#AND I learned that the color-perception shit was off AFTER I finished it and everything

[nightmarearian]

my bullets will find you.

(rage).

"He cast aside his physical form in order to etch the memories of rage and sadness deeper into his being." -Black Swan

"He really wanted to just fall asleep like this and never wake up. Until he heard those crude songs and those gentle words, and memories of yore surfaced once again. The unforgettable hatred turned into a weak light in the darkness and he followed it to walk toward the end of it all, exerting every ounce of his strength to rise once again to the surface." (Boothill's Character Story: Part III)

My Life Stood as a Loaded Gun

(really just this analysis, really).

hhhhhhh

his themes of being a dead man walking and absolute rage (being what's keeping him going) are my fuckin roman empire I love him so much Give him the world I beg 😭

as far as I can tell, the "my bullets will find you" were for Acheron, but it fits verrry well for any target of Boothill's, really, soooooo

this... uhh. Moodboard-esque doodle page of mine being the original reference. That one shot at the bottom left :)

[stinkysam]

Choi Subong “Thanos” - Ka-ching.

Warning : none

Genre : fluff

Synopsis : “thanos with a rich reader?” -anon

Reader : male (you/yours)

A/N : bold is in English

Oh, he’s so gonna use your money to his advantage. You freed him from his debts and are constantly paying him stuff, so he believes himself untouchable now.

You’re always spending money on him and he’s absolutely smug about it. A bit like a sugar baby but with feelings involved.

Don’t worry, he too spends your money as well.

Buying new high fashion clothes, special edition shoes, expensive rings. Sometimes he uses your own money to buy you stuff.

It’s the thought that counts, right ?

His clothes are really bright and colorful, with a few occasional darker ones, for you it’s the opposite. You own a lot of suits that are generally quite basic and dark but the colored and original looking ones come from him.

One day, you were staring at one of his bright orange t-shirts. It made you think of those fluorescent safety vests.

“Are you afraid to not be seen at night ?” You suddenly asked.

“Huh ?”

“It’s so bright I can’t look at it.” You continued, closing your eyes with a dramatic grimace. He scoffed, taking the shirt from your hands to put it on.

“Everyone’s in dark clothes.” He replied. “I want all eyes on me.”

You nodded, watching him put some cargo shorts on.

“You make me think of, uh, birds.” You smiled, trying not to laugh.

“Huh ? Birds ? Pigeons ?”

“When did I say pigeons ? Are pigeons the only birds ?” You sighed. “Birds try to mate by displaying their colorful plumage. Courting.”

He looked at you weirdly, thinking.

“Why the fuck are they attracted to colors ?” He asked, sitting on the bed to put his shoes on.

“Bright colors show their good health and that they’re genetically advanced. There’s more but I doubt you care that much.”

“You’d be a boring looking bird.” He said as you flopped next to him on the bed.

“Ah, you hurt my feelings, man.” You threw your hand in the hair, hitting his shoulder before letting it glide down his back. “You’ll learn that there’s no boring looking birds. Even pigeons. You’d be a pink-necked green one.”

He scoffed, standing up.

“Search it up ! It’s not as flashy as you but it’s still really pretty.” You said, resting on your elbows.

“You think I’m pretty ?” He asked with fake shock. “Homo.”

You snorted.

“No. Ugliest man I’ve ever laid my eyes on, get out of my house. I'm gonna scream.” You replied, throwing a pillow at him, hitting the back of his head as he laughed before exiting the room while flipping you off.

Later he sent you a text saying pink necked green pigeons were actually decent looking.

He says he doesn’t like asking for money yet he’s spending every won you give him.

He’s like this especially after his rap career flopped. He worked his ass off to succeed, made some money off of it and suddenly everything went to shit.

But now that he has your money, he can make a big comeback and shock everyone back to their places.

He’s trying to find a label that would want to work with him while making an album, already planning which song would have a music video and what’s gonna be in it. It’s far from cheap. Though it’s all just ideas for now as he hasn’t finished writing even half of it.

You had to put some limits to his spending habits. Because as much as you loved him, he was spending way too much like a teenager with zero perception of the cost of things and life in general.

Either you help him with his album but no more expensive clothes, shoes, cosmetics.

Or he can buy whatever he wants but does his album on his own.

He whined about it a lot, but chose you to help him with his album in the end.

“I still don’t understand why I can’t do both.” He sulked as you rubbed his back.

“Do you think I’m Jay Y. Lee ? Or maybe you miss your debts that badly ?”

“Of course not ! But I’m not spending that much !” He scoffed, rolling his eyes like a child.

You chuckled, raising your eyebrows at him.

“Maybe you should use your money to pay for all the things you buy in a month. What do you think ?”

“Huh ?” He stared at you, caught off guard. “No way ! Come on !”

“I don’t know. I like that idea.” You said with a shrug standing up and walking away. Thanos quickly followed you.

“Hey, let’s not be hasty.” He grabbed your shoulders, rubbing them. “You’re still gonna help me with my album, right ?” He leaned closer with a smile, wrapping his arms around you.

“Ah, should I ? I don’t know…”

“You told me you would !” He said as he slapped your shoulder, making you chuckle. That fucking brat.

“I’m fucking with you, of course I will. Just no other expenses.” You smiled, turning to face him.

He sighed, throwing his head back in frustration with a groan.

“Okay, fine. But you promise you’ll help me ?”

Your hands gently went to his face, pulling it closer as you caressed his cheeks before kissing his forehead.

“Of course. Pinky promise or whatever.”

He absolutely loves your house. It’s big and spacious and it’s equipped with recent gadgets. A fully equipped kitchen that looks like you never used it. You actually use it, well, not you but your cook does. And the food is always delicious.

The bed is definitely bigger than his. He still hogs all the blankets and most of the place.

He refuses to sleep on the sides, preferring to be in the middle because he fears he’s gonna fall. So if he goes to bed before you you’ll have to push him a bit especially if you like sleeping in the middle as well.

You let out a long sigh as you watch him sprawled on your bed, arms and legs open wide with the blanket wrapped around his body.

“Subong. Move.” You said, pushing him to wake him up. He hummed before replying.

“…no.”

He hissed as you placed your cold hand on his naked back, successfully making him move away from the middle.

You quickly laid down, pulling on the blanket wrapped around him.

“What are you doiiing ?” He asked with a groan, stretching, bones cracking.

“What do you think ? Going into my bed to sleep.”

He just hummed, not caring anymore about what you just said as he went back to sleep.

Just like you he’s not really patient if you go to bed first and sleep in the middle.

He scoffs as he climbs into bed and pushes you away from the center. You fight back, yawning half asleep as you try to not lose your territory.

“Fucking bastard, move !”

“Nooo. Fuck off !” You replied with a tired voice, wrapping your arms around him to trap him.

He tries to fight it but ends up giving up, falling asleep on top of you with a frown.

That scowl never really disappears even as he’s long gone, drooling on you.

You categorically refuse to let him drive your car. He has extreme road rage and drives with way too much confidence to be safe on the roads. And with how much your car had cost you, there was no way you could risk it.

Do not believe Thanos only loves you for your money. He definitely appreciates that part about you, don’t get it twisted. But he also really likes just spending time with you.

If you have free time, he’ll take you to the made-up studio in your house so you can stay with him. Sometimes he’ll record you making weird noises to put in the background of his songs or he’ll ask you to give him a beat.

He spends a lot of time there and as interesting as it is, it gets boring for you after some time. Hearing the same part over and over, random instruments, erasing it, making the same one but slightly different, going to another part, repeating it over and over. And so on.

If there’s a concert or show he can do, and the opportunity is rare now, he’ll invite you backstage even if he’s not allowed to.

He’ll just piss people off until they accept. You told him to stop because they’ll probably won’t ask to come back again if he’s too annoying. But he doesn’t care, you have to be here.

There’s a mental note in his brain to repay you completely once he's a well known and loved rapper. For now he’s just stuck dreaming.

But with a little bit more patience and your help, he can definitely make it and even make people forget about the lyrics troubles he had.

[lostbbygorl]

alternate redcrackle ending (part 2)

Ava was out of the room for a little over 45 minutes. She spent her time just eating with her other nurse pals, and tending to the rest of the patients.

But she couldn’t concentrate at all. Her mind was flooded with thoughts of the guy she had fallen for over his long stay at the hospital, and the girl he was so smitten with. Ava didn’t get it. Gray had hinted at her being too feisty and difficult, yet he always had a small smile when he talked about her. What did she see in him? Ava had suddenly developed a deep distaste for the color red, and a slight distaste for Carmen herself.

Ava had a warm disposition, but she also had a mean streak to her. Ava was used to getting what she wanted, and her doll like appearances earned her the attention of a majority of men. Any of the male doctors would eat right out pf her hands if she wanted them too, but Gray didn’t budge. He truly only had eyes for Carmen, because no matter how she tried to charm him, no matter how much skin she decided to show for him, Gray would still dreamily gush over Carmen, the girl he had known for so many years, and had seen drastically grow up.

Frustrated, Ava freshened up her lipstick in the bathroom. She didn’t want to throw hands or become a murderer, she just very badly wanted Graham Calloway, and she was going to have him before that Carmen woman could do anything. 

Ava made her way to Gray’s room once again with a tray full of his lunch in her hand. When she opened the door, a horrible sight met her eyes. Carmen and Gray were giggling with slight blushes painted on both their faces. Gray had a bit of red lipstick on his lips, and Carmen’s lipstick was smudged.  The two didn’t notice her till she loudly cleared her throat. “Gray, I got your lunch”, she said in a small voice. She was no longer smiling and happy. Gray sat up a little straight in his bed, and Carmen gained a sudden interest in the view from outside the hospital window. “Oh, Ava, do you have a wet wipe or something I can use to wipe this makeup off my face?” Gray asked. “Sure, Gray” Ava chirped, happy that Gray needed something from her, even if it was small. “Um, Ava, could I please have one too? I don’t have any wet wipes on me at the moment” Carmen asked. In a scurry, Ava shoved her pack of wet wipes back inside her purse. “Sorry, Carmen, I ran out as Gray used the last piece. You don’t mind sharing with him though, right?” she asked with an obviously fake, tight smile on her face. “Um, never mind then. I’ll just soak some tissues and work from there on”, Carmen replied. 

Gray could sense the tension between the two girls. It gave him war flashbacks to when Sheena would try and drag him somewhere else, and Black Sheep would intervene and fight with Sheena for his attention (let’s face it this totally happened). Gray was always very perceptive, and he had picked up on Ava’s feelings for him very early on. He did like her a lot, but as a friend. He was grateful to have someone as cool and caring as her tend to him during his stay at the hospital, but nothing more or less. So he cleared his throat, and looked at Ava with a happy grin, and stern eyes. “Ava, I should tell you some good news”. he began. He looked at Carmen, who smiled back. “What’s up?”, Ava asked curiously. “Well, me and Carm are officially a couple”. he finished with a giggle. Ava wanted to combust right then and there! She wanted to claw out Carmen’s face with her bare hands. But she kept herself composed and faked another smile. “That’s amazing. I’m so happy for you”, she said in a sing song voice to mask her displeasure. “Um, I have another patient to tend to at the moment, so I’ll take your leave”. And with that she ran out of the room.

“You know, I don’t think Ava really likes me all that much. She seems to admire you though” Carmen said, breaking the silence. Gray chuckled. “She’s been into me for a while now. I only have eyes for you though, ol red sneakaroo”, he smirked. 

“You still haven’t stopped using that nickname?”

“Never will stop”

“It’s cringy”

“It’s cute and it fits you”.

Carmen laughed at that. For a moment, the new couple said nothing, till Carmen broke the silence again. “Look, Gray, I know why you didn’t wanna agree to dating me, and I’m sorry if I sound selfish right now, but I really can’t be without you again. Everything is better and way livelier when we work together, and we make an excellent team. I’m searching for answers, and I want to have you there along the way, so that we can both learn my true identity together, and so that you can meet your girlfriend’s mom”, she finished with a small chuckle. Gray said nothing as he processed her words. “We were together all the time back at VILE, and we’ve went on very risky missions and still made it out alive even after you got amnesia, we’re meant to be together. Having you in my life isn’t complicating shit, I really want us to be together”, Carmen finished. Gray exhaled before making eye contact with her. “You’re right, let’s give this a shot”, he said before pulling Carmen in for another kiss. Carmen broke the kiss first. “We’ll get through everything together. We’ll figure everything out together”, and with that, she pulled him in for another kiss. There was a lot to do and figure out after VILE’s decline, but for now, the young couple wanted to be lost in this euphoric moment that finally found them.

They wanted to be lost in the fuzzy feeling of this kiss for as long as possible. They had finally found their way back to each other, this time forever, and nothing could tear them apart again....

[sylaesschasewind]

All According to Plan

“No--You can’t. They’re in my head, not some fucking evil spell. You can’t dismiss them with incense and nice thoughts.”

She swatted the censer away from her face, albeit not the most vehement move but it ratcheted up her annoyance. The Tidesage frowned. Looming over where the elf sat on the bench. Or at least attempting the air. Sylaess couldn’t give half a shit. Fort Daelin was always under the air of chaos. The sea breeze didn’t do much to move the smoke from the braziers tonight. It hung heavily around the stonework like a greasy fog. Stung the eyes a bit, but that could’ve been the incense as well. Sitting back from the ramshackle barricades by ten feet, she worked the head of an arrow out of the plates on her thigh with that puny little knife she kept up her sleeve. The priest watched with iron eyes. The sounds of battle had ebbed; the naga would be back, but not for the moment.

Sylaess ignored him soundly, for the most part.

“You need to repent. The Ancient one will consume you. Use you to take the rest of us. Let me help you.” 

Locked her dark eyes on to his grey ones. He was nice, too nice, in fact. Weathered face, not all that old. Healthy muscle, and yet here he was toting the robe of a tidesage with his incense and iron charms. She would’ve put money on his past being spent in hard labor. Kul Tirans had a knack for that, after all. Sandy brown hair, sun-browned skin, grey eyes. Knuckles too big for a book-keeper’s hands.

Her stare broke his. He glanced at her hands working. 

“Tell me you honestly believe it’ll work.” Murmured so softly. Level and calm. “Tell me I’m not wrong in assuming I’m quite fucked at this point.”

The beat of silence was enough of an answer. 

“You followed me from Boralus for what? A chance to redeem a fucking Acherian? To slit my throat when I’m not looking, maybe stun me long enough for the naga to finish that charming path?”

A smile tugged at her lips, but it was cool. Empty. “Admirable.”

The Tidesage frowned, steeling himself. She saw it in the way his shoulders tensed. He stared at her this time. There was fury under that practised calm, that priestly visage. She was lucky he didn’t call a guard or smite her where she sat.

“No; you are not beyond saving, you pompous piece of undead filth.” He spoke through gritted teeth. Sonorous tone dropped. “Or I wouldn’t be here.”

She let the silence stretch between them, the awkwardness settling, finally flicking the annoying arrowhead away. It hadn’t gotten her, just screeched awfully when she walked. What a strangely lucky shot. It clattered on the cobbles. The elf rose smoothly, tucking the blade back into her sleeve. Slipped around the man. Wasted enough time on words.

“I will follow you.” “That wouldn’t be intelligent. I’m not as fragile as someone who needs to breathe.” A half-smirk tugged her lips. She didn’t stop her gait.

Heard him cursing her under his breath. 

His tenacity was commendable. She had to admit she rather liked it; he held to his word as she stalked out of the fort. Down the sandy path, past the Tortollans. A fast clip, but he didn’t say a word. It had been the better part of a half hour. Sylaess was just as happy to ignore the bastard. If he was going to strike, it would’ve been sooner. Easier.

But he didn’t.

Ankle deep in the salt-water, she stared out at the rocky island. Drawn to it. Consciously or not, she’d have ended up here. Just something she knew. Some unbidden knowledge, a plan that was far beyond her own will. All too familiar feeling. It was just like...

“Would you stop?” 

The flash of anger boiled under her skin at the succinct words. It teased and mimicked that dark corruption under her skin. The forbidden runes, the tainted power. It twisted, coiling about in her gut like some animal that wanted to be fed. She had no way of gripping it. Using it. It slithered through her fingers unbidden, a mind of its own.

