#*inadvertently gives away the State I live in* >w>

[cheswirls]

WOW there was rly no other mention of figarland in film red and op wikis article hasn’t updated w 1086 so i had to go back and brush over to see where it was

after skimming the back half okay i have. new perspective ONE is that garland isn’t stated to be a world noble which i assumed the first time. he’s head of the knights and given a position of power in the holy land, obviously, if he can judge world nobles so freely (like.. enough to sentence one to death) and he does look like he’s in a position of power and knows it, like he gives off that air. but it’s not a stuck-up born-with-it air like other celestials

and then i realized that hes the former king of god valley, like in a very recent less-than-100-yrs-ago type. and uta was speculated to be a figarland after her relations w shanks were revealed.

at first i thought it would make sense, then, how shanks has gotten away with so much. (back when i thought garland was a celestial) that it explains why he was able to stop the war, and why sengoku said ‘because it’s you, i’ll allow it’ bc he didn’t rly have a choice in allowing it. that him seeing the elder planets was kinda like how mingo leveraged and weaponized his knowledge of the holy land. because it’s you, they said. and it would make sense, because shanks could have been born a celestial dragon but if he was found at god valley as a baby, or was placed on the oro jackson or w/e a la uta and the red-haireds, then he would grow up a pirate despite his heritage, but obviously if he would out then no one could deny him such. they sit at the top of the world for a reason

and then i backed off bc i realized it didn’t outright say garland was a world noble anywhere. so now my connection of shanks is coming from the god valley collection, and more in particular, the final words he says. on surface level he’s referring to mjosgard, but this is oda and nothing is ever only surface level. so if we are juxtaposing with shanks, then garland’s words surely are meant to be a foreshadowing. either into his character or shanks’. it really got me thinking on who shanks talked with the elder planets abt. luffy, or teach? but then, also, maybe roger? maybe rocks?? like, was he talking about a future problem, or something from the past coming to light instead????

anyone that protects scum is worse than scum themselves. my first thought immediately went to luffy. if we’re meant to tie garland in w shanks, and taking his words as some sort of future foreshadowing, and going off the assumption that shanks is going to be different bc god valley wasn’t around when he was growing up, then it’s gotta be him doing just that. like it’s gotta be more than snide words to mjosgard. maybe it’s abt shanks’ whole character, since 1076 (which i went back n glanced at to see if figarland was mentioned - nope) revealed that the crews under shanks’ fleet are kinda wishy-washy, and they joke abt protection money. shanks having so many common ppl -pirates no less- under him that can’t fend for themselves would be a good indicator in regards to what garland said. like i can see him saying that abt shanks. but, again, i can also see him saying that abt luffy. (i can also see it inadvertently coming back around to affect sanji, if the two ever interact, as yet another form of sanji rejecting his royal blood. but i digress-)

something abt god valley is going to be startlingly impt very quickly. its almost definitely been hit w an island-wiping beam like lulusia was, to have vanished like that in that manner of speaking (how sengoku warded others from investigating on their own and jus listening to him) and how the elder planets referred to lulusia in the original chapter it was blown to bits (a very different perspective this time around!!!! intriguing and eye-opening, rly wanna know where the nerona family lived before moving to the holy land. it couldn’t have been mother flame that did in god valley tho, or at least not whatever version they used on lulusia, since they talked abt it like they were testing a prototype. maybe they did have an ancient weapon at one point, and this is vp’s man-made counter to it like the blueprints franky had were the countermeasure to pluton?? vp took research on the void century from ohara over 20 yrs ago, and god valley vanished over 40, so if he (and therefore a rogue stella) found out a way to counter an ancient weapon, it would have to be after both. meaning the method of eliminating god valley and lulusia is similar but not the exact same, like an imitation

i wonder if god valley wraps all the way around, actually, bc roger and garp teamed up to protect celestial dragons. figarland is a judge onto the celestials in present day. the elder planets are partial to shanks, and garp views all celestials as scumbags (a la his convo w stelly) and dragon’s goal was to declare war specifically on the celestials. ik luffy’s mother has got to be impt, but i am starting to buy into his mother or grandmother being a world noble less and less, the more these egghead chapters reveal. garp and dragon just aren’t framed as having any partiality among celestial dragons. you would think if dragon met someone, that even if something terrible happened and they were judged by god’s knights, that dragon would take to heart that not all world nobles are bad (like we’ve been seeing w/ various donquixotes since the timeskip) and reconsider what he wants. but he doesn’t, so it doesn’t make sense for that to have happened. garp is the same way, and has been portrayed as such by his refusal to take an admiral slot since he made his debut in the manga. 

but god valley fits into the puzzle somewhere, and shanks is the missing piece to something. like somehow, someone got a baby shanks aboard the oro jackson. was it garp, after the fighting w rocks was over and his guard duty was essentially done?? was it someone else at the time, either a celestial (mother???) or a former resident of god valley? i guess we technically don’t know when garland retired to the holy land, so god valley could have not been a kingdom for many many years prior to the roger+garp vs rocks crew showdown. but both of them being there and teaming up makes me think it has to do with shanks, or shanks was a result and/or consequence of such. and the garp connection makes me think there’s a dragon connection, too. there’s 16 yrs between shanks and dragon. if dragon happened to be a former marine, would he have been there? did he have something to do with shanks being looked after by roger’s crew?

and then i am. tepidly circling around the idea that shanks could be tied to luffy’s mother, somehow. if oda is setting up shanks and garland to be opposites or foils or something, and if garland’s final words are a reference to shanks and luffy in the future, then? ??????????? idk. i think comparing shanks and luffy wouldn’t be far off either, especially if there’s a hidden middle man tying them closer together. like they don’t have to be related, that’s not necessarily what i’m getting at. but it would be very interesting if luffy’s mother had something to do with nobility tied so closely to the world nobles.

[mrs-han]

Live cam footage of me looking at your birthday requests (and for a third part maybe of the fake fiancée trope)- damn Nugget you are the Queen of Jumin for real!💜✨ You are so talented and just make it all feel so real!!

ALSO HAPPY EARLY BIRTHDAY MA DEAR >3<

LONGCATU, I DID A WEIRD SNORT/INHALE THING, MY MOM JUST ASKED IF I WAS OKAY 😂😂🤣🤣🤣🤣

I need to react to ya’ll in private, I’m the crazy one at home and at work cuz I’ll just burst with all these noises 🤣

Chu… chu tink I da Queen ob Jumin? >////< YOU IS SO KIND AND SO FLIPPIN-FLAPPIN CUTE, SCHNUCKI 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

I just a nuggie who loves Jumin very, very much uwu a lil too much, huhuhu

AND YIS, I PROMISE I WILL CONTINUE WRITING THAT ADORABLE REQUEST. HANDS UP FOR @jumin-ssi FOR REQUESTING IT!!

I’M SO — AAAAAAAHAHA ♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️ YOUR COMPLIMENTS ARE MAKING ME ALL FLLBLBLDKMF, YOU KNOW??

HEB MAH BITE OB LOVE.

[tamagochiie]

pairing: timeskip!kenma x fem!reader

synopsis: You come home late from your cousin’s funeral, and though Kenma didn’t expect much from you but perhaps a few leftovers you’ve managed to steal away from the dinner, he finds you with a surprise: a sleeping child cradled around your neck and a teenage boy hovering behind you.

Your poor boyfriend wondering what in the hell it is you’re plotting…

tags: angst and fluff, time skip!, slight spoilers if you squint

warnings: mentions of death, mentions of depression, cursing

w/c: 2.2k

tagging list: @angrylittleriri​ @chims-kookies​ @gooseyhouse​

a/n: hello! welcome to the second chapter of the series! i’m posting this a little later than expected because wifi is really trying to cock block me from posting :’) i honestly wasn’t expecting people to like or interacting with this fic, so my heart is super warm right now :>  

anyway, I hope you enjoy!

happy almost new year! see you all next week!

master list

<< life as we know it | life as he’s known it >>

You wonder what the younger version of you would think if you went back in time and told her she'd be eating at a dining table filled with food that wasn't microwavable, and the air wouldn't be filled by the sound of metal clanging and scraping against each other, but instead be filled by the lilting giggles of a little boy; his older brother pressing him to keep it down; and Kenma's casual yet awkward attempt to relate to the two.

She would probably cry.

Your parents' work piled up to the late hours of the evening and spilled into the morning, leaving you in a constant state of dejection. The house would be barren, nothing but the faint ticking of the old grandfather clock to keep you company. But even if your parents were home, it would still be the same; the air cold and unmoving.

Your parents were not warm nor were they emotional, and maybe that's what drew you to Kenma; he was quiet, rarely affectionate, and gave you more than enough room to breathe. Sure, there were the occasional forehead kisses, the head pats, the 'how are you doing' texts, and sometimes if he was brave enough, he’d interlock pinkies with you in public.

But you grew selfish, finding yourself wanting a little more each time you saw him, and you weren't sure if it was okay.

Was it okay to yearn for things? 

Was it okay to ask for more?

But Kenma saw through your facade of accepting things as they are and right into your neediness. He was willing to give as long as you asked or even when you were too shy to do so. He even gave you his whole life without sparing a second thought even if the realization that he had done so came much later.

"Here, let me." Kenma slips his hands over yours, taking the plate from within your grasp to wash it in your place. He bumps his hips against yours, causing you to stumble away from the sink.

You mumble a thank you before resorting to wiping down the dishes and setting them on the rack.

You delight in his banter. He asks you about your day, stealing glances between you and the stack of dishes before him while you give him the run down. He listens to you intently, gaze wandering a little longer when he hears an exasperated sigh escape your lips, but you let him know you're just fine.

"What about you?" You ask, tilting your head and playfully moving it in front of Kenma's face, blocking him from the plate he needs to scrub. "How was your day?"

He hums, tiptoeing over you to finish the chore like the diligent little worker he is. "It was another day," You frown at him and his lack of effort to push further. He rolls his eyes, chuckling at your pouty face. "I played another trial game with Eiji—"

"And how'd that go?"

"Oh, he's absolute shit—ow!" Your slap against his arm resounds throughout the apartment, causing Yuki and Eiji's to jerk their attention towards you both. You mold your face into a look of ease, sparing them a warm smile, telling them you saw a fly.

"The hell?! I wasn't finished!" The pudding head seethes. "Sure he was shit, but he was still better than you."

The cocky grin slipping across his lips matching with his lidded eyes has you throwing your hands, erupting a series of ow's. "You're such an ass, you know that?"

"Yeah, the ass you chose." He sneers, handing you the last plate to dry.

He rubs his arm in an attempt to soothe the stinging, glaring at you begrudgingly. It takes you a while to ease back into his trust, but you do, and he picks up where he leaves off as if he wasn't in any pain  to begin with.

He tells you about his little trip to the convenience store with Yuki for his strawberry milk, and the foreign, constricting feeling that wouldn't leave his chest until they came back home. How he couldn't let go of Yuki's hand when they were in the store, and if he did, it would send him in a state of sheer panic.

"Must be your mommy instincts kicking in," You joke, and he only rolls his eyes.

He also admits inadvertently turning all your favorite whites into various shades of pinks and blues. As someone as analytical as Kenma, he was challenged by the task of separating the lights from the darks. 

You snort, earning a scowl from your boyfriend and a string of explanations to defend his case. But it isn't the mistake that makes you laugh, but rather how far you've come after a month of adjustments and an unfortunate series of events.

The first two weeks were exceptionally trying. No one spoke a word and everyone walked on eggshells. Eiji was still too shy to look at you, his responses down to a bare minimum and quieter than a whisper; Yuki cried almost all the time over every little thing, and the vein in Kenma's neck was threatening to pop every time he did.

It didn't help when you and Kenma would end your nights at each other's throats, bickering till you fell asleep. And when morning came, you'd be greeted by the emptiness from his side of the bed.

And it helped no one when the two of you would avoid each other, never crossing paths or breathing a word the moment you came home until it was too painfully awkward to continue.

Two and half hours charged with petty arguments, things of the past, and all the little things that came in between only to have finally arrived at one conclusion: You weren't parents and you weren't Akihiro-san. You were your own people and it was okay to do things differently.

Even if different meant that Kenma might call the kids by the wrong name or forget the fact he's living with someone else other than you. Even if different meant that you'll be absent-mindedly teaching Yuki a few curses to add to his vocabulary or forgetting to enroll them in school.

The truth is no one from the family was going to return your calls, and you were probably going to spend the rest of your twenties making up bedtime stories and giving pretty bad advice to someone just a few years younger than you.

Which brings you here, wearing your bathing suit as you share your bubble bath with Yuki because he wanted to play with the rubber duckies he whined and moaned at Kenma to buy for him at the store.

Lathering his hair with shampoo, Yuki's head leans against your chest, eyes gleaming beneath the bathroom lights. He beams at you, giggling at the ticklish feeling as you massage his head. He brings attention back to his ducks, making crashing sounds as he splashes them into the water.

"Is that how ducks swim?" You ask, washing away the soap from his hair. "Don't they just kinda...float around?"

He shakes his head before twisting his body to face you. He's got a tough expression plastered on; brows furrowed, his jaw clenched, eyes unwavering.

A very serious boy.

"These are special ducks," He explains, raising one to your face."These are battleship ducks."

Your lips fall to an 'o', still not picking up what he's putting down but you pretend you do.

Is this what kids are into these days?

Yuki goes on to tell you about his special ducks; something about lasers in their eyes, super special flying skills, and...echo location? You ask him if he's sure—if you heard him right, but he's as firm with his stance as he is with the death grip he has on his rubber duckies.

You drain the tub before rinsing yourselves beneath the warm water of the shower. Yuki flips his hair around, air drying himself as he steps out of the tub. You tell him to brush his teeth while he waits for you to finish rinsing.

"Hey, Oba-san," Yuki's call is muffled by the foam of the toothpaste still in his mouth. "Are you and Kenma-san married?"

You nearly fall when you slip off of your bathing suit and into your pajamas.  "Ah, no, Yuki. We're not."

"But aren't you in love?" He asks, oblivious to the sudden shift in the atmosphere, spitting into the sink and washing his mouth.

Your eye twitches and you swallow the lump in your throat before it goes big enough for you to choke and die. "Uhh, people don't always have to marry right away just because they're in love..."

"But Kenma-san said he's been in love with you for four years."

"I—Yeah, well—"

"That's sounds like a really long time, Oba-san." You can't tell if he means to sound condescending. You can't tell if your mom has awakened from the grave and possessed the young boy because she woke up thinking she had a few more things she'd like to pester you with.

"Well, Yuki," You gather the little patience you have left, taking a deep breath as you step out of the tub. The bathroom tile is cold against the soles of your feet, sending a shiver down your spine. Enough to keep you sober for trivial conversation with a six year old boy. "Love—Love kinda looks different for everyone, Yuki."

You choose your words carefully, not wanting to say anything that might confuse him.

You help him into his clothes, his hair leaving wet patches onto his his dinosaur pajamas. He listens to you intently, looking right into your eyes. "There are people marry the moment they meet—or at least after a short while—because they can't help but feel sure?” 

And you can’t help but feel flustered at your own explanation, not too sure with your words, “...and other people don't do that. Some relationships move at a faster pace and other's move a bit slower; and Kenma-san and I...we're happy with how things are right now."

He hums, nodding his head as if he understands. "Even though Eiji-san and I are here?"

"Yes, little love." You assure him with the new nickname, booping his nose. "Even though you're both here."

You grab his towel and dry his hair. You pat down the tiny puddles of water on his face and neck, noting to wipe behind his ears.

"But," Yuki mumbles through the material of the towel, swatting your hand away to to catch his breath, "sometimes people don't like different..." Yuki pushes the towel to this side, his glossy eyes meeting yours and your heart cracks. "They didn't like my dad 'cause he was different."

"H-He didn't love someone th-that looked like y-you..." Yuki bites down on his bottom lip, keeping it from quivering and fixating his eyes onto the tiles of the floor to prevent himself from choking on his words. "H-He...He loved someone that look like Kenma-san."

You understand what he means. You know full well. Their father was gay and because of that, your family ostracized him without wasting another breath. As if it was easy as blinking.

You knew what their father had been going through, you had enough time to help, yet you stood idle, doing nothing but add to his loneliness.

You kept all the sunshine Akihiro-san shared with you during your bluest days, even when it had been so obvious he needed it more than you.

But not once did you ever think about returning a sliver of it. And you wonder maybe if you hadn't been so selfish and naive, a silver lining would've been enough to avoid something as painful as this.

Instinctively, you pull him close to you, threading your fingers through his still damp hair. You shush him and press kiss on the crown of his head as his petite figure trembles in your arms. You let him sob into your shirt, his fingers twisting the material in anguish.

And it breaks your heart that a little human like him would not only know the meaning of anguish, but how it feels to have it tear through his heart.

It takes a few moments for Yuki to catch his breath and for you to ease him. He slumps onto you as he regains his strength. You tell him you're sorry because you are and because you don't know what else to say.

You try to use his strawberry milk and his brother as an incentive to keep him from crying again. And after a few minutes it works.

You trail closely behind him when he walks out of the bathroom. He begins to run when he gets closer to Eiji, the  pitter patter of his wee little feet carrying in the apartment.

You watch as Yuki thrusts himself forward into the arms of his brother, and Eiji doesn't fail to catch him. The sight before you leaves you gawking in silence, watching Eiji unravel into his big brother form as  he lifts Yuki to the ceiling, playfully sniffing his under arms, the crook of his neck, and even his little bum before complimenting him, "Good job, you smell just like flowers."

His giggles float in the air, swarming around the apartment as if he hadn't been crying just a few minutes ago.

And as you watch the scene unfold do you  decide to step out of the sidelines, using this warm moment shared between the boys as your driving force to keep the last of your cousin's light safe. 

[shintorikhazumi]

Two is company, Three's a Crowd, but Four is the Death of Diana Cavendish (4): Dumb and Dumbass

A/N: Sorry for not writing enough recently. Been burnt out and have some terrible writer’s block. Hope I can write quite a bit these next two weeks before classes start up again. Had my finals recently and just... ugh.

Sorry for the not-so-good chapter.

Right. Tagging people. Uh @komatsuna-yuki @dianacavendishisgay @tanuki-pyon. Thank you for supporting my madness.

Enjoy?

~Shintori Khazumi

Two is company, Three's a Crowd, but Four is the Death of Diana Cavendish (4): Dumb and Dumbass

"This is dumb."

"It is not! Right, Barbara?"

"This is dumb."

Diana switched her exasperated gaze between the pair who had their arms crossed, vehemently against her "step one" of  the plan: Proper Courtship for Miss Kagari Atsuko.

There was absolutely NO way they were doing that.

Hannah ran a hand through her curled locks, freeing it from her signature yellow bow as they got ready for bed. She tried to ignore Diana's pleading eyes, but ultimately could not. She took one look at Diana's helpless face and sighed, walking forward to pinch her nose and plant a kiss on her forehead.

Really, courtship wasn't the issue in and of itself. It was Diana's view of courtship. There were just too many things to be said about it.

Starting from the issue of daily sending a truckload of roses to Akko every morning.

Literally.

She lived in a DORMITORY for crying out loud!

How was she supposed to receive them, much less keep them around??

It wasn't as though she had the luxury of living in a flat a little too big for just its occupants- just like their own right now. Hannah sighed, giving Diana a look. She received an indignant one in return.

Physical constraints aside, how would Akko feel receiving such an overwhelming gift? She already exploded in embarrassment from the simplest of flirtations. Who knew what her reaction would be to such a grandiose gesture of affection?

Hannah concluded it would be best to keep it simple, walk it slow. Ease into the already shocking situation they'd kiiindd of threw her in.

Okay, but Hannah didn't desire anything too slow either. Just right. Enough that Akko wouldn't spontaneously combust beyond recovery.

Holding out a pointer finger, with the other arm crossed about her waist, Hannah warned, "I swear, if I see even one petal, we're not talking to you tomorrow. And we're taking Atsuko with us too".

"One petal?!" Diana gawked at her with such pure incredulity, Hannah wondered if she was really all that shocked.

The look on her face almost made Hannah reconsider. Almost. She thought about it again, pausing and tapping her cheek in contemplation.

"Okay."

Diana's face lit up in hope.

"Maybe I'll allow two."

Nope.

//

"Morning, Atsuko~."

Akko jumped in her seat as she felt cool arms snake around her neck from behind, a soft weight pressing against her back. The scent of honeysuckle permeated her sense of smell. It was fruity and warm; like hints of honey and ripe citrus on a summer's day. For some reason, it made her calm immediately.

Turning around, Akko tried to return the greeting. "M-Miss Engl-" A finger quickly hushed her lips, Hannah's coy smile settling in while Akko's heart became unsettled. She didn't think it was in a bad way.

"Hannah. Call me Hannah."

"Mi-"

Akko would have tried to gently deny that request, not being one to so quickly drop formalities as was her upbringing before coming to England. However, there was just something in Mis- Hannah's eyes that compelled her to not even try to fight against the command.

"Y-you can call me Akko then,, .I-if you want! Only... if you want... it's... it's what my friends call me...""  Akko mumbled in reply, voice growing smaller and smaller as she shyly pried her eyes away from the magnetic hazels that were so keen on pulling her in.

She had missed the way her companion grinned, leaning in closer to her, arms tightening about her. "Adorable." Hannah playfully whispered into Akko's ear, the tips reddening brightly.

'Save me.'

"Oh, but we don't want to be just 'friends'." Barbara suddenly popped up, positioning herself right in Akko's line of vision, propping her elbows on her desk, face nestling in her hands comfortably as she smirked at Akko with a little wink. "But you already know that."

She watched as Hannah and Barbara shared a quick, sweet kiss as a good morning greeting. Eyes glinting as they caught Akko watching them.

"Oh? Do you want a nice "hello~" as well, Akko? I wouldn't mind~." Barbara grinned, fingers tilting Akko's chin up already, eyes flickering between Akko's own and her lips.

Akko felt her face burn that extra bit more. She wasn't going to make it through class like this if they kept teasing her so early in the morning.

Barbara was beginning to lean closer and closer as Hannah simply watched from behind Akko, inadvertently keeping her in place due to their positions.

Akko swallowed nervously. Sure, she did not necessarily have any qualms against kissing someone as pretty as Barbara. Even Hannah maybe, but at the very least, she wanted to have her fi-first kiss with...

"Girls."

Diana's arrival shook Akko out of a trance she had unknowingly been placed under. She had somehow expected, at the back of her mind, for Diana to arrive soon as the trio was rarely apart except for when they had separate classes.

Akko felt her heart do a little flip in her ribcage, breath stilling in her lungs at the refreshing sight of Diana in a ponytail, a pale nape and a slender neck exposed for the world to see. A bead of sweat rolled down the smooth expanse. Had it been hot outside? Maybe. For some reason, Akko just wanted to lean into the crook of Diana's neck and maybe-

Diana's cough told her she'd been staring an uncomfortable while. Akko flinched, her hand instinctively reached up to touch her bangs, smoothing out each strand of hair nervously in attempts to redirect her thoughts- wherever they were heading.

This was neither the time nor place to be having such... inappropriate musings.

"Aww~ Diana's so lucky to be the favorite girlfriend~." Barbara said with a pout as she observed the awkward two, pulling away from her initial position on the desk and walking around to take a seat next to Akko instead, leaning her head on the girl's shoulder.

"Right?" Hannah sighed, finally releasing Akko as she went to sit next to Barbara. "We put in all this effort to fluster our dear Akko, but Diana just has to breathe and she has her heart and her soul. Oh Barbara~ whatever shall we do?" She sniffled, wiping away a non-existent tear with her index finger.

Akko stared at the pair, mind short-circuiting at a particular word.

Diana was silent as well.

Hannah and Barbara exchanged a confused look at the lack of reaction, as well as Diana's frozen state.

"Um... did we perhaps say something wrong?" Hannah began nervously, not wanting to possibly offend Akko or hurt her like they could have the last time.

Barbara bit her lip, equally anxious. "If so, then-"

"G-girlfriend?!" Diana and Akko had burst simultaneously, earning looks from the few early students around them.

Akko bowed in silent apology as she turned back to her companions.

"W-what do you... what are you...?"

"Huh?" Hannah and Barbara tilted their heads in confusion.

"Eh?"

"What?"

"G-Girlfriend...?" Diana repeated, vision swirling as her face reddened.

"Aahhh..." Hannah and Barbara got the message, nodding... before doing a double-take. "Wait, we're not? Girlfriends?"

//-//

Akko slammed her head onto her locker door right after shutting it. She shuffled her subject materials for the next class in her hands, trying to check if she missed bringing anything, sighing heavily all the while.

She was lucky her second class was away from everyone else's. That gave her some breathing room to recollect herself.

Hannah and Barbara were way* too skilled at riling her up. She had no idea how to deal with them. She was sure she wouldn't get used to their antics anytime soon. The whole situation with them spun her wheels around so well, it was actually tiring her out.

Then there was the matter of being g-girlfriends, and Diana.

Diana...

