comment fic
A compilation of fics I've written for various comment ficathons over the months, posted in the order they were written. No particular spoilers for anything.
like crazy | jacob/sam. tape me up, then break me up (g)
It takes Jacob a long time before he tells Sam that Anna's visa finally came through. He finishes measurements for a chair, sketches a few designs into the new notebook Sam got him at the store last week, sands down a chair he's been finished with for a few days. Keeping his hands busy becomes his first priority, because when his hands are occupied so is his mind.
But when his hands still for a moment, his palm pressed against a flat, too smooth chair, there are flashes. Blond hair bouncing to the thump-thump, thump-thump of a club, soft hands cupping his face and a thumb brushing over his cheekbone, a hip bumping into him, vanilla shampoo under his nose, pink lips stretching into a smile, terrible and mildly offensive knock-knock jokes, a loud uninhibited laugh punctuated by a quiet snort, and a girl he could have loved if he'd let himself.
It was hard enough to say goodbye to her the first time, when he was more sure of Anna than he is now. Now it seems impossible, like he's breaking a promise he made to Sam in silence, in the brief connection of fingertips, a promise for shared life with some sort of future they could create together, without a plan and without the past hiding in the shadows.
He tells her in the morning so she has the entire day ahead of her, so she can decide for herself what to do with the information.
He says, "Anna's uh, her visa came through."
Sam says, "Oh." Her eyes fall to the ground, her lashes dark against her pale cheek. Her shoulders slump forward, given up. "Okay."
"I'm really sorry. You, you deserve somebody better." He clenches his hand around the table, watches as she raises her eyes to him, wet with infinite possibilities that's he's crushing in his grip.
They do not talk after that. She packs quickly and silently, leaves as though she were never there. But her ghost hangs heavy on his shoulders, and her absence is the only reminder he needs.
He sees her, once, a few years later, looking into a window of some antique shop along the beach. The first thing Jacob notices is the glint of a ring on her finger, reminding him of the one on his hand suffocating him.
She looks up and takes a moment to process, maybe takes a moment to remember him, and then she smiles slowly, her lips barely turning up at the corners. Sam tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and lifts her hand to wave. Jacob can hear the laugh that accompanies the gesture.
He walks over, hands stuffed in his pockets. They stand far apart, unsure whether to hug or not. "It's nice to see you, Sam." He makes a point of saying her name. Jacob wants to let her know that he remembers everything. But he's always had a good memory, she knows that, too well.
"You too." She sounds sincere; she looks happy.
"Your, uh, you're married?" He asks, pointing to the ring on her finger with his right hand, the left still shoved into his jean's pocket, as though he doesn't want her to know it's there, doesn't want her to get the wrong impression. It lost its meaning a long time ago.
"Oh, yeah. I am." She nods, bites her lip briefly. She hesitates and Jacob can tell she's trying to decide if she wants to ask about Anna. He hopes she doesn't, and maybe she can tell, because all she says is. "You look good."
"You, too."
"Thanks. I'm, I'm really happy." She blinks, looks at the ocean where the waves are lapping against the shore, taking in a few pebbles and sticks. "Well, I'm meeting Tina, you remember Tina?" He nods. "So, it was good to see you."
"Yeah, yeah," He whispers.
Before she leaves she reaches out as though to hug him, but stops midway through the motion. Instead, she places one hand delicately on his shoulder and brushes her lips over his cheek. He can feel her smiling.
"Bye Jacob," She calls, her hair billowing behind her as the wind picks up.
the borgias | lucrezia/cesare. this old snake banging on your door (pg)
It's Lucrezia's first masque since she gave birth, and she feels larger than it, somehow. With heavy feet, a straight spine, and guarded eyes she moves around the room, remembering how to glide and twirl, blend in and stand out at the same time. She observes (she's always been good at watching people) Juan devouring some woman with dark ringlets, Father sitting as though he is on a throne, king of a great empire. She cannot find Cesare, but she doesn't ruminate on it; he's never been good at staying away from her.
Dancing with a few men (or boys, she thinks she can tell the difference now, but she doesn't know which she prefers), she feels her body get heavier, exhaustion creeping up her toes, ankles, into her chest. Lucrezia excuses herself, doesn't know if she'd rather take a walk outside in the cooling air or simply go to her room and fall asleep, swimming in white sheets that don't quite feel right anyway.
She takes a sharp turn, unsure of where her feet are carrying her until she sees her brother, jaw set, standing just outside the crowd. His eyes flicker to her and his lips twitch with a smile he doesn't give into, but Lucrezia knows he will.
"Cesare," she says, standing next to him to see his view of the dance floor, wondering if he was watching her.
"You are lighter on your feet than every man here." His voice is hoarse, and she's beginning to associate his current stance with violence, feet just too far apart. She imagines him with blood on his hands, those hands wrapped around someone's neck the way he warps them around her waist.
"Even you?" It's a challenge.
His eyes flicker from hers to her mouth to her hand. "Come with me," he says, offering his hand to her, palm open, upturned. She takes it; she cannot recall a time when his firm grip hadn't been comforting, even though Lucrezia doesn't think she needs to be taken care of anymore.
He leads her outside, the moon casting shadows, the air eliciting goosebumps on her arms. When he places his hand on her hip he is careful, delicate; he is only ever delicate with her. He presses too close, the stubble on his jaw scratching against her cheek, the fabric of their clothes smashed uncomfortably between their bodies, but Lucrezia doesn't mind.
They sway as music from the hall echoes quietly around them, punctured with silences as the players decrescendo and crescendo. Something is building, and Lucrezia closes her eyes, feels Cesare's hand on her waist, the pads of his fingers pressing and releasing as he learns her new body.
She is the same, but she is different.
When the air gets too hot, he twirls her around and around until she giggles, until her ladylike giggle turns into a childish laugh. It's worth breaking to see a grin spread across his lips.
