#I like how writing eight pages is literally not even a big deal for me

[johnnysuhbmarine]

Watching Harmony Forest instead of writing my last two college essays…but it’s okay because looking at Intak will make me motivated to drink water finish my finals assignments so I can look at Intak even MORE and with less stress!!!

But seriously you want me to write eight pages on communication and character when I could instead watch brunette Intak in a cap win at dodgeball?? One of those is clearly the better option

[bratbarzal]

On Your Side (NH13) / Chapter Eight

Pairing: Nico Hischier x Fem!OC Poppy Jensen*

*I say it's an OC, it's just a name and third person POV. I use minor character descriptions because I don’t get on with writing vague reader inserts/YN for long-form, story heavy fics, but I will generally try to avoid including race and body type or really any physical descriptors. I’m always open to feedback on my writing, or how to be more inclusive.

WC: 18k (I need help)

Chapter Warnings: jealous!nico makes a tiny cameo lmao, fluff!!! it's everywhere!! like those pranks you see on tv where they put like honey on someone then send them through a door with a bucket of feathers hung precariously over the top. so fluffy. and little sprinkles of fake dating!! the best writing trope there ever was. poppy's family are a living breathing nightmare, so angst there including comments about food/weight/eating and just a lot of ignorance and judgement, and nico is her saving grace. repeatedly. that's all I've got.

Series Masterlist

Previous Part (Chapter Seven)

A/N: you know that meme of sarah paulson laughing at her phone in ahs and she looks like a clown that's me rn after finally finishing this!!! not a single thought in my brain in the 14 days since I posted the last chapter. no gender reveal in here it will be in the next chapter tho!! I didn't really want to time jump too much in one go or include too many milestones because I feel like I'd just be skipping stuff for the sake of it, and I wanted to dedicate a chapter entirely to one aspect of the pregnancy. I literally had one conversation in this pre planned and the rest came to me after DAYS of staring at a blank page lmao but I hope you all enjoy as always would love to hear any thoughts any feelings anything at all 💖

Nico

Coming to the realisation that he is seriously no good at the concept of baby steps takes Nico a grand total of three days. 

To give himself credit, it has been three long days of battling every instinct in his body to hover protectively in Poppy’s peripheral. 

The first day had been the easiest - mainly due to the fact he and Poppy spent it together anyway, her having the day off of work and him only having that morning training session and an afternoon practice after he had dropped her home. 

He had been able to shamelessly dote on her in the safety of his own home - he had ordered her in a late lunch, a giant caesar salad she had no chance of getting the whole way through and some sweet potato fries, and she hadn’t been sick again the whole time they had been together. They had sat with each other on the couch, creating a joint calendar where they could figure out when to book her first scan, and he had sat and watched her as she made the appointment, biting nervously at the skin around her nails until he pulled her hands away from her mouth to break the habit. 

They had marked the date in their phones, Friday 23rd, where they would both be at work but Nico didn’t have a game, and had given it the cryptic title of Blueberry Day in case anyone accidentally came across it, because that is how big Google had told Poppy the baby would be by then.

And it had been then that it dawned on Nico that he was now responsible for a pretty big secret, which made the second day almost unbearable.

The Devils hosted the Avalanche at home, and where he spent his evening dealing with the mammoth task of playing some of the greatest players in the league, and the team that had taken home the cup only two seasons prior, he had spent his entire day with the even bigger workload of keeping his mouth shut around his parents.

His mother, specifically, who had mastered the art of knowing her son like the back of her hand.

Keeping secrets had never been Nico’s strong suit. It’s probably the youngest child in him, he thinks, his siblings having tried every single trick in the book on his parents before he ever had the chance, and he never managed to perfect his poker face - especially when it came to Katja.

His mom, who had once told him she had memorised the depth in which he breathed in his sleep, and so she could always tell he was pretending when he curled himself up in bed with his hand tucked under his pillow, holding his beat up brick of a phone under it while he waited for updates from his friends on the latest football score-lines from across the European leagues, and faking snores when she came to check up on him.

She would always huff out a resigned sigh, would reach under the pillow and take the device from a clutch too tight for him to have been asleep.

“You can text your friends in the morning, Neeky,” She would say as she tucked his phone into her back pocket, levelling him with a knowing look when he peeked an eye open only to roll it at her astute observation skills. “You have school tomorrow, you need to sleep.”

But during the second day, when he had managed to grab brunch with his parents before he was shut away in preparation for the game, as much as he still feared being on the receiving end of that dissecting glare, he had to bite his tongue to keep his priorities in check.

He had promised Poppy he would move at her pace - baby steps and all - which means respecting her boundaries and only telling other people when she is ready to do so.

So when his mother had brought up Poppy, had asked how she was getting on after being sick, and how he was getting on after she had laid into him after his event the week before, he had told the whitest lie that he hadn’t had chance to check up on her yet.

He had rationalised it by telling himself it was the truth. He hadn’t checked up on her yet, that morning. Not until after brunch, when he had arrived at the arena and had made a bee-line straight for her office.

As much as he wanted his mom to know - wanted to share what could be the biggest thing to ever happen to him with the woman who gave him life, and wanted to see her reaction in person before she was to fly home in a few days - putting pressure on Poppy to tell her just because she’s in the country and will be leaving soon hadn’t exactly seemed like the best idea. Pressing her on it and coercing her into something she might not be ready for had felt unfair - especially given how patient she had been with him.

Only, when he made it to her office, and had heard the sound of her melodic laughter even through the closed door, and had opened it to see her sat across from Josh from PR, all other rational thought had left his head. He had to clench his free fist and bite his tongue to save from screaming the news from the rooftops - thinking there might be someone jumping the queue of who needed to know first.

“Nico!” She had shot up from her seat at his arrival, and he had thought his mind was playing cruel tricks on him when he had seen her eyes light up, but then the telling twist of her lips followed. She was happy to see him. Thank God. Calm down, he had told himself. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just,” his eyes had darted inconspicuously over to Josh, “I’m cutting it a little bit fine for training and I need to talk to you about the thing.”

“The thing.” Poppy had pressed her lips together in amusement, her own focus going back to the man sat on the other side of her desk. “Sorry, Josh, can I come find you later?”

“Of course, you know where I’ll be, Poppy,” Josh stood, “Good luck today, Nico,” he smiled as he passed him. “Go, Devils!”

Nico had jut his head as an acknowledgement, able to just about stop himself from outwardly cringing and rolling his eyes, muttering out a quick and direct, “Joshua,” as if that was any reasonable kind of response.

“You’re disturbingly bad at being subtle.”

“Yeah, well I was on the spot,” he huffed back, eyes narrowing at the chair that was supposed to be his, but now looked uncomfortable and worn. “How’re you feeling?” He had rounded the corner of her desk, instead, stepping more into her side of it and placing a strawberry smoothie he had picked up for her by her monitor before perching himself on the corner. She had still smelled a little like him, like she had used his shampoo when she had been over the day before and the scent still lingered in her hair, and he watched with bated breath as she chose to stand in front of him instead of sitting back down. 

“I’m fine,” she shrugged, arms crossing over herself as she leant against the wall directly in front of him. 

“Fine?”

It wasn’t that she didn’t look fine. She had probably looked the best he had seen her in a good few weeks - colour in her cheeks, hair down and brushed smooth instead of haphazardly pushed back, a soft gleam back in her eyes - but if his sister and mother had ever taught him anything of serious value about women, it would have been that fine never means fine.

“I’ve been resisting the urge to puke in my trashcan for a good hour at Josh’s cologne,” she had admitted, her lips twisting guiltily as if she hadn’t wanted to say anything even remotely mean.

“He smells that bad?” He hadn’t been able to help but tease, and had chuckled heartily when she leaned over to shove at his shoulder.

“No, it was just strong. I feel like I need to sniff coffee or something to reset my senses.”

“Do you want me to get you some?”

“No,” she leans back against the surface behind her. “I thought you were cutting it a little bit fine for training.”

“I am. Do you have plans for tomorrow night?”

“I do actually,” she had craned her head back, wistfully, but had only kept him sweating for a moment before adding, “I’ve made arrangements with my bathroom floor. Candles, Hozier playing, non-alcoholic rosé, I think if I can convince my brain that spending all my time with my head in the toilet isn’t that bad, the nausea will go away.”

“If anyone can reverse-psychology morning sickness, it would be you.”

The smile she had given him back was astute, head tilting from her position against the wall as she raised a brow at him. “Where do you want me?”

If only she knew the half of where he had wanted her. 

“My mom’s going home on Friday morning,” he had mirrored her stance, crossing his arms over his chest and spreading his legs just a little as he sat atop her desk, angling himself so that she was directly ahead of him. “They’re coming to my place for dinner tomorrow night, and she’s been on at me since last week about seeing you again, so I figured it would be nice if you were there.”

“She’s been on at you?”

“Neeky, you should see if Poppy’s free,” he had tried his best to respectfully imitate her voice, and had ended up sounding somewhere in between a muppet and a chipmunk. “Will Poppy be at your game tonight? Will she be at the game on Thursday? She’d probably extend her trip if you asked her to, I don’t even think she flew out to see me in the first place.”

“It’s because she knows.”

“She knows?” 

“Well, she thinks she knows,” Poppy had rolled her eyes affectionately. “She called me out back when you had the signing last week. I’d told her about how I wasn’t feeling or sleeping too great, and she assumed it was because I was pregnant straight away. She’s kind of the whole reason I ever thought to take a test in the first place, apparently you Hischier babies all wreak the same kinds of havoc in the womb.”

“Oh, God, please tell me she didn’t go into too much detail,” he cringed, his face curling up at the thought of what his mother could have possibly said to her - at the thought of her even jumping to that conclusion in the first place. 

“No, it was really sweet, actually.” Poppy hummed, smiling softly just at the memory, “I was trying not to freak out at even the thought of being pregnant, and she spoke about it like it was the greatest time of her life. Even after I told her I wasn’t, she made me feel like it would be okay if I was,”

“That explains why she laid into me after,” he scoffed in amusement, remembering in vivid detail the lecture she had given him as he drove her back to meet up with his dad after the event. “She bit my ear off the whole way back to her hotel about how I need to appreciate the good people in my life more.”

“Aw,” Poppy cooed, pushing herself off the wall and stepping into the space just in front of him, reaching to pinch his cheek gently and mocking him with, “Did Neeky get a telling off from his mommy?”

He had swatted her hand away despite his cheek curving into her touch, trying to suppress the smile teasing his lips at even the closer proximity. “She saw us talking before the event, noticed we weren’t exactly in the best place and she told me to sort things out before I lose you, basically.”

“Her manifestation skills are crazy off the charts,” Poppy had scoffed, gesturing to her belly and lowering her voice like she was sharing an inside joke, “You’re pretty stuck with me, now.”

“What can I say? She’s good.” He had succumbed to the grin that was tugging at each corner of his mouth, so big that his eyes began to crinkle in the corners, and Poppy’s own gaze had flickered down to it and smiled back instinctively. “So, dinner?”

“That depends,”

“On?”

“Are you cooking?”

Nico had sighed, rolled his eyes dramatically and levelled her with as straight a face as he could muster, ignoring the urge to crack a smile at the way her own lips twitched with mirth. “I’m a good cook, Poppy.”

“Of course you are.” She nodded in agreement. “Hell, if I had a particular affliction for plain chicken and rice every day of the week I’d actually say you’re the best cook in Jersey, and I grew up with a house chef!” 

“I’m good with vegetables, too.”

“Just what every pregnant girl wants to hear.” Nico had wished he didn’t find her sarcasm so endearing, she was making it too hard for him to defend himself.

“Why don’t you come over earlier, then? You can supervise,” he hadn’t paid any mind to how desperate he had seemed, pressing and pressing and relenting to her every whim like it was nothing. He’d long made up his mind that things would just be like that for the foreseeable future. “I’ll even provide the candles and the music you’ll be missing out on.”

“Now you’re speaking my language.”

“Is that a yes? I promise I’ll go easy on the cologne.”

“Yours is fine,” Poppy shook her head, affectionately, lips twisting like she had been caught out at something she had no intentions of admitting, “Okay, yeah, I’ll be there. It sounds nice, actually. I did promise your mom I’d catch up with her, too.”

“Perfect,” and only because he seriously was cutting it fine to get to their final practice skate before their game that evening, he had jumped up from the desk, pressed a fleeting kiss to the crown of her head, and parted with, “I’ll pick you up at 6.”

And despite how insistent he had been with her in her office, it had been the third day that opened Nico's eyes to just how nigh on impossible baby steps would be when it came to how far gone he was for Poppy.

It had started in his kitchen, where they had easily settled once he had picked her up from her apartment after work, and the two of them were prepping vegetables to roast for the pasta sauce. Poppy had been laughing at the way he cried while cutting onions, he had been laughing at the way she frowned when she noticed the wine in the corner he had bought specifically for his parents, and they had conversed with ease the whole time as she cut the peppers and he cut the tomatoes - sharing stories of cooking with their families as children; specifically how Poppy used to spend her weekends with her grandmother, and would follow her around the kitchen like a magnet.

“Are you excited to tell her?” He had asked, leaning against the counter after putting their vegetables in the oven to roast and drying his fingers off with a hand towel. 

“I think so,” she had hummed in response, “More than I am to tell my mom, that’s for sure. I think I’m gonna put it off for as long as I can.”

“You don’t think she’ll be happy for you?”

She could only scoff at that, avoiding his gaze as she fiddled with her own fingers, inspecting her nails and shrugging. “She’ll find some way to make me feel bad about it.”

“Why would you feel bad about it?” His heart had sank at the thought - beyond the initial panic and fear at telling him the news, Poppy had been nothing but excited since. Disregarding the ever-present nausea and the exhaustion, she seemed to be running on the fumes of happiness the past few days, their shared secret eliciting subtle smiles whenever their eyes met at work.

“I know that I shouldn’t,” Poppy settled into the counter to the side of him, her posture slumped and defeated, “But she won’t understand it. She’s really old fashioned with stuff like this, and as proud as I am of what we’re doing, and how we’re dealing with this, she’s gonna turn it into something ugly. Lawyers and custody agreements and all those scary, official, set-in-stone kind of things.

And I realise that technically we should be agreeing on all that stuff if we’re not together, but I don’t want to ruin what we’re doing. The whole baby steps thing doesn’t exactly work when we have to pay people to figure everything out for us, you know?”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” he had tried to keep a reassuring tone, despite the heavy weight that settled on his chest - a sense of impending doom cast over the two of them like a fast approaching dark cloud.

The thought of being on the other side of a nasty custody battle against Priscilla Jensen had made his heart do that hollow kind of thud in his chest. The kind that rattled and stuttered and filled his entire body with unrelenting doubt. The woman had hated him since the first moment she ever laid eyes on him, and that was before the possibility that he could have her grandchild snatched from her clutches in some court order.

Not that he ever would, but it wouldn’t stop the obviously insane thought from crossing her warped mind, and her doing everything in her seemingly unlimited powers to stop it happening.

“Maybe we should just tell her that we are together,” he had said it before even thinking it through, but as soon as the words left his mouth, some of that doubt had eased.

Surely it would lessen the blow, he had thought, if her mom knew that she was in a loving, committed relationship. That this wasn’t some mistake they would both come to regret and resent, or that there would never be an instance in which Nico could ever do anything so spiteful to Poppy as to interfere with her or her family’s rights to their baby.

Poppy’s brows practically met her hairline, shooting up in surprise, her eyes darting to meet his in alarm. “You think that we should pretend we’re a couple? To my mother?”

“It’s not like we wouldn’t pull it off,” he had shrugged, again feeling more comfortable the more the idea fully formulated in his mind, his shoulders straight and his tone fuelled by bravado. “She knows who I am, we’ve been in each other’s lives for years, we’re gonna be in each other’s lives for a long time, we would barely even be pretending, Poppy.” 

He could practically see the cogs turning in her brain, her head tilted, her eyes narrowed and a pensive pout pulling at her lips before she asked, “You’d do that for me?” Like he would be putting himself out. “Knowing what she’s like? Nico, you’re literally throwing yourself to the wolves.”

“I told you before, Poppy, I’d do whatever you need me to do,” he swore, “Even if that means looking your mother in the eye and praying I don’t turn to stone.”

When she grabbed the hand towel from the side and swatted him with it, he caught the fabric with a hearty laugh, his chest swelling with pride as he saw how much effort she was putting in to hold back a grin of her own.

“It’s not the worst idea,” she hummed, “I’ll probably feel less anxious about it if I can share the blame with you.”

“There you go,” he gave her a warm smile, like it was nothing at all for him to be on the receiving end of Priscilla’s wrath. Like the woman didn’t terrify him to his very core. “When should we tell them, then?”

He probably wouldn’t have asked if she hadn’t brought it up, but with his own parents coming over in less than an hour, he had thought he would be able to gather his wits about withholding the truth if he had a timeline for it.

“I don’t know, in a few weeks, maybe? You guys have that stretch where you’re close to home the back end of March, and my brother is coming over for Easter. Maybe if we do it while the whole family is around it might save an argument. Plus, I’ll be around 12 weeks then, I think I’ll feel better telling them when we’ve had those first couple of appointments and we know everything’s okay.”

“Whatever you want to do, I’ll be there, Poppy.” He reached over to clasp his fingers around her hand, which she swiftly turned in his clutch to interlace her own fingers with his. “What about mine? Ideally I’d want to tell my mom in person, but I don’t think she’s coming out for the rest of the season now after Friday.”

“Oh, yeah,” Poppy frowned, her gaze turning guilty as she looked up at him, “Did you want to tell her tonight?”

“Not if that’s too soon for you,”

“If anyone deserves to be the first to know, it’s her, I think,”

“Are you sure?”

And even though it had been the desired outcome, for him to get to tell his parents in person, to see their reactions and gauge their thoughts on it all, he would have held back if that was what Poppy wanted. He would have settled for a FaceTime call if he needed to.

“Yeah,” Poppy smiled, “She called it, I kinda want to see her reaction to be honest.”

“She’s gonna lose her mind.”

“In a good way?”

There was a flash of something vulnerable in Poppy that squeezed relentlessly at his heart - a childlike insecurity wherein she craved any kind of maternal approval, and he felt content in knowing she would at least get some in this instance. 

“Poppy, you don’t even want to know the half of the torture she’s put me through since she met you. The idea of you giving her a grandchild is like the second coming of Jesus or something. She’ll be on cloud nine.”

