#(i have been dodging the verbal statements of disappointment for a little while by working 55hrs/wk but it can’t work forever)

[unopenablebox]

we have a fucking Institute Research Retreat out in fucking vermont coming up which is just an unimaginable nightmare for so many reasons but especially:

our senior postdoc feels very strongly that we should drive out to the approximate retreat location a day early, HIKE SOME MOUNTAIN TRAILS, *CAMP OVERNIGHT*, AND THEN HIKE THE REST OF THE WAY TO THE RETREAT, where we will then give poster presentations that same day. distances and trail and required speed are all unspecified except for assurances that the trail he has in mind is “pretty easy” and “just a couple hours”.

(you may remember that it was BARELY TWO MONTHS AGO that my lab  went on a mandatory hiking retreat that involved a hike of roughly triple the difficulty and length we had been told to expect. over the course of this i was put under intense social & professional pressure to hike far beyond my physical comfort or ability, required to disclose extensive personal medical information in order to justify being unable to hike as fast or as far as the rest of the group, repeatedly had to negotiate for being allowed to be in a slower group or travel less distance than everyone else, and still ended up doing SEVEN HOURS OF STEEP INCLINE HIKING which left me with a significant, painful hip injury that took three weeks to mostly recover.)

other people in the lab have pushed back on this plan, but only the overnight camping bit, on the grounds that it would be too unpleasant to do without a shower the day of the retreat. they are still in negotiations for what would be a good alternative plan to fit in the hiking.

if my advisor had not been by far the primary driver of the high-speed, long distance hiking in trip #1, i would consider going to her with something like:

“as you know, i have physical limitations that make hiking difficult for me. after our last hiking trip, i was injured and in a lot of pain and it made it more difficult for me to get things done. i had enormous difficulty doing anything else that same day. as such, i’m worried that going on a hike right before the retreat will keep me from being able to participate in it or present my work effectively. since it seems like there’s not a good middle ground between my ability to hike, especially in a way that guarantees i won’t be injured at all, and the rest of the lab’s preferred hiking settings, distance, and pace. as such, i don’t think i can participate in the hike and still be engaged and productive at the retreat afterward. obviously i want to be an active member of the lab and participate in lab activities, but it’s not possible for me to do the hike followed by the research retreat.”

this seems reasonable, you know, lots of appeals to Wanting to Be My Best At Work, except that during the last hike i had to explain to her the concept that not all physical limitations can be overcome by willpower. so. uh. not sure if this is a reasonable thing to attempt or if i will be preemptively announcing myself to be a quitter and not a team player. truly don’t know what to do. maybe i’ll just die

[gwendre-simoneau]

Chapter 6

The book in Jennet's hands would never protect the two of them, and she was only in her leather armour - it wouldn't stand up to an onslaught of flying nails.

In an instant, she dropped the hardcover and dove to the side, grabbing Tamlin by the shoulders. She rolled, dragging him with her as the nails hit the floor like hailstones, and he landed hard against the wall.

"Ow."

"Sorry." Jennet was already on her feet, wary for another attack, but the nails were immobile in the wood floor.

"Evasive," said Mason, impressed. "But can you adapt to remain competitive?" He swept a hand again, and the loose posters became rigid and flat, flying straight at the wizard on the floor with edges exposed.

"Not paper cuts!" Tamlin screeched. He closed his eyes and flinched away.

Jennet snatched them out of the air, hands safe behind leather gloves. "Wow, you're a baby when you don't have your magic."

"So how about helping me out of these things?" He rattled his manacles again.

"I'm sorry," said Mason, not sounding sorry at all, "but we're in the middle of a negotiation." He sent heavy books flying from both sides.

Tamlin shuffled backwards as much as he could with his hands behind him, and Jennet ripped a cupboard door off to act as a shield, blocking book after book. "Have you tried pulling your hands apart?" she asked. While blocking, she saw Mason wave a hand to the side again, but nothing else came flying. What was that about?

"These are metal, not string!"

"Tamlin, heads up." Jennet reached down and started throwing the textbooks back towards Mason, more as distractions than ballistics. Mason easily deflected them with a green forcefield.

"For what?" Tamlin asked.

"Not sure yet."

She found out a second later. As she scooped up another textbook, a bark sounded from one of the side rooms. They both whipped their heads around. A whole herd of excited corgis came streaming through the now-open doorway.

"At least these ones are normal-sized," Tamlin muttered. Then he raised his voice. "You guys aren't murdery, right?" He paused, then, tentatively: "Megadog?"

"My most valuable assets!" Mason cried gleefully. "Go!"

They swarmed the room, clambering on top of Tamlin's prone form, weaving between Jennet's legs, and whining for treats at Mason's feet.

"Oh, boggarts." Jennet hesitated with a book in her hands. "We can't hit them, can we." It was a statement more than a question.

"Right. It's not their fault. This is a rescue as much as it is a takedown."

She sighed. "New strategy, then." She blocked everything out to focus on tactics. She'd be able to get to Mason in two long strides, if the path was clear of corgis. He was standing right next to the wheeled desk chair. Perfect. She waited for the little nuisances to move… waited… now.

"My hands are still tied!" Tamlin yelled as she leaped past the swarming corgis.

"Just a sec!" She body-checked Mason out of the way and grabbed the arms of the chair. Raising it over her head, she aimed for the wizard, who had landed half-sprawled on the desk. But before she could bring it down on his head, he pointed at it.

The chair sprung back away from him, wrenching her wrists painfully and loosening her grip.

"Ooh, a coil trap," Tamlin said, shuffling up behind her on his butt. "Interesting choice. Normal forcefields work just as well." He dodged the chair as it fell out of her hands.

Mason's smug smile was really starting to get to Jennet. "I remember you giving up on that one," she said, rubbing her wrist, "because…" She kicked him in the groin. "It only lasts about three seconds."

He doubled over. Jennet saw something glint on a cord around his neck. Is that…? The key could belong to anything. There was only a small chance it would free Tamlin. If she took the seconds before he recovered to make a direct attack instead, there was a slightly better chance that she could take Mason out of the fight for good.

