#*picture of myself* COULD TESTOSTERONE SAVE HIM?

[jzq]

im not really transmasc im a nothingo. im not all that feminine or masculine so im closer to just a trans guy but not really . im bigender and im like the Lacroix of guys. semi-girl gender with left guy. i do kinda need to trans my gender though im ngl

[dream-a-little-bigger-x]

An Unforgettable Halloween | Luke Patterson

Requested by anon:  hiiiii! can i do a jatp luke x reader imagine where it’s halloween and reader runs into Luke and they spend the whole day making Luke forget he’s dead? thanks! <3 love your writing by the way

A/N: Thank you for this request, anon! I really enjoyed writing it! I hope you like it!! Idk why I always need to have the reader and Luke/Charlie singing together, but here ya go anyway. The song used is Favorite Place by All Time Low. :) 

Pairing: Luke x fem!reader

Warnings: fluff

Words: 4,447

Halloween. It’s never been my favorite holiday. My poor, feeble heart can’t handle all the scares and creepy stuff. And besides, it’s over commercialized, in my opinion. Capitalism just needed another reason to exploit a holiday. My best friend, Ava,  tells me I hate the holiday because it reminds me of two years ago when a Halloween party traumatized me for the rest of my life. “Just because Brent made that day terrible, doesn’t mean the day will forever be terrible, Y/N,” she’d always say. Though that might be true, I still like to believe that’s not the only reason why I  hate the holiday. “Just come with me to the party tonight, and you’ll see it’s not as bad as you think it is!” We’re on FaceTime while I’m doing homework and she’s trying to figure out what to wear to the annual Halloween party at Charlotte the popular girl’s house. Another reason to hate the holiday. Charlotte Parks is the typical popular girl trope in this story. Pretty, popular with the guys, a cheerleader. The cliché. “I don’t think I’m gonna do that, Av,” I say whilst tucking my pencil behind my ear and staring down the phone in front of me, balancing against my backpack on the end of my bed. “You know Charlotte and I don’t mix well together.” That’s true. Charlotte has always despised me, God knows why. For some reason unknown to me, she always has to find a way to ruin my life. “Her house is so big, you won’t even see her!” Ava reasons from her walk-in closet before walking back onto the screen, another dress in her hand. This one is a black bodycon number with a white collar at the top and fringes at the sleeves. “How about this one?” “That’s very Wednesday Adams!” I exclaim with a wide smile on my face, to which I receive a very impressed nod from my best friend. “You know Bobbi’s coming tonight, Av. Can’t cancel on her!” Roberta’s my cousin of 13, and she’s one of my best friends, no matter how lame that sounds. We’ve always been pretty good pals, since we’re the only girls in the family. We kind of had to stick together against the testosterone of our other cousins. She’s not actually coming tonight, but I needed a good excuse to get out of this party. “Take her with you!” she yells both excited and kind of desperate at the same  time. “Ooh! How about I wear my pleather pants with, like, a black body and cat ears?!” She disappears into the wardrobe again. “She’s 13, Av! I’m not going to take her to a high school party!” I yell back whilst shaking my head in disappointment. “Wear whatever you want, Ava. I’m sure you’ll look amazing.” She appears into the picture again, her pleather pants halfway her butt and her bra on show. “Hey, is that my bra?!” I recognize that black lace with the gold detailing down the bust anywhere and I’ve lost that bra three weeks ago. “What? No! This is mine!” she says, but I can tell she’s lying. “You are unbelievable, Av!” I shake my head, grinning at my best friend. “I’m gonna have to go though. Send me a snap of  your outfit once you’ve chosen!” She nods her head in response, walking up closer to her phone, which she had balanced somewhere on her drawers. “I really can’t convince you to come?” Her expression has suddenly turned serious. She really is bummed I don’t want to come out, but I don’t care. I can’t care. This is for my own good. At least then, I don’t have to see Charlotte. Or Brent. “I’m really sorry, Ava.... Maybe next year, yeah?” She sighs mournfully before nodding her head. “Have fun, okay? And be careful!” A smile appears on her face again. “I will, babes. Have fun with Bobbi!” She offers me a wave, which I return before yelling ‘bye’ and pressing the red button on my phone screen. Lying to my best friend is not my favorite thing to do, but she wouldn’t shut up when she found out what I’m actually gonna be doing. With a sharp exhale, I crawl off my bed and head downstairs where my parents are getting ready for their little get-together with their friends. Dad’s dressed in a pin-stripe suit, a fake mustache stuck on his upper lip and his hair gelled back tightly whilst mom’s wearing a black dress with a deeply cut V-neck and a large slit down the side. Gomez and Morticia Addams. Very spooky. “Don’t you two look dashing,” I compliment, watching them from the middle of the stairs, sitting down. Mom shoots me a kind smile as she fixes her slick hair. “What are you gonna do tonight, sweetie?” Dad asks, tightening his tie. “Probably gonna go get some food and watch some movies,” I shrug, placing my head in my hand, my elbow resting on my knee. “You know, the use.” Dad exhales sharply, smiling sympathetically. “Don’t give me that look, dad.” “I’m sorry, sweets. But I just wish you would act like a seventeen-year-old instead of an eighty  year old.” I scoff at his statement. We had this discussion last year too. Both of them know what happened and why it’s so hard for me to enjoy this day. But they still give me shit for it. “I’m gonna have plenty of fun by myself. Even more so than if I did go to the stupid party,” I reason with him. He raises his hands in defeat before turning to his wife. “Just make sure the kids get their candies, yeah?” mom says instead, climbing a couple of stairs to press a kiss to my head. “I love you,” she whispers and heads down again. “Love you too. Have fun, guys.” Dad comes up to kiss me too before heading to the door with mom. With his hand on the doorknob, he looks back at me. “You know we only want you to be happy, right?” he says. I nod my head, offering him a smile. “I love you, sweets.” He walks out and shuts the door behind him, leaving me alone in the empty house. I sigh deeply before heading down and grabbing my Vans. Once they’re on my feet, I grab my wallet and exit the house. The cool October air hits my sweater-clad arms, sending a chill down my spine. As my feet tread down the pavement, my mind wanders to this day two years ago. Around this time, everything seemed normal. I was happy and excited to get to the Charlotte Parks Halloween extravaganza with my boyfriend Brent. We’d picked out a great couples’ costume. He was a wolf, and I was dressed as Red Riding Hood. I’d even taken the liberty to go all out with makeup and put a slash near my eye as though I’d been attacked by the wolf. Ava was a fan of that costume, more than Brent was. But when we neared the end of the night, everything crumbled down into shreds of sadness and anger. The residue of that anger wells up again until it’s knocked out of me when I bump into someone, making me stumble backwards. I would’ve fallen on my ass if it wasn’t for the hands capturing my arms to keep me from doing so. “I am so sorry, I--” I stop in my tracks as I look up into the gorgeous green eyes that belong to the attractive brunette that saved me from landing on the cold pavement. “A-are you okay?” he asks, letting go of me. “I--wait…” He furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “You can see me? And you can touch me?” That’s the weirdest question I’d ever gotten. My eyebrows knit together now too, trying to figure out what’s happening and why this boy is so confused about our entire interaction. “Uhm, yeah? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with people?” “No. I mean -- yeah, but I’m not a person, technically,” he replies in a mumble. He cautiously looks up at me again. “I’m a ghost, actually.” I let the words sizzle through my brain until it decides to send me into a fit of laughter. “Right, yeah, it’s Halloween. Ghosts. I get it. Good one,” I say between laughs, patting the boy’s shoulder, which only sends him to more confusion. To be fair, he doesn’t feel like a normal person. His arms don’t feel like they’re made of flesh and blood, but rather something light and airy. He gapes at me with this inquisitive look on his face, which calms down the laughter abruptly. “You’re not really a ghost, are you?” I ask, just to be certain. “I am, actually…” he mutters and jams his hands into the pockets of his black jeans. “Me and my bandmates died in 1995 and this girl, Julie, brought us back as ghosts… She’s the only one who could see us… Until now,” he looks up at me with hope and confusion written all over his face. “But she can’t touch us… Are you sure you’re not dead either?” I snort at his last question. “Kinda wish I was today,” I blurt out. My eyes widen after the words left my mouth. “That sounds way too dark…” I chuckle, and the boy does too, but I think it’s more out of awkwardness than finding it funny. “Are you okay?” he asks. At first, I think about answering it superficially, but there’s this look on his face that makes me want to spill all the beans. He, too, seems lonely and distraught on this Halloween night. “I’m not actually,” I glance down at my feet, finding his feet are clad in the same shoes. I then let my eyes glide from his shoes all the way up to his face. He’s urging me to continue by tilting his head a little, shooting me a questioning glance. “Halloween isn’t my favorite holiday…” I clarify. The boy nods his head understandingly. “That explains the lack of costume,” he says, which makes me glance down at my doodled-on mom jeans and oversized sweater before chuckling. “You don’t do the dressing up either? Or is that not something ghosts do?” I query, pointing at his ensemble. He’s wearing black jeans with a shirt and long-lined jean jacket. “I mean, it’s not like anyone would see,” he jokingly says, which lets a giggle escape from my mouth. His smile widens upon hearing this ridiculous sound coming from me. “Where were you going so determinedly before I smashed into you?” he asks after a few beats of silence. “Oh, I was getting some food from the place on the end of our street. They got pretty decent sushi, and since I’m home alone tonight, I thought, why the heck not treat myself, right?” I curse at myself for sharing this much with a complete stranger, who is a ghost, nonetheless, but the chuckle that reaches my ears comforts me a little. “No parties to go to? Back in my day, Halloween parties were always the best.” I feel the smile on my face fade away at the reminder of the Halloween party I’m not attending tonight. “Yeah, no… I haven’t gone to any Halloween party in two years… Like I said, Halloween isn’t my favorite holiday.” He offers me a sympathetic smile. A silence then falls over us as we stand in the middle of the street, looking at each other, debating what to say. “So… I’m gonna go and get my sushi. Uhm… Sorry for bumping into you,” I apologize and lift a foot to start walking away, but his voice stops me. “Would you mind if I tagged along?” he asks, which renders me surprised. “I don’t eat, so you don’t have to buy me sushi, but I think I could use some company tonight… If you don’t mind, of course.” His eyes are filled with hope, and some sort of desire to hang out with someone other than those bandmates he was talking about. “Uhm, no… Yeah, sure. You can tag along. It might be a nice change from that lonely Halloween I always have,” I chuckle, and he does too. “I’m Y/N, by the way,” I say as he turns and falls into step with me. “Luke,” he introduces himself with a smile. “Why don’t you go to Halloween parties, Y/N?” I inhale sharply at this question. I was hoping he wouldn’t ask too much about it. But I guess I can never get out of that question anymore. Halloween is a big holiday around here. “Two years ago, I went to one with my boyfriend. It’s the party where I found out he was cheating on me with the one girl who always had it out for me.” It rolls off my lips with ease. Normally, I’d choke or start bawling my eyes out. But Luke’s aura is so calming and reassuring that I can’t help but feel okay telling the story. “I haven’t been able to go back since, much to my best friend’s dismay.” I roll my eyes amusedly thinking about Ava and her desperate attempts to get me to go each year. “That sucks, I’m sorry,” he says as we enter the sushi place. “You better grab your phone now if you wanna talk to me. People tend to give weird looks at people talking to themselves.” I get my phone from my back pocket and pretend to dial a number before pressing it to my ear, glancing up at Luke with a smile on my face. “Hey, how you doing?” I say into the phone, which makes Luke giggle. “Just know that your ex-boyfriend’s stupid for ever cheating on you,” he tells me before looking down at his feet. “I would never wanna hurt someone as pretty as you.”  I can feel a blush creeping its way onto my cheeks, but decide to conceal it by jokingly saying, “Aw, you think I’m pretty.” He rolls his eyes, an amused smile on his face. “Next!” the guy from the sushi place yells. “Oh, hold on,” I say into my phone before placing it on the counter and facing the employer. “Uhm, the Halloween surprise box, please,” I order politely. The man nods curtly before getting into action. I grab my phone again and press it to my ear to continue talking to Luke while we make our way to a couple of chairs and tables set up for waiting customers. I let my eyes wander around the room. It’s decorated to the max with spiders in spiderwebs, pumpkins, skeletons, ghosts,... The lot. Then, my eyes fall onto Luke. He’s glancing around the place, letting his eyes wander until they find their way back to me. A shimmer appears in them when he finds me already looking at him. “So, you said you were in a band?” I ask, pretending to talk to the person on the other side of the line. “Oh, yeah! Me and three of my best friends were in this band called Sunset Curve. Three of us died on the night we were supposed to play the Orpheum,” he explains, and my eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets upon hearing the name of the venue. “The Orpheum?! You’re kidding, right?” He shakes his head, smirking. “You would’ve been legends.” The words come out in a whisper, hoping it wouldn’t upset him too much. “Yea, we would’ve been,” he sighs, then suddenly perks up again like an excited puppy, “But the girl I told you about, Julie? She can make us visible whenever we play with her! We’re now a band with her called Julie and The Phantoms!” I giggle at his endearing enthusiasm. “We would’ve had a gig at this really cool party in the Bel Air, but Julie got sick and had to cancel.” My eyes widen upon the words ‘party’ and ‘Bel Air’. Charlotte Parks lives in Bel Air. “That would be the party I’m not going to tonight,” I tell him, chuckling. “So, we would’ve met tonight either way.” He adds with a cheeky smile, “Some would say it’s fate.”  I shake my head at him, but can’t help the smile on my face either. I want to add something to debunk his theory, but my name is called out by the sushi guy. I get up and take the box of sushi from him, shooting him a quick thank you before leaving the joint with Luke in tow. “Where do you wanna go?” he asks, bouncing up and down. “Oh, I was planning on watching some movies at home, but if you have a better idea to spend tonight? Anything is better than going to that Halloween party.” He purses his lips in ponder, his eyes darting up to the night sky. “Ooh! There’s this park I like to hang out at sometimes?” I raise my eyebrows at his suggestion, popping a piece of sushi in my mouth. I’m way too hungry to wait until we sit down to eat. “You haunt children’s playgrounds?” I ask after having swallowed the seafood. His eyebrows knit together at this as he narrows his eyes at me. “I don’t haunt children’s playgrounds. I hang out at them,” he corrects me. “You’re a ghost, sweetie. That’s haunting.” “It’s not!” he shouts. “It is so!” I laugh loudly, throwing my head back. “You’re lucky the kids are all trick or treating tonight, so we can go there. Might be a little more secluded for me to talk freely to you without worrying people will think I’m crazy.” He nods his head agreeingly. Once at the park, we take a seat in the grass. I have my legs crossed whilst Luke’s are spread out, his hands supporting the rest of his body behind him. “So, what do you do in life, Y/N? You know, besides avoiding parties,” he asks with a little smile plastered on his face. I look at him for a moment, chewing my sushi. This gives me the time to really look at him. He has really great bone structure. Sharp jawline, chiseled cheekbones, fine nose, deep-set, dreamy eyes. “Eating sushi,” I reply jokingly after I’d swallowed the piece of deliciousness. Luke lets out a laugh too. “I’m still in school, so I’m spending most of my time studying. And I like to think I’m a pretty decent writer.” He stares at me, giving me his undivided attention with the cutest smile plastered on his face. “What do you write?” he asks curiously as I pop another sushi in my mouth. I lift my hand to my mouth, and reply, “Poems,” before continuing to chew quickly. “Kinda like songs, then?” I shrug my shoulders. “They could be, but I don’t play any  instrument, so I haven’t tried,” I reply and place the half-eaten box of sushi to the side, pulling my legs up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. “Do you write your own music?” He nods his head. “I wrote most of the songs in our band and now, I write with Julie for the new band,” he answers. As I’m thinking how much I’d like to hear him and his band play, he cuts those thoughts in two by asking, “Can I see your work?” I open my mouth, then close it. Then open again. I must look like a goldfish breathing. “I’ve never really shown anyone my work…” I trail off, debating whether or not I should show him. “Besides, my notebook is at home.” Luke suddenly gets up from the grass and reaches out his hand for me to take. I hesitate. Am  I really going to take a complete stranger, a ghost, to my house to show my poetry, only to find out he hates it because it’s nothing like his songwriting? The answer is yes. I place my hand in his and let him pull me to my feet. Without letting go of my hand, he grabs the box of sushi and then guides me out of the park and lets me lead us towards my house. “Wait here,” I tell him as we’re in the foyer. He simply jams his hands into his pockets and nods his head curtly. I run up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and then go to grab my notebook from my room, quickly storming back downstairs where Luke’s still waiting. I make my way to the living room and sit down on the couch. The boy cautiously trails behind me, and only comes to sit down after I pat the spot beside me. “It’s not that great, but… You know, it’s fun to do and a great outlet for anything I may be feeling.” I hand him the notebook and let him flip through all the pages. He stops on a few, reading it a little more thoroughly. It’s building some suspense in me. What if he doesn’t even like them? What if he, a songwriter, hates them? “Ah! This one!” he exclaims, and suddenly, with a whoosh, there’s an acoustic guitar on his lap. “One of the perks of being a musician spirit,” he tells me with a grin before strumming the instrument a little. He abruptly stops, looks at the page in my notebook again, and then softly tickles the strings. A beautiful melody pours out of the instrument before his melodic voice joins in too with the words I wrote. “I saw your face in the fire again I touched the flames and burned down everything I hear the sirens west of 8th now” He looks at me with a questioning glance as if asking for encouragement of some sorts. I offer him a smile, unsure of anything else I could be doing right now. His voice has rendered me silent. I think I could listen to him sing for hours.  “Wonder if you're hearin' them too And I know you don't belong  Know you don't belong to anyone” He focuses on the instrument again, making sure he’s still playing the right chords.  “No you can't be tamed love Maybe I was wrong  Maybe I was wrong for this But you feel like the perfect escape now Just like the sun on my face” His voice grows a little stronger, almost sounding raspier and more like a growl as he looks up again. I always thought it’d be cliché to melt when an attractive boy sings to me, but it’s actually happening to me right now.  “So can we close the space between us now It's the distance we don't need  Yeah, you're everything I love about The things I hate in me  So come on, come on, come over now and Fix me with your grace 'Cause I'm not too far and you're my favorite place” “You sing this last part,” he tells me, pushing the notebook towards me before going back to playing his guitar.  “I can’t sing, Luke,” I tell him, slightly panicking.  “Sure you can. I’ll sing along, don’t worry,” he offers me a reassuring smile before putting more power behind his strumming while also leaning closer toward me to read the words.  “So come on, come on, come over now and Fix me with your grace 'Cause I'm not too far and you're my favorite place” He now quits playing, placing his hands flat on the strings, and for a while we just stare at each other in disbelief. Disbelief about the song we just made together. Disbelief about how beautiful a voice he has. Disbelief about how attractive he is.  I cough, breaking the eye contact, “That’s a great song, Luke… You can have it if you want,” I offer with a smile to try and hide the blush from heating up my cheeks.  “No, Y/N, I couldn’t. That’s yours. Those are your words. Your words made this a great song.”  “They’re just words without a melody,” I mutter, folding the edges of the paper nervously.  “A song is quite boring without words though, isn’t it?”  For some reason, I’m starting to think all of this could be a metaphor for us. Him being the melody and me being the words. I would be a plain and simple poem without him, and his life -- though I doubt it -- would be boring without me.  “It would still be a song though,” I add, looking up at him again. One corner of his mouth curls up into a smirk, which makes me think he caught onto that metaphor I was thinking about. He suddenly grabs my hand and laces our fingers together. Before I can even register what’s happening, the front door suddenly opens, revealing a distraught-looking Ava. I let go of Luke’s hand and get up to help my best friend.  “What’s wrong?” I ask her as she stumbles inside. I grab her just in time before she can hurt herself. She looks up at me, her makeup run out all the way to her chin and blood trickling down her nose, though I’m not sure if it’s real blood or part of her cat costume.  “I punched Brent in the face and Charlotte punched me back,” she get out through sobs and hiccups. My eyes dart over to Luke, who’s watching this from the sofa. I almost forgot she can’t even see him. He offers me a small smile.  “Why?” I ask and guide her to the couch. She nearly sits down on top of Luke, but I’m quick enough to guide her next to him while he vanishes. He pops back behind the couch, looking down at the drunk girl lying down on the sofa.  “Because he was boasting about how he even managed to wrap the prude around his finger two years ago and got her to anything he wanted,” I swallow, remember those times people called me a prude because I covered up unlike girls like Charlotte who wore short skirts and plunging necklines. “I really don’t get what you saw in him, Y/N,” she mumbles while cuddling up to the pillow and letting her eyes flutter shut. “I hope you find someone that looks at you like I look at pizza.” I giggle at her drunken words before looking up at Luke to find him already looking at me. Kind of the same way Ava looks at pizza. A smile then finds its way to my face. Maybe Halloween isn’t as bad as I always thought it was. 

Taglist: @hannahhistorian92 @marinettepotterandplagg @thequirkybookaholic @bookdealer5 @tenaciousperfectionunknown @hemmingsness @iainttakingshitfromnobody @ifilwtmfc @angryknightstatesmantrash @kiss-themoongoodbye @rudysbay @thedarkqueenofavalon @caitsymichelle13 @calamitykaty @parkeret @lukeys-giggle @gingerxarmy @lovesanimals @lolychu @perfectlywrongformend3s @luckylouiebug @camiladelrio98 @myfriendscallmebeans

[infernal-fire]

Torment

Warnings: some fluff and angst, referenced sexual assault, strong language

Please do not interact with this blog if you are under the age of 18. Your media consumption is your responsibility.

Pairing(s): Steve x reader, Tony x reader (Not Stony x reader)

Summary: How can Steve and Tony protect you from what’s coming back to haunt you if they don’t know about it?

Word Count: 1200

A/N: This is a request from @leniram1890! Thank you for taking my request v card haha.

(This GIF does not belong to me)

“And then he swung the shield back at me but he didn’t know how to throw it so it flopped on to the ground and,” Steve snorted and then erupted into giggles. You smiled at him, not paying attention to a word he said. 

“You weren’t listening were you?” 

“Sorry Stevie, I was thinking about how lovely your laugh is.” you winked and sipped on your coffee. 

He could tell you were thinking about something important, and he knew you had been trying to tell him for 2 months. Part of him hoped that you would confess your feelings for him but he subconsciously knew that was hoping for too much. He paused and focused on the smell of the coffee and donuts to get his thoughts back in order. The cozy coffee shop that you both frequented was mostly empty, with the odd student in the corner and couple laughing in their booth. 

“What are you thinking about that’s so important” he slumped back into his chair and studied you inquisitively. 

I was going to tell you about me. What happened to me. I’ve been waiting so long to tell you Stevie, I’ve been trying to tell you. You could only think the thoughts - no matter how many times you tried, they would never manifest themselves as words. 