Then Cesare kisses her, catching her intake of breath as she laughs against his mourh. Her hand rests on his jaw, her thumb tracing his cheekbone. The press of his body into hers is different now, more deliberate, tighter. Lucrezia hears her blood rushing in her ears, her heart beating against her ribcage. Pain tickles at her heels, her eyelids are heavy, but her palm is awake and her mouth moves against his, and she thinks he is praying even though he doesn't believe in God.
She doesn't know what she believes in anymore except for herself, except for Cesare.
He bunches the fabric of her dress in his hand and she hitches her leg, breathes an Amen against his lips, Forgive me brother, for I have sinned.
skins | tony/effy. till ashes, ashes (pg)
When Tony gets home from university for the summer, the sun has already set and the house looks dark; none of the lights seem to be on. He likes the darkness, the stillness of it, the mystery and the possibility hidden with its depths. He knows he used to like it more, before the accident, but it still makes his spine tingle in anticipation.
The door creaks when he pushes it open, and he hears the soft thud of his bags on the floor. Tony blinks a few times, letting his eyes adjust. The house is a mess--dishes and trash littering the counter and the table, clothes hanging on the stairs, cigarettes scattered on the floor.
He thinks he knows what this is, what his mom told him about over the phone. She had been crying, he could tell even though she tried to hide it, her voice had been softer than usual, thicker and unsteady. "It's too hard." She had paused and the silence felt inconsequential then, when he was stretched out on the bed in his dorm room, drunk students running through the hallway.
"I'm a terrible mother."
"You're not," he replied. Tony thinks he had meant it, at the time he had meant it, but he was distracted by Becca knocking on his door, so he said goodbye and hung up the phone without telling her he loved her.
After the accident and after putting himself back together again, he had gotten good at telling his mother he loved her. Now, standing in the darkness, realizing he had forgotten to say it, it makes him feel profoundly normal, but there's guilt tugging at his sides, threatening to tear him apart.
The stairs don't creak under his weight, but Tony feels like they should. There's light spilling out from Effy's door, and it scares him that he doesn't hear her. But she's always been quiet, he thinks, a vague attempt to reassure himself: everything is fine.
He opens the door, and this time it is too loud, the sound magnified against the stark emptiness of Effy's room. She is sitting on the floor, back arched forward, hair making a curtain around her. Tony pads over to her, thinks about kneeling down, moving her hair out of her face before speaking.
Instead he says, "Hey Effy." His voice is high-pitched, and he feels the break in his words caught in his throat.
She looks up at him, eyes rimmed in red, glassy and distant. There are bruises on the insides of her arms, something that looks like a burn in the center of her palm. He wonders how she got them, who gave them to her, and he wants to think the feeling boiling in his chest is protective, but he knows it's something else--sadness or fear or terror.
"Tony." The words are all air and no substance.
He fucked up. He should have come home; he should have been there for her like she was there for him. He should have known.
"He's dead."
Tony doesn't know who she's talking about; he doesn't want to ask. He kneels down, places one hand on her jaw and cheek, the other on her shoulder, careful, like she could break if he presses too hard. He tries to find her, blinks and then searches her face, her eyes, her mouth, her bones.
His lips smash into hers, too hard and too much, teeth clank briefly, she opens up under him and grips at his back, nails digging into the notches in his spine. He thinks he used to be good at letting Effy know he loved her, so he tries to tell her now.
He makes a promise with his hands in her hair and his tongue against the roof of her mouth, one he doesn't know he can keep.
shameless (us) | ian/lip/mandy. a love story for the new age (pg-13)
Mandy kisses Lip.
One night, when they're all huddled on the couch, the rest of the kids asleep and Fiona at work, Mandy presses her mouth to Lip's, her legs draped over Ian's lap, and Ian doesn't know what to make of it.
He looks away quickly, laughs at something onscreen that's not funny, and replays it on an endless loop every time he shuts his eyes--the way she tilts her head and Lip leans down, the faded red of her lips on the soft pink of Lip's, their mouths opening together.
Ian hates it, but he can't figure out why.
Lip kisses Mandy.
This time it happens outside their house, Lip's hand on Mandy's cheek, Mandy standing on her tiptoes, her fingers curled around Lips's bicep. Ian knows this because he tries to look away--standing off to the side, unsure how to stand or where to put his hands--but he can't.
Something burns under his skin, and when he tries to scrub it away in the shower it just gets worse. So he punches the wall, the pain in his hand blocking everything else out.
Lip tells Ian he's tired of being hung up on Karen, says Mandy's really cool, and shrugs his shoulders.
"So, what are you doing with Mandy?" Ian asks, trying to sound casual. He doesn't give a rat's ass what Lip's doing with Mandy. He shouldn't care.
Lip shrugs, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. "Dunno. But it's fun."
Ian clenches his fists, leans against the wall and looks around the room. He can't stop picturing them together, can't stop the burning under his skin. He says, "Just don't hurt her. Okay?"
Lip smiles then, takes the cigarette out of his mouth and puts it out against the bedpost. "You're not going to be a third wheel."
Ian rolls his eyes, tries to smile, but he's angry. His nails dig into his palm, and he really fucking wish he could stop feeling like this. "I know."
Walking over, Lip stares him down, and Ian has to look away. He can feel Lip's body heat and it seems like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Lip touches Ian's arm, his hand firm in a way that's normally reassuring but isn't now. All the warmth in Ian's body pools in his chest, and he's surprised when Lip kisses him, lips barely pressing into his own so when he pulls away Ian isn't sure if it really happened.
But then Lip is kissing him again, hard. It's all teeth and tongue and touch, and everything goes blurry around the edges.
Ian knows he's fucked--they're fucked.
Mandy finds out.
She barges in, her sentence cutting off the minute she sees them: Lip's shirt tossed on the floor, Ian's hair sticking out, both of them laying on the bed too close to be anything but what it is.
"What the fuck is going on?" She asks, her mouth hanging open, her hip popping out in indignation.