And despite the cute little snort she did, and the way her lips curved up in the corners, that vulnerability remained. 

“You don’t think she’ll be a little disappointed? Or your dad, even? Like I’m taking your focus away from what’s important?”

Important?

Nico blinked slowly as he tried to comprehend what she was saying, and where it had come from. 

Had he really made her feel like she wasn’t important? Like she hadn’t been his sole source of reprieve and release most days?

“Poppy, you’re important.” He said it with ease, but the weight of the words and how much he meant them pushed on him until he was stepping forward, until his hands gripped at the sides of her upper arms and he just about saved himself from rattling the message into her bones. “My parents know that more than anybody, more than even I do sometimes. There isn’t a single inch of them that would be disappointed in either of us, not for this.”

“Are you sure?”

He raised a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, thumb swiping from her cheekbone up to her temple, “I’m positive,” he had hummed, “If it helps, we can tell my family the same thing we’ll tell yours-,”

“I don’t want to lie to your parents.”

Nico had always thought the way his parents loved Poppy was endearing - the way his father would ask about her work after he kept tabs on her projects with the Foundation online, the way his mother was always checking up with him about her wellbeing and what she was getting up to even outside of work - they had taken to her like she was their own, and he never had any worries or doubts about her being good enough to impress them. 

But the way Poppy loved them back - Poppy who had such fractious relationships with her own parents, who had never grown up with the reassurance that she would be loved and respected no matter what, or that whatever she ended up doing or achieving in life would always be enough - the way she embraced his mom and dad, had never shied away from their enthusiasm or made him feel embarrassed by their interference in her life, was something so precious he couldn’t even fathom the way it made him feel.

Poppy, who has always cared so much about him and his family, that the thought of being dishonest with them had turned her stomach.

“How about a half truth, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“We love each other, right?” She had nodded without any hesitation, and despite the fact that she had told him before, he feels warmth and relief pool in the pit of his stomach. “And we’re figuring out how this is going to work for us, right?” Another nod, and the gentle flutter of her lashes as she maintained eye contact. “Then I don’t think it’s a lie to tell them we’re together. And it helps with the overlap in case our families cross paths down the line, I don’t have to ask mine to bend the truth.”

“Is that what we’re doing? Bending the truth?”

“I think so,” he breathed, confident in his convictions that they weren’t going to have to lie. 

He loved her, she loved him, they were together in the sense that they had each other’s backs in a situation that had the potential to turn their whole worlds upside down. His parents didn’t need to know that he had hurt her before that, had messed things up so bad that she had no faith in his word that he wanted to be with her - but he knew that could be resolved. He felt it in his bones, knew in every fibre of his being that he could prove himself to her. They just needed time.

Time without interference from anyone else that there was an ever-looming deadline on those decisions.

Baby steps. Their own way.

“You don’t think she’ll catch us out?”

He tried to move swiftly past the way his heart sank at the thought that Poppy would always feel like someone was trying to catch her out or prove her wrong. She didn’t deserve that, and thankfully, he knew she wouldn’t receive that from his parents. Maybe they could help him reverse that damage, restore her faith that there would always be people in his world that would be in her corner.

“She’ll be too relieved at the thought of having another daughter that she won’t even care, Poppy. Especially considering it’s you.”

“Okay,” she had breathed out, like a sigh of relief, “Do we need a plan? A backstory?”

He had broken out in a wide grin at the thought, laughter bubbling up from the depths of his chest and he couldn’t even feel guilty about the way she arched her brow, unimpressed and concerned at the same time. “Poppy, we have a backstory. Don’t overthink it. We’re not lying, remember?”

She had started to smile back, bashful and sweet, and he had to force himself to take a step back so that he didn’t do something stupid and impulsive again. 

And he had spent the hour after that until his parents arrived all but tying his hands behind his back to stop himself from touching her, settling for the occasional bump of hips as they moved around his kitchen and the knock of elbows as they set the table together, repeating the baby steps mantra in his head and growing more and more frustrated with every iteration of it.

Only after his parents had arrived and they all sat around talking once they had eaten did he let himself ease into his instincts, self-indulgently slinging an arm across the back of Poppy’s chair and relishing the pounding of his heart when she’d laugh so hard at something that she would lean back into it.

They were yet to broach the big news, deciding between them to wait a little into the night so that they didn’t have to answer too many questions, and Nico had held his breath every time his mother started onto a new topic, just knowing she would be the one to prompt the conversation somehow.

“You know, Poppy,” she had leaned onto the table, pushing her glass of wine forward as not to spill anything, and had given her the kind of smile Nico associated with the gushing, proud speeches she would blurt out after long bouts apart. Where she would get sentimental and sappy and he would pretend it embarrassed him but really it stirred the kind of gratification he longed for when he was homesick. “I’m so glad we got to sit down and do this, I was worried after the last time I saw you we wouldn’t get the chance before I left.”

“Me too, I really appreciated your help back at the event, I figured I couldn’t let you go home without us seeing each other again, and it’s been really nice to catch up on everything.”

“It really has, I’m happy you could fit us in. I was telling Rino how I threatened you not to hang out with him without me when I’m gone next week.”

“I was hurt you agreed so easy, Poppy.” Nico’s father had chided in faux-outrage, with a fond roll of his eyes.

“You can’t call dibs on Poppy, Mom, especially if you’re pouncing on her when she’s sick.”

“I did no such thing!” Katja had gasped, and Poppy had leaned so far back that her head was resting just beyond the inside of Nico’s elbow, no intentions of sitting up or moving, watching his parents with an affectionate beam that lit up her entire face. “I gave her advice on how to feel better! And look at her now, glowing!”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Poppy scoffed, “I’m probably a couple months from the whole glowing thing.”

He had felt her go rigid against him as soon as she said it, had tried to rub comfortingly at her shoulder to ease the tension as she looked up at him in alarm - hoping he could telepathically communicate to her that everything was going to be okay.

“A couple of months?” Katja questioned, her brow quirking in the same way Nico’s would whenever he was confused, or weighing up different possibilities in his head.

Poppy’s eyes stayed on his, apologetic, questioning, seeking his approval, and all he could do was smile as he looked down at her, letting the lopsided grin that was twitching at the sides of his mouth take over before he gave a quick nod, letting her take the reins on this.

“Uhh,” she turned back to face his parents, smiling nervously as she looked between them before settling on his mother. “You were right, before, about the dream thing.”

Nico watched as his mom’s lips turned up, the all-too-familiar knowing glint in her eye that only ever shone when she was proven right. The smile took over slowly, until her eyes wrinkled in the corners, and her nose scrunched in delight. “You’re pregnant?” 

Poppy could only nod, and Nico felt his heart swell three times bigger as her face transformed with unadulterated joy.

When she had told Nico, she had been afraid. She had been scared of his reaction, and fearful of what the future held, and he felt proud to know that she didn’t feel that way, anymore. Not in that moment, at least. Her features shone with lighthearted elation, and he could feel his own morph to mirror them.

“Oh, Poppy,” his mom had cried out, her own eyes welling up as she shot up from her seat and rounded the table, “That’s so wonderful!”

He watched tenderly as the two of them embraced, Poppy standing and melting into his mother’s arms, Katja rubbing at her back and most likely squeezing her - a feeling he knew all too well.

And when he looked over to his father, he found him already watching him, and met his eyes immediately, the corners of them crinkling and his lips curved into a soft, perceptive smile that communicated a thousand feelings. Pride, congratulations, acceptance, excitement.

Nico had hoped when Poppy got a good look at Rino, she would see the same - see there was never any need to pretend, any need to lie, that the truth sat between them all comfortably in the shape of familial, unconditional love and support.

“Tell me everything,” Katja had parted with her hands on Poppy’s arms, holding her in front of her with eyes full of wonder, “Nico never said you were seeing somebody.”

“Oh, I-,” Poppy had gawked.

“Mom-,” Nico had sighed.

“Kat,” Rino laughed heartily from across the table. “Don’t be silly.”

With Poppy still grasped in her arms, Katja looked between the three of them. Poppy’s guilty smile, her husband’s amused chuckling, the expectant pressing together of her son’s lips.

She had glanced between Poppy and Nico, doing the math in her head before she gasped. “You two?”

He nodded from behind Poppy, watching her body stiffen in anticipation of a bad reaction, his cheeks starting to ache already from the joy pressing into them. 

“You’re having my grandchild?” Her eyes had gone round, glassy in an instant, and Nico couldn’t remember the last time he had been able to share something with her that brought her this much happiness. She had always been proud of him, but this was something else, entirely. “I knew there was something going on!”

“You didn’t know,” Nico scoffed, standing to rescue Poppy from his mother’s excited shakes, pulling her into his own clutches and pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. His hand had inched by default from her hip bone inwards, thumb and fingers cradling the unchanged curve of her belly, but the thought of the tiny seedling sprouting in there set sparks off in his own stomach.

“I’ve known you were hiding something. You’re a terrible liar, Neeky, you were breaking a sweat at brunch yesterday, pretending nothing new was going on,” Katja had pointed, her face morphing into sheer excitement as she shifted toward his father, “And I told you they’d end up together years ago!”

“Mom,” Nico had all but whined, unable to be truly embarrassed when he felt Poppy’s body sink back into his, the tension seeping from her bones as she melted into the moment - any previous anxiety or worries washed away by the fact his mother had come to the conclusion all on her own. There was no need for either of them to fabricate up some story or tell any half truths.

“She did,” Rino stood from across the table, circling around to congratulate the two of them, himself. “The first night we met you, Poppy, she said she had a feeling.”

“You really are good,” Poppy marvelled, her body vibrating with laughter against his. Comfortable, happy, cherished, just how he wanted her to be.

“No, I just know what’s good for my baby boy.” Katja cooed, reaching out to pinch at Nico’s cheeks affectionately before she took Poppy in her arms again, the four of them trading hugs between them like they were in an assembly line, his parents embracing her just like he knew they would, like she was one of their own, expressing their excitement with crinkled eyes and soft kisses to her cheeks.

In the almost 3 weeks that followed that night, baby steps had turned into what Nico could only describe as a misguided, drunken stumble - where he let unsteady limbs carry him in the wrong direction, but still somehow always ended up safe at home.

There had been the shameful Valentines Day incident, where he had built up enough blind courage to ask her over for another dinner date, and had been shut down before he could even properly propose it to her. 

“You doing anything tomorrow?” He asked when he had dropped by her office to offer a quick goodbye before the team flew out to Nashville, watching as her attention barely strayed from her computer, already so deep into her workload so early into her day.

“For Valentines?” She asked across the desk to him, “Oh yeah, I got men lining up down the block to take me out for a dinner I can’t keep down,” she scoffed, oblivious to the flash of something that had washed over him at the thought of her going on a date with someone else.

“Funny,” he gulped.

“Me and the girls usually do Galentines, like a boozy brunch kind of thing, but obviously I’m ruled out this year,” she broke from her typing to gesture at her stomach before going back to it, “Nia found a Paint’n’Sip near her apartment though, so that’s where I’ll be. Sans-sipping, of course.”

Nico had never struggled so much with the English language in one sentence than he had there.

“Galentines?”

Despite the embarrassment that had tickled his spine at asking, the way she smiled when she looked over to him made up for it.

“Valentines for the gals,” she pushed herself from her keyboard, giving her full attention over to him, then, “You boys really miss out on all the fun festivities, you should start a new one! Valen-guy-nes!”

“I’ll be sure to run that by the team on our flight later,” he scoffed.

“C’mon, that’s genius!”

And while he had never ended up asking her for that dinner, he had sent a bunch of flowers straight to her office, and reaped the rewards of his actions when she sent him a picture of two painted mugs beside each other on the Wednesday night, one with pink hearts and unfamiliar writing that said World’s Best Mommy-To-Be beside another, blue hearts with Poppy’s handwriting that read World’s Best Baby Daddy.

The latter end of that same week had been their Stadium Series game, one of the biggest events in the team’s calendar all year, and one he had been looking forward to since it was announced the year before.

The Devils organisation had set up their own celebrations for the guys to mark the monumental occasion, allowing them to bring their loved ones  out to East Rutherford to take part in a family skate. The guys were bringing out their parents, their siblings, their partners, their children. And Nico had wanted more than anything to bring Poppy.

He had followed up on what had now become a routine, dropping by her office that Friday when he arrived at the Rock with a red berry smoothie in hand, perching himself on the corner of her desk and talking through her plans for the day.

She had asked the same of him, knowing his father and sister would be joining him at the stadium, and wanting him to pass on her greetings.

“You could say hi, yourself,” he had said, head tilting as he watched her push back from her desk, her chair rolling to give her enough leverage to properly look up at him instead of half-focusing on her work. 

“We’re not really involved in the stadium stuff, now,” she had frowned, brows furrowing and her own head tilting in response. 

“Would you want to be?”

“Want to be what?”

“Involved.” He crossed his arms over his chest, surveying every iteration of emotion that crossed her face, before adding, “You could come out on the ice with us, for the family skate.”

“Won’t there be cameras there?”

He shrugged, having not put that much thought into that aspect of it. He just wanted his family with him, and she was a part of that now. “If there are, they’re following Jack and Luke, they’re not following me.”

“I think you underestimate how much people pay attention to you, Nico,” she had scoffed, “You get seen carting Bambi on ice around and people will start to ask questions.” She stood from her chair, fidgeting with her fingers as she stepped around him to busy herself with some unnecessary task to avoid the conversation.

“Would that be so bad? For people to ask questions, to know what we are?”

He was thankful for the smile that she gave, one of amusement.

“Nico, we don’t even know what we are.” She scoffed, “And as much as I would love to do it, I also kind of want to protect our peace for as long as we can.”

Protect our peace.

His mind had taken him somewhere he hadn’t wanted to go.

To private pictures being posted online, endless threads of vitriol and lies, and finding her in tears one day at the way her life had been turned upside down.

“Makes sense,” he agreed with a heavy sigh, his chest tightening as his thoughts spiralled. “I’m sorry, that was impulsive, I was just thinking about it and I wanted you to be there.”

He wanted what all the other guys had - to guide her around on wobbly legs and hold onto her for dear life as someone he treasured more than anything. He wanted to share this incredible thing with her, to stand in the centre of a stadium that could facilitate over 80,000 people and know she was the only one who could ever make him feel whole.

“It was sweet,” she reassured, her hand reaching out to rub soothingly at his arm as she stepped back toward him, “And I will be there tomorrow for the game. You just won’t get the pleasure of witnessing me make a fool out of myself on the ice quite yet.”

“Probably for the best,” he let his hand move between them, a curved finger stroking gently at her stomach, always relishing the reminder of what was in there, “I’ll get you out there one day.”

She smiled, big and bright, and his heart skipped a beat in his chest. “We’ll see.” She had said, like a promise, and despite him stumbling in his attempts to take another step in the right direction, he had still felt like he stuck the landing.

The weeks ahead had followed the same pattern.

Nico would suggest something to Poppy that fell just outside the remits of baby steps, she would find a way to shut him down - rejecting him with the kind of grace he wished softened the blow even the slightest, but didn’t - and he would go back to the drawing board on how to warm her up a little more to his attempts at moving the goalposts of their relationship.

And then, finally, Blueberry Day arrived.

Nico has circled the date in every diary he owns. The one on his phone, the little magnetised version attached to his fridge at home, the one he shares with his family in an online drive.

The date of Poppy’s first scan. 

He drops by her office to pick her up at lunch, having showered after his morning skate and freshened up enough not to cause concern when he takes her for something to eat before the appointment. 

They grab lunch together, Poppy’s morning sickness having subsided for the most part, only coming in the odd bout here and there and she no longer has to stress about certain foods aggravating her stomach. She’s now kicking into cravings - or, so she says.

Conveniently, it’s anything sweet - which helps his cause with the smoothie thing. She had directed him to a bakery nearby the clinic, and the two of them sit in the corner, Poppy trying her best to gulp down her water in preparation for the scan and chatting to him around mouthfuls of almond croissants and strawberry jam.

He tries to control his urges as he notices her press her fingers to her mouth when she watches him talk, cleaning them of the sticky sweet substance and batting her eyes at him like it’s nothing. 

3 weeks of taking things slow have done nothing but take a toll on him, every sense heightened when it comes to the girl in front of him - everything she does so endearing and captivating that he can’t remember the last time his heart wasn’t racing.

And when they’re sat in that darkened room together - her shirt raised to reveal the skin of her stomach, her fingers linked through his beside her on the bed, and both their gazes widened and glassy as they watch the slight staticky movements of a tiny peanut like figure on the screen in front of them - he feels like he is about to implode.

It’s a euphoric feeling if anything, unlike any emotion he’s ever felt before. That tiny peanut is theirs. Their blueberry. Their baby. And it’s still so small but is already occupying such a big part of his life.

He wakes up, and he thinks about it - anticipates his morning routine when the baby comes, getting up before Poppy, getting a bottle ready in the kitchen while he makes himself a coffee, getting the first feed out of the way so that she can sleep in. He goes to work and he thinks about it - one day carrying his little mini me around the arena, pointing out all the corners of the building in which he and Poppy became what they are now, what they could be in the future. He goes back to his apartment and he thinks about it - about a floor littered with toys and books, laughter bouncing off the walls, joy emanating from everywhere he turns in a place that had never felt as much like a home.

And his chest aches with optimism and longing.

It aches so much that when they get their little printouts of the scan, monochromatic stills of the ever-growing life in Poppy’s belly, he can’t stop himself from looking at it every chance he gets. 

How he manages to lose it is beyond him - but it arouses a panic like nothing he’s ever known. 

When he’s in the locker room after a game against Montreal, adrenaline still pumping through him to suppress the incoming ache of his body, he reaches into the pocket he knows he had stored the picture, only to come up short. He waits until the room has emptied, the boys trickling out annoyingly slow as his stress levels increase, before he gets on his hands and knees to look for it. 

He had it before practice earlier. He’d swiped tenderly at the curve of it’s little body as a calming practice, the picture grounding any nerves he had for the game later in the day. And after that, he had been too into his routine, and too surrounded by his unknowing teammates, to get it back out again. 

“Are you looking for something?”

He’s on all fours like a dog in the locker room when Poppy finds him, completely forgetting the two of them were going for dinner to talk about the next appointment. He turns to see her leaning against the open door, observing him with a quirked brow and a gaze that is a combination of amusement and accusation.

