quicker to wash. So I do leave them, but I don’t wait until I have 4353894753246 dishes to wash by the end of the day.

18 - What websites do you find yourself spending the most time on? These days I’m primarily on Google Suite, honestly. Work eats up my week.

19 - Do you still download music and TV shows? No. Nearly all media I consume these days is thanks to an online subscription. The only exception is YouTube, I think.

20 - Does your phone have a good battery life? How long does it last before you need to charge it again? I don’t know how it fares compared to other brands, but I’m generally okay with my phone’s battery life. It lasts around 2-3 hours if used continuously, but if I’m out all day and on the go, it can last a whole day with me.

21 - When was the last time you hit snooze? Yesterday.

22 - Did you ever play The Sims? Which expansion pack was your favourite, if you had any? I did play The Sims a lot before – mostly Sims 2 on the PS2, Sims 2 Pets on the PSP, and Sims 4 on the PS4. I never explored the expansion packs too much, though.

23 - Are there any popular film series or TV shows that you just don’t get the appeal of? Game of Thrones and any Marvel movie.

24 - As a child, did you receive pocket money or an allowance? How much did you get? Was it dependent on you doing chores of some kind? Eh, not really. I didn’t receive an allowance of any kind until I was in high school when I started to be given P100 (roughly $2) a day, which was enough for snacks and lunch. No, I didn’t do chores to get the money.

25 - Do you think your parents did a good job of raising you? Would you do anything differently with your own kids? They taught me manners, showing respect, and different values like recognizing my privilege, giving to the poor, understanding my enemies in school, etc. But my childhood seriously lacked emotional maturity, physical affection, and, generally...just being treated like a kid; and I definitely feel the effects from these until today. I was already yelled at from age 5, and that has made me afraid of anyone who ever so slightly raises their voice. I’d do a lot of things differently with my own kid/s.

26 - If something is bothering you, do you have to fix it right away? Not always. Sometimes I run away from it first.

27 - Are there any household jobs you enjoy doing? If so, what’s the reason that you enjoy those things? This isn’t much of a chore as washing dishes or cleaning the bathroom, but I love making my bed. It gives me a sense of productivity and accomplishment, and it’s honestly a form of self-care. I always have the option of letting my bed stay messy and then feeling like shit about it the whole day, so when I do make my bed and fold up my blanket and everything, it gets a little easier to pat myself on the shoulder.

28 - Do you still live in the area you grew up in? Would you like to live somewhere else one day? Where would you go? Yeah, we literally just moved to the village right next to the one I grew up in. I’ve lived here nearly all my life, so I can’t wait to move someplace else. In the city, preferably; with skyscrapers and the constant sound of traffic, construction, and people walking. I feel I’d be happier there.

29 - Do you smoke, drink or do drugs? How old were you the first time you tried those things?  Do you want to quit? I drink, vape, and smoke, but I’m not reliant on any of these. I had my first drink at 18, and I smoked and vaped for the first time when I was 21. No, I don’t have plans to quit.

30 - What’s one thing that really grosses you out? Is it something you have to deal with anyway? How do you cope? Cockroaches. Sometimes we’ll see a cockroach roaming around the house, but it’s super rare so I wouldn’t say I regularly deal with them. I cope by yelling for my mom or dad to come kill it, ha.

#survey #surveys

[darkwritingsnshit]

It’s Been a While

Chapter 11

Warnings: Drinking, drug mention, dark characters with bad intentions

Aslaug greeted you with a smile, for the first time the next morning at breakfast. You had woken early, hadn’t been able to sleep well, the last few weeks a flurry in your mind. You had been able to go into your son’s room and rest with him, still worried about his flu until he wanted to wake up and eat breakfast. Carrying the sleepy boy, you walked into the living room, you were unhappy when he wiggled out of your arms and ran along the hall into Hvitserk’s room. You stopped when you heard your son’s laughter and Hvitserk’s deep voice.

You walked to the kitchen and started the coffee maker, wanting to give your son and his father their space. Your mug filled with coffee and you had taken your first sip when Hvisterk came out of his room in sweatpants, holding your son and smiling at him.

“Mama can we go to breakfast, I’m hungry!” He was wiggly that morning, Hvitserk laughed and set him down.

“Someone must be feeling a lot better, hmm?” The look in his eye when he gazed at your son made your heart ache.

It was true, Vald had no fever when you got in his bed that morning and seemed more energetic than he had been in a few days.

“Let us get some clothes on, we’ll go down to breakfast together.” Hvitserk leaned down and kissed your son’s head, winking at you before walking back to his room.

You eyed up your son before taking his hand and leading him to his room. He followed you into yours, talking to you about the woods he was playing in and the things he was seeing with his uncles and mormor. Changed, you took his hand and let him lead you back through the living room towards the stairs. Hvitserk took his other hand as your son continued talking about his days to you, smiling at you as the three of you walked down the stairs to where Aslaug and Ivar were having breakfast.

“Good morning, it’s good to see you.” Aslaug said with a smile, the first time she had been pleasant towards you since you had arrived. “I’m glad to see you settling in.”

You glared sitting at the table, unhappy to see your son run over to her chair and climb on her lap, wrap his arms around her neck and watch Aslaug shower him with kisses and smiles.

“Mormor and I are going to a lighthouse this weekend!” Your son excitedly shouted as you drank more coffee and filled your plate with breakfast food. Again, your face soured, upset that Aslaug made plans for your son without so much as telling or asking you first. Aslaug just smiled and kissed his cheek.

“Yes dear, we will stay in our lighthouse on the sea, eat pastries in the morning and collect shells. We will have a lovely weekend away, won’t we?” She looked directly into your eyes and smiled, daring you to tell your son that he couldn’t go with his mormor, to crush his excitement and awe at going to the coast.

“A weekend is a long time; you’ll miss your mama.” You were still glaring, you saw Hvitserk shoot you a sideways glance.

“Not if I’m with mormor, I love her.” Your son piped up, Aslaug had the gall to laugh, Ivar grinned over his own cup of coffee. Your stomach turned; you were no longer hungry.

“We’ll see how you’re feeling once this weekend gets closer,” you replied, moving to stand up, pushing your plate away. Your son was babbling to Aslaug now, picking off her plate and laughing when she tickled him; he didn’t even realize when you left the table.

You walked out the back door, taking refuge in the seats by your garden, you used to come out here and think when the Lothbrok family became too overbearing. You hated that your son had grown so close to Aslaug and his uncles, so quickly. You hated you were stuck in this house, that Aslaug and Ivar, Hvisterk and Ubbe had every right to take your child off the estate, on trips, to see sights. What child wouldn’t be thrilled and enamored with such wonderful people who were so kind and caring to him.

When you looked up and pulled yourself from your thoughts, you found Hvitserk beside you lighting a cigarette.

“You look like you could use it,” he passed it over to you and started one for himself.

“I don’t like her taking him away from me, I don’t like that she makes these plans without asking! She can’t make decisions for my son.” You had held the words in when you were in the dining room, but out in the fresh air you needed Hvitserk to understand you.

“She has five years to make up for, she wants our son to feel loved, welcomed.” He wasn’t looking at you, he seemed so nonchalant.

“He’s my son!” You exclaimed.

“And he’s her grandchild.” Hvitserk finally looked, his eyes angry. You just wandered over to the garden, sucking on your cigarette like your life depended on it. Damn you had missed them without even knowing.

“A whole weekend though? Nights away from me? What is she going to do, where will she take him?” your voice was pleading, you couldn’t stand the thought of Aslaug taking your son and not bringing him back for days, it sent chills down your spine.

“Jesus, she’s taking him to our lighthouse property, not to someplace dangerous. She’s not going to let anything happen, she loves him. She wants to spend time with her grandchild, so relax. She’s more than entitled to a weekend with our son.” Hvitserk was clearly annoyed, not wanting to listen to your displeasure at the situation.

You were not pacified, storming back inside to see your son before he left you. He was finishing his breakfast with Aslaug by his side, you sat across with a forced smile and waited for him to finish.

“Mama, mormor says that we can hear the siren songs at night if we’re quiet. Have you ever heard a siren’s song by the sea?” Your son’s face was alight with wonder and happiness, you couldn’t take this away from him.

“I have my love, but you must be very quiet and lie very still in bed under the moonlight to hear it,” you spoke, and your son’s eyes grew even wider.

“Mormor said we’re leaving after lunch! Can we go pack my bags mama? I’m so excited to see the ocean again!” He was nearly jumping out of his seat, no denying his enthusiasm.

“Spend this morning with your mother darling,” Aslaug finally spoke from his side, “you won’t see her for a few days, and she’ll miss you.”

This was the first time Aslaug had given you time with your son, you were used to her pulling him out of your arms. The two of you wandered back to his room where he was excited to show you his new toys and games. Before lunch, the two of you bundled up and took a walk around the estate, a walk that ended with you carrying him back to the house for lunch. You had walked him all over the gardens and grounds, pointing out the trees you used to climb, the thickets you would play in and the river you would dare each other to jump into while there was still snow on the ground.

Thoroughly exhausted, your son climbed into your arms as you turned back to the house, listening to your stories with his head resting in the crook of your neck. Back inside, you carried him back to the dining room as he had been complaining that he was hungry. You situated him in his chair and pulled off his coat; the rest of the family strolling in when they heard voices. You sat beside your son before someone else could take your place, Hvitserk back from the garden, Ivar and Ubbe in a heated conversation that stuttered to an end seeing you seated at the table.