"Um, uh, I," Ian stutters. He looks to Lip for help--he's always looked to Lip for help. But Lip looks mortified, eyes wide, pupils dilated from the lack of light in the room or what they were just doing or fear or some combination of the three.
"No, it's totally hot." Mandy says, looking between them, pulling her lip between her teeth.
And then Ian's not sure how it happens, only catches snippets of the conversation Lip and Mandy have, words that don't mean anything like you and us and Ian and like and friends. Except when it's over Mandy's biting her lip even harder and looking between them anxiously. And then Lip's breath is hot against his ear. "Can she join?"
Ian nods, just once. He feels like his brain is short-circuiting; his palms are sweaty and his mouth is dry and all he wants is everything to be okay. And then Mandy's lacing their fingers together and Lip is kissing her and Ian's looking at them and the pit of his stomach tightens. Lip presses his hips into Ian's and all he can do is keep his eyes open, and try to breathe.
Ian doesn't hate it anymore.
another happy day | elliot/alice. my skin tonight is a blazing (pg-13)
They're high. Alice doesn't process that, before it happens, but she thinks it. She likes to think when she's high because she feels smarter, feels less fucked up.
Elliot's cheeks are hallowed out, the joint still between his lips, and Alice's head feels light but her fingers feel heavy. She watches him inhaling, the knuckles in his hand pointing towards the door when he puts the bud of the joint out, smoke swirling from his mouth. When he looks at her, eyes wide open, nicer than usual, Alice drags her bottom lip between her teeth and smiles.
"I bought a razor," she says, and it's easier than she thought. It's just another fact about her life, like how she didn't go to the gym last week or how she's allergic to penicillin or how she's really fucking high right now. She bought a razor.
Elliot blinks, one side of his mouth curving up, the harshness returning to his eyes. "Hate yourself that much?"
Alice smiles back, clipped laughter escaping past her lips. "As much as you hate yourself."
Elliot seems to sober at that. He closes his eyes, his eyelashes long and dark against his pale skin. Alice reaches out, her fingers shaking; her arm doesn't feel like it's attached to the rest of her body. She feels like she has to think about doing every thing, command all the parts that make up her flesh and bones, thinks about how many parts have broken down.
The pads of her fingers ghost over his cheekbone, and she says, "You're so delicate."
His eyes blink open, serious. Elliot presses his mouth into a thin line and he clenches his jaw. Alice moves her fingers to trace it. "No," he says.
Alice just nods, resting her forehead against his. His breath is hot against her face, his skin burning against her fingertips. She cups his face in her palm, wonders if it'll leave a scar, if when she moves her hand away they'll be a red imprint of Elliot on her skin.
She hopes there is.
Her eyes flicker down to his mouth, parted slightly, white teeth against pink lips. He asks, "What are you doing?"
Alice realizes she's staring but she doesn't care. She kisses him then; it isn't difficult, he's only an inhale away. She wonders if she'll become addicted to him like she is to pain, but then she remembers that he's the drug addict of the family.
He tastes like smoke, and she can feel his knuckles pressing into her side, can feel his hand opening up and curving around her hip. His tongue sweeps into her mouth forcefully and Alice wonders if she tastes like smoke; she wonders if they taste the same. His other hand knots in her hair, tugs in a way that's almost painful. She kisses him harder, their teeth knocking together.
"We're really high," she says.
"Is that an excuse?" She doesn't hear his words but feels them against her mouth, his voice vibrating in her head, making her feel buzzed, making her feel like she's drunk.
"No." A beat. "And yes."
He laughs self-deprecatingly, his hand cupping the back of her head, pulling her back in.
the vampire diaries | klaus/rebekah. on the right side just slightly leaning (r)
When Rebekah chooses him, Klaus knows he is winning. Her eyes are downcast, her fingers play with her skirt, her shoulders tense and her lips trembling. He almost feels bad for her, but he has her, so it is better than not, even if he can hear her crying in the next room those first few nights. The air is cold against his skin, but he is not alone.
Rebekah never quite looks at him with as much disgust as she tries to muster, and there's a warmth behind her eyes that makes Klaus's skin crawl the same way it does when he watches her snap somebody's neck.
He watches her, watches the violence build as she starts to leave broken bones and torn flesh behind her. He watches as she starts to hate herself, as her anger turns to sadness to acceptance to something in-between--not what she expected or wanted, but not something she doesn't want, either.
Klaus gets in the habit of killing any boy see likes, twisting their fingers off, breaking their kneecaps, ripping out their beating hearts, and draining their bodies of blood. Rebekah gets angry each time, yells petulantly at him. Klaus laughs, but he wants to be enough. He thinks he should be enough.
After killing some nobleman Rebekah spent a dinner flirting, Klaus crawls into bed with her, traces of blood still on his knuckles.
With her voice flat she asks, "How did he taste?"
Klaus smirks, wraps his arms around Rebekah. "Good.Not at good as the general you slept with a few months back, but good."
He feels her body stiffen. "What do you want, Nik?"
"Don't you know?" he whispers against her neck, pulling her closer. He can feel her blood pulsing under his lips.
She turns and kiss hims first. She bites his lip, digs her fingernails into his hips, and later, into his spine. She draws blood, she licks the dried remains of her noblemen off his hands, and she pants words of disgust into his ear as her body melts into his.
Klaus wraps his fingers around her thin wrists, traces his thumb over her veins, leaves marks on her neck. When he sweeps his tongue into her and flicks her clit with his thumb, he feels her shudder, her hands tugging on his hair.
She feels solid under him and unsteady above him.
When sunlight streams through the open curtains, the room sticky and warm, blankets twisted around their legs, she asks, "What have you done to me?"