“I’m-,” He’s still a little out of breath from the game, and from darting around like a mad man in search of the small square of photo paper. He feels out of sorts in so many ways it’s a surprise he hasn’t blown up in some sort of catastrophic meltdown - hair still slick from his post-game shower, which he feels like he dressed too quickly after, the seams of his t-shirt twisting awkwardly around his elbows. “I’m good.”

He doesn’t want to stress her out. 

“You’re good?” Poppy asks, stepping a little further into the room, nose scrunching only slightly as she tries not to breathe too much in through it. Testing the limits of her dwindling morning sickness shouldn’t be subjected to the various smells of the locker room.

“Yup,” he gives a guilty smile, standing up from where he was crouched and dusting himself off. “Couldn’t be better.”

“Really?” She steps closer.

“Uh huh,” he stands firm.

“Not even if you had this back?” She holds the sonogram between two fingers and extends it out to him, and he practically charges over to close the distance to take it back and examine it closely. 

Monochrome. Peanut shape. Poppy’s name in the corner. 

“How did you get this?” He turns it to look at both sides, as if she would have written her name in sharpie on the back. “It isn’t yours?”

“No, mine is safely locked in my car where it can’t be dropped for the whole building to see.” She’s still smiling despite the condemnation, her head tilted and lips twisting with mirth as she takes in his flustered appearance. 

“Who saw it?” He winces in preparation for the answer, praying to whatever God is out there to please not let it be one of the brothers.

“Timo,” she tells him, thankfully deciding to put him out of his misery already instead of dragging it on. “He’s very excited.”

“Fuck,”

“Yeah,”

“Why didn’t he-,”

“He seems to be very into finding new ways to make you suffer, I think. I just bumped into him on his way out, he was really happy with himself.”

He and Timo have been fine ever since their blip back on his birthday, he had thought. Clearly not fine enough.

He’s in for it the next time Nico sees him, he thinks.

“He’s supposed to have my back.” Nico pouts as his thumb swipes at the picture, his lips slowly softening into a smile as the gesture calms him once more. “I’ve done so well not telling anyone, and if he just gave this back to me, you’d never have known he found out.”

“Oh, I’d have known, he can’t hold his waters to save his life,” Poppy scoffs, watching as Nico goes to grab his jacket and get his phone and keys. “Probably for the best he came straight to me or someone else would have noticed him getting giddy and we both know he would have blabbed.” 

“He’s a traitor.”

“He’s your best friend,” Poppy smiles as he frowns, thick eyebrows curving down until a little line forms between them, and she reaches to smooth it out from sheer instinct. “Now we both have someone who knows.”

“My entire family knows, Poppy,”

“Yeah, but do you don’t see them everyday, it’s different,” she shrugs, and when he realises she doesn’t actually mind it, the tension releases from his shoulders. “Plus, I’m actually conspiring to steal your parents so they’re our family now that I have the perfect in.”

“They’d go willingly, I’m not sure that’s stealing.”

“And now that Timo knows about little Cheeto, you have someone you can get excited with. The perfect distraction.”

“Cheeto?”

“Yeah, ‘cause it looks like a little Cheeto in there.” She steps straight in front of him, the picture between them, and she traces a pointed finger around the shape. His eyes follow the movement, their arms bumping, and he looks down just as she looks up at him.

“I’ve been calling it Peanut.”

Her lips twist. “That’s lame,” she nudges at his side, “We’re gonna have to work on your creativity before it comes. I can’t have you naming our baby something boring.”

Her eyes sparkle in amusement, and he likes the way his stomach flips at the mention of our baby.

God, he wants to kiss her - the lingering twist in his gut at her previous rejection be damned.

“I thought Peanut was cute.” He tucks the photo into his pocket and slings an arm around her shoulder as they make their way out, their steps syncing as they walk toward the exit - Poppy making no effort to shrug away.

“Cheeto’s cuter.”

“Fine, Cheeto it is.” He relents immediately, because he had realised something the second he and Poppy saw the little Peanut-Cheeto hybrid forming in her belly. 

He doesn’t need to move the goalposts or make efforts to convince her of anything. Acquiescing to her every whim is the least he can do for the girl who’s building their future. He can revert to his old ways, with the kind of easy conversation and familiarity that lay the foundation of something bigger. Something better.

As long as she keeps giving him moments like this, with soft, devoted smiles and tender glances that say more than a thousand words ever could, he’ll go at whatever pace she wants. 

Poppy

Poppy has convinced herself that there is an ever-evolving part of her brain that is actively praying on her downfall. 

It’s the only logical explanation for why on Earth she would ever keep a man like Nico at arms length, she thinks, because ever since she told him she was pregnant, he has been some sort of godsend, showing up for her in every possible way.

It had started with smoothies in the mornings - he would bring them to her everyday, or have them dropped off if he wasn’t around. Had tumbled then into getting lunch delivered to her office, always fine tuned to when she might be hungry, or what she might be hungry for - even when he was on the road and hadn’t seen her in a couple of days. It was followed by texts to cheer her up when she started to miss him a little, or when she was overwhelmed with emotions for whatever reason - she felt like he just knew her like the back of his hand.

It made it all feel so easy.

And he had been attentive to the newly acquired hormones without even being aware of it. The smallest ticks he has always had, the pushing back of his hair, the crooked smile that presses one side of his cheek up when he knows he’s being funny, every shift of his muscles when his arms fidget as he speaks, have all all managed to settle the bubbling in Poppy’s stomach that had her yearning for physical touch.

He had even been helping her in weird, subliminal ways. 

When his mother had told Poppy that while she was pregnant with Nico, she had movies playing in her head the whole night while she slept, she thought she was being hyperbolic.

But, God, had her dreams been intense. 

And it probably hadn’t helped that first night after she told him - after she had slept in his bed the night before, had used his shampoo in the shower despite him buying her her own, and had even spritzed his cologne on the sleeves of the hoody he had loaned to her - that she retired to her own bed wearing that same hoody and keeping her hair down for once through the night.

She was enabling herself at that point. Encouraging her own mind to dream of him by flooding her senses until it had no other choice. But the dream she had when she had slept over at his place was a lot nicer than the ones from before, and she wanted to try and replicate the circumstances.

He had been enabling her too, though - and sometimes she had thought he knew exactly what he was doing. 

It had started with their game at MetLife stadium - more specifically, those God-forsaken outfits he and the guys wore to arrive in. She had sworn when she’d first seen him in it that he’d chosen it specifically to be dream-fodder. She could foresee many restless nights tossing and turning in her sheets, visions worsening with the vivid mental bank of pictures she saved of him in that tank top, the chain she had gifted him slung from the neck, thick muscles and broad shoulders-

And that had only been from a picture.

She’d gone to the game with Nia, who had flashed her phone to Poppy with a quick quip of, “They look straight out of The Sopranos,” and it had been a tweet of the boys on the carpet.

She had only seen him at that point - the image burned into her retinas as she nodded and hummed along to whatever her best friend had been saying up until the point the team came out onto the ice.

And then he had scored within the first minute, and she had watched a stadium full of people erupt into mostly-celebration for the man who held her heart, who’s baby she was carrying in her belly, and her whole body had buzzed with pride.

She got to watch him thrive on the largest stage he’d ever played on, and she had started to feel weirdly possessive and uncharacteristically regretful.

He had tried to share some part of this with her when he’d asked her to come out for the family skate, and she had turned him down.

And it was with that regret that she decided to meet him after. She brought Nia for protection, flashing her staff pass to get the two of them to the designated family lounge at the stadium, where Nico’s dad and sister were waiting for him, too.

She got to introduce Nia to the two of them, that immediate circle of people being some of the only people in the world to know the true extent of her relationship with Nico, and so when they finally reunited, and he swept her up into his arms, taut muscles wrapping around her still vibrating frame, she let herself melt into him. Let herself bask in his touch for as long as she could withstand, pressing her face into his chest and circling her arms around his torso, holding out to hear the rampant thud of his heartbeat.

And he had been so happy that it felt contagious. Spread onto her like a lingering fever, that she didn’t actually want to shift. It remained for weeks, flooding into her bloodstream when she needed it the most.

When she became emotional out of nowhere, when she became fearful or stressed for no reason, she thought of him - of his unwavering support, of the ease in which he cared for her, cared about her, and she relied on that to get her through most days.

And most nights.

Dreaming of him in that tank top, or out of it.

Dreaming of him in her bed, on her couch, in her kitchen - every corner of her apartment tainted in the best possible way - and it ended up being the only thing keeping her resolve in tact.

In her dreams, she never held back. She never thought too much about things, just let pure intuition and desire take over. Instead of stepping back, instead of pressing that restrictive hand to his chest, she pulled, she gripped, she held on for dear life.

Because as long as she could have him in her dreams, she didn’t have to give in to him in person. She could maintain her insistence on taking things slow, on figuring things out in their own time, without all the intensity and pressure of rushed intimacy. She no longer had to overthink every interaction, able to take his word at face value, and lose herself in the familiarity of their teasing back and forth.

And in reality, when he flashed her one of those dimpled smiles, or let his darkened gaze linger on hers for so long it made her breath stutter, she didn’t feel like she was about to fall.

Not in a bad way, at least.

He just has an innate ability to make things easy for her. 

When she had her first scan, he could have made it hard on her. Could have let his nerves overshadow hers, could have asked a bunch of questions that scared the living crap out of her, but he had let her take the reins. He did the same with his parents - let her bask in their praise and adoration, never made her feel guilty or selfish for the way they kind of made that moment about her instead of him.

And, as they make the drive to her parent’s house over in Alpine, he does the same - distracting her with questions about them and their lives to fill the heavy silence - quelling her anxiety with lighthearted jokes and genuine interest in her family.

He asks her about her brother, who he had met briefly one time before in passing, but who she rarely sees - and she tells him about his family, his wife and their two boys, who are coming over from the West Coast for Easter and who he will meet when they get to the house.

He asks about her nephews, about her bond with them, and she gets to tell him that, despite her rocky relationship with her brother, his wife Kimberley often FaceTimes her with updates on the boys, and she’s managed to maintain some semblance of a connection through a phone screen with them.

He reluctantly asks about her mother, and Poppy ends up being the one to really delve into that minefield. 

Only, this time when she talks about it, there isn’t the same heaviness she had felt when they first proposed telling her - all those weeks ago back in Nico’s kitchen.

There’s trepidation, but there isn’t fear.

“She might not be horrific to be fair. She loves Easter. And Oli’s here with the kids so she can’t be as awful to me as usual if she still wants them to think she’s their gentle unassuming grandma.”

“And you’re gonna be on your best behaviour so she’ll stay in a good mood, right? Play along so she lowers her guard?” he asks, sending her a sidewards glance.

“Ha, you wish!” Poppy chuckles, “I have a whole list of sickly sweet nicknames in my head for you that are gonna drive her up the wall. She hates that lovey-dovey stuff. You can’t take my one source of fun from me, Nico.”

“Poppy, that isn’t gonna help me win her over.”

“That ship sailed a long time ago, baby,” she makes a mocking kissy face at him, and something fizzes in her gut at the flush that swarms up his neck.

“Fine, what about your dad, how do I win him over?” Nico glances quickly over to Poppy, one hand in control of the wheel and the other drumming slightly on his lap in time to the low hum of music playing in the car. “Is he a hockey guy?”

“God no,” she scoffs, her body angled toward his, legs bent so her knees are toward the centre console and she can watch him as he drives, looking out the window for an extended period still making her feel a little sick. “No offence.”

“I want to say none taken,” she likes that she can see the indent of his dimples still from this angle.

“Not a hockey family,” she sighs. “Do you know anything about football?”

“I know a lot about actual football.” Another quick glance over gives her a quick glimpse of the flash of amusement in his dark eyes, warmth and familiarity bubbling in her stomach.

“What does that even mean?”

“Soccer, Poppy.” He corrects, that almost-instinctual sour face he pulls whenever the word doesn’t quite taste right coming from his mouth tugs at his brows. 

“Absolutely not,” she cautions him, straightening in her seat, “He has this stupid story about how Ronaldo once stole his table at his favourite restaurant in Turin, and I don’t want to have to hear it again. I’m not even sure it was actually him, but either way, he hates soccer.”

“Noted.” Nico chuckles.

“Golf?”

“I like it, I’m not the best, though.”

“Do you know enough to hold a conversation?”

“Does that not risk him wanting to play?”

Poppy reaches toward the screen in the middle, tapping away the warning that comes up on the navigation for impending road works, figuring the more delays they can encounter, the merrier - even though they’re probably not even 10 minutes away by now.

Maybe all the roads can just close down? She and Nico can do a swift u-turn and haul ass back to Jersey City. Where’s the harm in just texting her mom the news? She’ll get a lecture either way, she thinks.

“He likes winning, it doesn’t matter if you’re bad.” She shrugs, her head pressing sideways into the headrest as she again focuses on his profile. 

“What about tennis?”

“Ooh, perfect,” she cheers, “He loves Federer!”

“Really?” Nico turns, excitement in his eyes and a genuine smile twisting at his lips. 

“Yeah!” She responds, “I think so!” And when she actually does think about it, she realises she isn’t sure. “He goes to the Open in Queens every year, I can’t actually remember if he roots for anyone.”

“Real helpful, Poppy,” 

“You’re asking me how to impress my parents like I’ve ever even done it,” she scoffs, liking the way he shakes his head as if he’s trying his best not to find her funny. 

It’s helping. He’s helping.

Just like he had when she had been nervous to tell his parents - and that had turned out okay. He’d made her feel comfortable and supported, and even just doing this - driving her home, subjecting himself to the horrors of a Jensen family dinner and heeding none of the warnings she tried to give him - made her feel even the slightest bit better.

“My dad isn’t as hard as my mom, don’t worry about it.”

“I want him to like me.”

“My dad doesn’t really like people. He likes money and things like boats and cars,” she sighs, eyes following the movement of his other hand settling on the wheel, the flex of his fingers as he splays and stretches them out, the whitening of his knuckles as he tightens his grip back up, the glint that reflects from his wrist, “Ooh, and watches! You’re a watch guy!”

“I’d like to think there’s more to me than just being a watch guy,” he scoffs, and when she rolls her eyes in response, the view out of the window catches her eye, and that impending sense of doom fills the car once again. 

She could make the rest of the drive with her eyes closed. Just a few more turns until they make it to the gate, swirl up the winding driveway and arrive in the courtyard of her parents’ home, the grandeur of it all swallowing her up into a deep, vacuous pit of ignorance and facade.

Nico must notice the stiffening of her spine or the clench of her jaw, because she’s shocked back into the moment with the clasp of his hand around hers. 

“It’s gonna be okay, Mohn,” he reassures, but where Poppy would usually find his optimism endearing, this time it makes her feel worse.

He doesn’t know the half of it. 

He’s never had a reason to believe it wouldn’t be okay.

It had been for him.

His parents had been accepting, had welcomed Poppy with open arms and warm embraces, and God, was she thankful for that - but knowing he’s about to enter into this with blissful ignorance encompasses her with a sense of dread.

“Could you promise me something before we get there?” She asks, shuffling completely to face him in the seat, knees knocking against the centre console and her free hand falling atop where their others are intertwined. 

“If you’re gonna ask me to take the seat by your mother at dinner, then no,” he chuckles, and when he glances out the corner of his eye, and notices her demeanour, he squeezes her hand consolingly. “Sorry, go on,”

“I really don’t want you to think less of me when you see where I came from,” she chews nervously at the inside of her cheek as she watches him consider her words - watches the scrunch of his face, the furrow of his brow, the downturn of his lips. “Like, I know you’ve met my mom, and I know you think she’s scary, but you don’t know the full extent of it. I really don’t think this is gonna go too well, and you’re gonna see some pretty ugly stuff in there, and sometimes I don’t like who I am when I’m here so I need you to promise me that whatever happens, you won’t run afterwards.”

“I won’t run, Poppy,” he promises, relaying his sincerity in the soft swipe of his thumb over the back of her hand, and giving it one last squeeze before he adds, “I have a car. I’ll drive.”

And he’s lucky he’s driving, she thinks, because she throws his own hand back at him, frowning purposely and dramatically to mask a smile as he gives a hearty laugh, the vibrations of which settle deep in her bones, outweighing the anxiety that had been riddled in them before.

It’s enough that when they park up, and he helps her out onto the gravel while he gets their overnight bags from the trunk, she isn’t overcome with dread.

When he looks up at the overwhelming size of her family home, and his eyes widen and his jaw drops, she doesn’t fear judgement - not from him, at least. 

And once their bags are discarded by the stairs, and she takes his hand to lead him through the house and out to the sprawling garden she knows her parents and her brother’s family are gathered in, she doesn’t feel the need to turn and bolt back out the door.

Their hands stay clasped together as they greet her family. Her brother’s wife, Kimberley, being the first to come over.

She introduces Nico as her boyfriend, and it rolls off the tongue a lot easier than anticipated, the slight reassuring squeeze his hand gives hers easing any guilt she might start to feel over technically lying straight to her sister-in-law’s face. 

Her brother is next, their boys in tow, and then her father.

Her mother keeps a measured distance, narrowed eyes focused on the point where Nico and Poppy are connected, and when she makes her way over, her greeting is cold.

“You didn’t tell me you’d be bringing company.”

“I told dad,” Poppy shrugs, knowing her father would never have passed the message on if she called him during his daily newspaper time. He barely ever listened to her, his nose buried in the business section, and would just hum and grunt in response. “You remember Nico, right?”

“I don’t recall the two of you being together,” she frowns, again glancing down at their intertwined hands.

And, God bless Nico, Poppy thinks, as the poor, misguided soul tries to relay some kind of heartwarming sentiment to Priscilla, with, “We’ve been seeing each other for a little while now,”

“Seeing each other,” she scoffs, “I see my gardener every day, yet I’m not out here skipping around holding hands like children.”

“Maybe you should hold someone’s hand, a little physical touch and you might lose the stick up your-,”

“You have a beautiful home,” Nico squeezes Poppy’s hand once more, this time more like a warning. “Poppy never told me how magnificent it was.”

“Yeah, well, Poppy only seems to think she should feel shame about her home life. She doesn’t understand the amount of work or effort it takes to maintain something like this.”

“Oh, I-,”

“Leave it, babe,” Poppy sighs, tugging on Nico’s hand as she tells her mother, “We’re gonna get something to drink.”

And as she pulls him to safety, toward a table where pitchers of lemonade and water sit, he rolls his shoulders and lets out a huff.