Time seemed to stand still, or her perception had slipped again. The wind caught in her cloak, the lapping sea foam at her ankles. The tickle of loose hair tugged across her face. All of it meant nothing. Nothing against that rhythmic thrum of power bubbling up through her veins. 

Poisonous.

Felt her head roll back slightly. She didn’t feel in control of anything. It was a shaky, flighty experience at best. Distant. Watched the sun-browned Tidesage stiffen in surprise. The light of realization gave his grey eyes an almost childish glint. He felt it too late to react. Her fingers bent in patterns that looked absolutely unnatural. Angles that would break fingers. But they flickered through her hands at her sides. 

The familiar pull of magic bled from her. Coiled around the man and drew him through the water better than if she had thrown a rope around him. Water sloshed around his feet leaving little trenches in the sandy mud. He struggled but it wasn’t going to work. Felt her own chest tighten; the knowing was worse. 

But she’d been here before.

The deadly coil of magic was strangling him. His mouth flapped voicelessly but she couldn’t quite focus on him. Hands out, grabbed him by the lapels. That jittery feeling resonating up from her bones, that wild power out of her control--the world seemed to shift--

Pulled through a thick barrier. Veil. Whatever it was that separated the realms. 

Color bled away to blacks and greys in poor contrast. Shadows pulled at them. Shapes. It was cold. Sylaess moved without thinking, the fuzzy definition of the landscape was all too familiar now. Being pulled into the shadowlands was getting easier. Navigating them had a trick, one she didn’t trust. Walking through the water had no sound. The Tidesage seemed to be no more than a paperweight. It was always much easier to move in this realm of spirits and foul things.

It wasn’t exactly fear, but it came awfully close. Paranoia, maybe. Hypervigilance. The power was fading fast, but no one was ready to get pulled through the shadowlands so quickly. He didn’t fight her. Morrath was stunned to stupidity. Something she was silently grateful for. 

Looming shadows circled them. Sylaess forced her eyes away from them. Through them. Don’t stare. Long steady strides brought them past the shoal quickly. Closer to the island. You could almost swear to the sight of other people in those formless shapes but it wasn’t quite right. Divining an answer would test sanity, that she was sure of. She had seen faces she knew, vaguely, but couldn’t recall the names of. Anything from flickers of the past to monstrous creations of darkness chasing after her. 

It was over faster than she thought.

The runes flared along her armor unbidden--They dropped heavily onto the damp grass on the crest of the rocky island. The shadowlands spitting them out tersely. Felt it in her gut as much as the mild flex from her knees. Out of the grey lands, back to the dampness of ocean air. He grunted, arms lolling, pinioned up by her grip on his robes.

Fragile moment for reality to settle, the sea breeze tousling the loose hairs about her face. Don’t let it slip, Syl, its delicate. Move. Shook it off. A half-breath and pivot. Launched the man at the strange altar nestled in between the rocks. Heard the breath blast out of his lungs, crushing the shout he’d almost managed into something mangled and weak. It all seemed distant, and yet she couldn’t shake it away. This was her doing. Her plan. 

Get over yourself, you idiot, you broke. Said it yourself, Syl. The thought niggled at the back of her mind, teasing. Fraying. Her hands were moving. It just dawned on her. 

His hands were flailing at her wrists. Mild confusion furrowed her brow. Or concern? Everything felt far away. As if she were just witnessing this herself, not living it. Doing it.

Hot blood spilled over her hands. A strange relief from the damp coldness of the air. Too intimate, though. 

He burbled, strange sounds escaping the hole in his throat. Blood bubbling and frothing in his panicked last breaths. Her shoulders ached. He was stronger than she gave him credit. Holding him was no small effort. 

But it faded. Everything faded in time. 

The struggle waned to simple pawing at her hand to a muzzy head-turn. Eyes left half open and empty in the dimness. It didn’t feel wrong; she felt dislocated. Unreal. 

The sensation was unbidden. Approval. Joy. Sentience beyond comprehension. Welcome. 

Sylaess let her hands drop limply to her sides. Sticky blood still making soft impacts on the thick seagrass around the altar. Stared up at the night sky with its striated clouds and million blinking stars. One time, they had meant something else to her. Another, she had learned of other worlds. And now? 

A gentle reminder that what she knew was lies, and all things were connected. All powers came from the same source. Elune was a mask, and it was bitter medicine.

The boy. This was an appetizer. It would always be like this. A treat before the main course. But how long could she deflect from being the target, herself? 

Big question to ponder. A lot of big questions out there.

[searchingwardrobes]

Hope is the Thing With Feathers: 3/4

@hollyethecurious and I started this fic as a gift to @kmomof4 for her birthday. Fittingly, it keeps getting longer because I swear Krystal is a muse disguised as a human being. Story banner created by Hollye as well.

Summary: Emma and her son Henry move to the tiny, quirky town of Hopeful, Maine for a fresh start. Emma isn’t expecting her son to get obsessed with a haunted castle or for her to get involved with the mysterious, handsome man who lives in the cabin behind it. Emma soon discovers that both the castle and the man have secrets that she could never have imagined. For @kmomof4 on her birthday.

Rating: M (yes, I upped the rating. This isn’t smut, but I definitely flirted with the line. All for you, Krystal!)

Words: 2,000 and some change in this chapter

Can also be read on Ao3

Trigger warnings: positive portrayal of past Millian

 Tagging: @artistic-writer @snowbellewells @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jennjenn615 @bethacaciakay @thislassishooked @teamhook @kday426 @snidgetsafan @delirious-latenight-laughs @winterbaby89 @let-it-raines @branlovestowrite @shireness-says (for some reason, I have no tag list for this, so I’m flying blind here! Hope I didn’t forget anyone!)

Chapter Three: And On the Strangest Sea

“Get off your ass. You’re taking me on a date.”

Emma Swan bursting through his front door with a demand upon her lips wasn’t how Killian foresaw his evening going. He set the beer he’d been nursing down on the coffee table next to his bowl of evening stew, Emma seemed to take that as Killian not taking her seriously judging by the scowl on her face and the way she fisted her hands on her hips.

“Did you not hear me, Jones?”

Killian lifted both hands in surrender. “I heard you, love, I’m just a bit taken aback by the delivery.”

She shuffled nervously, but the spark of anger remained in her eyes. “Well, I’m here to ask you out, okay. Like to dinner or something.”

Killian arched a brow. “Now?”

“Yes now!” she practically shouted. “So why are you still sitting there?”

He rose from the couch and approached her cautiously. He gave her a flirtatious grin as he fiddled with the ends of her hair. “A man likes to be wooed, love. Why the demand?”

Her brow wrinkled as she searched his face frantically. “Come on, Killian, let’s get out of here and go somewhere.”

“What’s happened, Swan? You were fine when you left here the other day.”

She worried her bottom lip. “Maybe I want to be sure it wasn’t just sex for you. Is it so wrong to ask that you take me out?”

He rubbed her arms up and down. “Of course, but give me time to plan the evening. You can come here tomorrow night, and I’ll serve you the best meal you’ve ever eaten.”

Emma shook her head vehemently, stepping quickly away from his embrace. “No, I want you to take me somewhere.”

He swallowed down the sudden fear that welled up inside and forced himself to smile charmingly. “Perhaps a picnic then, I know the perfect spot -”

“A restaurant,” Emma interrupted firmly, “maybe even a movie.”

He felt the color drain from his face. “I prefer a more intimate setting.”

She stubbornly crossed her arms over her chest. “We’ve done intimate. I want to go out.”

He let out an exasperated sigh and rubbed wearily at his forehead. “Emma, I just don’t like being around people.”

“Bull shit. You are many things, Killian Jones, but a recluse is not one of them. It doesn’t suit your personality.”

“Oh, really,” Killian snapped, stepping into her personal space, “you think you know me so well?”

“Actually, I don’t think I know you at all!”

She shouted the words so loudly, it startled them both into silence. He felt a knife twist in his gut as Emma’s face fell into a mask of hurt.

“Are you a ghost?” she whispered.

His eyes widened. “What I am . . . who I am . . . you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

Killian collapsed onto the couch and rested his arms on his knees. He gestured to his dinner. “Ghosts don’t eat, Swan. Do they?”

She eyed him and then his stew as if she might run out the door any second. “No. I guess not.”

“I’m very much alive.” He winked at her in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Or did you not feel that the other day?”

She huffed out a wry laugh. “So why can’t you leave?”

“You’re quite perceptive, Swan. The best way to explain it is . . . I’m cursed.”

Emma blinked, but didn’t move. “That’s what Belle said, but I had a hard time believing it. You’re the pirate. The one who was Milah Gold’s lover.”

“Aye.”

Emma sank onto the couch, shaking her head in disbelief. “But . . . how? Why?”

Killian stood and paced to the window. “Gold cast the spell first, on Milah, after he learned of our dalliance. He knew it was the only way he could keep her. Milah and I truly loved one another, but she also craved freedom. She longed to travel and see the world.”

“No wonder she fell for a pirate.”

Killian turned to see Emma smiling at him. He nodded. “Gold assumed I would sail away and forget her. He didn’t know how deep our feelings ran.”

“But you couldn’t just give up the sea . . . or did you?”

Killian chuckled, rubbing at his jaw. “You sound like Milah. She wouldn’t hear of me giving up my ship.” He stepped closer to Emma and extended his hand. “Come, I’d like to show you something.”

Emma tilted her head skeptically, yet she took his hand anyway. He searched her eyes.

“You have nothing to fear from me, Emma,” he told her sincerely, squeezing her hand.

She nodded. “I trust you.”

*****************************************************

Emma stood in awe, her hair blowing on the wind gusting up from the sea. The sound of waves breaking on the rocky Maine coast was as soothing as the warm sun beating down upon her face. It was like something out of a movie, this jagged cliff with a pristine view of the sea.

“This is one of the farthest boundaries of my curse,” Killian said softly at her side, “and Milah’s before me. She would watch for my ship from this very spot as often as she could, and I likewise would look up to this cliff as we approached Hopeful Harbor.”

His eyes were wistful as they gazed out at the gorgeous view.

“It’s so beautiful here,” Emma breathed out.

“Aye, the sea can be so calming,” he agreed. Then he gave her a wink. “Yet it can also turn volatile on a whim. Like a woman.”

Emma elbowed him, and he gave an exaggerated grunt. “So I take it you found reasons to come back to Hopeful often?”

“Naturally,” Killian agreed, settling down on the quilt he had laid out on the grass. “I wasn’t about to abandon the woman I loved. This was our meeting place.”

“Kind of exposed isn’t it?” Emma asked as she settled down beside him.

He arched a brow. “Makes it sort of thrilling, actually.” He inclined his head towards the tree line. “There was a spot over there in the forest as well, more secluded. We not only made up for lost time with moments of intimacy, we also racked our brains trying to figure out how to break her bloody curse.”

“Belle said you dabbled in magic you didn’t understand.”

He chuckled. “That was an understatement. And those books of her husbands she smuggled out of the manor? They were the very ones the Hopeful parson caught her with that fateful day when everything changed.”

Emma put her hand on his arm gently. “I’m so sorry.”

Killian took her hand, rubbing his fingers over her knuckles. “I don’t know exactly what went wrong. All I know is the curse was transferred to me. And ironically, by freeing Milah, I gave the mob the power to kill her.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

Emma took his arm and looped it over her shoulder. He pulled her close against him, pressing his lips to the top of her head. She leaned into him, closing her eyes as she relished the scent of him that enveloped her.

“So you can’t die?” she whispered.

“No,” he sighed, her hair fluttering under his breath, “there was a dark time when I tried to end my miserable existence. To no avail.”

“What about Gold? That had to be some strange karma, his wife’s lover stuck on his property.”

Killian chuckled. “Aye, that was the one silver lining in it, actually. I got my revenge rather spectacularly.”

Emma pulled away, her eyes wide. Not that she was scandalized. In her opinion, Gold got what was coming to him. “What did you do?”

That cocky grin of his filled his face. “I may not be a ghost, Swan, but I do a rather good impression of one. I can haunt people with the best of them. Robert Gold did indeed fall to his death from his third floor balcony, but it wasn’t because he was consumed with grief.”

Emma grinned back. “You didn’t!”

Killian raised both hands in defense. “Hey, I didn’t say I pushed the man. Physically, anyway. But mentally? I don’t think he could take my . . . haunting him anymore.”

Emma laughed, shaking her head at his smug expression. Killian lay back on the quilt, crossing one arm under his head and reaching the other out to her. She gladly came to him, settling in the crook of his arm and resting her cheek on his chest.

“How did you . . . live?”

“In the beginning my first mate was my connection to the outside world. He became Captain of my ship, but continued to share a portion of all the spoil. He also brought me provisions. I didn’t spend all my coin, squirreling away as much as I could.”

He fell silent as he ran his fingers through her hair. Emma twisted so she could look up at him. His expression had gone wistful again.

“Then, after Smee,” he continued, “there were others like Belle, like your boy, who had a heart of belief. Each one was a tenuous link to the rest of the world out there.” His jaw clenched and his arm tightened at her waist.

“But eventually they all . . . “ she couldn’t finish the thought.

“Aye,” was all he said. Finally, he looked at her again and flashed her a light-hearted smile. “Then technology advanced by leaps and bounds. Radio, TV, cell phones, the internet. Especially the internet. As time marched on, I withdrew more and more to avoid suspicion.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Until now.”

Emma rolled over, perching her chin on his chest. “It sounds lonely.”

“It was,” he said softly, tracing her jawline with his fingertips, “and I certainly never thought I could love again after losing my Milah,” he swallowed nervously before continuing, “that is until I met you.”

His words made the breath leave Emma’s lungs. Since she didn’t know what to say, she slid forward and pressed her lips to his.

*******************************************************

Killian had been right, there was something thrilling about making love out in the open in broad daylight. Though the sun was now dipping closer to the horizon, and the breeze was a cold gust. Killian had the quilt cocooned around their naked bodies. As she watched the sky turn yellow and red and felt Killian’s hand drawing circles on her back, she couldn’t think of being more content.

“We need to head back,” Killian told her softly, though he made no move to release her.

Emma didn’t move either, running her fingers instead lightly through his chest hair, their breaths rising and falling together. “This project with the manor . . . why is Belle so insistent on it? Won’t it make it harder for you to stay under the radar?”

Killian’s hand stilled on her back, and he cleared his throat nervously. “Belle has this crazy idea that she’s found a way to break my curse.”

“And how is that?”

“Um . . . you, actually.”

Emma sat abruptly, clutching the quilt to her chest. “What?”

Killian sat up too, and Emma tried not to be distracted by the fact that his muscular body was no longer covered.

“You see, the key ingredient in the spell I cast was the crushed wing of a cardinal. A symbol of freedom, or so I thought. And apparently, the other side of that coin is . . . a pure white Swan.”

Emma’s eyes narrowed. “So this is all about my name?”

Killian shrugged. “Belle thinks maybe it doesn’t have to be a literal Swan. Especially since she sensed a connection between us . . . “

Emma stood abruptly, reaching for her clothes discarded on the grass.

“Emma,” Killian said softly.

“So you what?” she snapped, her hands trembling as she slipped into her underwear. “You seduced me because of my last name? Thinking it might do the trick?”

He leapt up, heedless of his nudity, and reached out for her arm. “No, Emma, of course not. My feelings for you are real. I haven’t felt alive in a hundred years, and then your boy shows up -”

“Don’t bring Henry into this! Or are you interested in him too? Because he’s also a Swan?”

Emma shoved her feet into her boots, trembling all over. She blinked rapidly as she faced him, refusing to let him see her cry. “I trusted you!”

“And you were right to!”

She backed away, both hands up in warning. “I’m leaving, okay. Don’t follow me.”

As she turned away, he whispered, “As you wish.”

[swanderful1]

Duplicity: Ch 11/?

Summary: Secrets shroud the homes of the idyllic Willow Lane. Its newest resident, Emma Swan is no exception. In a place where perception is everything, the facade begins to crack. And Emma finds herself staring down the deep, dark secrets that the neighborhood was built on and that nothing is as it seems. Not even the blue eyed gardener.