She snatched the key.

"Hold still," she ordered, leaping over Tamlin's prone form and crouching to jab the key in the manacles. "Stop shaking!"

"It tickles," Tamlin squealed as a corgi nosed his ankle.

"Adorable," she said flatly. With a twist of the key, the manacles fell loose. "There." Jennet placed herself back between the wizards as they both stood up.

"Yes!" Tamlin shook out his hands, releasing orange sparks just because he could. "That feels so much better. Want me to summon a weapon?"

Jennet stepped back to avoid another hardcover attack and tripped over a dozing puppy. "Just get these irritating fluffballs out of here!" she screeched from the floor.

Tamlin gasped, but immediately started sweeping the corgis to the front door with a magical illusory hand. "She didn't mean that," he said gently. "Let's go, doggies. No, don't eat that. Come on, faster."

Jennet stood up and faced Mason. "What's that smile for?"

"No corgis. No collateral damage."

"I'm surprised you care about them."

He shrugged. "Assets. But who benefits more from a lack of bystanders - you, who can only throw punches and verbal jabs, or I, who can do this?" With both hands out, he cast a plume of emerald flames towards Jennet. Sure enough, without any dogs around, he was able to emit enough fire that Jennet would have no way to dodge in time.

"Whoa." Tamlin looked up from his corgi herding and threw a forcefield in front of her.

"Thanks."

"Can you hold him off?"

"Yeah, now that I know what his game is."

Tamlin nudged the door open and continued hurrying the dogs out the door.

"Once again," Mason said through gritted teeth as he threw ball after ball of fire at her while she ducked and wove behind pieces of furniture, "I don't play games."

"Green flames, though? Seriously?"

"Consumers like the pizzazz, according to the latest research. Sell the sizzle, not the stake." On that one-liner, he magically tore half a plank from the empty bookshelf and shot the pointed end at Jennet's heart.

She stepped to the side and raised an eyebrow. "Um, you know I'm not a vampire, right?" And didn't this guy know anything about homing? Tamlin had figured that out by age eight. "Keep the puns coming, though. Usually the two of us have to pull all the weight in that department."

Jennet glanced at the door behind her. The corgis were all out, and Tamlin was out of sight. She had to wrap this up.

She dropped to avoid another blast and rolled forwards. She grabbed the desk chair again and raised it above her head. Let's see you risk another coil trap. But this time, when he pointed, the chair instantly burst into intense flames. Jennet dropped it, instinctively kicking it to the side. She patted embers out on her boot.

Well, then. Time to throw his game off-balance. She stepped in close, throwing punch after punch, kick after kick. Mason had his forearms up, not blocking the way another fighter would have, but summoning more small coil traps wherever her blows were about to land. It was doing more harm to Jennet than to him. Just as she was wondering if the Queen would reimburse her for wrist braces, he looked past her in alarm. Not falling for that one. She punched him in the nose. It worked. Huh. She glanced over her shoulder.

The entire wall was engulfed in magical green flames. The culprit leaned against the wall, right where Jennet had kicked it: the blazing wooden chair.

Mason whimpered, but Jennet wasn't sure if it was from his broken nose or his burning hut.

She turned to him, sparing only a quick glance at the abandoned desk beyond. Bingo. "Okay, I have to admit I'm a little disappointed."

He looked up, hands covering his nose, and blinked watery eyes at her.

"Your corgis? The murdering monsters? Super impressive. But finding out you're the guy behind it all?" Jennet folded her arms and began circling him. "I was expecting you to be the big bad boss. But all these cliches… the business theme…" She approached the small desk and leaned back against it, grabbing hold of a drawer handle to subtly check its weight. This will do. "Looks like I'm just fighting the villain of the week." She shook her head. "You're nothing but a tired trope. Not exactly the best way for this story to start if we want it to be…" Wickedly fast, she pulled on the drawer, ripping it out of its tracks, and launched it at Mason's head. "…a hit."

Mason ducked - Boggarts! - and the drawer hit the flaming wall behind him. Already weakened, it collapsed.

"No!" Mason cried. "Not my wall! I need all four of them!"

Jennet wasn't listening. She frowned at the sight outside, now revealed behind the rubble of the wall. Tamlin had constructed a translucent kennel out of solid magic, and was trying to herd the dogs inside. But they kept climbing on him, and he was giggling. Great. By the time I'm done with this guy, Tamlin will have named all of them.

Mason straightened up, blood streaming from his nostrils. "I hate you."

"Oh, so that's where we are now? Too bad, I thought we were really hitting it off-"

Jennet felt her armour constrict and lift her off the ground, and suddenly she was flying face-first towards the flames.

"Different game! Different game!" she screamed.

"Hee hee, stop it!" Tamlin was laughing at one of the corgis licking his face. He held up a casual hand and an angled forcefield formed in front of Jennet. She landed on it with her hands, bringing her feet up, then twisted and pushed off.

Mason, who had been sneering triumphantly at her, only had time to open his mouth in surprise before she flew into him at full speed, knocking him to the ground. One more punch to the nose and he was out.

Jennet stood up, brushing ash off her leather armour. "Cool." She turned to her partner, calling past the hot flames. "I'm done. How 'bout you?"

He looked up, nudging another corgi inside the small pen. "Give me a sec. I was busy rescuing you."

She climbed out a window to avoid the flames, which had now engulfed over half the room. "Who was flopping around like a fish until I got those cuffs off you?"

"Okay, mutual rescue, par for the course." He closed off the pen with a flick of the wrist, then followed through for a double high-five with Jennet. "Let me just take care of this fire before the whole forest goes up."

"Good thinking. Arboreal arsonists probably don't get quest rewards."

Tamlin started waving his hands. "You think we'll be hailed as heroes here?"

"Of course. Wait, wait!" She grabbed his arm, eyes twinkling. "Of corgi."

"Terrible." He grinned back. "Just awful. I love it."

[storiesnobodyreads]

Sexy

Pairing: Chris Evans x reader

Prompt: you and Chris started dating after you starred as Captain America’s love interest. You do interviews together on the press tour. One interviewer is disrespectful to you, and Chris gets angry. 