“Are you excited to spend the weekend with mormor?” Ivar asked, malice ever present in his voice. Boneless loved to pluck at your strings, trying to get a rise out of you in any way possible.

Your son nodded, yawning, leaning against your arm between bites of his lunch. Aslaug swept into the room smiling, stopping to kiss your son on the head.

“Don’t worry darling, you can sleep on the car ride there, it will take us about an hour to arrive.” She cooed before taking her seat. Sleepy and hungry, your son didn’t chatter as he usually did, though he told Aslaug that he was ready for their adventure.

“Don’t look so glum sister,” Ivar smiled over his lunch, “we have the house to ourselves! Don’t you remember the fun we would get up to when mor and far left for the weekend?”

“Surely we’re a little old for that type of fun, Boneless.” You glared at him.

Of course, you remembered the excitement that came when both Aslaug and Ragnar would be gone for a weekend. You were young teenagers left free to make bad decisions. As you got older the parties got wilder, more people, more booze, more and better drugs. You figured that at some point you and Hvitserk had done drugs off every shiny surface in the house, you’d probably banged in every room of the house too. The memories deepened your frown and reddened your cheeks; you weren’t proud of the choices you had made in your teenage years.

“Some of us aren’t as boring as you are.” Ivar smirked back.  All you could do was roll your eyes.

Before you were ready, Aslaug insisted it was time to leave. You held your son close and fussed over him, Aslaug had bags in the foyer, and you didn’t want to let your precious child walk through the door and away from you for three whole days. You buttoned his jacket, fussed over his hair beneath his hat and the laces on his boots. Your son stood patiently, used to you not wanting to let him leave, used to you wanting to extend the moments before he would leave the house. This is how you were before school, before your brother or Cora took him anywhere, always trying to buy more time. The Lothbrok family was clearly not as patient, you felt Hvitserk’s hand on your shoulder, and Aslaug was lamenting over lost time as you stood back up from crouching next to your son.

“You be good, listen to Aslaug and stay out of trouble, okay?” You trusted neither Aslaug nor the judgment of your five-year-old son. In your mind you may as well have been pushing him out the door and locking it for the remainder of the weekend.

“We will have fun, won’t we?” Aslaug had taken your son’s hand and was stepping towards the door. Your son was nodding, still sleepy from the walk you had taken together.

“I love you my sweet boy,” you had picked him up again, kissed his cheek and closed your eyes, not wanting to let him go just yet. Again, you felt Hvitserk’s hand against you shoulder that you shrugged off in annoyance. Your son gave you a kiss and a sleepy “I love you too mama,” before Aslaug had again pulled him from your arms, and you were left to watch them leave the estate, unsure of when they would be back.

Hvitserk’s hand was on your arm again, though you didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to see any of the Lothbroks now, you wanted your son back that their mother had taken from you. You turned without meeting any of their eyes and ascended the stairs, heading to the master apartments where you stayed, finding a book from one of the shelves in your room and curling into the corner with a pile of blankets. It didn’t take long for Hvitserk to find you, though you weren’t really trying to hide.

“Stop pouting,” he stuck his head around the doorframe, standing in the doorway and crossing his arms at you.

“I’m not pouting, Hvitserk, I’m upset that I had my son taken away from me!” Your brow was set with a frown that wouldn’t turn until you son was back in your arms again.

“Yes, you are, you’re being stubborn.” Hvitserk knew you better than you would ever admit, most of the Lothbrok boys did. Truly, you had spent most of your life with them, they had watched you grow from a small child to an adult, missing only the last five years of your history.

“When you’re ready to stop acting like a child, there’s more food downstairs. After Ubbe and Ivar are done with their meetings, Ivar is going to make some calls, get some people over, have a fun night.” Hvitserk sounded like his mother at the beginning, a teenager by the time he was done.

“A child?” you asked, “I’m not the one throwing a party the minute Aslaug leaves us alone.”

“Whatever,” Hvitserk was clearly done with the conversation, he began to turn away and leave you to sulk. “Come down, don’t come down, it doesn’t matter. We’ll be the ones having fun regardless of whether you’ll be there or not.” He walked away, leaving you in silence again.

  It was a few hours before you were done pouting, the book no longer interesting, your mind wandering, your stomach growling. It had been difficult to accept that your son was gone, but now you figured you should make the most of it; it had been years since you had more than a few hours without him. Rising from your blankets and comfy mattress, you wandered through the living room to find it silent, left the room and descended the stairs.

There was no one in the dining room, no voices coming from Ivar’s office that used to be Ragnar’s. You knew there was a secret door into his office, you used to find it and give a special knock. Ragnar would let you in and hand you fistfuls of candy, then press a finger to his lips and send you running off somewhere to eat in secret. You figured if you used the secret door now, Ivar may just shoot you dead. Instead of keeping the office door open as his father had, Ivar instead had an angry looking armed man posted outside at all hours. You always found yourself rolling your eyes at Boneless’s latest ‘security measures’, or something you liked to call delusional paranoia. Going further, you walked through one of the living rooms until you could hear faint noise coming from behind closed doors.

The basement was large, it had been where you had spent many, many hours growing up. Now it smelled of cigarette smoke and liquor, though it looked largely the same as it had when you were young. Ragnar had transformed one of the large family rooms in the basement to become somewhere for his rowdy children to relax, though Aslaug had been furious when the room had been finalized.

Two pool tables, four giant screen TVs, a stocked bar backed with mirrors and a huge seating area, Ragnar had turned the downstairs into his sons’ own private bar. Ragnar had renovated the basement after the accident with Sigurd. Out at a friend’s house because he didn’t want to be caught drinking in the house, Sigurd had been so inebriated that he fell off a friend’s balcony and hadn’t lived to tell about it. Ragnar blamed himself, saying that if he and Aslaug had been better parents, Sigurd wouldn’t have left the house at all, he would have felt safe enough to drink at home. Aslaug hadn’t been on the same wavelength, but she couldn’t stop Ragnar from his latest crack project, or from supplying her own children with enough liquor to take down an elephant.

Your attitudes did change after Sigurd’s accident, everyone’s attitude changed except Ivar’s. You had been younger then, but even you and Hvitserk slowed down with the drinking and the drugs, you and the brothers had spent almost all your time in the basement now instead of going out. Chain smoking cigarettes, lips glued to glass bottles, none of you entertained the idea of leaving the house; drinking and driving, even drinking and walking seemed dangerous, Hvitserk and Ubbe never let you out of their sight if they thought you had one too many.

You could smell the cigarette smoke before you even opened the door to descend the stairs, you could hear music and loud voices, you wondered how many people were crowding the basement you used to be so familiar with. Step by step, you slowly rounded the curved stairs, surveying the room before entering. At the bottom of the stairs, Ubbe caught your eye and raised his glass to you, before you situated yourself on one of the leather couches.

Ubbe filled another glass with something and worked his way over to you, setting it down on the glass topped table in front of the couch. There was a dozen or so people in the room, most of them clustered around Ivar who had a girl hanging on his arm at the far end of the room. You saw a mirror, several hundred-dollar bills rolled up and a few loose credit cards on the table in front of him. Ivar was smart, you were put off by his cavalier attitude and surprised that he was making such a dramatic scene, he wasn’t the one for parties and drugs. Ivar was usually content to glare at his brothers over a glass of bourbon all night long. There was music playing low, a few people around the bar sipping drinks, and Hvitserk smoking a cigarette next to where Ubbe had been standing.

“Why is he doing this?” You glanced between Ivar, making a fool of himself, laughing loudly at the girl next to him, meeting your eye with a shit eating grin, and Ubbe, watching you intently from his seat next to you on the couch.

“You know why he’s doing this,” Ubbe replied, taking a drink. You raised an eyebrow to Ubbe, sour look still on your face.

“He’s doing this because he knows it makes you uncomfortable. He’s never forgiven you for leaving. If Hvitserk let him, he’d rant for hours about how you disgraced the family and you deserve to die some dreadful way.” Ubbe told you.

“If Hvitserk let him?” You asked.

“Hvitserk was unpredictable. At times he’d let Ivar rant and rave but only if he was blacked out drunk or high on some white powder. Sober, he didn’t want to hear your name. He’d make Ivar stop, he’d leave the room or sometimes just shout. I found him in your room holding your diary with a picture of the two of you.” Ubbe continued.

This information was new, and you weren’t sure what to make of it.

“Boneless hates me, I’m sure he said all types of nasty things about me, he still does.” You were bitter.

“He wouldn’t say anything at all if he didn’t care. You’re just a year older, but he counted on you, especially growing up. Ivar loves you in his own way, though he’d kill me where I stood if you ever told him I said such a thing. He’ll never admit it, but when you left, you broke his heart too.” Ubbe finished his drink and raised both eyebrows at you.

“Why tell me all this?” You looked up at him.

“Because no one will ever believe you if you say a word. And because it’s sad to watch you without a single friend in this household, everyone pitted against you. You deserve a win.”

“So how do I win?” You asked Ubbe.

“By not being uncomfortable,” He stood and clapped you on the shoulder before joining Hvitserk at the bar.

#hvitserk lothbrok #dark!hvitserk lothbrok #hvitserk lothbrok x reader #my writing

[bevioletskies]

Starmora movie-verse prompt: Where the team is celebrating their very first Christmas as both a team and as a family and it nearly goes wrong when Drax accidentally sets the Milano on fire while attempting to make Christmas dinner.