Notes: WHAT’S UP EVERYONE as promised here is Chapter 11. 6000 words of straight DRAMA. Enjoy :)

Per usual shout out to my beta @resident-of-storybrooke , @shady-swan-jones for the amazing artwork and @onceuponaprincessworld for checking in always and making sure I keep going (even though my writing process is spaced out and extra).

The post is too long to have all of the text on here so read the whole damn thing on AO3 and ffnet

Emma woke up Saturday morning with a pounding headache and an emotional hangover. The night before spent lurking in the shadows of the forest trying to catch Neal’s family in God knows what. Even after crawling around the family business complex all Emma had managed to learn was that Neal was in fact and for sure having an affair with his assistant, that his father had a closer relationship with Cora Mills than she had ever known, and that in Cora’s possession was a briefcase containing some sort of something she needed to get her hands on.

Emma tried to think of the times she saw Gold interact with the Mills family. Her perspective was limited, however she knew that Neal’s father was powerful. He had a lot of pull in the town of Storybrooke, he had built most of it - or rather his company had. And Cora was probably just as powerful, what with her daughter being the mayor who was engaged to the chief of police. Yeah. It was too convenient. All of the major decision makers in one town all in the same social circle.

Neal had surprisingly come home after his date with his assistant. Amanda. Now Emma could hear him typing away downstairs in the office. What time was it? 7 am? The sun had barely come up, but what little was in the sky peaked through the blinds on her bedroom windows. She rolled over and wrapped herself tighter in the down white comforter. Maybe if she closed her eyes and went back to sleep she would wake up in a different life. Some days she wished she could just watch from a birds eye view, gain some clarity on her situation, and move forward. Because there was almost no one she felt like she could confide in.

Almost.

Then there was Killian.

The feel of his lips on hers had barely left her mind since the night before. Being pressed up against his rock hard form in the dark, foggy woods was a memory she wanted to cling to all morning. To stay in a bubble where she knew what it felt like to be desired. As she hadn’t felt anything quite like it in some time.

A truck door slammed outside. And in an instant Emma had left her cocoon. Leaving the safety of her bed, crossing the room to the window and pulling open the drapes. On the street below she saw Killian Jones unloading his truck. From her second story window she took advantage of the view. Her own private one. People passed by in cars. The neighborhood began to come to life. But Emma’s gaze was focused on him.

The muscles in his arms pulling at the tight fabric of his shirt as he lifted his tool box down to the sidewalk. The way he bit his bottom lip when he closed the bed of the truck.

The words Jones Landscaping were painted in bold letters on the side of the trailer. Reminding Emma that despite the fluttering in the base of her belly, despite the lingering puffiness on her lips, despite her imagination wondering what it would feel like to have all of him and not just a taste. And the smile that crept onto her face at the very thought.

Despite all of that, today he was her gardener. He was here to work, to do his job. And Neal, for once, was home.

Emma dressed quickly. Throwing on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. She opted to leave her watch off until later, as she had last night. It was nice to have the break from it. August didn’t need to hear 100% of her life. If he questioned her on it later she could just say she was… showering.

Before running downstairs she didn’t even check the mirror, her usual desire to come across the perfect neighbor outweighed by her curiosity about talking to Killian. Her hair was still probably matted from sleep, but she wasn’t worried about that. Because this morning when she woke up, knowing Neal was in the home office working away at whatever terrible shit his family was covering, the smallest amount of relief came from knowing Killian was right outside. Emma didn’t entirely know if that was as terrifying as it should have been.

“You’re up early,” she heard Neal say as she walked into the kitchen. It startled her. Though she knew he was down here.

“I’m always up early.” You would know that if you were ever around, she thought to add. But decided against it. The less dialogue the better. “I could say the same to you.”

“Some work came up and I didn’t want to go into the office.”

Emma’s head jerked up from the coffee she was pouring. Was it possible something happened with Amanda the night before? He had come back very quickly after leaving with her. And now he was in the last place Emma expected him to be. Their home.

“Anything important?” she prodded. Though she knew he would never tell her anything.

“Not anything you would understand.”

It took everything she had not to chuck the coffee mug at his wormy head. But instead she opted to sip the steaming cup and swallow her words. The stale kitchen could have consumed her whole, its stark white and gray coloring. Hospital level clean as always. A drip of coffee hit the tile floor and she let it be. Let it stain, she thought. The house could use a bit of character. When she shifted her gaze back up, she stared straight ahead of her. Through the big glass windows that lined the back of the house she caught sight of him.

Killian was moving around the yard, which had really begun to come together, carrying bags of mulch on his shoulder. One right after the other and laying them where the rest of his workers would spread them out. For a moment she just watched him.

“Can you go outside and make sure they lay the brick work today and tomorrow?” Neal said, once again without getting up from his post.

Emma didn’t say anything back, not when she knew she was being set up. It was, however, becoming more and more easy to walk right into it.

When Emma walked outside she found Killian in the front yard making some notes on a clipboard. His t-shirt was dark and tight, still clean as the day had just begun. A piece of his black hair had fallen over his eyes as he wrote. When he didn’t notice her approach Emma (not so) subtly cleared her throat.

The instant their eyes met Emma felt a blush crawl up her cheeks. It was only a flicker, a blip of that electricity before they both remembered they were in public. They had to maintain a level of distance. Like she hadn’t been wrapped in his arms the night before.

“Good morning,” she said first.

“Good morning, love,” he said, privately with a smirk. Just for her.

“Maybe we should um, go somewhere more private…” she realized then just how difficult it would be to pretend like nothing was going on with them.

He followed her into the open garage, back where all of the normal household garage things were kept. Shelves of power tools though Neal had never lifted a hammer. A sink. Some old paint cans.

The remainder of the bricks that had never been used were still in the corner. Emma had been so preoccupied with everything she hadn’t had the energy to deal with them. While the front walkway was still a compromise, the back would be the limestone she had wanted. Plopping herself down on top of the pallet she faced Killian.

“Last night was uh…” He scratched behind his ear, the way he always did when he was a bit nervous.

“Interesting.” Emma finished for him. As much as she absolutely loved diving into her feelings (she fucking hated it) there were some very serious matters to discuss. And quickly. “We know that whatever is going on, Cora Mills is most likely involved.”

“Right.” Killian agreed, if he was irked that she didn’t immediately bring up their romantic encounter, he didn’t show it. “We still don’t know how they’re covering up what they’re doing though.”

“There has to be a way they’re bringing in all of those drugs.” Emma thought back to the mountain of cocaine that was stuffed in her car the day she got pulled over all those months ago. Stuff like that doesn’t just appear, it comes from somewhere. Or maybe something?

“What if they’re bringing it in with the construction supplies?” Emma wondered aloud as she sat atop a stack of unused bricks. “How easy would it be to just fill the center of one of these pallets with contraband and fill in the other space with actual materials.”

Killian looked at her as if it dawned on him at the same time. This had to be it. Or at the very least, it was a start. There was no telling all that family was capable of.

“That’s actually quite brilliant, Emma.” She wasn’t sure why it made her heart flutter when he acknowledged her idea. But that was something to unpack at another time. “But how do we prove that?”

“Emma!” she heard called from the front street. A soft female voice that obviously belonged to Mary Margaret.

Killian and Emma both froze. Listening one by one as the footsteps got closer.

“Oh- sorry to interrupt I didn’t realize…” the woman said as she stumbled upon them. Just the two of them, alone in a crowded garage.

“It’s fine, don’t worry. I was just…” Emma tried to come up with an explanation, but from the way they were positioned it honestly didn’t look like anything super innocent was happening.

“We were just going over some of the plans for the pathways in the yard is all,” Killian offered smoothly. “If you ladies will excuse me I have to get back to work.”

Quickly he smiled and dismissed himself, but Emma had so much more to talk about with him. And he, with her. If she was judging the expression on his face correctly, it looked as though he had so much on his lips. A tiny, unfamiliar pang struck her heart as he rounded the bend of the garage and was out of her sight.

When Emma turned to face Mary Margaret her friend’s face was apologetic, guilty even. But she didn’t want anyone else caught in the crossfires of her life. It was hard enough bringing Killian in, the last thing she wanted to do was burden someone as sweet as Mary Margaret. Her earnest face, kind and calm. The pale blue of her t-shirt against her pale skin. She was like a doll, delicate and dainty.

“What’s up?” Emma tried to ask as nonchalantly as possible when she and her gardener had just been walked in on yet again.

“I should have just called or something,” Mary Margaret apologized. “I’m sorry.”

“No worries, it was nothing important.” Which was a total lie but there was no way she could get into that right now.

“I was just coming over to see if you wanted to come to Ruby’s birthday tonight.”

“Where is it?” Emma wondered if Killian would be there. Maybe they could find a second to talk more about last night when Neal wasn’t in the next room.

[flannelplanet]

Stranger Than Fiction

Chapter 4

Rated: Explicit

A monumentally huge thanks to @jandjsalmon for being the best beta reader to ever beta read. I know for a fact this wouldn’t be half as good without her! I’d also like to thank @youbuildmeupbeliever and @lilibug--xx who helped encourage me and keep me going.

Summary: “No, baby girl. I need a yes or a no. Do you want to be mine? Do you want me to be yours?” She didn’t miss the familiar words she’s sure he used on purpose. This was him replacing those words- once full of fear and anxiety- with a fresh meaning, full of promise. “Yes, Juggie. I want to be yours.”

chapter 4 under the cut | read on ao3

“I don’t know how you can drink that, Betts. It hardly even qualifies as coffee at this point. Your cup is just sugar with a side of caffeine,” Jughead scoffed.

“I don’t know how you can drink your coffee black, Juggie. It’s so bitter,” she retorted from across the table.

“Bitter it may be, but at least I can still call it coffee.” Betty looked down to her cup thoughtfully. The creamy-colored liquid in her cup tasted heavenly, no matter what her coffee date said.

Both Betty and Jughead had agreed to meet for coffee to discuss the elephant in the room; their blogs, what they were doing on their blogs, and what that meant for them now that they were more than just blogs. Thus far, they had made small talk and completely avoided the subject, but they were beginning to run out of things to talk about, so Jughead bit the bullet and brought it up.

“Betty, I think we need to discuss what we were doing online  and what we could be doing in our real, physical lives.” Straight and to the point, like ripping the Band-Aid right off a wound.

Betty nearly choked on the sip of coffee she had just taken. It sounded so much more real when he said the words aloud. “Yes, I suppose we should talk about it,” she replied, his words suddenly making her stomach twist with nerves. She wasn’t sure how she’d react if he wanted to end everything with her now that he knew who she was.

“Right.” Jughead paused and looked at her cautiously, “I know you might be hesitant to continue what we were doing together and I understand why, especially after what you shared with me about your past. But, Betty... I think a relationship like the one we could have is special. I know it’s something that I was looking for and I believe it would be very beneficial for you too. I think it would be a mistake to give it all up because you’re afraid.”

She seemed rather taken back by his words. He was right, she was feeling very wary to do anything like what they were doing online in person because she was afraid. Sometimes she hated how perceptive he was. “Well, you’re right. I am hesitant. What we were doing had an element of anonymity that is now completely gone and I felt free because I was never worried Jughead would judge me or think I... I mean,  it’s not that I don’t trust you or anything, but I feel like I knew Jughead because of the things we shared with one another. I had you, Forsythe, and Jughead labeled as two completely different people. I’m still struggling slightly with combining the personality that I’ve grown to know and care about online with my friendly if not overly formal next-door neighbor.”

Jughead reached out and touched her hand softly as it rested between them on the table. “I understand that, Betty, you have to know that the ‘Jughead’ you got to know online is still a very real part of me. Just as much as ‘Forsythe’ is. Maybe even more so. It’s all of me. I still like to use my words to unravel a woman. I still pay attention, pick up on little things people do to learn more about their personalities. I’m an observer and I still know how to make you feel alive, Betty.” His eyes were growing darker with every word he spoke.

A pink blush bloomed across her porcelain skin. Breathlessly she asked, “How, Juggie? How would you make me feel alive?”

“Oh, sweet girl. Not here, not now. We need to figure out what we’re doing before I make you feel anything.” He told her, a crooked smirk gracing his features.

Betty groaned quietly. She knew he was right. They needed to define the parameters of their relationship before doing anything they (read: she) might regret. “Okay. Well, what are our options?” she began, her analytical brain cutting through the fog of want that his smirk seems to surround her in. “We could pick up right where we left off on our blogs, we could start over, or we could forget it ever happened?”

Jughead lifted her chin so she could look at him in the eye. “We will never forget it ever happened, Betts. Ever, understood?” Betty, eyes wide, nodded. The haze was back. “Good girl. Now,  if it's up to me, I think we should pick up exactly as we left off, though admittedly, the dynamic would have to change. Knowing that I can touch you... I want to touch you. I would need to touch you. I would want more from you than just a physical relationship. I would want all of you. I would give you all of me.”

He gave her a moment to let the gravity of what he was implying sink in. “Just think, Betty. Think of how it was before when we were online. How I made you feel. The kind of relationship I want, and I’m sure you understand what I’m talking about here, it would give you what you’ve been missing. Remember when we were talking almost every day? When you were so happy and doing so well?” She nodded. “I can give you that again, Betts. I can clear your mind and make you feel brave. Do you want that?”

“I think so,” she responded, more and more certain with every word out of his mouth.

“No, baby girl. I need a yes or a no. Do you want to be mine? Do you want me to be yours?”

She didn’t miss the familiar words she’s sure he used on purpose. This was him replacing those words- once full of fear and anxiety- with a fresh meaning, full of promise.

“Yes, Juggie. I want to be yours.”

The look of relief on his face was palpable. “Excellent, baby girl. Finish your sugar so I can take you home.”

She chuckled at his return to their earlier banter. “Fine, Juggie. I’ll finish my coffee and we can get out of here.”

-

The walk back to their respective homes was filled with companionable silence. As they approached their homes, Jughead bypassed his own and proceeded to walk her to her door. “Do- uh, do you maybe want to come in?” she asked him, almost shyly.

“Baby steps, baby girl. I’ll pick you up Friday at 7.” She nodded, excited and relieved that she wouldn’t have to worry about what would come next for them. He lifted his hand to the side of her face where he caressed her cheek and drew his thumb down her plump bottom lip before letting go and taking a small step backwards. “Wear something nice for me?”

She nodded again. “Why, of course, Mr. Jones.”

He smirked at her use of his last name. “I’ll talk to you later, Betts,” he murmured low, leaning in swiftly to lay a soft kiss on her cheek.

-

The following day, she received the text from Jughead that she had been waiting on.

Jughead: Morning beautiful :) my sis is available Friday before our date. Is 2 okay?

Betty: Good morning, Juggie. Yeah, 2 is fine. I’ll work from home Friday.

J: Excellent. I’ll let her know.

J: I’ve been thinking of you all morning, Betts.

B: Oh, really? What have you been thinking?

J: What would you say to a little challenge leading up to our date?

B: Interesting. What do you have in mind?

J: A game. No touching yourself until Friday night. You in?

B: Are those the only rules? I’m just not allowed to touch myself? That shouldn’t be too hard.

J: Oh, Betts. You’re perfect for me, you know that?

B: So you keep saying!

J: I mean it, baby girl.

J: I have to go to work. Behave yourself, Betts. BE GOOD.

B: Yes, Mr. Jones ;)

-

She was freezing.

Why couldn’t she see? What was in her mouth? Why couldn’t she move her limbs?

She shivered.

“Betty, you’re awake! I’ve been waiting for you!” she heard him say.

“I had to stop the screaming. I’m sorry, I just couldn’t let anyone hear you... Especially not your next door neighbor. I hear he’s been touching what’s not his to touch.” She felt his clammy fingers graze her cheek. “If I take the gag out of your mouth, do you promise not to scream?”

She nodded, desperate for any kind of freedom she could get. He moved the gag out of her mouth and willed herself to be quiet. He tugged her blindfold off as well, allowing her to take in her surroundings for the first time since she’d lost consciousness.