You and Chris had been dating for several months now, after the shooting of Infinity War had wrapped. You had portrayed Steve Roger’s love interest, though you had gone into quite an effort to make your statement that Captain America’s true love interest was Bucky. After a while of arguing with Chris, he’d just looked you dead in the eye and said, “Are you trying to get yourself fired? I’d be more than happy to make out with Sebby.” 

During filming, you’d fallen in love with Chris Evans. You couldn’t think of a single reason why anyone wouldn’t fall in love with the man. Lucky thing for you, though, turned out that Chris had developed feelings for you too. He had asked you out on a date the day you had wrapped, and everything had been going great since then. 

For the press tour this month, you and Chris had been paired up doing interviews together. Apparently the connection between the two of you was visible on and off screen, or so Marvel decided. The relationship had not yet gone public, because neither of you desired the attention from the paparazzi. 

The first couple of weeks passed by rather smoothly. Most interviewers were extremely nice and superbly excited to meet the two of you. They had you play fun games and answer intriguing question. Every now and then the interviewers would hope for a hint that the two of you were dating in real life, because the rumours were out there, but you’d always managed to subtly dodge that question. 

On this particular Thursday, however, you and Chris were both exhausted. You’d gone to a party and it had gotten quite late; on top of that, the full days of doing interviews and pretending to be a fun person all the time, didn’t help. That morning, you’d begged Chris to just stay in bed and sleep all day, but he’d pulled you out of bed, emphasising that it was your obligation to the fans. You were well on your way to let the day be okay, until you and Chris crossed paths with the most terrible interviewer.

The man, named Jason, had elected to ignore you.

Chris tried many times to get you involved in the conversation, asking you questions about what you thought, but the interviewer would just cut you off. At a certain point. you just accepted that you weren’t going to get any attention, and you stubbornly leaned back in your chair. You reasoned with yourself that it was absolutely logical that the man was more interested in Chris Evans. He was Captain America, after all. However, it would have been nice to be a part of the conversation, and not getting shut up instantly every time. 

“Now of course, in this new movie you have a very attractive new co-star, Y/N Y/L/N,” Jason vaguely gestured at you, not looking you in the eye, only looking up and down your figure. You frowned a little; you couldn’t help feeling somewhat insulted. My eyes are up here, you considered pointing out, but then you were reminded that there were five cameras directed at your face and you had to keep yourself together. 

Beside you, Chris stirred. You quickly glanced over at him, and noticed from his posture that he was starting to get angry. 

Jason continued, “And you have a nice love scene in this movie. What was it like filming that scene?”

“Well, the thing about love scenes is that they aren’t nearly as romantic in real life as they look on screen,” Chris laughed a little, but his laugh sounded forced.  “You’ve got to keep in mind that there are like thirty people watching you behind the cameras, and you’re practically naked, so I was mainly just worried about Y/N, you know, just trying to make sure that Y/N was comfortable.” He dramatically turned to face you. “What was it like for you?” 

You chuckled when Chris winked at you. “Awkward,” you smiled, “But Chris was great. He did really do all he could to make me comfortable, and create a positive atmosphere on set--”

“Okay,” Jason interrupted you. You breathed out sharply, having been in the middle of a sentence. “So, Chris, what would you say is the sexiest thing about Y/N?”

Chris choked in his own saliva. Had the situation been different, undoubtedly Chris would have been able to laugh about it. However, the interviewer had been rude from you since the first second and had disrespected you every second thereafter. The question about your sexiness now just infuriated him. “Excuse me?” he brought out, giving the man a chance to back off. 

“Let me rephrase my question,” said Jason quickly. “Do you think Y/N is sexy?” 

Chris’ jaw dropped a little, and he seemed to be at a loss for words. “Y--yes,” he stammered awkwardly. 

Jason straightened his cards in his lap. “Why?”

Chris glanced sideways at you, looking for help, but you found yourself staring into your hands. Your disappointment in the superficiality of humanity had grown to the point where you no longer knew how to cope with it. Chris unclenched his hands and moved his arm as if he wanted to reach out to you, only to realise the cameras were still rolling on you. 

“Yeah, okay,” Chris cleared his throat, rising to his feet. “I think we’re done here.” He grabbed your hand and pulled you up, looking directly into your eyes for just a second, silently telling you to keep your head up. 

Jason leaped up as well. “What are you--what’s going on?”

Chris swirled around to face him and, suddenly, the usually so friendly sparkle vanished from his eyes. He tensed his muscles and towered over the scrawny interviewer, who appeared to shrink in his shoes. “You are acting incredibly disrespectful,” Chris said to him, his voice low, quiet, and mind-dazzlingly scary. “In this entire interview, you haven’t asked Y/N a single question. You have ignored her presence, and only mentioned her to verbally harass her for how she looks. Yes, she is stunning, but I will have you know that Y/N is a wonderful, intelligent woman and a fantastic actress. She has worked extremely hard for this movie and deserves to be respected for her performance.” 

Jason let out a squeak as Captain America hissed his furious words at him. “I didn’t--”

Chris wouldn’t let him finish. “Now if you’ll excuse us,” he grumbled, remaining ever so polite, yet with an undertone that threatened the interviewer’s life. “We’re leaving.”  

Chris placed his hand on your back and promptly steered you out of the room, marching straight past the cameras and the protesting crew, ignoring the screaming interviewer, pushing away the guards that attempted to stop you. He didn’t say a word, walking faster than your shorter legs could handle, and didn’t stop walking that quickly until both of you were out the building. He pulled his hoodie over his head and handed you back your sunglasses. Firmly, he grabbed your hand and held it, holding you in public. 

“What are you doing?” you asked, feeling small. Despite the fact that Chris hadn’t hurt anyone, and had remained perfectly polite to Jason, his anger still scared you. “Chris, please, where are we even going?” 

“We’re going shopping,” Chris said decisively. “And we’re going to buy the weirdest clothes we can find. And we’re going to wear them. In public. And we’re going to make a statement.” 