"This is who you are, sister. I've done nothing."
the vampire diaries | klaus/rebekah, stefan. a man to the left (pg-13)
Klaus learns to like Stefan, killing with him, blood spattered all around them, pooling under their feet, bones cracking in Stefan's hand, the noise echoing in Klaus's head. Stefan is cruel, his eyes growing dark when he's hungry, his words getting sharper, quicker. Klaus comes to recognize the signs of a binge, gets angry because it's risky, because he cares about Stefan, because he has to protect himself, has to protect Rebekah.
There are times, when Stefan's hunger is only a thorn in Klaus's sign, that Stefan looks at Rebekah, then looks at him, and smirks. Rebekah will laugh, ask Stephen to dance, standing up and wrapping her palm around his arm. Stefan's eye will flash to Klaus from the dance floor, his smirk twisting his whole face, and Klaus thinks he knows.
Those are the times when Klaus hates Stefan again, bright, white anger shooting up his spine, the urge to grab Rebekah and run aching in his feet.
"Rebekah," he says, gripping her wrist, pushing her against the door.
She worries her lip between her teeth, pushes her hips into his. "Klaus."
"Stefan is getting reckless." She's too attached, he knows. Sometimes Klaus thinks he's too attached. But he realizes there is no choice, it is Rebekah every time. Most days he thinks she knows that too, but there are moments when he wonders.
Her eyes harden, and her grip on his side loosens. "You're jealous."
"No," Klaus bites out. He used to be jealous, but he would never admit that. "People are going to find out we're here."
Before she blinks there is fear in Rebekah's eyes, but then it disappears and her fingers skim over his back. "Let's not talk about this now."
Klaus thinks about protesting, but then her lips are on his neck, and he knows how stubborn she can be, how it's worse when it comes to Stefan. He twists his fingers in her hair and bites back a moan when she bites at his skin.
Rebekah's foot is in his lap, and her head rests on Stefan's shoulder. The music settles between them, feels heavier and sadder than usual, feels stagnant. Klaus feels hungry but he doesn't want to tell Stefan, is too tired to clean up his mess.
"How was your night?" Stefan asks, his fingers tapping to the beat on the table.
Klaus takes a sip of his drink, feels it burn down his throat. "Good."
"How was Rebekah?"
Klaus clears his throat, clenches his jaw, looks to his sister and sees her eyes move under her lids, feels her foot press down in warning. Klaus fights the urge to rip Stefan apart, to take Rebekah and run--it's stronger than usual, he feels the glass between his fingers vibrate, close to breaking. "Fine."
Stefan's answering wink is enough to make Klaus gulp the rest of his drink down.
It's almost worth the embarrassment when Rebekah shudders, his name on her lips.
It's worth it when he remembers she'll be with him forever, her legs around his hips and her mouth open against his.
skins | mini/liv. falling over me like stars (pg)
The bass vibrates through the floor, rattles her legs and pumps the club into a fury. As people dance they're always pushing towards the center, towards the front, sweaty bodies moving in sync, brushing against each other violently. The crowd threatens to swallow Mini whole; she loses herself in the shuffle, can't remember which door they came through and where the DJ is stationed. She is all too aware of her body, her arms are appendages that don't belong to her; she doesn't know what to do with them. Mini bends her legs, bobs, shakes her head back and forth, hair flying in front of her face, sticking to her lipgloss. She's drowning in the beat, among the bodies.
Fingers clasps around her wrist, and she looks down, relieved to see the the familiar, black nail polish. She looks up, a smile curling her lips as she see Liv, lipstick faded, eyeliner smudged, earrings swaying. This is the part Mini loves, Liv's fingers wrapped around her wrist shooting life through her veins, the answering grin on Liv's mouth as she leans in close, brushing Mini's earlobe. "Come on," she says. Mini knows she is screaming, but it sounds like a secreted whispered only for her.
Liv pulls her through the crowd, swerving and pushing. Mini trips over people's feet and legs, bumps into their hips, but they don't notice. Everything swims in front of her eyes, the smoke of someone's cigarette getting caught in her throat, making her cough and blink back tears.
And then they're outside, cool air ramming into Mini the way the bodies in the club were. It feels sharp against her skin, almost painful, as though her entire body fell asleep and is being woken up with that needling feeling. She has to resist the urge to collapse against the brick wall outside. Her legs feel hollow, as though the bone has disappeared and left her only with skin and blood.
Liv drops her wrist and Mini bites her lip. These actions feel connected.
"Fun, huh?" Liv says, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. The flame makes shadows on her face; they dance there, creating a story out of Liv's cheekbones, nose, eyelashes. Mini resists the urge to reach out, follow the lines with her fingertips, read the story with her palm. "You want one?" Liv holds the carton out.
"Um, no. It's okay," Mini says. Goosebumps pop up on her arms, her body registering the cold air.
"Sure?" Liv asks before taking the drag, her mouth forming a perfect circle when she exhales, the smoke floating right through Mini and blending into the night sky.
"Yeah."
Liv shrugs, inhales again, and Mini leans against the wall, the scratch of brick catching on her shirt. She rubs her arms and watches Liv smoke, wondering what it's like to be carefree and confident, to not care what happens next. She wants to ask if Liv hooked up with anyone in the club after Mini got lost in the crowd, wants to know what color said person's eyes are and how it made Liv's heart beat faster.
She doesn't ask because she doesn't have a story of her own to tell.
The night feels still even though Mini can feel the thump of music under her feet, hears girls giggling somewhere down the street. The glow of a nearby streetlamp makes a halo around Liv's head when she steps forward and stomps out her cigarette, the ash beneath her feet standing out against the pavement and her bright green shoes.
Liv leans in; Mini's breath catches in her throat. She kisses Liv because Liv always makes Mini go first, like she knows how it makes Mini stop spiraling, gives her some sense of control as she places her hands on Liv's shoulders, curls her fingers around Liv's top. Mini sweeps her tongue along Liv's cheek, wants to bite Liv's lip but doesn't know how. She tastes like alcohol and smoke, and it makes Mini's stomach coil, makes her heart jolt in her ribcage.