She was in her own bedroom with Dilton, her arms tied together behind her back and her legs tied together at the ankles. “You could try to run, but you won’t be getting very far.”

She just looked at him, too scared to move or talk.

“I told you I would find you.”

Betty’s eyes, wet with tears, burst open as she struggled to get her breathing under control. The sharp gasps were almost painful. She reached for her phone, knowing what was coming, and dialed the only person she wanted to talk her through this- Jughead . He answered on the second ring.

“Betty, it’s late, are you okay?” he said in lieu of a greeting.

She tried explaining what was happening, really, she did. What came out though was more like hyperventilating and seal noises, which was enough to put Jughead on high alert.

“Stay right where you are, Betts. I’m coming for you.” He said nothing more, but kept the phone call connected, just in case.

Thanks to a poorly hidden Hide-A-Key, within moments he was standing in her bedroom doorway taking in the scene before him. The room was normal, or at least it looked exactly as he pictured Betty Cooper’s room would look. Tidy with everything in its place. Her bed, however, was a different story. The sheets were a mess. It looked as though she had been tossing and turning all night.  Betty’s skin was glistening with sweat and she was clutching at her chest, unable to catch her breath, and she had tears streaking down her face. She was shaking. Shit.

Jughead recognized what was happening as a panic attack and quickly moved to her side. “Betty, baby, try to breathe for me.”

It was as if she didn’t even hear him. His hand found the small of her back and he tried again. “Betts, I need you to focus. Focus on me, Betts. Breathe.”

Again, nothing. Jughead gripped her face in his hands, and kissed her hard. After a few moments, her lips molded around his own and she began kissing him back. Her breath evened out. Eventually he pulled back so he could look at her and ensure she was okay.

“You okay now, baby girl?” he asked, gentleness laced throughout his words as he ran his fingers through her soft hair.

“Yeah, yes,” she breathed gratefully, leaning into his arms. “Thanks to you. I’ve had panic attacks before, tons of times, but that one felt different. I’m sorry for dragging you out of bed for something so silly.”

“It’s never silly when it’s you. What happened?” he asked, softly.

Betty recounted her nightmare to him, down to every gritty detail. She told him that she saw Dilton standing in her bedroom, the one place that she’d always felt safest. She started getting worked up again, and Jughead decided maybe baby steps weren’t the way to go. She needed him and he needed to help her feel in calm and in control of herself. Besides, their date was scheduled for the next day, and he fully planned on ravaging her then, anyway.

“Come here, Betts,” he told her. She climbed onto his lap and curled into him, seeking comfort. He placed his finger under her chin and brought her face to his own. Her lips parted instinctively as her doe eyes took him in, wondering what his next move would be. He brought his mouth to hers in a kiss much more passionate than the one they had just shared, or even the few before that. It was a kiss filled with promise- that she would be okay, that he would make sure of it.

His hands roamed her body as his mouth explored her own. He traced every line, dip, contour, valley, and curve that he came to. Touch was important to him.

He kept his hands away from any areas that might be considered inappropriate on purpose and she was becoming more and more frustrated. She tried moving into him so that his hand would end up cupping her breast, but he stopped kissing her and pulled his hands away.

“You’re not in charge here, are you?” he asked her. She shook her head no. “That’s right. Good girl.” He brought his hands back to her body. “I want you to tell me exactly what you want. Be specific. Ask me nicely and use your manners. Can you do that for me?”

She shifted slightly and sat straight up, looking him directly in the eye. “I want you to erase the memory of my nightmare. I want you to make me forget waking up and not feeling safe. I want you to erase the thought of anyone being in here with me aside from you.” He groaned but did not move. She hadn’t finished, he knew. “I want you to touch me, Juggie. Make me feel good, just like you always have even when you didn’t know you were doing it; when I would touch myself to only your words, when I would touch myself imagining my sexy next-door neighbor doing all those dirty things you described. Please.”

“Goddamn, baby girl,” he murmured low as he began reaching for her. “Strip for me, please. All the way down to nothing.”

She began doing as he asked. He stood and removed his shirt, showing off the toned body she knew was hiding underneath his old t-shirt. He unbuttoned his jeans but left them on.

Once she had completed her task, Betty stood at the side of the bed awaiting further instructions. Jughead took in the beautiful woman before him from head to toe and back again before saying, “You’re even more beautiful in person, Betts. Incredible. Mine .” She shuddered at his words and a smirk bloomed across his features; knowing his words affected her so much was such a rush.

He moved to stand in front of her. “Do you trust me, baby girl?”

“Yes.” The answer tumbled out of her mouth without second thought.

“Good. Do you remember, about a week before we started talking, I posted a story about my absolute favorite way to pleasure a woman? Using my mouth in ways other than speaking, and my fingers in ways other than typing?”

Goosebumps rose all over her body at his words. Of course she remembered. It was a story full of fingers, tongue, and teeth and she spent days pleasuring herself to it. “Yes, I remember.”

“I wrote that I like to start by devouring her, starting with her mouth – “ he closed the distance between the two of them and kissed her on the lips, softly but with meaning. As he pulled away, he continued, “ - to her neck,” he paused to leave a trail of wet kisses down the column of her neck. When he got to her collarbone he asked her, “What came next?”

“You like to bite and mark her collar bones,” as she spoke the words he completed the action she was describing, “and then you like to move to her breasts. You – ah – like to palm one breast while moving your mouth over the other…” She trailed off as his teeth found her pebbled nipple.

“Keep going or I stop, baby girl.”

She groaned out of frustration. It was becoming more and more difficult to speak coherently. “Please don’t stop, Juggie.”

“Mmm, how about you call me Mr. Jones, huh? You were so fond of calling me that for so long, let’s try it now.” He resumed his work on her other breast and began rolling the recently-worked nipple between his thumb and forefinger eliciting an especially delicious-sounding groan from her lips.

“O-okay, Mr. Jones. I’ll try…” As she said his name he bit the tip of the nipple he was working with his mouth causing her to cry out.

“Good girl, now keep going. What did I say next?”

As his mouth continued moving, she tried to gain enough composure to recount his story to him, though it was proving to be increasingly difficult. “You like to trail your lips down her belly and across to her hi-ips, where you like to pay extra close attention. You like to mark her there, where only you and her can see.”

“You’re doing very well, baby girl. Should I mark you? Would you like a reminder that you’re mine?”

She nodded feverishly. “Yes, please Mr. Jones. I would really like that.”

He bit into her hip bone causing her to yell out; the pleasure-pain of his action lighting her body on fire. “More?” he asked, his eyebrow raising as he looked up at her for confirmation.

“Yes, please!” she pleaded, fingers laced through his inky black hair.

While his mouth was busy complying with her request, he brought his fingers back to her skin. He trailed them along her legs and gently nudged them apart. “What next, baby girl?”

“You like to kiss your way up her legs, teasing her until she can barely take it, before you settle in at the apex of her thighs…” Betty became distracted with the feel of both his hands and his tongue working up her legs. They were inching closer and closer to where she wanted him most and she could hardly take any more. She could feel herself building toward release and he hadn’t even gotten to her center.

She couldn’t help the needy moan that escaped her lips as his fingertips gently stroked her folds before spreading her legs even farther apart, exposing her most intimate place to his gaze.

“You are fucking stunning, baby girl. I could spend the rest of my life down here and I would die a happy man.” His breath was tickling her with every word he spoke, he knew, so he kept going. “Do you know what I’m’ going to do next?”

“No, Mr. Jones. Please tell me?”

He was not expecting that to come out of her mouth, that’s for sure. It was quite the pleasant surprise. His girl liked to be teased as much as he liked teasing. He flicked his eyes up to her face. “I’m going to taste you. I know you’re already wet for me. I can see it. You’re glistening so pretty. And once I get a really good taste, I’m going to slide my fingers into you and move my mouth so that it covers your clit. From there, baby girl, if you’re good and sing for me so pretty, I’m going to fuck you with my fingers while I send you to heaven.”

Before she had a chance to respond, his mouth and fingers were following through. She was a mess, writhing and moaning as if she were a woman possessed. “Fuck Mr. Jones!” she cried. Those were the last intelligible words that left her mouth before he had her tumbling into her first orgasm of the night.

Rather than letting her recover, he bit her bundle of nerves and curled his fingers inside her, throwing her right into her second. “Oh Betts, you come so good for me. Such a good girl”

Once she came down and could move again, she began reaching for Jughead’s jeans, where he stopped her by placing a hand over hers. “Not tonight, Betts. Tonight was all about you, and you did so well. Just sleep now.”

“Will you stay with me?” She whispered the question, almost afraid he’d say no..

“For you? Anything,” he said as he settled in beside her, ready to fight any nightmare, demon, or other monster that might come for her in her dreams. -

The next morning, Betty woke up to find Jughead wrapped around her. She rolled so that her body was facing his and could see that his eyes were open and he was grinning at her like a lunatic.

“Good morning, Juggie,” she said, unable to keep the grin off her own face.

“You’re beautiful in the morning light,” he responded. He began moving to get out of bed when he felt her small hand on his shoulder stilling his movements.

“Thank you for coming over last night. I would have eventually been okay, but it meant everything to me that you cared enough to come for me.”

He chuckled and tucked a strand of her loose blonde hair behind her ear. “Oh, baby girl, if my memory serves me right, you were the one who came for me.”

She laughed at his joke and tossed her pillow at him. He caught it and wiggled his eyebrows at her.

“Are we still on for tonight?” she asked him hopefully.

“Of course,” Jughead answered easily. “Actually, get dressed. I’m taking you to breakfast and we’re playing hooky from work. We meet with JB at two this afternoon so we can just spend the day together. What do you think?”

A smiling Betty stretched her arms high above her head and rejoiced in the popping of her stiff joints. “Mm, that sounds wonderful, Juggie.” With that, she got up out of bed, kissing him on the cheek as she passed by him on her way to the bathroom to get ready for their day.

-

Betty nervously wiped her hands on her sundress as she stood staring at the ominous building in front of her. She was about to take a really big step towards ensuring her personal safety for the rest of the foreseeable future, sure, but what had her anxiety level higher than usual was the fact that she was about to meet Jughead’s sister.

“Betts, you’re not nervous, are you? I promise JB will take care of it. We’ll make sure he doesn’t get out.”

“It’s not that, Juggie. I just… she’s your sister. I just want to make a good impression on her.” Her eyes drifted down to the ground with her admission, blushing hard and scared she said something too soon.

“Oh, baby girl. She’s going to love you. Promise,” he said with a wink just as they approached the automatic door opening for them.

Turns out, Jughead was right. Jellybean Jones was a force to be reckoned with. She was a woman in her mid-twenties who wore tailored suit pants with a matching jacket and a vintage concert tee underneath. Her hair was dark and hung straight down her back, almost reaching her butt. She wore black-rimmed glasses over eyes that matched her brother’s – a bright blue that Betty had never seen on anyone else. The walls of her office were decorated in vintage movie posters and nothing about her screamed “lawyer” in the least.

When the introductions were made, Betty told her, “I have to be honest, you’re not at all what I was expecting, Jellybean.”

“Oh, is it because lawyers are stuffy and boring?” Betty nodded sheepishly. “It’s okay. Usually, we are. But I could never, ever conform to The Man .” Betty let out a nervous laugh. “And please, call me JB.”

“Oh, please,” Jughead rolled his eyes at his baby sister. “Lets just get on with it.”

They spent the next half hour going over details from the incident. Betty recounted everything, much the same way she did to Jughead earlier that week, describing in detail her kidnapping and what led to the capture and arrest of her assailant. JB took lots of notes as Betty spoke and once she was done, JB looked very seriously at her.

“Betty, look, this appeal, it’s not a guarantee. I think it’s absolutely worth a shot, but you need to be prepared for what might happen if we lose. Also, even though you don’t have to make a statement, it might make a difference with the review board if you decide to. I’m going to do everything can to help you win this thing.”

Betty breathed a sigh of relief at her words just as Jughead laid a protective hand around her shoulders. She brought her arm across her body and gripped his fingers absentmindedly. Jellybean smirked at their display.

“So, work aside, I have to say I never thought I’d see the day, big brother.”

Jughead scoffed at his sister. “Don’t start your bullshit, Jellybean.”

“Why, whatever do you mean, Jughead?” she teased, her eyes twinkling with mirth.

“You know exactly what I mean.” Jughead shot his sister a look that effectively shut her up about whatever she was hinting at, though the smirk never left her face. “Are we done here, Jellybean?”

“Well, not exactly,” his sister returned. “For the appeal, we’ll most likely have to go to Riverdale. I’ll know exactly which day the hearing is on in the next day or so, but I would start packing and making arrangements now.”

“Will do. Thank you so much for your help, JB. You have no idea how much I appreciate it,” Betty said as she hugged the tiny woman tightly.

“It’s nothing, Betty. It was a pleasure to meet you. I hope we’ll get to spend some time together outside the office sometime soon as well. I’d love to get to know you a little better.”

Betty smiled, and blushed at the implication. “I’d really love that.”

Jughead rolled his eyes fondly. “Alright ladies. I hate to rush, but Betty and I have a date to get on with. Catch you later Jellybean!” he said, placing his hand on the small of Betty’s back and guiding her outside the office. On their way out, he looked down at Betty who seemed a little lost in thought. “You alright, baby girl?” he asked her.

“Would you come to Riverdale with me?” was her response. She bit her lip, unsure of what he was going to say, but certain she’d been right to ask him. She couldn’t think of anyone else she wanted beside her more than him.

“You didn’t even have to ask, baby girl. We still have some time before dinner. I’m going to take you home.”

“Please do, Juggie.”

-

“What is it that you want, baby girl?” Jughead asked, blue eyes staring her down. They were both naked, lying next to one another on his bed this time.

“Can I…” Betty looked at him, eyes appraising his body. She could see strength woven into his toned muscles and the thought made her shiver. She wanted to touch every part of him.

“Can you…?”

“Oh, sorry.” She averted her attention back to his face, deep blush creeping over her skin. “Can I taste you, Juggie?”

He was entertaining the thought for a moment, imagining how her perfect pink lips would feel around the heated flesh of his cock. He got a flash of her green eyes staring up at him as her lips worked over his skin and he had to fight off a groan just thinking about it. “Is that really what you want, baby?” She nodded her head eagerly so Jughead stood from the bed, hand fisted around his arousal. “Then get on your knees for me, beautiful.”

Betty followed Jughead up from the bed, eagerly doing as she was told. He held his growing erection towards her and said, “Go ahead, baby girl. Take what you need.”

She tentatively licked the tip of Jughead's cock and groaned at the taste of him. He was salty and warm under tongue and she leant forward, taking more of him into her mouth. Betty began sucking, moving her head back and forth over his length. His hand brushed her loose blonde waves away from her face, caressing her as he slowly bucked his hips forward. Her hands flew from their place clenched on her thighs to Jughead’s hips, gripping tightly and pulling him forward.

He looked down at her, curiosity written across his features. She pulled herself away from his cock with a wet ‘pop’ and simply said, “I’m taking what I want, Juggie, just like you told me to.” Her eyes dazzling with adoration and confidence. He couldn’t help the groan that escaped his lips.

Jughead let her move him how she wanted for a few more moments before the itch to take back over rushed through him. He pulled out of her mouth, fingers taking hold of her hands and helping Betty to stand. He pressed a sweet kiss to her lips, palm sliding over her cheek, thumb tugging on her lower lip. He stepped back over to lie on the bed, settling back against the pillows. “Come here, Betts.” Jughead patted the space next to him. She climbed onto the bed, kneeling at the place he indicated. “I want you here,” he said, gesturing to his face. “You keep doing what you’re doing, but I want to taste you too.”

A thrill ran through her, hot and tingly down her spine. Once again, Betty did as she was told, swinging a leg over him after she turned to face the end of the bed. Straddling his face, she felt nervous and exposed but as Jughead trailed his fingers across her core, she forgot all her insecurities. Her hands and mouth wrapped around him just as his tongue lapped over her sex. Their words were few and far between as they simply enjoyed one another.

Over and over again, Jughead made her come and when he felt his release rapidly approaching, he gently squeeze her backside “Baby girl, I’m going to come.”