Your hand was getting crushed by Chris’. “Okay, and what statement would that be?”

Chris abruptly halted. “That you are so much more than just some kind of sex object,” he brought out in frustration. “You are so... You are just great, you know? And I don’t understand that other people are so damned superficial that they’re not willing to look any further than your looks.”

You unleashed yourself from Chris’ tight grip. Sarcastically, you uttered, “Do you not like my looks, Chris?”

Chris rolled his eyes and quickly pecked a kiss on your cheek. “Of course I do,” he said irritably. “But you’re also smart, and funny, and sweet. So we’re going to show the idiots out there that you’re more than what they think.” He glared at you, taking a deep breath, and then put up a wide smile. “Are you in?” 

“It’s a stupid plan,” you commented, “Of course I’m in.” 

Chris laughed, relieved that you weren’t holding his outburst against him, and wrapped his arm around your shoulders. Strolling through the streets of New York together, you encountered a carnival shop that looked like a party to be in. Chris doubted just for a second, but you had gotten excited about Chris’ plan, hence you grabbed his arm and pulled him into the shop. 

With the cheerful music blasting in the background, you started dancing, and soon you were swaying in Chris’ arms. You fetched colourful boa’s from the stands and swung them around Chris’ neck. “Maybe we can alter the statement we’re trying to make to you just being an idiot, not a sex symbol.”

“Ugh, you’re just jealous,” you said, placing a pair of bright, pink goggles atop his nose. 

Chris laughed. “Now you’re just dressing me up!” he exclaimed. “You have to wear weird clothes, too.” He rapidly scoured through the store and picked out several odd-looking outfits. He returned with his arms full and pulled you with him into a dressing room. Though there undoubtedly was a strict policy concerning not having two people in the same dressing room, but Chris quickly pulled the curtains shut. “Please put this on,” he offered, holding up a gigantic Pikachu costume. “I will do anything for you to put this on.” 

You giggled and kissed him deeply, gently shoving him against the wall. Chris reacted to your kiss immediately, dropping the costumes and tightly grabbing your waist. 

Chris smiled against your lips. “Or we can just do this?” 

You pulled back, holding Chris’ neck. “Chris,” you said seriously. “Thank you for standing up for me. I didn’t want to be rude and say anything, but I’m really glad you did. You actually managed to make your point without telling the guy to go fuck himself.” 

Chris shrugged a little, pressing you closer to him. “I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. He was a fucking asshole.” 

“He was,” you chuckled. “But thank you. Really.” 

“Anything for you, babe,” Chris whispered against your lips. Then, a laugh broke through his expression. “Now that I’ve proven that I’m fantastic, you should definitely do me a favour. Wear the suit.” 

You bought the Pikachu suit and wore it with pride. You forced Chris to purchase the purple boa, sunglasses, and German lederhosen. Both of you bought bright green shoes that sparkled with every step you took. You walked out of the store with shining pride. 

Instead of avoiding the paparazzi like usual, you encouraged them to take many pictures of the two of you having dressed up like idiots. “Now I’m just going to be a sex symbol who is also an idiot,” you pointed out to Chris. 

Chris pointed at a cute-looking coffee restaurant, “Better than just being a sex symbol,” he shrugged. “Wanna drink coffee?” You did want to drink coffee, so you took your seat at a table in your Pikachu suit. Chris sat down before you, ordering two coffee’s from the waitress nearby. He then lay down on the table with his hands underneath his chin, and was smiling at you constantly. The pink sunglasses and purple boa did make him look extraordinarily cute.  

“Hey,” Chris said seriously, picking a purple feather out of his mouth. “I have found my answer to that lame guy’s question.” 

“Hmm?” you looked up from your coffee. “The question about why you thought I was sexy?” 

“Yeah, I figured it out,” Chris nodded, glancing up at you. He smiled lovingly. “You’re sexy because you’re you. And every single thing about you is amazing. So thank you for being you.”

[redlemonz]