"Diana..." Akko's head banged against her metal door again with a clang, a few passing students casting her worried gazes. "What the hell..."

When was it, she wondered, that she had first taken notice of the incredibly gorgeous biology major. Diana with her clear blue eyes like the oceans and the sky at the peak of a beautiful summer; her hair that flowed down to her waist in flourishing curls; Diana and her sharp and classy style; Diana and her shapely body- Akko hit her head once more against the locker, groaning against the cool metal.

"What the hell am I thinking about?" She muttered, pushing herself away from her locker to get ready to head off to the next class. Maybe she should just keep her mind off of it for now, focus on what was in front of her, and deal with it later. When her head cooled down.

Yes. That was the perfect plan.

Before she could leave, however, a hand slapped against either side of her head, a the impact causing a ringing sound in her ears that only added to her headache. Her eyes that she had unconsciously shut fluttered open, widening at the sight that greeted her.

Oh, this was just great.

"Oh, I don't know, Kagari. What *were you thinking about? Hmm?" That familiar snarky tone of voice bit at her, a hand resting on her shoulder before pressing her into the hard metal.

"Chloe..." Her weak response coupled with a glare only made the perpetrator grin happily.

"Atsuko~ our cute little lackey." Short-haired and short-tempered towards Akko was Avery trailing behind the Frenchwoman- the actual lackey, Akko thought.

"Geh- Avery..."

"Glad you're happy to see us." She rolled her eyes, popping her bubblegum as she picked up a paper Akko had dropped in her surprise, flipping through its contents, bored. "Our lackey seems to have been doing good in school lately. Doing her homework and all. Guess you could do ours too?" She smiled that sickly sweet way that Akko loathed.

Akko's breath hitched when she made a little tear on the sheet just to spite her. Finnelan was surely going to chew her out again for a reason she couldn't explain.

Akko grit her teeth, truly wanting to retaliate physically, but then remembered that they weren't in high school anymore. These girls had no real power over her. Not then, not now. She needed to just ignore it and walk away. Really. Years and years of this, and they never got sick of it? Why did the universe allow them to apply to the same university anyway? Not that it mattered anymore.

Resigning herself to a -hopefully- more peaceful exit, Akko sighed, attempting to move Chloe's hand away with only enough force not to trigger her more. "I'm not your lackey." She said, kneeling to the ground to grab her other scattered materials.

"Aww, you're not?" Chloe whined, watching Akko like a hawk.

"I'm not." Akko replied, standing up and throwing them a blank look. "I have to go. See you."

"Leaving so soon?" Some girl she didn't know called after her, sneer evident in her tone. "Not gonna entertain us for a little longer?"

"Obviously." Akko responded, not looking back. She just needed to get the hell away as fast as possible and avoid any further interaction with them.

"Oh, then you wouldn't mind if we told the entire school about how you're always off to a strip club."

Akko halted in her steps, turning around to stare hatefully at the evil grin Chloe sported after knowing she got her way once more.

"Always, as in everyday?" Avery added, leading the group forward to surround Akko once more as other students avoided the potential mess in the hallway.

"What has that got to do with anything?" Akko grit her teeth, fists clenching "And I already told you... it's not what it looks like."

"Then why are you so scared, hmm? About word getting out?" Chloe tipped Akko's head up with her index finger, making her look directly into her eyes. "You know how they say that if you have nothing to hide, then there's nothing to be afraid of."

"That's-"

Akko swallowed the lump in her throat, searching her mind for a comeback to that without revealing too much about herself and giving these bullies more information to harass her with.

She had nothing.

They didn't like that she was quiet and had nothing to say.

She heard Chloe sigh before Akko's cheeks were squeezed together in her hands, nails digging into the flesh slightly. "Also, what was it? Your friend, uh... Lois or something."

"Lotte..." Akko corrected, barely managing the word out; she hoped they weren't planning on doing anything to her sweet friend. She could handle their insults, their disgusting behavior, and their petty tricks on her, but she couldn't stand it if her friends got hurt in her place instead.

"Whatever. Her." Akko slapped Chloe's hand away, earning her a pleased smile and a pat on the cheek. "There's the little tiger we love." She giggled, a glint in her eye.

Akko gripped her books in her hand, trying her best not to throw her fists right at them. The last time she had let her temper go, she was wrongly suspended anyway. She'd rather not have to live through the same sucky school experience again.

"So,"  Chloe continued. "you wouldn't want the entire school to read her disgusting work, right? Fanfiction? I can't remember it all that well. Couldn't stand to read that shit for more than five seconds." She made a gagging motion, tongue stuck out at Akko.

"Lotte... Lotte is amazing at writing..." She whispered, hoping they actually didn't hear those words. "Don't touch Lotte." She managed to say loud enough, raising her head to gaze upon them with a warning. It only seemed to fly over their heads as they all sashayed away from Akko, feeling like they'd won.

"Anyway, we'll keep your secrets for another day, Kagari." Chloe waved over her shoulder. "In exchange for our, ehem, considerate service, we expect cutlet sandwiches on each of our desks. Noon. Sharp." She commanded.

Akko, immediately recalling her class schedule for the day, wanted to protest. "But my class doesn't get out until-"

"Is that a no I'm hearing?" The group paused in their steps, all pinning Akko down with their looks of contempt, daring her to say anything besides their desired response.

Her fists trembled, knuckles as white as her torn assignment paper. She felt the quiver in her lip and the tension in her frame as she held back from screaming bloody murder.

"... I'll get you your damned sandwiches."

//-//-//

"Akko! What took you so long!" Akko's friend, Lotte, worriedly asked. "Finnelan usually comes in really early. You could have been in some major trouble!"

"Maybe she just got lost in the cafeteria again? Among all the donuts and pastries." Sucy drily replied, not looking up from her textbook.

Akko kept staring at her torn paper in dismay, pondering if she should risk it and start rewriting a new one, hopefully finishing before the professor arrived.

The lack of response only fed Lotte's concern even more. She squeezed Akko's shoulder to catch her attention and noticed her friend flinch.

"Akko?"

"H-huh? Oh! What? So-sorry. I was... I dropped my phone in the toilet, haha." Akko said, not looking at her friend at all as she dug around her bag for a pen and hoping for a clean sheet of paper as well.

"Wait, what? Is your phone okay?" Lotte asked, skeptically watching her friend's frantic movements.

"Yeah, yeah." Akko replied half-heartedly.

Lotte frowned, feeling that Akko was still hiding something. "What happened to your assignment?" She questioned, noticing the crumpled and torn edge. A thought came to her mind. "Was it them?" She asked in a quieter voice. "What did they say? Did they hurt you?" Lotte scanned over Akko's features, pupils shaking. They settled on her face and Lotte's frown deepened. "You're cheek..." She reached out, trying to touch it.

"Huh? N-no? It was... the school... cat...?" Akko tried lamely, moving away from Lotte. She instantly felt bad about it as Lotte sported a hurt expression in response to her actions.

"Akko..."

Akko finally faced Lotte, guilt on her features. She was never really good at masking her feelings from her friend. She could never lie to her. They both knew that.

"What was it about this time?"

Akko bit her lip. Despite how close they had gotten over the years as friends, Akko hadn't revealed too much to them about her background. She wasn't sure she was ready to either. Not anytime soon. She also couldn't find the heart to let Lotte know that part of it was about her.

"Just that I'm a dumbass, and the other typical stuff, y'know? Appearances and that kinda thing." She lied.

"Hmmm..." Lotte was clearly not convinced, but she let it go, knowing Akko wouldn't budge on things like this. She instead decided to  settle down in her seat next to Akko.

Akko knew Lotte wouldn't pry anymore. She was both thankful and sorry for having to do this to her friend, but she really couldn't help it.

Akko sighed, clicking her pen open.

"Want me to poison their lunch today?" Sucy piped up, flashing Akko a vial from her bag.

As much as Akko wanted to say yes, she knew it could only make things worse and reluctantly declined. "Maybe in my dreams." She smiled at her friends weakly, finally turning to her fresh sheet of paper to begin copying her assignment.

She missed the shine in Sucy's eye and the grin that was starting to grow on her face. Akko only looked up in terror as she heard the words that spilled from Sucy's mouth, hoping she wouldn't go through with any funny business.

"That can be arranged."

Akko felt a shiver run up her spine, whipping her head back to her paper to avoid that scary expression.

"Let's just... not."

"Tch. You're no fun."

Maybe she really wasn't.

A/N: I would have made this longer and added one more scene, but my brain cells can’t. Sorry haha. ;-; Really sorry. 

~Shintori Khazumi

[writer-and-artist27]

Absent Day

Or, Vy is tired over Ishtar not showing up after spending a bit, and writing muse ended up taking over. So, little story written while I'm on the Tumblr browser and not on a Google Doc. This'll be interesting.

For everyone else, please enjoy this unadulterated whim of a short story fic. Could go into Passing Days. Not sure. I have a song for this, at least, for those who'd like to listen while reading.

CW for smoking, of course.

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

The first time Vy had ever found Robin Hood smoking, it was back before the Lostbelts, before the original Chaldea was lost. Even then, when Goetia was the only threat, it took every single ounce of her energy to hold back the urge to gag. Or run, really. Tobacco smoke wasn't good for the lungs, after all. Still, when she had walked into the room to find him, something must have registered on her face in spite of her attempts to hide it because Robin immediately took the stick away from his mouth, stubbing the lit end against the nearest ash tray. Vy didn't even have a chance to say his True Name before the cigarette was curled up and then left in the ash tray to fizzle away.

"Y-You didn't have to do that, Archer," Vy said reflexively, trying not to fidget. Did he notice something? "I could've waited for you to finish."

"But that would've meant you would just stand outside the room and inadvertently take in the smoke, Master," Robin Hood said coolly, tellingly waving away the remnants of a smoke cloud with his other hand. "And I've had enough lectures from the other Servants about second-hand smoke."

"But..." Guilt bubbled up almost immediately. "Smoking is something that makes you feel more comfy, doesn't it?"

Doesn't that mean, as a Master, I should try to accommodate your needs—

Even with his hood covering his eyes, it felt like Robin had noticed something she didn't with her question, because he didn't answer immediately. Instead, he sighed a loud, almost tired sigh, and proceeded to walk over.

Vy probably should've expected the hand gently coming over to rest on her hair, considering the other Servants had taken up the community-wide habit of doing the same thing, but she still let out a small "Eep" once he started patting her head. Looking up at him didn't really yield any answers, because his No Face May King concealed all but his hair and the wry smile on his exposed chin. "Don't push yourself, little sparrow. A girl like you should live a better life than sacrificing her own needs for a bandit like me."

"Little...sparrow?"

Robin paused at this point, his hand freezing mid-pat before he retracted the arm entirely, hiding it under the No Face May King. "Never mind." His feet flickered out of view. "I'll be—"

Before she could think on it, Vy was grabbing the hem of his cloak, tugging it towards herself with a face. It was probably from the mixed bag of emotions rolling through her stomach. "W-Wait!"

Robin stilled, his mouth opening and closing for a moment. Then, he said in a softer voice, "What is it, Master?"

"I... I don't mind the name, if that's what you're worried about." Vy smiled up at him with as much appreciation and joy she could squeeze out of her tired heart. With an additional tug at his cloak, she said in an equally gentle voice, "It sounds really nice, actually."

"Ah," Archer said, and he stared at her in return. Even if Vy couldn't see his eyes through his hood, he seemed to be analyzing her now. "You're... not letting me go," he stated a second later, his head tilting towards the grip Vy was still keeping on his Noble Phantasm. "Do we have to go farming now?"

"N-Not really, no..." Vy felt a bit embarrassed with the admission, but she still went on with a small clench of the Noble Phantasm cloth and an honest, "But I just wanted to be with you, that's all. Smoke or not. Farming or not."

Silence reigned again.

Robin then said, in the same soft voice, "Even though you'd be better off cutting your losses now? I am a bandit and a thief, little sparrow. I'm no hero."

"You're big Robin," Vy corrected, tugging at his cloak hard enough for him to stumble, and before she could take it back, she was standing on her tip toes to wrap her arms around his neck. She couldn't tell if she had pushed his hood back from the force — hell, she might've been choking him on accident no thanks to their height difference — but she still persisted in hugging him. "My Robin Hood. Bandit or not, thief or not, you're the Robin I summoned. So to me, you're bigger than anyone else."

And I don't mind being your little sparrow, echoed in her heart.

Robin still tensed in her hold, a clear shudder pulsing through his shoulders underneath Vy's grip. "...You know that could be taken in a completely different way, right?"

"Don't care," Vy said loudly, squeezing him a little tighter. "I meant what I said."

Robin fell silent again, but if the hesitant hand on her waist was any indication, he was feeling something.

Vy just wanted to hope he was getting a better hand in life than what the dreams had shown her of his time as a lone hero.

If I could do one thing...

Vy shut her eyes and pressed her cheek against the top of Robin's left shoulder through his cloak, smelling smoke and forest wood all at once.

I wish I could've met you before all this so that I could give you something better. So that you wouldn't have died alone. But, if you're okay with this...

Robin's hand patted the small of her back. "Master?"

"...You're a dork, Archer," Vy said finally.

"What brought this on?"

"Nothing. Just lemme hug you."

Vy didn't even have to see Robin's face to know he was rolling his eyes. "Fineeeee."

Robin still bent his knees a bit so that Vy wasn't struggling to reach his height mid-hug. Vy squeezed him a bit more as her way of expressing thanks.

I'll do my best so that you can be happy here.

It was a promise.

[concussed-to-pieces]

Stay Safe Part One: Should Have Known Better

Fandom: The Mandalorian [Star Wars]

Pairing: Eventual Mandalorian [Din Djarin]/Reader

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Hello everyone, and welcome to my latest indulgence. This tale will run parallel to the show, picking up between episode three [The Sin] and episode four [Sanctuary], so spoiler warnings for all portions!

Our story begins a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...on Nevarro, to be specific. Enjoy!

Tag List: @wrestlingfae @helplessly-nonstop @huliabitch @culturalrebel

[And here is the playlist for this (now completed) series! Be warned that this post does contain spoilers for all chapters of Stay Safe, so if you would rather just have the playlist without additional exposition or breakdown, you can find it here!]

The ship was filthy. 

Whoever the pilot was had clearly gone bellying in a mudflat. Dried grime was spattered as far up as the cockpit! You wiped the sweat off your forehead, squinting in the brilliant sunlight. 

She had the potential to shine, you decided, and in your current line of work, that was really what mattered. "I'll get it done." You said aloud. 

"You will? Excellent!" The person hellbent on hiring you pressed a small, yet strangely-weighty bundle of cloth into your hands. "Your payment. The other half will be delivered upon completion." They said, voice muffled through their thick cowling. You waved off their promise, absently giving them the usual 'the work is its own reward' rigmarole as you made a mental list of what you would need to pick up from your tools. 

A few panels looked dented and carbon-scored underneath all the mud; this puddlejumper had clearly seen some kind of action. Not too surprising, what with the Empire getting upended. Skirmishes were all too common in the brave new world, where the tenuous New Republic sought to bring peace to a galaxy full of warlords and criminals.

In hindsight, you probably should have checked what you were being paid with. You might have saved yourself a lot of trouble.

Instead, you launched yourself headfirst into sweeping the crusted muck off the cockpit shielding and scrubbing as high as you could reach on the grungy fuselage. Clients sometimes got antsy about you traipsing around on top of their fancy vessels with your sturdy boots, so you always did your best to be expedient when brushing off the sand and grime. 

Once the brunt of the outside work had been done, you went and punched in the code you had been given to open the hatch.

Nothing happened.

You pulled your notebook and tiny charcoal stub from your side pouch, running your eyes down the line of old codes from previous jobs. No, that had been correct. How bizarre! What if the owner had changed it and forgotten? 

You grimaced at the keypad. You hated leaving a job half-finished. Maybe you could guess it? It would be a fair bit easier than trying to locate the owner, and you didn't want them returning to find you twiddling your thumbs.

To your surprise, it only took six tries at the combination before the boarding ramp extended with a throaty hiss. Your grin of triumph at your own cleverness was woefully short-lived as the thunder of approaching footsteps alerted you to the fact that you were no longer alone. You went to turn and see who was coming, barely glimpsing the bundle that was your payment flying at your face with purpose. 

Metal, you realized dimly before consciousness deserted you.

…

You awoke to a boot in your ribs and you coughed, gasping for air. The bundle was clutched to your chest tightly. How had you picked it up? The last thing you remembered was getting clobbered with it. Why would your attacker leave you with your payment?

You opened your eyes sluggishly, realizing even in your barely-coherent state that you were in the hold of that ship you had been cleaning. "Wonderful." You groaned. Your whole body felt bruised. This wasn't exactly your first time being Shanghaied, but it definitely was up there on the list of 'experiences that don't bear repeating'.

Now, to find out who owned the boot that had so graciously awoken you from your slumber. You struggled to roll over, still keeping a hand on the heavy bundle. As you moved to stand, however, the cloth that made up the bundle began to unwind. You clumsily fought to catch the edges to no avail, fumbling the whole thing until it ended up dropping to the floor with a resounding clack!. Whatever was inside it was clearly metallic, but you already knew that from how sore your face was. 

Any further musing on what it could be took a back seat to the disruptor rifle suddenly inches away from your face. 

"Wait!" You yelped, your hands raised over your head.

The individual in gleaming beskar armor gave no sign that they heard you, the pronged rifle barrel trained between your eyes. You had never seen a Mandalorian so close before, but right now was hardly the time to dwell on the magnanimous rarity of the occasion!

"Oh, oh please wait. I...this is all a huge mistake. Please don't shoot me." They didn't move and you took that as your cue to start trying to get yourself out of this mess. "I've been working this port all cycle, I was hired to clean thi-"

"Not by me, you weren't." A male voice, clipped and irritated but distinctly human even through the doubled-back modulator on that helmet. "Continue."

"I…" You were at a bit of a loss. You had been hoping, albeit vainly, that it was a droid under all the beskar. You might have been able to reason with a droid. "W-Well, I…"

"Five seconds." The rifle clicked loudly and you flinched, closing your eyes. 

"Okay, okayokayokay, I was h-hired. At the port." You rushed to explain, tripping over your words in your haste. "I didn't get a good look at him, he was all wrapped up like everyone else. He showed me this ship and I told him I would absolutely do it. I was p-promised two-part payment, half now and half on completion." 

You swallowed hard, daring to squint open your eyes. The Mandalorian hadn't moved a muscle, that T-shaped visor alone keeping you pinned with its unfriendly glare. 

"Um, I went to open the hatch once I got done with the hull and it, uh, wouldn't open," you stuttered. "Th-The man who hired me gave me the wrong code. So I tried a bunch of different ones."

A heavy sigh issued from the helmet. "Until you got the right one."

"Yes." You pointed down to the analog flight notebook hanging out of your hip pouch. "I've never been good at remembering codes. But the next thing I knew, I was attacked from behind!"

"Karga must have been waiting for you to get the door open." The Mandalorian muttered, lowering his rifle slightly. "Doesn't explain the beskar, though."

"Beskar?" You repeated.

He gestured downward and you followed his hand to the formerly wrapped bundle, now revealed to be a single ingot of beskar. The Imperial crest stamped into it gave you pause, the symbol by itself enough to make you uneasy.

"It was my...p-payment." You suddenly felt tiny. Everything you had heard about Mandalorians pointed towards them being an incredibly stoic and honor-bound society. Their beskar armor was revered, practically sacred; attempting to remove a Mandalorian's helm by force was akin to asking for death. Who knew where this beskar had even come from?!

You were in deep trouble.

A breath chuffed out of him and he carefully scooped the metal up off the floor, brushing away a tiny bit of grime. "Not anymore, it's not." He growled, re-wrapping the ingot in the cloth. You bowed your head in acquiescence, startled when two leather-clad fingers tilted your chin back up. "Your nose," He began, his thumb scrubbing at something crusted above your upper lip, "it's bloody."

"I remember getting whacked with that right after I opened the hatch." You grimaced. "Is it bad? It's probably pretty bad." 

"It's not great." Your attention was abruptly drawn to the side when you heard a soft cooing noise. A blaster barrel replaced his fingers under your chin even as you moved. "I wouldn't try anything." He warned.

"I'm not, I'm not." You whispered in reply, your whole body shaking. Gods, he was fast. Even with you just shifting on instinct alone, he easily outpaced you. "I heard-"

"I know what you heard." He spat. "As much as I'd love to throw you out the airlock, I'm sure I'd get more for you alive somewhere else."

For the first time, you noticed the sound of the FTL engines humming. Oh. He had taken off while you were unconscious. Honestly, you had probably been a nasty shock for him when he came across you all curled up in the cargo bay.

That soft noise caught your ear again, but this time you forced yourself not to move. The Mandalorian exhaled after a moment, taking a step back and holstering his blaster. "What I want to know is," He paused, like he was mentally mulling something over while he weighed the slab of beskar in his palm. "Are you any good with younglings?"

You stared up at his visor blankly. All the other stories you'd heard about Mandalorians, the seedier ones, came rushing to the forefront of your mind, leaving you a little flushed in the face. "I...I'm not too bad? I've got none of my own, b-b-but it's not like I have an issue with them?" Your reply was half a question in and of itself. 

"Good. Your job is to manage the child until I can find someplace to deal with you."

"'Deal with me'?" You squeaked. "I'd really like to go back to Nevarro, if it's all the same to you."

"You stowed away on my ship. Inadvertently or not, that's a crime I don't take lightly."

"Wait, b-but--" A reedy cry cut you off and you finally saw what was making all the noise. "Oh." You breathed.  

It was definitely a baby. A baby what, you had no clue. But a baby all the same. It was tiny, sporting enormous ears that dwarfed its green body. Huge black eyes shone in the dim light of the hold, and a minute hand with three fingers stretched out towards the Mandalorian from the comfort of its bassinet.

"I trust there won't be any problems?" The beskar-clad man across from you asked, seeming a little bemused by how quiet you had gone.

"What's their name? What do they eat? They're so small, I've never seen anything like it!" You babbled nervously, barely able to fight back the primal urge to pinch their cheeks.

"No name. It'll eat damn near anything. I've seen it eat live mudjumpers whole." The Mandalorian replied shortly. "Doesn't seem to eat regularly, though. Might be boredom motivated." The armored individual waited a beat before speaking again, the strap securing his blaster making a loud snap in the stillness he created, "Anything happens to it, I kill you. Understand?"

"Ab...absolutely." You nodded jerkily, wincing when your neck protested the motion.

"Good." He turned on his heel and pointed towards the alcove off to the side of the ladder. "Refresher is there. You do anything I don't like and you're getting slabbed. Full carbon treatment." He informed you brusquely. "You're not quarry yet. Don't make yourself quarry."

"Got it. Th-Thanks for not vaporizing me on sight. I'm sorry about," You gestured helplessly around you, "all of this."

"An apology from you means nothing to me." He informed you, not unkindly. "I'd rather learn who the person that hired you was, and why they were paying you in Imperial beskar."

"I had no idea what it actually was. I was so excited to get started, I didn't even look at it." You confessed. "For all I knew it could have been a rock."

"You're not particularly bright, are you?"

"I like what I do." You retorted before you could think twice about it.

He stayed by the ladder for a moment, and then stalked back towards you. You braced yourself, waiting to get blown to smithereens. Instead, he stopped a good two feet away and barked, "hand over your tools."

"M-My--"

"Tools. Any weapons. Drop them." His voice came out as a modulated snarl. "Now." Shakily you undid the heavy buckle at your waist, then struggled out of your shoulder straps and dropped the whole belt on the deck. You hesitated a second, something that he absolutely noticed. "Do I have to slab you or are you going to cooperate?" He inquired.

Your last ounce of bravery went out the hold at his threat and you hurried to unstrap the sheath attached to the inside of your calf under your pants. "Hang on, I just-" You plopped down on the floor, shoving your pants leg up around your knee. "Shit, c'mon please." You begged under your breath, tears pricking your eyes while the buckles refused to budge. "I'm sorry, I swear I'm trying-"

"Stop." 

You froze, watching out of your periphery as he crouched in front of you. Gloved hands miles more dexterous than your own made quick work of the sheath buckles. He was close enough for you to see your terrified reflection in his helmet, warped by the contours it bore.

"Breathe." He reminded you. "I haven't slabbed you yet. Don't give me a reason to and you'll be fine."

"Right, right." You choked. 

The blade came loose with one sharp tug and you heard him whistle. "What in the hell is someone like you doing with a knife this mean?" He asked incredulously, testing the heft of the nearly cleaver-sized weapon.

"I traded some rocks for it." You whispered. 

He huffed out a breath in what might have been an expression of mirth, rising to his full height to give the knife a practice swing. It sang as he ripped it through the air, a testament to his substantial strength. "Not sharp?" He sounded curious.

"It's for crushing." 

He twisted his wrist back and forth, lazily twirling the knife by the handle. "You'd rather maim than kill?"