“Please,” is all she said, though her heart was racing. Betty began pumping him with her hand and bobbing her head down on him, faster and harder than before. Her tongue swirling around his cock as her hand worked the space her mouth couldn't fit.

“Betty, fuck… Baby I’m…” she groaned around his cock at his words, sending vibrations throughout his body. Jughead couldn't fight the moan of her name spilling from his lips as he erupted in her mouth. She worked him through his release and cleaned him with her tongue.

When he tapped her backside to indicate he was done, Betty climbed off his body, relaxed and satisfied, and turned back around to lie in his open arms.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” he told her, kissing the side of her head.

“I know I didn’t, Juggie. I really wanted to though. I love your taste.”

“Fuck, Betts. You just might be a dream come true.”

-

“We’re not going to make our date,” she tells him, gently rousing him from the sleep he fell into after their mutual release.

He smiled fondly. “That’s okay. We’ll just order in and have dinner and a movie right here in bed.”

While they were eating, Jughead asked her to tell him about Riverdale. She immediately launched into tour guide Betty, recounting all the landmarks and points of interest for someone visiting the town. He stopped her, his hand gentle on hers, and said, “No, Betts. Tell me about your Riverdale.”

Betty looked away. “Juggie, you don’t want to hear about that. It’s not a good story to tell,” she told him, her voice low.

“I want to know everything, even the ugly parts,” he countered, tilting her chin up so he could show her how serious he was.

Knowing she was safe within his arms, Betty went on to explain the torment she had lived with the last few years of her time spent in her home town. Polly, her older sister, had blamed Betty for what happened with Dilton. She claimed that Betty had led him on and that the incident made their family as a whole look bad to the rest of the town.

She explained that she felt like a failure for not recognizing the signs of instability that surely must have been radiating off of Dilton.

She explained why she didn’t talk to Archie or Veronica anymore, despite the fact that they saved her life. She had overwhelming feelings of embarrassment. Every time they looked at her all she could feel was the pity in their eyes.

Jughead drew his fingers through her hair, listening to her every word, and promised that he would be at her side for as long as she would have him.

She thanked him by way of a heated makeout session, too exhausted to take it any further, and then they both fell into a peaceful sleep.

-

“Juggie, do you have everything?” Betty asked as she crossed over her lawn into Jughead’s yard. She set her suitcase and other bags on the sidewalk and waited for him on his deck “JB will be here in just a few moments.”

He opened his screen door, his front door having already been open, and set his bags beside Betty’s. “Don’t worry, baby girl. Jellybean is always late.”

No sooner had the words left his lips than the sleek, black sports car turned the corner and parked at the curb in front of his house. The dark-tinted front window rolled down to reveal Jellybean, her hair piled high on top of her head in a messy bun and large sunglasses shielding her eyes from the sun.

“Get in, losers. We’re going shopping!” she shouted, her grin wide.

Jughead groaned at her Mean Girls reference while Betty giggled. The two of them crammed in the car; Jughead sitting in the back and Betty riding shotgun despite his offer that she could sit on his lap.

“Next stop, Riverdale!”

A few things to note:

I completely manipulated the judicial system to fit the purposes of this fic. 

I borrowed that kiss-to-stop-a-panic-attack thing from Teen Wolf because it's one of my favorite moments on that show and I thought it fit really well here. In reality, if someone is struggling to breathe, kissing them is probably not the best idea. 

Let me know what you guys thought!

[whichstiel]

The Science of Gift Giving

It had been months since Dean tossed Castiel a mix tape. He’d handed it off to Castiel with averted eyes, a strange flush coloring his skin. “Made this for you,” he had said. Castiel took it from him curiously, promised to listen to it on his upcoming drive in his continued search for Kelly, and that was that.

It had been slightly less time than that since Dean had told him tersely that the tape was a gift, and meant to be retained indefinitely.

And, of course, Castiel had been dead for quite a lot of the elapsed time since then. Still, it bothered him that he had not yet reciprocated the gift giving.

At first it hadn’t occurred to him that reciprocal gift giving was something that ought to happen. It seemed apparent that Dean had some free time and had chosen to spend it creating a musical compilation for Castiel. And Castiel had listened to it. When he needed respite, he’d parked, closed his eyes, and let himself drift along the melodies on the cassette. He’d climbed up to the stars with the crescendos and fallen down into the thick earth when the songs fell low. Castiel kept the cassette in his breast pocket and when he’d fought back to life and retrieved his coat from Dean, the cassette had still been there. Waiting.

* * *

When hunts were slow and the itch for solitude began to feel like an entire ant colony under his skin, Castiel liked to go to the nearby public library. The library was an institution that he at first avoided, understanding it to be a warehouse of human fiction and a location for passionate assignations in the stacks. At least, that was the knowledge passed along to him from Metatron, and the hundreds of library romances Metatron had devoured.

However Metatron, who had claimed to deliver to Castiel all human knowledge, had missed a considerable amount of it. Namely, Metatron had apparently eschewed nearly everything except for fiction and biographies. When Castiel had realized that there were shelves and shelves of books he’d never read – or second-hand read before – he became addicted to the nonfiction section of the public library. Reading about how humans interpreted the world – sometimes inventively, sometimes laughably – had become both a fascinating diversion and a welcome retreat. (The physics textbooks were a delight when he needed a little light reading in the quiet morning hours.)

One comfortable afternoon he sat ensconced in a study carrel near the 300’s with a book cracked open before him: The science of gift giving. Castiel had pulled the book from the shelf, his heart rate speeding up a little. He appreciated a good scientific tome; they tended to be written in a slightly more straightforward manner. He looked forward to at last learning how gift giving worked. Castiel patted the cassette tape through his coat and began to read.

When Castiel finished the book he sat back in the chair, frowning at the white tiled ceiling. If anything, now he felt more confused than ever. Still, he resolved to try to apply some of the outlined lessons from the book to at last return the gesture to Dean.

Tip One: Give something they can use

Castiel arrived back at the bunker to a smoky hallway, the fire detectors in the bunker honking irritably, lights flashing. Castiel squinted among the chaos, then descended the stairs, his target acquired. Dean stood in the center of it, talking to Jack with exasperation painted across his features. He looked up when Castiel approached.

“Hey Cas,” he said with an expansive eyeroll towards the repentant young man leaning against the map table. “Just teaching Jack here how to cook is all.”

“Ah, and how is it going?”

Dean glanced around the smoky room, grimaced, and shot Castiel a thumbs up. “Awesome. What’s in the bag, man?”

Castiel shifted the large grocery bag he held awkwardly in his arms. “Um, I’d noticed you were low on shampoo, so I purchased some for you. I also have,” he peered into the bag as though he could have possibly forgotten which items he’d agonized over in the store, “beer, some magazines, a jar of peanut butter, an apple pie, and five bags of flavored beef jerky.”

Dean glanced at him then, an odd half smile lighting his face. “You planning a wild night there, Cas?”

Castiel shook his head and thrust it at Dean mumbling, “I thought you might need it, is all.”

Dean accepted the bag with a head tilt and a short laugh. “Uh, thanks, man.” He turned his attention back to Jack. “Tip nine,” he said sternly, “always use an oven mitt. You shouldn’t rely on your magic heaven powers to heal you every time.”

Castiel retreated from the smoky din to the quiet of his own bedroom and considered his next move.

Tip Two: Give the gift of time

The book had advised that the gift of time was often the most precious. So when Dean announced that he was heading out to the garage, Castiel had offered to help. Dean froze at his offer, turning slowly towards Castiel, his eyes comically wide. “Dude, you serious? You’re always complaining about cars.”

Castiel scowled. “Just because I find human technology frustrating does not mean I’m unwilling to learn.” He fought to clear his features. “Please, I would like to help.”

Dean chuckled and threw an inscrutable look to Sam, who raised his eyebrows and looked away from the two of them with a quick shake of his head. Dean shrugged. “Alright, let’s head out there. But you better ditch the jacket. And wear one of my shirts.”

Castiel followed him down the hallway, plucking at his suit jacket a little nervously. “I can use my grace to clean my clothing, Dean.”

In front of him, Dean huffed a laugh. “Just…humor me, okay?” He led the way into his room and rooted around in the dresser until he pulled out a black Metallica shirt. He tossed it in the air and Castiel caught it. The old fabric felt soft against his skin and he smiled fondly down at it.

“Thank you, Dean.” He carefully laid the shirt on the bed and sloughed off his suit jacket. When he set his hands to his tie, slipping loose the knot and pulling it off to set on the bed, Dean cleared his throat aggressively.

“I’ll, uh…” Castiel watched Dean curiously as he stared at the floor, ears turning bright red. “I’ll meet you in there, okay?”

Before Castiel could respond, Dean had slipped past him and out into the hallway. Castiel shrugged and finished changing into Dean’s t-shirt, smoothing it over his hips. It felt odd to be so bare, but he had to admit he liked the way the short sleeves circled his upper arms snugly. It really was a good fabric to wear into battle, stretching easily with his body. He could appreciate why this was the Winchesters’ preferred under layer.

Castiel spent the day working on the Impala alongside Dean. In the end, he decided it didn’t count as a gift since it had seemed to benefit himself just as much as it had benefitted Dean.

Tip Three: Give an adventure

Dean had, in Castiel’s opinion, quite enough of an adventurous life as it was. So when considering the next bit of advice from the book, he decided to give Dean an experience. An experience was close enough to an adventure, since the type of “adventure” the book outlined included such harrowing pursuits as picnics in parks and eating out at a new restaurant.

He caught Dean on his own one evening. Sam had taken Jack to an event called “Cosmic bowling” and Dean had managed to talk Sam out of making him go so he could look online for their next case. When Castiel found Dean, he had his feet up on the library table, the high pitched moans of cartoon porn emanating from his laptop.

“Hello, Dean,” he said and Dean jumped, the laptop clattering off his knees and onto the wooden tabletop.

“Shit, Cas. Warn a guy.” Dean quickly closed the laptop and looked up with a guilty expression. “What’s up?”

Castiel pulled out a chair from next to Dean and said, “Last week you were telling Jack about our first meeting on earth. And we spoke of the true voice of angels, and angel radio.”

Dean looked wary. “Yeah.”

“Well, I know your body isn’t tuned to hear the true voice of angels, but I think I’ve been able to modulate it - filter it - to better enable you to hear it. Would you like to hear angel radio?”

Dean just stared at him, jaw dropping open slightly. Finally, he said, “Where’s this coming from?”

Castiel shrugged, the words to explain the overwhelming need he had to give Dean a gift stoppered up inside of him. “I thought you might enjoy it,” he said simply.

Dean stared at him, brows raised in question. But he nodded finally. “Yeah, Cas. Can’t say I haven’t wondered.”

“Settle back in your chair,” Castiel said as he reached out two fingers towards Dean’s temple. “You may feel a little dizzy.”

Dean settled his shoulders against the chair back, setting his feet on the floor, and lacing his fingers in his lap. Castiel touched two fingers to Dean’s temple, closed his eyes, and let the connection flow.

During crises, angel radio was often discordant with jarring chords and shouts jamming his ears. On good days, settled days, the chorus was resplendent. Castiel smiled to watch the look of bliss wash across Dean’s face as he heard at last the symphony that exceeded any human orchestra.

When Castiel had determined that Dean’s perception couldn’t handle much more exposure, he removed his fingers. Dean grabbed his hand as Castiel pulled away. They sat in silence for several minutes, Dean gripping his hand and staring silently at Castiel in awe.

This too, as it turned out, became a gift for Castiel as well.

Tip Four: Give a personal keepsake

After a night of drinking after his return, Castiel had taken a selfie with Dean and Sam. He printed it at a local drug store kiosk, then placed it in a frame purchased from the same drug store.

Castiel gave it to Dean who was so pleased with it, that he suggested he print one for Sam as well. Of course, Castiel did as he asked. Sam was just as pleased with his copy.

Tip Five: Give gifts of good quality

Castiel disappeared from the bunker for a week. He expected little resistance and had been surprised when Dean followed him out to the garage prior to his departure, and pressed him to be safe, watch his fuel levels, and leave his phone’s GPS activated.

Castiel had accepted these terms, accepted the friendly clap on the shoulder, and driven away.

Once he returned he immediately found Dean. This time he had wrapped the gift. He had noticed that the proper wrapping often seemed to be an important signifier of a gift and had purchased a simple hunter green paper from a drug store on the way back.

Dean raised his brows and ripped at the paper, balling it up and dropping it to the kitchen counter. He soon held the gift in his hand. It was a long, slim blade with a simple wrapped leather hilt and a tiny wyrm worked between that and the blade. “Cas.” Dean couldn’t seem to find any other words and he flipped the blade in his hand, testing its balance.

“I found a clue about the whereabouts of this blade in my reading last week,” Castiel explained. He pointed to the dragon then traced his finger down the blade. “It was worked by Merlin and still retains some power. You can tell by the way this ancient metal has withstood tarnish for so many centuries.”

“Thanks, Cas.” Dean looked between the blade and the balled up paper, then at Castiel. He didn’t seem capable of saying anything further, so Castiel eventually nodded and excused himself to attend to his car. He tried to ignore the worry itching under his skin which hissed that he had made a misstep somehow.

* * *

Two days later Castiel retreated to the public library feeling tainted by his failures. Nothing seemed to meet the significance of the mix tape. Though he’d seen Dean flipping the knife just yesterday, and the photo resided at his bedside, Castiel had been unable to achieve the sense of fulfillment from any of his attempts to reciprocate. He had thought about it long after everyone had gone to sleep last night, tapping his fingers on the kitchen table as he sought some direction.

At first, he’d thought to follow the last bit of advice from the book, which was to come up with a disproportionately inefficient gift. In movies or books, his next move should be to carpet Dean’s rooms in flowers, buy Dean ostentatious jewelry, or perhaps serenade him from a remote location. The idea of doing that made him shudder, and Castiel was reasonably certain it would be met with the same desperate dislike.

Perhaps gift giving wasn’t a science, but instead a language that he had never acquired. Thinking in terms of language had given him an idea and he had dropped his latest attempt at responding to Dean’s mix tape on Dean’s desk, then headed to the public library to clear his head.

It was at the library, as Castiel sat in a quiet study carrell, that he first heard the Impala’s telltale rumble as it growled through downtown. Dean found him in the back of the library, staring sightlessly at a (fairly humorous) book about the physics of black holes.

“Cas,” Dean said and Castiel looked up. Dean stood for a moment framed in the book stacks. He looked somehow taller than reality in the close, vibrant setting, hands balled into the pockets of his jeans.

After a moment, Castiel stood. “Dean,” he asked. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

Dean took a few deep breaths, pulling his hands out of his pockets and sliding them back in, as though he was nervous. And then, as the silence stretched on between them, he moved. Dean closed in on Castiel and raised his palms to caress his cheeks, thumb stroking lightly as though he anticipated rejection. When Castiel didn’t throw him off (he didn’t dare move) Dean rushed in and kissed him.

It was a quiet kiss, barely a brush on the lips, and over just a moment later. Dean drew away, fear broadcasting so strongly it vibrated the air between them. “Thank you for the letter,” Dean breathed then dropped his hands.

Castiel caught at his hands before they could fall back to his side. He placed them back around himself and brought up his own palms to embrace Dean. He returned the kiss, unwilling to let so much time lapse this time between the delivery of a gift and its reciprocation.

“I tried to return your gesture. With the mix tape,” Castiel added at Dean’s suddenly confused look. “But words seemed easier - more straightforward - in the end.”

Dean grinned like the sun breaking through the clouds. “Words, huh? They are useful. I, uh… I got some of my own for you, I think. Wanna go for a drive?” He pulled back, then held out his hand to Castiel.

Castiel took it, closing his fingers over Dean’s work-worn palm. “Of course, Dean,” he said, and followed him from the library into the golden evening sun.

(Happy birthday, @woollycas. I finally wrote that “gift giving” story.)