Day #28

Four weeks since sick-day Monday. A whole February's worth of a month, and it's the 21st too - my favourite new unlucky number. I can already tell it's going to be an absolutely splendid day and return to the workplace. My thoughts, along with time as my usual brain's archenemy, instantly strike down the usual Monday morning anxiety upon me. Shivers spark inside my spine, though I am not actually cold. If only I could escape this and sleep another horrendous morning away. Unfortunately I've already used up my quota for a sick day this month as at my last sick-day Friday, and am feeing sane enough to realise that my mind needs to be focused on some work anyway to divert its attention temporarily. It's alright too, because I'm pretty much use to the anxiety by now as it's mostly under my control these days (or so I like to tell myself anyway). It also helps that she's actually contributed to reducing it greatly through making her presence apparent in my life. Another smiley face, exchange of emojis and so on, via digital communication last night is more than sufficient to ensure my stability is in tact. Not that I'm relying on her at all or anything, it just so happens that she can naturally provide such a positive effect upon my life without even really trying. I'm quite over this empty feeling though - just getting by, living each day with a lack of physical emotion being exhibited upon my face for the majority. My expressionless gaze which stares back at me in the mirror displays just that - it doesn't really give a shit about all that much anymore. Everything's kind of just blankly existing around me, and here I am, dead inside and floating by as an insignificant spec of dust. So suck me into this equally empty vacuum and be done with it already. Day 28 - Bad company "I don't want to see you" are the words which continue to echo over and over again in my head, from our conversation four nights ago. Even though we're seemingly on good terms, can talk regularly and exchange photos now and then, hearing those words on repeat are still simply painful and can bring a tear to anyone's eyes. I know where she's coming from obviously, and that it's probably not ideal given the circumstances to see each other, but that general statement can regardlessly be scarring and be lodged against my insecurities sadly - because I allow it to. I can't help that it makes me feel so unwanted and minuscule, as if I don't even matter. I can't stop thinking about it either, because I want to be able to confirm to myself that I am indeed not worth the time and effort as is the belief that's been preached into me countlessly. Driving this knife into myself deeper helps me prepare for whatever future disappointments await around the corner in my life, reaffirming the pessimistic elements in my life that I extensively lost when I was with her (yup, my negativity during us being together was surprisingly a growing improvement). It sucks, but it is intrinsic that I must attain back that greater sense of negativity as otherwise my vulnerability factor is enlarged, by my own flawed mechanisms. That instrument to my own destruction being that my mind believes for some whacky reason (although true) that there is definitely some correlation between one's level of positivity and their general expectations. Anyway, what I'm really trying to get at is that work sucked. I spoke little words on a verbal scale, but my fingers on a keyboard spoke volumes on the digital screen of success. The more stuff that's on there, the more work you're doing obviously, right? Nevertheless, I got swamped with every task on a bloody Monday that supposedly just so happened to be urgent, even though they don't bother using the damn red exclamation mark in the emails to attribute it accordingly so. Yes, I'm finding any excuse to sprinkle my salt (careful with your mind) towards work today because it wasn't actually all too bad when it comes down to it, but once in a while it's nice to blame something else for my own catastrophic internal suffering. Man, what really got me was another regrettable memory I was itching to forget, but of course, fate always finds a way to remind me of the asshole I am. One of three was thrilling us with his weekend meal escapades (yes, food is stimulating stuff - quite literally if I may add, energy homeostasis and stuff. Do I even science? Fuck yeah.. on rare occasions). He went to this exorbitant buffet restaurant with his family and friends, situated in a hotel, named after simply a number which corresponds to the various cuisine-kitchens on offer. The beginning of that story was more than sufficient in sparking another moment of repentance, as she accompanied my hand there one night for a special dinner date I had booked (which she even dressed up and looked absolutely stunning for), and at which I behaved as an impolite and rude bastard. It's sad too really, because I would tend to pride myself upon chivalry, out of the limited bucket of anything that I even have to offer at all. To be completely straightforward about my sins (and goodness I hate admitting this), I put the food before her. As soon as I'd be done finishing a plate, I wouldn't hesitate to simply get up and proceed towards another serving whilst she sat and ate her meal on her own.. on multiple occasions. I ruined another nice evening for us, through my own selfishness and lack of thought about her in that moment. What's worse is that it was our unofficial anniversary (I booked the reservation in as our anniversary with the belief we may likely attain some freebies, and huzzah - gourmet chocolates.. would've been a proud moment if I wasn't such a dick that night). I was just an unforgivably bad date as a result, and offered poor company to this beautiful Princess (excuse me - Queen) whom I took for granted, on a dynamically visible level. Another apology which shouldn't have ever been required if I could have just had basic common courtesy for the woman I love. At least I was fortunate enough to receive another chance during one of the occasions in which I visited her down in snowy mountain town. We attended another buffet, named after that historically famous Mongolian warlord, where I remembered my faults and attempted to redeem myself - and hey, what a surprise, it was a really enjoyable night in each other's company. Might I add that I happen to have had a corresponding song, with regards to said historically famous Mongolian warlord, which has been stuck in my head the whole day courtesy of her. Might I also say, that she video snapped me herself singing along to the radio on the way to, and from work today, which brought a radiant glow of blissful happiness to my maniacal Monday. Three different friends reached out to me today - what a wonderful coincidence. Blondie, the mastermind and I don't think I've mentioned my lovely, but unofficial ditzy sibling who renamed her last name on social media to match my fake last name for over a year (because said last name is a loveable Turkish dip that resembles my actual last name when sounded aloud.. on a somewhat loose tangent, and is also variably dependant upon one's accent). Anyway, all three were sweetly inviting me to various future events - some that I can dodge when the time comes, and one I can decline straightaway. Not doing a great job at not being a dick, clearly, but trust me when I can reaffirm that I'm still not quite ready to be the negative nick of the group (that 'n' deserves to remain a lowercase, because it's not worthy of being labelled proper). My company will purely not even be that of adequate quality, and it's subsequently better for others that it's avoided as a result. So of course I had limited responses to each, and abruptly wished them a nice week ahead, because I still can't commit myself to a conversation when my primary sensations are emptiness and heartbreak. Also my dippy sibling, better known as The Colonel (pronounced Call-oh-nell according to her, when ordering fried chicken) asked me if I'm free on the weekend to assist her with purchasing her first vehicle, and insisted that I could provide some useful "manly input". I have to acknowledge that she is one of the sweetest and most treasured people in my life, before I can simply acclaim, what the fuck? My track record with owning cars is pretty well known among my inner circles. I've wasted over $10,000 (which would be much greater than my current savings account) on two European cars which didn't even last a year - combined. I've then decided after those bad decisions that purchasing brand new would be the genius alternative, so there's another $26,000 not well spent on which I'm finally finishing repayments upon by the end of this year. My street smart knowledge of cars may as well be the equivalent to some douchebag who sticks black stripes unevenly upon only the front hood of his red car to make it go faster. Oh wait, I am that idiotic douchebag. Nevertheless, I can't afford to have any contributing role in assisting the Colonel with her purchase as anything I say or do can and will be used against me in the court of my mind. So if something were to go wrong or be out of order, it's common knowledge by now to gather where the unforgiving blame, failure and consequent punishment would be suffered. I can't risk that on my lack of a conscience, therefore I kindly apologised and referred her to other potential professionals in the matter. Even my better half knew that I was down right stupid when it came to cars. She's got a hatchback as old as I essentially am, and it's probably still the more efficient and universally favourable option between our two cars. That's because she actually has the logic I seem to perpetually lack.. damn, I'm going to fail without her. All I want now is to be able to sit beside her in that car again, holding her hand (when we're not at risk of crashing towards our deaths), or resting mine lovingly upon her thigh, as we sing along to the stereo as the beautiful lunatics we are together.

[anavoliselenu]

Creighton chapter 16

This.

This is what it’s all about. This feeling makes it all worth it. This feeling is part of the reason why I walked into a hotel room and married a perfect stranger only hours later. Because I can’t imagine never feeling like this again.

I let my head fall back and stare up at the blackness before the roadies start rushing around the stage and clearing my stuff out. I take a deep breath, and my mind instantly goes to the man waiting offstage.