"I'm not smart enough to make good use of a sharp blade." You recited the phrase you had heard aimed at you so often in your youth. He paused in his motions with the knife, his helmet visor slowly turning towards you as you continued. "It's too easy to get comfortable with hurting if you have a weapon that doesn't take any thought to use. Like a sharp knife or...or a quick blaster." Or a disruptor rifle, you added mentally.

He dropped back into a crouch in front of you, effortlessly balancing his weight on his heels. You swallowed hard, still unnerved by the proximity of a real, honest-to-gods Mandalorian. You had seen a few of them in your travels, but never up close and you had certainly never spoken with any of them. Their armor alone exuded a certain air that tended to dissuade attempts at conversation.

"Wise words." With a strange amount of care, the armored man replaced your knife in its sheath. "I'll hang onto it for right now. Don't try anything stupid and you might get it back." He muttered. Despite the featureless void of his visor, you got the impression that he was studying you intently. "Take care of the kid." A rag was thrust at your face. "Wash the blood off from under your nose."

…

Honestly, it was a relatively easy gig.

You quickly discovered that the child liked it when you sang, even if it was just nonsense words and babble. You made up a song on the spot about the dewback that jumped over the blue milk moon, sitting on the floor and serenading the giggly being while you cleaned yourself up with the warm rag.

They appeared to be maybe toddler age, just getting to the point where they were learning by putting everything in their mouth. You lost track of how many objects you eased away from them, finally resorting to relocating the hazards into an empty cargo net overhead.

There was one thing in particular that they seemed to love, a silver ball with a threaded hole in it. They rolled it back and forth on the deck, squealing excitedly when you got involved in their little game of fetch. At least they didn't seem keen on putting it into their mouth, thank the Maker for small favors.

You knew enough time had passed that you should be hungry, but the idea of asking for anything made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. The child only ate when they were bored, right? Maybe you ought to adopt the same schedule.

Your mind wandered back to the Mandalorian as you engaged the tyke in a rousing game of peekaboo, their explosive giggles making you smile in spite of your lingering aches and pains. How had someone like him come across this baby? If he was a bounty hunter, as the empty carbonite slab hangers overhead would indicate, what was he doing with such a small child? 

"Well," you said aloud, "it's not as if kids are just convenient things that drop out of the sky when you're ready for them." You clapped your hands and the child mimicked you, bouncing a little. You set into a barely-remembered song from when you yourself had been quite young, "Stars shining bright above you, night breezes seem to whisper 'I love you'..."

Your father had often sang while he cooked meals, pausing occasionally to throw you a grin. You imagined it must have made your parents' toil-filled days of farming a little more bearable. You vaguely recalled the sound of their voices, but the years between their deaths and the present day stretched long. All you had left now were half-impressions of your mother's fond smile and your father's songs, fleeting and bittersweet. 

You blinked away the memories when you felt the touch of a small hand on your sleeve, looking down at the child. They chirped at you, tilting their head to the side. "Hello, little one." You whispered, noting that their enormous eyes were half-lidded. "Are you sleepy?" They yawned in reply, making you smile slightly. It was almost as if they understood what you were saying! "Alright, let's go to sleep." 

After checking to make sure that they were still dry, you tucked them into their cradle. Then, you tugged the bassinet over behind a stack of crates, proceeding to curl up on the floor in your cloak. You kept one hand draped over the side of the cradle, smiling blearily when you felt tiny fingers take hold of your index. 

You had never had any issues sleeping in an unfamiliar environment and despite your rumbling stomach, tonight was no exception. You were exhausted and sore from the day's events and you were more than ready to put it all behind you.

…

Something was nudging your side. 

You frowned, flailing an arm out of the warm cocoon you had created with your cloak. The back of your hand hit steel, and then your palm landed on what seemed to be a boot upper. "Five minutes." You murmured, patting the leather and trying to recall where you were without opening your eyes.

"Get up." 

The ship detail. Getting hit with the beskar. Mandalorian. The child-

You thrashed your legs out of your cloak, suddenly more awake than you had ever been in your life. "Where is the baby?" You asked frantically, "I'm sorry, I-I just-"

"The kid is over there." The Mandalorian jerked his helmet to the side, indicating the cradle. "Still sleeping." He took hold of your elbow, pulling you upright. "Come on."

You straightened out your tunic and followed his silent form up the ladder to the cockpit, your heart pounding in your throat. You wrapped your cape tightly around you, your shivering having nothing to do with the temperature. Through the clear shielding you glimpsed the sight of tall coniferous trees, gray-green in the light of dawn. How long had you slept for?

He settled into the pilot seat, swiveling it backwards to face you after a moment. "Sit." He gestured behind you to one of the co-pilot chairs.

You did so, trying your hardest to hide how much you were trembling. He wouldn't kill you right now, would he? No, not in the cockpit. There would be blood everywhere-

"Hey!" The Mandalorian barked, gloved fingers waving in front of your eyes. "Focus. Are you cold?"

"N-No, not at all." You denied through chattering teeth, your back aching with the strain of holding yourself still. 

"Then why the hell are you shaking?"

"I'm terrified." You admitted bluntly. 

"Oh." He was silent for several moments, letting you panic inwardly. "Well, knock it off." He muttered gruffly. "I'm not going to do anything to you."

"You...you're not?" 

"No." You went nearly boneless at his exasperated grunt, feeling as though you had just run a marathon. "You're good with the kid. It's been quiet. No one trying to pilfer any of the shiny things I have to fly with, or touching important switches." 

"Glad to be of service." You replied weakly. 

"Don't make me change my mind." He growled, jabbing a finger at your face. "If I find out you were planted on here by the Guild to double cross me, I won't hesitate to blow a hole in your sternum. Do we understand each other, stowaway?" 

"Y-You drive a hard bargain." You squeaked, bunching your fists in your tunic. His hand remained extended and after a moment he impatiently jerked his chin down at it. "Oh!" You tried to subtly wipe your sweaty palm off on your thigh before you accepted the handshake, nodding stiffly. 

"If I double cross you, you can feel free to take your mean little knife and crush my ribcage with it." The Mandalorian rotated his wrist, the movement fluid and nonchalant. "Turn and turn alike." 

"I think you might have an unfair advantage. That knife is no match for beskar." You pointed out, almost delirious with relief.

"It's not about the tool, it's about how you utilize it." 

Your empty stomach suddenly decided to make itself heard, growling deafeningly loud. You flushed, wrapping your arms around your midsection.

"Stars, was that a Corellian hound?" The bounty hunter tossed a small pouch your way, the bag landing in your lap with a quiet crinkle. "Eat the rest of that. Today, we look for lodging." He ordered.

Your question of whether he would possibly consider returning you to Nevarro died in your throat and you bit your lip, struggling with the seal on the bag.

The jerky-like substance, traditionally made from the tough, bitter pulp of hubba gourds, served to take the hard edge off of your hunger and give your mouth something to do while the Mandalorian did his pre-departure walkthrough.

He halted by the now-full cargo net loaded with the flotsam and jetsam from the floor of the hold and turned to look at you, his head tilted slightly in question. 

"Baby wanted to mouth things, so I had to put them out of reach." You elaborated after swallowing.

"Little womp rat." The armored man grumbled, sounding strangely fond. The womp rat in question babbled from their crib, their arms outstretched in the universal sign for pick me up! The Mandalorian ignored them, continuing his sweep. 

He finally nodded, appearing satisfied with the state of things. You moved to scoop the child out of their crib, only to get stopped in your tracks by a very familiar knife sheath hitting your chest.

"Weapons on before we leave the ship." The Mandalorian muttered. "Remember our agreement. You can have your tools later if you prove yourself trustworthy." 

You took the knife back, wordlessly strapping the sheath to your calf once more. The weight was an immense comfort and you felt your nervous energy still for a brief moment. "Okay." You breathed, clenching your fists and then shaking out your tense shoulders.

The Mandalorian nodded towards the child. "Let him walk. He needs to use his legs."

While the boarding ramp hydraulics hissed and creaked, you dug around in your side pouch. You didn't have much in the way of actual credits, normally you accepted trades of goods or food. "Here, I...um, for when we get lodging." The seven credits looked pitiful even to your eyes, so you could only imagine what this obviously-successful bounty hunter must think of them. 

He waved you off, one gloved hand closing your fingers securely around the meager fistful. "Save them for a rainy season, stowaway." 

"B-But-"

"We still don't even know whether we will find lodgings here," He reminded you. "Hang onto them." 

"I'm not going to just scab off of you." You protested as he walked down the ramp. "I can work, I know ships inside and out and I can-"

"We can discuss it later." He said over his shoulder, the words muffled by his cape, "once I've decided you're worth the trouble."

You huffed out an annoyed breath, jamming the credits back into your pouch. "Oh of course, wouldn't want to trouble you with bringing me back to fucking Nevarro." You muttered. The child squealed, tugging on your pants leg and pointing towards the forest. "Yeah, we'd better get a move on." You agreed quietly. 

With mindfully-shortened steps, you set off to follow the armored man. At least he was shiny enough to be spotted easily in the sun-dappled forest.

Part Two

[jubilantscribbler]

you ever look at a character and go, “hey buddy, why are you here?” and then try and justify it?

Yeah, Adam MadOnes, I’m looking at you.  But after some deep, deep, DEEP thought, I realized that Adam’s role in the story is easily overlooked and overshadowed in the musical compared to Kelly’s and even Sam’s mom’s relationships with Sam.  At face value, Adam is just the boyfriend who adds very little to the plot, save for the very end when he’s the reason Sam breaks out of that stupor long enough to realize that he’s not what she wants either.

But then you listen to his lines in “Drive”, and you realize, hey, wait a minute, maybe he was supposed to be kinda forgettable but always present.  Because, when you listen to his lines and what he has to offer to Sam, it’s safety.  Or rather, he’s the safety net that Sam could rely on, except that she doesn’t want to.

Lemme explain.

Compared to Kelly and Beverly’s songs, Adam’s tend to be more... chill.  “Simple as That” really shows it off, with the song having a playful but easy beat that drives home how low maintenance their relationship seems to be.  They tend to get each other... most of the time.  Their relationship is described as “perfect”, but the simple tune and beats also makes their relationship just a little bit childish, in that bright-eyed, “Santa Claus is Real” sort of way that’s endearing.  That sets up their relationship easily enough to overlook it - it’s a naive, sweet kind of love that goes with the usual High School Sweethearts narrative, where the two of them are a perfect pair and they’re TOTALLY going to get married after they graduate-

And then you get into “The Proposal” and the opening line, “Have sex with me” is backed up with an intense strum that immediately levels out into a song that gets surprisingly soft.  It sounds like a love song, but the lines are more of a plea to please have sex with Adam, he’ll make breakfast and dinner and he has candles he’ll be so romantic, and it’s like haha the usual boyfriend shenanigans until he starts backtrack and go, you know, they can always bone down tomorrow, or even next week which is surprising given how insistent Adam was for like, 90% of the song (Genius has a comment that this song is actually what Sam assumes Adam wants from her - sex, but even then, Adam still makes the effort to not completely push her to commit to the act and even suggests putting it off).  Adam appears in the background of other songs too, like “Top Ten” and “I Know My Girl”, making him an ever present, lingering background figure in Sam’s life.  He doesn’t push to make himself more prominent, and he also doesn’t push Sam to go with what he wants too.  And that’s important to keep in mind.

Adam as a character is all about being there for Sam.  He’s literally described as having “great emotional intelligence and the loyalty of a Saint Bernard”.  The first part is why he doesn’t push so hard with Sam.  He can read her cues.  He can tell when she’s uncomfortable or doesn’t want to do something, and he doesn’t push.  This is actually important to his character, and it’s how it all culminates into “Run Away with Me”.  It’s this emotional awareness that has him recognizing the importance of “On the Road” and trying to connect and reconnect with Sam after Kelly’s death, how he recognizes in that very last line that Sam... doesn’t want what he’s throwing down.  But instead of getting upset with Sam, he keeps it to himself and instead wishes her good luck in a goofy way for her driving test.

But this emotional awareness is also what makes Adam so important to Sam.  He’s different from Kelly and her mom - he doesn’t actively push her to make decisions or go along with what he wants.  Kelly forces her forward, to make decisions for herself - impulsive, wild, self-serving, but also freeing choices that are meant to lead Sam to her happiness.  Meanwhile, Beverly, Sam’s mom, pushes her towards success, to make the right decisions, to be calculating and careful but ambitious, and to understand the reality of the world they live in, specifically as women.  Adam doesn’t do any of that.  It’s why his music is less intense compared to the Kelly and Beverly’s songs, more slow and oddly calm.  Adam backtracks, tries to give Sam space for her decisions, (”maybe not today, maybe tomorrow, maybe-”), but more importantly, he wants to stick by Sam in however way she needs him to be.  

It’s that dedication and love for Sam that has her singing “Say the Word” to him, that sweet, soft love song where she says that if he asks, she’ll stay for him even though she wants to go.  In that moment, she’s giving him the chance to lead her life in a direction that he wants which, when you look at how Sam takes to people trying to dictate what she should do with her life, is oddly sweet of her to offer to him.  He doesn’t act on it immediately, probably doesn’t have the time to given the song that follows up, but when he does sing to Sam his response, it’s after Kelly’s death with the attempt to try and get her to run away with him.

This is the one time Adam actually tries to push her into making a decision.  He tells her that she’s ready, that she can make a new life with him, that they can be happy together on the road, just like her favorite book, and, interestingly, he repeats back to her the words she sang to him.  For Sam, if he said the word, she’d stay for him.  But for Adam, if she says the word, they can leave together.  Sam tells him to tell her that she’s ready in “Say the Word”, and he does in “Run Away With Me”.  Over and over, he tells her that “she’s ready now”, and it almost sounds too good to be true.  Sam can finally hit the road, something she wanted so desperately before with Kelly, something that she was so frightened of before that had her saying no.  Now she has the chance with Adam, offering her almost the same thing - a life on the road with someone she deeply cares about.

Except.

His offer comes with that little catch.  That little dream of his of settling down in a house somewhere with Sam, words that remind Sam of what Kelly warned her about before.  His offer is to save her, have a simple life with her, one that’s easy and calming and full of safety.

He’s offering her a safe way out to getting what she wants... temporarily.  What he actually wants from her is a life where they’re always together, where they can maybe get married, maybe settle down, maybe have a family if she wants or not, maybe live somewhere by the coast, and it’s not what Kelly would have wanted, or what her ambitious mom would have wanted, and it’s not what Sam wants at all.

And Adam realizes that all too late, just right at the very last line of his song, where he loses all his enthusiasm and quiets his voice just enough.  And, in the live version, you can hear his heartbreak loud and clear.  

“Drive” is where Sam’s impression of Adam really shines through as he blatantly states that he can keep Sam safe, his pleas for her to run away with him more pleading even when he says that it doesn’t have to be right away, it can be later, because Adam is always willing to wait for Sam, he’s in love with her.  To Sam, he becomes that idealized lover, that perfect high school sweetheart that follows the trope of getting married after high school, of settling down and leading a life that doesn’t have a lot of strife because they’re always so agreeable with each other.  Sure, he doesn’t maybe understand her at the same level as Kelly, nor does he push her to be her very absolute best, but he offers something simple.  Something safe.  Something that she can take her time deciding on.

Adam, compared to the rest of the cast, doesn’t really have those strong, identifiable traits other than his devotion to Sam.  He really is just that boyfriend character, but despite how his relationship with Sam practically pales in comparison to Sam’s relationship with Kelly, he’s still that important person to Sam.  He’s the safety net in her relationships, the one that’s always there to catch her, the one she ran to after her fight with Kelly and her mom, the one who inadvertently broke her out of her stupor.  He doesn’t outright add to the plot because he doesn’t push Sam to make her choices like Kelly or Beverly.  And the story is all about Sam trying to make her own choices.  Each of them have their way of going about it - Kelly by sheer force, Beverly with caution and fear, and Adam with time.  And once he finally tries to push Sam towards a decision?

That’s the tipping point that leads into “Drive”.

Like Beverly, he’s important in making Sam realize what she wants.  He’s important in making her realize what she doesn’t want, despite being that perfect, devoted boyfriend who just wants to be by her side.  He’s the rejection of that concept, similar to how Sam rejects Beverly’s idea of striving to be the best despite the hand that was given to her, of being as successful as she can be allowed and maybe even a little more, of having to live and cope with reality.  He represents the safe path, the simple path, the path a lot of people would take and have taken.  And he matters more not in what he can add to Sam’s life and story, because Sam doesn’t actually want that, but what it takes for Sam to realize, or remembers really, what she actually wants for once in her life.  Because the entire musical is about Sam searching for what she wants, and what Adam has to offer isn’t it.

It’s easy to overlook Adam really.  He doesn’t show up often in the clips floating around Youtube, he’s got like, One Really Popular Song and the other two are pretty skippable, and comparing his relationship with Sam to Kelly’s really makes you wonder why she chose to date Adam instead of Kelly, asides from the compulsory heteronormativity.  But when you actually take a step back and put together what Adam has to offer in conjunction to how the others normally act around Sam, and why he matters so much to Sam, he can be a pretty important character.  Because in the end, he’s the one who manages to push her out of her funk, and no one else.

[whitherliliesbloom]

in the eyes of the beholder

[ ffxivwrite2021 ] ★ [ masterlist ] ★ [ prompt #22 - fluster ]

[alphinaud/wol ] ★ [ 2,042 words ]  ★ [ post-canon ]

fluster-  to put into a state of agitated confusion or embarrassment 

they say an artists always inadvertently pours their heart’s true feelings into their drawings.

The apartment has never been this empty - not since the day he moved in. With cardboard box towers stacked high, and a few other empty ones that have yet to be packed, Alphinaud pauses for a moment to straighten himself up and admire the empty space around him, wiping the sweat off his brows.

This has been his home for a good many years, not quite the kind that he would liken to Leveilleur manor back in Old Sharlayan where he grew up in.. but a home nonetheless- with the bonus of knowing his most trusted friends and allies are ever close by, Rising Stones being just a mere stroll away. So he cannot help but to feel a pang of sadness and longing swelling in his heart, especially as he casts a glance out the window to look upon the slow spinning aetheryte that stood in the center of Revenant’s Toll. 

But, Alphinaud reminds himself, as he finally turns his gaze to look at the young woman standing upon a lalafellin stool in front of the bookcase, her arms stretched high above her head as she grabs at the rows of dust coated tomes and gives each a thorough pat and sweep with her feather duster, that the feeling was more sweet than it was bitter. 

His girlfriend- or rather... his fiancée has busied herself with clearing his impressive collection of tomes and scrolls, cleaning them of months of neglect, before sorting and then packing them into the half-filled box next to her aptly labelled with a thick brush pen as ‘Books’. She’d even sorted the titles out by alphabetical order, just like he’d requested.

They’ve been packing since morning now, and he’s beginning to feel hours of prior strenuous labor catch up to him as he stretches his arms and flexes his fingers. And yet Illya seemed to be none worse for wear, for as used to physical strain and tireless work as she justifiably is. 

Alphinaud takes a second to stop and stare at the woman for a fleeting moment. Her silken white hair that normally cascaded down past her shoulders and waist was now pulled up into a high ponytail and secured with a floral patterned scrunchy, her hair bopping and swaying side to side with every of her movements. Her pink overalls is stained and caked in dust, as is the once pristine white of her shirt underneath - but her dirtied wardrobe hadn’t seem to even be noticed at all, let alone bothered the woman.

And as she took her time to take a book by its spine and read the title before quickly dusting it, she’s merrily humming to the tune of an old Doman piece, volume soft and barely audible, yet soothing as her voice rose and filled the dusty air with an uplifting song.

When the young elezen man finally regains enough of his senses to snap out of his gawking, he can only twist his lips up into a bright smile before calling out her name.

“Liya.”

Her head swivels around instantly, amethyst bright eyes shimmering with immediate affection as she looks at him and mirrors his smile with her own, dazzlingly warm one.

“Yes, alphy?” 

Her voice is sugar coated and dripping with sickly sweetness that he drinks up like he’s a man starved, heart soaring with an unbridled joy as he catches a glimpse of the ring on her fourth finger, a radiant crystal blossom sitting upon the painfully detailed golden band.

No matter how many times he attempts to fathom the reality of his present, there was always a more rational, disbelieving side to Alphinaud that would struggle to believe it. To fathom the great fortune he must have to be engaged to the woman he loved more than anything in the world, let alone someone who has been his biggest inspiration and source of admiration and motivation for years. And he cannot believe that he will soon be living under the same roof as her.

The Warrior of Light... soon to be his Warrior of Light. Even thinking of her as his threatens boyish laughter and cheers out of him. 

Snapping out of the revelry of his daydream, Alphinaud gestures towards the metal canister next to her stool, long since emptied and left neglected with its contents drained. 

“You must be tired. How about a break? I’ll refill your bottle for you.”

“No,no that’s okay-” Unsurprisingly, Illya is quick to refuse his offer with a shake of her head. “I’m not that tired. Don’t let me bother you.”

“It’s not a bother, dearest.” With a sigh, Alphinaud moves over to grab the canister, amused snicker leaving his lips when he looks down at the exasperated pout on Illya’s lips. “Let me do this much for you at least. I won’t be long.”

Ever a woman who much preferred relying on herself, it took a good many years for Illya to come to terms with accepting her own limitations and weaknesses - let alone entertaning the idea of burdening her loved ones with her troubles... no matter how trivial or small they may be.

But she’s come far - they both have... and the girl who would once stutter and burst into a blushing fluster is nowhere to be found in the presence of a older, more confident woman, who merely drops her shoulders in defeat before accepting his offer.

“If you insist, love. Make sure to refill for yourself too, okay?” 

With a quick nod, Alphinaud swiftly take his own bottle before leaving the apartment before crossing through corridors past other closed doors and speed walking down flights of stairs to get to the Seventh Heaven.

Bloezoeng greets the elezen with a cheery grin, graciously refilling the two canisters full with a topping of ice cool water while making small talk, asking how the packing was going and even asking the young man to send his regards to the Warrior of Light. Nearby, the wandering minstrel sings as he strums at his harp, and Alphinaud only spares a single seconds glance towards the door leading into the back where the Rising Stones is, before leaving the Seventh Heaven, heavy and damp water canisters in hand.

Alphinaud hadn’t been lying when he said that he wouldn’t take long - it’d been a total of four minutes maximum by the time he reaches the third floor and walks down the hallway towards the only open door. 

And yet when when he hears what the voice of his beloved says as he approaches the apartment, along with the tell tale sounds of sketch paper flipping, his blood runs dry in his veins and he feels himself freeze in instinctive panic.

“This book... it has no title?”

A book with no title.... Oh gods. She could only be referring to one book - the only book he’d kept purposefully hidden away on his shelf between other innocuous books for reasons unknown to all save himself. The only book with a blank cover, the only book with a well used bookmark made from a pressed lily that Illya had gifted him so many years ago slotted between its pages. A book that he had not wanted anyone to find or to see the contents of - especially not her.

“W-wait- Liya! Don’t-” He bolts into the room and drops the canisters onto the floor with a responding thud that leaves wet patches upon the wooden planks, navy blue eyes blown wide in terror. His heart pounds loudly in the confines of his tight chest, which then quickly sinks into the pits of his stomach when he stares dumbfoundedly at the lalafell and the wide opened book in her hands.

She’s staring down, speechless herself. 

The pages of the book was not filled with words - but drawings. Black and white sketches created with a fine pencil and quill, soft water colored paintings that left dried patches of color upon the pages, colored line art that had been meticulously cell-shaded with an array of colored ink. 

It was Alphinaud’s sketchbook- but not the one he carries in his travel bag or has laying open on his desk. He wouldn’t go through such lengths to conceal a sketchbook if it had just been that - and his dearest has always expressed how much she loved to look at his art.

But this was no ordinary sketchbook - for countless pages between the lavender purple covers of that book, marked with a bright white flower was filled with visages of the Warrior of Light - of the woman he loved. 

From a quick sketch of the lalafellin woman with a stern expression as she was lost in her focus upon an embroidery hoop, a more detailed, colored drawing of her in her adventuring garments, long starlit hair radiant against a dark starry night background as she casts her eyes upwards at the sky... and a small painting of her surrounded by a sea of flowers, the gust of spring wind blowing her hair and pink dress behind her as she holds a single flower between her clasped hands as if in prayer, a serene, ethereal expression upon her face.

Illya can barely even recognize those figures as herself- is disbelieving as she flips through drawing after drawing of what was clearly Alphinaud’s favorite model in various clothing, settings and circumstances, in different mediums to boot.

But the one thing that remained a constant was the heart of the art he painstakingly filled the sketch books with, the heartfelt emotions and earnestness he must have felt as he was working on a single page.

There is a saying that says an artist will always inadvertently pour their truest, deepest feelings into the art they create - that a piece of drawing was a piece of an artist’s heart.

Illya could only wonder then, as she stares with heat pooling in her cheeks that spread rapidly to the tips of her pointed ears... what was it that Alphinaud was feeling whenever he held this sketchbook or drew within it? 

What was it that he was seeing within his wide, observant eyes when he drew her? What compelled him? What will continue to compel him?