[princeandreis]

neighbors

I had this pretty spontaneous inspiration for a fluff thing where ev meets the reader in an au where he and heidi move away after the events in the musical

  A/N: hhhh um yea b l e a s e no judgement on this, I started and finished it at 1:30 in the morning

word count: idk but it’s l o o o n g because I CANT SEEM TO WRITE ANYTHING SJORTER THAN 1000 WORDS I (edit: 3315 holy sh) includes: angst, swearing probably, slow burn, Evan is probably really ooc I don’t even know pairing: Evan Hansen x reader

  ~~~~~~~~

  Moving to a new city was always stressful. Evan knew the feeling well. The lump in your throat as you said goodbye to your home, the clutter and discomfort in the new house, the unfamiliar streets; he’d seen it all before. He and Heidi had had to move several times when her job could not support them.

    He’d hoped they would be able to stay in one place now, since his mom had a steady job at a doctor’s office. But now they were moving once again, and this time it was his fault. He’d royally screwed things up with the only friends he’d ever known, and now Heidi thought it was best they both move on. Evan had left on good enough terms with Jared, but he wasn’t naive enough to hope to carry on like nothing had ever happened.

  So here he was, in a brand new city, hundreds of miles away from the place he’d come to consider his home. This town was a place full of opportunity. There was a nice community college he was interested in, and he’d find a job soon enough. He knew that here he could make a new start.

  And he was absolutely miserable.

  Evan missed his friends, even though he realized things wouldn’t have been the same after the Connor Project.

  He sighed, looking around at his new room. So far it was bare. The walls were a light yellow, which he liked. A little light peaked through the blinds in the fading evening sun. He hefted the box he was holding, set it down in the corner, and went downstairs to get another.

  ~~~~~~~~

  You heard the sounds of shuffling boxes outside and ran to your window to see. So the new neighbors were finally moving in. You watched the movers gradually unload the U-Haul truck for awhile, and finally they drove away. A woman in scrubs and a boy about your age were hauling boxes into their new home. You wondered vaguely what the boy was like, and if you would ever be friends.

  Whatever. It didn’t matter. People were all the same, anyway. Just as you were turning away from the window, your mother called from downstairs, “[Y/N]?”

  “Yes?” you yelled back. “Would you take these cookies next door and see if they need any help?” You rolled your eyes. “Why don’t you do it?”

  “Sweetie, I’m working right n– oh, would you just come downstairs?” she called again. You sighed and clomped into the living room, where your mother was sitting on the couch, typing on her laptop. She looked over at you. “Babe, like I said, I have to work, or I would definitely go over there myself. But my boss is going to kill me if I miss my deadline again.” Your mom was an online columnist for the local paper.

  “Would it really be so hard?” she asked, trying to hold your gaze. “All you have to do is bring the cookies over, ring the doorbell, and introduce yourself and offer to help them move in.” You twisted your silver bracelet, a parting gift from your dad. “Mom, this might sound surprising to you, but that’s more than some people can handle.” She leaned over to brush the hair out of your eyes. “Sweetie, I know things have been rough lately. And I’ve tried to give you some time to recover. But at some point, you’ll have to get back out into the world and try to live again. I know it feels like nothing will ever be the same without Dad. I feel that way, too. But we have to keep trying to live our lives, even when somebody we love leaves us.”

  Your eyes watered, and you quickly turned away to make it stop. You didn’t like thinking about Dad. Dad, with his prickly brown beard and his eyes full of laughter. Dad, with his big deep voice and his compassion. Dad, with his strong arms holding you tight. Until he was too weak to lift them, smiling tiredly at you from the hospital bed. And his eyes, once so alive and full of wit, now slowly closing one last time…

  You scrubbed at your eyes and wiped your nose hurriedly. Mom couldn’t see you crying. She’d worry even more if she knew how strongly your Dad’s death had affected you. It had been long enough, but it seemed like nothing without him would ever be right. Your world had gone completely dark after losing him, and you couldn’t imagine recovering from such a heavy blow.

  You snuffled and turned back around, sure your eyes were red. If she wanted you to socialize, then so be it. “Where are the cookies?”

  ~~~~~~~~

  Evan was setting down a box marked “Kitchen supplies” when the doorbell rang. He froze. “Mom?” he called. “What?” came a muffled response from Heidi. He tiptoed into her room, where she was busy sorting clothing into piles. “There’s– there’s someone at the door.” he whispered, feeling petrified. The doorbell rang again. Whoever was there was getting tired of waiting.

  Heidi looked at her son. “Sweetie, you’re going to have to step out of your comfort zone a little bit and get to know some people. Meeting your neighbors is always a good start. Now, shoo!” And with that, she gave him a little shove toward the front door.

  Evan stumbled over and opened it. He stopped cold when he saw who was there. A girl, holding a plate of cookies. A very, very pretty girl. He felt his face grow hot as she snapped her gum and half-glared at him. “Hi, I’m Eban. I meap, mean, Evan. Evan.” He mumbled, flustered. He’d fallen in love once and he knew what it felt like. Now it was happening again.

  She rolled her eyes a little and held out the plate of cookies. “These are for you and your mom,” she said. “My mom baked them and made me take them over here. She thinks I need to learn to ‘socialize.’” Evan shifted a little, taking the plate of cookies nervously. Who was this girl?

  “My mom thinks that about me,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “[Y/N]. [Y/L/N].”

  “[Y/N].” Evan repeated. “Nice name.” “Thanks, I made it myself,” she replied sarcastically. There was a small pause as he tried to figure out how to respond. “I’ll see you around, Evan. Enjoy the cookies.” And with that, his neighbor stalked off across the lawn, narrowly missing Heidi’s unplanted peonies.

  What a character, Evan thought to himself. And he turned and went back inside. In spite of himself, he blushed. She really was pretty, even if she had a terrible attitude.

  The next morning, Saturday, Evan was shaken awake by his mother. He had a job interview, since Heidi needed him to help support the two of them, at least for a little while. “Evan,” Heidi said urgently. “You’re late for your interview.”

  Evan shot out of bed. “Shit, shit, shit,” he whispered, looking for some clean pants. His mother said, “I’ll make you some coffee you can grab on your way out. Hurry!” and she rushed downstairs as Evan slipped on some jeans and mismatched socks.

  5 minutes later he was out the door, coffee in hand, hustling toward his car parked on the curb, when he slammed straight into someone. It was you. You’d been taking out the garbage in your pajama shorts and tank top when Evan, in his hurry to leave, didn’t see you and collided with you. “[Y/N],” he gasped. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to bump into you, I just, I’m late for an interv- interview, and I j–” He stopped. You were already walking away.

  ~~~~~~~~

  Why had you walked away from Evan? It had been two days and you still weren’t really sure. Maybe it was because you were in your pajamas and looked awful. Maybe it was because you hadn’t been expecting to see him. Or maybe it was because you were entirely caught off-guard by his eyes. His enormous eyes… they were so blue and innocent. You could fall into those eyes if you didn’t watch your step.

  His eyes had flooded into you, making you wonder again what type of person he was, and if he would ever reach out to be friends. You didn’t like the intimate level of eye contact, since it made memories resurface. You didn’t like to remember. You didn’t like to feel. And somehow, in an instant, an accidental collision, he’d made you do just that.

  Somewhere inside you regretted being so rude to Evan, but you had to protect yourself. Any time you let others in or cared about someone, you got hurt. The person you’d loved most in the world was your dad, and look what had happened to him.

  Your dad would have loved Evan. He was extremely perceptive. He’d probably have your neighbor all figured out by now. You knew Evan was quiet and shy, and your dad had been that way, too. They probably would have had so much to talk about, everything from politics to trees to peanut butter and everything in between.

  You shook yourself. Why are you thinking about Dad? you scolded yourself. It doesn’t do you any good. So stop it.

  Evan was a safe subject to think about, more or less. You were curious about his mom and what his house looked like and if he had a cat and suddenly, you were seized with a desire to know everything about him. You couldn’t trust him (or anyone), but there was no harm in learning about him. Right?

  You meandered over to your bedroom window. It was Monday morning, two days after the trash incident. How did Evan feel? He probably hated you. Peeking cautiously through your blinds, you saw him. He was watering a few small potted plants on his windowsill, and his mouth was moving. Was he singing? Struck with an overpowering curiosity, you moved to open your window just a crack to listen.

  He was singing. His voice was a little reedy and so soft you could barely hear, but full of sweetness. It was a folk song you vaguely recognized, but you couldn’t put your finger on the title.

  “Through the forest down to your grave, where the birds wait and the tall grasses wave. They do not know you anymore…”

  Evan paused, looking up, and saw that you had been watching him. “Nice voice,” you called. “Color me impressed.” He turned beet-red and wiped his hands hurriedly on his jeans. “Thank y- thank you, [Y/N],” he stammered. “How long were you watching me?”

  “Not long,” you lied. There was an awkward pause as Evan shifted and set down his watering can. “So…”

  “So…” You swung your legs out and sat on the windowsill. “What song were you singing? It sounded really familiar.” Still flushed, Evan kneeled in front of his window to talk. “Tiger Mountain Peasant Song.”

  Now you remembered. “Oh, that’s Fleet Foxes, right?” He nodded and bit his lip. “Do you like their music?” You admitted not listening to them in a few years. Evan looked up and smiled shyly. “You should definitely try it out again. Their first album is their best one.”

  “Alright, I will,” you promised. “It’ll change your life.” “Oh, yeah?” “Yeah.”

  Another pause.

  A bird chattered from a tree nearby.

  “At least, I think so. I mean, um, I mean, if you don’t like th–” “Do you want to just come over?” you interrupted. “Talking like this is weird.”

  Evan looked surprised but tried to cover it up. “Uh, yeah, o-okay, sure, that sounds good. Totally.” “Okay.” You stood up. “Come over in five minutes.” And you shut your window.

  ~~~~~~~~

  Was this real? Was Evan really about to visit [Y/N] and… hang out? He really couldn’t believe his luck. Already his hands were sweating like fuck, and he hadn’t even left the house. He pawed through a box of his CDs, looking for “Fleet Foxes.” There it was, among some Broadway soundtracks (“Legally Blonde” and “Les Misérables,” to name a few) and a John Mayer album. He really needed to unpack soon.

  Evan headed downstairs, CD in hand, wondering if he should bring something over. Coffee? Everyone liked coffee. Right? “Mom?” he called out.

  No answer. Of course. She was at work. It would be dumb to bother her with that kind of question, anyway. So he quickly fixed up two thermoses of hot English Breakfast coffee and headed out, locking the door behind him.

  Shaking, Evan shuffled up the sidewalk to [Y/N]’s house and rang the doorbell. After about a minute, she opened the door. Goodness, she was beautiful. “Hi,” he said timidly. “Hi.”

  She left the door open and turned back into her house and went to the kitchen. Evan followed. She was busy rummaging through the pantry for something, seemingly ignoring him. “I brought some coffee,” he offered. When this merited no response, he added, “English Breakfast…”

  “How did you know?” she demanded. “Know wh -at?”

  She softened a little at how scared he looked. “That’s my favorite kind of coffee.” (Oh worm?)

  Evan glanced shyly at her. “Lucky guess. It’s my favorite, too, so I just thought…”

  She nodded. “It’s the best, definitely. So do you want a donut?” she asked, pulling a bag out of the pantry. He blurted, “What kind?” “What?” “I just wanna see something. Wha- what kind of donuts do you have?”

  She smirked. “Only the best.” At the same time they said, “Cherry iced.”

  Evan’s mouth fell open. “No way.” Raising an eyebrow, she deadpanned, “The plot thickens.” He laughed at that.

  [Y/N] set the donuts on a plate and sat down at the kitchen table across from Evan. He handed her a thermos and they each silently took a donut and ate. Evan was nervous, but somehow the quiet with her wasn’t as bad as it was with others. He got the impression that she was thinking. Her eyes were far away, her chin rested absently in the cup of her hand.

  Evan cautiously reached out and tapped her other hand. “What are you thinking about?” he asked. She looked up and her eyes focused again. “Nothing.”

  Silence.

  She looked over at Evan. “Sorry for what happened the other day. That was shitty.” He smiled feebly. “Yeah. Thank you, though.” She spotted the Fleet Foxes CD. “Shall we give it a listen?”

  Evan was really starting to like this girl.

  ~~~~~~~~

  You popped the CD out of its case and inserted it into the stereo in your living room. Soft, haunting strains of folk music floated from the speakers. You turned to Evan, whose eyes were sparkling. He really did love this album, and you could see why.

  As a song called “Blue Ridge Mountains” began to play, you sat with Evan on the couch. “So.” you said to him. “Mr. Just-Moved-In. Where do you come from?”

  He began to tell you about his hometown and Zoe and Jared and Alana and the Connor Project and everything else, until his breathing was labored and you could see tears welling up in his eyes. He was clearly still broken up about everything he’d done, and a part of him always would be.

  He sniffed hard and wiped his eyes on his sleeve, saying with a watery grin, “I didn’t expect for all of that to come out. I’m sorry, that’s a big burden to unload on you after we just met…”

  You shook your head. “No, it’s okay. I have a lot of baggage, too. We’ll just be emotionally fucked-up together.” He laughed, loud this time. It made you feel so good to make him smile, and you felt yourself laughing a little too. You chuckled again, and again, until you were both hysterically laughing at yourselves.

  Wiping a stray ironic tear from your eyes, you gushed, “Oh, we’re fucked up. We’re soooo fucked up, Evan.” He was still laughing a little. “Yeah. Yeah, we are.

  “Hey, what about you?” he asked. “What’s your damage?” You stopped laughing. “Oh, man, I don’t think so, bud. Not yet.” His smile faded. “Why not?” His eyes were fragile.

  You shook your head and ran a hand through your hair. “It’s too much to talk about right now. It didn’t happen very long ago.” He pressed a hand on yours gently, cautiously. “Neither did mine, [Y/N]. You’ll have to talk about it sometime. And I’m guessing your parents aren’t in the know about this, right?”

  You winced. Here we go. He pulled his hand back abruptly. “What is it?” he said, worried. “Did I say something wrong? Is this about your parents?” You nodded wordlessly, too distressed to speak. If you opened your mouth, it would all come tumbling out, and you couldn’t let that happen.

  Evan looked at you with concern. “[Y/N], you can tell me. It… it’s okay. I know we just met and everything but I’m - I’m your friend. I want to help.” You met his eyes, his huge, sincere, beautiful blue eyes, and in that moment you knew you had found someone you could finally trust.

  And so everything came pouring out of you, about your family and your dad, your best friend, and how his eyes were always laughing, and how they stayed that way even through the chemo, even through all the treatments and surgeries and pain; you told him about how your dad would wrap you up in his big arms and tickle your face with his scratchy beard and tell you everything would be just fine. And you remembered, breathlessly, the day the laughter left his eyes for good and his body relaxed and his monitors flatlined and…

  …and you found yourself sobbing onto Evan’s shoulder; Evan, whom you barely knew; Evan, who had betrayed everyone he loved, but who you still knew beyond a doubt that you could trust. He was stroking your hair as sobs wracked your body. You clung to his sweater and cried until you could cry no more, and then you snuffled and looked up at him.

  He smiled down at you and softly sang along as Fleet Foxes crooned in the background: "Your protector's coming home."

  “My mom has no idea how I feel,” you said. “I never tell her anything because all I get is a lecture.” He looked concerned. “[Y/N], you need to talk to your mom about this. There’s no way you’re gonna feel better until you get this figured out."

  "I mean, I guess."

  A pause.

  "[Y/N]?" "Yeah?" "Can I... hold your hand?" "Uhhh... okay." "Are you sure? Because I don't have to if you don't want to or if that would make you or uncomfortable or anything, I would totally get it if y--"

  You broke him off by reaching up and kissing him suddenly and quickly. You were surprised at yourself; you'd never done anything like that before. He made a surprised little "mmf!" but didn't pull away.

  When the kiss ended, his eyes were still closed and his eyebrows raised as if he were in shock. "[Y/N]," he breathed, his eyes fluttering open, "that was, uh..."

  "...nice," you finished for him. His cheeks were colored. "Yeah." He pulled you in for another kiss, deeper this time, but sweeter, too. Evan was better than anything you'd ever known.

  Could it be that he was sincere and could be there for you? It seemed the universe had given you a bit of luck at last. Evan could take care of you and help you through your heartbreak. You were ready to heal.