I felt his eyes on me the entire time. Before tonight, I might have worried that Justin would spend the entire set watching and judging me, but his actions in the meet-and-greet room tilted everything off its axis. Not just the fact that he went after the drunk punk who decided he wanted a kiss, but Justin’s own kiss after that. I expected the caveman or the possessive asshole, but what I got was something altogether different.

He’s already changing, and I still haven’t figured out the first Justin I met. All day, he’s been nothing like I imagined he would be. He hasn’t once tried to make today about him or his business. He’s been, for the most part, at my side and supportively following me around.

Don’t expect it to last, Selena. Right now this relationship is a novelty to him. It’ll wear off soon enough.

He’s a thirty-three-year-old billionaire; how could he possibly be content to follow me around? He has an empire to run, and I don’t know how he can possibly run it from a tour bus. There’s no way he would have made it through the long haul before our Christmas break. Part of me wished this second leg of the tour was longer so I could let it test him.

And then the cynic in me—or maybe it’s the realist—also chimes in with much more pertinent and troubling questions.

What if he didn’t like the show? What if the best part of me isn’t good enough for him? Then what do I have to offer?

Self-doubt eats away the after-show high I’m riding, because what else do I have to offer? My pretty face and my apparently magic pussy? Is my only use in being seen—with my legs spread—and not heard?

The questions echo on repeat, kicking my heart rate up faster, until all I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears. At least that drowns out the sound of my mama’s voice telling me I’ll never be anything more than a girl from the trailer park, no matter how many stages I sing on.

A roadie accidentally clips me on the shoulder, and I stumble back into reality.

“Sorry!”

“It’s fine. I’m in the way.”

I regain my balance and walk toward the edge of the stage, trying to reinforce the crumbling walls of my confidence and self-respect.

Thousands of fans were screaming my name. Singing along. Begging for more. What is one man’s opinion compared to that? But he’s not just any man. He’s my husband.

Sweet baby Jesus. Why did I do this? I thought I could marry him and be unaffected, but already I’m letting the thought of his disapproval drive what little hard-won self-assurance I have into the ground.

With JC, I never had to worry about that. But I was the girl who chose to jump from a fake, mostly-gay boyfriend to a very real, very out-of-my-league husband.

I search the edge of the stage and see Justin leaning against a speaker. Every woman in the vicinity has her gaze riveted on him, and I don’t blame them. His arms are crossed, and his golden tan contrasts with the rolled-up cuffs of his white dress shirt. Dark hair is sprinkled across his defined muscles. Even in jeans, which I’m still shocked he owns, he manages to look every inch the ridiculously rich playboy.

His eyes drill into me as I dodge roadies, cords, speakers, and instruments, telling myself that I have no reason to feel inferior to this man, but that doesn’t mean I believe it. I’m still in the fake-it-’til-you-make-it stage of the process.

I desperately want to know what he thought of my performance. The question is bubbling up inside me. I will not ask. I have to grind my teeth to hold it in. In my world, that’s just inviting criticism. Despite my vow, the question comes tumbling out as soon as I’m standing before him.

My smile I wear for the cameras when I really want to run away is in place. “So, what did you think?”

He uncrosses his arms and pushes off the speaker. My heart hammers in my chest as he opens his mouth and then closes it again without speaking. He takes one step toward me, his frown in place.

I wrap my arms around my body, prepared to ward off a verbal blow.

“I watched you last night.”

Shock zings through me at his statement. “In San Antonio? I thought you were just waiting outside to drag me home by my runaway-wife hair.”

“No. I watched the whole damn thing, and you’re insane if you think you shouldn’t be headlining these shows.”

I think my heart stutters to a stop . . . and then restarts with heavy, tripping beats.

“What?” I whisper.

“You’re too good to be an opening act. I don’t know shit about the music industry, and I didn’t think I’d like country music, but I like your music. You’ve got this voice that grabs a man by the throat and won’t let go until the last note fades.”

Speechless, I swallow. Justin reaches out to wrap his hand around my upper arm and steady me.

I’m still recovering from his confession when he asks, “Where to now?”

“Um, backstage for a little bit, and then they’ll come get me for ‘That Girl.’”

His hand slides down my arm to lace his fingers with mine. I let him lead me out back into the hallway toward my dressing room. We hear chants and screaming from Boone’s room as we pass.

People try to talk to me, but I don’t hear them. I just follow Justin, staring at the white dress shirt stretching across his shoulders as his words play on repeat in my head.

“I like your music . . . You’ve got this voice that grabs a man by the throat and won’t let go until the last note fades . . .”

You’d think his compliments would banish the insecurity that’s settled inside me, but instead they unleash a way bigger problem.

I think I could fall for my husband.

“Don’t stop. Please. Don’t stop.” My throaty moan is porn-star worthy.

Justin’s growl vibrates against my clit, and the fingers of one hand grip my hip tighter.

Part of me hopes I’ll have bruises to prove he touched me there. I need some reminder that his amazing Grade-A, blue-ribbon-winning skills are real. Seriously. He deserves an honorary degree from some fancy-pants university for his talents in this area.

I buck my pelvis against his mouth, desperate to get more, and eager to find the edge so I can sail off into an orgasm. I earn a sharp slap to my thigh.

“Hold still, or I won’t let you come.”

“Oh God, please,” I moan.

He lifts his head away, his fingers still buried inside me, and I whimper at the loss of stimulation. “You’ll take what I give you, when I give it to you.”

“I’m already begging. What more do you want from me? Just let me come!”

My eyes flick open as a deep chuckle fills the expanse of my brand-new tour bus. Right now, I couldn’t care less how shiny, fancy, new, and overwhelming it is. I just want to come.

“Bossy thing. Guess it works out that I can’t get enough of this sweet little cunt of yours.”

I know I should climb up on a soapbox and tell him I don’t like that word. The c-word. But my brain has no control over the flood of wetness that hits my center when he says it.

He doesn’t miss it. The two fingers buried in my pussy curl forward, stroking my G-spot.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so wet.”

“Say it again.”

“You’re so—”

“No. What you said before.” I’m babbling now, and I don’t care. I just want more of his dirty words and his devastating tongue.