She holds his heart in her hands delicately, as if it would break if she were not careful, and slowly closes it before turning to look at the man, who has an equally, if not brighter, darker blush upon his now cherry red face.

“T-that is! I-I.... I was just- I-I-It’s not-” 

Alphinaud was not often a man who got this flustered. Even when he is teased by the likes of Krile and Alisaie who threatened whenever possible and the situation was appropriate to spill unflattered secrets about his past to her, there is a sort of calm elegance to the way he’d diffuse the situation and more often than not lead her away from the two ‘gossip mongers’... as he would so eloquently put it. Though, to be fair, years of putting up with that has taught him to be a little more dexterous in navigating forbidden subjects about his time in the Studium around them. 

But when the blame of the situation was nobody but his own to bear, and it involved a deeply hidden secret he’s kept for so many years from her... it’s destroyed whatever little of his poise he’s pretended to develop over the years... And Illya was absolutely the last person he wanted to have see him in such an unsightly state.

 While Alphinaud attempts futilely to scrounge up a believable excuse, the lalafell has climbed down from her stool and is walking towards him. 

The afternoon sky is bright, casting sunrays through the window panes and forming spotlights upon the wooden floor, as dust bunnies bounce and float carefreely around the room. Illya steps into the light, and the afternoon rays immediately reflect off her head like cut crystal... and above reddened nose are a pair of shining eyes that gaze up at him, and Alphinaud momentarily forgets to breath as she closes the distance between them and smiles delicately.

“I-If..... If you wanted me to model for you, you... you could have just a-asked me...”

[treatian]

The Chronicles of the Dark One: Magical Loopholes

Chapter 66:  Honesty of the Heart

The job was done. The task was complete. The voices in his head told him he was an idiot, told him that he was being stupid and taking a risk and would probably soon die by her hand when she betrayed them.

So he took that hand and shut them out. He let the warmth from her body move through his own and knew, without a doubt in his mind, that she was truly different. Unlike Cora, who he'd instantly regretted telling about the dagger, he felt not one worry over telling Belle, showing it to her, letting her know where it was hidden. He had the very certain feeling that if he'd allowed her to touch it, to hold it, she would have given it back. She didn't want the dagger. For some reason, he still to this day could not fathom, what she wanted was him. And of all the things he should want in this world, she was at the top of his list, a very close tie with Baelfire.

He couldn't stop touching her. After all that they'd done, after all they'd accomplished tonight, and even since she'd reappeared in his shop alive again, he didn't particularly want to stop touching her. And slowly, as their evening progressed, her hand was not enough for him. Their proximity shrank little by little. On the elevator, her hand became her arm. In the Library lobby, her arm became her back. Up the stairs to her apartment, he'd moved his arm around her waist to pull her closer. And when she'd left his side to fetch them dinner, the chill that she'd left had been enough that if he didn't press his leg into hers while they ate, then he'd never get the sustenance he needed.

It was the dishes that undid him. The moment she cleared away their clutter and stood by the sink to wash and scrub so they could go to bed grated on him. He didn't care for dishes or formalities. He didn't want to take her hard and fast as he had "last time." He just wanted to enjoy the night ahead. He wanted to leave what could wait for morning and live in this moment they were having.

He slipped an arm around her waist as she washed and pulled her closer to him so that she let out a happy girlish sound before he moved her hair over her shoulder and kissed the heated skin at the back of her neck. The sound she made when he did that was far more carnal and sophisticated all at once, and he realized quickly enough that her hands had gone still in the sink.

"This really won't take that long," she whispered, her voice so husky her rib cage vibrated against his own chest.

"It can be done later," he pointed out, and then they were gone. A tangle of limbs and tongues, they crashed into one another in the silent understanding that there was time to be made up for. They exchanged very few words with one another; words were not necessary. They'd exchanged plenty of words in these last few days, and he couldn't help but feel that it was because of that talking that they felt more deeply connected to one another than they had been before. Once, twice…he lost count after three.

They'd finally settled hours after they'd tumbled into bed. The sheets were a tangled mess around them, but they'd tried their best to right them as they'd leaned back into her bed with the silent understanding that this time there would be sleep. After they'd spent themselves, even he felt tired and longed to drop into rest.

What a wonderful way to end-

"Rumple?"

He breathed; her voice called him forth from the depths of rest to the shallowest part of consciousness where sleep eagerly fought to pull him back down. He shifted to ground himself and realized he'd been so close to sleep that he'd stopped rubbing her back.

"What?" he slurred as he forced his hand to move over her again.

"I can't sleep."

He didn't know how that was possible. He was the Dark One, and he was exhausted. She'd worn him out. How she couldn't manage just to close her eyes as she always did and let sleep come eluded him.

"Just close your eyes," he whispered, kissing her head. "It'll come eventually."

She was human. After the marathon they'd just endured, he was fairly positive it was impossible not to find sleep eventually. Sex was only half the reward. The other half was a deep, restful-

"Rumple?"

He made a noise to let her know he was awake, but it was only just barely.

"Who's Cora?"

He was awake. Suddenly and completely and wholly awake. How could he not be? He wasn't sure that she'd ever caught him by surprise like this.

"Rumple?"

"Belle…" he tried to make it sound gentle, but it practically came out as a growl. Days after the Cora incident…what the hell had brought this out? He'd promised to have a conversation with her about Cora, and he'd meant it but not here or now. Naked and in bed with her, the glow coming off her skin…this was not the right time.

"You really don't need to know that right now," he insisted.

But the answer seemed less than understandable to her as she pulled away and balanced on her elbow. "You told me you wanted me to know everything," she reminded him. "You said you would tell me-"

"Yes, but not now!" he argued. "Why do you need to know now?!"

"She knew about the dagger, Rumple. That's why you moved it!"

He opened his mouth to argue but realized he couldn't. No, he hadn't actually said those words exactly, but yes, he'd said Cora's name when they'd talked yesterday, and...yes, he'd implied it certainly. And Belle, being who she was, had been smart enough to put two and two together and...

Fuck!

"I want to understand why she knew about it. Tell me. Who's Cora?"

He knew that tone. She wasn't going to sleep until she had her answers, until they'd had this conversation. This wasn't the time or the place that he'd imagined having it, but it appeared he didn't have a choice.

Fuck.

"Cora…" he sighed and got his hands under him, managing to lift himself into a sitting position as if that would make this less awkward, "is Regina's mother."

Another lie, just as he'd inadvertently told her earlier. Well, not a lie really, just not the entire truth, not the one she wanted.

"And how do you know her?" she prompted, seeing through his half truthful lies. But to mention to her the relationship he'd shared with Cora while they were like this, in bed, after they'd been intimate as they had been…he hated it. What would he give to be having this conversation elsewhere right now?

"Rumple," she muttered suddenly, reaching out to hold his hand between her own. "You can tell me anything."

Anything. Yes, he believed that. She'd proved that time and time again facing even his worst deeds as though they were nothing. But this…

Yes. It wasn't the time or the place, but she didn't know that. In the end she might come to regret it as much as he did, but she could take it. Could he?

"Cora was the daughter of a miller when I met her," he explained. "She'd gotten herself into trouble, telling the king that she could spin straw into gold, which she couldn't-"

"Which you could," she stated as if it were obvious. Indeed, it was.

He nodded. "She'd been given until morning to spin a room of straw into gold. She was desperate so I made a deal with her. I would spin the gold she required, and she would give me her first-born child."

"A…a child?" she questioned, furrowing her brow in nervous confusion that he batted away with his hand as if it were a fly. That detail, at least, was unimportant for her.

"I needed Regina to cast the Curse. I knew the child she bore would be the one to do it. But…Cora was smart. She didn't want me to spin the gold, she wanted me to teach her to spin the gold. She wanted me to teach her magic. She was…independent. I agreed to her condition, and when the king saw the gold that she had spun the next morning he gave her his son to marry."

He needed to go on, well aware that this was not where the story ended, it wasn't even the important part that she needed! He needed to tell her the rest! But damn, this was hard. Harder than the dagger. Maybe even harder than Baelfire. He couldn't understand why. Cora was nothing to him. But it was humiliating in so many ways. Coward…that part of him he kept hidden from all the world but not from her…oh, how he hoped she'd see past this. He hoped that she'd see that he treasured her so much more than he'd ever cared for Cora. She'd taken the news of Milah well, but Milah had betrayed him; left him. He'd let Cora pursue him and had cared for her more than he should have. Not the way he loved her, but-

"And?" Belle prodded beside him when he'd gone silent too long.

And…

He glanced at her wishing the truth wasn't what it was, but he had to tell her no matter what. This was the honesty of the heart that David had spoken of, the honesty that had brought them so far. He could do this.

"She was intoxicating," he admitted. "And clever, and greedy, and…she was a fair match for a monster like me."

He saw recognition and understanding pass over her face, and he knew, right then, that she knew what he wasn't saying. She understood. And he hated it.

"You, uh…you…you cared for her?"

"Not like this!" he insisted perhaps a bit too strongly, gripping her hand tight. "Never like this."

They had never consummated the sham of a relationship that they'd carried out, something he was eternally grateful for now in so many ways. But he also knew there was a time that he'd wanted to. He knew there was a time, just after he'd told Cora about the dagger, that he'd come close, oh so close, to crossing that threshold with her. He hadn't. For the same way that he'd managed to cross it tonight, over and over and over again, with Belle. Trust. He hadn't trusted Cora. Not wholly or completely. He'd loved her at that time, but some small part of him had distrusted her. She hadn't been enough to keep the Dark Ones quiet. She had been nothing like his Belle.

"So…what happened?" she prompted.

"She tricked me," he stated, his teeth grinding at the memory that was somehow still fresh enough to become painful, especially when he considered the woman who was now before him. "She used my own emotions against me. She convinced me that she wasn't satisfied with being a trophy, on the arm of the Prince forever, and would rather have me. I amended our previous agreement that she'd give me not her firstborn child, but our firstborn child."

She didn't like that. He noticed the way her breath hitched, the twitch in her jaw, the beat of her heart. He understood that reaction. He felt it too and was incredibly grateful now, looking back, that he hadn't followed through with that, no matter the trouble it had caused him during Regina's childhood.

"Obviously that never happened…"

"Why?" she pressed almost painfully.

He tried not to let the questioning frustrate him. He tried to remember that he'd be asking the same question if he were in her shoes. But he hated everything about this conversation. Everything about Cora. Everything about that time in his life. At this point, he just wanted to get it over with.

"All she wanted was for her daughter to someday be Queen," he answered honestly. "All she wanted was power and she surely wouldn't have gotten that with me. She manipulated me to change the deal so that I would never receive the child for helping her because the child would never exist. She went on to become a bitter old woman incapable of feeling anything for anyone including Regina!"

The end.

"And you eventually got the Queen to cast the Curse to this land," she concluded for him.

He met her eyes and nodded.

That was it. That was the story with the addition of an epilogue, far more than he was comfortable telling, but he'd done it anyway. Now maybe they could forget about the entire thing, truly forget about it, both of them, and get some sleep.

"And she knew about the dagger, about…about Baelfire?"

"She knew," he confirmed. "She knew certain aspects of my life before I was the Dark One, yes." The second she cast her gaze away, he tightened the grip he had on her hand. This was what he didn't want. He didn't want her to feel like she wasn't as special to him as she was. She didn't want her to feel jealous or inferior. "But I've never disclosed as much to another soul as I have to you."

She turned back to him, and her chin tipped up to search his gaze, something like hope flickering between his eyes. Finally a break. A small one, but a break, so good news he could give to her.

"I've lived a long time," he breathed. "And there have been others, only a handful, here and there, that have managed to get some glimpse of my life and my plans. But no one has ever held so much of my past as you do. Cora knew I had a son…but she didn't even know his name!" he realized suddenly, overwhelmed at the realization he'd stumbled upon. He'd never considered that before. He'd never shared Bae's name with anyone who hadn't known it before…save for one person.

"No one but you has ever known that."

She liked that. She liked it a lot. Every muscle in her body that had tightened through the tale suddenly eased and a small smile curved over her mouth. He looked down at their joined hands, a gesture he realized they often did, so many times without ever realizing it. He'd had sex before her, he'd had love before her, but he'd never had intimacy. He'd never had security with sex and love joined in one perfect person.

He hated this conversation.

He loved her.

"You kissed her?"

His gaze shot off their hands and he immediately looked to her, hoping that he'd heard the question wrong. Was she really asking that? Now? Here? After they'd just barely gotten through that conversation? She really wanted to add insult to injury?

Yes, she did. In his silence she raised her eyebrows at him, prodding him silently.

"Yes," he was finally forced to answer.

"While you were cursed," she pressed. "You kissed her while you were cursed?"

"Multiple times!" And he didn't see why it was important, or she was-

"And you remained cursed. After you kissed her…you were still cursed?"

He opened his mouth to respond but had to close it again as the realization of what she was getting at dawned on him. He smiled at the minx beside him, the woman who held his hand and his heart and was jealous enough over the worst relationship of his life to make sure there was one last thing about their relationship that she cherished, that she could hold above the head of any others who may have come before.

"Yes," he confirmed happily for her. "Yes, I remained cursed each and every time."

A smile, proud and happy, spread over her face. She nodded with certainty as if she'd gotten the answer he knew she'd wanted, and he was pleased that it was a truthful answer, pleased to share in the joy of that one unique quality that she and she alone would always possess.

"Good," she muttered before leaning up to kiss him and then settle against his side as she always did. "Sounds like you won in the end."

His arm wrapped around her automatically, no matter how shocked he was by the sudden easy way she'd settled into him. He was helpless to return her gesture, to settle back into the bed so that they could sleep soundly and hold each other as they drifted off.

He'd won in the end. He'd always insisted that. He might have lost a battle to Cora, but he most certainly had won the war. And when it came to women and not to luck, when it came down to what their relationship had been and the relationship he shared with the beauty beside him now…

"Yes," he agreed, kissing the top of her head once more before letting his own fall back on the pillow so he could close his eyes. "For once in my life I was the lucky one."

[kuramirocket]

Whenever I visit Olvera Street, as I did a couple of weeks ago, my walk through the historic corridor is always the same.

Start at the plaza. Pass the stand where out-of-towners and politicians have donned sombreros and serapes for photos ever since the city turned this area into a tourist trap in 1930.

Look at the vendor stalls. Wonder if I need a new guayabera. Gobble up two beef taquitos bathed in avocado salsa at Cielito Lindo. Then return to my car and go home.

I’ve done this walk as a kid, and as an adult. For food crawls and quick lunches. With grad students on field trips, and with the late Anthony Bourdain for an episode of his “Parts Unknown.”

This last visit was different, though: I had my own camera crew with me.

My last chance at Hollywood fame was going to live or die on Olvera Street.

I was shooting a sizzle reel — footage that a producer will turn into a clip for television executives to determine whether I’m worthy of a show. In this case, I want to turn my 2012 book “Taco USA: How Mexican Food Conquered America” into the next “Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives.” Or “Somebody Feed Phil.” Or an Alton Brown ripoff. Or a TikTok series.

Anything at this point, really.

For more than a decade, I’ve tried to break into Hollywood with some success — but the experience has left me cynical. Personal experience and the historical record have taught me that studios and streamers still want Mexicans to stay in the same cinematic lane that American film has paved for more than a century. We’re forever labeled… something. Exotic. Dangerous. Weighed down with problems. Never fully developed, autonomous humans. Always “Mexican.”

Even if we’re natives of Southern California. Especially if we’re natives of Southern California.

I hope my sizzle reel will lead to something different. I doubt it will because the issue is systemic. Industry executives, producers, directors and scriptwriters can only portray the Mexicans they know — and in a perverse, self-fulfilling prophecy, they mostly only know the Mexicans their industry depicts even in a region where Latinos make up nearly half the population.

The vicious cycle even infects creators like me.

As the film crew and I left for our next location, I stopped and looked around. We were right where I began, except I now looked south on Main Street. The plaza was to my left. City Hall loomed on the horizon. The vista was the same as the opening scene of “Bordertown,” a 1935 Warner Bros. film I had seen the night before. It was the first Hollywood movie to address modern-day Mexican Americans in Los Angeles.

What I saw was more than déjà vu. It was a reminder that 86 years later, Hollywood’s Mexican problem hasn’t really progressed at all.

Birth of a stereotype

Screen misrepresentation of Mexicans isn’t just a longstanding wrong; it’s an original sin. And it has an unsurprising Adam: D.W. Griffith.

He’s most infamous for reawakening the Ku Klux Klan with his 1915 epic “The Birth of a Nation.” Far less examined is how Griffith’s earliest works also helped give American filmmakers a language with which to typecast Mexicans.

Two of his first six films were so-called “greaser” movies, one-reelers where Mexican Americans were racialized as inherently criminal and played by white people. His 1908 effort “The Greaser’s Gauntlet” is the earliest film to use the slur in its title. Griffith filmed at least eight greaser movies on the East Coast before heading to Southern California in early 1910 for better weather.

The new setting allowed Griffith to double down on his Mexican obsession. He used the San Gabriel and San Juan Capistrano missions as backdrops for melodramas embossed with the Spanish Fantasy Heritage, the white California myth that romanticized the state’s Mexican past even as it discriminated against the Mexicans of the present.

In films such as his 1910 shorts “The Thread of Destiny,” “In Old California” (the first movie shot in what would become Hollywood) and “The Two Brothers,” Griffith codified cinematic Mexican characters and themes that persist. The reprobate father. The saintly mother. The wayward son. The idea that Mexicans are forever doomed because they’re, well, Mexicans.

Griffith based his plots not on how modern-day Mexicans actually lived, but rather on how white people thought they did. 

A riot nearly broke out as Latinos felt the scene mocked them. It was perhaps the earliest Latino protest against negative depictions of them on the big screen.

But the threat of angry Mexicans didn’t kill greaser movies. Griffith showed the box-office potential of the genre, and many American cinematic pioneers dabbled in them. Thomas Edison’s company shot some, as did its biggest rival, Vitagraph Studios. So did Mutual Film, an early home for Charlie Chaplin. Horror legend Lon Chaney played a greaser. The first western star, Broncho Billy Anderson, made a career out of besting them.

These films were so noxious that the Mexican government in 1922 banned studios that produced them from the country until they “retired... denigrating films from worldwide circulation,” according to a letter that Mexican President Álvaro Obregón wrote to his Secretariat of External Relations. The gambit worked: the greaser films ended. Screenwriters instead reimagined Mexicans as Latin lovers, Mexican spitfires, buffoons, peons, mere bandits and other negative stereotypes.

That’s why “Bordertown” surprised me when I finally saw it. The Warner Bros. movie, starring Paul Muni as an Eastside lawyer named Johnny Ramirez and Bette Davis as the temptress whom he spurns, was popular when released. Today, it’s almost impossible to see outside of a hard-to-find DVD and an occasional Muni marathon on Turner Classic Movies.

Based on a novel of the same name; Muni was a non-Mexican playing a Mexican. Johnny Ramirez had a fiery temper, a bad accent and repeatedly called his mother (played by Spanish actress Soledad Jiminez ) “mamacita,” who in turn calls him “Juanito.” The infamous, incredulous ending has Ramirez suddenly realizing the vacuity of his fast, fun life and returning to the Eastside “back where I belong ... with my own people.” And the film’s poster features a bug-eyed, sombrero-wearing Muni pawing a fetching Davis, even though Ramirez never made a move on Davis’ character or wore a sombrero.

These and other faux pas (like Ramirez’s friends singing “La Cucaracha” at a party) distract from a movie that didn’t try to mask the discrimination Mexicans faced in 1930s Los Angeles. Ramirez can’t find justice for his neighbor, who lost his produce truck after a drunk socialite on her way back from dinner at Las Golondrinas on Olvera Street smashed into it. That very socialite, whom Ramirez goes on to date (don’t ask), repeatedly calls him “Savage” as a term of endearment. When Ramirez tires of American bigotry and announces he’s moving south of the border to run a casino, a priest in brownface asks him to remain.

“For what?” Ramirez replies. “So those white little mugs who call themselves gentlemen and aristocrats can make a fool out of me?”

“Bordertown” sprung up from Warner Bros.’ Depression-era roster of social-problem films that served as a rough-edged alternative to the escapism offered by MGM, Disney and Paramount. But its makers committed the same error Griffith did: They fell back on tropes instead of talking to Mexicans right in front of them who might offer a better tale.

Just take the first shot of “Bordertown,” the one I inadvertently recreated on my television shoot.

Under a title that reads “Los Angeles … the Mexican Quarter,” viewers see Olvera Street’s plaza emptier than it should be. That’s because just four years earlier, immigration officials rounded up hundreds of individuals at that very spot. The move was part of a repatriation effort by the American government that saw them boot about a million Mexicans — citizens and not — from the United States during the 1930s.

Following that opening shot is a brief glimpse of a theater marquee that advertises a Mexican music trio called Los Madrugadores (“The Early Risers”). They were the most popular Spanish-language group in Southern California at the time, singing traditional corridos but also ballads about the struggles Mexicans faced in the United States. Lead singer Pedro J. González hosted a popular AM radio morning show heard as far away as Texas that mixed music and denunciations against racism.

By the time “Bordertown” was released in 1935, Gonzalez was in San Quentin, jailed by a false accusation of statutory rape pursued by an L.A. district attorney’s office happy to lock up a critic. He was freed in 1940 after the alleged victim recanted her confession, then summarily deported to Tijuana, where Gonzalez continued his career before returning to California in the 1970s.

Doesn’t Gonzalez and his times make a better movie than “Bordertown”? Warner Bros. could have offered a bold corrective to the image of Mexican Americans if they had just paid attention to their own footage! Instead, Gonzalez’s saga wouldn’t be told on film until a 1984 documentary and 1988 drama.

Both were shot in San Diego. Both received only limited screenings at theaters across the American Southwest and an airing on PBS before going on video. No streamer carries it.

How Hollywood imagines Mexicans versus how we really are turned real for me in 2013, when I became a consulting producer for a Fox cartoon about life on the U.S.-Mexico border.

The title? “Bordertown.”

It aired in 2015 and lasted one season. I enjoyed the end product. I even got to write an episode, which just so happened to be the series finale.

The gig was a dream long deferred. My bachelor’s degree from Chapman University was in film. I had visions of becoming the brown Tarantino or a Mexican Truffaut before journalism got in the way. Over the years, there was Hollywood interest in articles or columns I wrote but never anything that required I do more than a couple of meetings — or scripts by white screenwriters that went nowhere.

But “Bordertown” opened up more doors for me and inspired me to give Hollywood a go.

While I worked on the cartoon, I got another consulting producer credit on a Fusion special for comedian Al Madrigal and sold a script to ABC that same year about gentrification in Boyle Heights through the eyes of a restaurant years before the subject became a trend. Pitch meetings piled up with so much frequency that my childhood friends coined a nickname for me: Hollywood Gus.

My run wouldn’t last long. The microagressions became too annoying.

The veteran writers on “Bordertown” rolled their eyes any time I said that one of their jokes was clichéd, like the one about how eating beans gave our characters flatulent superpowers or the one about a donkey show in Tijuana. Or when they initially rejected a joke about menudo, saying no one knew what the soup was, and they weren’t happy when another Latino writer and I pointed out that you’re pretty clueless if you’ve lived in Southern California for a while and don’t know what menudo is.

The writers were so petty, in fact, that they snuck a line into the animated “Bordertown” where the main character said, “There’s nothing worse than a Mexican with glasses” — which is now my public email to forever remind me of how clueless Hollywood is.

The insults didn’t bother me so much as the insight I gained from those interactions: The only Latinos most Hollywood types know are the janitors and security guards at the studio, and nannies and gardeners at their homes. The few Latinos in the industry I met had assimilated into this worldview as well.

Could I blame them for their ignorance when it came to capturing Mexican American stories, especially those in Southern California? Of course I can.

What ended any aspirations for a full-time Hollywood career was a meeting with a television executive shortly after ABC passed on my Boyle Heights script (characters weren’t believable, per the rejection). They repeatedly asked that I think about doing a show about my father’s life, which didn’t interest me. Comedies about immigrant parents are clichéd at this point. So one day I blurted that I was more interested in telling my stories.

I never heard from the executive again.

A pair of boots

Five years later, and that Hollywood dream just won’t leave me.

I’m not leaving journalism. But at this point, I just want to prove to myself that I can help exorcise D.W. Griffith’s anti-Mexican demons from Hollywood once and for all. That I can show the Netflix honcho they were wrong for passing on a “Taco USA” series with the excuse that the topic of Mexican food in the United States was too “limited.” And the Food Network people who said they just couldn’t see a show about the subject as being as “fun” as it was. Or the bigtime Latino actor’s production company who wanted the rights to my "¡Ask a Mexican!” book, then ghosted me after I said I didn’t hold them but I did own the rights to my brain.

When this food-show sizzle reel gets cut, and I start my Hollywood jarabe anew, I’ll keep in mind a line in “Bordertown” that Johnny Ramirez said: “An American man can lift himself up by his bootstraps. All he needs is strength and a pair of boots.”