  Your protector's coming home.

[oxfordeliterp]

CONGRATULATIONS, PEYTON!

You have been accepted to play the role of LANA CHAMBERS with the faceclaim of IM JINAH. Please create your account and send it to the main in the next 24 hours. I know that there was no other application for this role, but even if it were, I can’t imagine anybody being able to capture who Lana is as a person better than you did. The application is immaculate, beginning to end, and you are clear proof of not only a talented writer, who twists words around with incredible skill, but also an amazing, vivid story-teller. Your paragraph sample caged my heart and it is yours forever, for you developed, with just the right amount of humor and snark, a balanced dynamic that I would sell my soul to read more of. Maybe soon. Anyway, I cannot wait to see the things Lana has to do that keep her too busy for love, for she already is such an asset and I believe you’ve only begun unfolding her.

OUT OF CHARACTER INFORMATION

Name and pronouns: Peyton, they/them pronouns

Age: 19

Time-zone: EST/-5 GMT

Activity level: It’s actually the end of the semester for me so I have a lot of free time! I’d give myself a 7/10 though because I do have a job, but with summer right around the corner I’d love to get back into roleplaying.

Triggers: None!

IN CHARACTER INFORMATION

Desired character: Lana Theodora Chambers

I love Lana because she is more than the stereotypical mean girl trope, having many hidden layers that make her only more complex. She’s unassuming with her background and scholarship, yet a shark in the water that no one at Oxford could have ever prepared for. She’s smart, witty, and acts like the ground is blessed the moment she walks on it. I admired the fact that Lana is so great and unapologetic about it because I believe there needs to be more female characters like that. A character like her is so important as she stays true to herself (even if she isn’t the most moral human being) and breaks the stereotypes that come with her kind of character. Gender and pronouns of the character: Cis female. She/her/hers.  A crystal clear idea of what is meant to be masculine and what is meant to be feminine was ingrained in her from a young age. With her parents holding their more traditional beliefs, sons were celebrated, considered to be a great honor and cherished by their families, while daughters were but a small happiness. As the only child of the Chambers family, there was extra pressure for Lana to prove that she is a child to be proud of and oh how she has rubbed it in their faces.  

Changes: I was just wondering if I could change her faceclaim to Im Jinah? 

Traits: a m b i t c h i o u s → To say Lana aspires to be at the top would be a severe understatement. If she wants something, she fights tooth and nail and takes it. One thing people can say about Lana is that she has the uncanny ability to never give up. She’s worked too hard, put in too much effort to allow herself to slip now. In her hungry, unyielding eyes, she has yet to take everything the world owes her. When she’s surrounded by those who get whatever they want served to them on a silver platter, her perseverance and her determination will bring her on top of all of them. i n t e l l i g e n t → She learned four languages by the time she was seventeen. Auditoriums full of people would applaud after she played during her piano recital. Her poetry left those in awe as the words flourished, dripping down her chin like honey. She’d leave teachers singing her praise as she excelled academically, top of her class in every class, and captain of as many clubs she could be in. It’s impossible to deny that Lana has an impressive mind and may be one of the brightest girls of her age. Although she does not stand out quite as much in Oxford as she did back home, she isn’t going to let that inhibit her showing off her intellect in any way. She’s worked three times as hard as the rest of them and she’s going to prove her worth. r a t i o n a l → Lana is a fairly realistic thinking person. She’s goal orientated while keeping the important things the same. When she’s angry there are no fires burning down forests, and when she’s upset there are no oceans flooding cities. She watches Gwendolyn and her other peers and sees them for what they are– entitled dreamers without a care in the world. She’s the first to come up with a solution under pressure, the one to go to for guidance if she is willing to give you it, the one who keeps going despite any hardships. Lana is the type who appears to never lose her cool or allow herself to get carried away, if her head is in the clouds then she will lose sight of the path she’s been taking, both feet on the ground. i n s e n s i t i v e  → To put it plainly, Lana cares for few people, and none of her peers at Oxford have proved show they are worth caring about. She’s got a tongue sharp as a whip and has no problem cutting even those she is friendly with down to size. She didn’t get into Oxford University on scholarship to make friends or to try and turn herself around. Her whole life has been taking what is rightfully hers, leaving bodies in her self righteous wake as she adamantly bulldozes her way forward. From what she knows, and she knows a lot, the world is a cruel place. Call her a cynic, call her immoral, call her a heartless bitch, she’ll just examine her nails and ask if you said anything important. i c y  → If Gwendolyn is fire then Lana is ice, cold and calculating just like the slow touch of winter. She is fresh fallen snow, beautiful but it’s best if you do not touch. She’s the type of person to stare at you blankly when you approach her, not so patiently waiting until you walk away if you take too long to get to the point. Lana can ignore someone or rip their head off if they made the wrong move and honestly it’s impossible to tell which reaction she will go for. She is cold and harsh and comes off as someone who cares for so little it’s actually fairly alarming. c o n t r o l l i n g → It is no mystery that Lana loathes being held back and makes her own rules as if it is her own divine right. The moment she walks into the room she radiates power, and like so many others, said power goes right to her head leading her to be controlling and manipulative. She’s extremely perceptive and will store up gossip while oozing charisma that leaves people in awe the moment she opens her mouth. Lana is self serving and power hungry and will not allow anyone to stand in her way or let them inhibit her with their own issues. No exceptions.

Extras:

headcanons.

She’s actually changed her major quite a few times upon getting accepted into Oxford. From political science major to mathematics major to classical studies to biomedical engineering, Lana was actually unsure what she wanted to do. With such a brilliant mind she knew she was perfectly capable of doing just about anything. Finally, she has settled on pursuing a law degree and got into Oxford’s graduate program with flying colors.

Lana is an excellent dancer. While she enjoys many of her extra curricular activities, she’s been attending classes since she was little and it has a special place in her heart. With a ponytail tied tightly on top of her head, she would walk in with the same air of authority she has to this day. Unlike what her personality and appearance may give off, she loves ballet with a passion (although she occasionally she does contemporary dance as well), she can practice it for hours and relieve her stress that way. Her routines are impressive, like everything else she does, and when she was small her dream was to be a dancer.

Her father had left the family when she was too young to remember, not that she cares if he ever comes across her mind. It isn’t something she’s supposed to feel guilty over all and she barely remembers him. Her entire life has been her, her mother, and grandmother all under one roof. Her halmeoni was born and raised in South Korea, and is a big inspiration for Lana as she is a proud woman who takes no shit and goes right for the jugular. Lana loves her and hates her at the same time, mostly because their temperaments are so similar. Her mother is not negligent, albeit distant from her one and only daughter. She’s worked everyday during Lana’s childhood in order to make ends meet. The dynamic between the three of them is not very close, but still they’re family and one thing she took away from her upbringing was how your own blood trumps everything else.

Lana is bisexual, with no particular preference for one or the other. She does get around, however, as human contact is important for the mind and she knows that. She doesn’t have the time or optimism for anything long term though.

here’s some incorrect quotes for lana because they made me laugh.

lana: gwendolyn and i have the kind of easy chemistry where we finish each other’s- gwendolyn: sentences lana: please don’t interrupt me

nicohlas: you read my diary? lana: at first, i didn’t realize it was your diary. i thought it was a very sad, handwritten book

jacob: you’re probably one of those beautiful women that don’t even know it lana: no, i know it

lana: sophia, thanks for agreeing to see me sophia: i didn’t, you just walked in and started talking lana: i don’t have time for a history lesson

jacob: can we talk, one ten to another? lana: i’m an eleven, but continue

also here is a pinterest board for lana!

PARA SAMPLE

Lana pools her hands into her bag for the pack of Marlboro reds, her mother’s words echoing in her head as she does so. That stuff’s poison, the more you smoke the more you’re killing yourself and me. She knows it’s a bad habit and she tells herself she’ll break it by the she graduates. Realistically, cigarettes don’t have an adverse affect on your health if you only smoke them for a few years. Besides, with Sophia failing to get back to her, she needed something to take the edge off. There was always some sort of edge to Lana, in her voice, her body language, her opinions, she supposed was always sort of high strung (or as she preferred to think, high maintenance).

She didn’t think there was anything wrong with it, she wasn’t out at parties snorting angel dust in the bathroom, craving a constant high she couldn’t handle the harshness of reality. She wasn’t like that. She wasn’t like them. Life is tough but so is she, tougher than anyone else she knew. A little self medication here and there so she could stay focused and grounded was not something to feel ashamed about. Lana was more concerned with the consequences if people found out, if the perfect ice queen turned out to not be so perfect. She couldn’t allow the scholarship she fought so viciously for to slip through her fingers like sand.

“Thank god.” She mutters under her breath, pulling the carton out, finding a lighter already nestled in between the cancer sticks. The flame erupts and she watches it briefly, before bringing a cigarette to her lips and lighting it. Lana feels the smoke enter her body, swirling around her lungs, before exhaling out the open window. Oxford University on a Friday night meant parties and the rich’s definition of mischief, something she wanted no part of. She leans on the window sill, eyes ice skating around her view of the campus. Drunk students stumbling around, party music blasting in the distance, and lights flickering all around, she couldn’t believe this was an esteemed private school sometimes.

Lana looks at the cigarette for a moment, letting it burn. She could think of something poetic here, something deeper and better than the thousands of bland male writers that describe how a woman is like a cigarette. It’s familiar and she can’t quite put her finger on it until her mind goes back to her tan, witty but not as witty as her, Romeo.

Perhaps not Romeo. Things did not end well for him and he was too much of a cliché for Lana’s liking. Anyone could be a romantic these days.

The homecoming ball was an event she reveled in, enjoying dressing herself up and enhancing the beauty she already possessed. Although there was only so much of Gwendolyn’s rambling that Lana could listen to before needing a break, causing the girl to escape and find solace on the marble steps of the building and curbing her nicotine craving. The architecture taking her breath away as she sat in blissful silence– until she was rudely interrupted by a handsome stranger. Not that handsome was that much of a compliment, he was conventionally attractive after all.

“Mind if I sit with you?”

“Depends. What’s in it for me?”

“A stimulating conversation.”

“Stimulating? I’m already starting to fall asleep, pretty boy.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

She was amused, something that was near impossible for anyone to do. Yet, as he sat down next to her she found herself to be more welcoming than usual. After much contemplation, Lana figures it was the champagne that had caused her to be friendly to the boy. There wasn’t anyone worthwhile at Oxford, no one that would come across her mind once or twice. None of the boys there were King Midas, she was golden without their touch. The girls were more tolerable, though ultimately just as entitled.

“These things are such bullshit.”

I rather like them.

“They’re just another way for the entitled elitists around here to prance around like everyone cares about their Dior suits and Versace bags. The champagne’s good, though.”

“I thought all girls liked Versace.”

“I thought boys thought of girls to be something more than their clothes.”

“Of course. We care about what’s underneath.”

“You’re a neanderthal.”

Despite herself, he had made Lana laugh. She allowed herself to get lost in the moment for once. He had this charisma to him and she found herself being pulled deeper into the water until she was drowning in the conversation. They talked about school and philosophy and this and that. Not that it got personal– Lana had the ability to make people feel as if they knew a lot about her without giving away any secrets. A lost and nosy Gwendolyn had found the two and she had to deal with the same warning the leader had told them since she was recruited into the Quarrel Club, stay away from the Riot Club.

She remembers leaving her half lit cigarette by his side as she was ushered back inside. Not that it mattered now. They didn’t even exchange names and perfect strangers came and went. Her grandmother always told her to stay away from things like love, and to focus on her future because she was going to be something great and couldn’t afford any distractions. Lana was convinced she’d never allow anyone to get close to her. She had things to do.

[fourteenacross]

2016 in writing

2016 in fic! This looks SO empty compared to past years, even if it's roughly the same amount of words! Hamilton: i saw the whole story unwind (132,888) Opening Break (3,531) Remote Capture (3,483) Not Your Average Bear! (1,835) Ghost Included (we hope) (2,941) but i won't go far away (12,577) the constellations aligned (10,004) the air grows cold around me and you (27,268) a way to hang the sun up in the sky (9,510) we'll have to muddle through somehow (8,513) Ficlets: Lazy Day (924) Cryptids (1,904) John's Instagram (1,443) Skeptic Refuted Fan Speculation (???)* Apocrypha (aka shit I wrote that takes place after the stuff in the main stories that may be disregarded/discarded as the next three stories develop): For Hire: Ghost Hunter (551) Three Wishes (2,446) Ouija Boards are NOT ALLOWED (1,139) Reality Show (1,538) Star Wars (2,441) X-Men Alternate Timeline Movies: Who Needs Sleep? (2,535) Fifty Dollars and First Impressions (3,574) Ficlets: Alex/Darwin Bookstore AU (343) Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries: Phryne/Jack Fake Married (588) Grand Total Fandoms: 3 Grand Total Stories: 23 Grand Total Word Count: 231,976* * I haven't written the transcription of this ficlet yet and I'm too lazy to do it right now, so it's not included in the total. Overall Thoughts: Well, this is a very different list than it's been for the past five years or so. The fandom switch aside, I didn't post any full stories until September, just a handful of tumblr ficlets. I also posted two things chapter-by-chapter, one as a WiP, which--wow, reminder that I NEVER WANT TO DO THAT AGAIN, it's far too stressful! The bulk of the words are all in the same verse, and I'm not even counting the words that I wrote and haven't posted yet, jeez. This stupid universe. I simultaneously hate and love it. Writing an epic WiP in a new fandom was really rough. I'm ultimately thrilled with the finished product--waiting until it was all finished made me redraft over and over again until things fit together the way I wanted. It left me space to go back and seed things that I wanted to develop as I went...I really think the finished product is way better than it would have been if I'd rushed and posted it before it was done. That all being said, gosh, it was lonely. It was so, so lonely, when writing epics usually involves a lot of bouncing ideas off of people and letting them read and suggest as I draft and really digging into the process, etc. There were a couple of people who popped in and out, but life and other interests got in the way (which makes sense considering this went on for NINE MONTHS), and, man, I missed being able to text and IM people will story ideas at all hours and feel confident that they'd be interested in what I had to say. (For all the texting I do, I am actually super shy about it? I'm super nervous about initiating unless I'm 100% positive I won't be bothering the other person, which limits my texting confidence to like, my back-up bunnies and Erica.) Anyway, that's all to say that this year was a very different experience, fandom writing-wise, but I think I learned a lot in the process so...hooray?