“That I can’t get enough of this sweet little cunt?”

My inner muscles clench, and he groans. I wish I had the coordination to reach down and stroke his cock, but I’m slumped back on the black leather sofa, and he’s down on his knees before me.

The thought that I’ve somehow brought this man to his knees is enough to shove me to the edge of orgasm.

“I’m going to come.”

Justin lifts his head again. “No, you’re not. Because I’m not done eating your pussy yet.”

“But—”

“You’ll wait until I give you permission.”

Justin lowers his mouth to my pussy and laps at the juices before flicking, nipping, and teasing my clit. I dig my nails into the new leather, not caring what marks I may leave, because suddenly I don’t want to disappoint him by coming before he allows me. The pleasure rises harder and faster, and my control begins to disintegrate.

I open my mouth to beg yet again, but Justin’s words come first, directly against my clit.

“Come for me. Now. Hard.”

I slam my eyes shut as the tension inside me bursts, surging within me and spreading out through every nerve ending. I lose complete control, bucking against him and burying my hands in his hair as I scream his name.

I ride the sensations, and his continued teasing, until I can’t handle any more. I tug his head up and melt into the couch. Holy. Shit. I’d say the man’s tongue should be bronzed, but that would be a waste.

I’m still lazily floating in the post-orgasmic haze, enjoying Justin’s hand smoothing up and down my inner thigh and the press of lips on my hipbone, when someone knocks on the door to the bus.

“Tell them to go away,” I whine.

At any other moment, I might care that I sound like a little brat, but right now, I really, really don’t. All I want is to savor this feeling for a few more minutes, and then give my own knees a workout while I return the favor.

Justin complies with my request, and his deep voice punctures the bus’s silence. “Go the fuck away!”

Points for style to Justin.

The knock comes again.

“Ugh. Really?”

I open my eyes and look toward the clock. Something about nine a.m. is nagging at my brain. We already hit a seven a.m. radio spot, and this little interlude was my reward for actually rolling out of bed on time. Well, that’s what I’m calling it anyway.

Justin rises, eyeing my body, which is naked from the waist down. “As much as I hate to say it, you need to put some more clothes on.”

I let out a grumbling groan that is the opposite of sexy. Luckily, Justin just smiles and adds, “I’ll get the door and distract whoever it is.”

As I peel myself off the couch and stumble toward the back bedroom of the bus, I have a sneaking suspicion that this is what teamwork feels like. And isn’t that what a marriage is supposed to be? Teamwork?

This one-week-old marriage of impulse is starting to feel more real every day, and I’m not certain how I feel about that. It was supposed to be simple. Uncomplicated. An easy way for me to dodge the JC-fake-fiancée situation and try to take some control over my own career—and indulge in a lot more orgasms like the one I just had. But it’s quickly morphing into something else entirely.

Do I want it to be something else? Am I really prepared to make this a real marriage? Is Justin?

I press my thumb and forefinger into my temples, which are starting to ache. I need time to sit and consider this change in our regularly scheduled program so I can decide how to react—but it’s not like I’ve got many spare minutes to sit and ponder while on tour. I can’t help but wonder if it’s just the fact that Justin is out of his element that’s causing things to change.

What happens after the tour? The ache in my head ratchets up to a throb. Great. Don’t have time for a headache.

Male voices come from the living area of the bus, and I hurriedly slip on a pair of yoga pants and glance in the mirror. My hair and my expression clearly communicate just been fucked—which isn’t really fair. Yes, I just had an orgasm, but things were just starting to get good when we were interrupted.

Heading back out to the living area of the bus, still bowled over by the granite countertops, leather couches, and dark cherrywood interior that is altogether fancier than any bus I’ve ever been on before, I remember why nine a.m. was nagging at me.

Because I have an appointment scheduled. With a songwriter. Except no one bothered to tell me it was Vale Garcia.

Fudge sticks.

I plaster on a congenial smile. “Look what the cat dragged in,” I drawl.

Vale’s grin is knowing, and I fight the urge to grit my teeth.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says.

Justin looks from Vale to me. “I take it you two have worked together before?”

Vale stares at me as he answers Justin. “Selena and I worked very closely together right after she won Country Dreams. Isn’t that right, Hols?”

He couldn’t be any more obvious than if he scrawled the words I did everything but bang your wife in fat black Sharpie on a yellow neon piece of poster board and waved it around over his head. Except to a casual observer, Vale’s smug smile probably did say I banged your wife—which isn’t true.

I respond with what I hope is ego-deflating nonchalance. “The last year has been such a whirlwind, I can barely remember what I was doing a few minutes ago.” I slide in closer to Justin and glance up at him. “Well, that’s not entirely true. Some things I remember very vividly.”

Smiling back at Vale, I wonder if my expression looks half as smug as I think it does. “I apologize; I’m being so rude. Vale, this is my husband, Justin Karas. Justin, this is Vale Garcia.”

Vale reaches out, and he and Justin shake hands, clearly taking each other’s measure.

“I guessed,” Vale says, dropping Justin’s hand after a moment. His eyes cut back to me. “Still surprised you decided to settle down with a one-night stand. Thought you were against those?”

Justin’s shoulders stiffen. “I’d watch what you say right about now, Mr. Garcia. You’re speaking about my wife.” His tone communicates barely leashed anger.

“I don’t mean anything by it. Just jealous, I guess. I’m big enough to admit that I wish I could’ve been the one to catch her.”

I clear my throat. “All right then. Moving on. Vale, while don’t you settle in, and I’ll grab my notes.”

The man might be an asshole who stomped out of my hotel room when I wouldn’t let him complete his slide into home base—only to find his way into another woman’s room only a few hours later—but he’s also a damn good songwriter.

Justin’s arm tenses under my palm, and I’m pretty clear on the fact that he doesn’t want Vale anywhere near me, especially not alone.

I drag Justin toward the bedroom with me. Well, drag is a bit of an overstatement. I’m under no illusions that he’s following my tugging grip for any reason other than he wants to.