Just as you opened your mouth, your ringtone went off. Tony’s name and award-winning smile flashed across your screen. 

“Yes Tony? Oh. Right, I’ll be there in 30.” you replied and began gathering your belongings. Steve looked at you incredulously. 

As soon as you cut the call, Steve’s hand was on yours. “It’s your day off Y/N, you can’t be serious.” he pleaded. “Even the Avengers don’t work as much as you.”

“When you’re Tony’s PA, you should prepared to work more than him.” you reminded him before cupping his face and kissing his forehead. “That won’t work unless you stay Y/N” he whined and gave you puppy eyes. You defeatedly sighed. “Would you be so kind as to walk me home?” You didn’t need him to walk you home. But it would make him less upset at you for abandoning the coffee... date? No, not date. 

Your house came into view and there were flowers on the doorstep. Steve picked them up and analyzed it before picking up the notecard that was attached to it. You snatched it out of his hands.  “I wasn’t aware Tony sent you flowers like this.” he muttered. “He usually drops them off at my desk.” you nonchalantly mentioned. 

“Okay then.” He didn’t look too happy. “Have fun at work Y/N” he said. He kissed your hand before walking off again. 

You walked into your house, studying the flowers before flipping the notecard. 

Hope you enjoyed your break princess. I’ll be seeing you very soon.

You froze. The feeling resembling that of a snake slithering up your spine shook your bones. There was only one person who called you princess and he was supposed to be in jail. 

///

You tried your best to focus on what Tony was saying but you could not shake the feeling of dread that was slowly consuming you. You vaguely remember him mentioning that he was testing out new nanotech for his suit. If you had paid attention, he wouldn’t have been thrown across the room by a repulsor. 

“Y/N? What the hell are you doing, you were supposed to enter the code.” 

You shook your head as if you were ridding the thoughts that plagued your mind. “I-I’m so sorry Tony.” you rushed to his aid. You snapped out of it and helped him with your full attention but he was still in the back of your mind. 

“Finally! What would I do without you Y/N. Up high!” he called and held up his hand to high-five you but you flinched instead. 

“Did you just... flinch? Did you think I was going to hit you?” 

“No no Tones, I’m just so damn tired. I’m gonna’ home alright? I’ll uh, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He thought for a moment before ordering FRIDAY to get you a ride home.

You managed your reaction well but the flinch was itching and gnawing at his brain. His instinct told him there was more to it than tiredness. 

Over the next two weeks you got more ominous messages along with little gifts littered at your door. You wanted to tell Tony or Steve but this wasn’t an Avenger level problem. You were at war with your own mind; could you deal with it? If you were thinking straight, you might have told one of them but you weren’t sleeping, resting or relaxing ever since the flowers. 

You thought you were playing it off well but Steve noticed. He went straight to Tony on the 15th day after the flowers. 

“Why are you overworking her Tony?” Steve’s tone was challenging.

“You noticed it too? Good, I needed to talk to you about something.”

“Tony, I’m not in the mood for-”

“No, no Cap, you gotta’ hear me out. She hasn’t been sleeping and it’s not ‘cause I’m overworking her. Something has been bothering her and I just found out what it was. Come and take a look.” He lit up his workspace with your old pictures, police reports and an obituary. 

“What is this?” Steve took in the sight before him, unsure of where to start. 

“This asshole right here,” he produced a picture of your ex. “Her mother had a heart attack and died and... she tried to leave his house to go to her. He made her stay, and.. and. Fuck, I can’t even say it, he’s a fucking bastard alright? She reported it, he got thrown in jail but he got out for good behaviour or some bullshit.” 

Steve couldn’t believe someone could do that to you; he was seeing red just thinking about this bastard. It would explain why it took you so long to trust him. 

“So she knows he’s out?” Steve pondered. Tony wracked his brain, re-analyzing your behaviour for the last 2 weeks. “It would explain why she’s been on-edge.” he replied. 

Suddenly Steve perked up. “Did you send roses to her house?”

“No, only jasmines. And I send them to her desk.” Tony replied. “This isn’t the time to get jealous Cap.”

“No, no shut it Tony. I think he’s been contacting her.” They looked at each other for a second. “We need to find her.” Tony blurted. 

Tony and Steve arrived to your home and immediately began panicking. There was a broken window and your door was damaged. They rushed in and took in the scene before them. There was a lot of struggle. 

Glass smashed on the floor, things knocked over and smears of blood littered the area. They ignored the crunch of glass under their shoes and paced into the kitchen. 

You were sipping on a glass of water with a gash on your arm and a cut on your forehead. Tousled hair rested on your head, the rest of your appearance in shambles as well but otherwise you seemed fine. 

“Y/N! You’re okay, oh lord.” Tony grabbed you and held you in his arms. “If something happened to you, I never would have forgiven myself.” he whispered into your hair. 

You heard Steve walk around your house. “Whoa, Y/N” Steve’s voice came from the room beside the kitchen. “Did you... knock him out?” he appeared in the kitchen doorframe with a skeptical expression. 

“Believe it or not, women don’t always need Captain America and Iron Man to save them,” you murmured. 

Tony kissed the top of your head and Steve pulled you away and into his arms. 

Oh, testosterone.

Shoot me a message or fill out the form in my bio to be added to my tag list!

[good-rwbyaus]

Destiny - [ Epilogue : Oscar ] - mod lilac:

[ Part 1: Pyrrha ] [ Part 2: Jaune ]

Oscar visits the final resting place of Pyrrha and Jaune.

// An epilogue for Destiny. It’s more or less a monologue from Oscar, but it’s been demanding to be written for weeks now before I move onto another project. I hope you enjoy the final piece.

=============================================

Dark stormy clouds hovered over the Emerald Forest, a torrent of rain spilling into the trees. A green-clad figure slogged slowly though the grounds, heading for a specific destination. Guilt shone on his face. 

----

Shielded from the storm outside, a pair of angel statues carved in marble stood in the small shrine. On the altar was a small picture frame where a young knightly blond and a young amazon-like redhead grinned into the camera.

“Sorry I’m late, Jaune,” Oscar said quietly as he wiped the droplets from his hair. 

“Ahh, sorry. Forgot to introduce myself,” Oscar chuckled apologetically, “I’m Oscar Pine, Miss Nikos. And there might still be a little bit of Ozpin left in here, but...” He grinned before sighing, “it’s probably just me now.”

“I sorta know you because I have Ozpin’s memories, but I wish I could’ve met you,” Oscar said with a smile, “I wanted to see the person who my best friend admired so much.”

“As for you, Jaune, we need no introductions,” he smiled, a hint of pain in the gesture. His gaze locked onto the grave with Jaune’s name on it before turning his head to stare at the forest around him.

“Nora really chose a nice place,” Oscar admired, “I guess it’s true what they say, a quest ends at its beginning - suppose that must be doubly true for a knight.” He brushed off some dirt from the grass before he sat down cross-legged. Giving the scenery one last lookover, he smiled mischievously, “From what I recall from Ozpin’s memories though, you probably didn’t enjoy your experience here at the time.”

“Whooosh.” He swung his hand dramatically towards the ceiling. 

“Haha,” he smiled, “I guess you’re tired of me embarrassing you in front of your significant other, even though she probably knows all this given she nailed you to the tree that your grave’s leaning on.” 

“You probably already heard it from everybody else, so I’ll just go over the highpoints,” Oscar continued as he grinned. “We won. We beat Salem.”

“All of us lived for the most part,” Oscar paused before shaking his head, “Not to say any of us died. It’s just - well it’s complicated. Lemme give you the good news first.”

“Nora and Ren got married. They’re expecting a child anytime soon,” Oscar clapped in excitement, “And asked the doctors not to tell them the gender. They want it to be a surprise.”

“Yang and Blake are going to get married too. At least after their dads get the testosterone out of their system. I think they secretly enjoy arguing about how “your daughter isn’t good enough for mine” and boisterously telling embarrassing stories in front of their kids. Yang’s threatening to elope, and Blake’s mom is encouraging her.”

“Unc- I mean, Qr-. You know what I’m going to call him Uncle Qrow, “ Oscar said, “He’s family to everyone. He probably kept us from falling apart after you died. Told us not to blame ourselves. You brought Cinder down with you because you loved us all. You did what you did, just as we would’ve done for you.”

He sniffled.

“Ah, sorry. I...Let’s just wait. I’ll tell you the reason why I came here later. Let’s just enjoy this moment.” A pained smile lingered on his lips, “Anyway...”

“Qrow gave us the choice to leave the group with no questions asked- he felt it was the right thing to do after what happened. You fought to keep us safe; it’s only right that we were given that choice.”

“No one took him up on his offer,” he smiled with a bit of pride.

“A bit of unpleasantness did happen after we used the Relic of Knowledge,” Oscar rubbed his cheek, “But it’s all water under the bridge now.”

“Glynda is now the Headmistress of Beacon. Well, will be once all the rubble is cleaned up. She and James are an item now. Haha. That’s one unlikely couple right there. They’ll argue until their voices become hoarse and their faces turn red, but if someone insults one of them within earshot of the other... Well, some soldier made the mistake of trying to kiss up to James by insulting Glynda. And now he’s probably still running laps around Mantle.”

The smile on his face slowly turned into a grimace, the guilt that’d been weighing him down returning once more.

“I....I admit that I came here not just to catch you up on things,” Oscar hesitatingly said. His hand waved, and four items, glowing ethereally with power, flickered into existence in front of him.

Lamp, Crown, Staff, Sword.

Knowledge, Choice, Creation, Destruction.

“It’s funny. Everyone thought they disappeared after Ruby came back to life,” he whispered as he watched the Relics revolve around him, “She sacrificed herself to save the people of Mantle and Atlas - when our fight between Salem and her forces dropped Atlas out of the sky.” 

“Even with the knowledge that she would die using the combined power of the Relics, she still chose her own destruction so that others may live. Thus, the most mysterious of the relics - Creation - returned her to us.”

“Not many people realized that a goddess descended that day. Only Salem and I knew, for we were the only ones who’ve ever been in the presence of a god. 

“When Ruby spoke after becoming a goddess, her words became edict. And with a single utterance, she vanquished Salem. Begone,” he said, eyes glazed in remembrance of that moment, “One word, nothing else. Time stopped for everyone but a goddess, myself, and a disintegrating Salem trying to resist her fate.”

“...Salem really hated Ozma. It’s what kept her alive all this time,” Oscar sighed, “Magic and spells fade, even those cast by a god.”

“The immortality given to Salem was never meant to last,” he said softly, “But when the God of Light gave Ozma his orders, I don’t think the God realized how much it would make Salem hate the man to the point where she would literally defy death to ruin everything Ozma wanted to protect.”

“I don’t quite know what Ruby did to separate Ozpin from me, but the last thing I remember was Ozpin’s shade walking over to Salem. I remember bits of yelling and crying, but after the man left my head, I think I was frozen in time like the rest. No longer god-touched, I guess. By the time we all came to, both Ozpin and Salem were turning into motes of light.”

“Despite how much misery Salem gave us, I hope she found peace. Ozma too,” he sighed.

“As for Ruby, she’s been off since that day. Though she no longer has that divine power, she seems more ethereal, more disconnected from the world,” Oscar sighed, “As if she’d leave us at any time. Disappear and vanish.”

Oscar then chuckled, “luckily, we have two dorks Weiss and Penny, originally at odds with each other for taking up too much of Ruby’s attention, now working together to keep Ruby grounded...so I think Ruby will be okay.”

“Oh yeah, Penny never actually died, Pyrrha. They were able to put her core - the essence of her soul - into a new body, so I hope you rest more peacefully knowing that.” 

“In any case, everyone’s doing okay... but you two.”

He slouched over, palming his face. “Ugh, sorry. I guess I keep on delaying the inevitable. I’ll tell you why I’m here right now.”

“After the Relics found their way over to me, I wondered... if the Relics could produce a God, could it turn back time to save you? So I asked the Relic of Knowledge...”

“And Jinn said yes. That the Relics could send back a single soul without their future memories or skills - only a faint impression without any details, just a whisper of destiny - back to a very specific point in time, a couple hours before the Fall of Beacon.”

“After getting over my shock, I naturally asked about a future where you lived,” Oscar looked away from Jaune’s grave, “and that future was bleak. In the past I saw through Jinn, we went after the Relic of Creation after Knowledge. And as a result, Atlas fell upon Mantle and destroyed the entire Kingdom. Out of hundreds of thousands of people, only we and the rest of the team survived, and it was only because of Raven’s aid.”

“It was completely different from what actually happened to us. After you sacrificed yourself to kill Cinder, you caused Emerald to become the Fall Maiden. And somehow that caused me to get kidnapped by Mercury, allowing me to convince them both that staying with Salem will only lead to more pain for both of them - and they left her for us. Learning Salem’s future plans through Emerald, we went after the Relic of Destruction in Vacuo instead and then returned to the Emerald Forest with all the chess pieces to obtain the Relic of Choice - And then we had our showdown at Atlas.”

Oscar uneasily shifted his foot on the ground, now completely unable to look at the grave in front of him, “I’m not sure how it dawned on me to ask my last question. Maybe it’s because Jinn only showed me a future instead of the numerous possibilities it should’ve been, but...”

“I asked if I turned back the clock before.”

“And Jinn said I did.”

“I think,” Oscar hesitated before continuing, “I must’ve sent you back after almost everyone died beating Salem in the past Jinn showed. I don’t think it could’ve been anyone else because only you acted differently compared to how events should’ve turned out - so...”

“I'm the one responsible for your death, Jaune,” he choked out, “Even if it wasn’t actually me; I still can’t help but feel that way, so I’m trying to figure out if you would want me to right my wrong or be content with the future you’ve sacrificed yourself for.”

“Would you resent me if I tried? To undo everything you’ve strived to do. Or would you resent me if I left you for dead - to not even try?”

“I admit I don’t think I could do any better - I know I probably should be content, but not knowing hurts. You are literally my best friend - a brother. So please..."

“Just give me a sign.”

He bowed his head down, tears falling - conflicted between his sense of duty to the world he lived and his deepest bond of friendship.

Oscar paused as he heard something - or rather the absent of something. The torrent of rain that’s been present had slowed to a stop. Gazing outside, Oscar gasped quietly as he watched the shadows from the overhead clouds quickly giving way to rays of sunlight. 

Running outside, the green-clad boy got to witness the dark clouds visibly fade into the blues of the sky, leaving only sunlight and the beauty of the Emerald Forest behind. 

Feeling the warmth of the sun on his face, Oscar whispered quietly, “Is this... your answer?”

He heard no response, but something in his heart settled in that moment. A sense of peace. Like he’d been forgiven. That he need not carry his burden any longer.

Oscar turned back to the shrine and smiled gratefully.

“...Thank you. I’ll make sure to make the most of the future you’ve let us have. 

“Both of you can rest easy. I’ll be the one to protect everyone now.”

“We’ll see you when our time comes.”

[revisionaryhistory]

Three Days ~ 16

*~*Sebastian*~*

I really should be given a lot of credit for how long I stayed away from Emma.

Day one I couldn't stop holding her hand. Day two I had to touch her. Day three all I want to do is hold her. Well, not all I want.

Since I woke up with her in my arms there's a part of my brain constantly on the look out for how to get her back there. I have to admit I’m not super confident because my brain has failed me numerous times in trying to figure out kissing her. Had it helped me out with the kissing I wouldn't be so fucking desperate to hold her. Probably wouldn't be talking so much to myself either, but that isn't really unusual. Maybe just different topics.

My mom is having fun with this. I'm not always translating everything she says. She told me Emma was beautiful and she understood why I hadn't come home. She told me I had to work for at least an hour before I could see her. Then she sent her to the opposite side of the house from me and stood guard across the hall.

When I was "allowed" to see Emma again I scared the shit out of her. It was fucking hilarious. When I grabbed her into my arms I held her head against my chest so maybe she wouldn't know I couldn't stop laughing. I couldn’t stop laughing until she ran her hands down my back. It was the same barely there sensual touch that went from my shoulder diagonally down and around to the side of my stomach. I closed my eyes to enjoy it and imagined it didn't stop there. So when she led me into the guest room, a room with a bed, it took every ounce of self-control in my body not to throw her on the bed and cover her with me.

The picture snapped me out of those thoughts. It had been years since I’d seen it. It was full of happy memories of a good time in an otherwise gray period. I wasn't old enough and I think mom shielded me from much. She tried to make whatever food we got something fun for us to build meals around. It wasn’t that we didn’t have food. We didn’t have a lot and we didn’t have choices. We played a form of bingo with what we'd get. Meat, dairy, and fruit were coveted. Except that one weird cheese that we got every six weeks or so. Nothing made it not horrible.

I can't remember telling any other girlfriend about how the beach in a communist country taught me freedom and curiosity that culminated in me being in a NASA movie. Coolest thing ever. Now I’m in the guest room telling secrets I barely remember. Frightening secrets for a kid. There's really no way to escape that without carry some things with you. I don't talk much about Romania because I don’t remember much, but what I do remember I don’t really want to talk about. I wonder if my mom planted the picture for me to share a happy memory.

I dropped Emma off at the kitchen and went back to the family room. Anthony and I headed out to the garage to find a couple of things he knew were missing from the room. Back inside we started arranging things. The kitchen wasn't far away. Every so often I'd catch words or a sentence. They were talking about winters and snow removal. I listened closer when mom asked where and how long she'd lived here. Nothing I didn't know. As Emma explained where her place was, she told mom about local shops and answered questions about the area. Very sweet.

Meanwhile in the family room we got things arranged based on where the TV hung on the wall and came to the realization it was all wrong. I yelled for mom. Emma followed her into the room. Mom looked around, "This is all wrong."

A ridiculous amount of time later we'd rearranged everything. The only thing left was for me to move the TV and rewire everything. I'd be an expert by the time we were done. Mom suggested a break and went to get beers.

I flopped onto the couch and when it looked like Emma was going to sit too far away, I grabbed her hand to pull her closer. Damn near landed her in my lap. Wouldn't have been a bad thing. I recreated the scene from the bench last night with my arm around her shoulder and her holding my hand. That left each of us with a free hand for beer. Emma turned a little where she was leaned against me and laid her head back on my shoulder. I buried my nose in her hair, breathing her in until mom brought back beer.

I doubt this was what Emma had in mind when I suggested she come with me. Mom and Anthony were talking so I gave Emma's shoulders a squeeze to get her attention. "Not much of a rest day for you. I'm feeling selfish. I wanted to spend more time with you.” I was coming clean. I wasn't going to apologize because that would be a lie.

She smiled, a sweet almost shy smile, that made my stomach flutter. "I wanted to spend more time with you too." Her smile tuned to a smirk, "So don't suggest taking me home unless you're ready for me to leave. I'm enjoying myself."

"No problem."

Mom's voice broke the moment, "Emma, have you had Romanian food? We were thinking dinner and a movie. If my son gets the TV hooked up."

"You've just given me motivation, mom."

I felt Emma laugh more than heard her. "No, I haven't and sounds great. Thank you."

Anthony stood up, "Let's get back at it."

Mom excused Emma from the kitchen after Anthony and I got the TV sorted. He went to his office. Mom stayed in the kitchen and I got an assistant for hanging shit and putting up books. There were an obscene number of books. Thankfully they were sorted into boxes in a way that made alphabetizing them by author not so much a pain in the ass. The ease with which Emma alphabetized the titles within each author was super hero like. My job was to hand them to her. By the respectful way she handled them I knew she loved books. She took a stack from me, "Do you like to read?"

I nodded, "I've read most of these. I’ve always liked to read. I do a lot of reading to research characters.”

"Like what?"

I went with the most obvious. "For the Winter Soldier and Bucky I read a lot about psychopaths and PTSD. They’re really two different characters, maybe four.. True crime procedural stuff for Destroyer. Way more space shit than I needed for the Martian. Loved the book."

"Do you prefer non-fiction to fiction?"

"Pretty equal. I'm usually reading a couple of books at a time. I switch back and forth. I love Harlan Coben from before they were making his books movies. Have you read anything of his?"

Her eyes shifted up as she thought. "The one that was a French film. His wife dies then like ten years later he gets a message."

At the same time we said, "Tell No One."

I continued, "Loved that one. He writes lots of those thriller mysteries and has a series about a detective. Lots of humor and his best friend is a millionaire sociopath. Those are fun. Always reread classics and my favorite novel is changing all the time. A lot of mindfulness, Buddhism."

Her eyes lit up, "Have you read Illusions by Richard Bach?"

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"It was written in the seventies. We passed it around in college. Once you read it you had to buy a copy, highlight some of your favorite bits and give it away. Basically, a Messiah is training his replacement. He gives him a handbook only the pages are empty, except when he opens it, he finds answers."

"I think you can do that with anything. Even a newspaper." This was turning into another one of those great conversations like music and movies. I knew it would.

She was nodding quickly, "Me too. It is full of short insights. My favorite is "You're never given a wish without the power to make it come true. You might have to work on it, however." It's a faux Christian eastern religion self-help novel."

I laughed, "That's great."

"Yeah, we'd get high at frat parties and talk in Illusion and movie quotes." She snorted laugh.

"Did you break into the pantry for snacks like we did?"

"Of course. Always cheese."

I was amused by the thought of Emma as a grunge loving stoned psuedo intellectual. Made me remember my days as an 80's music loving stoned theater major space nerd. College was fun.

Back to books. "What's your guilty pleasure reading?"

"This is my Jessie's Girl." We shared a smile. "I love paranormal romance."

"Paranormal romance? "I repeated." Ghosts and shit?"

"Oh no. Vampires, dragons, shapeshifters."

I couldn't hide my smile, "Way worse than Jessie's Girl."

She glared at me, "It's close."

Her glare turned to a smile then a laugh and I had to hug her. I wanted to hold on to the moment, take in how much fun this was. The conversation, the teasing. She felt like an old friend I'd just met. Only with a lot more sexual attraction. The kind that had me noticing how every curve of her body was pressed against me. Had me wanting to run my hands on top of her clothes before moving underneath them. Wishing she'd slide her hand under my shirt so I could feel her touch my skin.

I took a step back, "Hit me with the details."

She laughed again, "There's two series I love. Some variation of a testosterone filled alpha male who thinks he's rescuing a woman who ends up being his soulmate and saves him. One is grounded is Greek mythology and finding his mate can literally free his soul and the other creates its own mythology. One or both always have a heartbreaking past, there's something they have to go through, and then the happy ending. They're well written and incredibly satisfying."

"Do you believe in that?"

She drew her eyebrows together, "Happily ever after?"

I shook my head, "Soulmates."

Emma looked at the ceiling, screwed up her face, then looked back at me. "The chickenshit answer is people come into our lives for a reason and go away when they’ve served their purpose."

I wasn't so sure. "Not necessarily chickenshit."

"I meant the safe answer.” She bit her lip and continued, “I do believe in soulmates. But I don't think there's necessarily one person for anyone. A soulmate a twenty might be different than a soulmate at forty. People change and grow, so it makes sense your perfect partner might not stay perfect. You can grow together or grow in different directions.  I'm a hopeful romantic."