“Has she ever tried leading with hello?”

“My mother doesn’t do niceties, Nico.”

And as the day winds on, Priscilla Jensen does little to prove that theory wrong.

Poppy thinks she’s going out of her way to make Nico feel like an inconvenience - and while she knows she had been childish in not telling her mom directly about his attendance, she had done so with the knowledge that there was always more than enough to go around in the Jensen house - so when she makes little effort to accommodate his presence, Poppy amps up her own efforts to get on her mother’s last nerve.

When they all sit around the table outside for a light lunch, and there isn’t enough seats for everybody, Poppy takes one for the team and perches herself on the arm of Nico’s chair, one arm slung around his shoulders and the other feeding him bites of the sandwich they’re sharing because his hand had taken up residence on her waist.

Whenever anyone has a story to tell, an anecdote or a recap of recent events, Poppy uses the time to insert little quips about Nico. About his experiences travelling, about his life, or about his successes in his career - giving the family who only care about themselves and their own reputation no other option but to learn about him. When her dad tells stories of his recent trip to Prague, Poppy chimes in with “Nico and the team will be playing out there in October, isn’t that right, babe?” And when Kimberley and Oli speak about taking their kids skiing in the Alps, Poppy suggests that Nico give them recommendations.

When her mother demands her to help with another round of drinks, and has only gathered enough glasses for the guests she had originally accounted for, Poppy makes a point of gathering one more. 

And when the festivities start, she recruits Nico in helping her nephews find all the eggs in the hunt - figuring if she has any chances of charming anyone, it would be the boys. And what would annoy her mom more than her grandchildren worshipping the ground Nico walks on?

Nothing.

As little effort as annoying Priscilla Jensen takes, it ends up exhausting Poppy quicker than she had anticipated, and so she ends up folding into Nico’s side while he tries his best to keep up in conversation with her dad and brother. It’s where she stays for almost an hour, still perched on the arm of his chair despite the seats that have since freed up, until her legs start to get restless.

“I’m just gonna run to the bathroom,” she whispers to him, their noses bumping when he turns his head and whispers pleadingly in response for her to be quick.

She travels through the halls with a pep in her step, having enjoyed her afternoon grinding her mom’s gears, and even though she knows winding her up isn’t going to pay off too well for her in the long run, the short run victories are worth it for the time being - alleviating the bubbling panic in her gut, even if just temporarily. If it wasn’t for her pettiness, all she’d have to think about is her nerves around telling the big news - and she’d soon get swallowed whole by her mom’s little digs.

The panic fizzes up a little when she exits the bathroom to find her mother waiting outside, and her breath catches in her lungs at the shock of her lurking there like the grim reaper.

“Jesus, Mom, you can’t creep up on people like that, especially outside the bathroom, it isn’t appropriate.”

“Oh, lay off the theatrics for a day in your life, Poppy, I didn’t raise you to be this dramatic.”

“Are you sure about that? I can go ask the gardener considering how close the two of you are-,”

“Don’t get clever with me,” she narrows her eyes at her daughter, “You’re not as cute as you think you are, and the more games you play trying to rile me up, the more your little friend will see that. It’s unbecoming to be so childish, dear.”

“It’s also unbecoming to be such a bad host. If the ladies at your luncheons could see you now, they’d throw you out on the streets, Mom.”

“I’m not entertaining your immaturity any longer, you get your fun in while it lasts, I’m sure by the time you go home tomorrow your friend will see you for what you are,”

“He’s my boyfriend-,”

“And please go easy on the chocolate, the egg hunt is for the children, Poppy,” her mom chides, a judgemental roll of her eyes and a bobble-head like shake of her head causing Poppy’s fists to clench by her sides.

“I’m your child, am I not?” She asks, petulantly.

“You’re a grown woman who might want to start thinking about how hard it’s going to be to shift that little pouch you’re getting now that you’re older.” She sneers back, a pointed finger gesturing to her daughter’s torso. “Don’t think I didn’t notice when you were reaching for those glasses in the kitchen, before.”

“Pouch?”

“The extra belly you have going on from no doubt eating a bunch of processed garbage at that circus you call a workplace, honey. I’m telling you, there will come a point that it doesn’t just go away if you skip a couple lunches.”

It’s just like her mother to strike low when she’s losing an argument.

And where Poppy would usually be offended - disgusted, even - at her need to comment on even the slightest changes in her body, or how she can even find ways to slip a subtle dig about her job into a completely unrelated conversation, she bites her tongue. The snappy response fizzles back into her throat as she waits for her mom to continue on her way back to the festivities before she turns on her heels and steps back down the hallway in search of the mirror at the end.

Extra belly?

She lifts her sweater and turns where she stands, and, sure enough, there’s an ever-so-slight roundness to the bottom of her stomach that hadn’t been there last week.

The tension seeps out of her body as she presses her hand there,, cups the shape with curved fingers and strokes at the skin with her thumb.

“Hi, baby,” she whispers, biting back a beaming smile - and before she can lose herself in the moment, and someone else catches her in the hall looking like a crazy person, she drops the fabric back over her torso and sets off in search of Nico.

She finds him back out in the garden, standing beside her dad and looking as uncomfortable as ever, arms folded across his chest as he watches Oliver’s boys fight over a little egg they both found at the same time. 

“So,” she hears him speak after clearing his throat, “Do you like golf?”

“Hey, babe,” she approaches from the side, looping her hand through the crook of his arm and folding into his side. “I need to show you something,” she hums, and turns to her dad, “I’m just gonna borrow him for a second, we’ll be right back,”

“Don’t rush on my account,” he scoffs, and, thankfully for him, she again can’t find it within her to care about how rude he’s being. 

She tugs at Nico’s arm until it uncrosses with his other, and slips her hand into his, intertwining their fingers and pulling until he stumbles to follow. She guides him back through the house, and into the closest bathroom she can find, shutting and locking the door behind the two of them.

“I don’t think locking us away in a bathroom is gonna give your parents the best impression of me, Poppy,” he sighs, letting her push at him with two hands on his firm chest until he’s sitting on the closed toilet seat.

“Like I said earlier, we’re past the point of no return with those two,” she sighs, the disappointment only lasting a second before she remembers why she lured him into the room in the first place. “Look!”

She lifts her sweater, angling her body how she had before and biting her lip as she awaits his reaction. 

“Is this an attempt to seduce me?”

“What? No!” She tries not to succumb to the heat filling her head. “You think I’d shove you on a toilet to seduce you?”

“Depends how desperate you were, I suppose.”

“Is that what works for you? A girl flashing you her stomach?”

The banter is nostalgic and familiar, and she feels more at home in the small guest bathroom with him than in the rest of the house, entirely.

He shrugs with a smirk, and gives one of those trailing, darkened looks down her figure as he says, “Depends on the girl.”

“Shut up,” she scoffs, ignoring his chuckles as she looks down at her belly and caresses it as she had to herself in the mirror, highlighting the swelling with her fingers. “I have a little pouch!”

“Like a kangaroo?”

“No, like the woman growing your offspring inside her.”

He reaches a hand out and presses it beside hers on her stomach, his palm cupping the roundness of it, and Poppy finds herself holding her breath in anticipation.

His touch is gentle, and his dark eyes roam the expanse of her skin, assessing the slight change there, committing it to memory before that lingering smirk melts into a soft smile.

“Hey, Peanut.” he hums, pulling her closer with another hand at her waist, and she steadies herself with her hand on his shoulder. Her fingers curl around the back of his neck, scratching slightly at the base of his skull, and his clutch at the dip of her hip while he runs the tip of a finger over the beginning of a bump. 

“Cheeto,” she corrects him.

“Sorry, Cheeto.” His laugh is breathy and his voice is low, “Getting big in there, huh?”

“As big as a fig,” she beams with pride, heart palpitating when he looks up at her, chocolate eyes gleaming and lips stretched into a smile.

“A fig?”

“Yeah,” she pushes down the memory of the last time he looked up at her from that angle, and makes a fig sized circle with her fingers and holds it to him. He lifts his own fingers to copy it before moving it back down to her belly and resting it there for comparison, features flushed with awe as he pictures what it would look like in there.

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

His touch lingers for a good minute as he watches her belly and she watches him, taking slow, measured breaths to quell the rampant beating of her heart. 

Her anxiety starts to dwindle somewhat, and a thought settles within her that no matter what else happens while they’re here, she’ll always have this. 

She’ll always have him.

Poppy has never wanted to hurt someone as much as she wants to hurt her brother right now. 

She could honestly leap over the dining table and throttle him - but then again, she should have been fine tuned to the way he and her father had been talking all day, the two of them never being able to go a full five minutes without talking business.

“What do you mean Rich Horowitz got in before you?”

She wishes with all her might she didn’t come from a family where they had mortal enemies, but here she is, listening to how her brother has fumbled one of the biggest investment opportunities of his life to her dad’s biggest opponent. Losing out on millions of dollars that is now going straight to Rich Horowitz's pockets.

“He sniped me, Dad,” Oli all but whines from his place at the bottom of the table, Kimberley having disappeared a while back to put the kids to bed - something he clearly has no interest in helping with. 

If she thinks he’s put her in a bad mood, when she looks over to her dad, she thinks he’s turning purple.

“And how on Earth did you let that happen?!”

“I didn’t let it happen,” Oli scoffs, “He was eavesdropping like a rat at the country club and I-,”

“Stop talking.” Philip snaps, pointing his knife down the table at his son, “This is your problem, you don’t know when to shut up. Why were you talking private business for the whole world to hear at the club?”

“Because it was a business trip? That’s what we do, get a few holes in and share investment tips-,”

“Maybe next time you can ask to share some brain cells.” He growls as Kimberley returns, meekly sitting beside Oliver and immediately taking a big gulp of her wine. 

Poppy tries to focus on her breathing, tries to focus on the calming presence of Nico beside her, their chairs moved so close together that their thighs touch, and he helps her feel warm all over.

She can do this. Just wait for her dad’s anger to pass and bring up her own life. 

Poppy’s father gives a disapproving huff, and his fork hits his plate with a loud clatter as if the conversation has put him off his food entirely. “What about you, Poppy? Any horrific news that you’d like to share with the table? I know how the two of you like to try to one-up each other.”

See, she tells herself, that hadn’t taken long at all. 

“Oh, uhm,” her chest feels tight, cold even, like she’s been out in the crisp air a little too long and needs a hot drink to settle herself back in, “Actually-,”

“Have you joined the Church of Scientology? Pledged your inheritance away to some fruitless non-profit? Have you gone and got yourself a heinous lower back tattoo?”

“Philip, please,” her mother scoffs, as if the tattoo is the worst option in the list. “Let’s move on, Kimberley, how is James getting on in the first grade?”

“Oh, well, he-,"

And only because the interruption and swift change in subject grates at Poppy, she straightens up in her seat, a hardened glare directed towards her mother, and she blurts out before she can think twice about it, “I’m pregnant.”

The way her mother turns her attention back to her is slow. She blinks, as if she’s registering what was said, and swivels in her seat to narrow her eyes back at Poppy.

“Ha!” Oliver pipes up from further down the table before their mom has a chance to react. “That’s hilarious.”

“No it isn’t.” Priscilla snaps, “It is not funny in the slightest.”

“Why would it be hilarious, Oliver?” She frowns over at her brother, trying to tell her mind to succumb to the way Nico’s hand settles above her knee to calm her, but nothing at this point will work.

“You as a mother? You can barely take care of yourself, you don’t know the first thing about being a parent.”

“Well I figured if you could have a go at it, anyone could.”

The two of them are both airing grievances to a party that isn’t listening, isn’t technically even fighting back, just firing bullets at one another with little regard for where they might ricochet.

“See. You’re a child.”

“And you’re a loser. You have everything in your life handed to you and you still fuck it all up.”

“And what, you’re going to have a baby with him?” He points towards Nico with the edge of his fork, immediately getting her back up. “With some jacked up meathead who slaps plastic around with a stick for a living?”

Nico’s grip tightens on her flesh, and while her heart tells her he’s trying to reassure her, trying to stop her from sinking to his level or taking the bait, her head tells her otherwise. Her mind says he’s offended, he’s hurt, and she can’t go another second without at least trying to defend his honour.

Defend the perfect man who’s been by her side all day - has been by her side since the second he found out. Who brings her smoothies every morning like his father brought his mother when she was pregnant, who looks up all the vitamins she needs and makes sure she’s fully stocked up, who holds her hand and supports her in anything and everything she does.

“Don’t talk about him like that,” she sneers, feeling the pressure of his hand when she starts to stand. “Just because you’re a fuck up and an embarrassment to your family, doesn’t mean you get to point the finger at my life. Nico is a great partner, and he’s going to be an even better dad, because he has a big heart and a sense of fucking direction and dignity, something you wouldn’t know if it came and slapped you in the face-,” 

“Mohn,” Nico tries to ground her, delicate fingers stroking at the arm attached to her now pointed fingers, but it’s no use.

“Which, if you say one more thing about him again, I’ll slap you in the face. You have no right to pass judgement on my life or the people in it.”

“Poppy, stop it!” Her mother slams her own cutlery down onto the table, the glasses shaking and the liquid within them sloshing around at the intensity. “There’s no need to threaten your brother over something that isn’t even real. You should apologise for causing such a scene!”

Poppy doesn’t think that even dignifies a response, so instead of biting back, she reaches into her pocket, pulling out her copy of their scan and sliding it across the table.

There is a slow, prolonged silence that lingers between everyone at the table, and Poppy can see her dad shifting uncomfortable out of the corner of her eye, can feel Nico’s gentle touch on her wrist, but all she can focus on is her mom’s reaction. 

Her lip curls as she eyes the square of paper on the table, and she doesn’t even reach to pick it up for a closer look.

“You are unbelievable.”

There’s a small part of Poppy that withers and dies in an instant at the tone in which that sentence had been uttered. A minuscule scrap of dwindling hope that maybe she would have been happy. Maybe her mom would have overlooked the outdated ideals that she has tried for so long to impose on the rest of the family and just be happy for her daughter.

But she should have known better.

“You aren’t married, Poppy, how many times have I drilled into you how important it is that these kind of things are done right?” She shoulders the blow, the implication that anything about this is wrong incessantly plucking at her nerve. “Could you be any more belligerent? Are you doing this just to spite me?”

“To spite you?” Poppy scoffs, “Yeah, I’m changing the entire course of my life and future because I thought it would be funny to annoy you. My God you’re so narrow minded-,”

“You watch your tone with me when we have guests, Poppy.” Her voice is raised as she scolds her daughter, and it takes Poppy back through the years - being lectured about her grades, about her friends, her clothes, her weight, her career. Nothing she has ever done has appeased her. Even giving her another grandchild, bringing life into the world and trying to prove herself - it’s never enough.

“He’s my guest! He’s mine.” She doesn’t care that it’s petulantly possessive. She’s had enough. She isn’t going to let her mom use Nico of all people as a tool to silence or embarrass her. “And he’s had to stand around all day and listen to you all drop petty little digs while he tries his best to impress you! But you’re all so ignorant and rude, and none of you have even attempted to get to know a single thing about him! I don’t know why I even bothered bringing him here, or sharing what is supposed to be the greatest news of my life with you guys, because all any of you do is judge and shame people, and I won’t let you do that to us.

“We’re having this baby, and we might not be married, we might not ever even get married, but we make each other happy, and we love each other, and I couldn’t care less about how it looks to anybody else.”

She snatches the photo from the table, and turns to her brother with a pointed finger, unable to help herself before she spits, “And hockey pucks are made out of rubber, you fucking idiot.”

Her mother scoffs at the curse, but Poppy can’t find it in her to care as she storms out, ignoring the footsteps that follow as she stomps through the house towards her bedroom. 

“Don’t walk away from me, Poppy,” Priscilla calls out after her, quickening her steps to catch up before the inevitably infamous slamming of her bedroom door occurs. “I won’t have you behaving like this under my roof.”

“That’s fine, Nico and I are going to leave.”

“You’re doing little to disprove the fact that you’re immature, reacting like this,”

“You think I’m reacting poorly?” She stops in her tracks in the hallway, turning to face her mother with a heated glare. “Why do I always have to prove something to you in the first place? You couldn’t just support me, just this once? Be happy for me? You don’t think I need my mom right now to tell me that everything is going to be okay?”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“And you’re being heartless and cruel.” She hates that she’s about to cry. Resents the tears that well on her lash line or the lump that forms at the back of her throat. “You know how long Nico and I have known each other, how close we are, how could you possibly say that what we’re doing is wrong?”

“You went on a date with someone else 2 months ago, Poppy! I’m not as stupid as you think I am, you can’t hide your mistakes and lie to me like some teenager anymore!”

“I’m not lying-,”

“You’re being irresponsible, and you can’t seriously stand there and try to convince me otherwise. Having a baby with a man you’ve barely even been dating for five minutes, who you don’t live with, who travels here, there and everywhere for work and can’t support you-,”

“You don’t know him.” Poppy snarls, “You’ve made absolutely no effort to get to know him. Not today, and not in the years that you’ve known he was in my life, so you don’t get to tell me what kind of man he is, or what kind of partner he’s going to be for me in this. And I don’t need to convince you of anything. If you can’t be happy for us, then you won’t be involved.”

And with that, she marches into her bedroom and slams the door behind her.

Her heart pounds against her ribcage, her breathing heavy as she paces the floor by her bed.

She had always known it would end up like this - in some almighty, entirely unnecessary bust up - but there could never have been enough preparing herself for just how much it hurts.

Her mother had berated her, her brother had bullied and belittled her, and her dad had sat there in a detached silence that probably was worse than saying anything in the first place. None of them were ever going to have her back, or ever going to be in her corner, and she should have known better - should have known from an entire lifetime of the same thing happening for all the other decisions she ever made for herself.

There had been a fight around her choice of college, her choice of career, her choice of living arrangements. Why would this have been any different?

So, as she finds herself stuck in the constant loop of condemnation and judgement, she starts to feel it manifest itself in her surroundings. In the walls of her bedroom she was never allowed to decorate, in the closet full of clothes she was never allowed to choose for herself, in the house full of people who pretended to care but didn’t, not really.

Except for Nico, who finds her repacking her overnight bag and stuffing it with a bunch of other things she doesn’t want to have to return for.

He watches silently as she whizzes around, perches himself on the edge of her bed, beside the bag, and waits for her to tire herself out a little before he asks, “Is there any chance that you’re adopted?”