Once I pull him into the room and shut the door, I blurt, “I didn’t sleep with him. It was a close thing, which I’m sure you picked up on, but what I told you before was true. It had been a long time for me before you. Anyway, I want you to know that there’s absolutely no reason to get weird about Vale.”

Justin’s eyes are practically burning holes in me. “This isn’t me getting weird, Selena. This is me getting fucking jealous.” He jams a hand into his thick brown hair. “And I don’t fucking like it. I hate knowing that he’s touched you.”

I’m silent, because I honestly have no idea how to respond. But then again, I’m also aware that Vale is waiting. He’s about to wait a little longer.

I grab a fistful of Justin’s T-shirt and yank him toward me. “Then kiss me. Mark me. Let him know that I’m absolutely and completely out of his reach because I belong to you.”

Where those words—hell, those thoughts—came from, I have no idea. I’ve rebelled against the very idea of being Justin’s possession since the day we said “I do,” but this is something totally different. This is something I’m desperate for. I’m not willing to put a label on it yet, and it’s nothing I’ve ever wanted in my life. At least, not that I would admit to before.

Justin studies me, and I’m not sure what he concludes, but he doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arm under my ass and haul me up against him. His mouth lands on mine with an almost crazed intensity. It’s all lips and teeth and tongue as we devour each other.

I throw one arm around his neck and scrape the nails of my other hand along the back of his neck and up into his hair. The kiss lasts only a minute—maybe two—but when he lowers me to the floor, my legs are shaking and my heart is hammering so hard, I feel like it could break a rib.

That just-been-fucked look? I don’t need to look in the mirror to know I’m now sporting it in spades. My panties are soaked, and there’s nothing I want more in this moment than to beg him to bend me over the bed and bang the hell out of me.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful.” He leans in. “And you’re mine. Don’t forget it, and don’t you let him fucking forget it.”

My nod is jerky, and Justin turns, yanks open the door, and stalks out of the room. I ease the door shut again with trembling fingers and quickly strip out of my yoga pants, change my underwear, and jam my legs into a pair of jeans.

I take a deep, relaxing breath, attempting to slow my heart rate back down to a level that doesn’t feel like it’s about to explode. When I exit the bedroom, notebook in hand, Justin is lingering at the front of the bus and Vale is settled into a chair, notebook propped up on the arm and his guitar in his lap.

Justin’s eyes snap to me, and my feet take me directly in front of him without any conscious thought on my part. He brushes my hair away from my face and cups my jaw. “I need to go take care of something. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

His explanation is vague and my curiosity is piqued. What could Justin possibly need to do in Dallas that would take a few hours? But I don’t question him.

I’m learning to trust, I tell myself. After all, isn’t that what he’s doing by leaving me alone with Vale?

“Okay. Want to plan to meet up at noon for lunch? I’ve got a radio thing from two to three, and then I’m free until I have to get ready for the meet and greet.”

“That works for me,” Justin says.

I close the distance between us and lean up on my tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. “One more for the road,” I whisper, feeling very wife-like.

I’m still absorbing that thought when he steps away and again brushes a lock of hair behind my ear, leaving my own taste on my lips. I like knowing I’ve marked him too.

“One will never be enough,” he replies before his lips skim across mine once more. He turns and heads for the door.

I’m still standing there like a love-struck fool when he steps off the bus.

I lower my guitar with the last chord of “Lost on Fifth Avenue” hanging in the air between Vale and me. He’s silent for long moments, and my heart rate kicks up, waiting for his opinion. I might think it’s awesome, but he’s the one with a couple of Grammys on his shelf, and all I have is instinct.

Finally, Vale speaks. “You’re going to kill it with that song. Absolutely kill it. You’ve come a hell of a long way since the last project we worked on, if all your stuff is like this now.”

My heart thuds even harder. “You think it’s . . . good?”

“Selena, this song is the shit. I’ve been doing this long enough to know what’s good and what’s really fucking good, and you’ve just written a chart-topper, girl. I take it you wrote this one recently.”

He raises an eyebrow. Given the lyrics, it’s clear that I wrote it after I met Justin in New York. The song is all about feeling small in the big city, and realizing that as long as you have at least one thing anchoring you, you can’t get too lost.

When I originally started writing it, the anchor I was talking about was my music . . . but listening to it now, I know that the anchor is not a thing, but a person. This man that I’m way too attached to.

I remember that Vale asked a question. “Yes, I wrote it recently. I’ve got two more, if you don’t think we need to rework this one.”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t want to fuck with this one. Besides, if we start messing with it, then I’ll have to take credit for part of it, and this one is really all you, babe.”

His endearment hangs in the air, just like the earlier chords did.

“I probably shouldn’t call you that, huh? The billionaire will come rip my balls off and feed them to me.”

A chuckle slips from my lips. “He’s a little territorial.”

“With good reason. I’m just glad the man knows he’s got his hands on someone he needs to treasure. I didn’t get that before it was too late. You’re a special woman, Selena Wix, and whatever emotions he’s pulled from you, they’re going to shine bright in your songs. Have you played them for him?”

I blink a few times. “Played them for him? Um, no. No, I haven’t.”

I think about the next song I’m going to play for Vale, and my stomach rolls. I bare my soul in these lyrics, and to an average fan, it’s not a big thing. But to someone who actually knows me? I might have written the thing in my own blood because that’s my heart written right on the lined notebook paper. My hopes, but mostly my fears.

“You realize he’s going to hear them eventually, right? That’s kind of what you do.” Vale has his head tilted and he’s speaking slowly, like I’m an idiot.

“I know, but . . . I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

His eyebrows go up. “Didn’t expect the marriage to last long enough for the record to come out first?”

My glare is automatic, but the answer is probably written on my face anyway. I still, even now, have a hard time seeing how this is going to work, and long-term isn’t a concept I’ve let myself get comfortable with. My life has been so focused on just making it from one day to the next that I haven’t spent much time thinking about it.

“How about we move on to the next one? We’ve got,” I glance at the clock on the wall, “a couple more hours, so we should use them wisely. After all, I’ve got five more songs to deliver for this big-box exclusive.”

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