Mini's knees buckle and Liv keeps her from falling down by pressing their bodies together.
like crazy | jacob/sam. tape me up, then break me up (g)
It takes Jacob a long time before he tells Sam that Anna's visa finally came through. He finishes measurements for a chair, sketches a few designs into the new notebook Sam got him at the store last week, sands down a chair he's been finished with for a few days. Keeping his hands busy becomes his first priority, because when his hands are occupied so is his mind.
But when his hands still for a moment, his palm pressed against a flat, too smooth chair, there are flashes. Blond hair bouncing to the thump-thump, thump-thump of a club, soft hands cupping his face and a thumb brushing over his cheekbone, a hip bumping into him, vanilla shampoo under his nose, pink lips stretching into a smile, terrible and mildly offensive knock-knock jokes, a loud uninhibited laugh punctuated by a quiet snort, and a girl he could have loved if he'd let himself.
It was hard enough to say goodbye to her the first time, when he was more sure of Anna than he is now. Now it seems impossible, like he's breaking a promise he made to Sam in silence, in the brief connection of fingertips, a promise for shared life with some sort of future they could create together, without a plan and without the past hiding in the shadows.
He tells her in the morning so she has the entire day ahead of her, so she can decide for herself what to do with the information.
He says, "Anna's uh, her visa came through."
Sam says, "Oh." Her eyes fall to the ground, her lashes dark against her pale cheek. Her shoulders slump forward, given up. "Okay."
"I'm really sorry. You, you deserve somebody better." He clenches his hand around the table, watches as she raises her eyes to him, wet with infinite possibilities that's he's crushing in his grip.
They do not talk after that. She packs quickly and silently, leaves as though she were never there. But her ghost hangs heavy on his shoulders, and her absence is the only reminder he needs.
He sees her, once, a few years later, looking into a window of some antique shop along the beach. The first thing Jacob notices is the glint of a ring on her finger, reminding him of the one on his hand suffocating him.
She looks up and takes a moment to process, maybe takes a moment to remember him, and then she smiles slowly, her lips barely turning up at the corners. Sam tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and lifts her hand to wave. Jacob can hear the laugh that accompanies the gesture.
He walks over, hands stuffed in his pockets. They stand far apart, unsure whether to hug or not. "It's nice to see you, Sam." He makes a point of saying her name. Jacob wants to let her know that he remembers everything. But he's always had a good memory, she knows that, too well.
"You too." She sounds sincere; she looks happy.
"Your, uh, you're married?" He asks, pointing to the ring on her finger with his right hand, the left still shoved into his jean's pocket, as though he doesn't want her to know it's there, doesn't want her to get the wrong impression. It lost its meaning a long time ago.
"Oh, yeah. I am." She nods, bites her lip briefly. She hesitates and Jacob can tell she's trying to decide if she wants to ask about Anna. He hopes she doesn't, and maybe she can tell, because all she says is. "You look good."
"You, too."
"Thanks. I'm, I'm really happy." She blinks, looks at the ocean where the waves are lapping against the shore, taking in a few pebbles and sticks. "Well, I'm meeting Tina, you remember Tina?" He nods. "So, it was good to see you."
"Yeah, yeah," He whispers.
Before she leaves she reaches out as though to hug him, but stops midway through the motion. Instead, she places one hand delicately on his shoulder and brushes her lips over his cheek. He can feel her smiling.
"Bye Jacob," She calls, her hair billowing behind her as the wind picks up.
the borgias | lucrezia/cesare. this old snake banging on your door (pg)
It's Lucrezia's first masque since she gave birth, and she feels larger than it, somehow. With heavy feet, a straight spine, and guarded eyes she moves around the room, remembering how to glide and twirl, blend in and stand out at the same time. She observes (she's always been good at watching people) Juan devouring some woman with dark ringlets, Father sitting as though he is on a throne, king of a great empire. She cannot find Cesare, but she doesn't ruminate on it; he's never been good at staying away from her.
Dancing with a few men (or boys, she thinks she can tell the difference now, but she doesn't know which she prefers), she feels her body get heavier, exhaustion creeping up her toes, ankles, into her chest. Lucrezia excuses herself, doesn't know if she'd rather take a walk outside in the cooling air or simply go to her room and fall asleep, swimming in white sheets that don't quite feel right anyway.
She takes a sharp turn, unsure of where her feet are carrying her until she sees her brother, jaw set, standing just outside the crowd. His eyes flicker to her and his lips twitch with a smile he doesn't give into, but Lucrezia knows he will.
"Cesare," she says, standing next to him to see his view of the dance floor, wondering if he was watching her.
"You are lighter on your feet than every man here." His voice is hoarse, and she's beginning to associate his current stance with violence, feet just too far apart. She imagines him with blood on his hands, those hands wrapped around someone's neck the way he warps them around her waist.
"Even you?" It's a challenge.
His eyes flicker from hers to her mouth to her hand. "Come with me," he says, offering his hand to her, palm open, upturned. She takes it; she cannot recall a time when his firm grip hadn't been comforting, even though Lucrezia doesn't think she needs to be taken care of anymore.
He leads her outside, the moon casting shadows, the air eliciting goosebumps on her arms. When he places his hand on her hip he is careful, delicate; he is only ever delicate with her. He presses too close, the stubble on his jaw scratching against her cheek, the fabric of their clothes smashed uncomfortably between their bodies, but Lucrezia doesn't mind.
They sway as music from the hall echoes quietly around them, punctured with silences as the players decrescendo and crescendo. Something is building, and Lucrezia closes her eyes, feels Cesare's hand on her waist, the pads of his fingers pressing and releasing as he learns her new body.
She is the same, but she is different.
When the air gets too hot, he twirls her around and around until she giggles, until her ladylike giggle turns into a childish laugh. It's worth breaking to see a grin spread across his lips.