Mexicans have had the strength since forever in this town. But can Hollywood finally give us the botas?

[bisexualsforprompto]

The Black Mercy

This is for my secret Santa @18-fandoms-unite-08 I tried something different from my normal style so I really hope you like it! Also thank you @caffeinetheory for beta reading!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marinette woke up realizing two things. One: she was on an amazingly comfortable mattress that felt like a dream and two: she was being held by something. She opened her eyes groggily to be met with the sight of two tan, toned, strong arms around her. Snuggling up closer she got a glimpse of the sleeping man next to her.

He had black hair that complemented his gorgeously bronze skin. His eyes were closed shut and his chest was rising and falling calmly.

“Dami,” Marinette whispered into his ear. Damian stirred but only to pull Marinette in closer. She giggled as she watched his arms subconsciously pull her into his chest. “Damian.” She singsonged into his ear.

“TT. Five minutes.” Marinette chuckled to herself, normally it would be her who was grumbling about more sleep. She slipped out of his grasp and stepped out of the fluffy white covers.

She inadvertently reached towards her bare ears feeling an odd sensation when she brushed against only flesh. She couldn’t remember exactly what she was supposed to find on her ears but she ignored it and continued walking out of her room. She heard a slight shuffling from her bedroom as she walked over to the kitchen to make breakfast. She hummed a tune that felt vaguely familiar, yet worlds away at the same time. Marinette opened the wooden cabinet above her sink and pulled out two china plates.

Sleepy footsteps approached her as she set some pancakes she’d made the day prior in the microwave. She turned around from the kitchen to be greeted with Damian sitting at the table. Grinning, Marinette took a seat next to him.

“Sleep well?” She asked noting the bags underneath his eyes that had decreased.

“Always when I’m with you Angel.” He responded causing Marinette to blush, “Although I would’ve preferred to sleep a little longer.” Marinette rolled her eyes, “Jon and Adrien are coming soon, we have to get ready.” Damian stretched his arms, flexing his muscles inadvertently,

“TT.” He yawned as the timer on the microwave went off, “Beloved, why must we invite the Kents over?” Marinette chuckled as she pecked Damian on the cheek, walking over to the kitchen once more.

“Come on Dove, they just got married, we should celebrate with them.” Marinette smiled as she took the pancakes and set them down on plates.

Damian started to grumble under his breath, “I still don’t see why we had to-

~~~~~~~~

“WAKE UP! Angel please wake up!!!” Damian yelled as he shook Marinette who was lying down peacefully with a look of bliss on her face. She was covered by a blue hospital sheet that Jon had given them. If Damian didn’t know what was under that sheet he would’ve let her be, she looked fine, for all he would’ve known she was calmly sleeping.

But he did know. The monster that lurked underneath the sheet that decided to attach itself onto Marinette was giving his beloved beautiful pleasant dreams. Letting her live peacefully.

That was why Damian had to stop it.

~~~~~~~

“To family!” Jon toasted as he tapped his champagne with Adrien. “Cheers!” The blonde sunshine boy grinned. Marinette raised her glass and smiled to the scowling Damian on the couch next to her.

“Something wrong Dames?” Marinette teased, in truth she knew that she could barely wipe that scowl off his face, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

“Cheers.” Damian grumbled as he took a long sip of his champagne causing Jon to burst out in laughter.

“I love you guys.” Marinette said placing her arm around Damian’s shoulder. He became less tense at her touch.

“Well we love you too Maribug, but is that just the alcohol talking?” Adrien smirked. Marinette rolled her eyes and threw a pillow at him with her free hand. Adrien set down his glass and raised his hand in surrender.

“I’m serious! You guys are my family. I can’t think of anything more perfect than being with all of you.” Marinette smiled genuinely. She gestured to Damian, “the love of my life and my two best friends.” Adrien beamed and Jon shared the same look.

“This is a dream come true for me.”

~~~~~~~

“Clark, you’ve dealt with this before. How should we get her out?” Bruce asked as Jon and Clark Kent walked over to the unconscious Marinette wearing a smile on her face. Clark sighed, “Ultimately, it’s her who must choose to leave. Kara was able to get some help though, I’ll contact her to see what needs to be done.” He said as he left the room dialing a number on his phone. Bruce narrowed his eyes and Jon looked down at his friend who was holding his hand on top of Marinette’s.

“Damian-“

“Save it.” Damian snarled, “I just want her out.” Jon took a step back, never hearing so much bite in his friend’s voice. Bruce tensed, feeling helpless once more. Damian whipped his head back, breaking his gaze from Marinette’s pale face and gesturing to what was under the blanket covering her, “And are any of you going to tell me what the hell this is?!”

~~~~~~

“What the hell is this?!” Laughed Adrien as he poked at the dangling robin on the ceiling fan.

“TT. I told her to get rid of it.” Damian pouted, side-eying the glass robin. Marinette rolled her eyes and flicked Damian in the ear,

“And I said no.” She smirked, “Look at his expression, it looks just like you Dami!” Marinette started to chuckle looking at the robin’s stone cold expression. For some reason Marinette felt the name robin was familiar, like it had some other meaning. A voice startled her out of the puzzle pieces she tried to sow together,

“Hey, she’s right!” Jon exclaimed as he mimicked the robin’s stoic frown. Adrien began to laugh even harder causing Damian to brood even more. Marinette fixed that with a simple peck on the cheek, causing him to brighten almost immediately.

“Just teasing love.” Marinette smiled warmly brushing Damian’s hair out of his face. Jon and Adrien could’ve sworn Damian smiled for a split second. He gave her a quick kiss in return.

“Get a room!” Jon yelled, making Damian shoot a glare at him. He focused his eyes back on his beloved,

“I love you.”

~~~~~~~

“I love you.” Damian whispered quietly, “I’m sorry I never had the courage to tell you.” He drew circles on the palm of her hand trying to ignore the fact that Jon, Clark and Bruce were speaking outside about Marinette’s fate.

“You came into my life and wrecked it. Nothing was the same.” Damian stated trying not to cry. “Please come back and change my life again Angel.”

~~~~~~~

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Marinette asked as she traced circles on Damian’s bicep as they laid down in their bed.

“Agreste and Kent are tolerable.” He said as he turned over to face Marinette, “So yes. I would say I did.” Marinette gave him a soft smile. Damian returned it, but something was...off.

Damian smiled at her, sure, but only small smiles that were quick but enough to make her heart melt. He’d never mirrored her smile and kept it on for so long.

Something...something wasn’t right. Marinette felt a pounding in her skull before she heard a ringing in her ears as she fell back into bliss.

“You alright beloved?” Damian asked worriedly.

“Of course darling.” Marinette said, almost robotically as she drifted off to sleep, cuddling him.

~~~~~~~

“She’s been in there for a day.” Damian said plainly to his father who had walked behind him, “Are you finally going to trust me?” He spat not breaking his eyes from Marinette’s gorgeous face whose smile had diminished slightly. “Are you finally going to tell me what’s going on?”

Bruce cleared his throat. The information could break his son. He knew it would make him a hell of a lot more stubborn.

“It’s called Black Mercy.”

~~~~~~~

The birds chirped outside of Marinette’s window. She groaned as she felt the sunlight wash over her eyes. She turned to Damian’s side of the bed to find an empty space.

“Dames?” She whispered softly. She heard a creak at the door as it slowly opened. She got slightly nervous until she saw it was only Damian in the doorframe.

“Beloved, I brought you breakfast in bed.” He smiled as he placed the tray over Marinette.

“Aww, Dove!” Marinette smiled throwing her arms around him, almost spilling the food. “You’re so sweet, you didn’t have to!” Damian embraced her, “I wanted to do something special for you. Besides, I love cooking.”

Marinette felt the pounding come back again, only stronger than the night before. ‘Damian doesn’t love-‘

“Thank you darling.” She responded as if she was using a script. She took a bite of her food.

~~~~~~~

“Kara was able to be saved by her sister. She told me the machine they built to let another person enter into the mind of the victim of the Black Mercy. If I give you the model of what she sent me do you think you can recreate it Bruce?” Clark asked as he rubbed his temples feeling a migraine at the whole situation. Marinette never deserved this. He still remembered what it was like, pure tranquility and bliss. That wasn’t the part Marinette didn’t deserve.

She didn’t deserve the pain from waking up.

~~~~~~~

“Dove,” Marinette spoke as she sat on the couch next to her husband. Damian looked up at her with bright smiling eyes. Another headache.

“D-dove, do you ever feel like something is w-wrong?” She squeezing her eyes shut at the massive migraine.

“Whatever do you mean Beloved?” Asked Damian placing an arm around her, “Everything is fine. This is our dream life remember?”

She nodded.

A dream.

~~~~~~~

“One of us needs to go in and save her.” Clark said as Bruce placed a small device on Marinette’s head. Jon stood up, “I can-“

“No.” Damian said looking at Marinette’s closed eyes. “I’ll do it.”

Bruce nodded. He shared a look with Clark, they knew that he would’ve volunteered. “Damian, you need to know that whatever happens to you in there happens out here. If you die in there…”

“I don’t care.” Damian growled, “She’s the only person I ever...Just fucking put me in there.” Clark’s eyes widened. Bruce sighed and Jon looked away.

“Ok.”

~~~~~~~

Marinette walked over from the couch as she heard a knock at the door.

“Wait!” Damian called. Marinette looked back to see him twitching slightly. “Don’t answer that.”

“Oh Dove I know you’re paranoid but what’s the worst that could happen?” Marinette chuckled, “Nothing bad or dangerous has ever happened to us. Like you said, it’s our dream life.” Marinette walked over and pressed her hand on the door handle. Suddenly, Damian was right beside her grabbing her wrist. Clawing his nails into her arm.

“Don’t. Open. That.”

“Dove, you’re-you’re hurting me!” Marinette cried.

Then she was thrust backwards into the ground as the door was kicked in. She landed with a soft thud. She groaned in pain.

~~~~~~~

“Her vitals are going crazy!” Clark exclaimed as Marinette jolted.

“Damian what are you doing in there?” Bruce murmured.

~~~~~~~

Standing in the doorway was Damian. Marinette did a double take. Damian was right next to her glaring at the door frame. Two Damians? Her head was spinning.

“W-what’s going on?” She asked wincing slightly at the pain in her arm from where the door had collided with her. The Damian that had been standing in the doorway who had a weird looking device on his forehead.

“Angel you have to listen to me, this isn’t re-“

“Who are you?!” Asked the other Damian as he pressed a hand on the Damian who had just spoken’s neck. He was slowly choking him.

“What are you doing Damian?! Stop!” Marinette pleaded as she ran to her husband’s side. She placed a hand on him to try to get him to stop only to have him push her to the ground with his free hand. Marinette squeaked when her face burned from the impact of the floor.

Then black.

~~~~~~

Damian saw red. This imposter, some man who the Black Mercy concocted for his Angel had just struck her. He had never broken free from a chokehold so quickly. He kneed the fake Damian in the groin and ran over to Marinette.

“Angel, Angel are you alright?!” He asked as he looked over at her. She was barely breathing and her eyes were only starting to flicker open. When they opened fully they were as wide as saucers seeming Damian there.

The fake Damian rushed over to Marinette’s other side.

“Beloved, come to me! I’ll protect you from him!” Said the imposter as he turned Marinette over towards him. Damian stood up from his crouched position. “Angel, don’t listen to him! This isn’t real it’s all made up by a monster called the Black Mercy.”

“Lies!” Fake Damian exclaimed as he shoved Damian to the ground. Damian groaned and tried to get back up only to have the other Damian place his foot one the real Damian’s windpipe. Damian gasped for air, looking at Marinette’s bewildered expression and pained eyes.

“Angel, remember-“ Damian wheezed as he felt his throat being pushed on even more, “Once I was on patrol as R-robin and I b-beat a man bloody.” He said as he tried to take the fake Damian’s foot off of his neck. “And you-you wouldn’t talk to me. I vowed- I told you I would never be that violent again.”

Recognition flashed in Marinette’s eyes until she drew back in pain, her face a blank mask once again. “I don’t know what Robin is.” She stated blankly. The fake Damian smirked as Damian writhed. The deceiver took his shoe off of Damian’s windpipe and walked over to Marinette. He kissed her on the cheek, “Come on beloved, he needs to leave.”

Marinette nodded dutifully as she walked over to Damian giving him her hand. He accepted it and pulled himself up. “Please Angel,” he whispered, “You have to wake up for me.”

The fake Damian was at her side in an instant. “Don’t listen to this crazy man Beloved. Come, let’s escort him out and then I’ll make you lunch.” Damian wrinkled his nose.

“I hate cooking.” Damian said, folding his arms at the same time as Marinette whispered, “Damian hates cooking.” Damian looked down at his Angel. He saw a spark in her bluebell eyes that hadn’t been there when he entered her fantasy from the Black Mercy.

“Remember Angel.”

~~~~~~~

Clark breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the Black Mercy recoiling from Marinette.

“We’re not out of the woods yet.” Bruce noted as the Black Mercy clung onto Marinette, seemingly fighting to keep her.

~~~~~~~

“No.” Said the fantasy Damian. Damian glowered at him. “This is Marinette’s choice and does not concern you.”

“You really think she’d give up her dream life with me for someone like you?!” Fake Damian sneered. “I am you.” Damian shot back.

“No, you’re the flawed, imperfect version of me. Marinette wants someone who will smile for her, someone who will cook for her, not someone like you. You’re not even good enough for Batman!”

“W-what? Who’s Batman?” Marinette asked as she felt another pounding in her skull.

“Angel you have to remember,” Damian said looking into her eyes, “I’m a hero, a vigilante. This perfect life will never be ours and I’m sorry. Once-once you told me that protecting others was all you wanted to do, but you can’t help others if you don’t wake up!”

~~~~~~~

“It’s loosening!” Jon cried. Clark breathed, “She’s almost there.” The Black Mercy was hanging onto her by a thread. Bruce took a practically unbreakable glass test tube and got ready for the defeat of the Black Mercy.

~~~~~~~

“Beloved, you can’t actually believe him!” The fake Damian scoffed. Marinette held her head, she wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. She fell down to the ground from shock with the word “remember” still echoing in her head.

“You fight for what is right Marinette,” Damian pleaded as he ran over to her. He picked up her slumped form and cradled it in his arms, “This isn’t right.” Marinette groaned and opened her eyes. Damian’s green one’s stared intently at her as the fake Damian started to disappear. “Remember who you are.” Damian whispered into her ear.

“I- I- I’m Ladybug.”

~~~~~~~

Marinette sat up with a gasp. Damian followed suit shortly after. “W-what happened?” She asked rubbing her head.

“A parasite named Black Mercy latched on to you.” Bruce said twisting the cap of the test tube in place which held the grotesque black creature. “What is the last thing you remember?”

“I- I think-“ Damian sat up from the table he was on. He swiftly removed the device on his head that allowed him to save Marinette. He silently walked out of the room, not even giving Marinette a look of recognition. “I’ll be right back.” Marinette said softly. She sat up wincing from the damage the Black Mercy had done. She limped over to the exit. Damian had left the manor without a trace, but she knew where he went.

“Dami?” Asked Marinette softly as she sat next to him. They were on a beautiful ledge overlooking Gotham’s skyline and the sunset that was cresting over the city. Damian kept his eyes straight forward not acknowledging her. Marinette folded her knees and rocked gently beside him.

“Do you remember what happened?” Damian asked dryly, “In the Black Mercy.” Marinette nodded slowly. Damian turned his head. Marinette’s lip trembled as she saw his eyes were slightly puffy.

“Dove I-“

“Am I the kind of person you want?” He asked folding his arms.

“What?! Damian of course you-“

“In the Black Mercy.” Damian started as he stared into her bluebell eyes. “The Damian you fantasized about, the one you were married to...he wasn’t me.” Marinette gave him a confused cock of her head. Damian sighed, “That Damian smiled, he cooked, he was perfect for you. Maybe we aren’t as good for each other as we thought.” Marinette winced. Did he really believe that?

“O-oh.”

“I don’t think I can ever be the guy you want...the guy you deserve.” Damian said plainly as he focused his gaze back on the sunset.

“You are the guy I want.” Marinette whispered, “Ever since we met each other. Yeah we’ve had our fights, it’s impossible not to. I don’t want a guy who’ll smile at me all the time or even cook for me.” Damian twitched his head, “That was your fantasy, your dream.”

“I don’t know,” Marinette sighed, “When that Black Mercy Damian attacked you...I would never want that.”

“The Black Mercy creates your desires.” Damian stated.

“Do you really think I’d want you hurt?” Marinette choked. Damian avoided the question and stared at the Gotham skyline in silence. “Wow.” Marinette scoffed with a sob. Tears trickled down her cheeks, “Then I guess you are right. If-If you knew me you’d know I’d never want anything bad to happen to you. I-I love you.”

She stood up ready to walk away. She brushed the tears from her eyes. Damian stood up and whispered,