I liked that. "I think some people use the concept of soulmate to not work for it. It takes a lot of work and vulnerability to be with another person. Hell, to be with yourself. It's hard to be honest with yourself sometimes, forget about laying yourself bare to another person." I shook my head, not believing the strange direction this had gone. "I'm not always that brave."

We'd gone from laughter to this intensely intimate place. I'm talking about how difficult it can be to be vulnerable, which is a very vulnerable thing to do. Maintaining eye contact was hard.

"Everyone struggles with being brave.”

The matter of fact way she spoke reminded me of the gym when we were talking about insecurities. This was the second time I’d shared something and she didn’t try to convince me I was wrong. She accepted what I’d said as true for me. She’d accepted me. Well, now, there’s a thing. I smiled. “I think it’s about finding someone you’re ok being afraid with and is brave enough to be afraid too."

Slowly she started to smile, “Awfully deep conversation we’re having.”

“No shit! How the fuck did we get here?”  I shook my head and laughed. “I think we were talking about Jessie’s Girl.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” She joined in laughing before learning forward to lay her forehead on my shoulder.

I put my hand on the back of her neck and leaned my head against hers.

[maximows]

Against the Odds - Chapter VI

New Years,

MASTERLIST (mobile) AO3

Warnings: smut & fluff

I looked around the living room, leaning on the kitchen counter, still not believing what my eyes were looking at. Chris' house was packed with people, friends and family, also people neither of us knew and some friends form work. Why?

Well, my boyfriend is a kiss-ass.

Because I had spent Thanksgiving with his family, he came over to London for Christmas. He also finally got to meet my brothers, their wives and some extended family. If I thought he was nervous around my parents, then I have no idea how to describe his behaviour around Matt and Dan. He was just like a nerd trying to fit in with school's sports team.

Anyway, the moment Matt mentioned how they had no NYE plans, he blurted out:

„We're actually having a party at my house with some friends, you should visit!”

We were not planning on having any sort of a party before he had said that. I was hoping for a quiet night in and some sexy times. But that was ruined, because Chris just needs everyone to like him. I even bought a new La Perla set...

I brought my glass of Martini mixed with Sprite to my lips and watched my boyfriend walk up to me. „Babe, have you even spoken to anyone since the guests arrived?” he asked, taking a spot next to me and gently nudging my shoulder.

„Kate, Sebastian, Armie, Simon...” I counted on my fingers. „I also spoke to the caterer you hired yesterday when you finally realised that a few packs of Doritos won’t be enough.”

Chris chuckled. „I feel like you’re going to hang this over my head for a long time.”

„True, true,” I sighed. „A much longer time than we’ve now gone without sex, babe.”

I knew that normally in this state of intoxication, Chris would have his hands all over me by now. But the presence of my brothers, both of whom were younger than him and smaller, seemed to stop him. Even though they weren’t really the overprotective type and seemed to like him a lot. Like, I understood that he didn’t want to have sex in my family home. But right now, my brothers were staying in bedrooms on a different side of the house and there was no way they would hear us. He was still afraid. „By the way, are you still going to be afraid of having sex with me, your own girlfriend, in your house after they leave? I mean, they could install surveillance or something...”

Chris shook his head in disbelief. „Is that mean, sex deprived side of you my fault or are you just like that?”

I tilted my head to the side a little and turned to face him. My arms wrapped around his waist as I looked him deeply in the eyes. „Come on, Daddy.” I whispered.

Now that’s a whole another story. A few days before we flew to London, I found a list of most common kinks people admit to liking on BuzzFeed or something and went through it with Chris. I always knew Chris liked to dominate and I was okay with that, but once „Daddy kink” was brought up he went kind of shy. „I’m not into age play or anything, but I might be into this particular... nickname.”

So we gave it a try and I ended up moaning „Daddy" and whimpering against the sheets.

Anyway, I was hoping bringing that up would get him back in the game, but it was a no go. “What am I gonna do about you, you little minx?”

“If I were you, I would just spank me until I’ve learned my lesson.” I whispered into his ear and gave his cheek a quick kiss. “I’m going to check on Scarlett.” I then said and quickly escaped the crime scene, leaving my boyfriend with his more and more in colour blue.

I walked up to her and sat beside her. “What’s up, the non-drinking version of yourself?”

“Please, don’t bring that up,” he shook her head, as if trying to erase her memories. “It’s my fourth glass of Sprite and I’m just trying to convince myself that it’s not non-alcoholic, it’s just weak.”

I giggled a little and put my head on her shoulder. “I mean, at least you have a good reason – you’re breast feeding.” I rubbed her shoulder. “The only reason I ever leave a party sober is because I’m Chris' designated driver.”

“Men are like babies, so I’m not surprised.” She shrugged. “Anyway, how are things? When am I getting my spa weekend?”

“Well, we broke up around the same time you had a baby, so...” I started.

“What? How did I not know anything about it?” Scarlett seemed surprised.

“You didn’t? We had a row about um, children and commitment,” I tucked a loose stead of hair behind my ear. “We were off for a few weeks.”

“Was that when I saw those photos of him and the ex?” she asked. “Because I was 100% positive that they just bumped into each other or something.”

“He just met up with her to sort their shit out.” I explained.

“I’m gonna have to talk to this idiot,” she put her hands on my knees. “I've spoken to him about the children shit like a few months ago and I really thought he wouldn’t do that.”

“It’s okay, it’s all sorted out, now,” I assured her, but then realised what she had said. “Wait what?”  

Scarlett sighed and looked around to see if anyone could hear us. “Em, I’ve known him for years. Chris is fucking weird, because he wants to have that picture-perfect family, a perfect partner and all that shit, yet he also wants a lot of independence in a relationship and someone who’s not clingy. I only spoke to him on the set to make sure he knew how, a lot of times, the words he says come out wrong and I just didn’t want you to break up because of a misunderstanding.”

“He never told me about it. How did he react?”

Scarlett shrugged. “I mean, he seemed to get it. I believed that until you told me about the break.”

I realised that we were just going back to the past again and decided to end the topic. “It doesn’t matter now, Scarlett. Thank you, anyway. You are like my guardian angel in this relationship.”

She smiled and put her head on my shoulder. “I’m happy to have an ally in this testosterone driven group. Chris has been sending less and less gross stuff on the group text since you to have started dating, I really appreciate that.”

“Yeah, I make him show me everything he wants to send, so I’m some sort of a filter.” I laughed and leaned back to feel a pair of hands on my shoulders.

I looked up to see Chris with a wide grin on his face, showing his perfect teeth. “Babe, I need your help with Dodger.” He said. “We need to give him those pills, so he can sleep through the fireworks.”

“Oh, right. I almost forgot.” I stood up and followed Chris to the bedroom, where Dodger chose to hide. Once we were in the hallway Chris suddenly stopped me and lifted me up to put me over his shoulder. I squealed, but no one heard it because of the loud music in the living room. “Chris!”

I felt a hard slap on my ass as we entered the bedroom, where Dodger was sleeping peacefully. Chris locked us up in the bathroom and sat me on the counter. He put his hands on both sides of my hips and looked me straight in the eyes. “You gonna be a good girl for me, baby?” he whispered.

“Yes.” I grinned.

Chris raised one eyebrow. “Yes, what?”

Oh. “Yes, Daddy.”

Chris smiled and lifted me up to pull up my dress. “You're gonna get what you’ve been asking for.” His hands started to gently massage my butt cheeks. He mumbled against my lips right before kissing me hard. “What do you want, huh?”

We broke the kiss and I looked up into his eyes. “You really want me to say it, don’t you?”

Chris grinned and nodded. “Very much.”

I got off the counter and reached down to unbuckle his belt. “I want your cock, Daddy.” I whispered before connecting our lips again. Chris pushed me back against the counter as his tongue slid into my mouth. I felt his fingers on my pussy, tickling me through the thin material of my panties, making me gasp for air. He pushed away from my lips and lowered his face to my neck, pulling on my hair to give himself more access.

“You’re in a lot of trouble, young lady,” Chris whispered before gently biting the skin on my collarbone. He pulled my top down a bit to reveal my breast. He locked his lips around my nipple and bit on it, making me arch my back. I felt his lips form a smile against my skin. “I just love how you can’t get enough of my touch.”

I tangled my fingers into his hair and smiled as he levelled his head with mine to connect our lips again. His one hand was still on my breast, massaging his thumb against the soft, sensitive flesh, while the other hand slipped inside my panties to slide two fingers into me. I gasped into his mouth.

I moved to my knees and pulled his trousers down, enough to reveal his boxers. I love the expressions Chris makes when I tease him, so I couldn’t help myself. I ran the tip of my finger along Chris’s length, looking up into his eyes. His lips were slightly parted, a sign of anticipation. I pulled his boxers down, but only by a few centimetres. I ran my tongue along his clothed shaft, from his balls to the tip.

“Baby, we don’t have much time.” Chris warned me.

I looked up to see his lips slightly parted and eyes shut. “You made me wait, though.” I smirked, but not for long.

Chris moved rapidly to lift me up and turn me to face the mirror. “Fucking tease,” he whispered, moving my hair out of his way to access my neck. He pressed his cock against my butt, as his teeth grazed on the skin of my neck. “We can save foreplay for later, alright?”

I nodded, smiling. Chris’ hand reached to the front of my panties, under my skirt and started to rub my clit. My back arched immediately after a long lack of touch, my legs turned into jelly and Chris put his other hand on my lower stomach to hold me still against his body.

I reached back to pull Chris’ boxers down, but he pushed me against the counter and grabbed both my hands behind my back to limit my movements. He lowered the underwear himself, both his and mine. Seconds later I felt his tip brush against my entrance. Oh, so he can tease me. Even though I was dreaming about him inside me, I loved the sensation. “Fuck,” I moaned against the cold surface. “Let’s make this into our version of the midnight kiss.”

Chris stopped and I heard his short laugh behind me. “I think our guests might notice if we don't come back soon.”

I was just about to say something witty, when Chris slammed inside me. It took everything in me not to scream. I bit my bottom lip not to make a lot of noise, because I wanted to fucking scream.

Chris grabbed a handful of my ass and released my hands to slap my other cheek. He then reached out to my hair and pulled on it to make me face the mirror. „Look at me when I make you come, baby girl.” He groaned.

I kept my head up as Chris released my hair in order to move his fingers to my clit. I struggled to keep my eyes open, but I never broke the eye contact. Chris was looking hot as fuck with his lips slightly parted and a loose strand of hair on his forehead. “You look so good while taking my cock, baby.”

He lifted my leg to rest on the counter and give him better access. His moves became a bit more sloppy and I moaned loudly as he pulled out completely, only to bury himself completely inside me again. Chris smirked as he did is again, only this time he turned me around to face him before entering me again. With his arm around my back and hand on my cheek he brought my lips in for a kiss and continued thrusting into me, picking up the pace. “Come for me, baby. Come on.” He whispered between kisses, moaning into my mouth.

I felt my climax approaching and so was Chris’. His moans always become a bit more high pitched when he’s close. “Faster, Daddy. I'm so close.” I groaned against his shoulder before biting it gently.

We came within seconds from each other, panting heavily. I moved my arms from Chris’ shoulders and leaned back on the counter.

We were both breathing heavily and loudly for some time after finishing. I saw a few sweat drops on Chris’ forehead as he looked into the mirror behind me. “Your ass look so fucking good right now." He smirked and I turned around to see my bare butt with skirt gathered up above it. I saw a faint mark from when Chris had slapped me earlier.

As he was putting his pants on already, I turned back to him. “Maybe you should take a picture.” I suggested. “Save it to your wank folder.”

Chris chuckled and opened the bathroom door. Dodger was still asleep and no one in the living room seemed to notice that we had disappeared for a longer time than we should have. We took so long that it was almost midnight and everyone wanted to go outside and check out the fireworks. Chris wrapped me in his jacket and took champagne glasses for us. We all went out to the garden about a minute before midnight. Chris sat on a chair and brought me to sit on his lap. I wrapped my arm around his neck and took one champagne glass from him. “How are you not afraid of PDA in front of my brothers all of a sudden?” I asked, looking over to Dan who waved at me and couldn’t be less bothered by my sitting position.  

“I’m hoping I can get an immunity during this special occasion,“ he admitted, smiling. “Besides, I hope they know how madly I’m in love with their sister and sometimes I have to show my affection publicly.”

I grinned and wanted to comment on that, but apparently midnight had struck and everyone had gone crazy – screaming, laughing, hugging, kissing.

Chris captured my lips in a passionate kiss. I smiled against his lips and started to play with the hair on the back of his neck. “I love you so much, Christopher.” I whispered and leaned my forehead against his.

The next morning, I could barely move. It wasn’t because of sex, though – we fell asleep with Dodger still on the bed and it felt borderline weird to even think about having sex while he was here. Chris and I were actually the last ones to stop dancing. At some point, with the help of an appropriate amount of alcohol, I was so into the song, I almost started to treat my boyfriend like my personal dancing pole.

He was an incredible dancer, though. I was sure that there was nothing he could do wrong. He was great at everything. He lifted me up, swung me around, we nearly did the Dirty Dancing lift, but Matt stepped in and asked us to save it for a more sober evening. So we stopped and decided to start a karaoke contest, which we obviously won. Mackie was trying to get back at us, but we were unbeatable.

Now, I was in bed, Chris’ body tangled around mine. His face was pressed into my collarbone and arms around my waist. I reached back to grab my phone and snap a pic of us. I sent it to my group chat with Amy, Sophie and Mary with a message.

“Look at him. I love this man so much.”

As much as I wanted to stay like this for hours, I knew that Matt was probably up by now and I didn’t want him to be alone in the living room. I moved gently and pushed away from Chris, but he only tightened his grip around me.

I chuckled and he looked up at me. “Where do you think you’re going, pillow?” He mumbled. “My slumber isn’t over.”

“Babe, Matt is probably up already, I don’t want him to sit alone there.” I explained, running my fingers through his hair.

“I’ll let you go on one condition,” he started and looked up at me with his sleepy eyes. “Move in with me.”

I furrowed my eyebrows and had no idea what to say. “I thought you meant, like, to bring you coffee or something.”

“Nah, I can do that myself,” he shrugged. “So?”

I had no idea what to say, he really did surprise me. I mean, I haven’t really given moving in together any thought. We spend so much time together anyway and I practically live here with him anyway. “Um, can I think about it?”

Chris nodded. “I mean, yeah, but to be honest, I only wanted to make it official.”

I sat on the bed and watched his expression. “Why now?”

He shrugged. “I noticed that you still use your backup toothbrush here. I just don’t want you to feel like a guest in this house. I want it to be yours too.”

I smiled and climbed out of the bed. “I’ll let you know real soon, ok?” he sighed as I left the bedroom and went to the kitchen, where Matt was sitting in front of his laptop, as I predicted.

“Working already?” I asked, walking up to the fridge. I found a small bottle of water and drank it immediately.

“Yeah, but it’s just a few e-mails.” he smiled and closed the laptop. “So, is Chris still asleep?”

“No, he woke up around the same time as me.” I answered. “He, uh... He’s just asked me to move in with him.”

Matt raised his eyebrow. “Don’t you live together already?”

I smirked. “No, not, like, officially.”

I could see that Matt had no idea what to say. He wasn’t the kind of brother to get too involved in my relationships (and neither was Dan) because he knew I'd turn to him if I actually needed help. That’s also why I didn’t understand Chris’ fear of them. “So, do you want to move in with him?”

I sighed. “I don’t want to live in a house where his exes lived.” I admitted.

Matt smiled. “I think the both of you, of all people, have the comfort of just being able to buy a new house.”

I tilted my head back, thinking about what I should do. I mean, if our relationship continues then we are bound to move in together for real at some point. But I don’t want to live here, in this particular house. I don’t want to call this house “home". At least one of Chris’ exes lived here and I don’t want to just be another one.

“Uh, I’ll talk to him about it,” I said. “Anyway, have you seen this year’s Big Fat Quiz of the Year? I haven’t.”

We went to the living room and I put on the show. Chris got up and came in fully clothed, ready to take a walk with Dodger. Matt volunteered to take the dog out, probably because he knew we needed to talk. At this moment, I was really hoping Dan and Sarah wouldn’t wake up too soon.

“Chris, I have an idea,” I said as he laid down on the sofa, putting his head on my lap for me to scratch. “How about we moved in together, but to a different house.”

He opened his eyes and looked up at me. “What house?”

I shrugged. “The one we would buy together."

He pulled himself up to sit. “You want to buy a new house with me, rather than just move in here?”

I nodded. “Don’t you think it would be nice if we both chose the place, decorated it, made our own?” I said, excited. Actually, imagining what it would be like to go house hunting with Chris seemed incredibly fun and I was willing to move out of NY just for this.

“What’s wrong with this one?” he asked, looking around like he would find a flaw on the walls.

I sighed, trying to find a way to give him my list in the kindest way possible. “Well, this is your house, in which you’ve lived for years, sometimes with other women and…”

“Ok, I’ll just agree now, so I don’t have to listen about my pre-Emily casanova lifestyle.”

It didn’t take us long to actually start looking for places. The next few weeks were a little bit busy as I was preparing for the Cinderella press tour and then travelling a bit. I also got nominated for an Oscar for the movie Chris and I had a row about, which was a huge deal, but I was focusing more on getting my private life together. By mid-February we were house hunting with a real estate agent. We did have a few bumps on the road, for example our completely different tastes. Chris wanted something classic, in a family, cosy way while I was more into modern architecture with light colours and simple textures. I also fancied those huge glass walls which give insane views, especially in houses on the hills. Chris, on the other hand, being his private self, thought that they’d give passers by a look into our life. In a gated community. With huge trees and bushes surrounding the building.

We both had lists of features we weren’t willing to give up and that was probably where we hit the dead end. The agent found two houses – one modern and one classic, which met all of our criteria. Both were situated in gated communities and a bit secluded from the neighbouring parcels. Both had bigger lawns than Chris’ current house and their fronts were hidden from the street view, so we wouldn’t have to worry about closing the curtains all the time. The room numbers were exactly the same – we could easily fit in both Chris and my family, if not in the bedrooms then on the multiple sofas. Honestly, the only thing we couldn’t agree on was the aesthetic part.

We ended up meeting the agent on our anniversary and visiting the houses once again. “Chris, can’t you see that this house looks like a home to a Republican Louisiana State Senator?” I whined, looking at the old fashioned ornaments on the kitchen furniture.

He turned around, with hands in his pockets and said, “I don’t think State Senators make that much money.”

I sighed, sinking into the overly plush sofa. “The one I want is cheaper.”

“But it has so many unnecessary things,” Chris started, touching the marble frame of the fireplace. “A home cinema? Really?”

“Christopher, this one has a professional gym with a massage table,” I fired back. “You barely work without your trainer by your side, while I watch a lot of movies, so…”

We walked around the house, I was pretending considering changing my mind, but it was just a show for Chris. Our agent knew, that I preferred the Brentwood house and I was not giving up.

We drove back to Brentwood and I literally got heart-eyed when I saw the house again. I loved the combination of grey and wooden walls on the outside. It paired perfectly with the nature around it. I pointed out to Chris, how long it took us to drive from the nearest neighbours house to ours (yes, that’s how confident I am), because his choice didn’t offer us the privacy he claimed he wanted. The agent stayed outside to answer a call, while we went upstairs to the master bedroom.

“Isn’t this view the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” I asked, looking out the window opposite a kind size bed.

“I can name at least one, but let’s not change the subject.” Chris smiled, giving me a great idea.

“No, no. Chris, just picture us here. You and me on this bed, after a good, last night’s fuck. In the bathroom, against the window, on the floor or maybe in the closet, if my lingerie doesn’t take up too much space,” I said all of it with my hands around his waist and looking up into his eyes. “Can you imagine?”

I thought it would be enough, but he still only said, “Let me think about it.”

By next week, I had already brought most of my clothes to Los Angeles, because I honestly didn’t think choosing a house would take us such a long time.

It was Oscars night and because of my nomination, we decided to go as a couple. We had never publicly talked about each other to the media or appeared together at events, except for last year’s Comic Con, so it was a big deal.

I was wearing a black, skin-tight Chanel dress with golden chains on my shoulders, ribs and hips. I loved the way it looked, especially with my hair down and shiny golden high heels. The make up artist decided to give me a strong look with dark eyes and a red lipstick. It all created a beautiful combination and even though my dress wasn’t very comfortable, I wished I never had to take it off.

My stylist and her make up artist had left and the only thing I still had to do was to put on jewellery. They had laid it out for me on the bed to choose from. There was also the bracelet Chris had given me for my birthday and that was the only piece I insisted in integrating into the outfit. I decided to wait for my boyfriend, so he could help me with these.

I heard him in the hallway, video chatting with his family back in Boston. Chris usually brings his mum or sisters to the Oscars, but he broke the tradition because of me. They didn’t mind, but I still felt a bit bad. “Chris, have you seen Emily’s dress? I want to see it!” I heard Carly’s voice. Chris walked in and paused in the doorway. He was wearing a classic black Gucci tux with a bow tie, which already was a bit messed up. Honestly, it was a sight worth drooling for.

We both just stood there, smiling at each other, both having insanely filthy thoughts about one another, until a voice interrupted. “Chris? I think you froze.” Carly said, which made us both laugh.

“Nah, I was just mesmerized by my beautiful girlfriend’s look,” he said, scanning me with his eyes from head to toe. “Lemme show you.” He pointed the camera at me.

“I loooove it, Em!” I heard Carly’s excited voice.

“Yes, you look amazing.” Lisa joined in.

Chris told them something about having to go and hung up. He walked up to me and said, “I don’t think I have ever wanted to rip something off you and fuck you against the wall more than I do right now.” His voice was quiet and low and I’m not gonna lie, I felt that sentence right in my lower stomach. At this point, I forgot about the Oscars madness. “In, like, a romantic way.”

“It’s not actually mine, baby…” I said, reaching out to his bow tie and straightening it. “You look insanely hot.”

Chris ran his hands along my sides as I put my arms around his neck. “Do you think we have enough time for a very quick quickie?” he asked, looking down at my cleavage and grabbing my ass and squeezing it firmly.

I tilted my head to the side and smiled lightly. “Even if we had, I have an enormous amount of make up on my face and I’m sure it wouldn’t survive,” I said. “Besides, our quickies aren’t really that quick… Not that I’m complaining.”

He rolled his eyes and sat back on the bed to check me out in full view. “What about the one before the Super Bowl?”

I turned around to face the mirror and put in my earrings. “That was just a blowjob, Chris.”

Chris shook his head and got his phone out of his pocket again. “That blowjob had me writing my vows, baby.”

I turned around, with my eyes wide open and started to laugh. “That was an incredible comment,” I said, walking up to him and sitting on his lap. “but if it was so to die for, then why did you also have to go to a Playboy party before the game, huh?”