She scoffs, stopping in front of him and running a frustrated hand through her hair in an attempt to calm herself down. “Nice try. Flattery won’t really help right now, Nico.” 

He reaches out to take her hand, tugging until she steps closer, and he parts his legs to accommodate for her body. “Are you okay?”

“We need to leave. I can’t sleep in a house with them all here, their rotten energy is gonna seep through the walls and suffocate me. I can’t expose Cheeto to that.”

“Poppy,” he chuckles, breathily, a soft and reassuring smile remaining on his lips as he looks up at her, “I don’t want you getting worked up over nothing-,”

“It isn’t nothing.” She frowns. “What my brother said about you, it was disrespectful and rude, I don’t like that he talked about you like that, he’s such a dick,” she groans, heat rising up her neck in morbid embarrassment at her family’s behaviour. “Calling you a meathead? And he says I’m the childish one?”

“I’ve been called much worse, Mohn, trust me.”

“Yeah, well, none of it is true.” She steps a little closer, her knee knocking against his thigh, “He wishes he had even an iota of your emotional intelligence, but his head is stuck so far up his own ass that his disgusting hair sticks out of his nostrils.” Nico smiles wider, and she reaches to cup his cheeks, hoping to pass her sincerity through the touch. “I think the world of you, Nico, you know that, right? There isn’t another man on the planet I’d rather have this baby with.”

“Of course I know that,” he tilts his head in her hands, smiling teasingly as he reminds her, “I’m yours, remember? I don’t care what anybody else thinks, it’s you and me, yeah?”

She nods, heart warming at the earnestness in his gaze. 

“The unmarried mommy and the meathead. We should get t-shirts made.”

She swats at his shoulder, snorting out a giggling laugh that clouds the corners of her eyes. “That’s not funny.”

“It is.” He affirms with another nod, placing his hands on either sides of her hips to hold her in front of him. “He was wrong about you too, you know. You were ready to drop gloves for both of us.” His palm caresses the slight swelling of her baby - the beginnings of her pouch, “You’re protective of the people you love, and you’re loyal, and you care. Our baby couldn’t be more lucky to have you as their mommy.”

Before the tears that line her eyes can fall, she scrunches them shut - and with darkened vision and a will to clear her mind of the million racing thoughts, she leans forward and kisses him.

It isn’t the passionate, all-consuming kiss like they had shared before. It isn’t steamy, isn’t sloppy or rushed. It’s gentle. It’s familiar. It’s brief, but intimate and impactful all the same, and he juts his chin until his lips press firmly into the touch of hers.

And when they part of equal volition, her eyes flutter open slowly to his doing the same.

“I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair,” she breathes into the small space between them, “I shouldn’t just plant one on you when I told you that we shouldn’t-,”

“It’s okay,” he interrupts, voice slightly hoarse. “You can plant one on me any time.”

She breaks into a slow smile, one that ends up so big and so bright that her jaw aches slightly, and she wraps her arms around his shoulders, collapsing into a hug where she squeezes around him. He holds her back, hands rubbing up and down her sides until he can feel her relax and melt into his touch.

“Are you sure you want to leave?” He whispers into the side of her head. “In the middle of an argument?”

“It isn’t gonna get resolved, there’s no point waiting around,” she sighs, pulling back a little so that she can see him again. “Plus, we’re gonna need to go looking for a Drive-Thru or something, I’m starving.”

“What are you hungry for?”

“I’ll know when I see it.”

“Poppy,” he chuckles, standing as soon as she steps back and reaching for the bag she had packed. “You’re gonna pass out as soon as we get to the bottom of the driveway.”

“Am not,” she pouts, the two of them making their way towards her bedroom door. “I’m so amped up right now, I could take on a bear. I won’t be sleeping all night.”

Poppy wakes with the shutting off of the car, the soft hum of the engine beneath her ceasing the vibrations that had lulled her to sleep in the first place, and she blinks away her confusion to look at Nico across the centre console.

He’s leaning against his seat, angling his body to face her directly, and he smiles softly as her eyes focus on his.

“We drove past that bear you wanted to fight about half an hour ago.”

“You should have woke me,” she croaks, breaking eye contact to look past him out the driver’s side window. “This isn’t a Drive-Thru.”

“No, I thought you might have worked up a bigger appetite in the big Jensen family smackdown.”

“Hilarious,” she yawns, arching her back to stretch it out as she leans toward the windshield, getting a better look at where they are. “Is this Rosie’s?”

Rosie’s diner had always been a hotspot for the two of them whenever he drove her home from The Rock, slotted just by Lincoln Park, and perfect for a post-game catch up late into the night, Poppy and Nico had spent one too many evenings ignoring the passing of time in a corner booth, a basket of fries between them and a thousand secrets shared.

She hasn’t been back here in a while.

“You’ve been eating sweet stuff all day, figured you’d be alright with pancakes.”

“You’re good at that, huh?” She smiles, “Knowing what I want?”

“I’m great at it.” He brags, unclipping his seat belt. “Wait here, I’m gonna check if the kitchen’s open.”

And he’s gone before she has a chance to question him. Why wouldn’t it be open? It’s a late night diner.

The car is too warm for her to care though - a cosy kind of heat, that almost has her lulling her head back into slumber before the car door is yanked back open beside her.

“So I kind of wanted to surprise you,” Nico says, slight urgency in his tone as he reaches over her lap to unclip her belt, “But I realised just now that I don’t want you to feel like I was blindsiding you with this.”

“With what?” She shuffles until her legs hang out of the car, looking up at him.

“I know that you kind of expected things not to go well with your family, but I also know you, and that you probably hoped there would at least be one of them that was happy for you.”

“Your family was happy for me,” she shrugs, trying to ignore the pang of longing. It has to be enough, she thinks, otherwise the hurt she’s feeling will just snowball into something worse. 

“Well you deserve more. And I happen to know a few more people in your family who might give you the reaction you’re looking for,”

“My cousin?”

“Where would I have found your cousin?”

“That’s my only other family?”

“No it isn’t,” he chuckles, extending a hand to help her out of the car and tucking her into his side when she’s stood on the sidewalk. He nudges the door closed behind her and locks it with the key in his pocket, guiding her towards Rosie’s with an arm around her shoulder. “Cheeto has a whole bunch of uncles who you’re not gonna be able to hide that little pouch from for much longer.”

“The guys are here?” She gasps, her face lighting up as she angles it to look up at him and stops in her tracks. “We’re gonna tell them?”

“Only if you want to.”

She nods, smiling so big she’s about to bare teeth, and he takes her hand to pull her toward the entrance.

“There she is!” Jack exclaims when the two of them make it into the diner, standing from his spot in one of the booths and extending his arms out in a boisterous greeting.

Nico has somehow managed to round up a good chunk of the guys, the diner otherwise empty as they take up two booths, with a few of them standing between. There’s Jack and Luke, Timo, Johnny, Dawson, Holtzy, Jesper, Nemo, Jonas and Bass, and Poppy doesn’t even feel intimidated by the rowdy bunch as she and Nico make their way over. 

She feels comfortable, like she should have felt around her actual family, at ease and somewhat excited.

“Thank God, Luke was getting hangry, we told him he had to wait until you guys got here to order.”

“Luke, it’s past 10pm, how can you be hungry at this time?” Poppy questions, standing beside Nico once they get over to the booths. She at least had a valid excuse - growing human life within her and being neglected by her own mother’s portion sizes at family dinner.

“This is prime snack time, Poppy, I usually have a grilled cheese before bed.”

“You’re not supposed to eat cheese before you sleep, Luke, it gives you nightmares.”

“Wow, okay, mom, did you call us out here just to impart your almighty cheese wisdom?”

“Cut it out,” Timo reaches over to smack Luke lightly upside the head, sending Poppy a proud, encouraging smile as she just chuckles in response. 

“I called you all out,” Nico puffs his chest a little, taking a deep breath as if preparing himself, “We have something we want to tell you guys.”

“Can you tell us after we order? I’m starving,” and when Luke ducks out of the way from Timo’s extended arm, Jack reaches across the table and swats him, himself. “Oh, come on, we all know they’re just gonna tell us they’re finally together! They can do that once I’ve got a burger or something.”

“That isn’t what we want to tell you,” Nico rolls his eyes affectionately, pulling Poppy into his side for comfort, where her lips twist in amusement at the scene before her.

“You’re not together?” Jack frowns, looking between them. 

“We’re figuring it out-,” Poppy shrugs, at the same time Nico responds.

“We’re working on it.” 

“Jesus,” Luke mutters, shielding himself from the onslaught of hands that reach out to smack his head. “Why are you all hitting me? They’re the ones who called us out here in the dead of night to tell us something we’ve all known for months. Next thing Dougie will be calling a press conference to tell the world he’s ginger. I don’t see anyone smacking either of them upside the head.”

“Well we can’t hit Schao ‘cause he’s our captain,” Jack explains.

“And you can’t hit me ‘cause I’m-,”

“A girl, yeah whatever,” Luke huffs.

“Actually, you can’t hit me ‘cause I’m pregnant.” She gives a smug smile, reaching into her pocket for the now-worn scan picture.

“And I’d hit you back.” Nico scowls playfully, watching their jaws drop in turn like a Mexican wave.

The guys all shoot up from their seats in unison, scrambling out of the booths to swarm the two of them, crowding around to get a look at the picture, a chorus of questions shouting out that fill the diner with a rambunctious echo.

The only thing Poppy can make out is Jack’s cries of Baby Schao, Timo’s bragging of I knew first and John and Nate’s childish singing of Poppy and Nico sitting in a tree. 

She feels her heart swell to four times its regular size.

She feels giddy, and proud, and loved.

“Alright,” Nico calls from beside her, bringing the rowdy bunch of men to silence, “Let her sit, then you can bombard her with your questions.”

She slides in a booth between the two brothers, and Nico slides in across from her between Timo and Jesper. The rest of the guys lean over from the booths at either side, leaving a couple of them standing in the aisle beside the table.

And as she looks over at Nico through teary eyes from her space across the booth, a smile so big it aches carved into her cheeks, their calves tangling under the table, the sonogram of their baby resting between them on the top, and surrounded by their found-family, she feels a kind of happiness she doesn’t think she ever has before.

He had assured her earlier that she could plant one on him any time, and she thinks that she might just have to start taking him up on that. 

Next Chapter

Taglist: @alwaysclassyeagle @bunbunbl0gs @idgaf-if-youre-here @youflowerr-youfeast @thearchersstuff @bellsdi0r @wonderheartz @jjgsunflower @butterflies35 @kenziepickle @josierosie @laheyxlover @mrsmattytkachuk @dasiysthings (sorry if your tag hasn't worked btw)

[gabelandescrocs]

can you do number 2 or 3 for sebastian aho 🙏🏽😌

Hi there anon! first of all i would like to apologize on how long this took to write 😬 I chose 2 for this one. i hope you like it! ♡ thank you so much for requesting ♡♡♡

☆ check out this post to send requests ☆

A/N: LOOK AT THAT CUTE POUT 🥺🥺🥺 (GIF not mine!)

#2 “I told you not to read that!” with Sebastian Aho

There were very few material things you hold very dear to you in life; one was a precious picture of you and your family on vacation when you were 5 years old, a vintage polaroid camera your grandparents had passed onto you--which by a miracle still worked -- and the very last, your journal. Those three things you always carried around with you, people might deem it too sentimental but you loved taking pictures and writing down every thought in your head when speaking was never enough.

A lot of emotions get settled in that little journal of yours, whether it be a scratchy doodle of something you saw that made you happy or lengthy sentiments of an argument or intense emotions you had to deal with on certain days. It was your black hole. A thing where you’d chuck anything into and it will take every bit of it away in its endless storage. Well, journals run out of pages but the sentiment is still there.

Nobody was ever allowed to have a look inside those pages, you’d swear on your life to keep all of its contents for your eyes only. A lot of the things in it might be a bit embarrassing to share, you’ll admit; certainly the ones where you shove all of your feelings into about a specific person. You could probably find within its pages the very day you met and developed a crush on the soft-spoken, brown haired Finnish athlete. You knew having feelings for Sebastian was a big no-no in your line of work having to spend most of your office hours with the players as an assistant PR Manager. Thats why you chose to store them all away into that previous notebook. One thing that has been added to the precious items you carry around all day was another notebook; this one was actually a planner that you absolutely had to have with you at all times for your job.

Everything you’d ever need to keep your head on your shoulders was in that thing—contact numbers, workout schedules, game schedules, media days, heck even meal times for all of the players were logged into that thing. Your life depended on being on schedule with everyone on the team as to avoid mishaps and getting an earful from the higher-up at your end. Some of the players like to laugh and tease you for your “uptightness” and punctuality, calling the frayed little book your Bible. Others even suggested to just keep the schedules on your phone. But you explained that you liked it old school and you let them have their laughs. Of course, if they ever knew how that notebook kept the wheels turning in their day-to-day, you wouldn’t hear a chuckle.

On a day like today though, felt like it just got pulled from your worst nightmares. While being on a media tour with the Canes selected All-Stars, this season being Sebastian and Brock, the whole day seemed to had gone to disarray once you landed in Vegas. Interns that you had entrusted simple tasks had seemed to just give you all the wrong information and send you to the wrong places at the wrong time. Hotel rooms were double booked, the transportation had been scheduled at the wrong time and the two players almost didn’t make it to their first shoot of the day.

Deciding to save yourself from anymore headaches and miscommunications from more people, you left the interns to handle coffee runs and order lunch for the rest of your stay. All-Star Weekend was not the place to take off the training wheels for your type of job.

With the first round of media finally over mid afternoon, and all of the mishaps finally fixed, you bid the two players a good job today before you left them to get into their rooms to rest. You reach your room and just plant yourself face first into the bed letting out a deep sigh as a headache started to creep up on you. The thought of screaming out your frustration into your pillows for a bit was tempting but a knock from your door stirred you up from the bed.

“Come in!” you call out, thinking it would be another one of your interns delivering you with more mess ups of the day. You massage your temples sitting more upright from the bed when you see Sebastian walk in with a sheepish smile on his face.

“Hey, I know you’re already stressed today, but Brock lost the schedules you printed out for us, so he told me to ask you if you had more copies…” he trailed off with a grimace seeing as you already looked like you’ve had enough of todays events. He was already back tracking his statement and apologizing when you waved it off and pointed to your bag behind him. Telling him he could find your planner there and just take a photo of the pages you bookmarked for the weekend. The headache finally getting the better of you, you flop back on the bed holding your head in your hands groaning.

“It’s the black one with a blue bookmark in it. Don’t mind the other one, that’s not for work,” you inform him, voice a little muffled behind your hands.

You peaked back at Sebastian wondering why it was taking him a while to just take a picture of their schedule when you see him gawking a bit into what he held in his hands with a very prominent blush sprawled across his cheeks. You were confused at his reaction thinking the schedule wasn’t that bad, its not like he hadn’t gone through the same things as before. But then you realize he wasn’t holding your planner, he was holding a notebook though, but by the different color of the cover, it finally sinks that Sebastian was reading your journal—your private journal, and not your work planner. He looks up at you mouth agape trying to form words but none of them could come out.

“I told you not to read that!” you scramble off the bed to take the book away from him, a look of terror on your face and a mix of embarrassment and shock on his. “I-I’m sorry. I thought that was your planner. I didn’t mean to-“

“How much did you read?”

“What?”

“How much of it did you read?” you ask again, clutching the book to your midsection, feeling a bit exposed by what had just happened. Sebastian looks a bit apprehensive, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck trying to think of his words and making sure to avoid your eyes boring into him.

“Well, I know you like my smile and how you think I’m cute when I pout…” you groan and press the notebook to your face mentally willing it to help hide your shame.

“This is so embarrassing,” your mind was going a mile a minute realizing how unprofessional you must seem thinking that way about a person you literally work for and getting your feelings exposed in this manner. You were just about ready to dig yourself a hole in the middle of the Nevada when you hear his voice again.

“I like your smile too,” Sebastian quips. You lower the notebook from your face with a look of confusion on it, unsure of what you had just heard. Did he just compliment me? Now it was your turn to be speechless, Sebastian smiles more confidently at you now almost like he was happy to finally get that off his chest. He starts to walk back to your door to leave but stops just by the doorway.

“I’ll come pick you up at eight. Maybe I can tell you more things I like about you over dinner,”

You replied with a small ‘okay’ before he walked out of your room with the biggest smile on his face.

[percontaion-points]

Crave (Crave #1) prologue, chapters 1 & 2

Click to see the rest of the snark & image descriptions

Prologue

If you had told me a month ago that I would be standing on the outskirts of an airport in Fairbanks, Alaska, I would’ve said that you were misinformed. And if you had told me that the whole reason I was in Fairbanks was to catch the tiniest puddle jumper in existence to what feels like the very edge of the world—or, in this case, a town on the edge of Denali, the highest mountain in North America—I would have said that you were high as a freaking kite.

This isn't even trying to pretend that it's not poorly disguised Twilight fanfic.

The only consolation is that it seems as though our narrator might be a bit more fun than Bella. At least it seems as though she has a bit of spice.

In fact, the only thing I have been able to count on these past few weeks is that no matter how bad things are, they can always get worse…

Prologue summary: Like most prologues, I don't know why the author bothered. But here we are. Our narrator, Grace, stands in an airport in Alaska, about ready to get onto one of those tiny puddle jumper planes to go to a highly remote place.

That's it. That's literally the entire fucking thing.

Chapter 1

Seconds later, I feel the wheels skip across the ground. Then Philip hits the brakes hard enough to slam me forward so fast that my seat belt is the only thing keeping my head from meeting the control panel.

This feels like a solid case for whiplash.

Then grab onto the handle of my suitcase and start dragging it toward a small patch of concrete that I’m pretty sure passes for an airport in Healy. It’s a far cry from San Diego’s bustling terminals.

She keeps comparing San Diego with a town in Alaska that is so remote you can't even drive up to it. Like honey, I don't know what you're expecting here. I get that it's a shock, but you can't look at a place like this and be surprised that it's not goddamned California.

“No worries, Mace. Had to run a few errands in Fairbanks anyway.” He says it so casually, like hopping in a plane for a couple-hundred-mile roundtrip journey is no big deal.

My uncle is a pilot and let me assure you that it's not a big deal to them. Especially when you live in a remote place like Alaska.