This fic takes place soon after Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 and long before Avengers: Infinity War.ao3 | word count: 3.5k

Time seemed to pass differently in space; it wasn’t the sort of linear calendar that one became familiar with while living on the ground, tied to one address, one city, one planet. There was no weather or cycle that told them when it was, only where they were, provided they weren’t lost, as the Guardians were ought to do. Still, Peter couldn’t help but incorporate some old-fashioned notions of his, and that included Terran holidays. The others entertained him, mostly so they wouldn’t have to put up with his complaints if they didn’t, but it wasn’t surprising that Groot, Mantis, and Gamora were the most interested in his traditions (though Drax and Rocket would deny they cared at all).

“Merry Christmas,” Peter mumbled into Gamora’s hair. It seemed like she had become more of a pillow these days than his actual pillow.

“Why is it ‘merry’, of all words?” Gamora mused instead of returning the sentiment, turning over to face him. “Why not ‘happy’?”

“I think they say ‘happy’ in Europe.” Peter yawned exaggeratedly, rewarding her with a faceful of his morning breath; she winced, swatting at him in disapproval. “Mantis is doing breakfast, right?”

“As per your request, since you can’t be bothered to cook yourself.” She sat up, reaching for an elastic so she could scrape her hair back into a messy knot. “What’s ‘Europe’?”

Peter laughed, both startled by the unexpected question and pleased by her increasing curiosity, leaning over to kiss her sloppily on the cheek. “If we got some time later, I should break out a Terran map, give you the grand tour.”

The two of them left their shared bunk moments later, ignoring the lecherous grin Rocket shot them on their way down the corridor into the communal living space. Groot was sat on the table - not at it, on it - idly swinging his legs over the edge, while Drax was sat in the seat beside him, holding a glittery bauble up to the little one’s face. “But Quill told me it was Terran tradition to decorate a tree,” Drax explained patiently.

“I am Groot,” Groot protested.

“I didn’t mean Groot, dude,” Peter interjected, swooping in to peel off the garland that Drax had apparently wrapped around poor Groot’s tiny torso, swallowing him up in itchy pine needles. Groot harrumphed in Drax’s direction and motioned for Gamora to pick him up, and she immediately swept him into her arms and carried him off before Drax could continue further. “Coffee?”

“Fresh pot,” Mantis called from their tiny kitchenette, where she was only just barely able to scrape together a proper meal on the minimal appliances they had. “Can you not smell it?”

“All I can smell is - ” Peter wrinkled his nose. “Did someone light a candle in here or something? We shouldn’t be doing that with all the engine fluid leaks we’ve been having this week.”

“You said it was part of the tradition,” Drax said defensively. “You informed us that your mother liked to buy candles that smell of vanillem - ”

“Vanilla,” Peter corrected. “And that doesn’t mean we should be lighting stuff when we’ve got gas canisters lying around, we could end up setting the ship on fire!”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Rocket grumbled as he strolled past, wrench in hand.

“Look, Drax, the only thing I wanted you to be in charge of today was dinner. Can you just stick to that?” Peter sighed.

“Of course,” Drax nodded. For one reason or another, the blasé smile on his face didn’t comfort Peter one bit.

The rest of the morning was slow, sleepy, almost comforting in a way that a lot of their mornings usually weren’t. It was typical of them to be in a rush someplace, jamming food into their mouths without much decorum as they scrambled into their seats in the cockpit, with Gamora alternating between reading off the mission brief and scolding Peter and Rocket for arguing over the controls. Today, she was sprawled on the floor with Groot in her lap, gently reminding him to be patient and wait for the others before opening his presents. It felt oddly domestic, and unusual, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

“This can be our tree,” Peter proclaimed, sticking a small ribbon bow on top of one of the pipe valves that ran over their heads, interlocking in one of the few corners of the ship that wasn’t occupied by machinery, random junk, or some combination of the two. “I’ll bring all the presents over here and out of the way, that’ll work, right?”

“I am Groot?” Groot asked, reaching for him. Peter softened, peeling the bow off and gently patting it on Groot’s temple instead.

“How’s that, kid?” Peter grinned.

“I am Groot,” Groot beamed back.

All things considered, the present exchange went smoothly, with only a minor argument between Peter, Drax, and Rocket that, thankfully, didn’t result in anything being thrown. Gamora considered it a victory, though she suspected Mantis had something to do with it, given her antennae were faintly glowing the entire time. After a brief interlude for lunch, though everyone was already full on breakfast and stale cookies they’d purchased from the last planet they were working on, Drax retreated to the kitchenette, claiming he had to start cooking early or he’d never be done on time.

“Keep an eye on him,” Gamora murmured to Mantis. “You know how he is.”

“I do,” Mantis said, nodding dutifully.

Gamora slipped into her bunk, smiling when she found Peter curled up on their bed with a book. He looked quite cozy, tucked under the covers with his socked feet peeking out at the end, the sleeve hems of his sweater pulled over his hands. “Hi,” he said, smiling.

“Hello yourself,” she replied with an easy grin, shutting the door behind her. “I’m surprised at how well everyone’s behaving today.”

“Yeah, well, if Rocket could just relax for a second - ”

“ - or if both of you cared to listen to one another and realize that everything doesn’t have to be a contest, then maybe we’d have less animosity to deal with in the first place,” Gamora interrupted firmly, joining him on the bed. “You said this holiday was meant to be a time for family.”

“And families fight all the time,” he countered. “It’s normal.”

Gamora carefully placed her hand over his. “But there’s always a breaking point, Peter. A moment where we might decide that fighting that much means it’s not worth fighting for. Let’s not push it, push each other.” She bowed her head somewhat, sighing mournfully. “We’ve already lost family, all of us. Let’s not be the cause of losing this one, too.”

Concerned, he cupped her face, tilting her chin upwards so their eyes could meet. “Of course,” he promised softly. “You’re right. We’re all we’ve got, and I’m not about to go and change that.” Peter pulled Gamora into his arms, wrapping her up tightly in his embrace, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I wish your sister was here. So we’d know she’s okay. That she’s safe.”

“I wish she was, too.” Gamora snuggled into his side, finding herself pleasantly drowsy, serene in the way she usually was when it was just the two of them, away from the chaos of everyone else. “Did you…did you do anything like this when you were with Yondu?”

Peter swallowed. “Yeah. Tried to, anyway. I got him all sorts of weird trinkets. When I was younger, I made Kraglin pay for ‘em, but I had to promise to find him somethin’, too, so we ended up gettin’ gifts for each other. And Yondu would always find some random Terran junk at the trading posts, hide it from me until the end of the year so he could give me a whole pile of stuff in one go. Most of it was broken crap, but sometimes…he found some real treasures. And besides, it’s the thought that counts, right?” His voice wavered on the last few words; she patted him sympathetically.

“I like that sentiment,” she said quietly. “Growing up the way that I did…both on my home planet, and with Thanos…you learn to appreciate the little things. The small victories. And the intent, not just the outcome.”

“I like the sound of that, too.” He leaned in to kiss her, briefly but sweetly, pleased by the way her hands automatically came to rest on his torso, then slid around his waist to embrace him in return, bringing them even closer together. Unfortunately, only seconds later, the spell was broken by the sudden cry of Mantis’s panicked shriek.

“FIRE!”

“Here we go,” Peter groaned, scrambling to his feet. Gamora shot him a dirty look before yanking her boots back on and running out the door.

It was, to their dismay, about as bad as they anticipated - for such a small kitchenette that took up a laughably small area within the ship’s common space, it felt like the entire room was on fire, flames burning hot and high, seemingly consuming every moldy cabinet and every crappy appliance they owned. Thankfully, Rocket’s first instinct was to snatch Groot up and sprint the other direction, while Mantis was clutching onto Drax’s arm, trying to keep him calm while he was being far too generous with the fire extinguisher, its contents spraying everything in his line of sight, and then some.

“Watch it!” Peter yelled over the chaos, but it was too late - Drax turned in the direction of his voice, and splat - all across the front of his sweater. “Hey, whoa, this thing was expensive, dude - ”

“For the love of - get out of the way,” Gamora ordered, stepping in front of Peter and snatching the extinguisher out of Drax’s clearly incapable hands. One well-aimed squeeze, and the fire promptly began to die out. The moment the last flame flickered away, Gamora set down the extinguisher with a decisive clank and folded her arms across her chest, shaking her head in disappointment. “Look at this! Half the ship is now covered in foam!”

“Almost looks like it snowed in here,” Peter said, dragging his finger through the mess on his shirt and wincing with instant regret. “Hey, it’s beginning to look a lot like - ”

“Peter,” Gamora snapped. “Drax, what happened?”

“I could not begin to tell you,” he admitted, his voice unusually small. “I’m…sorry, Gamora. And to you as well, Quill. I know how important this day, these traditions, are to you.”

Peter softened, moved by the rare sight of Drax’s humility. “Hey, accidents happen. It’s okay. I mean…hell, this ship gets repaired, like, twice a month, anyways, what’s one more time?” Gamora glared at him. “I’m gonna pay for that comment, aren’t I?”

“We’re all going to pay for it,” she said bitingly, though she unfolded her arms, letting them fall to her sides. “Whatever it was, just don’t let it happen again, okay? And to make up for it, you can clean up your mess, and Peter and I will figure out what to do for dinner since we’ve quite literally burned through all our regular rations, too.” He nodded, smiling gratefully at them both as he got to his feet, reinvigorated.