Chris furrowed his eyebrows and reached out to get the bracelet he got me. “I thought you didn’t mind?” he said, taking my wrist and closing the piece around it.

Once the bracelet was on, I wrapped my arms around Chris’ neck, hugging him tightly, pressing his face into my cleavage. “I just thought I was the only bunny you wanted to see…” I whispered, trying to sound disappointed.

He chuckled, peppering kisses around my collarbone and above breasts. “I’m so sorry, bunny,” he murmured against my skin, giggling. “I know you’re just playing, but from now on I’m going to call you bunny, just to piss you off.”

Chris escaped the car before me, because he insisted on opening the door for me. As he did, he offered me his hand to help me get out. “My lady,” he whispered, as I straightened the dress on my thighs. “I told you we didn’t need to take those photos at home, they’ve already taken like a hundred decent photos of us.”

I walked across the red carpet, sometimes saying “hi” to someone, but mostly just waiting for our turn in front of the cameras. “I’m fucking nervous.” Chris mumbled.

“Why? I’m here with you.” I said, taking his hand into both of mine.

“Yeah, that’s the problem. It’s like a milestone for our relationship,” He said, releasing his hand from my grin and moving it around my waist to squeeze me against him. “First red carpet is like an engagement in Hollywood.”

I chuckled at his words, knowing what he meant. “Christopher, what’s up with vows and you today?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, it was probably our anniversary house hunting… and this dress today, God.”

I smiled. “Well, if that’s the case, then sign me up, sir.”

It was our call to stand in front of the cameras, so we stood in front of them, smiling bravely, stealing a few glances once in a while to give them something to write about. “I made up my mind and I think we can buy the house you want.” Chris said.

I sighed and turned my head so that my mouth was close enough his ear. “I hate you so much for making me wait so long.”

@daybreak96 @coffeebooksandfandom @smilexcaptainx @betinalunardi @rollinsuh @lily2089@stella2445 @hy-pocrite @l0rd-disick @beholdoritou @klaussstilinski@achishisha@givenchymercury @just-trying-to-survive-marvel @henry-cavill-gossip-girl @rock-titties @bombsandsparkles @marvel-fan23 @cap-just-said-language @blackaestheticislife @justsomemarvelspam @nerdchester17 @shyofaspark @cssrogersse@crispyearthquakezombie@ultragalaxy @bit-of-a-timelord @kingofallthingsz @morguleth@calicokitkat @areelphony@gemgemswift @donut-crazs @dontchawishyouknewhowtosalsa@kandomeresbitch @deafeningpsychicpandahands @severely-theoretic @chmedic @patzammit@winterssoliderss @metalarmlover @saturnki @coolkimchijoy16 @sammyjammy92 @coolkimchijoy16

[sanderssidesfanfiction]

We’ll Carry On - Chapter Twenty Four

We’ll Carry On Tag

General Content Warnings: Sympathetic Deceit Sanders, Substance Abuse, Abandonment, Minor Character Death, Transphobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Dissociation, Bullying, Homophobia

July 8th, 2008

Jessica may have only been five years old, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t terrified. Her breathing felt like it was one of those cartoon pumps the characters on the TV would use too fast until it burst, or like it wasn’t happening at all. Her heart was hammering in her chest, as her father glared down at her. “Have you nothing to say for yourself, Jess?” he growled.

Flinching, Jessica tried to explain. “I just...I just wanted to see if I could read like the big kids. And...and the book was too heavy, and I dropped it.”

Her father scoffed. “You can’t read yet, you haven’t even been to kindergarten!”

Jessica wisely didn’t mention she could understand some of the title on the spine. She couldn’t read fluently, but she could read a bit. And she wanted to know what all the books said. But now she had caused a mess, and her dad was mad. So she was going to go back to her room and see if there were any picture books up there with actual words. Maybe she could see if she could read those.

May 5th, 2019

Logan felt incredibly guilty. He couldn’t look Roman in the eye. He hadn’t felt this chastised and this terrified since he had been really little, convinced he was a girl and just wanting to see if he could act like a big kid, only to find out that being a big kid would get him in trouble with his father.

To make matters worse, when Dad came into the room to get food for Roman, he didn’t glare at Logan, or make him feel like he was the scum of the earth in any way. Even Ami, who was the designated Logan-watcher this morning, wasn’t giving him anything more than the occasional neutral glance. He deserved worse. He forced Roman to admit his mom had died. He had forced him to say that in front of the entire family. And now Roman was on the edge of dissociating, listing sideways over the edge of reality into the unknown flashbacks Logan couldn’t even pretend to understand.

Logan thought he might get sick. He finished the last bites of cereal he had been working on, and then promptly stood up, heading to his bedroom. He didn’t look back, forcing himself to not check on Roman and make the situation worse. He just walked up to his room, closed the door behind him and locking it.

He sat down on his bed, grabbing his phone, which had been charging overnight. He thought he might get sick when he saw the lockscreen of him and Roman posing around Jack, who was laughing in the background. That had been taken the first time Logan had introduced each of them to the other.

Some older brother he had turned out to be. He was expected to be responsible, a role model. Now he’d be lucky if other people said, “Don’t do what your oldest brother does, he only screws things up when he wants to know something.”

Tears stung at his eyes and he focused on evening his breathing. He had problems managing his emotions on a good day. In the heat of the moment? Either his emotions shut off entirely or they overwhelmed him to the point of drowning.

A patient knock started up outside the door. Logan closed his eyes and took off his glasses, forcing his breathing to stay regular as he called out, “Not now, Dad.”

“Logan, we have to talk,” Dad said, his voice muffled but holding no room for argument.

“When we’re both calm,” Logan said, throwing Dad’s words back in his face. “I’m not, right now.”

“At least unlock the door?” Dad asked.

Logan swiped at his cheeks and took a deep breath. “Do you promise to not come in without my permission?”

“Of course,” Dad said.

Logan walked over to the door and unlocked it, and cracked it open a couple inches. He knew he looked absolutely miserable. “Give me fifteen?” he asked. “I just need...just need fifteen.”

“Logan...” Dad stopped. Nodded. “Yeah, okay. We’ll talk in fifteen minutes.”

Logan closed the door and collapsed back on his bed, unsure as to what he should do to try and calm down. Tumblr probably wasn’t a good option. And he didn’t want to read today. And he had finished all his homework already. He curled in on himself on the bed, and closed his eyes.

He only realized he fell asleep when he woke up to the doorknob turning. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, seeing Roman standing in the doorway. “Hey,” Roman said softly. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Dad said you fell asleep.”

“Just as well,” Logan said. “I can’t sleep all day every day.” He checked his phone. “And it’s been half an hour.”

Roman shifted on his feet. “Can I come in?” he asked.

Logan nodded, and Roman came in, closed the door, and climbed onto Logan’s bed with him. “Dad and Ami told me what happened last night once they were sure I wasn’t going to dissociate again. Dad thinks I might have PTSD.”

“You saw your mom die, I would be surprised if you didn’t,” Logan said softly. “I’m sorry, Roman.”

Roman sighed, leaning his head on Logan’s shoulder. “I know you are. And I wanted to be mad with you. That was something I wanted to keep to myself. But I’m not.”

Logan looked down at him. “You’re not?”

“Well, I’m a little annoyed,” Roman allowed. “But you wanted to know what was going on. You wanted to make sure I was okay. Because I know once you knew you would be researching techniques to help me cope. That’s just who you are. You operate mostly on logic, rather than emotions. So while emotions might have told you to bide your time, and wait until I was willing to share, your logic was telling you that earlier treatment meant earlier recovery.”

Logan sighed. “You’re too nice, too forgiving. I traumatized you.”

“You made me dissociate a little bit, and let the adults know that I wasn’t okay. I’m not gonna hate you for that, Logan.”

“Why not?” Logan asked. “Roman, I actively pushed you, knowing that the subject wasn’t something you might want to talk about.”

“Logan, you need to shut up sometimes and just think about what other people are saying to you,” Roman said. “I don’t hate you. I’m not mad at you. You made a mistake. It’s not the end of the world.”

The words refused to sink in. “But why?” Logan asked. “Why isn’t it the end of the world?”

Roman pulled back and looked at him, nose scrunched up. “Because everyone in this house is a decent person?” he said, voice rising like a question at the end. “Do you honestly think Dad and Ami would punish you by...say...denying you access to Hormone Replacement Therapy just because you made a stupid mistake?”

Logan paled. Roman rolled his eyes. “Lo, they’re not gonna do that! They know that getting testosterone is a big deal for you, and they’re gonna help you get it at the start of summer! My point is that they won’t kick you out, or deny you something you need, just because you screw up! You can’t hold basic needs or assistance for health issues hostage just because your kid did something you didn’t like. That’s not how any of this works.”

“That’s how it used to be,” Logan said softly. “Finish my homework in order to get dinner, only getting positive attention if I got all A’s in school. I’m fortunate that I always enjoyed learning and it came naturally to me. Otherwise I might have lost my mind.”

Roman stared at him a long time, before he quietly said, “That’s messed up, Logan.”

Logan shrugged off Roman’s concern. “You saw your mom die and you were abused in your foster home. Patton and Virgil’s step-father was an alcoholic. No one knows how bad Dee’s home situation might have been except Dad and Ami, and they refuse to share. My home life wasn’t the greatest, but I’m in no position to complain.”

“That’s not how that...you know what? No. I’m not gonna try and logic you through this,” Roman said. He grabbed Logan’s cheeks, and brought their foreheads together. “If your parents were bad people, you can absolutely complain about them. No matter anyone else’s hardships. Your parents kicked you out because you wanted to go by Logan. They sucked. You’re allowed to complain, you’re allowed to be traumatized. Your parents held basic human needs for ransom. They were not good parents. Full stop.”

Logan blinked once. Twice. Opened his mouth and said, “My mother wasn’t that bad. It was mostly my father’s idea to do that stuff.”

“Your mother is complicit in the whole thing!” Roman exclaimed, leaning back and throwing his hands up in the air. “Logan, no one likes to admit their parents hurt them. But your parents hurt you. Considering the way you freaked out after you screwed up, there’s no question.”

“Wow, thanks,” Logan said, before turning and sighing, pinching his nose. “I’m really sorry, Roman.”

“I know you are, Logan,” Roman said. “No need to get hung up on it, all right? I forgive you. We can still work together with the gremlins to save for a dog. And I’m not going to stop talking to you. And Dad and Ami won’t deny you anything that you can’t live without, even if they decide to ground you. Which I doubt they will. Hearing them talk earlier, they know you’re beating yourself up enough.”

“I did traumatize you,” Logan pointed out.

Roman rolled his eyes. “You didn’t traumatize me. At best, you re-traumatized me. And that’s a stretch. You found one of my triggers. I didn’t even know I had it, so in a way you helped me.”

Logan frowned. “How could I help you?”

“Well, there are lots of topics they go over in Health class, one of those being family, and from what I hear, there’s an abuse unit. Knowing that I can’t handle talk of abandonment might help, because instead of dissociating in the middle of class, I can be excused,” Roman explained. “Not to mention, you know, now everybody knows not to talk about my mom around me unless I’m properly prepared beforehand.”

“But the downsides—”

“—Do not outweigh the upsides,” Roman said firmly. “Don’t beat yourself up over this, all right? You made a mistake. You learn from it. You move on. It’s not always simple, but it’s always possible.”

Logan nodded but felt his cheeks heat up anyway. He knew he wasn’t going to forgive himself for this for a while.

Roman seemed to sense that too, because he asked, “Do you really want to make me happy, Logan?” he asked.

“Of course,” Logan said.

“Just...promise me that if you go to a party, you don’t drive home drunk, all right? You can be drunk, I’ll just avoid you for the most part until you’re sober or I’m comfortable around you again. But...but don’t drive drunk, okay? Have a designated driver, or be the designated driver. I know you can’t trust everyone to not drive home drunk, but make the effort to avoid doing it yourself? The guy who hit my mom’s car and...and hurt her? He was maybe twenty years old. I don’t want you risking throwing away your life because of manslaughter charges, and DUI charges. And I don’t want anyone to get hurt on the road like that again if I can help make a difference.” Roman worked his hands. “I know you and Jack have talked about going to parties next year, when you’re both juniors, and I just...don’t want you to take that risk. Promise me you won’t drive drunk.”

“Yeah, I promise, Roman,” Logan said softly. “I would never drive drunk.”

“Then we’re good,” Roman said. “You don’t need to beat yourself up over it, you can just work on feeling better the same as I am. We both have our own issues to work through. Maybe we can help each other with some of them. Maybe not. But no matter what, I’m never going to hate you, or resent you, or want you gone so long as you try, all right? All I’m asking is that you try.”

“I can try,” Logan confirmed. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get better, even if I can never be at one-hundred percent. The last thing I want to do is let you or myself down.”

“And probably avoid letting down Ami and Dad as well,” Roman pointed out.

Logan laughed. “Yeah, good point.”

Dad knocked at the door and both boys looked up. “Are you two better?” Dad asked.

“Not one hundred percent, maybe, but we’re getting there,” Roman said.

Logan murmured his agreement. “I might need a little while to forgive myself, but I’m not going to actively destroy myself over this, not anymore.”

“Good,” Dad said with a slight smile. “The younger ones were thinking about playing some games in the backyard, if you want to join them?”

“Yeah!” Roman exclaimed, jumping up and dashing out of the room.

Logan and Dad followed at a slower pace. “Am I still in trouble?” he asked.

“It sounds like you and Roman are working things out between the two of you, and you were punishing yourself enough, so no, you’re not in trouble, unless you consider extra care and a little bit of a closer watch in trouble.”

Logan shrugged. “The watch might make me uneasy, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“Good,” Dad said. “And Logan...if you ever want to talk about your mother and your ex-father...we’re here for you.”

Logan smiled softly. “Thank you.”

[adapted-batteries]

Out from the Facades

Fandom: The Librarians

Rating: General, sfw, some swearing

Relationship: Jazekiel

Word Count: 2236

Going off a previous post where I headcanoned Stone as a trans guy, this is a fic revolving around that, and the concept of found family for June 4th's prompt: Found Family.

Also posted on my Ao3.

-----

Jacob came home, hair cut short, with a button down shirt from the thrift store, trying to ignore the uncomfortableness of the too small sports bra he was using to bind. His father was usually home later, so he figured he’d have some time to think up what he was going to say, and where he could go if he ended up getting kicked out.

Unfortunately, Isaac Stone was standing at the kitchen counter, looking at some bill that had come in the mail that day. His father looked up, squinting at the open door from the bright Oklahoma afternoon. When Jacob unfroze and shut the door, Isaac sucked in a breath.

“So, you’re a boy now,” Isaac said, inspecting Jacob like he was a prize heifer at the county fair. While his feet could move, Jacob’s throat did not want to cooperate, so Isaac continued. “Since you couldn’t even be a decent girl, you better be a better man, you understand?”

Jacob nodded, mentally finishing the thought that came next: because I can’t have a queer for a kid.

So that’s what Jacob did. So long as he acted like a good ol’ boy, everyone went along with it. He was surprised how quickly people just decided that yeah, Rebecca Stone was actually Jacob Stone, star of the high school football team, more than capable of drinking with the actual linebackers, and making the same comments, though thankfully he never felt compelled to act on them like others did.

But the real shocker was how easily Isaac Stone swept the notion of Rebecca, the rough tomboy, under the rug like he had with his late wife's heritage. Surprising support wrapped in the ultimate thought that if things weren't right by themselves, he'd force it into a more acceptable image and move on. He’d drive Stone to Oklahoma City for hormone replacement therapy until he could drive himself, his father hid of all the pictures past baby stage that indicated a girl that wasn’t on board with being one, and somehow never misgendered him.

Of course, his father didn’t have to worry about misgendering if he wasn’t home, or was passed out drunk on the couch if he was.

By the time Jacob turned 18, no one made any mistakes. He’d been blessed by the transgender gods, spending most of his formative years on testosterone, and soon got top surgery in the city (thankfully paid for before his father completely ran the company into the dirt). To complete the perfect picture, he got himself a nice, manly job oil rigging. It was easy to forget he’d ever been Rebecca first.

But jacob couldn’t ignore how much of a fuckup he still was. No one knew that he’d went to college instead of “a stint up on the Keystone pipeline,” that he’d published dozens of scholarly essays on art and literature of all sorts while “apprenticing to be a surveyor,” that he still liked men even though he was a convincing fake womanizer. Despite briefly living more like who he really was, he was terrified of what would happen if the people back home found out. So, what better way to prevent that than to come back to Oklahoma and work long hours on a dead-end pipeline job, biding his time until Isaac decided he’d done enough to murder his company and let Jacob actually take over.

And then, when he was at the bar with some of his buddies, after dutifully hitting on the hot foreign chick with a Latin tattoo, ninjas showed up, and a NATO counter terrorism officer saved his ass.

The Library made it really hard to be Jacob Stone, manly oil rigger from Oklahoma, because he wasn’t any use to the Library for just that. No, Jacob Stone, brilliant scholar and expert in all things liberal arts, that was exactly who the Library needed to repeatedly save the world. And Jacob realized that, hey, it was pretty nice to actually be the real Jacob Stone, the one under all those facades.

The problem was old habits, ones that were decades in the making, were hard to break. It took him a few months to quit instinctively playing stupid before realizing, no, he didn’t have to do that. Only recently did he actually tell his colleagues what he was always busy working on in their off time, still publishing under Dr. Oliver Thompson, though the thought of abandoning the pseudonyms gave him the same fear that kept him hidden in Oklahoma.

At least the artificial interest in women was becoming not so artificial, but then there was Ezekiel Jones, doing his damn best to remind Jacob how not straight he was. And he still wasn’t totally truthful with the team; no one knew he was trans. Though he knew he didn’t owe them that bit of personal history, it felt like one more mask still hanging on his face.

And then the Library sent them to one of his father’s new sites in Wagner, and his past that he tried to shed came rearing its head all at once. Fortunately his father had hired local contractors who didn’t know Jacob, but he couldn’t do much about Isaac himself, or the fact they were dealing with some Choctaw mythology causing a ruckus, with protestors who seemingly could see through his white-passing visage and into his native blood.

It was as if the universe decided that he needed to actually confront the cultural past he’d carefully locked away years ago with his mother’s death, and the past he’d managed to lock away recently with becoming a Librarian. And maybe he actually would.

Isaac, of course, was off being useless in a bar, so naturally he got to introduce his colleagues to his father in his worst state.

“The hell you doin’ here?” Isaac was looking at him, just like he had that afternoon 25 years ago.

It took all of his willpower to not just turn around and leave. “...hey Pop.”

They managed to convince Isaac that he was just a surveyor assistant to Ezekiel, though part of him was on guard in case Cassandra decided to throw down with his father’s disgusting misogynistic behavior (he was convinced she gave Isaac a headache with all the jargon she threw around, so she got some revenge). It was easy knowing what to say to keep Isaac from suspecting anything, to get him to cooperate (especially considering he was oiled with alcohol), but after effectively being “out” intellectually for a year, it hurt to shove himself back into the good ol’ boy role, even if part of him was screaming it was the safe thing to do.

Being locked in the truth chamber was a thrilling experience, in that his anxiety about kept them from escaping. He thought he was going to have to come out right there to Ezekiel and Cassandra, but thankfully the door was happy enough with him talking about his father.

In the end, even after getting a practice run with Hokolonote, he realized it didn’t matter if Isaac had no clue who he really was. Isaac would never care, because Jacob still ended up being the family fuck up, just the “turnin’ your back on your family” one. He left Oklahoma with a different hurt, the low ache of realizing he never actually had genuine family to begin with.

And then he spent more time with the Librarians, and that ache began to fade. These people he worked with, saved, got saved by, knew him as he was, and loved him for it. And realized he felt the exact same way about them. He near spooked himself with how much he cared if Eve had died by Dulac’s sword, if Ezekiel got killed by anubis’s werewolves, if Cassandra didn’t make it through the surgery, if Flynn hadn’t been strong enough to take in evil while they scrambled for a solution to Apep, if Jenkins somehow died (thank god he was immortal). Family was only half of having people care about you; you had to care about them too.

He had family.

But he didn’t want any secrets with the family, and he still had one left tugging on his heart. And who better to tell than the other professional faker on the team.

He cornered Ezekiel in the main room while the others went about doing whatever they were doing. “Hey, Ezekiel, can we talk?”

Ezekiel looked at him, a mix of confusion and concern, since Jacob rarely pulled the first name card for him. “Sure, mate. Is something wrong?”

“No...uh, just, let’s go somewhere more private,” Jacob said, about-facing and walking deeper into the Library. Ezekiel followed him, and he knew the thief was suddenly hyper aware of everything because Jacob caught him off-guard.

The wandered for a bit, eventually far enough from the others and any main walkways where someone might come near. “Okay, what’s this about?” Ezekiel asked, folding his arms.

Jacob took a death breath. “I’ve not been completely truthful about my past-”

Ezekiel cut him off. “No one ever is, least of all me, so what of it?”

“No, just-” Jacob rubbed his face in frustration “-I know you and Cassandra found out I’d lied to my father about myself for decades, but that’s not the only thing about me you don’t know.”

“Okay?” Ezekiel just looked at him even more confused. “Are you like, coming out or something? Because that isn’t a big deal, I mean it is, but like, Cassandra has a girlfriend, mate, and you know I’m not the straightest bloke around.”

“You’re not?” Jacob shook his head, ignoring that bit of apparently obvious information for now. “I, uh, well, yeah, Jones, I’m coming out. I’m trans.”

There was an awkward silence as Ezekiel tried to figure out what Jacob meant by that. “Congrats?” He opened and closed his mouth a few times like he was trying out sentences in his head and deeming them not appropriate, and then a flood of words came out. “Um, so, do you have like prefered pronouns you want me to use? Are you thinking about a new name? Cuz that’s cool too. Are you still into women, or do you not want me to set you up anymore-”

Jacob felt like he’d been doing Atlas’s job for him, and Atlas had finally relieved him. “Ezekiel,” Jacob started to get the thief to quiet, “I’m a trans man.”

“Ooh, okay.” Ezekiel, despite his ability to don a quality poker face, had no control over the blush on his face right then.

Deciding he had nothing left to lose, Jacob decided to answer Ezekiel’s last question. “And you can stop with setting me up with women too...because I’m not straight either.” He let out a bark of a laugh at how surreal he felt, which made Ezekiel startle. Apparently Ezekiel realized how big this was for Jacob, because he was looking at him in amazement now. “I can’t believe I’ve not told anyone else that in two and a half decades.”

“You...it’s been that long?” Ezekiel blinked in disbelief. “How did you hide that?”

Jacob shrugged. “You’d be surprised how easily people will ignore things if you fit in somehow. And I wasn’t ever totally hidden...you met Slaten. He knew me, well, more than anyone else until the Library.” He knew what was coming next after he said that.