Looking back, did you write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you'd predicted? This year I think my main goal was "FINISH PART ONE OF THE GHOSTHUNTERS" without a specific word count attached, so I succeeded in that part? Knowing me, I probably wanted to crack 300k at least, and while I'm sure I WROTE over 300k this year, what I actually published is about on par with the last couple years, so. NUMBER wise, I think I imagined I'd have a greater output vis-a-vis completed stories, but a lot of the shit I wrote was on the longer side, so. What pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted in January? Hm. Well, there's a lot more porn in the ghosthunters than is in most of the fic I've written, traditionally, but nothing really shocking. Most of it was ghosthunters words, so...yeah. I guess the Angel/Raven was sliiiightly a surprise because I figured if I had to step in and write some SM pinch-hits it would be all Charles/Erik stuff, but I really liked that story and I have shipped that pairing for many years so....not super a surprise. What's your own favorite story of the year? Not the most popular, but the one that makes you happiest? I loved a lot of the stories I wrote this year, because I'm super obsessed with myself. [[< -- I think I've kept that sentence in for the past few years because it remains true]] I really love most of the ghosthunters shit, but if I had to pick a favorite....idk, I'm torn between i saw the whole story unwind because it's so epic and took so long and I put so much into it and the constellations aligned, because it came so easily and I'm a total sap and it's a totally sappy story. Did you take any writing risks this year? What did you learn from them? Sitting on the ghosthunters until the first part was complete was new. Like I said above, that kind of patience and planning was difficult, but I think the end product was much better for it. So what I learned is probably "sit on a story for a couple days after you finish." I've always tried to employ at least cursory beta readers and done read-throughs after finishing, but the slower approach does actually lead to a better product. IMAGINE THAT. My best story of this year: Best? Hm. It's hard to compare i saw the whole story unwind to anything else, given it's length and the breadth of subjects it covers, so I'd say probably that or but i won't go far away, which deals with a lot of intricate emotions and explanations. My most popular story of this year: Okay, see, I wrote two chaptered stories this year and chaptered stories totally throw off your stats. Hit counts, kudos count, comment count...all of that is inflated by repeatedly pushing those fics to the top of the tags and having people come back for each chapter and all of that. Still, I'm p sure that i saw the whole story unwind was the most popular story? And I think a lot of that can be attributed to the above facts and also to the fact that it's the oldest and the longest and the first in the series, but...I'm gonna go with it anyway. Story of mine most under-appreciated by the universe, in my opinion: I don't know that any of them are! Again, probably because most of them are in the same series, but...yeah, I'm pretty happy with the response to everything. I remember thinking at the time that there was something weird going on with the hit count for but i won't go far away because the hits-to-kudos ratio was WAY off. There were way too many hits accumulating in the first couple days it was up, like, way more than usual, even though kudos were accumulating at the correct rate? It was strange. And I did feel like that one got slightly less attention than some of the others, but that might be a mind trick based on that weirdly inflated hit count. Most fun story to write: Hm, I got a kick out of doing the twitter ficlet, and I wrote the constellations aligned in basically one sitting, so. Story with the single sexiest moment: This is one of the few years I have a lot to choose from. I think John's slow, intoxicated seduction in the constellations aligned probably wins that award. Definitely sexier than the sweet and kind of goofy sex scene in i saw the whole story unwind or the contemplative one in but i won't go far away. Story with the single sweetest moment: Hmmmmmmmm. "Sweet" is kind of my whole deal, and I like to think there's a lot of sweetness in my stories overall. I'm going to choose i saw the whole story unwind for this one and pin the sweetest moment in question as either Alex and John driving up to Peekskill or the two of them talking after Alex's nightmare. Most "Holy crap, that's wrong, even for you" story: Nothing really. Nothing cracky for me this year. Story that shifted my own perceptions of the characters: I mean, this whole series has been a lesson in picking apart these characters and seeing how they tick. So. Hardest story to write: i saw the whole story unwind, for sure. Jesus, it took me forever to finish and I was entirely despairing during parts of it. Biggest Disappointment: Just that I didn't finish more, I think. Biggest Surprise: People actually getting so into the ghosthunters. I honestly didn't expect anyone to read any of these stories and to have a tiny group of people who seem to eagerly await each new part...it really warms my heart and makes me so happy. I can't overstate who wonderfully surprising that has been. Most Unintentionally Telling Story: I think there are a lot of places where I project pretty hard on John, or maybe it's that I use a lot of my own experiences to color some of his? We don't actually have much in common besides being gay and being depressed, and I'm older and (I hope) wiser, but, you know, mental illness is a deep well to mine for content. I'd also say I mine a lot of my Jersey shit for Herc and that Molly is the closest thing this series has to a Mary Sue. I'm not into science or math, but I am a cheerfully sarcastic fat brunette lesbian who spends a lot of time whining "why don't girls like me?" and as Opinions about pizza. Plans for the next year: I'm gonna say 300k published words next year. I'd like to post at least the next three ghosthunters anchor stories, maybe venture outside ghosthunters for Hamilton related shit? Pick up my MG novel again. Set a writing schedule and try to stick to it. Leave more comments. Try to put some more good in the world, because it's gonna be a shitty, shitty year.

[professorjjong]

 me rambling about mdzs (the novel) bc it’s literally six am my body woke me up at 4 am for the sole purpose of finishing it and i finished it and then started reading the post script but it was like my heart was wylie coyote it wasn’t until a few minutes after i’d finished it that i realized i was destroyed

good book

sdkfjesiofhdcklwjfioe ok wei wuxian carries like the first fourth of the book. there’s so many fucking characters and names like wtf was going on. it wasn’t made clear what wei wuxian was doing or why--and tbh i don’t think it ever really is, his intentions. like, where was he planning to go after mo village? what was he planning on doing? when he leaves cloud recesses with lan wangji, why does he stay with him at all--why not just run the fuck off? he didn’t know, at this point, that lan wangji knew who he was so why would he risk it? the one thing that was made clear about wei wuxian’s intentions after he had been brought back to life were that he did not want to be recognized, so why would he stick around with lwj? 

for that first fourth, wei wuxian didn’t hesitate in where he was going or why or whatever he was just, going and doing things for no good reason and i didn’t know why and it was frustrating, following around a character who doesn’t seem to have any idea what he wants and also doesn’t even hesitate to think about it. but ugghhh he’s such an interesting character. his past, only teased, seemed super interesting and had created a man who interacted with his surroundings in a comedic and almost flippant way. it made the fantasy elements, buttload of information about cultivation and its sects and enemies as well as the sheer number of characters less intimidating--yes, because it probably wasn’t until almost halfway through that I was able to figure everything out, but i had wwx to hold onto. he’s a suuuuper strong character and was so, so fun to read about i miss him :( 

lwj truly didn’t do anything for me until near the very end when the events following the siege at the nightless city were revealed. i didn’t dislike him as a character, i thought he was fine--but i didn’t think he was as good of a foil to wwx as he could have been. i mean, they’re clearly meant to be foils--one is dressed in black and the other in white. u don’t even need to know anything else aside from that information to know that they’re foils. but i don’t think lwj was a strong enough presence to really “oppose” wwx for most of the novel. honestly, he didn’t even feel present for the first, what, 3/4? it wasn’t until wwx really started developing and even acting out on his feelings that lwj stepped into prominence. the emphasis of the novel, its focus, had shifted along with wwx’s toward lwj. compared to wwx, lwj is almost colorless as a character. yes hahahahahahha more color differences between them but i think, in order for characters to really function as foils, they need to be on equal footing, if only in the framing of the novel. but they weren’t. even during the flashbacks, there was an unevenness to it. at times, lwj felt almost like an afterthought. i remember myself thinking, ‘oh, lwj is there too.’ which yeah, he is quiet, but he’s there. his presence was not always made clear, and, since wwx is such a bright beacon and such an overwhelming chaotic presence, don’t you think lwj should have been a bigger presence to properly be his foil? it’s not until the very end, truly, that the two of them are able to bounce off of each other in a very fun and dynamic way--but, again, the veryyyyyy end. like, the last two chapters very end. 

aside from the plot hole i brought up in the first paragraph, there are some others, big and small. won’t bother to list them--but, and i mean maybe it’s in the additional chapters that i haven’t read yet, super upset we didn’t get to see the actual siege on burial mound. that moment would have been so fucking tense and cool and also would have just answered questions--like, was he killed as a backlash of his own power or was it jiang cheng or someone else who delivered the final blow? wtf was he thinking about as it was happening??? pls?? pls??? i want to know???

ok wait i do need to bring this up like WTF i cannot believe they did not explain wtf happend when wwx was on burial mound for three months and where the fuckkkkkkkkkkkk he learned about the dark magic. there was some throwaway line about a book and i’m just?? u expect me to believe there was jsut some crazy ass book like sitting on a tree stump among a bunch of dead-ass bodies, just waiting for someone to find it? Like seriously?? seriously?? even if there was such a fucking book who the fuck wrote it and why did they put it on the mountain and why did wwx decide that he needed to reclaim his power through it? why did he decide to use music, like the lan sect? why a flute? i have so many fucking questions!! AUTHOR!! AUTHOR!!!! PLEASE WHAT THE FUCK!!! 

also ok this isn’t a “plot hole” but a... theme... hole. a theme hole. i don’t fucking know but the book does a really good job throughout of bringing up mob mentality and other social behaviors when someone becomes the “enemy” of the group. they do this first with wwx and painstakingly set up how much of it is fabrications or exaggerations or bandwagoning, etc. and even why this happened--the people were still hurt by what had happened with the wen sect and, fearful of another force building up its power, it was easy for them to focus their animosity on wwx (the fact that it was him and the remaining wen clan didn’t help either, obvs). so, we’re sympathetic toward wwx because, not only have we been following him for the first half of this novel (by the time we go far enough into the past to learn about what happened when and after he became the yiling patriarch) and because we know his true intentions are pure. he’s a good guy at the end of the day. yeah he did some really, really bad shit during the war and was using a “twisted” ability, but he was trying to help people (also this book clearly has the message that revenge =  good which is,, interesting? i have certainly never read a book before that justifies revenge. usually, the morale is that revenge is never quite nice. see the count of monte cristo (the book, obviously). so, in the moral universe set up in this book, wasn’t wwx totally justified in his actions, however terrible, against the wen sect bc they destroyed the jiang sect? not saying i think that way, just that i think the story expects us to think that way). so, our set up to rumors and badmouthing by people is that it’s wrong, right? and that the other person doesn’t deserve it, no matter what they may have done? it just leads to more and more lies and should be stopped, right? we didn’t like it happening to wwx, who was also frustrated by it both in flashbacks and in the present, so, when it happens to the villain..... it’s okay? our protagonists dont’ have to rise up to defend him, even if he did do wrong? wwx just thinks ‘well, at leeas they weren’t this shitty to me’ and that’s fuckKING IT?? REALLY??

like this is the second ot last scene of the entire fucking story and that’s the fucking note it ends on? there’s nothing else?? no other perspective on responding to mob mentality that we’re going to get?? didn’t wwx die bc of mob mentality and, rather than trying to clean up his perception, he just maintained his behavior and quietly accepted being called evil???? doesn’t that mean it’s bad??? but they just?? let it happen??? again???  that’s the note?? author??? author??? is it all ok that people talk this way even when it leads to people getting killed??? author??? author?????????????? 

i think i got enough of my feelings out now to go read the additional chapters. peace

[jessicaptain]

Race Anecdotes: Superior Morgul Road Race & Self-Criticism

I am of the doctrine, “If you’re not first, you’re last.” I don’t know where I first heard that, but I know it’s been a thing for me since I was young. I remember Field Day and desperately wanting to bring home as many blue ribbons as possible. Green for the shoe kick? Red for the 50-meter dash? Fuckin’ trash.

Any other color indicated my failure. In my 9-year old mind, if I had other colors, I’d focus on those instead of the blues. Even though my parents thought all the colored ribbons were a sign of me trying my best, I didn’t feel that way. I sucked at the shoe kick. I was less of a 9-year old for my failure to kick my shoe as far as possible. What’s the point of life if I can’t beat the other kids in flinging a textile object across the grass?

Fast forward to today, I’m still unable to shake the idea of my perception of failure if I’m not the best. Call me a perfectionist, obsessive-compulsive, self-critical, neurotic, whatever else Psychology Today lists for people like me. I like to believe I handle losing better than I did when I was 9 years old, but it takes a lot of self-discipline and reading self-help books after the event to feel okay.

I’ve learned that no one else cares about my results as much as I do. Frankly, they could give a damn. I know this because I don’t give a damn about anyone else’s results. They’re not me. Obviously, I want my friends and family to do well, but when it comes down to it, I’ll love them regardless if they’re first or dead fucking last. Their results aren’t what makes them the person I care about. If it was, I’d be a pretty shitty person. The people in my circle are the same way: They care about me as a human being, not the results I have at the end of the day. While I’m ruminating over a fourth place at the Superior Morgul, they’ve long forgotten my results. They probably don’t even know the results.

What bothers me the most is knowing that a course like Superior Morgul shines a light - nah, shines a spotlight - on my weaknesses as a bike racer: pitchy climbs and sprint finishes. Mix the two together like we’re on The Great British Baking Show and you get a soggy bottom.

I knew the finish on “The Wall” was going to be a bastard. It has been the past few years I’ve raced it. I wanted First Place and it was more to prove that I’m stronger now than years past. What really messed with me was believing that two of the five of us were Masters racers racing up to the finish. I thought that I only had to out-sprint two other racers. Come to find out, as I walked toward the podium when Lance said, “In 3rd place….”, there was an older rider who was registered as a Cat 3. Thanks to confusing bib numbers and the fact that the Cat 3’s have dismal attendance in nearly every Colorado race, that woman was on the podium instead of me.

And fair play to her. She started putting the hurt on for the finish after we made our last turn on to McCaslin Blvd. I held on and it sucked. I knew I was up against very strong climbers. I mean, you don’t sign up for this race if you’re not a strong climber. I keep thinking I am and then I’m proven wrong time and again.

Just like last year, we hit the steepest part of the hill and off they went - my 9-year old self watching their shoes flying across the grass as mine stuck to my foot. Bike racing is ruthless. You can’t hide behind a team in cycling as well as other team sports. It’s on you. You’re responsible for your results. I was responsible for my results. The ineffable feeling of crossing that white line behind the rest of the pack instantly made me feel inadequate.

Truth be told, I let myself feel that way. I chose those feelings. We have the power to choose how we feel about anything. And for some sick reason, I chose to make myself feel inadequate. Standing there, shivering in the cold, 25 seconds behind the winner. I kept asking myself, “How the fuck are they so strong?” “How do I get that strong?” The dreaded comparison abyss we all easily fall into. Once you’re in it, it’s hard to get back out.

After sulking and shivering, and realizing I was going to be late for my volunteer shift, I jumped on my bike to make the descent to my car, trying in vain to wick away flaws.

We all experience this feeling of inadequacy. If you’ve never experienced it, then you’re not trying hard enough. When you do feel like shit after a loss (whatever it may be), there are healthier ways to process it:

Get angry. Feel upset. But don’t lose the lesson. You totally can take a minute or two to get angry or feel upset. It’s human nature to have emotions. Feel the feels but then figure out what you did wrong and come up with a plan. Pissing and moaning about a perceived failure will only get you so far. You need to come up with a plan so you don’t make the same mistakes in the future.

Remind yourself to thank your competitors, either in person or to yourself. They’re helping you get better. If I won the race, I’d assume I’m doing everything right. Sure, it’s a good feeling, but no one’s perfect and there are always ways to improve. Coming in fourth place teaches me that I still have a ways to go, that I need to make some changes to my training, and work on my weaknesses. I wouldn’t have been as introspective if I won as much as I was when I “lost.” We learn more when we lose than when we win. Think about the times you’ve lost (personal, business, sports, etc.) and compare that to time you’ve won - when did you learn more?

Exercises borrowed from Thinking Body, Dancing Mind I wanted to be realistic and walk myself through some exercises to change my attitude about the race. Here are two exercises I found useful in Thinking Body, Dancing Mind by Chungliang Al Huang and Jerry Lynch.

Exercise #1: Changing the way you talk to yourself (p. 140)

Make two columns and label one “Self-negative comments” and the other “Changed to their opposite.” In the first column, list all the negative comments you say to yourself, don’t edit them - just write ‘em all down.

Then force yourself to change those comments to the opposite. It’s difficult to do when you’re feeling shitty, so you could always write down the negative comments and come back to the list later when you’re more level-headed.

Here are a couple of examples I wrote after the race:

Self-negative comments Changed to their opposite I’m not fast enough >>>I’m fast enough I’m not a climber>>>I have the legs to climb I’m too heavy>>>I am the perfect weight

It feels unnatural if you’re a pessimist at heart. This obviously takes practice and something that won’t change overnight. Do it anyway and see how you feel afterward.

Exercise #2: Listing your positive qualities (p. 141)

List 5 qualities (25 total) for each area of life:

Physical:

Spiritual:

Professional:

Emotional:

Social:

After you’ve listed five qualities in each category, create a positive affirmation statement for all of them. Start reading these daily. Post them around your house or on your phone, wherever you look the most.

Honestly, I haven’t started Exercise #2 because I struggle to find my strengths. There are a ton of resources via Google to help you brainstorm.

Here’s a comprehensive list of personality qualities from the Journal of Social Psychology.

Being critical of your performance or qualities you’d like to change is imperative if you want to grow, but ruminating over it and letting that negativity pervade the rest of your life is unhealthy. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter. One race coming in fourth doesn’t matter. How you treat people, how you treat yourself, and how you make things better for others is what matters. Don’t be afraid to fail. Failure is a sign of growth, not an indication of your worth.

Looking for a coach or personal trainer? http://www.jessicamcwhirt.com/personal-training-coaching/

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