...and to pull my brand-new coat more tightly around me because it’s literally about eight degrees out here...

[three pages later]

I’m really about to ride a snowmobile in the near dark through Alaska in weather that is more than twenty degrees below freezing...

Is it 8 degrees or -20?

EDITORS? WHO ARE THEY?!

“Hold on to my waist!” she shouts as she turns it on, so I do. Seconds later, we’re speeding into the darkness that stretches endlessly in front of us. I’ve never been more terrified in my life.

Chapter 1 summary: Grace is flown out to the remote town of Healy, Alaska in a two-seater puddle-jumper by her uncle's friend, Philip. It seems as though Grace's parents have recently died, and she has to go to live with her uncle and cousin. As you might expect, it's fucking cold there, which is a shock to Grace as she came from California.

Her cousin, Macy, is waiting for them in the parking lot of the “airport”, which is literally only a landing strip and parking lot. She apologizes for her father not being able to be there, since he runs a boarding school and needed to take care of some emergency. Grace isn't even sure where a school would be, since they kind of saw everything when flying into the town, but decides not to question things too much.

Grace is even more shocked when Macy leads them over to a literal snowmobile and starts to load up Grace's luggage. Macy gives her some snow pants and boots, and then an insulated helmet for the ride.

Chapter 2

Still, there’s something more to him, something different and powerful and overwhelming, though I don’t have a clue what it is. I mean, sure. He has the kind of face nineteenth-century poets loved to write about—too intense to be beautiful and too striking to be anything else. Skyscraper cheekbones. Full red lips. A jaw so sharp it could cut stone. Smooth, alabaster skin. And his eyes…a bottomless obsidian that see everything and show nothing, surrounded by the longest, most obscene lashes I’ve ever seen.

Oh boy, here we go...

When exactly did I become the heroine in some YA romance?

Unless this entire thing was intended to be read as a tongue-in-cheek meta parody, I'm kind of angry over this. Because you KNOW that it's exactly what's going to happen.

One glance and I know that this dark boy with the closed-off eyes and the fuck-you attitude isn’t the hero of anyone’s story. Least of all mine.

Chapter 2 summary: They get to the school, which is a literal castle. I'm not even going to question the logistics of building a place like that in the most remote corner of Alaska. Macy starts to unload Grace's luggage, but Grace is determined not to sit back and let other people do all of the work for her. She grabs one of the bags, but then gets winded doing simply that. Macy says that it's the altitude, and that it'll take a while to get used to it, after having lived at sea level her entire life.

As they go further into the school, Grace realizes that the other students milling about in their down-time are all staring at her. She feels gross because she's been traveling all day, and their stares make her uncomfortable. Macy tells her that there are rooms for single students, but they're all full, and her dad wanted to know what Grace wanted to do. There's an awkward moment where Macy puts her foot in her mouth about the deaths of Grace's parents, but Grace says that she'd like to bunk with her cousin.

Macy puts Grace into a room while she goes to get her dad. Grace examines a chess set that has little vampires and dragons as the pieces. Then somebody warns her to be careful with the set, and the last two pages of the book are Grace drooling over how hot he is, how intimidating he is, and then deciding that his hotness doesn't matter, because she's not some simpering YA protagonist who loses all sense the second a hot guy comes around. Which... okay. We'll see where this is going, I suppose.

[ifuckinglovestvincent]

THE FORTY-FIVE: ST. VINCENT

Sleazy, gritty, grimy – these are the words used to describe the latest iteration of St. Vincent, Annie Clark’s alter ego. As she teases the release of her upcoming new album, ‘Daddy’s Home’, Eve Barlow finds out who’s wearing the trousers now.

Photos: Zackery Michael

Yellow may be the colour of gold, the hue of a perfect blonde or the shade of the sun, but when it’s too garish, yellow denotes the stain of sickness and the luridness of sleaze. On ‘Pay Your Way In Pain’ – the first single from St. Vincent’s forthcoming sixth album ‘Daddy’s Home’ – Annie Clark basks in the palette of cheap 1970s yellows; a dirty, salacious yellow that even the most prudish of individuals find difficult to avert their gaze from. It’s a yellow that recalls the smell of cigarettes on fingers, the tape across tomorrow’s crime scene or the dull ache of bad penetration.

The video for the single, which dropped last Thursday, features Clark in a blonde wig and suit, channeling a John Cassavetes anti-heroine (think Gena Rowlands in Gloria) and ‘Fame’-era Bowie. She twists in front of too-bright disco lights. She roughs up her voice. She sings about the price we pay for searching for acceptance while being outcast from society. “So I went to the park just to watch the little children/ The mothers saw my heels and they said I wasn’t welcome,” she coos, and you immediately recognise the scene of a free woman threatening the post-nuclear families aspiring to innocence. Clark is here to pervert them.

She laughs. “That’s how I feel!” From her studio in Los Angeles, she begins quoting lyrics from Jimi Hendrix’s ‘Red House’. “It’s a blues song for 2021.” LA is a city Clark reluctantly only half calls home, and one that is opposed to her vastly preferred New York. “I don’t feel any romantic attachment to Los Angeles,” she says of the place she coined the song ‘Los Ageless’ about on 2017’s ‘Masseduction’ (“The Los Ageless hang out by the bar/ Burn the pages of unwritten memoirs”).“The best that could be said of LA is, ‘Yeah it’s nice.’ And it is! LA is easy and pleasant. But if you were a person the last thing you’d want someone to say about you is: ‘She’s nice!’”

On ‘Daddy’s Home’, Clark writes about a past derelict New York; a place Los Angeles would suffocate in. “The idea of New York, the art that came out of it, and my living there,” she says. “I’ve not given up my card. I don’t feel in any way ready to renounce my New York citizenship. I bought an apartment so I didn’t have to.” Her down-and-out New York is one a true masochist would love, and it’s sleazy in excess. Sleaze is usually the thing men flaunt at a woman’s expense. In 2021, the proverbial Daddy in the title is Clark. But there’s also a literal Daddy. He came home in the winter of 2019.

On the title track, Clark sings about “inmate 502”: her father. He was sentenced to 12 years in prison for his involvement in a $43m stock fraud scheme. He went away in May 2010. Clark reacted by writing her third breakthrough album ‘Strange Mercy’ in 2011; inspired not just by her father’s imprisonment but the effects it had on her life.“I mean it was rough stuff,” she says. “It was a fuck show. Absolutely terrible. Gut-wrenching. Like so many times in life, music saved me from all kinds of personal peril. I was angry. I was devastated. There’s a sort of dullness to incarceration where you don’t have any control. It’s like a thud at the basement of your being. So I wrote all about it,” she says.

Back then, she was aloof about meaning. In an interview we did that year, she called from a hotel rooftop in Phoenix and was fried from analytical questions. She excused her lack of desire to talk about ‘Strange Mercy’ as a means of protecting fans who could interpret it at will. Really she was protecting an audience closer to home. It’s clear now that the title track is about her father’s imprisonment (“Our father in exile/ For God only knows how many years”). Clark’s parents divorced when she was a child, and they have eight children in their mixed family, some of whom were very young when ‘Strange Mercy’ came out. She explains this discretion now as her method of sheltering them.

“I am protective of my family,” she says. “It didn’t feel safe to me. I disliked the fact that it was taken as malicious obfuscations. No.” Clark wanted to deal with the family drama in art but not in press. She managed to remain tight-lipped until she became the subject of a different intrusion. As St. Vincent’s star continued to rocket, Clark found herself in a relationship with British model Cara Delevingne from 2014 to 2016, and attracted celebrity tabloid attention. Details of her family’s past were exposed. The Daily Mail came knocking on her sister’s door in Texas, where Clark is from.

“Luckily I’m super tight with my family and the Daily Mail didn’t find anybody who was gonna sell me out,” she says. “They were looking for it. Clark girls are a fucking impenetrable force. We will cut a bitch.”

Four years later, Clark gets to own the narrative herself in the medium that’s most apt: music. “The story has evolved. I’ve evolved. People have grown up. I would rather be the one to tell my story,” she says, ruminating on the misfortune that this was robbed from her: a story that writes itself. “My father’s release from prison is a great starting point, right?” Between tours and whenever she could manage, Clark would go and visit him in prison and would be signing autographs in the visitation room for the inmates, who all followed her success with every album release, press clipping and late night TV spot. She joked to her sisters that she’d become the belle of the ball there. “I don’t have to make that up,” she says.

There’s an ease to Clark’s interview manner that hasn’t existed before. She seems ready not just to discuss her father’s story, but to own certain elements of herself. “Hell where can you run when the outlaw’s inside you,” she sings on the title track, alluding to her common traits with her father. “I’ve always had a relationship with my dad and a good one. We’re very similar,” she says. “The movies we like, the books, he liked fashion. He’s really funny, he’s a good time.” Her father’s release gave Clark and her brothers and sisters permission to joke. “The title, ‘Daddy’s Home’ makes me laugh. It sounds fucking pervy as hell. But it’s about a real father ten years later. I’m Daddy now!”

The question of who’s fathering who is a serious one, but it’s also not serious. Clark wears the idea of Daddy as a costume. She likes to play. She joins today’s Zoom in a pair of sunglasses wider than her face and a silk scarf framing her head. The sunglasses come off, and the scarf is a tool for distraction. She ties it above her forehead, attempts a neckerchief, eventually tosses it aside. Clark can only be earnest for so long before she seeks some mischief. She doesn’t like to stay in reality for extensive periods. “I like to create a world and then I get to live in it and be somebody new every two or three years,” she says. “Who wants to be themselves all the time?”

‘Daddy’s Home‘ began in New York at Electric Lady studios before COVID hit and was finished in her studio in LA. She worked on it with “my friend Jack” [Jack Antonoff, producer for Lana Del Rey, Lorde, Taylor Swift]. Antonoff and Clark worked on ‘Masseduction’ and found a winning formula, pushing Clark’s guitar-orientated electronic universe to its poppiest maximum, without compromising her idiosyncrasies. “We’re simpatico. He’s a dream,” she says. “He played the hell outta instruments on this record. He’s crushing it on drums, crushing it on Wurlitzer.” The pair let loose. They began with ‘The Holiday Party’, one of the warmest tracks Clark’s ever written. It’s as inviting as a winter fireplace, stoked by soulful horns, acoustic guitar and backing singers. “Every time they sang something I’d say, ‘Yeah but can you do it sleazier? Make your voice sound like you’ve been up for three days.” Clark speaks of an unspoken understanding with Antonoff as regards the vibe: “Familiar sounds. The opposite of my hands coming out of the speaker to choke you till you like it. This is not submission. Just inviting. I can tell a story in a different way.”

The entire record is familiar, giving the listener the satisfaction that they’ve heard the songs before but can’t quite place them. It’s a satisfying accompaniment to a pandemic that encouraged nostalgic listening. Clark was nostalgic too. She reverted to records she enjoyed with her father: Stevie Wonder’s catalogue from the 1970s (‘Songs In The Key Of Life’, ‘Innervisions’, ‘Talking Book’) and Steely Dan. “Not to be the dude at the record store but it’s specifically post-flower child idealism of the ’60s,” she explains. “It’s when it flipped into nihilism, which I much prefer. Pre disco, pre punk. That music is in me in a deep way. It’s in my ears.”

On ‘The Melting Of The Sun’ she has a delicious time creating a psychedelic Pink Floyd odyssey while exploring the path tread by her heroes Marilyn Monroe, Joni Mitchell, Joan Didion and Nina Simone. It’s a series of beautiful vignettes of brilliant women who were met with a hostile environment. Clark considers what they did to overcome that. “I’m thanking all these women for making it easier for me to do it. I hope I didn’t totally let them down.” Clark is often the only woman sharing a stage with rock luminaries such as Dave Grohl, Damon Albarn and David Byrne, and has appeared to have shattered a male-centric glass ceiling. She’s unsure she’s doing enough to redress the imbalance. “There are little things I can do and control,” she says of hiring women on her team. “God! Now I feel like I should do more. What should I do? It’s a big question. You know what I have seen a lot more from when I started to now? Girls playing guitar.”

If one woman reinvented the guitar in the past decade, it’s Clark. Behind her is a rack of them. The pandemic has taken her out of the wild in which she’s accustomed to tantalising audiences at night with her displays of riffing and heel-balancing. Instead, she’s chained to her desk. Her obsession with heels in the lyrics of ‘Daddy’s Home’ she reckons may be a reflection of her nights performing ‘Masseduction’ in thigh highs. “I made sure that nothing I wore was comfortable,” she recalls. “Everything was about stricture and structure and latex. I had to train all the time to make sure I could handle it.” Is she taking the heels off when live shows return? “Absofuckinglutely not.”

Clark is interested in the new generation. She’s recently tweeted about Arlo Parks and has become a big fan of Russian singer-songwriter Kate NV. “I’m obsessed with Russia,” she says. In a recent LA Times profile, she professed to a pandemic intellectual fixation on Stalin. “Yeah! I mean right now my computer is propped up on stuff. You are sitting on The Gulag Archipelago, The Best Short Stories Of Dostoyevsky andThe Plays Of Chekhov. I’m kinda in it.” The pop world interests Clark, too. She was credited with a co-write on Swift’s 2019 album ‘Lover’. At last year’s Grammys she performed a duet with Dua Lipa. It was one of the queerest performances the Grammys has ever aired. Clark interrupts.

“What about it seemed queer?!”

You know… The lip bite, for one!

“Wait. Did she bite her lip?”

No, you bit your lip.

“I did?!”

Everyone was talking about it. Come on, Annie.

“Serious? I…”

You both waltzed around each other with matching hairdos, making eyes…

“I have no memory of it.”

Frustrating as it may be in a world of too much information, Clark’s lack of willingness to overanalyse every creative decision she makes or participates in is something to treasure. “I want to be a writer who can write great songs,” she says. “I’m so glad I can play guitar and fuck around in the studio to my heart’s desire but it’s about what you can say. What’s a great song? What lyric is gonna rip your guts open. Just make great shit! That’s where I was with this record. That’s all I wanna do with my life.”

More than a decade into St. Vincent, Clark doesn’t reflect. She looks strictly forward. “I’m like a horse with blinders,” she says. She did make an exception to take stock lately when the phone rang. “I saw a +44 and that gets me excited,” she says. “Who could this be?” Well, who was it? “Paul McCartney,” she says, in disbelief. “Anything I’ve done, any mistake I’ve made, somehow it’s forgiven, assuaged. I did something right in my life if a fucking Beatle called me.”

Now there’s a get out of jail free card if ever she needed one.

Daddy’s Home by St. Vincent is out May 14, 2021.

[illfoandillfie]

5 Simple Rules For A Successful Fake Relationship: Ben’s POV

5 SIMPLE RULES MASTERLIST

Pairing: Ben Hardy x Reader

Summery: 14 scenes told from Ben's Perspective.

Warnings: A whole lotta angst and badly handled feelings. swearing, drinking, a little bit of smut/masturbation (18+) basically everything from the other chapters but from Ben’s side lmao

Words: 22 790 (oh god im sorry, but all the sections are separated so you don’t have to read it in one hit!)

A/N: I know it's like super duper late but here is the final chapter of this series that I promised! Basically just a collection of blurbs (maybe a few oneshot length parts too) that tell the story from the other side. Some are his point of view of things that occurred in the main chapters, some fill in gaps that reader wasn't around for. 

I had a lot of fun writing from a perspective I don't normally write from! It was a bit of a challenge at times but definitely something I'd like to do again.

Taglist: @vee-ndetta @atomic-watermelon @kellypenac @labessieisallama @deakyclicks @jennyggggrrr @drowseoftaylor @hannafuckingsucks @i-cant-hangout-im-drumming @queenmylovely @taron-egrotten @johndeaconshands @borhapbois @stardust-galaxies

@coni-martina @hardforbenhardy @cubedtriangle @vicouscirce @arianabrashierstuff @pattieboydwannabe @maggieroseevans @theprettyandthereckless @friccinfricks​ 

“Pick up Joe, pick up,” Ben mumbled to himself, pacing around his trailer. The phone rang out and he let out a grunt of annoyance as he switched to text message.

I fucked up. Call me.

It was an anxious ten-minute wait in which Ben found it hard to sit still or focus on anything other than what a colossal mistake he’d made. He tried to go over his lines instead, tried to focus on the next scene you’d be filming together but all he could think about was you. You and how badly he’d fucked up. Finally Joe put him out of his misery. “Thank Christ,” “Sorry I was asleep,” a yawning Joe said from the other end of the line, “What happened that you needed to contact me at 6am?” “I said yes,” “To?” “Joe, I know it’s early for you but please try to keep up. I said yes.” There was a pause as Joe tried to work out what Ben meant and then realisation dawned, “Nooooo,” “Yes. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. Oh my god,” Joe groaned, sympathetic, “You said yes? To the fake dating schtick?” “I wasn’t going to,” “I should fucking hope not. After everything we talked about yesterday? After we agreed it was a horrible idea?” “I know! I know,” Ben had to pause to gulp in a breath, his chest suddenly feeling too tight to handle the oxygen, “I was going to say no. I came in with a plan to say no and it was on the tip of my tongue for the entire meeting. They were going through these pages explaining it all and all of the rules we’d have to follow and I was ready to say no, I was going to say no,” “So what happened?” Ben flopped down onto his couch, the one he liked to nap on when time allowed, running his hand through his hair as he spoke, “I looked over at her and my mind clouded over and I said yes,” “Did she ask you to?” “Nope. I think she knew what I was thinking through the whole thing, she seemed shocked when I agreed to it. Fuck, why did I say yes?” “Cause you’re a fucking idiot.” “You can say that again,” “I could but I won’t.” Joe exhaled slowly into the receiver, “Jesus man,” “Yup. You wanna know the worst part though?” “Agreeing to it wasn’t the worst part?” “I’m not totally disappointed,” “Ben,” Joe sounded mildly horrified so Ben hurried to explain. “I mean, I know it’s bad. I know there were a thousand ways to better handle it...sticking to the plan and asking her out after we wrapped being the least of them. But...I have date ideas picked out already. There’s this wine and art place she’d love and the ice-skating rink and I’d love to take her to that Chinese restaurant near me. And I’m kind of happy I have an excuse to look at her now, touch her. I don’t have to worry about if she’s caught me staring or if I’m doing a bad job of hiding my feelings because everyone’s going to think we’re dating anyway so what’s the fucking harm,” “Alright Ben, I’m gonna stop you there. You need to get this shit under control. I suggest going to a bar, getting drunk, and getting into the pants of the first girl who talks to you.” “Can’t,” “Oh don’t give me that bullshit. You’re not so hung up on this Y/N chick that you can’t think about sleeping with someone else, are you?” “Doesn’t matter, I literally can’t unless I want everyone to think I’m cheating on her. Don’t think that’d go down well with the studio or anyone else really. They’d crucify me for fucking up the plan after less than a day.” “Would you have followed my advice even if that wasn’t the case?” Ben mad a non-committal noise, “Probably not. I just want her,” “Doesn’t she have a boyfriend? I distinctly remember you whining about a boyfriend.” “Apparently it was never that serious. He was boring.” “You’re boring too Ben. Hate to break it to you but you’re dull, unexciting, tedious. She’s not going to want to date you either. Might as well give up now,” “Have you got a thesaurus sitting in your lap?” Joe laughed despite himself, “I thought this was going to be a crush Ben. Short lived.” “Me too. It’s not though. I can’t get her out of my mind. When I’m with her I don’t want to leave and then when I have to leave all I can think about is when I’ll next see her. She’s so wonderful and beautiful and kind-hearted. She likes pulling faces at me from behind the camera and she’s got the cutest laugh…When she’s nervous about a scene she bounces her leg. Every time. And she’s so sweet to everyone on set, always chatting with whoever is around and making jokes and stuff. I want to make her laugh. I want to calm her when she’s nervous. I want her.” “Maybe you should just tell her how you feel now. I know you wanted to wait until after the movie but I think that horse has bolted,” “I can’t tell her now, are you insane? If I tell her now she’ll call up her agent and cancel the whole fake dating thing and she’ll never want to see me again,” “Maybe she wants to date you too,” “Nope. She literally said to me she wouldn’t date me in real life,” Ben paused, thinking, “d’you reckon there’s a chance she might fall for me too? Like, with the whole pretending to date thing? Maybe I could convince her I’d be a good boyfriend,” “Don’t get your hopes up Ben,” “You’re right. She’s not going to change her mind about me. We’re friends and that’s it. And I’ve just gotta focus on finishing this movie and getting through the whole relationship without her figuring anything out.” “I don’t envy you, buddy.”