“I love you too.”

~~~~~~~~

Whew sorry it’s so long! I went for something different this time! (Also this won’t be continued).

Taglist (everyone on my Maribat list):

Maribat taglist

@northernbluetongue

@queen-of-the-trash-planet-tm

@luciferge

@legendaryneckjudgestudent

@interobanginyourmom

@beaversuenightly

@worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry

@mochinek0

@shamefullove

@emjrabbitwolf

@actual-disaster-human

@littleredrobinhoodlum

@elijahcoser

[somedayonbroadway]

8 for fanfic writing

8) What is a scene that you wrote that you are most proud of?

Okay, this is a difficult one to answer. I write lots of scenes that don’t even get published and I still love them to death.

If I had to chose one though, it’s one of the scenes in one of my chapter fics called Top Secret. If there’s anything I love writing, it’s suspense.

It’s the scene after Race catches Jack doing something very dangerous and unexpected. Jack pretends he’s never met Race before when Race has the chance to confront him.

Then this scene happens...

The elevator was going to take too long. Stairs! Take the damn stairs, you idiot!

He could already be too late.

He ran up four flights of stairs. He was barely winded by the end of it, only breathing hard because of the panic swirling around in his head.

Rushing up to his own door, Jack fumbled in his pocket for his keys. But when he unlocked the door, he tried to open it only for it to get stuck. Something was blocking it. So he knocked on the door with purpose and tried to shove the thing open. "Racer! Open the door!" he demanded, his fear and worry inadvertently swirling into frustration.

"No! Go away!" came the reply of a little boy who was so obviously shaken.

"Goddamn it, Anthony Michael Higgins Junior! Open the door n' let me explain!"

"Leave me alone!"

Jack growled. "I swear to God, Racer... I need ta talk to ya. J'st open the door!" After all of these years... after all of his fighting and all his struggling... he couldn't lose this boy.

After trying to throw the door open by throwing his body weight against it, Jack shook his head and moved over to the next door on his left. It was opened almost immediately. "Jack, baby, what's wrong?"

"Racer's havin' a breakdown..." Jack forced out, shaking his head in frustration. "I'm sorry, Miss Medda, c'n I use your window?"

Medda nodded immediately, stepping aside and gesturing for Jack to step in. The young man did. Rushing through, he caught sight of Katherine in the kitchen, cleaning off some dishes. "Hey, baby..." he muttered before sliding up next to her and giving her a quick peck on the lips. She smiled at him, not even saying a word. "I'm sorry 'bout rushin' out!" he called as he was walking away again, stopping only to press a kiss to Crutchie's forehead. The boy was dozing on the couch, his leg propped up on a few pillows. "Hey, Crutch..."

"Is Race okay?" he asked drowsily. Jack only smiled a little at that.

"He's gonna be fine, kiddo... I'm just gonna take him for a drive, see if it calms him down..." Jack soothed, beginning to walk over to the window at the back wall, sliding it open.

"Hey, Jackie? Did Race follow you ta work t'day? He said he w's gonna an' he wouldn't talk ta me afta' school..." Jack froze. This was so damn hard.

"No... I didn't see 'im..." And before anyone else could ask him anything else, he was slipping out the window.

Race curled in on himself on the couch. He had a backpack next to him, filled up with clothes and all the money he could scrounge up from his room, after all some psychopath had his wallet. He was debating with himself. He should get Crutchie. Maybe they could leave together. But Crutchie wouldn't believe him. Crutchie would try to stop him. But Jack wouldn't ever hurt Crutchie...

Then again, Race thought Jack would never hurt him.

Lost in thought, the boy hadn't heard footsteps coming towards him from the hallway. Not until he looked over and saw the man that he feared so much walking over to him. Race shot up, backing away as quick as Jack was advancing on him, but when Jack realized it, he slowed to a stop, carefully raising up his hands as a sign of peace. "Hey, hey, hey, kiddo... relax, okay? I know you're scared-"

"Stop!" Race demanded, grabbing the back pack off of the couch, and slinging it over his shoulder. "J'st... stop." He was staring at the man at the end of the hallway. This was the man that had always fought so hard to protect him. But Race had scene him today doing awful things. It was like he didn't even know him at all. "You're gonna try ta get in my head, just like her... so just don't, okay?"

Reluctantly, Jack shut his mouth, clenching his jaw and trying to just beg his baby brother to hear him out without even saying the words. But Race just lost it all over again, tears running down his face and shaky breaths entering his lungs. "William Snyder? Really? That's who you work for?" the boy asked, both disappointment and fear radiating off of him. "He's the most dangerous man in New York, Jack! He's killed people!"

"Racer, you have to calm down-" Jack tried, taking a step forward only for the boy to counter it.

"And Francis Sullivan... your dad's name... Jack... this ain't you!" Race cried backing up even more, reaching for the door.

"No, it ain't, baby brother, but ya gotta let me explain!" Jack begged, beginning to get desperate. He couldn't let Race walk away. Not that easy. There had to be something he could do to make it stop. "Anthony, you don't know what's gonna happen if you don't sit'cha ass down an' let me talk ta ya." He didn't. His brother would be in a world of hurt if he didn't just listen to what Jack had to say.

With a shake of his head, Race just began walking towards the door with purpose, trying not to show how petrified he was of the man he'd once run to for everything. "I don't wanna hear it, Jack, or Sully, or whateva' the hell your name is! I'm gonna go get Charlie n'... n' we'll go find ma..."

Jack hated what he knew he had to do next. He hated it with everything inside of him. "You ain't eva' goin' near that manipulative bitch again!" he stated, his eyes widening at the very thought. He reached into his pocket, a cloth gathering in his hand as he slowly advanced on the boy at the door.

"Ya know what, Jack, she ain't the best motha', but she neva' pretended that she was a good one." Those words hurt. Jack had to take a sharp breath to steady himself when those piercing blue eyes turned back to glare at him as Race was hesitating by the door after moving the chair that had been blocking it. This was his chance.

"Racer... I'm serious, pal... back away from the door or you're gonna regret it." He wished things were different. Truly, he did. But they weren't. This was his life and whether his brothers knew it or not, this was their life too. But Race wasn't listening. He put his hand on the doorknob, ready to leave. "Tony... I don't wanna have ta do this..."

"Just leave me alone, Jack..." Race breathed out, not exactly ready to leave behind the life that he'd been working so hard to be comfortable in. Maybe if he'd succeeded all that time ago, life would be better for them. Maybe if they'd just let him go, they wouldn't have this problem, and Crutchie could live his whole life thinking he had the perfect big brother who would always protect him and care about him. Maybe if Race was gone right now, things would be different.

Finally taking a breath and knowing leaving was his only option, not trusting his big brother in the slightest anymore, Race turned the handle and opened the door, only for it to be slammed back shut by a stronger hand right next to the boy's shoulder. "I can't let ya do this," Jack said, suddenly looking even more dangerous in Race's eyes. Race did the only thing he could think of.

He ran.

He dodged Jack's arms and made a beeline for the nearest fire escape, his big brother right behind him the whole way. "Stop it, Anthony! I don't wanna hurt you!"

"Then don't!" the boy cried, trying to pull open a window in the kitchen, only to feel that Jack was about to make his move. Jack's arms wrapped around him from behind, pinning the boy to his chest and before Race could think how to fight him off, the man was dragging his arms behind him, trying to pin them between their bodies. "Let me go!" Race sobbed out, struggling against his big brother. "Help! Please! Somebody help!"

"Shhh!" Jack hissed, finally able to hold the boy's arms behind him with one of his arms after he shoved the backpack to the ground, before bringing out the cloth and smothering it over the teenager's mouth and nose. Race started screaming harder as Jack dragged him back, away from the windows and into the middle of the apartment again. His brother was still putting up a hell of a fight and Jack couldn't help but try to hold back tears. "Don't fight it, kid... please don't fight it..." he murmured into his boy's ear, leaning his forehead up against the side of his baby brother's head, trying to soothe him even as he was trying to knock him out. "Just breathe it in, Racer... I promise it'll be okay..." He had Race's head back against his shoulder as the boy still tried to fight him off.

It was a long while before Race obeyed, only because he couldn't fight it any longer. The child moaned as his legs gave out on him. He blinked wildly, desperate to keep his eyes open, only for them to roll back into his head as he lost consciousness. Jack sighed in relief and let the weight of the boy pull them both to the ground. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." Jack kept muttering, pulling the boy into his lap and removing the cloth from his face, pocketing it and letting himself breath for a moment as he relentlessly apologized to the boy who couldn't hear him.

The boy was now a dead weight on his lap in the middle of the living room. Jack breathed hard, cradling his brother to him and slowly smoothing the hair away from his face as he held tightly to the kid, finally giving into the fear that was only growing inside him. As he pressed a loving kiss to his brother's forehead, his eyes drifted to a picture sitting on the table right next to the couch.

They all looked so happy. Him, his boys who were so much younger, and the man that had his arms around them. His brown hair ended in loose curls that fell just above his eyes; his bright blue eyes stood out above all else. Jack shook his head and let the tears begin falling as he couldn't take his eyes off of the stupid photo. "I'm so sorry..." he muttered, burying his face in his baby brother hair.

For a moment, Jack just rocked his brother back and forth in his arms. He was still here. This could all be okay.

The vibrating of the man's cell phone made him jump a little. He sniffled and swallowed, clearing his throat before he answered the thing. "Kelly," he said as he slid the call open. "Yeah, I got him... I had ta use the chloroform..." he admitted, looking back down at the boy's peaceful face. The kid hadn't looked so sound since... ever. "Look, I don't need a lecture right now..." his voice shook at that as he lay Race down even lower and ran a hand through the kid's hair. "I's gonna bring him in... I'll be there soon." And with that he hung up the phone.

As gently as he could, Jack scooped Race up in his arms and lay him out on the couch, rushing to go change into sweats and a t-shirt before going back into the main room and once again cradling the boy to his chest. "It'll be okay, kiddo... I promise, it'll be okay..."

And boy, did he hope it would be.

It was the first time I had ever really written Jack and Race truly at odds, almost like they’re on different sides and no one knew what Jack was doing. I love that Jack is trying to calm Race down even as he’s drugging him and how Race is thinking that he can talk sense into Jack and make him “wake up” in a sense. I think this might’ve been the first time I’d had Race truly be afraid of Jack.

It was an interesting one to write.

Thank you for asking!

[trashyslashers]

Part two for soulmate AU ??? ❤️❤️❤️

Here it is!! Sorry it took so long, I wanted to go more indepth with the AU instead of just doing general headcanons. This came out a bit longer than I intended it to lmao. Part I here 

Freddy’s is a little…. open to interpretation at the end. Do what you will with that information. 

Michael Myers:

The months subsequent to the meeting on Halloween were full of nothing but trepidation and unease. You’d called in sick to work more times than you cared to count (with it being the time of year that colds and viruses were running rampant, no one really could complain about your absence), and your friends and family had questioned your sudden social withdrawal more times than you had fingers on your hands. 

Regardless of how many times they asked you what happened or what was wrong, you dismissed their concerns with lies about you just being sick, seasonal depression, fatigue, and the like - all further from the truth than you’d care for them to know. 

Hiding the fact that you’d met your supposed soulmate was an entirely different story, though; the absolute last thing that you wanted to be public knowledge was the fact that Michael Myers was, apparently, the one you were destined to be with. You had to lie your way through that; pretend that you weren’t aware of what color an object was, or how the sky looked that day. A few friends and relatives of yours had already met their soulmates, so you had no choice but to play stupid and keep up your act of “I have no idea what that’s even remotely like” constantly.

Alone, though, you were a complete wreck. Why did it have to be him? Why did it have to be a fucking serial killer, of all possible options? And why did it have to be you? You kept yourself up at night, your stomach churning, your body tense with anxiety as you mulled over the shitty fact that you were inevitably going to have to come to terms with the truth. Were you ever going to see him again? Was he going to stalk - and, probably inevitably - kill you now? Surely he had to realize what was up - unless he’d never even learned that that was a thing that happened. Is it why he was following you in the first place, or were you just randomly chosen to be his next victim who so happened to be his soulmate? Regardless of what the truth was, you tore yourself apart mentally while trying to figure out what to do.

Months passed, and you’d managed to bury the event in the back of your mind as best as you could. You’d since gotten used to the color change of your surroundings and playing dumb, and your life was made leagues easier by pretending you’d seen a completely random person that sparked the change as opposed to Michael Myers. It was late, late autumn, and the news was filled with reports about the fact that Myers still had yet to be caught after he managed to escape Smith’s Grove last Halloween. 

You, of course, remained on edge as the holiday grew closer. You refused to walk to or from anything; your funds running low from you constantly filling your car up with gas and dishing out gas money to those who offered to drive you places. Your plan was working as you’d had yet to see any sign of Myers again, and you began to believe that you were in the clear.

At least, until you were met with some mighty unfortunate circumstances on the actual night of Halloween.

It was near 7pm, and you were left shit out of luck for transpiration. You’d forgotten to fill your gas tank up enough to get you both to and from work, and a coworker was generous enough to offer you a two-way ride - until they informed you that there was a family emergency and they had to dip early. Of course, you were more concerned about their situation than you were for your own, but you couldn’t help but dread your walk home. Dread it or not, life was unfair and you had no choice but to take it. 

Much to your relief, though, you’d made it home with absolutely no issue - in fact, the walk wasn’t bad at all. The atmosphere was the exact opposite of how it was last year (which made sense considering it was Halloween and not the night before) - the town full of laughter and shouts from the children and teens running around in costumes, the streets illuminated by the soft orange and yellow lights that were emitted from the countless jack o’lanterns and decorative lights that the houses were adorned with. You’d been setting your keys and belongings down on the counter while you debated on dressing up and calling up a few friends to go out with when you glanced out the window and about had a heart attack. 

Your back yard wasn’t exactly large or anything, but it melded into the yard of your neighbors and as a result was quite full of trees and coverage. Towards the back of your yard, near the shabby fence that existed to block your house off from some creepy alleyway, you saw him. You almost laughed; for a brief second you thought you’d spotted some teen or adult just trying to play a prank, but the fact that it would’ve been quite a fucking coincidence that they ended up in your yard of all else’s threw that thought right out of your head. 

There was no hesitation from you as you sprinted from the kitchen, down the hallway of your house, straight into your bedroom - just like the idiots in horror movies that you always made fun of. You made a reach for your back pocket to pull your phone out so you could phone the police - only to realize that in your daze of fear you’d forgotten to grab it off the counter. Upon remembering that, the realization that you’d forgotten to lock the door you’d come in hit you like a truck as well, and you couldn’t stop yourself from groaning out of both fear and annoyance.

Turn the lights off! Hide! Quickly!

You didn’t bother with flipping the switch on your lamp, and instead opted to just yank the cord straight from the wall, resulting in sparks. Hastily, you clambered over your bed and down into the small space between it and the wall so you could hide under the less-obvious side of the bed. 

You’d made that move just in time, seeing as the second you settled into your spot, the door of your room creaked open. 

Your mouth clamped shut, your hand flying up to cover it in attempt to muffle any noise you may inadvertently make out of fear. Your breath remained caught in your throat as you laid there silently, listening to the floor creak under the weight of Michael as he crept through your room. Your eyes were burning from a combination tears and the fact that you refused to shut them, instead staring out towards the dark wall that was directly across from you. 

It felt like hours had passed once the sound of his heavy footfalls faded into another part of your house, and you took that as the opportunity to wiggle yourself out from your spot so you could - hopefully - manage to stealthily pry open your bedroom window and get out through it. Your movements were awkward as you tried to be as fast as as humanly possible while simultaneously staying quiet, and you were lucky as you’d managed to get the window open wide enough that you could probably shove yourself through it you did it the right away. 

Before you had the opportunity to even stoop down and plan how you’d climb through it, you were yanked back from your spot and straight into a tall, solid mass while a hand clamped itself over your mouth to muffle your scream. Before you could think of anything better to do, you opened your mouth and bit down on his hand hard enough that he pulled it back, and you took advantage of the lapse in his grip to give his stomach a solid elbowing and broke free from his arms, turning around and sprinting out of your room, down the hallway. 

But alas, you were far from from being graceful while in a state of distress and your foot caught on the edge of your living room carpet, causing you to trip forward and tumble to a stop awkwardly on your stomach. You scrambled to your feet, taking about a hundred glances over your shoulder as you watched Michael leave your room, his stance tense as he slowly closed the gap between the two of you. While the hallway was dark, the lighting in your kitchen and living room were enough to illuminate it just enough to cast shadows on him and the eerie lighting did absolutely nothing to improve the situation. 

Michael was right in front of you by the time you fully regained your balance, and you were trapped between him and the small wall that sectioned the kitchen off from the living room. Your voice was caught in your throat, not even as much of a whimper could be heard as you stood before him, staring up at him with eyes wide with fear and tears. Any attempt to speak was met with choked sobs and stutters from you, and when he made a slight movement towards you you recoiled so hard you’d almost tripped backwards into the wall. 

When he made a reach for you with his hand, you’d finally been able to force yourself to speak. 

“W-wait!” It came out much more aggressively than you’d intended for it to, but it would have to do. When he didn’t make another motion towards you, you took that as the opportunity to swallow your fear and actually confront him. 

“What do you want?” The obligatory question that anyone being stalked by a serial killer is legally required to ask, despite there being no use for it. It’s not like he’d answer you anyway. “We can figure this out - you don’t have to kill me or anything like that, please..” 

Now really wasn’t the time to try and reason with him, seeing as he was probably about to make you his next victim, but what other choice did you have? Running wouldn’t get you very far, and you had no doubt that he’d find you soon enough. 

You noticed the ever so slight droop of his shoulders, his posture relaxing marginally - a good sign, you hoped, and continued to speak.

“Did you see it too?” It came out more like a whisper than anything, but it was loud enough that he heard it as indicated by the tilt of his head. Whether that was a yes or a no you weren’t sure, but the fact that he hadn’t attempted to kill you yet was relieving. You were still absolutely petrified, though, and when he took a step closer to you, you instinctively threw your hand up to try and put some sort of futile shield between the two of you. 

“Please don’t -” your plea for mercy was cut short by a sudden grip around your wrist, accompanied by a sharp tug which pulled you almost right up against him. Your efforts at pushing against him were fruitless, but before you could start screaming for help, his other hand quickly returned to press against your mouth, effectively silencing you. Fear induced tears welled in your eyes as you realized that with how pressing his hand was you wouldn’t be able to rely on your bite to free you this time, and as you were about to give up and just let him end your life, you noticed the ever so slight shake of his head- “no”. 

Of course it wasn’t actually spoken by him, but it was as if he was able to read your mind and was answering. No, he wasn’t going to harm you. No, he wasn’t going to kill you. No, there was no reason for you to scream and cry for help. 

While every nerve in your body screamed no, no, no!, you slowly brought your free hand to his that was covering your mouth, and much to your surprise, he put up no resistance when you moved it away. 

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

———————————————————————————————————–

Freddy Krueger:

You’d about mastered the art of waking yourself up every time you felt yourself dozing off. After countless nights spent awake, drinking copious amounts of coffee and soda and busying yourself with literally anything you could get your hands on, the urge to sleep was becoming far too much to resist and once you began experiencing minor hallucinations you’d decided that enough was enough and you needed to do something about it. 

First you started setting alarms for every 90 minutes so you wouldn’t get into a REM cycle and dream - but eventually you worried that Freddy would be able to actually pull you into dreams at will, and so the alarms were then set for 20 minute intervals instead. While that worked for a bit, eventually you began to find the call of sleep entirely too alluring and accepted the fact that sooner or later, you’d succumb. 

In the nights spent awake, part of your time was dedicated to figuring out just what the hell you were supposed to do when the inevitable happened. You had no doubt that once you fell asleep and began dreaming that Freddy would be waiting for you, and not knowing what exactly was going to happen only worked to make your apprehension worse. Would he kill you immediately? Would he toy with you, then kill you? Did he even give half a shit about the whole soulmate ordeal? The last words he’d spoken to you - “Gotcha” - indicated that he was aware of what was going on - but didn’t he already have a soulmate? Didn’t he used to have a wife? That’s what everyone said about him. Unless, her death had turned his world back to black and white again, or she wasn’t actually his soulmate.

Christ, none of it made sense.

A friend of yours, Nancy, caught on to what was going on after you’d showed up to class late one day, the dark circles and sullen look on your face giving everything away. While you didn’t tell her the extent of what was going on, you just clued her in that you were struggling with some serious nightmares that were making it hard for you to sleep, and it was really beginning to take a toll on you both mentally and physically.

Nancy, though, like the angel she was, let you in on a small not-so-secret; a new drug that’s come to the market that her own somnologist and psychiatrist prescribed her, an experimental sedative called Hypnocil that could suppress your dreams. You swore you could hear the chorus of angels singing when she told you about it, and you wasted absolutely no time in asking her how you could get your hands on some. 

Life wasn’t fair, though, and turns out it was incredibly rare for a doctor to even mention it to a patient. Upon seeing the look of distress plaster itself onto your face, Nancy leaned in a bit closer to you and whispered a little something to you:

“As long as you don’t tell anyone… I don’t mind giving you a few.” 

It’s not like they’re a controlled substance, right? And it was only a few - a week at most, no one needed to know.

And so it was done, and you were back to sleeping almost-normally in no time. One pill, by mouth, once a day 20 minutes before bedtime, and you were set - and it was working! You had no nightmares, no dreams even, and you no longer dread nighttime and sleep. Despite the relief of finally being able to get a good night’s rest, worry was gnawing at the back of your mind about how eventually you’d run out of Hypnocil, and how it would be unfair of you to assume Nancy would fork over her own personal medication for your use. 

That was a worry for another time, though, and you wasted no time in pushing it to the back of your mind. You’d cross that bridge when you got to that.

———————————————————————————————————–

You’d always complained about how it felt like time was flying by entirely too fast, and now was certainly no exception. Almost a week later, you’d been completely out of Hypnocil and left on your own, left to defend yourself. You’d about had a panic attack that last night once you realized the baggy of small blue pills was empty, and just like that you found yourself dreading sleep again.

You knew Freddy would be waiting for you - you had absolutely no doubt about it, and you weren’t ready to return to your old ways - you were just starting to feel rested again! You were debating on calling around to any offices you could - doctors, psychiatrists, somnologists, anyone - to try and get some sort of help - but how would you even explain what was going on? They’d probably think you were delusional if you called, begging for a medication that was new on the market while claiming that you were being stalked in your dreams. 

Night came quickly, and you’d tried to prepare yourself. Alarms set to be as loud as possible at 20 minute intervals were lined up, and every time you’d wake up you’d stand up and do jumping jacks to get the blood flowing and wake yourself back up enough so that you wouldn’t immediately fall back asleep. As you laid there in bed gazing at the dimmed lamp on your desk, you found yourself hoping, praying, that in the unfortunate circumstance that you met Freddy again, your, most likely inevitable, death would be swift. A small part of you wondered if you’d even see him again, and as you dozed off you wished for that to be the reality.

It wasn’t.

As soon as your eyes closed, it became evident that your body had had absolutely enough of you depriving it of sleep, and you slept through three of your alarms, slipping into dreams with ease. The first handful were pleasant; warm memories, weird happenings, nothing out of the ordinary. As the night went on, though, your dreams began to change. Things were out of place, things weren’t right. The new colors weren’t right - people sounded different, looked different. You found yourself wandering down the hallway to your small bathroom, probably planning to get water or something, but once you entered it, the smell of rust and blood hit you like a truck.

You were back in the boiler room, and the raucous cackle echoing throughout the corridor scared you enough that you whimpered. 

You turned around, reaching for the doorknob of the bathroom only to realize that the door was gone, and the once off-white wall of your bathroom was now a chipped, brick wall that was hot to the touch. 

You also noticed the lack of any pipes around  - your go-to method of escape by burning yourself wouldn’t work this time, it seemed.

His laugh was closer this time, and you knew deep down that he liked to see you scared. That was part of his whole shtick, right? Nightmares, scaring people - it was what he liked, and he enjoyed seeing you terrified.

“Nowhere to run now.” 

His voice was deep, gravelly, and as unpleasant as you’d imagined it would be. Your eyes were locked onto his bladed hand, and you couldn’t stop imagining how cold and sharp they’d undoubtedly feel piercing your stomach or slitting your throat. He seemed to take notice of this, and raised his gloved hand up so you could get a better look at it, waggling his fingers in a way that caused the blades to scrape against each other. 

Before you could stop yourself, you found yourself blurting out the only thing you could think of.

“Those knives are pretty big - are they supposed to be compensating for something?” It was your turn to taunt him, and much to your surprise it seemed to… entertain him? 

Immediately, you clamped your mouth shut and couldn’t bring yourself to look away from his gloved hands. You were waiting for him to shove them into your abdomen, and you felt your eyes water as you couldn’t pull yourself from your spot to run. 

The way he cackled in response sent chills down your spine, and you found yourself equally as uncomfortable with the situation as you were afraid. He took a few more steps towards you, leering up at you from under his worn out fedora as he closed what little space there was in between the two of you. You, in response, pressed yourself back up against the wall as much as you could to try and gain more space, but that proved to be absolutely fruitless as he practically stood up against you. Though he was on the shorter side for most men, he stood taller than you, and as a result you were forced to stare at the tattered material of his sweater - something he didn’t seem all too pleased with as soon you felt the cold metal of his blades push lightly under your chin hard enough to force you to look up at him without actually drawing blood. 

“You aren’t stupid, so quit acting like it.” His voice trailed off as he spoke, one of the blades brushing against your cheek as his eyes bore into your own. You could feel his breath on your face as you stood there, frozen with fear. Why wasn’t he killing you? 

“It… It’s all color now.” You all but whispered, your brain completely failing in the department that served to produce complete, intelligent sentences, thus leaving you with such a vague statement. You really had no clue what else to say other than stating what was blatantly obvious, hoping that he’d have at least some idea of what was going on.

A sneer crossed his face as you gathered the courage to reach up and push his hand away from your face. “That’s more like it.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

He spoke up again, his voice cutting yours off before you could even open your mouth to speak. 

“I’ve got no desire to kill you, but that doesn’t mean I’m just gonna.. let you go again. I’ve got you right where I want you,” He said as his gloved hand found it’s way to your neck, his palm pressing lightly against your throat as the blades brushed along your jawline. “- and I’m not about to just let you leave easily.” He punctuated his words with a short flick of a blade, just enough to scratch your skin ever so slightly. 

“We’ve got something to talk about, and now that I’ve got you, I want to have some fun.” 

You had a feeling you wouldn’t be waking up any time soon. 

[thisgirlhastales]

Simon and Baz Carrying On, like Wayward Sons ...

I’m here to write more about Wayward Son because @apostrophe-philosophy got me thinking with the wonderful additions made to my first lengthy post about it :)

Honestly, I’m loving the book more upon reflection, though I still have my same issues with it. I think the initial shock of the cliff-hanger had to die down for me (though, again, still have some things that irked me about said cliff-hanger). I’ve got more ranting to do, so, ah, here we go again, and warnings for spoilers beneath the cut!

Apologies for any repetition but this is mostly a ramble with less organization than my previous semi-essay post, and a little more in-depth on the characters, I think.

Carry On, as @apostrophe-philosophy stated so wonderfully, is a book that shook up all those tropes we know and love (when they’re executed well) of the Chosen One narrative, and I was so very pleased that Wayward Son kept that going — in fact, were Carry On the typical Chosen One type story, we would never have gotten a sequel because all’s well that ends well, right? (See: HP Epilogue).

But Wayward Son didn’t feel like a sequel to me, so much as … letting the cameras roll after the movie is over? (Er, assuming the characters are real people, so forgive my crap analogy.) We see how very broken these people are despite (or because of) their victory. We see that there are years of healing ahead of them, assuming they can even come to terms with all the things they’ve done and seen. It’s very much a life goes on and on story; as in, life doesn’t stop after a narrative goal or milestone are achieved. It just goes. On. Without needing permission. It is relentless.

And it doesn’t care if you can’t keep up.

Which is what I believe is happening to Simon, Baz, and Penny (and Agatha, to an extent, though she really feels like she has her shit together way more than the others do, and who’d a thunk?).

Simon Snow, Former Chosen One, Saviour of Watford and Conqueror (?) of the Insidious Humdrum, Now Retired and Mage-Less

Ooof, let’s start with the guy whom the series is named after, because oh Simon. My dude, your problems are as vast and deep as an ocean, and I feel like you never really learned how to swim properly ‘cause your mentor/father-figure (who was your actual father, and won’t that be an agonizing reveal?) really messed you up by nearly drowning you repeatedly. Metaphorically. Or literally?

Simon Snow was neglected in many ways as an orphan child growing up, moved around and ignored, until he met the Mage. Then he gets a huge destiny shoved upon him, and he’s taught how to fight with a sword and with magic, although, ah, the latter he really sucks at because for all his immense power, he lacks control. Many, many near-death experiences later, and he’s finally hit a point where everything he came to know as his reality crumbles beneath him because the Big Evil he’s fighting is a piece of himself (nice bit of trope subversion), and he has to figure out what the hell to do with it … Oh, right, fill in that hole and give up all his magic, the thing that saved him. And incidentally, the way this happens is that he witnesses the death of one of his closest friends/older mentor figures, and the Mage is the one who did it. Furthermore, the Mage refuses to accept reality, i.e. that Simon needs to give up the power, not give it to someone else (him). Penny and Simon inadvertently kill him … And it hurts me when, after Simon begs Stop hurting me! as a magic spell, that Penny has to tell Simon that the reason the Mage died is because the magic dealt the final judgement — the only way the Mage would be able to stop hurting Simon is if he were dead.

Simon is gonna have to contemplate that crap for a while … But we don’t see too much of it in Wayward Son because Simon is a disaster (but “still so lovely” as Baz says) who won’t think too hard about why he’s such a disaster — he’ll just torment himself over it, and thus break all our hearts (and Baz’s) …

As @apostrophe-philosophy delightfully stated, what seems like a happy ending “can very well feel empty when your mental state is in fucking shambles.” And, yeah. I think Simon’s lost magic and resulting lack of direction in life are part of why he’s so depressed and feeling “worthless” now (although, he is not worthless). The other reasons are all the myriad ways in which his childhood did not prepare him for life, and in fact, damaged him in several ways (thanks for nothing, Mage). It’s all hitting at once. I’m sorry, Simon.

What we do see in Wayward Son is that he still reflects on the Mage somewhat fondly. He can never forget everything he was taught, particularly when he still uses it to keep himself and his friends alive. He switches back into soldier mode so easily (Baz notices, realizes what Simon’s life must have been like while the Mage had him under his thumb). Simon in the United States is a Simon who plunges headfirst into adventure and the unexpected and the good fight, but not into anything that involves speaking to Baz and/or Penny. Good grief, please, Simon.

I was okay with other aspects of his journey being hinted at — curious and excited to see how it all plays out. @apostrophe-philosophy, you mentioned that water spirit recognizing him? So interested to see where that goes! The fact that Simon impacted magic all the way around the world? Does this mean he touched every corner of the globe with his explosions? With the Insidious Humdrum? How many more creatures know of him? Is he kinda part dragon now? He “gave back more” than he took? What? How? What?!

All of that is left for another book, and I’m cool with that. Less cool with other things being left hanging …

Simon is loved so profoundly by Baz and Penny, but that alone cannot fix him — it can keep him afloat at times, but those underlying issues are not going away because he has an awesome boyfriend and best friend. It is so damn gratifying to read a magical adventure tale that actually acknowledges this. I don’t mind my fluff when I can get it, but Carry On wasn’t about that life, and it would’ve felt disingenuous if Wayward Son was … but it wasn’t, so yes.

I agree with you, @apostrophe-philosophy, when you say that Wayward Son feels more mature. It’s not just that these characters are now “growing up” and trying to figure themselves out — it’s that they’re all such huge damn messes (love it), and that they’re mad at themselves (and sometimes each other) for not having their shit together. Mostly they’re angry at themselves and despairing of each other. And if that ain’t adult life, y’all … Geez.

“Yes, Carry On was full of life and magic. Wayward Son is, in the words of the humdrum, what’s left when you are done.” Well said, honey!

Ah, there are so many ways that Simon broke me — when he talks about how easy it is to kiss Baz, but being kissed  “suffocates” him? It felt like he couldn’t stand the loss of control again — it’s allowing something to happen to you, it’s revealing in ways you can’t control, which is the story of his entire life. When he and Baz are kissing in the aftermath of battle, when Simon feels the most like himself, when he doesn’t care and he’s just overjoyed to be awesome and alive and with Baz — he’s all over his boyfriend and loving both sides of that intimacy (that he initiates). But when that isn’t the case, when he’s back in that negative headspace, back to depression and anxiety and all the consequences that the Mage wrought … He needs control, and kissing is easier than being kissed. Easier than allowing yet another thing happen to him, being vulnerable and seen in his vulernability, particularly with Baz, who knows him and can see past his defences.

(The great irony, of course, is that Baz actually can’t see what’s going on with Simon. It’s entirely in Simon’s head, holy crap, boys, fucking talk to each other.)

That part where Penny thinks about Simon: “I don’t really care if you feel crazy—because crazy isn’t dead.” That part where Simon has to compromise his Mage-taught morals to fight with vampires against other vampires and he has to keep rationalizing why being in love with Baz is okay, and the proper ways to rescue people because that’s all he did as a child soldier in the Mage’s army, and as Baz has said about the Mage — may he rest in pain for so thoroughly fucking with Simon’s head when he was a child and in awe of him and just … gah. Fuck you, Davy.

Simon being ready to die, to live to the last second as the saviour because that’s all he thinks he’s good for — taking one more enemy down for his friends, for Baz … Damn it, Simon. I know he sucks at words, he’s admitted as much himself, but wow, any words would do, Simon. Any.

I live for aftermath, and watching Simon (not) deal is giving me all the feels. He really believes he’s less now that his purpose is fulfilled since he has no magic. And since he has/is less, he feels he should “set Baz free” and all that. He only feels like himself when he’s being a sword-fighting badass, rescuing people, being a soldier (again, fuck you, Davy) — and yeah, he is very skilled, even incredible at that, but that’s not why Baz and Penny love him. Simon, oh Simon. If you would just open your mouth and start talking about all of this, the world of good it would do you …

But, hey, you know who else stressed me out?

Tyrannus Basilton “Baz” Grimm Pitch, Fail Vampire (Except When Kicking Ass), Powerful Pitch Sorcerer, General Posh Representative of UK Mages

Baz, my crappy vampire, my brilliant pyro-mage. You need help as badly as your boyfriend does. Baz’s arc kills me in a different way than Simon’s — everything Simon is dealing with is somewhat expected, and I understand it well. I get what his issues are, and the ways he is (but more often, isn’t, so very much is not) coping with them (and definitely not actually healing from them).

Baz? Oooh man. There were the things I expected — being on the outside, watching Simon slowly go to pieces, feeling completely helpless and lost, not knowing what Simon wants or needs, and that includes whether Simon wants or needs him anymore …

And yes, dealing with striking out on his own, in defiance of his family and all other magical society expectations, which puts him on a rather solitary path (apart from the world he knew — at least he has Simon and Penny, Messes Though They Are).

But the other aspects of himself — as in, his vampire nature and how that plays on his mind? He was suicidal in Carry On because he believed that’s what his mother would have wanted, that the vampires in the UK were so low and beneath him, and he was a Pitch, so how could those pathetic creatures like Nicodemus also be him? I was hoping we would get into all of that that here … and man. Oh man.

How devastating was it to find out that Baz is actually physically unhealthy because he doesn’t feed properly? Because he had no one to teach him how to eat without killing or turning someone? How to eat non-blood food without his fangs showing? When Lamb didn’t quite believe that Baz was twenty, like, legit, he’s twenty, he’s a baby vampire … How small is the world of mages back in the UK? Baz wasn’t even allowed access to the Internet. Good grief, this guy is smart as a whip, but he knows almost nothing and it shows, but it wasn’t until he met the American vampires that it felt painful. I just want him to learn all the things. Simon wants that for him (albeit for reasons that amount to you’re better off without me), and it’s just … Give Baz some true vampire knowledge. Let him feed without killing or turning. Please, cut this boy some slack.

My heart broke to see all the ways Baz was just … missing vital parts of himself. It was killing me to watch him hungrily take in everything Lamb was telling him … He needs something or someone to inform him (who isn’t a raging douchebag like Lamb). There must be some half-decent vampire somewhere who can help. I feel like we’re in for a conflict with his Aunt Fiona, since she’s been vampire hunting this entire while … So, you know, more pain on the way.

I’m sure I’m not the first to say this, but I truly believe we have hints that Baz is more than just vampire or mage. The fact that he aged from when he was bitten, the fact that he can use magic (Nicodemus couldn’t, and we have it confirmed that vampires can’t) … Pretty sure there’s something going on there. He’s a hybrid? He’s a new species entirely? He’s something that NewBlood wants so badly, but they can’t get because it can’t be recreated in a lab?

Baz needs his own long, long period of coming to terms, and then doing something about all those things boiling beneath his skin, because, my dude, you are more than you realize, and that’s not just the vampire stuff I’m referring to, Baz. More than his family’s expectations. More than his magical world. More than Simon’s boyfriend.

Penelope Bunce also gave me feels — “I was never invincible. I was just in the vicinity.” Again, @apostrophe-philosophy, you nailed the issues surrounding her so well: “But Penelope A-Plan-And-Backup-For-Everything Bunce? Hitting the literal end of her rope? Letting us see that she’s perhaps the biggest fraud, who doesn’t know how to fake it till she makes it once her belief in her own abilities has started to waver, because she had never known failure before and is now confronted by it on so many fronts?” Much like you, I am totally on board for her coming into her own, learning from her failures and becoming that much capable and hopefully healthier as a result.

And Agatha Wellbelove, oh, Agatha, realizing that she is magic. That she can’t run from herself, but she can learn — I loved every cynical bit of her in this, but she still had the capacity to realize that she could do something, and she did something, and it was awe-inspiring. It was coated in regret, in self-flagellation of the highest order, and every belief that it would all end in flames, but she did it. Bless her for becoming the saviour of that day.

So we Carry On, Wayward Sons, But There’s No Sign of Peace Yet For When You’re Done?

I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again: I still feel like the lack of partial resolution to any of the emotional/psychological arcs drives me up the wall.

That being said, upon re-reading a few of my favourite passages/chapters, and re-reading the last quarter of the book … I will say that there’s a touch more resolution than I realized. Particularly for Simon

“It’s time for me to stop pretending that I’m some sort of superhero. I was that—I really was—but I’m not anymore. I don’t belong in the same world as sorcerers and vampires. That’s not my story … I think I’d rather get a job. Earn something for myself. Pay my own rent. It feels good to think about. It feels like—shit, I’m crying. It feels awful, but it feels clean.”

There’s a mess in that realization as well, but there’s also some clarity. No, Simon is not a superhero — nice, good! Also, he can belong with vampires and sorcerers, maybe, (Shepard is proof), but he doesn’t need to be the be-all-end-all hero/soldier of everyone around him, so there’s that realization at least.

But then it gets cut off shortly after (like, a couple of pages), so … I’m sighing big time here.

Baz gets even more heaped onto his shoulders. But I feel like for all he knows that he’s lacking significant knowledge on half of his identity, i.e. being a vampire, he knows that he doesn’t want to be either like NewBlood or like Lamb’s people. So. There’s that.

Penny gets brought low at the start and is … pretty much still there by the end, though saving Agatha is a plus one in her healing column, maybe? But everything else is just … there. It’s a shorter book — there was room to have one or two conversations? About one or two of these many issues? I’m not even saying those conversations had to go well — but at least informing the characters on a few of the problems that we, as the reader, can so clearly see? The plot was interesting, but sometimes it did feel a bit like a contrivance to keep the emotional arcs in suspension. Because they spent so many days on the road together, nights in motels, they were basically almost never apart for a significant amount of time and not once, until the end, did they try to talk out their shit in a real way.

Again, l love this book. I love so many things. I’m cool with cliff-hangers. But I feel like I needed at least partial resolution on a couple of things — a cliff-hanger after we got Simon acknowledging some parts of his issues and speaking them out loud to Baz? Or vice versa? Because they would be able to see each other’s problems more clearly — the misunderstandings might have continued, but along a different vein? Because, the thing is, acknowledging the problems is a thing, yes, but the healing from them part is the bigger, longer, more painful thing, and I feel like it’s just … so much to cover, and I would’ve liked a better grip on that healing process before the next book?

The third book may endear this second book to me further, but as of right now, it doesn’t quite stand alone for me. It feels a tad unfinished. Again, love so many moments in here, love the characters, including our new disaster friend, Shepard, but the book just feels like it cuts off far too abruptly.

But, to quote again from @apostrophe-philosophy: “I really just want a cast of characters who have actual fucking problems they can’t fix with love and friendship alone and to watch them get what they deserve by claiming it of their own accord. Not because it falls into their hands.”

I want that too, so badly. And I think we’re getting it — we definitely got a piece of that, a solid beginning of that in Wayward Son, and I am so, so hoping we get even more (way, way more) in the next book! (Books?)

Whew. And that is where I am stopping! That might be the end of my meta rope for this novel. Man, I love this book, and if anyone made it through this massive post, you’re amazing. Again, many thanks to @apostrophe-philosophy for adding onto to my previous essay with a beautiful and beautifully worded series of thoughts! *hugs* :)

[devintrinidad]

Thanks for giving such detailed responses! No need to consider it. I don't see Cancer cell having romantic feelings for 3803. Rather I see him as that person who never outgrew his childish mindest. He's like a kid throwing a suicidal world ending tantrum. He probably can't even comprehend that kind of relationship. Rather he wants to be acknowledged as a cell and receive unconditional kindness. Therefore 3803 is more like a mother figure in his eyes they he constantly wants attention from and-

2 doesn't want to share and feels very needy for. Almost like a psychotic version of a kid with a one child syndrome. He might have an idea that 1146 has a different dynamic with her (for starters 1146 and 3803 have a give and take bond while Cancer cell is all take). And he can't decide of he's happy w/that (she makes 1146 happy) or jealous (of either one). That's probably why I think 3803 would eventually start losing it of she can't do her job. Thankfully for her Cancer cell is also -

3 compelled to go out their and cause mayhem to the world so he'd have to leave her alone. He'd probably like 'don't worry. You can go back to doing your job after I've remade the world in my image. My brethren need your deliveries too'. He's not going to let her go until he's ready to take on the immune system since she'd just alert them right away. It'd be a huge mental struggle for RBC to last as long as she does. Which I like since I like it when 3803's mental fortitude gets highlighted.-

4 She'd escaped on her own when he's gone to fight by sneaking past other cancer cells (or maybe Cancer cell would let her go but warn her she's probably not going to make it. I'm not sure if I've painted him w/that much respect for her though). Eventually she'd get the order to deliver vaccines throughout the body. I'm weak to epic showdowns so I can only see 1146 and Cancer cell coming to blows as is their tradition. Cancer cell dies but he still feels victorious because he's come closer to-

5 destroying the world then he ever has. He got to befriend 3803 and experience her tender nature. He got to break 1146 in a way that, in his pov, moves him closer to what Cancer cell believes about him. Cancer cell knows 1146 is too strong to die and will protect 3803 until he comes back again for another round. He dies smiling. 1146 kills Cancer cell but like you said in this story he's sidelined. 3803 is the one delivers the vaccine that makes it possible for the body to recover and her -

6 survival against all odds gets 1146 out of his heartbreaking breakdown over feeling like he got her killed thanks to Cancer cell targeting her because of him and just not being good enough to save her (lets be real. 1146 is so good at what he does I bet he hardly experiences failure and does not know how to cope well w/it). There are lots of heroes that day. But just like in the 1st Cancer arc. RBC is definitely a major one. But yeah 3803 is loved by both a immune cell and cancer cell. =p