Meanwhile, Peter and Gamora retreated back to their bunk to change into clean clothes. “Should’ve known somethin’ was gonna go wrong. We can never have just one good day, can we?” Peter sighed, stripping off his sweater and reaching for one of the T-shirts he’d tossed on the floor a few days ago.

Gamora wrinkled her nose in disapproval and pulled a clean one from their tiny closet instead, shoving it into his bare chest. “Something without a stain, please,” she insisted. “And we’ve had plenty of good days, Peter. It’s perfect days that elude us, and even then, I think I’d rather have several good days than a single perfect one.”

“Yeah…true,” he said thoughtfully, smiling. He pulled the T-shirt over his head, yanking it all the way down to his waist and smoothing out the wrinkles. “I can think of a lot of good days, actually. Where we all just kinda…relaxed, hung out, didn’t plan anything huge. Maybe that’s where this all went wrong. Tryna make somethin’ out of nothin’.”

“Your traditions aren’t nothing, Peter. I like learning about everyone’s cultures, holding on to what’s left of them,” she said gently. “We’ll just have to try again next year, but right now, we need to focus on what to do next. When you were a child, what did you do when dinner didn’t work out?”

“I remember Mom burned the turkey one year. First time she tried to do it all by herself,” Peter said, chuckling quietly at the memory. “Grandpa told her not to worry about it and just ordered a bunch of pizzas. But I don’t think we can get delivery in space.”

Gamora cracked a small smile. “No, but we have this ship, and the entire galaxy ahead of us. What’s the next best thing?”

“I’ve got a place in mind, but…you’re not gonna like it.” He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her in close with the hope that she’d be too distracted by his embrace to care. Predictably, it didn’t work; she merely narrowed her eyes at him.

“I know exactly what you mean, and I don’t,” she sighed. “But when have I ever been able to talk you out of anything?”

Three hours later, the Guardians found themselves sitting at a bar with a meager offering of chips, some cheesy concoction of what Peter supposed was meant to be a mockery of Terran pizza, and cheap alcohol served in suspiciously foggy glasses laid out before them. Gamora reached for her drink, took a swig, and slammed it back down on the counter immediately. Despite her extensive body modifications, she could still feel her gag reflex kicking in.

“Contraxia, really?”

“It snows here all the time, it’s the best I could do with where we were and what we had!” Peter said defensively. “No, Groot, don’t drink that - ”

“Think I rather would’ve jus’ eaten the burnt rations instead of this crap,” Rocket said, gingerly picking at the chip bowl with one hand and deftly sweeping Groot away from his beer stein with the other. “Y’know, it’s kinda depressing how we’re still poor as hell after all the stuff we’ve done for the galaxy.”

“Money isn’t the point,” Gamora reminded him.

“Then what is the point?” Drax asked intently, leaning around Peter to look at her. “Rocket is right - ”

“Oh, it’s the end times,” Peter muttered; Mantis couldn’t help but giggle into his shoulder.

“ - we have been a team for almost a year now, and the galaxy never remains saved, nor are they grateful for our efforts,” Drax continued. “I am glad to have you as companions in combat and in life, but…it feels like we will never fulfill our intended purpose.”

“I don’t know if there is a point, Drax.” Gamora stared into the contents of her mug, watching it slowly swirl around in an almost hypnotizing fashion. “As in, I don’t know if there’s a point where this will be…’fulfilled’. Where we can sit back and…watch the sun rise on a grateful universe.” She shuddered, almost like she was remembering her words from someone else’s mouth. “But I would rather say that I tried to do something, than to admit I did nothing. That I got to choose what I did, and I chose right. Isn’t that what we’re all here for, anyway? Because we made that choice?”

“We chose to give a shit,” Peter echoed quietly. “And yeah, that is what matters. Even if we don’t always get the recognition we deserve. Or the money.”

“You’re a bunch of saps, the whole lot of you,” Rocket snorted, shaking his head. “Personally, I look forward to the day where we do a job for someone who actually pays us what they promised, and pays us real well. Hell, enough to retire, even.”

“Then what?” Mantis asked softly. “And then you leave?” Groot sat up from where he was perched on Gamora’s shoulder, looking at Rocket with big, liquid eyes of despair.

“No, I - look, I’m not drunk enough to get all touchy-feely with you guys,” Rocket said uncomfortably, taking another generous gulp of his drink as if he were looking to get himself there. “I don’t plan on going nowhere. Even if we are gonna be down on our luck forever.”

“So what does happen on this hypothetical day of yours? When we get all the money that we need?” Mantis persisted.

“We start with a better ship, for one,” Rocket snarked, clearing his throat. “One with a real kitchen that has a sprinkler system and an actual oven. Bunks that aren’t the size of a closet. Engine that don’t bust on me every two weeks.”

“Fresh food,” Peter added. “Can’t forget about that.”

“A space for physical exercise, to keep myself in peak condition,” Drax said proudly, flexing his arms in a way that made Peter a little bit more than slightly jealous.

“Books,” Mantis and Gamora said at nearly the same time; they exchanged embarrassed, but pleased smiles, and Mantis reached over to squeeze Gamora’s hand in camaraderie. “There is much I have missed out on, living in isolation for so long.”

“You could say the same of me,” Gamora said, smiling ruefully. “It would be nice for both of us to get the education we never received.”

“I am Groot!” Groot piped up, jumping onto the counter and holding his arms out wide. Everyone else exchanged dubious looks.

“What’re you, crazy? No way, kid,” Rocket chuckled, though he patted for Groot to jump onto his shoulder. Groot acquiesced, snuggling into Rocket’s fur affectionately as he did.

“You know what?” Peter said, turning so he could see everyone else. Seeing all their faces staring back at him made his chest feel warm with joy, comfort, all the things he’d tried so hard to recreate on the ship they called home just hours ago, but he felt it here, now, in a shitty bar playing horrible music and serving even worse food. “I just realized we all named a bunch of stuff that’s for us to share. Not…y’know, big houses, fancy clothes, statues, or whatever it is rich folk spend all their units on. That’s gotta mean somethin’ right?”

“That no matter the circumstance, no matter the intent or the outcome…we want to live our lives together.” Gamora held up her mug. “And that, I think, is worth celebrating.”

“Ugh,” Rocket groaned, though he lifted his as well. “You’re startin’ to sound like Quill.”

“Cheer up, Rocket, it is a holiday,” Mantis grinned. “You can be grumpy tomorrow.”

“I’d rather he wasn’t,” Gamora said dryly, a grin spreading across her face as Peter playfully clinked his glass against hers. “Drax?”

They all turned to him expectantly, surprised to find his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Ever since the death of my wife and daughter, I have felt…lost. Adrift in the cosmos, with no single person to find solace in, to share a home and a life with. That has changed with all of you. You, who accept my blunders, my missteps, my history.” He smiled shakily and finally held up his glass to meet everyone else’s. “To my new family.”

“We’ve been a team for like, nine months already - ”

“Dude, don’t ruin the moment,” Peter muttered under his breath, elbowing Rocket. “To family!” Everyone echoed the sentiment with a hearty cry, ignoring the puzzled stares they were getting from other bar patrons, and knocked back the remains of their drinks. Immediately, they all began to cough and splutter uncontrollably. “Aw, man, that’s awful.”

“Never bring us to Contraxia again,” Drax agreed, clearing his throat harshly. “Shall we proceed to the next bar?”

“I’m already out the door,” Rocket said, slamming his mug down and jumping down from the barstool, careful not to jostle Groot too much as he let out a triumphant whoop.

“But you are still - ”

“It is just a saying, Drax,” Mantis said gently, guiding him out the door.

“Hey, you guys didn’t pay - and they’re gone,” Peter sighed, sinking back onto his barstool, only to notice Gamora was already at the register. When she returned, he reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers and leading them both out into the strangely pleasant chill of Contraxia’s ever-present weather. “Always one step ahead of me.”

“Not always, just usually,” Gamora teased, bringing them to a stop right outside. She stepped around to his front, taking his other hand in hers. “Speaking of…promise me that you’ll have a better plan for next year? One that doesn’t involve letting Drax cook?”

Peter smiled down at her, finding it impossible to do anything else. The snow was coming down steady, little flakes landing in her hair and on her eyelashes, her cheeks flushed from the cold. Despite the fact his ship was half-burnt to a crisp and that he could already feel the regret of stale cheese bubbling in his stomach, everything just felt…right. “I’m just glad there’s gonna be a next year. And another…and another,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss her. “And yeah…I promise.”

#ask #Anonymous #starmora #starmora fic #myfic #marvel #last prompt for now! but another christmas fic is coming on monday #have a good holiday y'all!!

[phan-of-the-pen]

I Dare You To Stay: Chapter 9

YALL IM SORRY FOR THIS ANGST BUT LIKE THEY’RE A SHIT TON OF FLUFF IN THE BEGINNING DOES THAT BALANCE THINGS OUT???

Tags for chapter: fluff, mentions of depression, mentions of internalized aphobia

Words for chapter: 4.7k

Fic Summary: Dan Howell is a barista working a shitty job, frequenting his shitty apartment, and living a shitty existence, hiding his asexuality and going for a PHD in self-depreciation and depression. Phil Lester is a part-time intern, part-time employee at a local weather station, trying to get experience in his field and make a name for himself, while juggling a second job at the nearby Tesco’s to give him some financial breathing room. Their paths were never supposed to meet, but what happens when they do anyways, one rainy day in Manchester?