Then Cesare kisses her, catching her intake of breath as she laughs against his mourh. Her hand rests on his jaw, her thumb tracing his cheekbone. The press of his body into hers is different now, more deliberate, tighter. Lucrezia hears her blood rushing in her ears, her heart beating against her ribcage. Pain tickles at her heels, her eyelids are heavy, but her palm is awake and her mouth moves against his, and she thinks he is praying even though he doesn't believe in God.
She doesn't know what she believes in anymore except for herself, except for Cesare.
He bunches the fabric of her dress in his hand and she hitches her leg, breathes an Amen against his lips, Forgive me brother, for I have sinned.
skins | tony/effy. till ashes, ashes (pg)
When Tony gets home from university for the summer, the sun has already set and the house looks dark; none of the lights seem to be on. He likes the darkness, the stillness of it, the mystery and the possibility hidden with its depths. He knows he used to like it more, before the accident, but it still makes his spine tingle in anticipation.
The door creaks when he pushes it open, and he hears the soft thud of his bags on the floor. Tony blinks a few times, letting his eyes adjust. The house is a mess--dishes and trash littering the counter and the table, clothes hanging on the stairs, cigarettes scattered on the floor.
He thinks he knows what this is, what his mom told him about over the phone. She had been crying, he could tell even though she tried to hide it, her voice had been softer than usual, thicker and unsteady. "It's too hard." She had paused and the silence felt inconsequential then, when he was stretched out on the bed in his dorm room, drunk students running through the hallway.
"I'm a terrible mother."
"You're not," he replied. Tony thinks he had meant it, at the time he had meant it, but he was distracted by Becca knocking on his door, so he said goodbye and hung up the phone without telling her he loved her.
After the accident and after putting himself back together again, he had gotten good at telling his mother he loved her. Now, standing in the darkness, realizing he had forgotten to say it, it makes him feel profoundly normal, but there's guilt tugging at his sides, threatening to tear him apart.
The stairs don't creak under his weight, but Tony feels like they should. There's light spilling out from Effy's door, and it scares him that he doesn't hear her. But she's always been quiet, he thinks, a vague attempt to reassure himself: everything is fine.
He opens the door, and this time it is too loud, the sound magnified against the stark emptiness of Effy's room. She is sitting on the floor, back arched forward, hair making a curtain around her. Tony pads over to her, thinks about kneeling down, moving her hair out of her face before speaking.
Instead he says, "Hey Effy." His voice is high-pitched, and he feels the break in his words caught in his throat.
She looks up at him, eyes rimmed in red, glassy and distant. There are bruises on the insides of her arms, something that looks like a burn in the center of her palm. He wonders how she got them, who gave them to her, and he wants to think the feeling boiling in his chest is protective, but he knows it's something else--sadness or fear or terror.
"Tony." The words are all air and no substance.
He fucked up. He should have come home; he should have been there for her like she was there for him. He should have known.
"He's dead."
Tony doesn't know who she's talking about; he doesn't want to ask. He kneels down, places one hand on her jaw and cheek, the other on her shoulder, careful, like she could break if he presses too hard. He tries to find her, blinks and then searches her face, her eyes, her mouth, her bones.
His lips smash into hers, too hard and too much, teeth clank briefly, she opens up under him and grips at his back, nails digging into the notches in his spine. He thinks he used to be good at letting Effy know he loved her, so he tries to tell her now.
He makes a promise with his hands in her hair and his tongue against the roof of her mouth, one he doesn't know he can keep.
shameless (us) | ian/lip/mandy. a love story for the new age (pg-13)
Mandy kisses Lip.
One night, when they're all huddled on the couch, the rest of the kids asleep and Fiona at work, Mandy presses her mouth to Lip's, her legs draped over Ian's lap, and Ian doesn't know what to make of it.
He looks away quickly, laughs at something onscreen that's not funny, and replays it on an endless loop every time he shuts his eyes--the way she tilts her head and Lip leans down, the faded red of her lips on the soft pink of Lip's, their mouths opening together.
Ian hates it, but he can't figure out why.
Lip kisses Mandy.
This time it happens outside their house, Lip's hand on Mandy's cheek, Mandy standing on her tiptoes, her fingers curled around Lips's bicep. Ian knows this because he tries to look away--standing off to the side, unsure how to stand or where to put his hands--but he can't.
Something burns under his skin, and when he tries to scrub it away in the shower it just gets worse. So he punches the wall, the pain in his hand blocking everything else out.
Lip tells Ian he's tired of being hung up on Karen, says Mandy's really cool, and shrugs his shoulders.
"So, what are you doing with Mandy?" Ian asks, trying to sound casual. He doesn't give a rat's ass what Lip's doing with Mandy. He shouldn't care.
Lip shrugs, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. "Dunno. But it's fun."
Ian clenches his fists, leans against the wall and looks around the room. He can't stop picturing them together, can't stop the burning under his skin. He says, "Just don't hurt her. Okay?"
Lip smiles then, takes the cigarette out of his mouth and puts it out against the bedpost. "You're not going to be a third wheel."
Ian rolls his eyes, tries to smile, but he's angry. His nails dig into his palm, and he really fucking wish he could stop feeling like this. "I know."
Walking over, Lip stares him down, and Ian has to look away. He can feel Lip's body heat and it seems like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Lip touches Ian's arm, his hand firm in a way that's normally reassuring but isn't now. All the warmth in Ian's body pools in his chest, and he's surprised when Lip kisses him, lips barely pressing into his own so when he pulls away Ian isn't sure if it really happened.
But then Lip is kissing him again, hard. It's all teeth and tongue and touch, and everything goes blurry around the edges.
Ian knows he's fucked--they're fucked.
Mandy finds out.
She barges in, her sentence cutting off the minute she sees them: Lip's shirt tossed on the floor, Ian's hair sticking out, both of them laying on the bed too close to be anything but what it is.
"What the fuck is going on?" She asks, her mouth hanging open, her hip popping out in indignation.