~~~~

I’M SO SORRY THIS IS SO FREAKING LATE AND I HAVE NO EXCUSE THAN LACK OF MOTIVATIONNNNNNN!!!!

AAAAAAAHHHHH!

Okay. I got that out of my system.

Hey, there CAW Anon! 

These are such lovely, well thought out responses. Do you have a tumblr or something? You should start posting your thoughts or something because these are some good scenarios/headcanons. Like, this is really good fanfic material. (I should know, i write fanfic, hahaha!)

Anywhoozles, Cancer Cell in this situation is like a baby throwing a tantrum. Always wanting more and seeing the world of the body with the eyes of someone who doesn’t fully understand. 

He doesn’t understand that his very presence, the very thing that he is, is a hazard to the body. Sure, he can keep 3803 alive and maybe 1146, but what good would that do if the state of the body is afflicted with disease and cancer? It’s selfish of Cancer to want to live in a world where he’s accepted and he’s free to pursue whatever relationships he fancies, but that’s the thing I love about this character the more we talk about him.

He wants to live. 

If this were any other universe, he might have had a chance to live.

But he can’t, yet he still keeps fighting. 

I think that’s why there was so much backlash and discourse when the Cancer Arc still came out just a few years ago. It’s because the way his character is characterized: He’s human. 

And I think that’s what truly sets Cancer apart from other cells, even other cells who happen to act and think a little differently are bound to the thinking that everyone has to be useful and be in use for the body. Whereas, for Cancer, there is no need for Cancer so that makes him think more about living just because he thinks that he should rather than have a significant purpose in the body... other than trying to inadvertently kill said body. 

Like I’ve alluded to before, 1164 and 3803 have mindsets that aren’t as confined as other cells; they’re more malleable and kind than most. 

So yeah, you’ve brought up some really good points for discussion! Again, I’m sorry for the late reply, I hope this is okay!

[goldenhemmings]

Stealing Second | Baseball!Shawn

Whew. If you know me at all, you know I am a sucker for any AU scenario where Shawn is an athlete, so naturally I’ve spent the last three days neglecting all of my academic responsibilities to crank out 8.3k words (!!!) of Baseball!Shawn. I tried to keep the jargon in check, but here’s a little study guide of the things I wrote about in case you’re not super well versed on all things Major League Baseball: 

MLB teams are divided into two leagues: American and National. Each league has slightly different rules. The Toronto Blue Jays are in the American, and their home stadium is Rogers Centre. Rookie of the Year is an award given by each league to the best first-year player. Players often wear compression sleeves over their throwing arms because it reduces soreness, and eye black under their eyes to reduce the glare of the sun or stadium lights so that they can see better. If you have any more questions please ask, and without further ado please enjoy Baseball!Shawn!!

When you got the call from “Greg with the Toronto Blue Jays” that you had been selected from a field of over two-hundred applicants for one of the team’s few coveted internship positions, you almost stopped breathing. The sun was making its descent as you sat at the kitchen table of your quaint suburban apartment, having just finished the leftovers you’d microwaved a few minutes before when your phone sounded its familiar siren. It was an unknown number, but the Toronto area code immediately made your stomach flip. It was a straightforward phone call, Greg simply offering you a congratulations and saying you started at Rogers Centre in two weeks’ time, but to you it meant the entire world. You managed to breathe out a “thank you” as you hung up the phone, eyes blurry with tears and hands shaking as you struggled to dial your mother’s phone number--the only person you could think to call.

You cried as you talked to your mom about how all of your hard work had finally paid off; four years of suffering as a double-major student to obtain two bachelor’s degrees, almost entirely giving up sleep and a social life as the price for your scholastic success, and eight months of waiting tables post-graduation to (barely) sustain yourself while you looked for a job. The sports industry was harder to find a place in than you’d thought, and you couldn’t believe the opportunity had finally come. Your mother was beyond proud, and after the phone call you sat at the kitchen table and cried because you didn’t know what else to do.

You’d wanted to work in sports your entire life; the love had been ingrained into you by your parents when you were young, and it never faded as you’d grown. You’d sent your resume to every sports franchise with availabilities, prepared to emigrate to the States for your dream job if you had to, but with this internship for the Blue Jays you thankfully only had to move an hour or so away.

Moving, however, caused you great stress. The ballpark was in the heart of downtown Toronto, which meant that every apartment or condo within a reasonable distance of the stadium would be exceedingly out of your price range; not to mention that the deadline of two weeks only added to your panic. You expressed this concern to your mother the next morning when you were level-headed enough to hold a steady conversation, but the words your mother spoke were enough to send you spiraling down yet another path of overwhelmed emotions: your mom and dad would help you pay to live downtown until you were financially stable enough to take the reins on your own. You had paid your own way through college, and your parents didn’t want further financial struggles to stand in the way of getting your foot in the door of your dream industry; they’d let you pay them back whenever you were able. With a cushion of temporary aid from your family, finding a place to live was a breeze; you settled on a one-bedroom apartment about a twenty-minute walk from the stadium. It had a perfect view of the Toronto skyline, and you could already imagine yourself sitting on the small balcony at night just watching the city lights twinkle before you.

On a Thursday in May, not three days after getting the phone call, you and your parents loaded the contents of your tiny apartment into the back of your barely-running sedan. You sighed as you realized how out of place the old car would look juxtaposed to the sleek vehicles that surely filled the streets of the city. Oh well, you thought. I’ll probably be walking everywhere, anyways. You shut the hatch of your trunk and smoothed over your favorite Blue Jays player’s jersey--a parting gift from your mother--before hugging your mom and dad goodbye. You took one last look at your small apartment complex and climbed into the driver's seat before reversing out of your designated parking spot and driving away in the direction of your dream life.

As you merged onto the 401 and the Toronto skyline came into view, you had to turn your music up even louder in a desperate attempt to distract yourself and therefore control your pounding heart, an exhilarated smile unable to keep itself from spreading across your face. You were finally here. This was finally happening. You pulled off the highway and drove into the parking garage of your new apartment, awestruck at how tall and sleek the building was. You went into the lobby to get everything sorted, and you were all set when the manager handed you a key to your door and sent you on your way with an enthusiastic “Welcome!”

You made your way back out to the parking garage, popping the trunk of your car and beginning the grueling back-and-forth process of taking the boxes up to your apartment one by one. You made your way back down to the car for what felt like the hundredth time, sighing in relief when you saw that there were only two boxes left. You pulled the larger of the two out, which was exceptionally heavy, and as you tried to shut the trunk while still holding the box your balance completely failed you.

“Fuck!” you cried, as the contents of the box went tumbling onto the ground next to your car. You sighed as you knelt down to place the box upright when you heard a voice echo from behind you in the parking garage.

“Do you need some help?”

You snapped your head around, your eyes settling on the figure of a tall man who was far enough across the lot that you couldn’t quite make out his features. “Um, I think I’ll be okay,” you called back, ducking your head down in embarrassment over the fact that someone had seen you clumsily and inadvertently dump the box onto the ground. “Thank you though!”

The man continued talking, the sound of his voice getting closer despite the fact that you had declined his offer. “Are you sure? I’m more than happy to--hey. Nice jersey.”

You turned around and looked up to meet the man’s smug eyes, and as you did you felt your cheeks immediately begin burning. You fell back onto your ass as though you’d been pushed, the box’s spilled contents suddenly disregarded. You looked down self-consciously to the Blue Jays jersey you had on, all-too-aware of the Mendes 98 embroidered onto the back, and slowly let your gaze travel back up to the real number 98 standing right before your eyes. You’d been in Toronto for twenty minutes and you had already come face to face with your favorite baseball player...while wearing his jersey. If you weren’t embarrassed before, you surely were now.

“I’m Shawn,” he said, kneeling down to your level as you hadn’t yet picked yourself up from the pavement. He extended his hand, and you weren’t quite sure whether he expected you to shake it or help yourself up with it.

“As if I don’t know who you are,” you muttered, laughing nervously as you disregarded his hand altogether. You opted to stand up on your own, brushing the asphalt off of the back of your jean shorts as you forced herself to meet his eyes. Eyes that, to your surprise, seemed almost bashful.

Shawn’s hand, marked with a tattoo you couldn’t quite see the shape of, came up to rub the side of his neck. He looked strange in his fitted shirt and black Nike shorts; you weren’t used to seeing him without his jersey on--or in person, for that matter. You’d known he was a rookie and therefore one of the younger players on the team, but standing this close to him you realized he couldn’t be more than twenty-one or twenty-two. Who’d have known that his ball cap was hiding such curly hair, or that underneath his compression sleeve were several concealed tattoos, his short sleeve shirt now putting them on full display?

Shawn Mendes was a first-year second baseman for the Blue Jays, and nearly every Major League Baseball commentator had pegged him as a top-three contender for the American League Rookie of the Year award. He’d quickly become your favorite player at the start of the season, with his ability to flawlessly handle any ball hit his way and his red-hot swing racking up the most hits on the team. But it was his character, however, that really drew you to him. He was his teammates’ biggest fan, always making sure to give players words of encouragement after a bad game or a celebratory smile and high-five after a big hit. Even though he was only a rookie, he was loved by players, coaches, and fans alike, and he’d quickly become one of the Blue Jays’ greatest assets.

You were snapped from your reverie by Shawn’s voice once again cutting through the air, and you refocused your eyes so that they were looking up into his. “W-what did you say?”

He smiled. “I said I really don’t mind helping you carry your things up, I know how awful it is to move on your own. I’d have loved the help back when I first moved in here.”

“You live here?” you squeaked out, but it sounded less like a question and more like you were stating it to yourself, as though repeating the words would have them make more sense.

“Twelfth floor,” Shawn affirmed, shooting you another smile that almost made you dizzy.

You cast your eyes downward, nudging at the ground with the toe of your Converse. “Fifth,” you responded. The view got better the higher up you were--which meant the price also rose with the floor number. “It’s close to the stadium, though, so I’d really be set no matter which floor I ended up on.”

“Plan on making it to a lot of our games?” Shawn teased, smirking as he folded his arms over his broad chest.

“I actually just got an internship with the team’s public relations department, which is why I moved out here. I’ll officially work for the Blue Jays in about a week and a half, so I’m sure I’ll be at most of the home games.” As you heard yourself say it, you couldn’t keep the childish grin from your face. It still barely felt real to you, and you found yourself wishing there weren’t ten long days standing between you and the beginning of your dream career path.

“No way!” Shawn grinned, making the corners of his eyes crinkle and revealing a set of teeth so perfect you found yourself nearly mesmerized. You’d thought that he was handsome on TV, but the in-person effect was a million times stronger. “Guess that makes us co-workers, then.”

You let out a strangled laugh at his comment, but it sounded more like a yelp. “I wouldn’t go that far. I’m just one of the little people working behind the scenes.”

“But you make us look good,” Shawn insisted, his genuine smile unwavering.

“You make yourselves look good,” you scoffed, timidly looking at the ground as though it were suddenly interesting you. “You of all people should know that. You don’t make any errors in the field, your batting average is sky-high, and you’re on the short list for Rookie of the Year. I’m not sure there’s anything I or anyone else could do to make you look any better.” You could hear the gushing words spilling out of your mouth before you had time to process that you were even saying them, and when you finally managed to stop talking you wanted to crawl into a hole. Your favorite baseball player was talking to you like a normal human being, and you had to go and ruin it by fawning over him like the crazed fan that you were.

But, to your surprise, Shawn seemed unphased by this. “You really know your baseball,” he replied, and your eyes shot up to meet his brown ones.

“I’d hope a pro baseball team weren’t hiring people who didn’t,” you teased in a brief moment of bravery, Shawn letting out a little laugh.

“I guess I’d hope so, too.” As the words left his mouth, you both fell silent. His eyes were still on yours, and you’d have been a fool to look away. It was strange, having this seemingly intimate moment in the middle of a parking garage with a box of your personal belongings still scattered at your feet.

“Um,” Shawn cleared his throat, the first to break the long pause. “Are you sure I can’t help you with anything? The team has the day off today and I’d feel like a dick if I knew you were moving all these boxes by yourself while I sat on my ass doing nothing.”

“That’d be awesome, actually,” you finally assented, bending down to start putting the spilled box back together again as Shawn followed suit.

“I never caught your name,” Shawn said as the two of you carefully repacked your belongings.

“You’re a baseball player, you should catch everything,” you joked, to which Shawn chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Kidding,” you continued, smiling in response to Shawn’s laugh. “It’s Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he repeated, and your heart fluttered at the sound of him saying your name. “That’s pretty.”

“Thanks,” you giggled, continuing to pack up your things and forcing the giddiness that was threatening to spill out of you back down with all of your might. If this was how your luck was going to be in Toronto, you hoped you’d never have to leave.

“Oh, this is too good,” you heard Shawn say, and you looked up to see him smiling down at the framed photograph his large hands were clutching. Without even looking, you knew what it was: a picture of your mom and your dad holding baby you in between them, the Blue Jays’ stadium filling the background. They’d put you in a onesie covered with the team logo, and you sported a smile just as big as your parents’, except yours was toothless. You really were born and raised a sports fan; this picture was evidence of that.

“You were made for sports, weren’t you?” Shawn asked, placing the photograph gently inside the box.

“Absolutely,” you responded, flattered that he seemed so interested in your life. “My parents totally ingrained it into me. I don’t think I’d be happy with a career involving anything else.”

He smiled. “I can understand that. I’m pretty sure I knew how to throw a ball before I knew how to walk.”

You laughed, standing up as you placed the last of your things inside the box. “I’d expect nothing less. The greatest athletes always start young.” You moved towards the trunk of your car to grab the last box, shifting to balance it between your thigh and your arm in order to have a free hand to close the trunk with. You quickly pulled your keys out of your pocket and locked the car, shoving them back out of sight and taking hold of the box with both hands.

“Do you want me to get this one?” Shawn asked, pointing at the one you’d both just repacked.

“Yes, please. We both know what happened the last time I tried to carry that thing.”

Shawn chuckled as he turned his back to you and bent down to grab the heavy box, and you had to force yourself to keep your lips together as you watched the way his back muscles flexed and strained under the fabric of his skin-tight Under Armour shirt. “Lead the way,” he said, turning around to face you. You felt your cheeks get hot as you moved in front of him, sure that he’d caught you staring.