(ao3!)

<– Previous chapter Next chapter -->

~~~~~~~~~~

Dan was curled up on one of the booth seats, his feet tucked underneath of him, body leaned towards the huge, warm-to-the-touch window separating him from outside. It wasn't because he was cold—it was never cold in the store—but because the sunlight spilling in just felt too good on his skin.

He was on his lunch break and for once had decided to abstain from holing himself up in the break room. And okay, maybe it had something to do with Jaime letting him pick the music that played from the shop's speakers. But really, he was enjoying it much more than he had thought, even to the point of considering making it a habit. But it was still a consideration, mind you.

Dan scrolled through twitter, retweeting or liking some of the posts that caught his eye. He didn't know what time it was, but he knew that he had plenty of it; his break had just started.

"Wow, Dan, you look just like a cat basking  in the sun."

Dan jumped in surprise and snapped up his head from where it was staring down at his phone in his lap. Phil was sliding into the booth seat across from Dan, a smile on his face. He looked relaxed in a soft looking jumper and his glasses, hair done up in a quiff.

"Oh, hi," Dan said, lamely. He mentally berated himself, but tried to not let his awkwardness take center stage by ignoring it, praying Phil did the same. "It's been a while, Lester."

Phil snorted and took a sip of his coffee.

"A while? Dan it's been ages."

Dan laughed, and just like that, the air between them cleared and it was like they had restarted right where they had left off.

"Last time I saw you it was Wednesday, Dan. You're not allowed to be sick anymore, by the way. Thursday I had absolutely no one to talk to while I had my coffee, and I didn't even bother coming in Friday because I figured you wouldn't be here since you were so sick the day before. And then you're off on Saturday so I couldn't stop in then." Phil scoffed like the fact that he and Dan hadn't seen each other in a few days was a personal insult. And Dan really shouldn't have found the notion as cute as he had, and definitely not as endearing.

"So what? You'll only come in if I'm here?" Dan asked, a warmth in his voice and a grin on his face. Is Phil really that attached to me? Ha. For some reason, the prospect that Phil didn't know what to do with himself when Dan wasn't around just made Dan's smile spread wider.

Phil blushed, pink flooding to his cheeks and protesting weakly.

"No one else here makes my coffee the way that you do." He said, his face still pink and his bottom lip finding its way in between his teeth. Dan laughed.

"I'll make sure to rub the fact that I make the best coffee in her face later, then."

Phil hummed and brought the coffee cup in his hands up to his lips again for another sip. 

"How're you feeling, Dan?" Phil asked, pulled Dan from his thoughts.

"What?"

"How are you feeling? Like I know when I get sick I'm in this weird half-sick half-better stage for like a week afterwards; are you one of those people?" Phil said, his gaze returning to Dan's.

Dan nearly snorted.

Half-sick, half-better, huh? I think you mean my permanent state, Phil, Dan thought. He didn't dare think about saying it out loud though, no matter how often Dan seemed to just blurt things out. He had some self control.

Dan thought back to the past few days, to all of the hours melting together, a prisoner in his own mind. He saw himself laying in bed, not moving, just...just thinking, for lack of a better word. And really, it wasn't thinking at all, but self torture. Dan remembered the numbness that filled every part of his body, and how it had taken Jaime Friday and Saturday to finally pull Dan out of his own headspace.

Even today, it had taken him more time than usual to get himself out of bed and start his day. The world wasn't quite as vibrant, the smile on his face not quite as sincere, his depression still louder than normal. So yes, maybe he was in that half-sick half-better stage.

"Yeah, I would say I'm still somewhat sick." Dan finally settled with. He felt like he was lying with how vague he was being right now. But it was better than spilling about his dead mental health, right?

Phil frowned and reached forward so his palm was flush against Dan's forehead. Dan sputtered and felt his cheeks grow hot at Phil's cool touch. He ignored the heat on his face and tried to pass it off as nonchalance, hoping to god that Phil didn't notice.

"Stop fidgeting I'm trying to see if you have a fever."

"And what if I do? I'm at work so it's not like I can do anything about it." Dan said, determinedly not thinking very hard about how there would be no fever because Dan wasn't sick. Or at least, not like how Phil thought he was.

"Dan, if you have a fever you're going home even if I have to walk you back myself." Phil replied, seriously.

“Well what does my forehead say then, oh wise one?” Dan asked sarcastically.

Their eyes locked and something in Phil's glimmered. “Turbulence,” Phil said. “Conflict between what you want and what you need.”

“And what do I need?”

The hand was withdrawn. Dan missed it immediately.

“To be beaten at Mario Kart, of course.”

“Phil,” Dan said, laughing a little nervously. Once again, he tried to ignore what had just happened as best as possible, batting his eyelashes and trying to stay in step with whatever this was that they were doing. “At least buy me dinner first.”

"Okay." Phil said, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. Dan's eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open. He can't be serious. "We can swing by someplace before we get to my flat, or we can always order out." Oh my god he is serious.

"Besides," Phil said, with a sly curl of his lips, sipping at the coffee in his hand, "dinner is the least I could do.”

“Wait until you see me order a whole lobster. Your wallet will be crying.”

Phil’s eyes glittered. “Can you even get that delivered?”

“If you can’t, I’m quitting this job and setting up a lobster delivery service.”

“Nerd.”

“Dork.”

Dan wanted to know why talking with Phil was so easy, so natural. The only person that Dan had ever connected this fast with before was Jaime. And even then, their banter hadn't developed this quickly.  

"Invite me to the wedding," Jaime called from where she was wiping down a few tables with the ratty—but clean—washcloth she and Dan were always using. Neither Dan nor Phil had noticed her working a few feet away from them, and both of their eyes widened in surprise. Phil, however, took it in stride much better than Dan, the look on his face softening to one of amusement.

Fuck, how didn't I notice her there?

Phil laughed while Dan's face burned, surely as red as the lobsters they had just been fantasizing about. In the back of his mind, Dan worried Jaime would turn this into something like that, something to do with sex, like last time. He prayed that she wouldn't. He wasn't interested in hiding his discomfort at the implication that he would be involved in any kind of sexual situation, and he certainly wasn't interested in trying to pretend that the thought didn't make him mentally revisit parts of his past that just tear into his heart.

Dan's head started to work in overdrive, all kinds of repressed memories surfacing. He pushed them all away. Happy. That's what he was feeling a moment ago. Time to get back to it.

"I'm sure Dan will let you be his bridesmaid."

"Hey!" Dan cried, snapping out of his dark thoughts. He reached over and wacked Phil's arm, who looked entirely too pleased with himself. "Who decided that I would be the wife in this relationship? You would be the housewife for sure."

Phil gave him a look and Dan heard Jaime's snort all of the way from where she was standing clear as day. If anything, it only made Dan's blush deepen.

"The both of you are absolute bullies. I'm calling friend abuse for crushing my dreams."

"Yeah, Howell, I'm sure that's one of your dreams." Jaime muttered, finishing up with the table she was cleaning. Meanwhile, Dan wanted to find a hole and die.

He didn't like Phil like that. Sure, he was handsome and good company and had really fucking pretty eyes, but that was it. Besides, Dan didn't date.

Phil thankfully didn't comment, though. He twisted around in his seat so he could see Jaime and held out his coffee cup, a pleading expression on his face.

"Jaime, could you refill my coffee please?"

Jaime sighed, but stepped forward and grabbed it, nodding. She turned to walk away, but Dan called out to her as well.

"Could you get me a drink too?" Dan asked. Then, as an afterthought, he added: "Please?"

"You work here, Howell, you know how to make yourself a drink," she said, cocking an eyebrow, a disapproving look on her face. Dan shrugged and gave her the best puppy-eyed look he could manage.

"But I'm on break. Please? I won't ask for anything else the rest of the day."

"We both know that's a lie, but sure, Danny-boy, I'll get you a drink."

"Danny-boy?" Phil asked, a smirk starting to form on his face. Dan groaned, putting his head in his hands and cursing Jaime.

"Don't you dare start calling me that too, Phil."

Dan brought his head up to find Phil looking at him with a downright mischievous glint in his eye.

"Don't you dare."

"Are you-"

"Don't."

"-sure-"

"Phil!"

"-Danny-boy?"

"Oh my god."

Phil started to laugh and Dan didn't miss how the tip of his tongue stuck out in between his teeth or how after a few moments of breathless giggling he brought his hand up to his mouth. Fuck. It was adorable.

"I don't think this friendship is going to work with this blatant betrayal, Philip. I shouldn't have to put up with this. Especially not if I'm supposedly going to have to deal with this while I destroy you in Mario Kart."

Phil had finally managed to pull himself under control, and he gave Dan a semi-sobered look, but Dan could still see the repressed jokes and sly remarks that Phil was just dying to make.

"Beat me, huh? I'll have you know that I'm the best out of all of my friends in Mario Kart."

Jaime returned, two drinks in her hands, sticking her tongue out at the both of them in the process of handing them over. Dan noticed that she had drawn little frowny faces on their cups and laughed.

"Well," Dan said, turning back to Phil who was clutching his warm coffee in between his palms, "you're definitely wrong on that one, mate." Dan took a sip—yes, Jaime added in extra sugar. The heat of the liquid didn't bother Dan's mouth though; he was too used to chugging back a sometimes-still-burning drink on a regular basis in a desperate attempt to combat his lack of sleep in the mornings.

There was still a little voice at the back of Dan's skull that nervously fretted at how this was possibly a bad idea, but really, for once his social anxiety wasn't overriding everything in his system, and Dan was positively living for it.

"You're going to have to wait until the weekend though, if that's alright. I've got to work a bunch of double shifts to make up for the pay I lost by missing work, so I'm not going to have time until Saturday. You free then?"

"Yeah, I'm free for the whole day after I do my weather segment."

Dan snorted.

"Sorry, I forgot you were famous, Phil, but I'm glad you're making time for us peasants."