“Were you...together?”

A smile crept onto Jacob’s face, reminiscent. “It’s the worst when you fall for your straight best friend.”

“It really is,” Ezekiel replied, and then his expression changed to something more serious, his posture annoyingly more seductive with just a slight tilt of his head and angle of his hips. “Now I pride myself in reading people, a necessary skill for effective grifting, and, well, when I first met you, you gave off some repressed gay vibes for sure. Was there something more when you shoved me against that bookcase when ninjas were invading the Library for the crown?”

Jacob thought back to that moment. “Not exactly, I mean, I'm a fighter so my first thought was to immobilize you.” Ezekiel raised an eyebrow, but Jacob had more to say. He stepped closer to Ezekiel as he said, “then my second thought was you looked like you were enjoying it.” Now he was almost toe to toe with Ezekiel, and the thief had certainly picked up on where he was going. “And my third thought was that I enjoyed looking at you like that.”

Conveniently, they were near a bookcase, not the one from the memory, but close enough. With all other thoughts out the window, Jacob grabbed Ezekiel by the shirt and pushed him against the bookcase. Ezekiel let out a little gasp when his back hit the wood, making Jacob's heart flip in his chest. What he said was true; Jacob was enjoying pinning Ezekiel to the bookcase, and based on Ezekiel's turned on expression, he was too.

Ezekiel interrupted his observations. “Are you just going to look at me?”

“Hmm, I might with that attitude,” Jacob purred. Ezekiel scoffed, but he glanced down at Jacob's mouth, and then Jacob couldn't resist any longer. He relaxed his elbows and brought his face near inches away from Ezekiel's, but something making him hesitate.

Ezekiel read him like an open book. “You aren't second guessing, are you? There's nothing wrong with who you are, though your wardrobe could still use help-”

“Oh, shut it,” Jacob growled, but he didn't back away.

“Make me, cowboy,” Ezekiel retorted. That was enough to get Jacob to close the remaining distance and press his lips onto Ezekiel's.

It wouldn't be an exaggeration for him to say he felt fireworks when Ezekiel kissed back.

This was his family, this building, these people. Blood wasn't everything, despite what the folks back home thought. It only took him 40 years to find it, but he was very glad he did.

-----

Post Notes: So, this is some idyllic world where trans teens got HRT in the 80's, which as far as Google would tell me, wasn't a thing until more recently. Also, since I used “And What Lies Beneath the Stones” for reference on Jacob and Isaac interacting, I also noticed how the one protestor reacted when he looked at Stone, and my brain decided that was him recognizing Choctaw or another tribe in Stone because that's also a fun headcanon in my head from when people mentioned it way back.

I picture this happening after season four, so technically the LiTs don't remember the whole Jenkins dying bit (I feel like Flynn and Eve wouldn't say for time line stability, since Flynn does watch out for that already from “And the Final Curtain”).

[texastheband]

Sharleen blows her cool

By Nick Duerden Taken from Heat Magazine - 11-17 November 1999 

She's our most succesfull pop star and she gets to cavort on beds with male models. So why is Sharleen Spiteri in a bad mood? "Fucking flu" she tells Nick Duerden.

It is a cold, crisp day in the north, and Sharleen Spiteri is suffering from a lack of sufficient sleep. Last night's hotel had an air conditioning system that didn't know its hot from its cold. So the Texas singer tossed and turned throughout the night, one moment sweating, the next freezing. "I thought I had the fucking flu or something," she says.

Nevertheless, she looks delightfully rumpled today in the kind of manner only ever truly achieved by the rich and famous. She strides into a Manchester eatery under an artfully created birds' nest of black hair, and is wearing worn Jeans that are decadently fashionable and, doubtless, very expensive. She is the liveliest of company, picking delicately at a plate of hummus, but insisting on a plate of sausage and mash for heat as a hangover cure. Mash, it seems, is good for soaking up alcohol in the stomach. "You're bringing out my maternal side," she says. Later, she will reveal a fondness for Robbie, and refer to his one time bandmate Gary Barlow as "fuckface". Apparently, on an Italian pop show recently, he accidentally cracked her head open with his guitar, then blamed his attendant security. "If it wasn't for them," says the woman who stands at 5ft 5", "1 would have had him." Texas are here in Manchester halfway through a sold-out UK tour to further promote a very succesfull album. Following the four-million-selling, career-saving White On Blonde, The Hush has already shifted over three million copies in just six months. They are one of Britain's biggest bands, about to set their sights on America which they confidently believe they will crack. This is all a very different story from just three years ago. Back then, Texas were on the brink of ruin. Their record company were threatening to drop them, and they themselves were considering splitting. Since the top ten success of their 1989 debut single, I Don't Want A Lover, and the album Southside, Texas had been on a gradual downward slide. Their second album, Mothers Heaven, performed disappointingly, and very few people even noticed when they released a third, Ricks Road. With the exception of France, who still considered them splendid, Texas were uniformly regarded as a band dull enough to render even Del Amitri as rock gods. But then a very peculiar thing happened. Texas became hip, seemingly overnight. Purportedly steered by her journalist boyfriend, Ashley Heath (then editor of fashion magazine Arena Homme Plus), Sharleen became a sex siren, the band's sole focal point, and someone most adept at pouting provocatively before the camera lens. While the often exotic photo shoots looked like she was selling perfume, she was in fact selling the band. It worked wonders, too: suddenly, Texas were everywhere. And now look at them. Huge. Sharleen Spiteri, svengali boyfriend loitering somewhere in the shadows, has mounted the most successful make over in recent pop history.

How does it feel to have sold upwards of seven million albums in less than three years? How does it feel? It feels very secure. [Laughs] But I also feel incredibly grateful for it, because we were lucky enough to get a second chance. That doesn't happen much these days. I still find it hard to believe that we broke big on our fourth album. Nobody from the record company will admit to it now, but even when we delivered Say What You Want (White On Blonde's first single), no one was particularly impressed. We loved it, but I think they were simply no longer interested in us. It was like they were waiting for the record to fail so they could get rid of us. Instead, however, we sold an obscene amount of albums and suddenly they love us. I tell you, becoming very successful gives you an awful lot of power. Why was the album such a success, given Texas' then somewhat dull image? Simple: because it was a great record. We'd made the best music of our lives, and people were responding to it. The image reinvention certainly helped though, didn't it? I find it funny the way people are so obsessed about my supposed "reinvention". We've been around for ten years, so of course we're going to reinvent ourselves. It's called progression. True, but the suddenly glamorous image seemed very calculated towards making you quickly famous. Everyone is convinced that the record sold because I draped myself all over the press to plug it. In actual fact, I didn't start appearing on magazine covers until the second single, Halo, was already in the charts. We were becoming successful, so there was a demand for interviews, and I gave them. Were the rest of the band happy to take a step back? Absolutely. It took all the pressure off them. Let's face it, an attractive woman in a band is a pretty effective focal point. We were convinced we'd made a great record - the best of our career - and we wanted people to hear it. And the way to do that is to promote it. So I did. Is it true that your boyfriend had a guiding hand in the makeover? Not really. Obviously, having a boyfriend that works in journalism helps to give you an insight into how the whole business works, but I used to be a hairdresser, so I know a fair bit about image myself. We did talk about how to present ourselves because we knew that initially people wouldn't be interested in Texas and we wanted to change their minds. The whole music business Is a game in that respect, and we played it. Wouldn't you have done the same? Wouldn't anyone? Had you always wanted to be famous? No, never had. Still don't, in fact. I've never been bothered with it, to be honest. It doesn't interest me at all. Anyone can be famous. You can be famous for wearing high-heeled shoes, or blowing off presidents. I want people to say I'm a great singer, a great songwriter, that's all. If I simply wanted to become famous, then I would have got my tits out long ago. And I never have. Never will, either. Did it ever feel slightly foolish to be rolling around on exotic beaches like a supermodel merely to sell a band that used to wear woolly jerseys and hobnail boots? No, I had a great time, and they're great photographs. I'll keep them forever and show them to my children so that they can be proud of their mother. Everyone likes to look good in pictures, and those pictures make me look fantastic. Ten years ago I was very selfconscious about the way I looked, but I'm almost 32 now, and I've accepted that I've got a giant nose and other blemishes. But am I going to get major surgery? Nah, fuck it. I'll just ask photographers not to accentuate it and to light me in a flattering manner, that's all. Subsequent collaborations with Rae & Christian and Wu-Tang Clan also seemed like a very determined effort to suddenly become chic. Were they? I met Rae & Christian ages ago through my boyfriend, and I spent years namechecking the Wu-Tang Clan because I was a fan. Both came to work with us because they knew we were good at what we did musically. I've never been interested in being chic or trendy or cool. I just want two things: to make good music and work with people I admire. Did any members of the WuTang Clan come on to you? [Aghast] Absolutely not! But I know what you mean. If you put any man or woman in a room together there's bound to be something, some kind of spark. When they were first told that we'd love to work with them, they were like [adopts cheeky American drawl], "Hey, is that the chick with the funky red dress from that video [BlackEyed Boy]? I like her! ", but they were very respectful towards me. I was in awe of them. They're all huge guys, and they kept calling me "girlie". But then they heard me sing, and they were convinced I was black! [Fondly] Method Man is a lovely guy, you know. Do you feel sexy? Not first thing in the morning, I don't. I can look very rough indeed. But I don't want to be obviously sexy. I try to think what I find sexy in women - and it's not Pamela Anderson - and then work on that. I think the sexiest word in the English language is "no". It makes perfect sense, because everyone wants what they can't have. If you actually look at all the supposedly steamy photographs I've done, I'm actually revealing very little flesh indeed. In the video for Summer Son, you effectively dry-hump a handsome man in bed. Did he leave you, um, tongue-tied? Very funny. I'll tell you why I did that video. It was to suggest that it is possible to be unbelievably sexy and keep all your clothes on. That video was all about the power of suggestion, but ironically it wasn't allowed to be shown on television before seven o'clock because it was too raunchy. What hypocritical bullshit. All I ever see on MTV are women in ridiculous push-up bras, cleavage everywhere, and touching themselves. I wanted to make an alternative, but keep it just as sexy. It is also, presumably, fairly good fun cavorting with a male model of your choice? Well, I have to admit, it's a pretty good way to spend a day. [Abruptly changing subject] Incidentally, did you know that Summer Son has just broken us in Germany? Which is good news because Germany is the third biggest market in the world. We're massive there now. Not bigger than David Hasselhoff, surely? Germany, after all, is his stronghold. Do you know what? I think we're even bigger than him. How about that? Congratulations. Thank you, very kind. You exude confidence the way a teenager does testosterone. Does it ever spill over into arrogance? When I was a hairdresser, people thought I was really arrogant. Now, because of the band, I'm almost allowed to have an ego, but most people tend to think of me as level headed. Well, that's what they tell me to my face, anyway. Put it this way, I've not changed at all. I'm very ambitious, always have been. There are still a lot of people out there who don't like us and probably hate me, but I don't care about them. We're a band who sell a lot of records. That brings peace of mind and, yes, a certain arrogance. But, y'know, we've worked hard to get into this position. I'm not about to apologise for it. One more thing. What, if anything, turns you off in a man? Beards. When they get as big as that bloke's in The Royle Family, bits of food get stuck in thein. Disgusting! My father [a seaman] used to go off to sea for months at a time and come back home with a bloody great bush of a beard. Me and my sister would go after him with the scissors, screaming like banshees.

[eerythingisshaka]

Wakanda Got Y’all Pt. 4

[Black Panther x Insecure Crossover]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Word Count: 2.8K

A/N:  I know I said this would be the last chapter buuuuut....stay tuned for more!

Molly grips the edge of the counter her sink rests in as she takes a deep breath.  She tries to concentrate on the patterns in her bathroom walls as Erik does his work between her legs.

“How you feelin?”  He asks, looking up at her with a slight smirk.

Molly bites her lip, thinking about how she couldn’t believe she happening.  “It’s good, so far.”

Erik nods.  “Bet.  Lift that other leg up a bit.  I ain’t tryna miss nothin, you know?”

He taps her inner thigh with the back of his hand until she got the message, spreading herself further.

“You ever do this before?”  Molly asked nervously.

Erik bobs his head here and there.  “Ehhh, only one time I remember a female being really down for it, but everyone else is like, offended and shit.”

Molly exhales in disbelief, “Aww, for real?  Tsk, this saves me some wrist strain.  It’s nice to be offered, cuz I definitely wasn’t askin, who would?  Just don’t do too much, being an Edward Scissorhands and shit.”

Erik flexed his dimples as he licked his lips in concentration of her center.  He had already put in most of the work already, he just wanted to get to her outer lips a little.

Taking the razor in one hand, he places one finger against her outer labia for a flatter surface area, dragging the blade along her skin with the grain.  The scratchy sound of the razor taking down the stubble is the soundtrack to the room as Molly holds her breath awaiting him to finish.  She wanted to stroke his locs, but figured that would mess up his flow.  He wipes the razor off, repeating the process until she was clean.  

Erik nods, surveying his work with pride.  “There’s more than one way to skin a cat, but I think this is my favorite.”

Molly looks down for herself, feeling her freshly shaved exterior.  “Yeahhh, look at that?  You ever thought about doing this professionally?”

Erik stands in front of Molly, doing his shrug with a silly face.  “I don’t think I have.  But when I look into it, you can write my recommendation, in detail.”

Their shared laughter slowly faded into blank expressions as Molly felt herself heat with anxiety.  She studied Erik’s eyes dilating, plush lips just inches from hers, she wasn’t quite sure how to proceed.

Erik licks his lips. “You wanna do somethin else, now?” his voice saturated with testosterone fueled bass.

Molly stares at him, eyes wide, swallowing to keep her voice steady.  “Uh, I think you wanted to watch somethin on the TV….right?”

Erik looks down Molly’s body before returning to her face.  “If that’s it, you may wanna bring that leg down again.”

Molly curses under her breath as she pulls her dress back down, crossing her ankles.  

Erik chuckles, “You actin shy NOW is too damn funny.  That’s cool though, I’m bout to head out.”

Molly looks after him heading out her bathroom door.  “Wha-what about a nightcap?  My Netflix list is really thick, if you still wanna chill!”  She gets up to go after him.

Erik picks his jacket off her couch walking for her front door.  “Nah, I ain’t really been into what’s available anyway.”

As Erik turns back to her once more, Molly rubs her arm, wondering how to leave their conversation.  “Um, well, thanks for the shape up?”

Erik flashed his golds, lookin at the floor, “Yeah, thanks for trusting me with a razor after a drink.”

Molly stands there until she squints at him suspiciously.  “And that’s really gonna be it?  My pussy was on full display, and you ain’t tryin shit?”

Erik cocks his head to the side. “You tryna see my dick to call it even?”

Molly wheezes with embarrassment.  “Whaaaaa? Who said that? Don’t try me, ol boy!”

Erik steps to Molly, lookin straight down in her face, “You don’t act like you ready to try a damn thing, witcha shy actin ass,”  Erik says, practically growling.

Molly, gulps again.  Soon as Erik closes in on her, she is a puddle.  “I just don’t know you for real, or what to expect, you know?  It’s-”

Erik shakes his head, “See, you already thinkin too much bout it.  I’m here, you here.  I’m cool, you fine as hell...and I know you think the same.”

Molly kisses her teeth, “Nigga, don’t flatter yourself.”

ERik raises an eyebrow, “I could see it for myself.  The towel was necessary back there-”

Molly pops him in his arm, hurting herself more than him.  “Whatever, boy!  Go on then, I’m good.”

“You good?”

Molly nods.

Erik leans his head down hovering over her mouth.  They look in each other’s eyes for what seemed like an eternity, before Molly closes the gap.  Slowly they sucked on each other’s lips, like ripened fruit.  Molly caught herself leaning into a little further than she consciously meant to, before Erik pulls back.

“Maybe you ain’t so shy.  We’ll see though.  Call me when you need another appointment, Moll.”

Molly closes the door after him, leaning on the doorframe, completely hot and bothered.  

----

“And that’s all that happened?”  Issa asks her incredulously over a stack of chicken and waffles.

Molly shrugs, pickin at her food, “Girl, that was it.  My snatch was all there for him to do what he wanted, but all he did was help a sistah out.”

“Well I wish a nigga would offer me some salon care if I needed to clear some brush.  That oughta be a requirement.”

Molly laughs, “Could you imagine niggas going to a trade school to learn that because that’s what needs to be done to get pussy?”

“Shit, they do that for cars, clothes, and shit.  Get some skills that are useful for once, save a bitch a dollar.”

“Right?  So….. I don’t know.  He told me to call him if I need a touch up.”  Molly says.

Issa looks at Molly suspiciously, “Now, did he really say that, cuz he startin to sound kinda….” her voice trails off as she wiggles her hand side to side.

Molly screws her face up, “No, dang!  It’s a euphemism, no doubt.  But, I don’t know….”

Issa shrugs, “I know you not gettin cold feet after he has literally played with ya pussy already.  Somethin backwards about that.”

Molly waves her hands, “I know!! It just seemed too intimate to do that and NOT have sex.  I ain’t ready to be wifin niggas up or nuthin.”

“Girl, I’m sure he playin you as hard as you playin him, so don’t think too much.  Just call him up cuz I know you hate clingy dudes, so make your plans.”

Molly pulls out her phone side eyeing Issa.  “Pssh, whatever, miss know-it-all.  Swear you know somebody life.”  Molly grumbles under her breath.  As she texts Erik, she asks Issa, “What about T’Challa though?  When’s your movie date?”

“Umm, supposed to be tomorrow.  And it’s not a date, it’s just...an outing between colleagues to blow off steam.”

Molly scoffs putting down her phone.  “Is that what we callin it these days?  Is that why you asked me about the vaginal rejuvenation buy one get one free promo on Groupon?”

Issa rolls her eyes.  “Female hygiene/reproductive health is important.”

“Bullshit, you gettin ya walls waxed for a slip and slide.”  Molly quips.

“Ok!  I don’t even know what he is down for.  He from the motherland and everything, he might be saving himself.”

Molly pauses, pressing her fist to her mouth.  “It is the biggest misconception that these foreign fools out here all high and mighty, chaste.  Sure there’s some, but TRUST men are men, across all borders.  Food and women:  serve it up, they eatin.”

Issa talks out the side of her mouth.  “Everyone ‘cept you apparently….”

“Aight you can pay your own meal if you wanna talk.”

“Nooo!  I love you!  You’re so great!  Pussy is bomb, sure he gon nom!”  Issa sings beggingly.

---

The evening of the associate outing with T’Challa was less than an hour away, and Issa took her place at the mirror.  Looking at her fiercest rival, herself, she catches a rhythm in her head and start bobbing, feelin herself.

Yo, I been peeped that you really feelin me.

So the next step oughta come quite  naturally.

You can make ya move, but remember I’m the driver.

Don’t want a minute man, don’t even think of gettin tired.

Movie popcorn too high priced, it’s really wack

So how about you try making this nani ya snack?

New name alert, you can her goldfish

Make this pussy smile back, dip in my well and make a wish--

Issa sighs heavily, “Why you so damn horny?”  she touches up her eyebrows as her phone goes off.  T’Challa texts her saying he is on the way to the theatre.  Issa confirms, saying she is too.  She spends another fifteen minutes touching up her face and taking pictures for the ‘gram before heading out in her car.  

Issa bops to her Frank Ocean, getting good vibes and feeling completely full and ready for this night.  It was really starting to feel like a stress reliever.

Suddenly a bump hits her tire.  Issa stills herself as her car rolls violently and rickety down the street.  The rhythmic plop of her tire with every rotation signaled she just made herself a flat tire.

“Shit, shit, nooo!”  Issa curses out loud as she pulled over to the first lear space she could find on the side of the road.  Getting out she begrudgingly surveyed the damage: completely flat.

“Fuck!  Why me!”  Issa yelled to the sky as she clopped over to lean on her car in frustration.  Alone in a cute outfit with brokedown transportation at night wasn’t the best situation for her to be in so she pulls her phone out to call T’Challa and cancel first.

He picks up on the first ring.  “Hello, Ms. Issa.  Are you close?”

Issa picks at the hem of her shorts.  “No, I gotta give you a raincheck, I’m sorry.”

T’Challa sighs disappointed.  “Ahh, did you have other plans then?”

Issa double checks her surroundings.  “I wish I did right now, but no I’m not trying to skip out, my car just gave up on me.”

“Oh, do you need a ride?”  T’Challa asks with a little more perkiness.

Issa pauses.  “Uh, I guess, if you don’t mind?  I don’t want to put you out since you’re already there.”

“Oh no!  It is ok.  Please, just let me know where you are.”  T’Challa says.

She can hear his keys jingling as she tells him her address, going back in her car to wait.

T’Challa’s car pulls up behind hers.  He gets out leaning on her driver’s side.  “That’s a nasty flat.”

Issa sighs, “I needed new tires anyway.  I was waiting for a bonus at work, but why not now, right?”

T’Challa looks at her empathetically, stroking his chin.  “Life has a funny way of doing things like that.”

Issa nods, looking at the time on her phone, groaning with disappointment.  “The movie already started.  We won’t get another showing for another two hours.  I knew I should’ve let you go on home instead of getting me, now that we can’t make the show.”

T’Challa wears a long face.  “I was really looking forward to that show about….the dog?”

Issa chuckles, “Yeeaah, that meets the robot and they save Wall Street?”

T’Challa smiles, the apples of his cheeks invading his facial structure.  “Ahh, an Oscar worthy film, indeed.   Shame to miss…..well at least let me take you home then.”  T’Challa opens her car door as he guides her to his.

“Thank you again, I really appreciate it.”  The ride to her house was quiet.  Issa wasn’t sure what to say since the night was presumably over, but it could also not be over.  She was a grown woman, without a curfew or a parent at home, who could tell her what not to do.  But she certainly didn’t feel comfortable enough to have him burn his gas to turn around and go somewhere else now.  Issa sneaks a look over a T’Challa concentrated on the road.  His arm outstretched, toned and shapely with not so humble muscles.  His long, knuckly hands grip the wheel, subtly massaging the rim.  Issa checks her phone to pass the time, coming up with a game plan as he pulls up to her spot.

He drops his hands to his lap, looking over at Issa.  “Well here we are, Ms. Issa.  If you want to go get your car in the morning, let me know.  I don’t mind at all helping out.  Do you have a spare?”

Issa shakes her head, “No...responsibility isn’t my strongest characteristic.”

T’Challa smirks, “I don’t see you that way at all.  You have many talents as I have seen, and you are a great help to me and the team.”

Issa cheeses, “Well, if you say so, I’ll take it!”

T’Challa leans his head on the headrest.  “It’s true, you are a smart woman.   That’s how I know we can be a success.  It’s not lost on me the cultural differences between me and the community here, but with you as a liason, I can make sure no one is offended or lost in my accent.”