“Is this your first job with a sports team?” Shawn asked as he quickly fell into stride next to you, the both of you making your way into the apartment building’s lobby and towards the elevators.

“Yeah, if you’d even call it that,” you sighed, pressing the up button with your elbow. “It’s just an internship. But an opportunity is an opportunity, and I plan to make the most of this one.”

The elevator doors open and the two of you filed inside. “Guess we’re both rookies, then.”

You smiled, comforted by his kindness. “Yeah, I guess so. Except your season officially started in March. Mine doesn’t start for another ten days.”

“Are you excited?” Shawn asked, hitting the five button, and you felt yourself smiling again as you realized he’d remembered what floor you said you lived on.

“I only cried for two whole days after I got the call,” you giggled as the doors opened onto your floor, and Shawn laughed with you.

“I’ll take that as a resounding yes,” he said as you set the box down at the door and fished in your shorts’ back pocket for the new key to your apartment. You pushed the key in the lock and flung the door open, pushing your box inside to join the pile of all the others.

“Forgot how empty these things look at first,” Shawn remarked, gingerly placing the box in his hands down with the rest.

“I kind of like it,” you responded, taking in the space that was now all yours. Your kitchen was off to the left, and there was a large open space in front of you waiting to be converted into a living room. Your bedroom and bathroom were just beyond the kitchen, and there was a floor to ceiling window that revealed your quaint balcony and a decent view of the Toronto skyline directly across the room from the front door. “Kind of like a blank slate that I can do whatever I want with.”

“I don’t suppose you have furniture packed away in those boxes?” Shawn joked, stepping further into your empty apartment.

“Nope,” you giggled. “It’ll be me and my air mattress tonight. But most of the furniture I ordered should be coming Friday...which I guess is tomorrow.”

“We’ve got a three-game series against the White Sox starting tomorrow. The Friday and Saturday games are pretty late, but the Sunday game is early...I think it’s at one in the afternoon. I should be home by six, and I’m more than happy to help you with any furniture assembling. N-not that I think you can’t do it by yourself,” he rushed to add, eliciting a giggle from you.  

“I’d like that,” you said, biting the inside of your cheek to restrain your giddy smile. “Hopefully I won’t have too much trouble, but I already know I won’t be able to do it all myself.”

“Cool,” he said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his black shorts. “I’ll swing by. And, um...You know...If you’re ever free on any of my off-days and you want someone to show you around the city or something, I’d be more than happy to.”

“I’d like that, too,” you smile, your quickened pulse echoing in your ears.

He grinned. “Perfect. We’ll figure something out.”

“Sounds good. Oh, and good luck tomorrow night,” you called as he began making his way towards the door. “Not like you need it.”

He turned around, his eyes bright and a smile playing on his lips. “Will you be watching?”

“Yeah, on the TV that I don’t have yet,” you giggled, and he smiled and ducked his head.

“Right, right. But knowing you, you’ll find a way.”

“Oh, I definitely will. With an extra-trained eye on number 98.”

“No pressure,” he chuckled, running his inked hand through his brown curls.

“You’ll play amazing,” you said seriously, folding your arms around yourself. “You always do. And thanks for the help today, you’re a lifesaver.”

“Don’t sweat it. It’s nice to know someone else living here.” He swung the door open, stepping halfway in and halfway out of the entryway. “I’ll see you Sunday?”

“Mhm. And I’ll see you on the big screen tomorrow.”

“Hopefully I don’t disappoint,” he laughed, and you did too. “Bye, Y/N.”

“Bye, Shawn,” you answered, and with that the door was closed behind him.

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Come Sunday afternoon, you’d managed to assemble most of your furniture with the exception of your bed. The pieces were heavy, and there were too many of them for you to figure out exactly what part went where. As you walked out of your apartment’s sole bedroom and into the kitchen to make lunch, you remembered that day’s Blue Jays game was on at 1; in ten minutes.

Your television had come in last night, and it had taken a while but you’d managed to set it up by yourself. You had nothing planned in the days before you started at your internship, and though assembling your apartment was grueling, you found yourself grateful for the fact that you had something to occupy your time with.

You sauntered over to where you’d put the small TV, reaching for the remote and flipping the channel to the Blue Jays game. Your heart nearly dropped when you saw that the cameras were currently focused on a pre-game interview between one of the announcers and Shawn. You flung yourself down on your new couch, cranking the volume and completely disregarding the fact that you’d meant to make lunch.

The brim of Shawn’s baseball cap concealed most of his forehead (and those perfect brown curls), but the camera still picked up the youthful excitement behind his eyes as he spoke. He had fresh eye black painted under his eyes, and you knew that the two strips would quickly become smeared once the game started and progressed.

“With the White Sox winning the first two games in this series,” the announcer began, Shawn leaning in and listening intently, “What do you think is going to be the key to stopping their streak and winning this game?”

Shawn answered immediately, and you were shocked by how well-spoken he was. You’d heard him speak before, of course, but now you found yourself paying extra attention to every detail about him. “I think we just have to focus,” Shawn started, adjusting his hat. “We have to not get caught up in the last two games because right now, today’s game is all that matters. We took some tough losses but we fought hard, and today we need to fight a little harder.”

You smiled, folding your knees up under your chin and resting your head on top. Good answer. The announcer continued. “I’m sure you’ve been following what the sportscasters have been saying, so I have to ask how you feel about the buzz for you to win Rookie of the Year.”

“I’m honored that they see so much potential in me, but it’s still so early in the season. Right now I’m just trying to focus on playing my position and helping my team win games.”

“Good man,” the announcer said, laughing as he clapped Shawn on the back. “Thanks for your time, and good luck today.”

“Thank you, man,” Shawn said, and with that he was off camera as he made his way back to the Blue Jays’ dugout on the third base side of the field.

The announcer sent the program over to a commercial, telling the audience to stick around because the first pitch was right after the break. You took this as your chance to finally make lunch, throwing together a sandwich with the few groceries you’d picked up from the store yesterday and then making your way back over to the couch. You pulled the blanket you’d laid over the back of the sofa down and covered yourself with it, the blasting air conditioning leaving you a little chilly in your spandex and old Maple Leafs t-shirt. Now that you were settled, you were ready to be glued to the screen for the next three and a half hours.

The game passed uneventfully, both teams’ pitchers throwing an amazing game. The score was still 0-0 in the bottom of the sixth inning, but the White Sox pitcher’s arm was clearly starting to get tired, evidenced in the two consecutive hits he’d given up. You perked up a little bit at the potential scoring opportunity, with only one out and Blue Jays players at first and second base. A single would score one, and a double or triple would likely get both runners home. You could hear the crowd through the TV, and your stomach swirled with the excitement of knowing that you’d be a part of this atmosphere in just over a week. You waited with anticipation to see which Blue Jays player was up to bat next, and you almost screamed when you saw that it was Shawn.

A graphic displaying his statistics flashed on the screen, the announcers gushing over the Blue Jays’ beloved young rookie. Shawn stepped into the batter’s box, raising his bat over his shoulder and watching the pitcher with anticipation. Your eyes raked up and down his body, his arms flexed beneath his jersey from the weight of the bat and his white baseball pants hugging all the right parts of his lower half.

The pitcher started his windup, refocusing your attention on the game and sending a pitch flying over the plate for a strike that Shawn didn’t swing at. The screen said the ball came across at 83 miles per hour, which was beyond slow for the kind of pitch he’d thrown. His arm was tired, and your legs were bouncing up and down as you silently prayed that Shawn could take advantage of the opportunity. Another pitch--this one ruled a ball. As the pitcher began his third wind up of the at-bat, your breath hitched. The ball hurdled towards the plate as Shawn brought his bat around, a crack echoing as the barrel made contact, sending the pitch soaring into left field between the left and center fielders, who both went chasing after it. Both runners had crossed the plate, scoring two for the Blue Jays, and Shawn slid headfirst into second base to avoid being tagged out. The umpire called him safe, and dirt was stained all down the front of Shawn’s uniform as he popped up from the slide.

You could hear the crowd going crazy just like you were, reflexively jumping up from the couch and cheering as the camera showed the Blue Jays dugout high-fiving the runners that had just scored. The White Sox manager walked out to the mound, signaling for a new pitcher to come in and replace the current one. With the score now 0-2, Toronto winning, the game had a new life to it--and you were as hooked as always.

The game went by pretty quickly after that, each team managing to score another run, which left the final score as 1-3 Blue Jays. You smiled, clicking off the TV to get back to work until Shawn (hopefully) stopped by in a couple of hours.

You walked over to the pile of boxes, most of which you’d emptied, and chose a random one to begin unpacking. As you looked inside, you laughed to yourself; it was the box you’d spilled in front of Shawn. You pulled your hair into a sloppy ponytail and set about unpacking, placing photographs where you wanted them and arranging the decor from your last apartment how you liked it in your new one.

Before you knew it the sun was starting to go down, and you’d unpacked the rest of your boxes. You took a proud look around your apartment, satisfied with how everything had turned out. There were still a few tweaks you wanted to make here and there, but for three days’ work you were pretty damn happy.

You’d walked over to the kitchen to get a glass of water when there was a knock on your door, and you dashed over to open it, practically sliding across the hardwood floors in your fuzzy socks. You swung the door open to reveal Shawn, wearing black workout shorts and a white Blue Jays t-shirt, his hair slightly damp from the shower he’d surely had after the game.

“Hey MVP,” you grinned.

“So you’re a hockey fan, too?” Shawn asked, pointing at the Maple Leafs shirt you had on.

“I’m an every sport fan,” you giggled, turning and allowing him to pass by you into the apartment. “Even football.”

“A Canadian who likes football,” Shawn mused as you shut the door. “Don’t come by those too often.”

“You’d be surprised,” you said, walking into the center of your apartment as Shawn took in his surroundings.

“You really whipped this place into shape.”

“Makes it easy when you’re stuck here all day with nothing else to do.”

Shawn smiled. “Well, how can I help you finish up?”

“I actually need help with my bed,” you said sheepishly, running your fingers through the ends of your hair. “The pieces are too heavy for me to lift on my own.”

“No problem,” Shawn answered cheerily, following you down the short hallway into your room.

“Oh, and good game today,” you remarked as you walked.

He smiled, his cheeks getting rosy. “You watched?”

“Of course I did,” you laughed. “Every minute of it.”

“Well, thank you. Glad we could win at least one game in the series.”

“And there will be many more wins where that came from, especially if you all keep hitting as well as you did today.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I hope you’re right.”

The two of you set to work on the piece of furniture, assembling the frame and attaching it to the headboard. What you couldn’t even finish on your own only took half an hour with Shawn’s help, and there was, of course, the added bonus of getting to see his muscles bulging under his shirt as he did your heavy lifting. You pulled your new queen-sized mattress from where it was pushed up against the wall, tossing it down so that it fit perfectly inside the white bed frame, and let out a little cheer over the finished project.

“That’s everything!” you exclaimed.

Shawn grinned, brushing his hands off and moving over to where you stood. “Feels good to be all moved in, doesn’t it?”

“No kidding,” you laughed. “Now, how about a drink?”

“Oh, I don’t really drink much during the season. Thank you, though,” Shawn sighed, but you weren’t having it.

“Come on!” you teased. “You just helped me with half an hour of heavy lifting after you played a hell of a game. Tomorrow’s a travel day for the team, anyways. All you’re going to do is sit on a jet for however many hours until you get to San Francisco. I think you can afford one glass of wine, and it’s the least I could do for your help.”

“Of course you’ve memorized the team’s schedule,” Shawn chuckled, and you felt a wave of heat rising to your cheeks. “But I guess you’re right. Pour me a glass.”

“Always am,” you teased, heading to the fridge. “Red or white?”

“Whichever you’re having. You’re pretty convincing, you know,” Shawn continued as you poured two glasses of red wine, handing one to him and leaning your back against the counter right next to where he stood. “And you always know what you’re talking about. I have a feeling this internship is going to turn into a job more quickly than you think.”

You let out a sigh, tilting your glass back to let the wine past your lips. “I seriously hope you’re right. I need a big-girl job at some point.”

“What day do you officially start?” Shawn asked, angling his body so that he was leaning up against the side of the counter and facing you.

“A week from Monday. Same day as the first home game back versus--”

“Boston,” Shawn finished, and you both laughed. “I’ve heard.”

“Sorry,” you giggled, picking up your glass for another sip.

“Don’t apologize. It’s cute how you know everything.” At this you almost choked on your wine, but you managed to force it down and suppress your coughs. Shawn kept talking, which you were exceedingly grateful for; you wouldn’t have immediately been able to form the right words to respond to his compliment. “There’s a long corridor at the stadium that connects the offices to the Blue Jays locker rooms, and there are a bunch of random rooms off to the sides of that hallway. If you can manage to get away, you should meet me in the one closest to the locker room, like, fifteen minutes before the game starts. I wanna hear about your first day.”

You smiled at him over the rim of your wine glass, trying to keep your butterflies in check. “Fifteen minutes before game time...got it. I’ll do my best.”

You smirked. You’d do more than your best; you’d be there like your life depended on it.

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The rest of the days went slowly, with you desperate to pass the empty time in any way you could. You arranged your artwork, then rearranged it, then rearranged it again. You paid several visits to the apartment complex’s gym--something you’d normally never do, but resorted to out of pure boredom. You went on walks to explore the area around your apartment, identifying which restaurants looked good and the shops you wanted to look in when you finally (hopefully) had money to spend. You watched every Blue Jays game from the comfort of your couch, now with the added excitement of seeing Shawn on TV while also knowing him personally.  

When Monday morning finally rolled around, you were out of bed much earlier than you probably needed to be. You put on the flowy dress you’d picked out, which was blue with white polka dots to match the team’s colors. It was cute but still professional, and when paired with simple jewelry and sandals it was perfect. You did your hair how you liked it and put on a touch more makeup than you normally would, checking the time to see that you still had an hour to be at the stadium and it was only a twenty-minute walk.

You headed into your kitchen and brewed yourself some coffee, making sure that it was decaf; you didn’t need caffeine adding to the jitters you already had. You sat at your kitchen counter and sipped it slowly, trying to think about anything but how nervous you were. When half an hour had passed you opted to start your walk, grabbing your purse from the hook you’d put by the front door and plugging your headphones into your phone to listen to music on your way.

You arrived at the stadium offices with seven minutes to spare, as you weren’t set to meet with Greg until nine o’clock. You were hit with a rush of excitement as you walked through the office doors, Home of the Toronto Blue Jays proudly displayed on a blue banner directly above the entrance. Once inside, you felt like a kid in a candy store. You could see past the receptionist’s desk, the front of which was adorned with a giant Blue Jays flag, to all of the cubicles in the center of the large space. The walls were lined all down the sides with door after door concealing the offices of higher-ups in the organization, shiny plaques displaying each occupant’s last name pasted to the doors. Additionally, there were two silver-doored elevators tucked into the left corner by the front, where you’d come in. The walls inside the reception area were lined with framed newspaper clippings, photographs, and jerseys, and everyone working seemed to have at least one article of clothing that matched the team’s blue; the entire space was a giant homage to the Blue Jays.

Before you had time to ask the receptionist where you were supposed to go, you were met with the sight of a tall, bald man who couldn’t have been older than fifty walking briskly in your direction, his gray suit pressed to perfection and adorned with a royal blue tie. This man, you assumed, was Greg--the one who’d called you to give you the job.

“Are you my intern?” he asked cheerily, reaching out his hand for you to shake before you’d even given him an answer.

“Yes,” you smiled, shaking his hand. “Y/N, nice to meet you.”

“I’m Greg, and the pleasure’s all mine,” he said with a smile, and it seemed truly genuine. “Your application was beyond impressive, I remember it well.”

You blushed at his compliment, filled with pride for your hard work and dedication. You felt your nerves slowly slipping away in Greg’s presence, his exceedingly friendly demeanor making you more comfortable by the second.

“If you’d follow me,” he continued, setting off into the giant office area, “I’ll get you situated and introduce you to the other interns.”

“Are the others already here?” you asked, filled with a new wave of anxiety. You’d been almost ten minutes early, how had they all beaten you?

“Yes, but don’t worry--you’re not late. I told you all to come in fifteen minutes apart from one another so that you had time to adjust. It can be overwhelming on your first day, and I didn’t want the added pressure of a crowd,” he explained, sending you a smile from over his shoulder. You relaxed at this; not only was Greg friendly, but he was thoughtful. “I’ve got them all sitting in a conference room at the end of the offices--” he reached out to push in a door handle, “--right here.”

He led you into the room, where five people sat around a large conference table. Five men. They all stopped their side conversations, looking up to you. You felt the heat of five pairs of eyes sizing you up and down, and you swallowed hard in an effort to stay calm. Greg clapped his hands together once and took a seat at the table, you following suit.

“Alright,” he began, your eyes glued to him. “Now that everyone’s here, let’s introduce ourselves and then I’ll get you each started in your individual departments!”

You and the five other interns, who all appeared to be about your age, went around the table as though it were an icebreaker on the first day of high school and introduced yourselves with your name, hometown, and the department you were interning for. There was Chris who’d be interning with Finance, Matthew with Operations, David with Medical, Tony with Marketing, Brandon with Sales, and you with Public Relations. The difference between Finance and Sales, you learned from Chris (who seemed like a massive know-it-all), is that Finance deals with how the team spends money, whereas Sales is concerned with making money.

Once the rounds had been made Greg stood up, announcing that he’d take you one by one to your departments to get you situated. Know-it-all Chris was first, and as soon as he and Greg were gone the guys started talking to each other again. This left you sitting awkwardly, wanting to join their conversations but they were too quiet for you to hear. You tried to push the thought that they were excluding you on purpose into the back of your mind.

You looked down into your lap, pretending to be fascinated with a detail on your purse, when you felt the chair to your right slide out from under the table. Your head shot up, met with Brandon smiling warmly and sliding in next to you. “It’s Y/N, right?” he asked, and you nodded. “Brandon.”

“I remember,” you grinned, and he smiled back. Brandon had tan skin and light eyes, and he wore a black suit that seemed a little large on his frame despite the fact that his shoulders were so broad. His smile was friendly, and though it was early to tell, you thought he seemed kind.

He must have caught you noticing the size of his suit, because he ran his hands over it and let out a little chuckle. “Yeah, yeah, I know it’s big. Couldn’t really afford a new suit, so I had to borrow this one from my dad. Anyways, I could tell the others were ignoring you so I wanted to come say hi. This place is nerve-wracking enough without having to be by yourself.”

“Thank you,” you shrugged, giving him a smile as you felt yourself relax. “You said you were from America, right?”

“Texas,” he confirmed, leaning back in his chair. “Really small town. Nobody ever moves in and nobody ever leaves.”

“Wow,” you quipped, intrigued. “What drew you to Toronto, then?”

“They took my application,” he answered, and you both laughed in mutual understanding of how challenging it was to secure a position like this. “I actually played baseball all through high school and college. Was projected to make the major leagues as soon as I graduated, but then I got hurt and nobody would sign me to play for them. But I knew even if I couldn’t play in the majors I wanted to work there, hence the reason why I’m hoping this internship leads to a higher position.”

“That’s quite a story,” you remarked, and Brandon shrugged. “I know what you mean about the internship, though. I hope it opens up something bigger for me, too.” Brandon nodded in understanding, continuing the small talk with you until Greg called him away.

You were the last intern that Greg pulled, and you were more than ready to finally have something to do after sitting in the conference room for an hour. “So you,” he started, leading the way towards the elevators, “are my lovely PR lady. Which means you are working to make sure that the team is positively received by the fans. You’ll mostly be making written contributions--conducting research and interviews to contribute to articles for the Blue Jays website--and eventually writing articles yourself once your training is done. The website is the main way we keep the community updated on the team both on and off the field, so it’s very important to the success of our organization. You’ll additionally get practice guiding post-game press conferences, which are also very important.”

You listened intently, making mental notes of everything Greg was saying. The man spoke very quickly, almost to the point where you couldn’t keep up, but your focus was razor-sharp.

The elevators opened onto the third floor of the stadium offices, where the PR department was housed, and you followed Greg as he stepped out onto the tiled floors. He took you into every single office, introducing you as The Intern to more people than you’d ever met in your life, whose names you only prayed you remembered.

Lastly, you were introduced to a woman named Cassidy, who didn’t seem much older than you. She stood up from behind her desk with a bright smile and, instead of greeting you with a handshake like everyone else had, she pulled you in for a hug. You learned from Greg that you’d be working very closely with Cassidy; she’d be your “mentor” throughout the internship, and your desk was inside her spacious office. Greg shook your hand one last time before saying he’d “leave you two to it,” and with that he started back down the hallway for the elevators.

Very quickly, you realized Cassidy was beyond cool. She was young, intelligent, and well-respected in her job; everything you aspired to be. She handed you a folder, containing the transcript of an interview she’d done with one of the players regarding his nonprofit work. She told you she was writing an article about how charitable the player was, and asked you to seed out several quotations that you thought would fit the article.

After several hours of doing back-and-forth work with Cassidy, breaking once for lunch and again for dinner, it was nearing 6:30--and that night’s game started at 7. “Me and some of the other PR staff are going to watch the game in the clubhouse, you’re more than welcome to join us,” she said, her eyes bright.

“I will!” you exclaimed, grabbing your purse and standing up from your desk. “I just have to check in with someone first.” Cassidy nodded and made her way out of the office, turning to lock the door as soon as the both of you were out. You were sure she assumed the person you had to check in with was Greg; little did she or anyone else know that you were about to sneak over to meet with Shawn Mendes. The simple thought of it sent adrenaline coursing through your body.

You took the elevator down to the first floor, retracing your steps back to the door you’d noticed was marked with Stadium Access. You checked to make sure that nobody was paying you any particular attention (as if anyone cared about The Intern), and you pushed the door open to reveal a long corridor much like the one Shawn had described.

You found the door closest to the locker rooms just as he had said, gingerly tugging it open and breathing a sigh of relief when you saw Shawn leaning against the wall in waiting. His head perked up at the sound of the door opening, and he smiled from ear to ear when he saw it was you.

“Your dress matches my uniform,” Shawn remarked, pulling you in for a hug after you’d shut the door behind you. This took you by surprise, but your arms found his waist as his squeezed around your shoulders.

“That was intentional,” you grinned, pulling away from him.

He smiled. “How was your first day?”

“Overwhelming,” you admitted. “I’m the only girl of the six interns, and only one of the guys has been all that nice to me. But there’s a girl named Cassidy who works in the same department as I do and she’s really cool, she’s not much older than me. I met a lot of people with such awesome jobs, though. I’d kill to be where they are.”

“First of all, those guys are insecure and you can’t let their fragile egos get inside your head, especially since you’re probably ten times smarter than them. And secondly, you’re gonna rock this internship. You will be where those people are, I know it.”

You smiled, suddenly shy from his compliments. “Thanks, Shawn. I really hope that’s true.”

“It is. How do you feel about the game?”

“You’re asking me how I feel about the game?” you laughed incredulously.

“Your opinion’s as good as any,” Shawn said, looking down at you with a closed-mouth smile that touched his eyes.

You couldn’t help but smile back, feeling your heart beat a little faster under the weight of his stare. “Well, I hear the Blue Jays’ rookie second baseman has quite the batting average right now. Think as long as he keeps hitting like he has been the game will be just fine.”

It was Shawn’s turn to be bashful from your playful compliment but, right as he was about to answer, you heard the loudspeaker announce that there were ten minutes until the first pitch.

You sighed. “You should go. You don’t even have your eye black on yet.”

“Do it for me?” he asked, reaching into the back pocket of his white pants and handing you the tube.

You felt another shy smile cross your face. “Move your hat,” you said softly, not wanting the cap’s brim in the way of the marks you were about to put under his eyes. Shawn reached up to take his hat off, placing it backwards on your head with a smug smile. You bit back a grin as you reached up to paint the lines on his face, gingerly taking hold of his chin to get a steadier hand. You could feel his gaze on you, and your heart was hammering in your chest so loudly you’d have sworn he could hear it.

“There,” you said, your voice scratchy as you slid the lid back onto the tube and handed it back to him. “Bright lights have nothing on Mendes now.”

There was a pause, each of you wishing you’d had more than five minutes with the other and knowing you both had to go. “Same time here tomorrow?” Shawn spoke up, evoking a confused frown from you.

“What do you mean?”

“Here, fifteen minutes before game time,” he answered matter-of-factly, and by this point you were grinning like a little kid.

“Okay, yeah. Same time tomorrow. But now,” you said, grabbing his hat off of your head and reaching up to place it back on him, “You have a game to win, and the team’s probably looking for you.”

He sighed. “You’re probably right. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here. Give ‘em hell, rookie.”

“You too,” he grinned, and with that he left the room, his metal cleats echoing as he jogged down the hallway to the locker room.

You leaned back against the wall, feeling like your breathing had stopped and relishing in the fact that this was actually happening to you. You smoothed down your hair, tangled from where Shawn’s hat had been, and made your way back to the offices to watch the game.

Oh, how you were starting to love Toronto.

Feedback is so appreciated, and let me know if you want a part two!!