~~~~~

"No! No no no!" Phil jumped up from the sofa, his fingers furiously working at the buttons on the controller in his hands. His body was tense and his mouth was open in a silent protest. Dan, meanwhile, was laughing on the sofa behind him, relaxed as hell, and enjoying how Phil was desperately trying to beat him in Mario Kart.

He didn't stand a chance; Mario Kart was Dan's game.

Too bad it had taken Phil this long to figure out that Dan hadn't been lying when he said he would crush him.

Dan's grin grew to an impossible width when he got another power-up.

"Phil, oh Phil, I'd just stop trying if I were you."

Phil made a sound of protest, but didn't dare take his eyes off of the screen.

Maybe Dan was enjoying this just a little too much, but really, Phil was terrible. It was unbelievably easy to have this much of a lead on him, and Dan was sure that if he had pulled out all of the stops, he would have stretched the gap between him and Phil even wider. Currently, Dan was in first, Phil in fifth. Part of the reason why Phil was so far back was because Dan kept messing with him, dropping back just to hit him with a shell or something similar, more times than not making Phil swerve, running into a wall. And while Dan would laugh and pull back in first, Phil would groan and shove Dan's shoulder, pouting.

Dan drifted around the corner, and used his power-up, increasing his speed and sending him flying over the finish line.

"Yes!" Dan shrieked, thrusting his controller into the air and nearly jumping from the couch. Phil cried out in protest, a hopeless "No!" pouring out from his lips as the game ended. He spun around, and Dan couldn't stop laughing, feeling it in his whole body.

"How are you so good?! That's got to be something like witchcraft."

"Maybe you're just that bad." Dan managed to squeak out in between bursts of his hyena laugh. Phil's face scrunched up and Dan tried to reign himself in, but really, Phil made it too easy.

"That was just a practice! I could totally beat you now that my fingers are warmed up." He grumbled, walking back to the couch where Dan was splayed out and lying down, his long legs reaching all the way to the other side. He started to move them, but before he really could Phil just picked up his ankles and lifted them up, sliding under them and sitting on the sofa. Phil let Dan's feet drop into his lap and looked up at the screen, already selecting another map.

(Dan ignored the beginning of a blush on his cheeks because all Phil did was touch his ankle he shouldn't be acting like this)

"Are you looking to be beaten for a second time?"

"Ha. In your dreams, Howell. I'm going to be the one beating you today."

Dan scoffed, but the effect was ruined because he couldn't stop smiling.

Phil turned his head and looked over at Dan, a wide grin on his face.

"You have a dimple."

"What?"

"Your dimple. I've never seen it before. It's cute."

"Oh." Dan said, and there was definitely a blush on his cheeks now. Phil didn't comment on it, just letting his attention fall back to the TV. However, Phil let his hands drop so they were resting on top of Dan's crossed ankles, the touch seemingly to burn through Dan's jeans.

Dan didn't say anything about it, or about how there was something new added into the atmosphere between them—something he couldn't quite place.