Issa chuckles, “It’s all good.  That lady and her kids were really just looking for a fight.  People aren’t always at their best when accepting help so expect some struggle, but I hear you, no problem at all to bridge that gap.  As for the accent, keep that.  It’s a great ice breaker.”

“You think so?”

“Oh yeah.  People perk up to it automatically to listen closer, so if you have meaningful shit to say, it’ll land quicker.  Plus it’s sexy as…..”  Issa’s voice fades as she catches herself saying too much.

T’Challa tucks his lips and nods, looking ahead as they sit for a while in silence.  Issa cursed herself for getting too forward but also, it had to be said; or at least she convinced herself of that.  How else could she try to lay claim to him without a little flirting?  Issa wasn’t ready to call it a night, so she worked up some inner hood nerve.

“So, you wanna come up or nah?!”  Issa asked with a little too much bass in her voice.

T’Challa looked at her half like she was crazy but slowly smiled.  “You would like some company?”

Issa clears her throat nodding, “I mean, sure.  I’m reclaiming my time!  Just cuz we can’t see a new movie doesn’t mean we can’t hang out.  If you want to, you got the green light….”  Issa’s voice trails off as she studies T’Challa’s reaction.

He takes his keys out of the ignition.  “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

Issa and T’Challa make their way up to her place, going in she turns on the light.  “Sorry for the mess.  I stay unprepared for company.”

T’Challa stands surveying the surroundings.  “Oh, it’s alright.  I’m just content to be invited.”

Issa picks some clothes off of the couch and cups from the table.  “Please, sit.  Do you drink?”

T’Challa sits, picking up a pillow, studying its design.  “Occasionally; I wouldn’t mind a glass.  Who is this?”

Issa pulls out a bottle looking back at him staring at the pillow.  “Oh that’s Frank Ocean.  Have you heard him?”

T’Challa shakes his head.  “No, but you must think highly of him.”

Issa screws her face up as she pours some cheap moscato.  “I mean, he cool.  I just really liked the pillow.”

T’Challa reads her reaction.  “You don’t have to be embarrassed, it’s cute.”

Issa nods and whispers a cheer to herself at being called cute as she walks the glasses over to him.  “Yeah, I’m a big music head.  Nicki Minaj is around here somewhere but she may be on time out anyway.  Gettin all loud and outta pocket.”  

T’Challa laughs into his glass as he sips.  “I see.  Well, it’s nice to see someone laying down the law in their home.”

Issa gulps her drink as his vice dropped to a sexy octave.  “Mhm!  That’s me!  All business round here.”

T’Challa leans forward putting his drink down.  “Well we aren’t on the clock now, thank goodness.  This week was very crazy.”

“The craziest!  But that should be a sign that it’s on the way for the better now.”

T’Challa turns to Issa, looking at her a little too long.  “Wise words from an attractive woman.”

Issa was internally screaming at this blunt response, but laughs it off to keep the mood light.  “Well the lighting in here is deceptive sometime, and I had a pimple this morning, so...”  

“No joke, don’t sell yourself short.”  T’Challa says as he leans towards Issa, who was not ready, but became completely ready to try him on.  They embrace slowly.  His lips plush against hers, his hands remain at a gentlemanly section of her leg as her heart beats out of her chest.  The associate outing just got a little personal.

Part 5

RagTag

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@kimianostalgia

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@myfavemarvelfanfics

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Other Works

King Kil’mawalls  

T’akia

Some Weeks Are Better Than Others

Commencement Day

Song of Stevens

The Coffee Prince

N’Jadaka’s Helpful Hands

If I Could Do It All Again

#SundaySweat

Signs of Rain

World’s Best Baba

[rose-coloured-angel]

For those who dont know, my mom had surgery to lose weight. Had that thing where they staple your stomach to make it smaller. She's getting older, and she was really skinny for her whole life, so her body isn't used to being big, y'know?

Here's the thing

She's very vain

She'll deny it, but I mean, c'mon. Her whole life she's been the thin, gorgeous blond. All the men loved her, she was paper thin, she made good use of what she calls the "dumb blonde" act. It got her out of driving and parking tickets numerous times.

There are pictures of her all over the house. Not even family pictures, just pictures of her. Thin, gorgeous. Professionally done by men who thought she looked dazzling.

And they're not wrong. She looked like a model.

Cut to post-children and menopause years later. She starts gaining weight. She complains, and complains, and complains. Guys stop going after her. She has terrible eating habits. She can no longer for into her clothes and saves them for when she starts "working out" to lose weight.

Why is this an issue?

I have been "the fat kid" my whole life. I hated clothes shopping. I was always told to wear clothes that would make me look thinner.

"At least you have big boobs," my mother said. "Boys like that."

I spent my entire childhood worried about what boys would like. Boys never liked me. I hated myself. I hated how fat I was. I had an eating problem. Nothing was ever enough. I loved sweets and ate them whenever I could. I would sneak food, and I ate whenever I was upset.

(My father always took my brother and I on walks. One day, he pulled my brother aside and said "You don't want to end up fat like your sister, do you?")

I started running. I stopped eating. I had a slice of bread in the morning. I didn't eat at school. I said I wasn't hungry. I lost weight (and hair), and I started going to bed at 5 PM to avoid dinner and wake up at 5 AM so I could tell people "I already ate breakfast". For once in my life, boys noticed me. They asked if I had a boyfriend, and if I would like one. One boy asked me out (I didn't go out with him, though. We were both too nervous). My mother was so happy that I could fit into clothes. I worked out so much that I could lift up to 100lbs. I ran and ran and ran. For once in my life, people thought I was beautiful.

They didn't notice that I was losing hair, or that my finger nails were always broken. They didn't notice that I never got sleep, even when I went to bed so early. Sometimes I didnt bother to sleep; I once stayed up for 48 hours straight. I fainted after running a mile.

I moved back in with my mother. I went to a new school. I thought I was finally thin enough.

Kids made fun of how I "jiggled" when I walked, so I stopped running. I stopped wearing gym shorts. I started eating again. Two sandwiches in the afternoon when I got home, after already having breakfast, and lunch, and then having dinner when mom got home. Then she would come home from a whole day of not eating, and she would be hungry, so I would make her food and eat some myself. I gained weight again, FAST. I still wasnt sleeping.

Cut to a few years later, and I'm in high school. I try again. I try being healthier and I participate in gym class, but I still dont run as much as I used to. I try to get enough sleep, to eat enough. I am gaining more weight.

I tried to be girly, and my mother loved it. I tried so hard my whole life to be someone, to figure out who I was. The only thing I never tried was being "girly". So I got girly clothes and did girly things and cared about looking thin and pretty.

I still wasnt happy.

A month later, I find out I'm transgender. My friends start calling me Nathan, and I use he/him pronouns at school. I DO NOT tell my family. I'm terrified of what they'll say, or do. Kaitlyn Jenner comes out as trans (I dont like her as a person, but I respect her as a human). I ask my family. They hate her.

"Being a transgender is only a fad"

I realize I can never tell them.

Sophomore year I start signing my homework and classwork as Nathan, and I ask to be called Nathan in class. The school tells my mother. She tells my father.

I havent seen my father in two years. His family doesn't associate with "people like [me]".

My mother blames anything she can. Daddy issues, an excess of testosterone they found in my blood work, a phase. My brother says I have "betrayed him and God".

I feel like shit forever. I hate myself even more. I start self harming again, I stop working out even at school, I eating like I'll never have food again. I try to kill myself.

My mother finds put two weeks later after I fail. (I told the school counselor. They said they have to notify parents of a suicide attempt. I beg them not to, my mother will be outraged. "I'm sure she will understand," they said. "She will want to help you.")

"How dare you?" My mother screams. "How many more times are you going to do this to us?" (This is not my first attempt, and will not be the last time I plan to take my own life)

She accuses me of wanting attention and "happy pills". I am officially diagnosed with clinical depression, something I told my mother I thought I might have when I was 14 years old.

"Dont make mountains out of molehills," she said. "That's just normal teenager stuff." (I dont think normal teens plan their own deaths at least five times a week)

She tells me she had ignored my cutting for years be cause it was "only for attention". She wont let me take pain medication.

I remember when she told me about being a child and drawing strange things, and saying that she always knew I would try to take my own life one day. So why didnt she do anything?

I try every day to love myself. She gained weight, and for once in my life, she admits she made mistakes, that she understands now. How people treat you when you're fat. How hard it is to find clothes, to feel good, to live your life.

She gets surgery. She gets thinner.

She will never be happy, and I realize that now. She has lost so much weight (and hair, and sleep). She complains about any bit of fat or skin on her body. Men pay attention to her again.

She says to me "Maybe if you got surgery and lost weight, you would start to love who you are as a woman."

I am outraged. I am shattered. Five years. That is how long it had been since I first told her I wanted to be called Nathan. I thought we were finally getting somewhere. I thought I was finally happy in my own body (maybe I still need to transition, but I want to be happy). I try so hard, EVERY. SINGLE. DAY to be kind to myself.

Then mom complains in the mirror.

She talks about how nice she looks now.

She can finally fit into clothes.

She points out actresses on the TV. ("She used to be so fat", "Oh my gosh, she's so thin", "She got a nose job, look how huge it used to be!")

I hurt. God, it hurts. I just want to be happy. I WAS happy. She'll NEVER be happy.

And now I dont know if I will be, either.

God damn it.

[cotlitora1975-blog]

No, I realise daylight savings doesn CONTRIBUTE to power shortages. But doesn it alleviate some of the burden while consumers are putting pressure on the power system? Don we want our planet to last just that little bit longer? Wouldn every little bit help? Even though having an extra hour of daylight may seem minuscule to you, but for me I out of the house more (not using power). Walking more (not driving in my car because it dark). Sex hormones, on the other hand, work a little differently in male and female bodies. In male bodies, the testes produce the hormone testosterone, which regulates sperm production and causes masculine secondary sex characteristics. In female, the ovaries produce hormones like estrogen and progesterone, which regulate reproductive processes. I did this too, when i was younger, sleep with the light, it was difficult to sleep without it. I had to like emotionally prepare myself not to get excited about things my imagination was doing at first, keep telling myself that it air moving in the dark, just the house breathing. Identify all the usuaul noises before sleep, play music, relax. I did this, and it was fine, my Santa was very happy to receive it. For the backstory: I got an amazing gift from my Santa and I really wanted to send them a thank you card by snail mail (Of course I also thanked them through the gallery and via Reddit). But I didn't have their address, so I simply asked them if they would agree to share it with me for a thank you card. Picture: AFP6 of 23Katy Perry and Kristen Stewart attend the Chanel Haute Couture Fall/Winter 2017 2018 show as part of Haute Couture Paris Fashion Week on July 4, 2017 in Paris, France. Picture: Splash7 of 23Claudia Schiffer attends the Chanel Haute Couture Fall/Winter 2017 2018 show 동해출장샵 as part of Haute Couture Paris Fashion Week on July 4, 2017 in Paris, France. Picture: AFP8 of 23. Even with cancelation insurance. If booked separately the insurance applies to each flight separately, not both. So let say you going on a weekend 동해출장샵 trip and there a huge snow storm so your Saturday morning flight becomes a Sunday afternoon flight, but you were leaving Sunday evening anyway. The penultimate scene from 3x09 "The Avatar and the Fire Lord" when Zuko finds out how his great grandfather died not Sozin but Roku. The episode highlights Zuko dual nature and changes the course of his hero journey. It adds so many layers to Ursa and Ozai relationship that the series never touches on, and the comic was a huge let down because it strayed too far from reality. And with the lightsaber moment, if they really wanted Luke to show he doesn want any part in the the Force or Jedi or anything, he could said so without throwing it over his shoulder. It could still been a serious moment. But they had to make EVERY SCENE into a joke. Doctors and my mum told me nothing was wrong, he was just unwell. I shrugged off my thoughts because my dad smiled the brightest smile when he saw me and mum said that was the first time he'd smiled in days (Dad had been fighting this for 3 years so we all knew he was unwell). But after 10 minutes of talking to him I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. This is unacceptable. Steam has grown to a point that it needs real curation but instead still relies on it users to do the curating for them. They are profitable enough to start putting on the big boy pants and get some actual management in place. DOC individual block party eyeshadows are $20 a piece. You get 5 shadows with that formula in this palette. Do I think a single shadow is worth $20? Hellllll no.

[maggyme13]

What have I done ?! (3/3)

When Sergeant Bucky Barnes waked up one morning he is in for a surprise. A young woman is laying in his bed, half naked and covered in bruises. What happened? Did the Wintersoldier came back, even when everybody told him that is impossible? Or did he do that?

 Wordcount: around 1700

Warnings: Mentions of Injuries, angst, some cursing

 AN: Last Part! Are you ready to know what happened?

Masterlist

WHID-Masterlist

Part 2

It had been almost two months since the morning the young woman woke up in Bucky Barned bed. But still, there were no memories back and neither was she able to speak. And she maybe will never be able to do so again, should the damage to her vocal cords be worse than first thought. It had become easier to communicate since Wanda had returned from their mission, now she could answer with her thoughts and didn’t need to use to write everything down.

“(Y/N) how are you feeling today?” Dr Banner greeted her upon entering the common kitchen and she answered him with a thumb up and a smile.

After she had trusted them, and the rest of the team had returned, they had figured it would be best for her to stay at their place. They could be monitoring her healing progress and she would be safe, should her attacker return. Nobody was thinking it had been Bucky, except the man himself.

“Remember anything?” He asked her, getting a cup of coffee to take back into his lab.

With a sad frown on her face, she shook her head and gave a thumb down.

“Don´t worry, I am sure it will return sooner or later. Until then you are very welcome here. And I can not only speak for myself but your cakes and cupcakes are delicious! Tony is making progress with the recordings, so there is that.” Dr Banner assured her, before departing again.

“Morning (y/n), how is your throat?” Wanda greeted her with a huge smile on her face.

Good, it doesn´t hurt that much anymore and the bruises are faded quite a bit.

“Good to hear. Why don´t you join us at the beach today? The whole team is going.”

Sounds good, but I don’t have anything to wear.

Just when Wanda wanted to say something, a certain someone stepped into the kitchen, only to turn around immediately.

He hates me.

“No Honey, he isn´t. Bucky- is giving himself the fault for what happened to you.”

Why? I can´t remember anything but I am sure he didn´t hurt me. I mean, I would be afraid of him otherwise right? My subconsciousness would tell me to stay away from him otherwise, right?

“Probably. His presence would at least trigger something.”

I feel safe, but how is that possible if I don´t interact with him?

“Maybe something he did before you woke up? I am sorry that I can´t help, but your memory is a black nothing at the moment.” Wanda apologised, she really wanted to help her new friend.

No worries, it is nice to be able to talk to someone without the need to write everything down! But I still have nothing to wear for the beach.

“Natasha, Pepper and I wanted to go shopping on Starks costs, tag along.” She suggested.

I don´t know, it is his money after all.

“Maybe, but he wouldn’t miss it. He actually told us to spend something if we need, as long as it is no bullshit. And I know he feels guilty that the records are gone and he doesn´t know why, so he would buy you a house to make it up.”

Are you kidding?

“No. That is Stark for you.”

Well then. When are we leaving?

Five hours later, the women laid in the sun at the beach, waiting for her male comrades. They all were dressed in bathing suits and bikinis.

(y/n) had found a beautiful dark blue bikini and wore it with a pair of shorts (the bruises on her thighs weren’t as faded as the others), a light makeup covered the remaining bruises on her throat.

Wanda, I need to pee. Do you know where the restrooms are?

“They are over there in that little blue and pink building. Do you want me to come with you?” She smiled and motioned towards a building around two minutes march away.

Thank you. But I don´t think I want to speak with the toilet, so thanks for the offer but nah. Will be back in a few.

Walking towards the building, her friend had shown her, she enjoyed the warm beams of sunlight on her skin, not noticing the dark gazes that followed her.

 Finished with her business, the young woman made her way back to the other women (and the males, should they have appeared by then), but when her eyes felt onto a group of five males standing nearby, she stopped dead in her tracks. Two of them had broken arms, two other broken noses and the last one seemed to limp.

Panic started to rise inside of her and her eyes searched for a known face. But she was alone and Wanda was too far away to be able to hear her thoughts.

SHIT!

The group stepped closer, and her heart sunk, why was she so afraid of them?

“Isn´t that our luck boys? See who we have here. The bitch that got away two months ago!”

“Why don´t we end what we started? No one ever checks the restrooms.”

“I call dips on that sweet ass of hers!”

What the fuck! HELP!

With every step the men got closer, pictures flashed up in her minds:

A dark alleyway. The men. A hand keeping her from leaving. A slap and a shout for help on her side. A punch and a closing hand around her throat from the one of the men. Hands grabbing and punching her, others pulling down her pants and ripping her shirt apart.

The flashbacks made it impossible for her to move, and a second later she was surrounded.

“What? No cry for help? I told you the last time to shut up. A shame we won´t be able to hear your screams now. You did a good job with her throat. Tell me, where is that metal arm bastard that saved you the last time? I bet he fucked you afterwards and you enjoyed it you whore.” The leader of the group whispered into her ear. A shudder went down her spine and she closed her eyes, hoping they would just go away.

But instead, she felt a hand close around her throat and cut off her air, tears began to fall down her face.

When she thought she was gone for good, she heard the sound of something braking and shouts of pain.

Using all the strength left, she opened her eyes, she saw three of the men laying on the floor unconscious , one was gripping a the metal arm that was lifting him up into the air.

Bucky. That is Bucky´s arm.- wait no, that isn´t Bucky, His eyes are all wrong!

Throwing the now fainted man next to his friends on the floor, the supersoldier casts his attention to the man that had (y/n) by her throat.

“I told you to leave her alone.” Bucky voice was as cold as ice.

“She´s mine. I saw her first.”

“Let her go.”

“Or what? You won´t kill me. You didn´t last time, you won´t this time.”

“Last time I listened to my humane side, this time it is on my side. The Soldiers side.” The man growled with a smirk, that could kill.

What is going on with him? Does he has two personalities?

When the attacker didn´t react, the soldier grabbed his arm with his metal hand and snapped it into little pieces.  Resulting in (y/n) falling to the floor and the attacker to scream in pain.

Without another word the soldier punched him in the face, knocking him out and breaking his jaw at the same time.

Turning towards (y/n), memories returned to Bucky.

It had been him, that had saved her and brought her back to the only save place he knew: the compound and room where his alter ego stayed and he was able to rest.

He had used a skill he had learned during his time with Hydra to delete any trace of him (the Winter soldier) taking over, fearing they would try to delete him should they find out about him. He wouldn´t be able to protect Bucky anymore then, the very and only reason for his existence.

He was born out of pain, to protect from it. He had taken over to protect Bucky from the pain and guilt of killing innocent and only when he met Steve Rogers, did himself to step back. He had know Bucky would be safe with his old friend.

Sometimes he was able to appear again, and then he would wander around enjoying the piece and quiet of the night. Just like he had done the night he had saved (y/n). He had heard her scream for help and the laughter of the men, he knew pain and when he saw her there, he couldn´t but help her. He was born to protect after all.

Slowly kneeing down in front of her, he allowed Bucky to see his memories and take the control again.

 A few hours later:

“So, the winter Soldier was protecting Buck the whole time and then showed up from time to time to take nightly walks?” Steve repeated what he had just learned.

“That’s what I can remember. Punk. Strange is it not?“

“Who would have thought the Winter Soldier was a good one, in his crazy twisted ways?”

“Enough of that. (y/n) what do you think about living here? You can bake and it seems the Soldier likes you, so  if he gets out of control, we don´t need to find you first.”

“Tony! You are a friend, not a shield. So what do you think? God knows we need more girls to fight this testosterone.” Natasha smirked.

Sure why not! Maybe I can speak again soon!

  Thank you all for reading. As always feel free to comment/ reblog and please let me know what you think

Hope you like this little 3 parter

  @philigree   @loki-laufey-son    @modestlyconfused @brenda-sucks

[braindamageforbeginners]

Ice Floes

Quickly, before we begin: 1. this is a mostly-true anecdote that ties together several different, ideas I’ve had in the last two-ish days, including... 2. There are no ice floes here, it’s a reference to senecide in certain cultures (rarely practiced in Norhern Tribes and never practiced in the usual, “Send Grandma floating away on a chunk of ice!” way).

So, the first concept idea for this pieces my younger brother, Andy, who is working this summer s a fire-spotter in Idaho and/or Montana (he’s stationed in a national park that covers really big portions of both states). This is a cool, Norman Maclean manly-man style job for a grad student, and we were all fairly certain Andy would like his job (which, as a per-diem, is hard to beat, I’ll admit), and we’d all love to drop in and say hello, except I’m in very specific chemo ward 3-4 times a month (and that last week when I don’t have chemo, I still have to get them to draw my blood and run labs), so my schedule’s a little hard to work. And I started joking that, with our family’s luck, Andy would wind up in someplace with a name like ‘Dead Man’s Gulch” or “Rattleasnake Ridge” (remember that line) that we’d just as soon not bother with. Well, parents won’t be discouraged, so Dad’s thinking he might scratch off a bucket list item AND visit Andy... by backpacking to him (or near him). Which, even though he’s a nut for the treadmill, is not exactly the first phyisical task you’d nominate Dad for if you saw him in person. However, he’s decided to start training to address that very problem. Also, Andy’s fire station is somewhere in the Rattlesnake Mountains. I’m absolutely not making that up, Also, since my more-twisted jokes are apparently reshaping reality in their wake, I’d like to joke that I’ll be a multi-gabillionaire in a few years after someone reclassifies these scribbles as science-fiction.

One of the issues/questions I’m faced with all the time (aside from, “Why did we catch you tying truck nuts to Deputy Pierson’s police vehicle*?”) is how much of my time I really do devote to staying healthy and managing your disease/prescriptions/insurance/appointments. The short answer is, almost all of it. I know I spent a post last week essentially boasting how healthy I was, apart from having Stage IV cancer. What’s important is to know is that I take a weird sort of pride in that, and, as Dad has pointed out, in most cancer cases, the death/survival rate refers to elderly people who have other diseases or health issues in addition to cancer; he hasn’t heard of patients who get chemotherapy, then go for a 3-hour leg day the next day (I’d point out that having a pediatric cancer - as I did, sort of (another brain tumor) has serious long-term health implications for survivors, and now that I’m having toxic sludge pumped through me on  regular basis has a few more long-term associated-problems that I’d like to avoid. The point is, it is slowly starting to dawn on me that he might have a point, and I’m definitely doubling down on that bet, too. Which Dad knows, and knows I’ll be up for any dangerous stunt, as long as there’s even a minor probability of increased healthfulness. Which is why Dad and my step-mom invited me on Dad’s inaugural training hike; The Path of Pain (that’s not the official name, but it’s more accurate than the real thing). Now, bit of context; it’s not true that the Inuit would kill people by putting them on an ice flow and then sending them off. What is accurate - from my sources  - is that in times of famine, some Northern tribes (probably including the Inuit) would suddenly decamp in the middle of the night without telling Grandma and Grandpa. effectively leaving them to the mercy of the elements and luck/fate (to be fair, if the grandparents made it to the new camp, they were honored and informed of all future camp locations). So, I was aware of this when the following conversation occurred: SELF: This hike isn’t one of those obscure traditions where you’re going to leave the sick, infirm, and old - the societal deadwood, if you will - out in the elements to save the rest from starvation or something, is it? DAD: No. Why, are you worried we’d leave you behind? SELF: Nope, just stating - on behalf of the ill - that I have absolutely no intention of being out-distanced by the old just so I can be dire wolf bait. Also, I am absolutely prepared to lie and cheat in the name of that goal. Other people probably have better father-son chats. Other people are boring.