"Um, uh, I," Ian stutters. He looks to Lip for help--he's always looked to Lip for help. But Lip looks mortified, eyes wide, pupils dilated from the lack of light in the room or what they were just doing or fear or some combination of the three.
"No, it's totally hot." Mandy says, looking between them, pulling her lip between her teeth.
And then Ian's not sure how it happens, only catches snippets of the conversation Lip and Mandy have, words that don't mean anything like you and us and Ian and like and friends. Except when it's over Mandy's biting her lip even harder and looking between them anxiously. And then Lip's breath is hot against his ear. "Can she join?"
Ian nods, just once. He feels like his brain is short-circuiting; his palms are sweaty and his mouth is dry and all he wants is everything to be okay. And then Mandy's lacing their fingers together and Lip is kissing her and Ian's looking at them and the pit of his stomach tightens. Lip presses his hips into Ian's and all he can do is keep his eyes open, and try to breathe.
Ian doesn't hate it anymore.
another happy day | elliot/alice. my skin tonight is a blazing (pg-13)
They're high. Alice doesn't process that, before it happens, but she thinks it. She likes to think when she's high because she feels smarter, feels less fucked up.
Elliot's cheeks are hallowed out, the joint still between his lips, and Alice's head feels light but her fingers feel heavy. She watches him inhaling, the knuckles in his hand pointing towards the door when he puts the bud of the joint out, smoke swirling from his mouth. When he looks at her, eyes wide open, nicer than usual, Alice drags her bottom lip between her teeth and smiles.
"I bought a razor," she says, and it's easier than she thought. It's just another fact about her life, like how she didn't go to the gym last week or how she's allergic to penicillin or how she's really fucking high right now. She bought a razor.
Elliot blinks, one side of his mouth curving up, the harshness returning to his eyes. "Hate yourself that much?"
Alice smiles back, clipped laughter escaping past her lips. "As much as you hate yourself."
Elliot seems to sober at that. He closes his eyes, his eyelashes long and dark against his pale skin. Alice reaches out, her fingers shaking; her arm doesn't feel like it's attached to the rest of her body. She feels like she has to think about doing every thing, command all the parts that make up her flesh and bones, thinks about how many parts have broken down.
The pads of her fingers ghost over his cheekbone, and she says, "You're so delicate."
His eyes blink open, serious. Elliot presses his mouth into a thin line and he clenches his jaw. Alice moves her fingers to trace it. "No," he says.
Alice just nods, resting her forehead against his. His breath is hot against her face, his skin burning against her fingertips. She cups his face in her palm, wonders if it'll leave a scar, if when she moves her hand away they'll be a red imprint of Elliot on her skin.
She hopes there is.
Her eyes flicker down to his mouth, parted slightly, white teeth against pink lips. He asks, "What are you doing?"
Alice realizes she's staring but she doesn't care. She kisses him then; it isn't difficult, he's only an inhale away. She wonders if she'll become addicted to him like she is to pain, but then she remembers that he's the drug addict of the family.
He tastes like smoke, and she can feel his knuckles pressing into her side, can feel his hand opening up and curving around her hip. His tongue sweeps into her mouth forcefully and Alice wonders if she tastes like smoke; she wonders if they taste the same. His other hand knots in her hair, tugs in a way that's almost painful. She kisses him harder, their teeth knocking together.
"We're really high," she says.
"Is that an excuse?" She doesn't hear his words but feels them against her mouth, his voice vibrating in her head, making her feel buzzed, making her feel like she's drunk.
"No." A beat. "And yes."
He laughs self-deprecatingly, his hand cupping the back of her head, pulling her back in.
the vampire diaries | klaus/rebekah. on the right side just slightly leaning (r)
When Rebekah chooses him, Klaus knows he is winning. Her eyes are downcast, her fingers play with her skirt, her shoulders tense and her lips trembling. He almost feels bad for her, but he has her, so it is better than not, even if he can hear her crying in the next room those first few nights. The air is cold against his skin, but he is not alone.
Rebekah never quite looks at him with as much disgust as she tries to muster, and there's a warmth behind her eyes that makes Klaus's skin crawl the same way it does when he watches her snap somebody's neck.
He watches her, watches the violence build as she starts to leave broken bones and torn flesh behind her. He watches as she starts to hate herself, as her anger turns to sadness to acceptance to something in-between--not what she expected or wanted, but not something she doesn't want, either.
Klaus gets in the habit of killing any boy see likes, twisting their fingers off, breaking their kneecaps, ripping out their beating hearts, and draining their bodies of blood. Rebekah gets angry each time, yells petulantly at him. Klaus laughs, but he wants to be enough. He thinks he should be enough.
After killing some nobleman Rebekah spent a dinner flirting, Klaus crawls into bed with her, traces of blood still on his knuckles.
With her voice flat she asks, "How did he taste?"
Klaus smirks, wraps his arms around Rebekah. "Good.Not at good as the general you slept with a few months back, but good."
He feels her body stiffen. "What do you want, Nik?"
"Don't you know?" he whispers against her neck, pulling her closer. He can feel her blood pulsing under his lips.
She turns and kiss hims first. She bites his lip, digs her fingernails into his hips, and later, into his spine. She draws blood, she licks the dried remains of her noblemen off his hands, and she pants words of disgust into his ear as her body melts into his.
Klaus wraps his fingers around her thin wrists, traces his thumb over her veins, leaves marks on her neck. When he sweeps his tongue into her and flicks her clit with his thumb, he feels her shudder, her hands tugging on his hair.
She feels solid under him and unsteady above him.
When sunlight streams through the open curtains, the room sticky and warm, blankets twisted around their legs, she asks, "What have you done to me?"
"This is who you are, sister. I've done nothing."
the vampire diaries | klaus/rebekah, stefan. a man to the left (pg-13)
Klaus learns to like Stefan, killing with him, blood spattered all around them, pooling under their feet, bones cracking in Stefan's hand, the noise echoing in Klaus's head. Stefan is cruel, his eyes growing dark when he's hungry, his words getting sharper, quicker. Klaus comes to recognize the signs of a binge, gets angry because it's risky, because he cares about Stefan, because he has to protect himself, has to protect Rebekah.