Phil finally selected a track and a new game started. Dan flicked his eyes to the screen as the game started to count down from three. When the horn went off, he sided right up to Phil's kart and drove him into a wall, a brilliant plan of attack forming in his head. Phil tossed Dan a dirty look but Dan just stuck his tongue out. Whatever had popped up between them in that little exchange a few moments ago was gone, for now.

~~~~~

Phil tossed his controller onto the floor and crashed back into the back of the couch, an arm falling over his face.

"I give up. You win. You bloody win, Dan, there's no way anyone can beat you."

They had been playing Mario Kart for over two hours now, and Phil hadn't come close to winning once. In fact, the closest he had gotten was a whopping third. And in hindsight, with Dan harassing him as he was, getting third was a decent enough achievement.

"I'm glad it only took you a million games of me handing you your own arse for you to figure it out, Phil."

"Oh shut it," Phil said, pulling his arm down to smack Dan's leg. He was smiling though, so Dan knew that he wasn't as annoyed as he let on. Dan let his controller fall to the floor and shifted down further into the sofa, wiggling his toes on Phil's lap. Phil pretended to gag.

"I hate to break up our little Mario Kart marathon, but you promised me dinner and I think my stomach is literally going to digest itself."

"That sounds painful." Phil said. His hands were on Dan's ankles again, but this time Phil's thumb was unconsciously tracing little patterns on the skin that was exposed there.

"Mhm."

"Where should we order out from then? There's a Indian place not too far away, or maybe the Chinese one a few blocks away? Something else?"

"Phil," Dan whined, "I thought I was promised lobster remember?" Dan said, trying to bring back the playful atmosphere that it was a few moments ago. Now...now there was something more.

"Dan, there's a reason why I have two jobs. Maybe in like, ten years I can get you those lobsters."

Dan sighed as if in disappointment, and nodded. "How about some Indian then, if we must."

Phil rolled his eyes and once again curled his fingers around Dan's ankles, lifting them up just like before and sliding out from under Dan's legs, getting up.

"I'll call us in something, wait here."

After the food was ordered and Phil had returned, he had just shifted Dan's body once again so he could sit before letting Dan's feet fall onto the tops of his thighs. Dan was too nervous to move them.

Instead of playing more Mario Kart, however, they decided to turn on a movie while they were waiting for their food.

When it arrived, Phil hopped up before Dan could and paid, bringing the bags back and putting them on the table. Dan sat up eagerly, his stomach growling at the smells wafting from what Phil was spreading out in front of them. They dug in, sitting close enough for their thighs to brush together, the movie playing in the background. Dan didn't really care if he was missing parts though; it was an old Marvel film they had both seen countless times before.

Dan let out a little noise of content when he finished.

"You were right Phil, that was delicious. I want to marry the chef so they could cook like that for me every day."

Phil looked at him. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were intense. It pinned Dan down and dissected him, took him apart and looked at all of his pieces.

And Dan was helpless to fight it. He couldn't look away if he tried.

"Yeah? Would you propose to him with a bagel?" He asked, the question nothing but a breath.

There it was again. That…that feeling between them. Dan recognized it now, for certain. His heart picked up a little, and he could feel the beginnings of sweat prickling on the back of his neck.

He remembered why he didn't date, why he didn't do anything other than platonic. He remembered the tears and the screaming and the pain, the damage he was still dealing with. He remembered, god did he remember, but he still couldn't stop the Phil Phil Phil in his head.

Dan licked his lips. He needed to get them away from this territory.

He needed to.

But.

Fuck.

He didn't want to.

"Maybe. Would that bother you?"

Dan's heart was in his stomach, yet it was still beating like crazy, sending his senses into overdrive. He didn't know what the hell he was doing, but he also didn't want to stop. And god, he couldn't stop looking into Phil's blue eyes, fuck.

Phil just stared, not saying a word. Dan was about to pull away, to give up whatever he seemed to be chasing. But Phil didn't give him the chance.

Something shifted in Phil's eyes, some kind of resolve forming right before Dan's gaze. Phil leaned forward and curled a hand around Dan's jaw.

"You tell me," he whispered and pressed forward. Dan met him halfway and he couldn't help how his eyelids fluttered closed when their mouths met. It was soft, questioning, with a clear open exit for Dan to run to if he wanted, but there was nothing unsure in how Phil kissed him; there was no doubt in the emotions Phil was pouring over Dan.

Dan would be lying if he said that the kiss shut up every voice in his head. If he claimed that this mind wasn't a shitshow, in a civil war with itself. If there wasn't a part of him that wanted to run.

But Dan was tired of running. He was exhausted and he hadn't known it, and yes, part of him was screaming that this was a bad idea, but fuck it he didn't care.

He wanted to be happy.

Phil pulled away a little, letting their mouths disentangle, but Dan just fisted a handful of Phil's shirt and brought him crashing back.

Phil groaned and nipped at Dan's bottom lip, flicking over it with his tongue. He was leaning heavily into Dan, the one hand that wasn't cupping Dan's face gently was locked beside Dan's body, holding Phil up. Dan, for his part, was angled back, and as their lips met over and over and over again it felt like Dan was just falling farther and farther back.

Dan brought his other hand to the back of Phil's head, and using the one buried in his shirt as well, Dan let his body fall, pulling Phil down with him. It wasn't as coordinated as he had imagined in his head, however, and their mouths broke apart. Dan was lying on his back, his legs angled awkwardly to the side of Phil's body, which was still somewhat posed overtop of Dan's. Phil laughed a little, but Dan didn't have the time to be embarrassed because Phil reached down and parted Dan's legs so they were on either side of Phil's body. Phil let his body blanket Dan's, bringing their faces impossibly close to each other.

"Is this okay?" Phil asked, his eyes so close, his mouth just out of reach.

Dan couldn't help but nod and reach out, pulling Phil in the rest of the way so they were kissing again. Phil let out a little sound that sounded a bit like a chuckle before turning his head and letting their mouths slot together better than before.

Dan had always liked kissing, but god, kissing Phil was a dream come true.

He didn't know how long they made out on Phil's scratchy couch, but Dan enjoyed every moment of it. He loved how Phil's fingers ran through his hair and curled around his waist, how Dan's own palm fit so well between Phil's shoulder blades, and how Phil's soft fringe brushed up against Dan's forehead.

Of course, things came to a crashing end.

Phil was kissing the life out of Dan, pressing him into the sofa with the weight of his own body, when he slipped a hand under Dan's shirt, his fingers burning into Dan's skin.

And then reality came crashing down onto Dan.

Dan gasped and both of his hands flew to Phil's chest, pushing him away. Dan rolled out from under Phil and consequently onto the floor.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

He knew this was a bad idea, he knew it.

All of the reasons why a relationship between them wouldn't work burst through his head like grenades. And really, it was just the same reason, repeated over and over in a mantra.

You're ace you're ace you're ace you're-

Dan sprang up from the floor and Phil was up from the couch in an instant, eyes wide and filled with fear and worry and concern.

"Oh my god Dan I'm so sorry! Fuck, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or-"

It was cowardly, but Dan couldn't stand there. A panic attack more fierce than anything he had faced in a while was building up in him and he didn't want to be here when it hit. Fuck. fuck. He turned, nearly dashing for the door, stomping into his shoes at a lightning and inhuman speed. Phil had caught up with him, however, and before Dan could grasp the door handle, his hand grabbed Dan's sleeve.

"Dan please don't go oh my god I swear I didnt-"

"It's not going to work between us, Phil, I'm sorry," Dan said, not missing how breathless he sounded, how kissed-out Phil looked, "but it just won't okay? I can't love you like you need me to."

"Dan? Woah, slow down, I don't-"

"I'm can't, okay? Now please let go of me."

"But I-"

Dan didn't seem capable of letting Phil finish a single sentence because he was already opening his mouth to retally. But then again Dan didn't really care if he was being rude at the moment because his heart was about to beat out of his chest and the world was spinning and all of the bad thoughts were rushing around his head in a whirlwind, unable to be stopped. Dan was panicking.

"I'm asexual! I just can't, Phil!" he blurted, and just as the words passed from his mouth his heart stopped, as well as the rest of the world. Everything stopped. Phil's eyes went wide, and that was it, Dan was ripping his arm out of Phil's grip and ripping the door open, sprinting down the hallway and taking the stairs down from Phil's flat so fast he was sure he was going to trip and break his neck.

He could hear Phil running after him, trying to keep up, shouting for him to "Wait! Please!" but Dan wasn't listening. Dan wasn't listening.

Dan burst out of Phil's apartment complex and ran faster than he had ever before. His feet felt like they were barely skimming the ground and it was like he was being chased by Death itself, but he only ran faster, pushed himself harder. And he was crying, tears blurring his vision until he could barely see. He hiccuped on a sob, but Dan wasn't stopping to catch his breath.

He had to run.

From Phil.

From the situation.

From the kisses, the feeling, the giggles and smiles and joy.

From his inability to shut his mouth.

From himself.

He ran.

#phanfiction #phanfic #my fics #allyssaTM #dan and phil #dan howell #phil lester #au #ace!dan #weatherman!phil #angst #kissing #fluff #aphobia #phan #i dare you to stay #i dare you to stay: chapter 9 #chaptered #phandom

[tracinyad]

11 online dating ideas from Guardian Soulmates

1. Make sure your dating bio does you justice

It can feel unnatural to analyze yourself and dissect your personality into bullet points for your online dating profile. A number of us cringe at the idea of needing to specify our likes, dislikes, and pastimes on paper, however, the more information you give about yourself, the clearer a photo you paint for a prospective match who stumbles upon your profile. A vague or half-finished profile-- left that way out of shyness-- can be misconstrued as suspicious. If you're unsure what to state about yourself, there's no pity in asking a good friend or family member to assist you to compose it. Also, check this great advice about HOOK-UP DATING ONLINE

2. That goes for your profile images, too

It might sound apparent, but try to select images for your profile that are clear, honest and show you in your finest light. That blurry photo with the brilliant flash? Among you on vacation in sunglasses? Or your all-time preferred image that was taken an excellent 10 years earlier? Nope nope nope. If you don't have a good bank of recent-ish photos, it might be worth buying a shoot with a professional like Saskia Nelson, who focuses on dating photos.

3. Stay safe online

Every once in a while, a horror story emerges about online dating. This variety from individuals not looking like their profile photos, to individuals ending up being downright harmful. You must pick someplace public for your very first date, and as an extra safety measure, make certain you let a buddy or family member understand you're going on the date, and that you'll contact them in nevertheless long if all goes well. As a general rule, avoid individuals who immediately suggest you come over to their place, or who seem overly aggressive to satisfy you before talking.

4. Do not call, text, tweet or usually contact them excessive

You have met someone you like. Hurrah! You're most likely thinking of them periodically throughout the day and it's natural to wish to let them understand what you depend on. It is necessary to keep in mind that it's early days, though, and even if they have actually given you all the best signals up until now, getting a photo of the quinoa salad you made for lunch, or numerous missed calls when you only spoke the night previously, might be enough to give them cold feet. Think about communication as balancing a set of scales: add just as much to your side as they do to theirs.

5. Leave Facebook stalking out of it

I make certain a number of us can admit to understanding what somebody does for a living, where they went on their last five vacations and the names of every member of their family including their pet dog before we've even fulfilled them. Not because they have informed us in a message, however since we have found their relatively open Facebook profile and had an excellent appearance before the date. But think of the embarrassment if you let a nugget of information slip from all your difficult detective work on the very first date? How can you validate knowing about that stag perform in Berlin that they have not informed you about? Honestly, for your pride, avoid digging through their Facebook page.

6. Meet somewhere you feel comfy

If your perfect first date is being familiar with one another in a snug, independent coffee bar, but they suggest taking you to your first heavy metal gig, it deserves looking for a midway ground. If you feel comfortable in your environments on a date, you'll give off a more unwinded impression and be able to enjoy yourself.

7. Avoid mentioning the ex

Whether they broke your heart, invested your loan, or the amalgamation of all their bothersome little habits eventually drove you to drive a metaphorical knife through their heart and call it gives up, your brand-new date does not need to know. Yes, it's natural to be curious about who he or she was dating before you, however, these discussions will take place naturally in their own time. In short, attempt to prevent the ex chat when you're on your very first date.