So, before I start describing the festivities - which involve a severe and horrifying betrayal - I might need to describe my disability status, and disability as it stands. GBM diagnosis is an automatic disability according to social security, because of that whole “really, really, high fatality rate and incredibly fast progression (although I’m okay now - I think, maybe - when I fist met Radiation Oncologist, she said the tumor had a 20% growth rate, which means it would double in size every five or so days - I shudder to think how bad, how quickly that could’ve gotten). And, even though I’m mostly-fine at the moment, for the first two weeks after my neurosurgery, I couldn’t walk. This was because I was completely numb on my left side for that time. Remember the last time you got a cavity filled and the dentist used novocaine? Imagine that sensation - or lack thereof - throughout your left side. Walking was a problem because I had no idea where my feet were (unless I was looking). I’ve come a long, long way since then, but that was not even eight months ago (before anyone asks, after a rather dismal showing by the physical therapists at the hospital, I haven’t been doing anything special to recover, other than exercising like my life depends on it). So, testing it on a steep, dangerous slope seemed bright.

Those of you who’ve been hiking with me probably have no trouble picturing the image. I don’t exactly skip up paths, but I do power through them the same grim, pig-headed determination that I’m bringing to the rest of this damned disease. The peak in question is about 1500 ft - not a prize-winner, to be sure, but it’s not a bad accomplishment for someone who couldn’t even go 150 feet not too long ago.

Now, with that smirking sense of triumph and gold star accomplishment, imagine my dismay when my wicked step-mother announced that this wasn’t the goal of the hike, the actual peak we were looking for was... 22 miles away. Okay, so that’s a bit of an exaggeration, the sum-total route was six miles, all on difficult trail. Greek heroes in classic tragedies endured less betrayal.

Now it would’ve been well within my power to request to go back; but, at that moment, I was feeling physically good at marching a mile in less than an hour, and that sensation somehow fused with testosterone, the Stetson, and male vanity, so, even though I knew at the time it might not be a good idea, all I could do was just grimly forge on with a few complaints. Good news, after a severe challenge to my dexterity, balance, and endurance, I’m still mostly-intact. I’m painfully sore from the waist down (I’ve said before, I’ll say it again, why isn’t codeine OTC in this Godforsaken country like it is in every civilized place on the planet). Left leg (and side) are not too bad, but the right foot’s killing me (I’ve tried stretching and rolling it on my yoga roller, which helped, but it’s still not up to snuff) - when I first got out of the car after arriving home (it’s a California thing; we drive for an hour to walk), I couldn’t, because that stupid right heel was too tender, And after all this, my reward to myself was an extra beer and another Tylenol. What have I become? Anyway, Dad and I have quietly agreed that sitting up and getting out of bed should definitely count as a trip to the gym (he’s also ordered a tree that’s sitting by the garage, so there’s a distinct possibility he has darker plans in store for me), and I’m personally going to try and keep my step-mother from any and all topographic maps. Still, you can’t outpace time and you’ll die if you ignore new constraints placed by disease, so I’ll look into some sort of walking stick (I spent the first five minutes back in the car slumped in the driver’s side because that’’s how achey/creeky I felt all on the left) before attempting anything that stupid and arduous again *I’ll credit Dad with this joke when he discovered that you can get a discount on these items if you order them online in bulk

[hannahazzard]

Nothing Embarrassing About It (Harry x Childhoodfriend!Reader)

Prompt: a Kingsman meeting an old childhood friend on a mission or something.

Note: It’s dooooone, I made it to my deadline. And bigger than expected. It’s sadly not as good as I’d hoped, but all all I can bring up now. So, hope you can still enjoy it. Usual warning, not my first language, don’t have a beta, blah, you all know the risk of continuing. 

Third and last childhood friend story :) Eggsy is here and Merlin here

Nothing Embarrassing About It

“Come on, beautiful. You know you want to.“

You barely stopped yourself from gagging, but couldn’t help the eye roll. How some people could be so stupid was beyond you. You were supposed to meet your friend here at the bar, but sadly she’d had to cancel last minute. As you’ve already been here, you’d figured a drink wouldn’t hurt. Well, mistake. Sitting alone at a bar was obviously an invitation for every idiot to come over to you.

“Look,” one last time you would try it politely. “I’m sure you are a nice guy and all, but I just want to finish my drink in peace, and then go home.”

“I could join you,” the man winked and made to reach out to you. Right, that’s it. You were about to ditch polite and tear into him, when the hand heading your way was stopped by another. A new presence came up beside you.

“I would really appreciate it if you could stop bothering my fiancé.” A cool, deep voice told your would be suitor with a no-nonsense tone.

Great, another one. Pretending to be your fiancé; well, at least he’s original. You relaxed and turned back to your drink, letting the two males fight their testosterone filled battle of wills. The winner was clear pretty fast. The man that had been annoying you pulled his wrist free quickly and backed away with a muttered, so not sincere, apology. As you expected, the newcomer didn’t leave, but sat himself boldly on the stool beside you. Well, time to break another heart tonight. You took another sip of your Martini, the last thankfully, and turned to him.

“Listen, I appreciate the safe – even though it was not necessary – but whatever it is you want, I am not interested. So thank you, but I’m heading home now.” You made to stand and grab your purse, but stopped, surprised, when the man just chuckled.

“Oh, I was not my intention to safe you. Just him from an - albeit well-deserved - bloody nose. I know how short your temper can be, Y/N.” Your eyes widened at the use of your name and you sat back down. “Also, I take offense. After all, you pledged yourself to me years ago. You could at least let me buy you another drink.”

“What the-.” Stunned by the words, you finally did the guy the courtesy of looking at him. Or rather looking him over, really. Grey, pinstripe suit that fitted him perfectly, a white shirt and dark tie. He was tall, and lean. Then you looked at his face and fuck. It’s been years and you’ve been so young, but you recognized him instantly. You gasped and covered your mouth with your hand. Without thinking you propelled from your chair and into the strangers arms. No, not a stranger.

“Harry.” Your voice was trembling and his name came out in a half laugh, half sob. You would feel bad about squeezing him so tight, but he was holding you just as strong.

“It’s good to see you, Y/N,” he spoke softly into your ear. Harry didn’t complain that he had to hold all your weight, or that a few tears leaked down his neck, where your face was pressed. You’ve had some shitty years behind you. Meeting someone positive from your past – meeting Harry – again was a beautiful blessing.

Finally you pulled back a little, wiping at your wet eyes with a bright smile. “God, Har. Look at you. Look at me! It’s been so long.” You gushed and, you couldn’t help it, cupped his face to press a kiss to his cheek. “I have really missed you.” He smiled at you. There were dimples and laugh lines now, but you could swear it was the same boyish smile.

“I have missed you, too.” Harry took your hands in his and squeezed a little. “You look stunning,” he eyed you in your favorite evening dress. “Who would have thought you’d grow into your gangly limbs.”

“Hey,” you protested with a snort and pulled one of your hands free to box him playfully. “You are just still sore that I was taller than you, for one whole year.”

“You wish, lady. Everybody who said that just didn’t want to break your heart.”

“Your ridiculously styled hair didn’t count.”

Harry opened his mouth, but closed it again with a fond shake of his head. “Let’s agree to disagree, then.”

“And look for evidence to prove our case later.” You finished for him with a grin. “You’re on, Hart. I still got pictures and everything.”

“As competitive as always,” he chuckled, then lifted your hand to kiss it. “Now, I’m here with two friends, one of them probably staring at us with open curiosity behind me.” You looked over Harry’s shoulder and sure enough there was a table with two men. One tall looking, bald gentleman, who was mostly minding his scotch in front of him, and a younger man, with brown hair, staring in your direction. You grinned and waved. He immediately waved back happily, but quickly looked away when Harry turned to look as well.

“Cute,” you chuckled.

Harry shook his head with a smile and continued. “Would you like to join us? Or are you still adamant about going home?”  

“They won’t mind?” You would love to spend some time with Harry, but you really didn’t want to intrude.

“Quite the opposite, I’m sure. Especially Eggsy will be happy to interrogate you.” Harry waved away your concern. He held his arm out for you and let you to his table. Both man stood until you were seated, really not seeming to mind your presence at all.

Introductions were made quickly, and soon you were talking about your new drinks. You had to hand it to Harry, for all the trouble both of you had to find friends as children; Harry has now snatched himself two wonderful people. Both charming and polite and funny in their own respective ways. It was easy to talk to them. After about an hour, and another round of drinks, Eggsy finally exploded with something he must have been barely able to hold in, the way he was vibrating.

“So! Harry as a child. There have to be stories?” he looked at you expectantly. “To prove that he wasn’t.. born like that?” he added as if to clarify.

“Like what?” Harry asked the younger man with a raised eyebrow.

“Like a proper gentleman, sir,” Eggsy reassured hastily, making the round laugh, himself included.

“Well,” you leaned back and pretended to think, looking mischievously at your old friend. “I guess there were some occasions.” You wanted to make him squirm, sadly he just smiled softly back at you. Okay, so teasing didn’t work. “but it wouldn’t be very lady like to tattle, sorry.”

Eggsy groaned, dramatically disappointed and by the looks you shared with the other men, you agreed that the Eggsy maybe had enough to drink for tonight.

“Go ahead, dear. There is nothing about our time together that I am embarrassed about.”

Eggsy perked up immediately.

“Really?” you raised a brow and leaned forward on the table. Challenge accepted. “What about the time you caught a ball from me with your eye and then said at school that you were brawling with people twice your size?”

“Learned to duck that day.” Harry shrugged, unconcerned.

“And when you fell into our pond and had to walk home in one of my dresses?”

Eggsy snorted and even Merlin couldn’t help but grin.

Harry just waved a hand dismissively. “Please, you know I had the legs for it.”

“When you lost a bet and had to dye your hair red?”

“You can only know it’s not your color if you’ve tried it.”

It continued for a bit, Eggsy was positively beaming, Merlin looked like he was imagining everything vividly, but Harry still looked so damn content. Time to pull out your last ace.

“When your first kiss happened to be with annoying Lydia Kalof?”

Here, his face actually did a small twitch.

“She surprised me,” he defended himself with a sigh. “I admit, that was regretful. My first kiss was supposed to be with you.”  

Eggsy chocked on the last dregs of his drink and then slapped the table. “Smooth, Harry.” He coughed.

You felt your cheeks heating up and you knew it had nothing to do with the alcohol. Damn, he was supposed to get embarrassed, not you.

“But I think I saved myself,” Harry said, “by asking you to marry me, not annoying Lydia.”

“Wait, what?” Eggsy asked, shocked. “I’ve heard you call her your fiancé, but I thought it was just to chase away the other guy.”

“No, it’s true. She is.”

“Harry,” your blush deepened. Double damn. “We were kids.”

“I asked, you said yes. I say it counts,” he grinned boyishly. “You finger agrees.”

Of course he had seen your finger. Blushing madly now, you forced yourself not to cover your left hand. “Yeah, well,” you cleared your throat. “It broke when I was nineteen.” You stroked your ring finger, over the tattoo you’d gotten years ago. It was a grey band with a blue butterfly at the center.

When the ring fell off of your finger, it hadn’t really been a surprise. It had been cheap material and you’d worn it for years, every day. Still, you had been devastated. It had been a reminder of your home, good times and most of all, Harry. The decision to get a tattoo hadn’t been hard.

“You made our inion more permanent.” Harry said, reached over the table and lifted your hand again to his lips.

The ‘proposal’ had been made when your parents had been waiting for you in the car, giving you a moment to say farewell to your best friend. Neither of you had been happy about you having to move away. Both of you had been crying and clinging to each other. ‘Getting engage’ had been a childish attempt to be connected forever, you guessed.

Harry and you had never been together in a romantically way, but now, all grown up, you felt your heard speed up.

“Fuck,” Eggsy defused the moment, “if that isn’t the most beautiful fairytale, chick-flick shit I’ve ever seen. I want to be best man.”

You all smiled again, and Harry let go of your hand after one last stroke over your tattoo.

“Well, it’s way past bedtimes, my friends. And I think Eggsy here is drunk enough.” Merlin smiled.

“I’m drunk on love, Merlin.”

“Sure you are.”

It didn’t take you long to sort out your things and head out of the bar. Outside, it was time to say goodbye. You lived just beside the bar and the three men wanted to share the taxi already waiting for them.

It was an extraordinary pleasure to meet you, Y/N.” Merlin said, holding on to Eggsy with one hand and the other he held out for you. “I hope we will again.”

“I’m sure we will.” You shook his hand. “It was good to meet you, t- ugh.”

Eggsy interrupted you by hugging you with enough force to make you stumble. Harry and Merlin reached out to steady you as you laughed and hugged him back.

“Of course we’ll meet again. You’re our bruv now.” Eggsy’s words warmed your heart and your squeezed him one more time, before Merlin pried him off you and went with him to wait in the taxi for Harry.

“You have found great friends, Harry.” You looked at him with a smile, unsure of how to say goodbye.

“I did. However, I hope that we could meet up alone next time. Dinner? Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“I’d love to.” You beamed, happy that he wanted to meet you again. You reached out to hug him again. “Good Night.”

“Good Night.”

Harry didn’t step into the taxi until you reached your door, so you gave him one last wave before heading inside, happier than you’ve been in a long time.  

[davidquigg]

This is a short story I declared finished almost seven years ago. I dredged it up accidentally on Saturday morning by plugging “Canon AE-1″ into my Gmail’s sent messages.

I still like this story and care about it but nonetheless have shown that I’m capable of forgetting it exists, so I’m posting it here to give it a chance to go play outside.

SOMETHING ABOUT AIRPLANES

Draw her face.

Or his.

Yes, yes, you're not an artist.

Fine. Shut up.

Just try.

Try because I want you to know what I came to know only a few hours ago.

Start simple. Get paper. Get a pencil. Sketch the shape of her face. Don't overthink. Let's stipulate that this will not be art.

Just sketch.

You're paralyzed, obviously. I had the same problem. This is what it feels like when you start to know what I came to know only a few hours ago.

Go on. Sketch the outline of her face. It's just a shape. This could be middle-school geometry. I mean, you've got to know the shape of her face. You've thought of her at least once today. Because today is either a Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, or Sunday, and whenever it's Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, or Sunday, you think of her. So you've got to know the shape of her face.

This is when you'll be tempted to screw this all up by cheating. Log the fuck off Facebook.

You don't get to look at that little thumbnail photo she posted to her profile. You don't get to look at it because it's cheating. You also don't get to look at it because you promised yourself you wouldn't look at it. She's not even your Facebook friend. And you've supposedly come to realize that there's something unseemly about clicking on the profile of one of your seven mutual Facebook friends and then clicking through to see their friends just so you can scroll down and smear your screen with nose grease because you're crowding in close and then closer to her thumbnail photo. Look at it this way: If she lived next door to a friend of yours, would you contrive to visit that friend's place just so you could look out his window and into hers? Don't answer that. I'm liable to hate you for your answer. Or I'm liable to hate myself less. I'm not interested in hating myself less. I'm not interested in you hating yourself less. I'm interested in you knowing what I came to know only a few hours ago.

So sketch. It's hopeless. I know. Let me save you some hours. Draw an oval. Any oval. Does the oval look exactly like the outline of her face? No. Obviously. But it's a start. Darken the inner edge of the bottom of the oval. Does the oval look more like her? Less like her? Adjust accordingly. Keep darkening inner edges. Keep assessing. Keep adjusting. Somehow you will eventually end up with a shape that seems surprisingly right.

Now pick a facial feature. Maybe eyes. You're not an artist. I know. Neither am I. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because I just need you to point to the exact spot inside the oval where her right eye should go. You've got to know that, obviously.

It's hard. But you got the face shape eventually. Or you think you did. So you should try. Just point to the spot. Just point. With the pencil. If I managed it, you'll be able to manage it.

But did I actually say that I managed it? I'm pretty sure I didn't say that. I didn't say it because it didn't happen.

Try to realize what this means and let it really sink in. Try. I say "Try" because you're not going to realize what this means. What you're going to do is wonder what this means.

You're going to wonder what it can mean that the same brain that can picture Jay Fucking Leno or Don Fucking Knotts or Angelina Jolie or Justin Fucking Bieber is only capable of rendering her as some smudge in a haze of longing.

She accused you once of just loving the idea of her. But nobody had ever been more real to you, so the accusation seemed ridiculous. And now this.

You have never had a sewer rat lick you with the ardent, rhythmic persistence of a family dog. But just the thought nauseates you, and rat-lick nausea's back-of-the-throat scuttling is what you feel now. Without knowing why. Without really knowing what this whole Leno- Knotts-Jolie-Bieber-her syndrome adds up to. Knowing, though, that it is something novel and morale-wrecking and mercilessly survivable.

Everything seems to be mercilessly survivable. This, for example. It happened years ago, when I could have drawn her face. It is happening years ago, when I can draw her face. It is happening.

She has found me out. Or thinks she has. She does not see me seeing that she is setting a trap. She is among the new CDs. In the D section of the shop. I look away.

A moment before, she did something to a copy of Something About Airplanes. I don't know what. But it doesn't matter. I'm assuming it involves some kind of subtle identifying mark. If I wanted to avoid getting caught, the specifics of what she'd done to the CD would matter. I don't want to avoid getting caught.

What she is doing now is an equal mystery to me. As I said, I have looked away. This is not an easy thing to have done. She has made a starer of me. I am not a starer. I could have been. I would have been. But back when my unfurling teenage libido threatened to ruin me, Andrea Zilpop sat me down on a humming Kenmore dryer and made me watch "The Tao of Steve" on the TV/VCR her parents had installed in their laundry room.

Andrea had seen the movie at work, which for her in those days was Rain City Video in Fremont. She hoped the movie might somehow trump my testosterone and allow me to remain someone she could bear to stay friends with. Her plan was not crazy. There is, I dimly remember, some learn-a-lesson section of the movie. But that is not the lesson I learned. What stuck in my brain instead is one pillar of the obese, irresistible protagonist's mantra of seduction: "Be desireless."

Being desireless has worked. So I have stuck with being desireless. In every way.  I do not, for example, stare.

As I said, I have looked away.

I do not want to be looking away. My face tingles from the perverseness of looking away from Mali. Mali may be her real name. Or it may not. Maybe her east-of-the-mountains parents named her Molly and she has moved to Seattle and become Mali. I don't care. This isn't about her name. This isn't about her Value Village clothes. This isn't about her piercings. This isn't even about the seemingly extravagant breast tattoo that reveals its topmost sliver whenever she interrupts her clack-clack-clack perusal of our latest used CDs and arches her back.

I am an expert on what this is not about.

I balance a stack of CDs on my left palm. New CDs. Not truly new. Used, in fact. But new to us. Willy bought them. Sam priced them. Now I'm stocking them.

Somewhere in this stack is Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. I know this because an imaginary Jeff Tweedy has been singing my favorite track inside my brain from the moment I picked up the stack. "… Tall buildings shake / Voices escape singing sad, sad songs …" Jeff just sang that.

Imaginary Jeff.

When I'm stocking, there is always a song in my head. And sometime during the course of stocking, I always discover that the disc that holds the song has been in my hands all along.

Somewhere in the stack. This has stopped freaking me out. It has stopped seeming mystical, beautiful, impressive, oppressive.

Someone is moving into my peripheral vision. Closer. Closer. Whoever this is, they are not Mali. Even out of the corner of my eye, the blur is all wrong. And they're getting close in a looming, intrusive way she never does.

"Uh, have you heard if …" He does not pause. The elipsis is mine. Because, hell, I just have to interrupt. Here, at least.

Even if not in real life.

Because it's so obvious what's going to happen here. It's time to play Stump the Record Store Guy. And, yes, I'm human. I'm stump-able. But not by this guy. I can tell that from his blur. I don't even have to look over at him. I can also tell his question is not real. He doesn't want an answer. He wants me to know that he knows stuff that he assumes I don't know. Fine, I'll let him talk.

"Uh, have you heard if Andrew Bird is going to put out a live CD of his '05 show at Doug Fir Lounge? I think it was like April. Yeah, April 9th. Best show I've ever been to, dude."

No it wasn't, I want to say. Because this guy was not at the show. Don't ask me how I know. I just do.

"Yeah, they say …"

This is the sure tipoff that all this comes directly off the Web. Which is cool. Just be straight about it.

"Yeah, they say it was his best performance ever of that Happy Birthday song."

This is nonsense, of course. I don't claim to know when Andrew Bird's best performance of the song happened. But I do know that he performed a purer, better version in Amsterdam nearly four years earlier.

"Man, I'd give anything to hear that show again," he continues.

This is where I almost snap. I want to tell him to go back to www.archive.org/details/ abird2005-04-09 if he wants to hear the show so badly. Because we both know that's where he heard it in the first place. Not live.

This guy is talking over imaginary Jeff Tweedy's singing to involve me in his charade of self- esteem building. I want it to end.

"Let's check something," I say, smiling as I lead him nowhere near the Andrew Bird section and straight to the Andrew W.K. section. I paw through the discs, looking in vain for a recording on which Andrew W.K. performed in Portland under the name Andrew Bird.

He snorts. This ingrown hair of a man snorts. He's not even going to call me out on my error. He knows he knows more than me now. This is all he came for. He can tell himself that this is why he buys all his music on iTunes. He's smarter than all of us. Nothing for him to learn here that he can't learn by consulting John Cusack's iTunes Celebrity Playlist and clicking "Buy All Songs." I mean, John played a record-store owner in a movie. So if John recommends fifteen tracks and two of them are by Gnarls Barkley, then it must be for a good reason. Right? Right.

"I'll take it from here," he says, shaking his head.

Good.

"Uh, OK?" I say, feigning bafflement. "Let me know if I can answer any more questions." This all feels so good. The hollowness of his swagger washes away all my annoyance. Stuff like this is what I'd miss if I quit. And Mali. I'd miss Mali, obviously.

She is finished with whatever trap she was setting for me in the New section. Unless someone else with a fake question intercepts me, I am about to be standing shoulder-to- shoulder with her in Used. She does the back-arching thing. I'm way too far away for a glimpse of tattoo. But still. Still.