There are times, when Stefan's hunger is only a thorn in Klaus's sign, that Stefan looks at Rebekah, then looks at him, and smirks. Rebekah will laugh, ask Stephen to dance, standing up and wrapping her palm around his arm. Stefan's eye will flash to Klaus from the dance floor, his smirk twisting his whole face, and Klaus thinks he knows.
Those are the times when Klaus hates Stefan again, bright, white anger shooting up his spine, the urge to grab Rebekah and run aching in his feet.
"Rebekah," he says, gripping her wrist, pushing her against the door.
She worries her lip between her teeth, pushes her hips into his. "Klaus."
"Stefan is getting reckless." She's too attached, he knows. Sometimes Klaus thinks he's too attached. But he realizes there is no choice, it is Rebekah every time. Most days he thinks she knows that too, but there are moments when he wonders.
Her eyes harden, and her grip on his side loosens. "You're jealous."
"No," Klaus bites out. He used to be jealous, but he would never admit that. "People are going to find out we're here."
Before she blinks there is fear in Rebekah's eyes, but then it disappears and her fingers skim over his back. "Let's not talk about this now."
Klaus thinks about protesting, but then her lips are on his neck, and he knows how stubborn she can be, how it's worse when it comes to Stefan. He twists his fingers in her hair and bites back a moan when she bites at his skin.
Rebekah's foot is in his lap, and her head rests on Stefan's shoulder. The music settles between them, feels heavier and sadder than usual, feels stagnant. Klaus feels hungry but he doesn't want to tell Stefan, is too tired to clean up his mess.
"How was your night?" Stefan asks, his fingers tapping to the beat on the table.
Klaus takes a sip of his drink, feels it burn down his throat. "Good."
"How was Rebekah?"
Klaus clears his throat, clenches his jaw, looks to his sister and sees her eyes move under her lids, feels her foot press down in warning. Klaus fights the urge to rip Stefan apart, to take Rebekah and run--it's stronger than usual, he feels the glass between his fingers vibrate, close to breaking. "Fine."
Stefan's answering wink is enough to make Klaus gulp the rest of his drink down.
It's almost worth the embarrassment when Rebekah shudders, his name on her lips.
It's worth it when he remembers she'll be with him forever, her legs around his hips and her mouth open against his.
skins | mini/liv. falling over me like stars (pg)
The bass vibrates through the floor, rattles her legs and pumps the club into a fury. As people dance they're always pushing towards the center, towards the front, sweaty bodies moving in sync, brushing against each other violently. The crowd threatens to swallow Mini whole; she loses herself in the shuffle, can't remember which door they came through and where the DJ is stationed. She is all too aware of her body, her arms are appendages that don't belong to her; she doesn't know what to do with them. Mini bends her legs, bobs, shakes her head back and forth, hair flying in front of her face, sticking to her lipgloss. She's drowning in the beat, among the bodies.
Fingers clasps around her wrist, and she looks down, relieved to see the the familiar, black nail polish. She looks up, a smile curling her lips as she see Liv, lipstick faded, eyeliner smudged, earrings swaying. This is the part Mini loves, Liv's fingers wrapped around her wrist shooting life through her veins, the answering grin on Liv's mouth as she leans in close, brushing Mini's earlobe. "Come on," she says. Mini knows she is screaming, but it sounds like a secreted whispered only for her.
Liv pulls her through the crowd, swerving and pushing. Mini trips over people's feet and legs, bumps into their hips, but they don't notice. Everything swims in front of her eyes, the smoke of someone's cigarette getting caught in her throat, making her cough and blink back tears.
And then they're outside, cool air ramming into Mini the way the bodies in the club were. It feels sharp against her skin, almost painful, as though her entire body fell asleep and is being woken up with that needling feeling. She has to resist the urge to collapse against the brick wall outside. Her legs feel hollow, as though the bone has disappeared and left her only with skin and blood.
Liv drops her wrist and Mini bites her lip. These actions feel connected.
"Fun, huh?" Liv says, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. The flame makes shadows on her face; they dance there, creating a story out of Liv's cheekbones, nose, eyelashes. Mini resists the urge to reach out, follow the lines with her fingertips, read the story with her palm. "You want one?" Liv holds the carton out.
"Um, no. It's okay," Mini says. Goosebumps pop up on her arms, her body registering the cold air.
"Sure?" Liv asks before taking the drag, her mouth forming a perfect circle when she exhales, the smoke floating right through Mini and blending into the night sky.
"Yeah."
Liv shrugs, inhales again, and Mini leans against the wall, the scratch of brick catching on her shirt. She rubs her arms and watches Liv smoke, wondering what it's like to be carefree and confident, to not care what happens next. She wants to ask if Liv hooked up with anyone in the club after Mini got lost in the crowd, wants to know what color said person's eyes are and how it made Liv's heart beat faster.
She doesn't ask because she doesn't have a story of her own to tell.
The night feels still even though Mini can feel the thump of music under her feet, hears girls giggling somewhere down the street. The glow of a nearby streetlamp makes a halo around Liv's head when she steps forward and stomps out her cigarette, the ash beneath her feet standing out against the pavement and her bright green shoes.
Liv leans in; Mini's breath catches in her throat. She kisses Liv because Liv always makes Mini go first, like she knows how it makes Mini stop spiraling, gives her some sense of control as she places her hands on Liv's shoulders, curls her fingers around Liv's top. Mini sweeps her tongue along Liv's cheek, wants to bite Liv's lip but doesn't know how. She tastes like alcohol and smoke, and it makes Mini's stomach coil, makes her heart jolt in her ribcage.
Mini's knees buckle and Liv keeps her from falling down by pressing their bodies together.