8. Offer to pay

Whether you're male or female, you're an independent adult living in the 21st century. Regardless of whether you end up paying, it's polite for both celebrations to use to buy a round of drinks or split the general expense.

9. Remember: you can manage to be selective

Please don't think you need to go on a date with the first individual who asks you out, just because you've been single for a while. By that very same reasoning, you must also never feel forced into going house with someone after a date or meeting up with them again unless you make certain you truly wish to. Approximately 7 million UK homeowners are currently using dating sites, not to mention all the eligible singles dating offline. There's no need for anybody to choose the first deal. Take your time to discover the right partner for you.

10. Don't lose yourself

Try not to make the beginner you're dating the center of your world. All of us have that pal who utilized to be a lot enjoyable, and who listened to all our problems, then unexpectedly began dating somebody new and disappeared into their world. Don't be that person. Equally, don't stop your hobbies for your brand-new date. Keep knitting that jumper for your mum, keep growing that herb garden. Remember that having hobbies and interests is attractive to the individual you're dating Your love of pottery or passion for long biking ventures may be part of what stimulated their interest in you in the first place.

11. Delight in the experience of online dating.

This one may sound obvious, but if you're not taking pleasure in the dating procedure for whatever reason, it's not worth pursuing. Dating specialist Jean Smith points out that lots of people get nowhere with online dating because they're not in the right frame of mind for it. "Sort yourself out initially, then look for a partner," advises Smith. "Then you'll find someone who's going to be a great match for you."

[ilovefrancefan]

Based on a true story. The pay was standard. Room, board, and 150 euros per month. “Room” was a single on an 8th floor walk-up, with a communal bathroom in the hall. “Board” was lunch 6 days a week. The salary, less than $6 a day, largely went to the all the other meals I had mistakenly assumed would be included. But I wanted to stay in Paris for the summer, so I moved in the day after the interview. The room was a classic chambre de bonne, with a single bed and unobstructed view of Sacre Coeur. Bonne is short for bonne à tout faire, “good for doing everything.” As such, the advertised governess job was more housekeeping than babysitting. “We’ve never had an au pair,” Mrs. Dimas told me. “We are not rich. We can barely afford you.” She showed me how to vacuum the walls, which were covered in fabric. “My husband is a perfectionist,” she said, adding that it was he who insisted the bedsheets be ironed. The French word for perfectionist, when talking about cleanliness, is maniac. Pronounced “mahn-YAK.” She had a confidence, even when lying, that led me to double-check the driver’s license she’d sometime leave on the kitchen counter. Just 29? There were two children. Four-year-old Patrice, dark-complected and moody, and three-month-old Sidonie, blonde like her mother, and the subject of a christening in the works, with family coming from all over. I would arrive to clean up the breakfast table and get Patrice dressed for school while keeping an eye on Sidonie, who dozed off with a belly full of formula that we made with Volvic bottled water. (Madame herself drank Contrex, which was said to be slimming, while her husband, who owned a restaurant, preferred Badoit, the salty one that aids digestion. I found this very sophisticated, and was trying to decide which water brand best reflected the Parisian I was trying to become.) After dropping Patrice off at nursery school, I’d go back to the apartment where Rose-Annette, as Mrs. Dimas asked me to call her, would go over the housework to be done that day, ensuring I understood the words on the list. She would pull me a coffee from the noisy espresso machine, and then make a production of getting dressed and leaving. Rose-Annette returned for lunch most days around 1 or so, and we ate together. Usually Sidonie would be down for a nap. Rose-Annette showed me how to steam vegetables in the pressure cooker, and to bake clafoutis with fruit fresh she’d bring up from the market. “I can’t believe Americans buy mayonnaise,” she said one day, mixing a dab of mustard into her homemade mayo. I said, “I can’t believe you French eat horse meat.” I wasn’t sure if the playfulness I intended came across. “I adore horse meat,” Rose-Annette said. As a post-script, she added, “Vous.” She corrected me anytime I used the informal word for “you.” On Bastille Day I was “verifying” the laundry (no holiday for the help, so I was following instructions to check every button and zipper before ironing and hanging the clothes). Rose-Annette was picking out blue, white and red outfits for the girls when the phone rang. I guessed it was her mother, because she didn’t seem to have many friends. After confabbing on the christening, slated for September—something about how many pounds of candied almonds to order, the traditional accessory for baptisms—Rose-Annette took the phone into the kitchen and closed the door behind her. “What am going to do when she goes back to America?” I heard her say. “I won’t have any help! I don’t know. Maybe it’s good. It’s getting too cosy.” I was better off than the other au pairs that I met at the playground. Some would smoke, or vape, while our charges played, and we’d all wolf down snacks intended for the kids. I was the only one privileged to call madame by her given name, and to drink rosé with her at lunch. “We polished off a whole bottle,” I bragged to Birgitta, whose family used cloth diapers and made her serve dinner like a waitress. The families looked down upon us, and we upon them. “What kind of work is it that you do?” I asked Rose-Annette over lunch. “If only!” she said. In the ensuing sentences, she may or may not have told me. I missed a lot while pretending to understand. What did become clear, though, to my surprise, was that she wasn’t working. It was a full-time job to get her old position back, she said. First, she needed her papers. The word was similar to “husband” and “baptism gown.” Not in the way it sounded, but in that I heard it a lot, and was aware of its importance in this household, but never saw it. Of course, everyone in France talks about papers. It’s a bureaucratic country where one in five people works for the government, mainly shuffling documents. Everyone needed papers, no one had the papers they needed. Even I lacked papers. My visa had expired in May, not long after the final exam of the Sorbonne’s extension program. I was technically an “illegal,” as were most of the other au pairs at the playground. But none of us were concerned about it. We were white, and our host families were comfortable and connected. We had nothing in common with the bands of Afghans who would also congregate in parks, sitting in a circle, quietly passing around food. “I just purse my lips when I walk past a police station,” Birgitta said. We pulled French faces and imitated the high voices our madames used, especially when speaking to their husbands. Chasing papers, and the stamps to validate them—that was a whole separate task, conducted in separate offices or buildings–sent Rose-Annette out of the house most days of the week. The manila folder, where the papers were collected, migrated around the apartment like a mobile religious object. She took a day trip to Brittany to look through boxes in her parents’ house. All she found there was her old monthly metro pass. She made a cute embarassed face when she showed me the photo-booth image on it, of her flashing a peace sign, and wearing the skunk-stripe hairstyle popular in the aughts. “Awesome,” I said in English, and we slapped hands in an off-center high-five. “She’s meeting a lover!” Birgitta squealed. The love life of our madames was a big topic at the park. “No,” I said. “Not Rose-Annette.” For one thing, she primped more for her husband’s return from work than she did for her morning excursions. Rose-Annette was moony over Antonio, her Nino. She liked to stop in and hang out at the restaurant he owned, she confided to me, until he told her she’d have to put on an apron. “That, no!” she laughed. By August, the bottle of rosé was de rigueur at lunch. “My parents are being difficult about the christening,” Rose-Annette told me. “My father still cannot accept that I married a Portuguese man.” She shrugged her shoulders and lowered one eyelid in existential resignation. “Because of them, I couldn’t let Antonio gain nationality by marrying me. He had to be naturalized before I said yes.” I thought about this as I finished off a bowl of berries in sour cream. If Rose-Annette resented her parents’ disdain for Nino, why did she subject him to their requirements? That seemed so French to me. Rose-Annette loved to consider herself an outsider for having a foreign husband. She found it deliciously outrageous that they allowed Patrice to keep her hair cut in a short buzz. But, with their pastel candied almonds–”they’re expensive, butone must,” she had explained–they were as bourgeois as any of the other parents we dished about at the playground. Sometimes at lunch, after a couple glasses of wine, I got an urge to ask her about French traditions, specifically how she came to reject some and emulate others. But even if I’d had the language skills, I didn’t dare, and I would stand and pick up dishes. “Instead of attempting to change the country during your junior year abroad,” read a pamphlet handed to us at orientation at the Sorbonne, “try to understand and respect the cultural norms in France, even if you disagree with them.” I wrote home to my sister, “Rose-Annette doesn’t even buy baby food!” When the baby started eating solids, I spoon-fed her veal puree’d with butter. My last chore each evening was to wax and buff the girls’ navy leather shoes. A heatwave began. It was exhausting speaking staccato French all day. Going home to the States would be like taking off roller blades and walking without fear of wiping out. My au pair comrades started dropping out of sight, accompanying their host families on vacation to Normandy, Provence, the Riviera. Rose-Annette’s handful of friends also decamped, or so she said. The two of us took to watching a soap opera after lunch. “I’m different, she said during a commercial for a cut-rate airline. “I’d rather take a vacation in winter to someplace warm. Nino can’t leave the restaurant, and I prefer not to desert him.” I bought my return ticket online and, after bringing Patrice home from the crèche, slipped Rose-Annette a note across the kitchen table with the flight information. She gave me a “What am I going to do?” face that was endearing, even touching. She opened a bottle of Brouilly—a red served chilled—and invited me to stay for dinner: cervelles d’agneau. I wondered if I should go get my dictionary. Instead I walked to the living room, where Patrice had turned on the TV. I said, “We’re having lamb brains tonight.” She shot up her fists in the air and said, “Oui!” Back in the kitchen, Rose-Annette said, barely audibly, “My paper chase is coming to an end.” The manila folder, which I hadn’t seen in a couple of weeks, had materialized in her hands. “You’ll go back to university,” she said, curling the tab at the top, “and I’ll go back to work.” Now was my chance to get clear on her profession. Teacher? Secretary? One of France’s 13 million bureaucrats? She didn’t seem to have any passions beyond family and food. The theme music for a game show came on, and we both turned toward the TV. I raised my eyebrows. “Ah, oui!” Rose-Annette said, bringing over the bottle and two glasses. “Scoot over, Patrice.” As I walked down the stairs from my chambre de bonne the morning of the 31st, I wondered if Rose-Annette would give me a tip, or a gift, with my pay. Maybe we’d have a coffee together and she’d give me the day off to finish packing. She was dressed, with her cross-body satchel strapped on. “My mother is coming to stay for a week,” Rose-Annette said, clasping her hands to her head. “You think my husband is maniac? My mother is worse.” The list of chores began with vacuuming the walls. “I’ll drop Patrice at school so you have time for a top-to-bottom,” she said. I don’t know if I’ll be back for lunch because I’ve got one last stamp to beg for.” I blinked at the list. “Wow,” I said. “So you’re really going back to work.” She nodded yes, wild-eyed, and called for Patrice to put on her shoes. Sidonie was acting up. I couldn’t clean and entertain her at the same time, so I turned on the radio loud and let her wail. I sweated like crazy scrubbing mineral deposits off bathroom tiles. When I finished, I taped up the nozzle of the Cif, the white cleanser. I loved the smell. There wasn’t anything like it in the United States. As I was burying it in my purse, I heard the front door, and I froze. Rose-Annette appeared in the apartment hallway, looking alarmed. “She just started,” I said over the din, jumping up to turn off the radio. “I’ll go get her.” I calmed the baby by changing her diaper. I gave her a clean outfit, too. When I came back out from her bedroom, Rose-Annette was hunched over, opening a bottle of wine at the kitchen table. She looked up and said, “Are you OK?” “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Sorry. Just a little frazzled about my flight tomorrow. I want to get everything done.” Rose-Annette reached out for Sidonie with one arm and pulled off her satchel with the other. She smelled the baby’s neck and rocked her. I heard sniffling. “I can’t believe it,” she said, her voice an octave lower than normal, and gravelly. I suspected something serious, something about Nino, maybe. She couldn’t be that worked up just because the baby had been yelling. Or even that I was leaving. I tried to think of an excuse about the Cif, which she may have seen me steal. But then the baby stopped crying, suddenly, and I thought about Rose-Annette’s confidence, which had impressed me when we’d first met. I took a step closer and put my hand on her shoulder, a barrier neither of us expected to be crossed. With a face that reminded me of our soap opera heroine, she closed her eyes and leaned into my hand. She mumbled, “I lost all my papers on the metro.” The post Short Story: The Paris Papers appeared first on .

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