                                                       ***

It took Ben a few moments of lying in the dark to remember why he felt so nervous first thing in the morning. But the waiting message from Peter about what time the photographer would arrive was enough to remind him. He lay there a little longer, trying to prepare himself for everything, trying to convince himself that seeing you first thing in the morning would be enough of a turn off to stop him from feeling the way you made him feel. It didn’t work, the convincing or the seeing you. If anything, seeing you yawning as you left his spare room just made it all the worse. You, in his pyjamas. It made his stomach flip. He found it hard to pull his eyes from you as you drank your coffee, found it hard to not enjoy the sight of you in his pyjamas in his kitchen. You’d never been there before but you didn’t feel out of place. He could imagine other mornings, making pancakes together, you with a spot of batter on your nose that he’d wipe away and replace with a kiss, or else making you the first tea or coffee of the day and bringing it to you in bed, snuggling under the covers with you, your head resting on his chest as you talked quietly about whatever was happening that day. But planning out how you’d look for the camera was a sharp reminder that it wasn’t real, that you were only there because of work.

“And, um, he was very careful in how he worded it, but they want us to look like we fucked. Also I told them I’d take you home so there may be someone waiting for us there too, he never got back to me on it.” “Shit, okay. Umm, guess I’ll just wear this then?” he watched as you indicated the pyjamas you’d borrowed, his pyjamas, “might lose the pants though, help sell it a bit more.” “Yeah, guess so,” Ben had to clear his throat and avert his eyes, terrified that you’d be able to see what he was thinking, willing himself to stop thinking about helping you out of them. “What time is it?” He glanced at the oven, thankful to have even the smallest of diversions, “Twenty past eight,” “God I haven’t been up this early on a weekend in months.” “Not one for farmers markets or anything then?” This was a better topic. Boring, safe. “Not really. Much prefer lying in bed doing nothing.” Shit, “Me too,” he laughed, trying not to imagine you in his bed in just his shirt (fuck the pants they were too big for you anyway). “We’re meant for each other,” Ben took another sip of coffee to keep from groaning. You had no idea what you were doing to him and he wasn’t going to be the one to tell you. Not now at any rate. He’d killed any chance of anything happening when he’d agreed to this stunt and now he had to suck it up and deal with it. “Did you want to have a shower or anything?” “Nah, you can if you want though,” “Might as well wait until I get home. But I am gonna clean my teeth, especially if we have to kiss.” Jesus, the kiss, he’d almost forgotten about that, “Maybe mess up your hair too, make it look like you didn’t sleep much.” This is dangerous territory. “Well how could I when you’re such a good lover,” Oh god oh god oh god, “I know you’re joking but if anyone asks, I’m incredible. You came like three times,” “Did I now?” “Of course,” “Good thing no one’s gonna ask then, don’t think I’m great at lying,” Ben wanted to stop, wanted to switch back to talking about farmers markets and breakfast options but he didn’t seem to have control over himself anymore, “Besides, it’s not really a lie, I am that good. You just haven’t experienced it personally.” You poked your tongue out at him as you turned back towards the bathroom. As soon as he heard the door shut Ben collapsed forward against the kitchen counter, leaning on his palms as he grappled with what had just happened. He’d need to keep his wits about him from now on. Flirting like that couldn’t happen again, he’d been lucky that you'd treated it like friendly banter. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to drown out the voice that suggested you’re lack of awareness was proof of how disinterested you were. It was only when he heard the bathroom door swing open again that he forced himself to move.

“How do I look?” you asked as you re-entered the room. Can’t avoid looking at her now, she wants your opinion, “Gorgeous.” It was true. Everything you’d done to make yourself look like you’d had a late night just made you even more desirable. The messed up hair, the smudge of makeup around your eyes. He gulped when he noticed the undone buttons of the flannel shirt, just enough to tease, and the missing pants. Tell her you want to pin her to the wall and undo the rest of those buttons. Tell her you want to wake up to that sight every morning. “But do I look like I’ve been thoroughly fucked?” “Oh, right, ummm,” he gave you another cursory look, trying not to linger on any part of you for too long, “yes, I think so,” “I feel like there’s something missing,” suddenly you turned on your heel and stepped back towards the bathroom. Ben waited where you’d left him until, “Oh! I know. Might be taking it a bit far though.” Clearly he was supposed to be part of this conversation, so he followed you to the doorway, stepped just over the threshold, “What is it?” You were scrutinising your appearance in the mirror and he let himself watch your reflection, “what if you gave me a hickey?” Ben’s breath caught in his throat though he managed to stutter out your name. “Yeah, I know, that’s a weird thing to ask. Don’t worry, I think we’ll be fine without it,” He inhaled deeply wondering if your backtracking was a sign that you’d worked out what was going on in his head. He couldn’t let that happen. And he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to give you a love bite, though he’d prefer to be covering you in them. Slowly, he let the breath go again, “no, you’re right. A hickey will definitely make it look more authentic,”

“It’s not totally inappropriate for me to ask?” Babe this whole thing is inappropriate, “No, no, we have to make it look legit. Here, I’ll uhhh,” With another, less than steady, breath, he stepped behind you, close enough that you were practically leaning against him. His heart began to beat faster, his stomach did summersaults. Carefully he wrapped his arm around your waist to steady himself, pull you closer, as he pushed your hair to the side. He glanced at your reflection, waiting for you to stop him, to notice his shaky fingers and burning skin and to jump away from him. But you didn’t. You let him lean in, let him press his lips to your neck, let him mark you. He felt your own breath speed up, felt you tilt your head, inviting more. And then. It was only a small hum, but it had definitely come from you. He glanced at the mirror again, saw you had your eyes shut. You liked it. He was giving you a hickey and you were enjoying it. This might be his only chance to do that, to make you feel that way. He refocused on your neck, where his lips met your skin, soothing the fresh brand with his tongue. He could happily have given you ten more, was tempted to go in for a second at least. Instead he let you go, stepped backwards as quickly as he could manage. If he waited too long he’d end up saying something he’d regret. “Will that do?” “It’s great Ben really ties the whole look together,” He tried to match your smile though it felt like there was a warning siren going off in his head, “Good. Good. Okay then, I’ll umm, what time is it?” “Just after nine. Wonder if the photographer is here yet,” “I think I will jump in for that shower actually, by the time I’m done he will definitely be here,” he needed some time to compose himself before he even thought about stepping outside the door with you, “Make yourself comfortable though, watch some TV or something.” “Alright. Thanks for being so cool about all this. I know you’re a little sceptical about the benefits and everything.” “It’s fine Y/N, no need for any of that,” he forced another smile as you left but the moment you’d pulled the door shut it slipped again. Slowly he made his way to the tap, splashed his face with cold water. His fingers still tingled where they’d rested against you. The echo of your hum was stuck in his head. Your perfume still lingered in the air. “Fuck,” Ben directed the curse at his reflection, unsure any other word could sum up better than that. The fact that you didn’t want him was fucked, having you here looking the part of the perfect girlfriend was fucked, giving you a hickey for the performance was fucked. And the fact that he was sporting a semi from it was really just the cherry on top of his totally fucked sundae. He couldn’t go back out to you in such a state, especially not when you were going to have to make out for the camera. A shower to relieve himself was the only answer, though he felt bad about you being only a couple of rooms over.

With a final prayer that you wouldn’t overhear or work out why he’d changed his mind about the shower, he turned the taps on and began undressing, wincing a little as he stuck his arm under the scalding hot water. With some adjustment he was able to fully step into the shower, pausing for a moment to relax under the steady beat of the water before reaching for the soap. Of course, you were on his mind as he wrapped his hand around his cock and slowly started stroking himself. The way you looked in his shirt, the swell of your breasts just barely exposed, tantalisingly so. The hem of the shirt draped over your bare thighs. You’d make such a sight dressed like that, lying in his bed, the sheets tangled around your legs. Better still his legs tangled between yours. He thought of the hum you made as he’d sucked at your throat. On the verge of a whine, maybe even a moan. Would you whine if his lips were on your chest instead? What about your thighs, leaving a trail up to… His breathing was faster now, hand moving at a similar speed. We’re made for each other. Your voice, your words. You’d say it, half pant it, while he was inside you. Made for each other. And you’d hum that hum of pleasure. Your thighs, under his shirt. His arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close as he pulled your hair aside. What if you gave me a hickey?  The warmth of your body leaning against his, such a contrast to the cool bathroom tiles. That hum. Those thighs. The way you say his name. Made for each other. Your lingering perfume. Your lingering warmth. Your lingering hum. His name on your tongue. He bit his lip to keep from making any sound as he came onto the floor of the shower. It took Ben a few moments to right his breathing, eyes pressed shut so he could hold onto the fantasy for just a little longer. But he knew he didn’t have the time. At least you get to kiss her again. He rushed through washing his hair, scrubbing himself clean. As he stepped out of the shower, he wrapped a towel around his waist and swiped his palm over the fogged-up mirror. He forced himself to smile, tried to make it seem natural but that just made it feel more fake. Maybe you wouldn’t notice. With a final exhale he left the bathroom, heading towards his bedroom to find some clean clothes. Your laugh cut through the mostly quiet house. Something on the tv, a cartoon by the sounds of it, had made you laugh and Ben couldn’t help but smile for real at the sound. It made it all seem worth it. 

                                                      ***

It had been a bit of an odd week. Everyone at work knew about the relationship and Ben had found himself set upon by well meaning set dressers and ADs who were curious to know when it had started and how they’d kept it such a secret because “seriously Ben, no one suspected anything.” That was nothing to his friends though, who were shocked he’d never brought it up even in passing and who demanded to know when they could meet this secret girlfriend of his. “Someone’s gotta tell her about the time you pissed your pants at the fair,” “I was seven and had drunk a lot of coke,” “Excuses, excuses. What’s your excuse for never mentioning her before?” “I thought we were going to play FIFA, not talk about my love life,” “We were but that was before we all saw your girlfriend’s arse online,” “You can’t see her arse in that shot,” “Near enough. And we can definitely see the giant fucking hickey on her neck. Now explain yourself,” “Alright mum,” Ben shook his head, “I mean, you know I don’t normally date people I work with. Neither does she. We both wanted to give our selves some time to see if it worked, to make sure what we thought we were feeling was legit and not on screen emotions carrying over or anything like that.” “Well it looks legit judging by photos,” “Shut up,” Ben sighed, rolling his eyes, “I actually really like her,” “Hey, I have a question. When the fuck have you been seeing this chick? Because your down time is spent with us.” “Oh, umm, y’know, after work and stuff. I don’t spend all of my time with you guys,” “Uhhh beg to disagree,” Ben tried to keep his tone normal though his heart was racing. If they figured it out now it could all be over, “Fuck off I have a life outside of you. And just because I was hanging with you guys in the evening doesn’t mean I didn’t see her earlier in the day.” “Nooners?” “Lunch dates.” “Uh huh. Okay, lunch dates. She’s a good shag though, right?” “Oh yeah, fucking….great shag,” “You gotta give us more than that mate,” “Sure, okay, but first can one of you kill me,” “Boooooo,” Ben laughed as he was pelted with crisps, “I’m so going to kick all your arses, now hand me a controller.”

The week had also brought him a copy of your rules. He’d taped the sheet to the bottom of his sock draw where no one else was likely to see it but he could still have a daily reminder that none of it was real. Being around you made it easy to forget you weren’t actually his girlfriend, the lines between friendly banter and flirty teasing becoming too blurred. Of course, he also had Joe reminding him to keep his head straight. He’d called after he saw the morning-after photos. The conversation had started with Joe calling Ben a moron but quickly shifted into Ben ranting for close to an hour because he’d, that morning, heard all about the conversation with Felicity and how you’d spent so long talking up his prowess. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or scream. “Is this some kind of punishment? Did I do something completely fucked up in a past life and now I’m paying for it?” “Maybe. Or maybe it’s a lesson on why you don’t agree to something because a pretty girl smiles at you.” “Oh bugger off, you’re absolutely no help,” “Well what do you want me to do?” “I don’t know.” “I could talk to her for you.” “Mate, that’s you’re worst idea yet.” “When’s the date?” “This Saturday.” “Just keep reminding yourself you’re there as friends. Don’t get sucked in by the act.” “I’m trying.” Easier said than done, especially when he’d had the date planned for a solid few months. Not officially of course, but in the back of his head. You and him and a bottle of wine as you sat close together and painted. When he imagined the date you wore a sun dress and decorated your canvas or plate, or whatever it was he pictured that time, with little hearts and lipstick kisses. He’d make you laugh with some kind of joke and you’d lean your forehead on his shoulder. Everyone else would melt away as you looked up at him, still smiling. And you’d say something about how you should have realised you loved him sooner. “Because I do, Ben, I love you,” Which is when he’d kiss you, softly.

Ben shook his head to clear it, focusing back on the script in his hand, though you’d soon distracted him again. The real you, not the fantasy date one. The one who was bouncing her knee and staring off into space. He gently touched your shoulder, “Hey, are you okay?” “Huh?” “You’re jiggling your leg a lot which you only do when something’s worrying you, what is it?” “Oh, nothing,” He didn’t believe you, “Is it about our date tonight?” “What if it’s bad? What if we don’t look like we’re actually together and Mary and Pete have to cancel the whole thing?” What a blessing that would be. I might actually be able to get over you. I could stop imaging you in my bed, “I’d get a decent night sleep not thinking about us,” “What?” Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that last bit out loud, “I’ve been worried about it too.” You nodded, your leg twitching as if gearing up to bounce again. “But I think we’ll be okay. It’s not like we’ll be starved for conversation and we’ll have the paint and the wine and we’ll be fine. Plus, weren’t you the one who said this would be easy?” “Yeah I was, but-” “No buts. It’ll be a piece of cake,” Ben didn’t necessarily believe it himself, or at least not for himself. He was going to struggle. But you didn’t have any underlying feelings to fight. For you it really was just a good time painting, “they’ll get whatever shots they get, and they’ll spin it so we look like a couple,” “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry,” “It’s okay,” before he could stop himself he’d reached for your hand, rubbing the back of it. He wanted to do more, to hold you tight and tell you it would be okay. But that would be too much. Instead he rubbed your hand and tried to distract you, “I’m honestly so much more nervous about shooting that scene tomorrow.” “The one where we’re playing matchmaker?” “Yes! Have you seen how many names are in there?” “Theres like six, Ben,” “Yeah but they’re all repeated, and I know I’m going to get the order wrong,” You laughed. It was the best sound in the world and he was determined to make sure he heard it again on your date.

It took Ben an hour to decide on an outfit. He’d had one set aside but looking at it in the mirror it felt too dressy, he needed something more casual. He paused for a calming smoke and then had to brush his teeth again. On set he chewed gum after a smoke, especially if there were kissing scenes, out of politeness more than anything. But the small part of him that hoped you were treating the date as an audition for the roll of real-life boyfriend worried that it would hurt his chances if he tasted like cigarettes. Assuming you’d kiss. So he brushed his teeth again and changed into an outfit he didn’t hate and then worried that he was overthinking it and should have gone with his first outfit, and needed another smoke. Which meant he had to brush his teeth a third time. It took all his willpower to not ask the uber to pull over so he could have another quick puff. But then he was at your place and you were there and he wasn’t panicking anymore. Maybe it was because you looked jittery and nervous and something in his brain overrode his own anxiety to ease yours, or maybe you just had that effect on him. Whatever the reason it meant he could focus on helping you relax. “D’you wanna grab something to eat?” He was nearly positive you hadn’t eaten yet, too anxious. “Uhh, s’pose so,” “Has anyone ever told you you’re indecisive?” “I swear I’m not normally.” “Oh? Do I make you nervous, snookum?” Ben inwardly groaned. When the fuck did snookum become a thing? Why won’t you stop me Y/N? Please god stop me from flirting with you!  It was a relief when he made it to the McDonalds without any more slip ups and he could focus on his food and encouraging you to eat yours. He felt things were going well as you walked hand in hand through the bottle shop. He’d squeeze your hand if he felt you tensing up, make you laugh again, distract you. But then you had nudged him and pointed out the photographer. “Relax, he’s not important,” he said softly, pulling you into his side, trying to keep his own breathing even. Your face had paled at the sight of the camera, and Ben was hit by an overwhelming urge to protect you. He kept you as close as he could, soothed you as best he could. It became easier once you’d reached the shop and could get lost among the other couples and groups of friends, though he caught you checking for the photographer through the glass of the shop front. Ben hesitated for half a second before he turned your head towards him, “Forget the photographer Forget Mary and Peter. Forget our arrangement. We’re just two friends having a fun night out, okay?” This wasn’t the carefree date he’d been fantasising about for months. But he held out hope it still could be. If only he could make you see it. He opened the wine, talked about the art options, anything to distract you from the world outside of the shop. You took a little to warm up but he was glad to see you looking around the room as he went to collect your blank ceramics, taking everything in, and soon enough you were both contemplating designs for mugs, the photographer and the reason for the date seemingly forgotten.