I would pay to have someone competent take my picture right now. Because I sense that I have never looked happier. And I'd like to know what this feeling looks like. I'd like to hold a print of this moment in my hands when I'm very sad or very old.

Mali is doing something with her eyebrows. She is acting. It is bad acting. Bad, adorable acting designed to convey concentration. She is flipping through discs in the catchall section where we indiscriminately file all bands that start with D.

She exhales loudly. Loudly and adorably. Crap, I am so not desireless.

"Hey, Hilliam," she says, looking up while still doing the frustrated, focused thing with her eyebrows.

I should explain that I was Willie before I started working here. Willie Hill. But Willy already worked here. So I couldn't be Willie at work. When I refused to be Billy or Will or Bill – Will Hill?! Bill Hill?!! – it was Evan who cracked himself and everyone else up by blending my given name and last name. Hilliam. I'd become Hilliam. And that's who I am. Here in Ballard, at least.

My parents hate it. Obviously. But they live in Wallingford. In Wallingford, I'm still Willie.

"Hey, Hilliam," she says, doing the eyebrow thing. "I've been wanting Something About Airplanes. For weeks. Does anybody ever bring that in used or do people just hang on to it?"

"We see it sometimes. In this town, there's always at least one person swearing off Ben Gibbard."

"For serious?"

"You'd be amazed."

"Oh."

"Last week. No, two weeks ago. Dude comes in. He's got an empty kitty litter bag that he's filled up with every Death Cab record, every Postal Service record. He's got All-Time Quarterback. And he's growling."

"Growling?"

"Well, words. But he's growling the words," I say and yell out "Travesty!"

Sam is closest. He yells "Travesty!"

Willy hears. He yells "Travesty!" He pauses, stomps his foot, and hollers "Unconscionable!"

"Unconscionable!" Sam yells.

"Unconscionable," I tell Mali.

"Is there more?" she asks. "I don't want to clap between movements."

"But you do want to clap, right?"

"I want to know what's unconscionable."

"And what's a travesty."

"Yes, a travesty, too."

"'Cupid.' The guy downloaded some unreleased solo tracks by Chris Walla. On one, Walla covered 'Cupid' by Sam Cooke."

"Travesty!" Mali says.

"You've heard it?"

"No," she says. "I'm just being cooperative."

"Right."

"Active listening."

"Right."

"Anyway …"

"Anyway," I say. "This guy hates Walla's 'Cupid' cover so much that he decides to sell everything ever touched by Walla or by people who touched Walla."

"So you've got his copy of Something About Airplanes?"

"Never at the end of the month."

"What?"

"We sold it almost right away."

"Oh."

"We'll get another."

"OK, well, can we do the thing again?"

"Of course. I'll call you if we get it in."

"Used."

"Right. I'll call you if we get it in. When we get it in."

"Used."

"Used."

With everything but her arms, she moves to hug me. It's a kind of lurch. You can't hug without arms. So we don't hug.

"You're the best," she says instead.

I love that she knows what I'm about to do. I love that she set a trap. It hasn't occurred to me that she might find this whole thing creepy.

I mean, how can it be anything but endearing to discover that the guy at the record store perpetrates a lovelorn fraud every time you mention a CD you're hoping to find used? It will go like this: 1) Hilliam retrieves a new copy of the CD Mali wants; 2) Hilliam pays for this new CD in cash; 3) Hilliam removes the CD's clear wrapping; 4) Hilliam buys the CD back for the shop, screwing himself out of about ten bucks because the CD is now, technically, used; 5) Hilliam waits seventy-two hours before calling Mali to say that the CD she wanted has miraculously appeared.

Fifty-some hours later, she calls the shop.

"Hey," she says, sighing.

Just that. She's never called before.

"Mali?"

"Uh, yeah. Does that junkyard phone have caller ID?"

"I recognized your voice," I answer unstrategically.

"From me saying 'hey'?"

"You sighed, too."

"Shit," she says, laughing. "Am I the Sighing Girl of Ballard or something? Is this how everyone thinks of me?"

"Not that specific. Sighing Girl of Seattle is what people tend to say."

"Smartass! … Want to meet up for a cigarette break?"

"You smoke?" I blurt, glossing over this unprecedented non-retail-related overture and fixating on the seeming impossibility that a smoker could smell as nice as she does.

"No."

"Then why are we meeting for a cigarette break?"

"Don't you smoke?"

"Not since high school."

"Oh, I just figured all you guys did. The shop smells a little like my grandpa's overcoat."

"Noooooooooooooo," I say, as if this truth stings badly.

She laughs. But this moment is slipping away. I slap at my pockets. I detect packaging.

"Lemonheads!" I say.

"What?"

"I've got Lemonheads. We could do …"

I'm looking around to see if anyone is within earshot.

"Do what?" she asks.

"Sorry, we could do a Lemonhead break. Are you down?"

"Lemonheads? Hell yeah, I'm down," she says. "Meet me like halfway?"

"Halfway like skatepark halfway or like kitchen-store halfway?"

"Kitchen store," she says.

We hang up.

The little guitar riff that opens "Portions For Foxes" is chiming out of the shop's speakers.

This is a coded message. What we mean when we play this song or any of the ten other tracks on Rilo Kiley's 2004 release is that we knew the sound of Jenny Lewis singing long before a National Public Radio review of her solo album introduced her to the ears of every amiable Dockers-wearer within range of Terry Gross's voice.

I yell to Willy that I'm going on break. He looks quizzical. So I pantomime smoking a cigarette. His eyebrows rise, signaling comprehension, and he waves goodbye. I walk out, striding west on Market just as Jenny Lewis sings me a warning: "the talking leads to touching / and the touching leads to sex / and then there is no mystery left."

This is not what I want to hear as I walk to meet up with Mali, hoping that the talking will lead to touching and the touching will lead to sex. Not what I want to hear at all.

So, reflexively, I play a song in my brain. Not just any song. And not even a whole song. Just the opening lyrics to a song from Jenny's bandmates' side project: "Well she gets real mean when she's drunk. / And she finally fell asleep and I'm glad. / She said, 'The only way you got as far is you did / is 'cause of me. Your songs suck.' " I've always wondered if those lyrics are about Jenny. Now, for convenience, I've decided to decide that they are definitely about her. I willfully black out the second verse where the mean drunk – whoever she is -- recants and apologizes.

Heedless now, I walk past the shoe boutique that used to be a rubber-stamp store and the booming restaurant/bar that used to be a failed restaurant.

No song plays in my head now. A rare relief.  I hear a Vespa start. I hear a clang. It's the type of clang made after a successful wallop of one of those smack-a-lever-with-a-hammer contraptions they erect in the feats-of-strength section of county fairs. This particular clang is synchronized with the Walk part of the mid-block Walk/Don’t Walk indicator. With its blessing, I now cross Market.

Continuing west, I pass the kids' boutique Mon Petit Shoe that used to be a friendly, long-in- the-tooth toy store, the yoga studio that used to be a Hallmark shop, the furniture store that used to be a competing record store, and the Puerto Rican restaurant that used to be an Australian restaurant that used to be the eastern part of the now-shrunken kitchen store.

Kitchen 'N Things is closed for the night. Mali has not noticed me yet. Her face is pressed against the store's front window, peering at something green.

I find myself wishing I were famous, wishing some paparazzi would leap from the shadows.

Though I'm not smiling, I sense that I look as happy as I feel. Again, I wish for a photograph that I could hold up and compare with every future joy. Is this pessimism, optimism, premonition? I stop my footsteps and watch Mali for a good fifteen seconds before calling out her name.

She does not turn to me right away. She peers a moment longer, seeming to say a kind of goodbye to whatever merchandise it is that she's coveting.

"Ah," she says, instead of greeting me. "I love Kitchen Uhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn Things."

I can't honestly tell if she's mocking the store's middle "'N" or cooing it like a loved one's nickname. I don't care. Either way, it strikes me as adorable. Anything she says drives me deeper in love.

"What were you leering at, lady?" I ask.

"Brushes. Silicone brushes."

"Don't you guys sell brushes?"

"Sure. Housewares. Aisle three. But not like these. Not silicone."

I don't know what to say. She goes on. Very earnestly.

"Plus, they're 100-percent recycled material. They're made from old fake boobs."

I nod without really registering what she's said.

"Are you serious?" I ask, regaining my common sense.

"Horribly serious," she says, giggling. "Dour. Humorless. Can't you tell?"

"Smartass," I say, reaching up and giving her left arm a gentle tap. "Let's get very, very serious here. How goeth your shift, fair maiden?"

"Goeth?"

"I don't know. I'm just making stuff up. How's your shift going?"

"Fine. The usual bizarreness. I just had two customers start bad-mouthing each other at the checkout. Freaks."

"What happened?"

"Well, we've got like two weeks left at the store before they tear it down to build the bigger, better store with the stacks of condos on top," she says, pausing to make some kind of crazy jazz hands that I take as a signal she finds the whole "bigger, better" thing to be bullshit. "Anyway, this woman pays for her stuff and starts chatting with me about where I'll be transferred during construction. Turns out, she knows my new store. I say that I've heard everyone's mean to each other there. She tells me, in this well-meaning-slash-excruciating detail, everything she knows about the nice people who work there. She also gives me advice. Career advice. Life advice.

Meanwhile, I'm ringing up some semi-older dude with a twelve-pack of Bud. The first woman does not stop talking. The dude keeps glancing back and forth between me and the woman.

Mostly, looking at me, though. Finally he leans in toward me and says, 'I think she likes you.' I pretend not to hear. Because like what, what am I supposed to do? Join in? Give him a little giggle? Help him slam this lonely, sweet woman who is so intent on being nice to me that she will not leave me the hell alone while I try to do my job? No. No. I won't. So I ignore him.

"And that should be the end of it. But as he walks past the woman with his beer, he says, 'Why don't you just leave her alone? She's not interested.' Now, the sweet woman stops being sweet. It's go time, man. She's like, 'Why don't you back off? Go home and drink your Budweiser and mind your own damn business.' "But she gathers up her plastic bags and heads for the door, where they go off on each other a little more. I manage to tune that part out. But now I've got the rest of the line to deal with.

The next guy is this mumbler. So, you know, he mumbles something. I say, 'What?' He says, 'I feel so low-maintenance all of a sudden' and glances over at Advice Lady and Budweiser Prick.

And, of course, he's low-maintenance by comparison. And that would have been totally great if he hadn't felt the need to point it out. Still, I say, 'You are low-maintenance and I appreciate that.' Luckily, he doesn't stick around to chat. He just takes his strawberries and his Odwalla and gets out of my life."

I tell Mali, "Oh my god. You're way too nice. I don't know how you can deal with people like that."

I say this. But it's not what I mean. I mean something more. I have a whole theory about this.

The theory goes like this: In all the world of retail, the most exhausting thing a woman can be is sexy and nice. Nobody girl-chats with mean and sexy. Nobody flirts with plain and nice. And pretty much every kind of customer just wants to flee from mean and plain. But sexy and nice? You get everybody. You get everybody who wants to see you naked. You get everybody who wants a friend. It is endless. And retail is already endless.

But I don't say any of this. Because what makes me any less weird than Mali's customers if I use her crappy-shift story as a clumsy excuse for telling her I think she's sexy? Better to impersonate a friend right now. Better to save telling her she's sexy for some dizzy, panting, half-dressed moment in our hypothetical shared future.

What words should pass through my lips if I manage to wipe away this smile? I simply don't know.

"You make me smile," I finally say since it is true.

"That's just because I'm too nice," she teases.

"No, it's in spite of that. Nice people make me frown. Every last one of them."

"Until now?"

"Until now."

"You're so full of shit."

I smile yet wider. She smiles, too.

This continues. Continues for longer than I want to document here, for longer than anyone would want to read. I remember every word, every gesture, every crumbly nibble of the cupcake we share down the street, every last expansion of my smile.

****

The film was trickier than the battery. My hands and the film and the inner workings of my neglected Canon needed to collaborate. They did, eventually. I thumb-flicked the lever to advance the film. I clicked the shutter release. Thumb-flick. Click. Thumb-flick. Click. Thumb- flick. I was ready.

The 16 I boarded is a southbound bus. But first it goes west. It drives along 45th until it reaches Stone Way. This is one of the vivid intersections of my acne years. Here stood the closest McDonald's to my house. It had a drive-thru. Very convenient. I knew people who went there.

But I disliked all of them. My loose confederation of friends always made the walk – and later the drive – east to Dick's drive in, where we could dine without the nuisance of chairs, tables, or even walls.

For reasons that seem, well, petty to me now, each of us would raise a middle finger whenever we passed that McDonald's at Stone and 45th. So the teenage me would have certainly flipped me off as the 16 turned left on Stone and I found myself missing the McDonald's and resenting the condos that had risen in its place.

The 16 goes south on Stone and jogs diagonally to the southwest before merging its way onto the Aurora Bridge. In some unremembered year when I was not yet a grownup and, therefore, still impressionable, a bus like this one fell from this towering bridge. A guy named Silas Cool shot the driver and then himself. I've harbored a gut-level uneasiness about this bridge and about people named Silas ever since. The closer I get to my own natural death the more it shames me that I don't remember the names of the murdered driver or the one passenger who died in the fifty-foot plunge.

This forgetting didn't trouble me at all that day on the 16. The uneasiness eclipsed all other thoughts. What power we all held. How powerless we all were. Any of us could pull a pistol and, for reasons known only to ourselves, change – or even end – the lives of dozens of strangers. There would be no stopping it. So I averted my eyes from the driver and from all the possible catalysts of my death.

I stared out the window toward the shrouded Cascades and twisted a ring on my AE-1's lens, compulsively changing the size of hole that light would pass through if I took a picture.

And so it is that my first shot that day was radically overexposed. The resulting photo – of the front end of a climbing seaplane that seems to just barely clear the bridge's railing – is more striking, more beautiful that anything I would have shot on purpose. I wouldn't know this until I got the film developed. Even then, I would need to shoot five more rolls before understanding the error that gave me this treasured image. It would take another dozen rolls before I could replicate the effect more or less at will.

I shot nothing when we passed the Space Needle. I shot nothing downtown when I got off to transfer to a 174. Nothing as we passed the home of the Mariners, the Seahawks.

I traveled with the camera pressed to my eye as we neared Boeing Field. But the overcast sky had suddenly switched from being a veil filtering the sun to being a shroud. This mid- morning dusk made the camera useless. Even using the widest opening in the lens, I would have had to expose the film to light for one-eighth of a second. Such a small sliver of a second is actually a long time in the world of photography. It is a fatally long amount of time when you're shooting from a moving vehicle. Unless you happen to know enough to pan the camera and keep the lens pointed toward whatever passing object you're shooting. That's when things can get interesting. Spectacularly interesting. But, as you may sense already, the only spectacularly interesting photographs I could make at this point were accidental.

So I'd only shot that lone photo from the bridge by the time the bus pulled over on East Marginal Way long enough for me to get off at my stop. This put me in the city of Tukwila, essentially across the street from the Museum of Flight. I intended to throw down the $14 to go inside. It was my whole reason for riding the bus this far. But I got detoured. In all my family and field-trip visits to this place, I'd never noticed that the outdoor airplane display was plainly visible – even to deadbeats standing outside the fence, especially to deadbeats with long lenses on their cameras. Turning my back to the wind, I removed my normal lens and replaced it with a zoom lens that allowed me to get closer to the airplanes without getting closer to the airplanes.

****

We are at Besalu. Mali and me. She got the table. I got the coffee and pastries. It's not busy. A rarity. And this is a relief. Because I didn't have to stress that we might have radically different approaches to getting a table in an overstuffed café. I'm of the laughably civil school of table- getting: literally, ask every person ahead of you in line if they need a table before taking one.

Mali might believe in the more standard, snake-a-table-as-soon-as-you-see-one-and-screw- everybody-else approach. If so, I am not ready to know this. I'd be willing to tolerate it. But unlike so much else, it's not the sort of thing I could manage to see as an adorable quirk.

"Oh, they look so good," Mali says, reaching for the plate of pastries that I'm just about to set down.

"You've seriously never been here?" I ask.

"No, this is my first time above 58th Street."

"Wow."

"Don't you ever have that? Streets you just don't cross? Whole parts of neighborhoods you don't bother to explore?"

I think about this. She talks.

"You think I'm lame," she says.

"No. Not at all. I was just thinking about what you said."

She nods.

"When I was growing up in Wallingford, there was this McDonald's …"

She is nodding furiously. I realize what's going on.

"Please, go ahead and start eating," I say. "You don't have to wait until I get done talking."

She smiles. Not at me. At her ginger biscuit. She takes a bite. She stops chewing, stops moving – the way you might if you were about to spit out something unexpectedly rancid. She closes her eyes. She swoons. Literally swoons.

"Amazing, isn't it?" I say.

She resumes chewing, swallows, reopens her eyes.

"Oh my god," she whispers, slapping the table with both palms and making Jurassic Park ripples in our coffees. "I could have kept that bite in my mouth for the rest of my life."

"Amazing, huh?" I say, realizing as the words leave my mouth that this is essentially the same thing I said less than a minute ago.

"Uh, yeah," she says.

She swivels, looks back toward the kitchen.

"Does he make these right here?" she asks, jerking her head toward a dark-haired man who's loading some kind of dough onto both sides of an ancient-looking scale. With a big knife, he slices a hunk from the left pile of dough and drops it on the right pile. The scale falls into balance.

"Yeah, him and two other people. But it's his place," I say.

"Would it be inappropriate to run into the kitchen and hug him?"

"Probably," I say, laughing hard until I start to wonder whether the little artistic venture I'm about to unveil would stand a better chance of shining in some other café, some place without its own resident culinary master.

I'd planned on offering Mali a taste of my croissant at this point. But that would be an impossible act to follow. I push myself. If I just say the words, I'll have to go ahead and do it.

"Hey, let me show you something I've been wanting to show you," I say, sliding a Ballard Camera envelope from the pocket of my jacket.

There are three more envelopes just like this one on my bed at home. They are thicker envelopes. This thinner one holds what I consider to be the eight presentable images from my four rolls.

"Come on. What is it?" she coaxes, noticing the hesitation I thought I'd managed to hide.

I've given a lot of thought to what comes next. Just hand her the envelope? No, seems almost apologetic. Hand her the images one at a time? Too controlling. Instead, I've decided to lay the images out. Three columns of two, topped by the remaining two photos. Why? Don't know. But this is what I've decided.

I put down the first two pictures. A smile – so full, so deep, so reassuring – takes over Mali's face. It animates me. I lay out the six remaining photos with the flourish of an overcompensating tarot reader. My chair is now meaningless. I am an idiot marionette, dangling, waiting for her reaction.

She's deliberate. Each image gets a long, careful look. I become aware that I'm sweating. I breathe fast. Then faster.

Please. Say. Something.

"Did you download these?"

"No," I say a bit too enthusiastically. "I took these."

"Who did you take them from?" she says, holding a hand to her aghast mouth.

She is messing with me. She knows what I meant. I know she is messing with me. I know she knows what I meant. But I am so keyed up that I start to defend myself.

"IdidnttakethemfromanybodyI," I blurt.

She lowers the hand from her mouth. It has been hiding a smile, that same smile. I breathe again. I am ready.

"I took these," I say. "With my camera."

She stares at me.

"You've never told me you were a photographer."

"I'm not."

And I take a deep breath because I'm about to flay myself.

"There's something about you, Mali. You just make me want to make things."

She squints at me.

"To create things, you know. For once. Instead of just talking shit, you know."

She squints tighter. The eyes close now. But a tear leaks from each eye.

Her left hand slides across the tabletop. I put my hand on top of it. We stay that way. While I'm not totally sure what has just happened, I know that it is powerful, and I sense that it is powerfully good.

****

Arranged in the same pattern but in a different order, the photos are now Scotch-taped to the wall next to Mali's futon. I wake to find her looking at them.

"I have a new favorite," she says.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, this one," she says, jerking her head in the direction of all of the photos.

She can't point. Her arms are around me, encircling my left shoulder, my neck, my right armpit. We went to sleep this way. I can't decide what would mean more to me: us having held this position all night or Mali having chosen to recreate it as soon as she woke up. This is another one of those endearing-either-way choices.

"I'm sorry, Armless Lady," I say, straining to kiss her neck. "I'm having trouble seeing where you're pointing. You're going to have to describe your new favorite photo."

I am expecting it to be that first photo I took, the one of the seaplane cresting the Aurora Bridge on its takeoff from Lake Union. Its accidental overexposure makes it unique among these eight photos. Also, I'm disinclined to admire any photo that I made on purpose. I still feel incompetent. Incompetent but strangely helpless to resist the urge to keep creating. So my camera is here by the bed. There's a new roll of film in it. The camera has a self-timer. I could set it on Mali's bookcase and photograph us right now.

I don't.

I didn't.

I never did.

She releases her hold on me and slides her left hand down my chest. She retrieves my right hand, brings it to her mouth, and kisses it before delicately folding everything but my index finger in toward my palm. She guides my hand until my index finger is pointing squarely at the blurriest photo of the bunch. Shot from below and slightly off to the right, it shows the nose and two cockpit windows of a commercial jet.

"Really?!" I marvel.

"Yeah. It reminds me of a clown's face."

"Hmmm," I say and then stare at it until the plane's nose becomes a clown nose and the two windows of the cockpit become the clown's eyes. "OK. Yeah. Clown face. Got it."

We're quiet until I say, "It's funny. You can't see it in black and white, obviously. But the part that looks like a clown nose was painted a total clown-nose red.

"I believe it," she says.

Her arms are back around me.

"I have to say, I'm surprised that's your favorite. You seriously like it more than the really similar one that's in better focus?"

"Seriously. That one looks like a plane – not a clown."

"Didn't realize you have such a thing for clowns."

She laughs, gives me this tender headbutt. I expect banter along the lines of "Well, I'm lying in bed with a clown." But she must not want banter. So I retrace our conversational steps.

"I'm trying to figure out what it means that I set out to take pictures of airplanes and your favorite airplane picture makes you think of a clown."

"Don't think about it too much," she says. "The clown thing is just a tiny part of it. I'd like it without the clown thing. What I like most is that the picture looks like a mistake."

"You like it because it looks like a mistake?"

"I like it because it looks like a mistake. But mostly I like it because I don't think it's really a mistake. Of all of these, it's the one that looks most like you were pushing yourself, reaching for something. And I guess only you know if you actually reached what you were reaching for. But whatever. I like that you trusted me to look at it. I like that you trusted me to see past the blurriness."

"I almost didn't show you that one."

"And maybe that's what I mean. This is the one that stopped you. This is the one where you needed to decide what this was all about, whether you were going to show me some flawless, boring-ass pictures or whether you were going to show me you."

"What's weird to me," I say slowly, "is that I'm showing you a me that didn't exist a week ago."

"Well then maybe what you're showing me is us."

It is a flat, detached, factual statement. I try to catch my breath.

I can't.

I couldn't.

I never could.