Ben’s hope grew with each passing minute. The longer you were there, the more at ease you became. He got to hear your laugh again, frequently. And the conversation flowed naturally as each of you concentrated on your artwork. The design came to him quickly and he went slow, trying to make his lines as straight as possible and trying to make the engagement ring look like the one you’d spent so much of the shoot wearing. We’re really good at this dating thing. Part encouragement to help when you got nervous, part wishful thinking perhaps. But it was a quote from the movie so you wouldn’t read too far into it. He couldn’t wait to see your reaction to the mug and, as soon as he was done, announced it. “Alright, show me then,” Ben watched closely as you examined the still wet design, chewing on his lip as he tried not to care if you cared that the lines weren’t totally straight or the colours didn’t work. But as soon as you realised what the quote was you smiled. He found himself grinning as you told him how much you loved it. “Thought it was kind of fitting. Plus, it’ll be a nice little souvenir once the movie wraps.” “That was a fun scene to shoot. Best proposal I’ve ever had,” Ben turned the mug back towards himself, double checking for any flaws. He wanted it to be perfect for you, “Best proposal I’ve ever given.” He was on the verge of adding, “My real one will be better though,” but stopped himself short. That would lead to a topic of conversation he didn’t want to deal with. Not with you. Not now. He was a little surprised as you leaned in close and lowered your voice. “Promise I’ll get to keep it after we break up?” “Promise,” he said leaning closer as well. From the outside you must look like a proper couple, whispering sweet nothings as you ignored the rest of the room. His eyes darted to your lips. Kiss her. He could, couldn’t he? He could get away with it. That was what you were there for, to be a couple, to have photos taken of intimate moments. No one would question it if he just closed the gap, not even you. But he hesitated too long, the shriek of laughter from another table interrupting the moment. He leaned back in his seat, trying to put some distance between you before he lost his head again, “So do I get to see mine?”

Ben was nearly speechless when you did eventually let him see it. The guitar with the lyrics beside it. He couldn’t have stopped from smiling even if he’d wanted to. “And how did you know that’s one of my favourite songs?” “It is? It’s just the song I overheard you playing that one time.” That one time. A few weeks previous. Between scenes, as he’d waited for the cameras to be organised around the new set. He hadn’t meant for anyone to hear him, least of all you. But he’d been starting to feel tense and wanted to unwind before filming resumed so he’d gone back to his trailer and taken out his guitar. It was a song he’d always liked but he’d been listening to it more often since meeting you and it was the song his fingers had begun to play without him realising. Now here it was, on the mug you’d painted for him. And you had no idea that when he sang about the stun gun lullaby, he was singing about your laugh, or that you so completely had his attention that no other woman could compare. The song might have been written for someone else but whenever he heard it, it was you being sung about. Was that a sign to not give up hope? His heart ached with how much he wished you loved him the same. Fuck, love? He’d never let himself think the L word before, that was serious shit. But it fit. He was hopelessly in love with you and there didn’t seem like there was much he could do to change the situation.

                                                      ***

Ben looked up from his laptop to see you, brows furrowed, digging through your bag. “Something wrong?” he asked as you pulled your lips between your teeth, worrying at it absentmindedly, in what he had to admit was an adorable fashion. “Uhh, I think I need to go home,” “How come? If you forgot something I have a replacement here. What was it sunnies? Chapstick? A book?” “No, it’s not that sort of-” “Then what? You already have a toothbrush and PJs here,” “No it’s something else... I just think I’d be more comfortable at home today,” Ben tried to keep his voice steady but his mind was whirring with the possible reasons for your sudden wish to leave. Did you know about his secret? “Well a-are you sure I can’t help. We’re meant to be seen together this afternoon and if we leave now they won’t be able to get a shot of us smooching,” You chuckled at his word choice and he found it hard to repress his smile. “I’ll apologise to Mary and Peter, tell them something came up and see if we can reschedule,” “Are you positive there isn’t anything I can do?” You shook your head slightly, “if you really must know my period is a little early and I don’t have any tampons on me. Happy?” “Oh,” he began to laugh at your slight embarrassment, more relieved than embarrassed himself, “is that all?  Y/N, you’re not the first girlfriend I’ve had, fake or not. I’m a 29 year old man I can deal with talking about periods, and I can certainly run to the shop for you,” “No, no, you don’t have to go out of your way like that. I’ve got plenty at home I just didn’t think I’d need any today,” ““Y/N, I promise, it’s no trouble. I feel bad I don’t have anything here for you already. Been a while since I’ve lived with a girl and it didn’t even cross my mind. Seriously, it’ll take me two minutes.” You didn’t look convinced, eyeing the doorway to the hall. “Plus, if I go we won’t ruin Peter and Mary’s plan for today. And the Paps can get a shot of me staring at boxes of tampons like a good caring boyfriend. It’ll help our image.” You hesitated a moment longer, “oh alright, as long as you don’t mind,”

It took Ben two minutes to collect his shoes and wallet and car keys and then he was out the door, assuring you he’d be as quick as possible. On his way out he saw the photographer, getting into position by his front gate. He shot Ben a questioning look at the detour from the set plan as Ben hopped into his car. As he reversed out of the driveway he caught the photographer’s attention. “Making a run to the shop to pick up something for Y/N. Might be a good photo in it,” Ben felt odd talking to the man – a man who he recognised well enough, who had witnessed every intimate moment he’d shared with you (and who had been the catalyst for a number of them), but a man he knew next to nothing about. But he hoped that by leading the photographer away he was ensuring you’d have a peaceful respite from the constant intrusion of knowing you were being watched. The photographer nodded, replaced the lens on his camera and headed to his own car, following Ben to the closest supermarket. The distraction of communicating with the photographer was almost enough to make Ben stop kicking himself for not being more prepared for this eventuality. It was only once he was at the store, standing in front of a shelf of feminine hygiene products that he was truly side-tracked from his lack of foresight, and realised he had no idea what you wanted. You picked up your mobile on the third ring. “Hey, it’s Ben, what do you want?” “Don’t tell me you forgot already,” “No, I mean, what sort. There’s hundreds of boxes to choose from, I have no idea which brand you like or what, um…strength you need.” “Oh,” you laughed and described what your go to brand’s packaging looked like. He scoured the shelves, trying to block out the snap of a phone camera as the photographer got his shot. “Ah, got it,” he said as he finally located the right one, pulling down a box for you now and one to keep in his bathroom for future use, “see you in a few.” “Thanks Ben,” “It’s nothing,” he refrained from closing the call with a love you, instead just saying, “Part of the boyfriend package.” On his way back towards the register he detoured into the tea and coffee isle, picking out a box of herbal tea bags that said For Women on the box, hoping they’d sooth whatever cramps you were dealing with, and then grabbed a box of chocolates in case you wanted something sweet to snack on. The photographer was outside already, waiting to get a shot of him leaving with a full bag. 

It made Ben’s heart swell to see how grateful you were for his haul. He went to the kitchen to make you a tea and himself a coffee as you ducked into the bathroom. “Did you find the Panadol?” he asked, rattling the box of painkillers as you joined him in the lounge. “Yeah, thanks. I took two but I might need more in a few hours, if I’m still here. I’ll buy you a new box if I use too many,” “Don’t be daft. How are you feeling?” “Yeah fine. A few cramps but it’s nothing.” “Do you want a cuddle?” he asked without thinking. “What?” Ben shrugged, “I don’t know, my ex said that cuddling up with me made her feel better. But that’s a different- she probably said it so she had an excuse to make out a bit,” You laughed, “a cuddle would actually be very welcome right now,” “Oh, well in that case,” Ben shuffled over, patting the space beside him, and tried to remember that you weren’t really dating. But he couldn’t stop himself from pulling you tight against him and breathing deeply.

                                                      ***

Ben wasn’t drunk. Not properly so anyway. He was too much of a chatty drunk to trust himself when he was sloshed. He’d had enough to loosen up and to dull the ache he felt whenever he looked at you. And to leave his keys at the bar. Nothing a glass of water and some TV couldn’t fix. He’d lost himself in the show when his phone dinged, nearly jumping at the unexpected noise. It was a text from Joe.

WTF?

It took Ben a few seconds to work out what it referred to but then the afternoon came back to him, the last scene you’d filmed, the photo he’d posted. Shit. “Ah, shit. Forgot I said I’d call Joe. Do you mind if we pause the ep?” he cast around for a reasonable excuse, “We’re trying to organise travel stuff for him and it’s easier if we talk it through rather than texting it all.” “Sure,” you said, already pressing buttons on the remote. “I promise I won’t be long,” “Take your time, it’s fine.” Ben smiled though it slipped as he left the room and pulled up Joe’s number. He shut the door of the room he used when he stayed over, already sure this would not be a conversation he’d want you to overhear. “What the fuck is that photo Ben?” “It’s nothing,” he sighed, “just the last day of filming,” “Are you alright, you sound weird?” “We went out for a drink.” “You and Y/N?” “And the rest of the cast and crew. And, before you say anything, no I didn’t get so drunk I blabbed about anything. I do have some self control,” “I wasn’t saying anything,” “No but you were thinking it. Anyway, I think I’m allowed to have a few drinks under the circumstances. Not exactly easy being secretly in love with your co-star who you’re also fakely dating,” “Alright, alright, point made. But that doesn’t explain the photo,” “Like I said, last day of filming,” Joe waited for more and begrudgingly Ben continued. “It was our last scene together and I wanted to commemorate it,” “Thank you Y/N for being the perfect Edith to my Andy. And thank you @theperfectmatchmovie for finding me my perfect match.” “Y/N said it was a bit cheesy,” “Uhh yeah, little bit,” Joe laughed, “you’re not worried it was a bad idea?” “No. We got told to post stuff, which you already know since Y/Ns posted tonnes and you’ve commented on nearly all of them. Figured I should pull my weight,” “Someone has to keep an eye on you two. Stop you from doing something stupid.” “That’s what you’re doing is it?” “You sure you didn’t post the photo with that caption because you’re dying to tell her how you feel and this is a safe way to do so?” Ben scuffed his foot along the carpet, digging his toes into the rough material and feeling like a school boy being admonished by a teacher, “So what if it is?” “All I’m saying is be careful. You’re keeping two very large secrets and–” “Yeah Joe, I fucking know but I don’t have much of a choice here,” “That’s what I’m saying…look, I know you’re a bit of a romantic at heart but you’re also not the sort to get this hung up on unavailable skirt so I believe you when you say you love her. But don’t let it slip out because that’ll just make things worse.” “I don’t know what I was thinking getting into this mess,” “Neither do I. Frankly I don’t think you were thinking. At least, not about yourself.” “Yeah maybe. Doesn’t really matter though now does it?” “Alright. This is going to sound harsh, but it’s coming from a place of friendship. Just stop.” “What’s that supposed to mean? I can’t just call it quits now, the story is doing too well and Peter has assured me that the numbers are promising or whatever I don’t really know how they measure it. All I know is that people are going to see the movie because of us.” “That’s not what I meant. I understand you can’t get out of the fake relationship stuff. But, maybe you can get out of the other side of things. Just tell her. Intentionally, tell her. I know it’s not what you want to hear and I know you’re going to argue with me and say you can’t but why not? If you tell her and she admits she likes you then great, you can be together for real. Or, if you tell her and she says she doesn’t feel the same then she can’t get out either and you can be miserable together and she’ll at least stop hanging around you so much when you don’t have to be seen together and you can get over her.” Ben shook his head, “It doesn’t matter Joe. It doesn’t matter how I feel,” “I just think this whole situation…sucks for you. A mirthless laugh rose in Ben’s throat, “of course it sucks. It’s fucking shit man. I just keep waiting for her to tell me she feels the same but it’s not happening,” “Are you sure she doesn’t feel something, even if she’s not saying it?” “No I know it’s completely one sided.” “Is there any chance she already knows? You’re not the most subtle guy in the world Ben, maybe she figured it out before you were approached about the fake out,” “No, I don’t think she knows. She wouldn’t have wanted to do it in the first place if she knew,” Ben heard Joe sigh, “I don’t know what to say then man,” “I just wish things were different. I love being around her and being able to hold her and kiss her. But it fucking sucks that it’s only in public.” “What about now that the movie’s finished?” “I don’t know. Maybe not filming together will make it easier to stop thinking about her…I doubt it though. It’s not like I haven’t tried already. I spent the whole of pre-production and the first weeks of filming trying to get her off my mind and I couldn’t I don’t know how and I don’t think I could unless we literally stopped talking to each other entirely and, honestly I don’t know that I could handle that. But again, we’re back at I don’t have a choice here. I have to keep seeing her and being with her and being her boyf-” A door slammed at the other end of the house, making Ben jolt. “What is it?” “Nothing, I think Y/N just went to the bathroom or something.” “She’s at your place?” “No, I locked myself out of my place. I’m at hers. I should go though, we’re halfway through an episode.” “Ben. Be careful.” “Always am.”

Ben hung up with a sigh. Joe could tell him to move on or spill the beans all he liked but it wasn’t so simple. He slapped his cheeks and shook his head to clear it, pulling a smile back onto his face as he headed back to the living room. He was a little surprised to see the room empty but settled himself on the couch once again, pulling a throw blanket over himself. It smelt like you. Without thinking he pulled up Instagram on his phone and revisited the photo. You’d commented on it, less cheesy but there were heart emojis strewn throughout. A similar sentiment to his original caption. He sighed and shook his head, clicking out of the app to find something else to read until you returned. The sound of your footsteps drew his attention. Something had changed. You looked pale and unwell. “Are you okay?” “Fine, thanks. Just tired. Might call it quits after this ep.” He didn’t think you’d drunk that much but maybe it was just starting to catch up with you now. Then again, it had been a long and emotional day. You had every right to be wiped out by it and especially now that you were home with no filming or celebrating to distract you from how exhausting it all was. He offered you a spot under the blanket in case it would make you feel better to have some human contact. Just for that reason of course, nothing to do with wanting to hold you. He shrugged it off when you refused and didn’t really think of it again until the episode ended and you went off to bed. He was still too alert to sleep himself, still dwelling on the conversation with Joe. So he flicked TV channels until he found something mildly distracting, a rerun of a dumb home renovation show that was easy to get sucked into.

When he did finally feel tired enough to go to bed he turned off the TV and the lights and began to tiptoe down the hall to his room. But there was light coming from your room. Not the yellow light of a bulb but the blue light of a phone or laptop. You were still up. Maybe you really weren’t feeling well. He wondered if he should check on you, offer to make you a tea with honey and lemon or something else comforting. Did you need tissues? A pot in case you had to throw up? Someone to hold your hair back? He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and sighed. This is exactly what you shouldn’t be thinking. He glanced at the light under your door again and then turned and continued his path up the hall. But, after that, he felt awake again. Unable to sleep. There was too much to think about. Maybe the caption on the photo had been a mistake. Maybe Joe was right and he should tell you. Maybe, maybe, maybe. When it came to you that’s all there was. A noise interrupted him, you groaning and the creak of springs as you shifted in the bed. Is she having a wank? That was his first thought. Does she need help? Was his next. Dangerous. Everything fell silent again and he realised you must have just rolled over to try and get comfortable. He didn’t know whether he was relieved or disappointed. He rolled onto his side, pulled the blanket up a little higher, willed himself to fall asleep but it was out of the question. You shifted again, your bed creaking with the movement. Maybe he should check on you, in case you were unwell. Or maybe there was something on your mind too. Maybe he could help. It was bound to be easier to solve than the mess he was in at any rate. He was on the verge of swinging his legs out of bed again when he was reminded of what Joe said about trying to forget you. He could feel that need to protect you, look after you, rising in his chest again. That wasn’t helpful, it wasn’t what he needed. He sighed and stayed in bed and listened to your tossing and turning until he finally managed to sleep himself. Only to dream of you.

                                                      ***

Ben settled the bill, walked out of the restaurant and kept walking. The entire time thinking back on the days, weeks before the fight was due to occur. Something had seemed off about you. Or maybe that was just hindsight. If he had noticed anything, if he had ever thought you seemed out of sorts, he’d put it down to stress from auditions, trying to find the next job. It wasn’t always easy lining up another project after one had finished. He understood how stressful it could be, especially for an actress like you who was on the cusp of something bigger, looking for your big break. But maybe he’d been blind. After that dinner, after everything you said, there was no denying that something more was going on.

You’d been…not your usual self. From the moment you arrived. He’d asked if you were nervous, but he hadn’t been able to see any of the usual signs. No bouncing let, no bitten lip. So nervous wasn’t it. But you weren’t happy either. He had been though, happy to see you, happy to be with you again. Even with the looming argument. Truthfully, he’d been thinking of what would happen after, when you were alone together and able to just hang out or whatever. He should have realised things were going south the moment you told him to stop looking so happy. He just kept repeating the evening over and over, rewinding and rerunning every moment as if he could figure it all out just from that. Another moment leapt to the front of his mind. “So having a public spat doesn’t bother you but you almost lost your lunch over our first date?” “That was just because the whole situation was new and I felt weird about going on a date with you.” That had hurt though he knew he shouldn’t have let it. Of course you’d have felt weird about going on a date with someone you had no interest in just for the sake of a movie. But still, it had hurt. A taste of what was to come. “Are you nervous?” You didn’t really seem to care what he said. Of course, he hadn’t given you the whole truth. It wasn’t totally dishonest to say argument scenes made him more nervous than love scenes but that was omitting bigger elements. Maybe it would have been more truthful to say the concept of a public fight wasn’t something he was particularly fond of. But at the time he’d felt like if he’d said then he’d have ended up admitting that it was especially true when you were involved. That all he wanted to do was look after you and love you, not argue in a room full of strangers just trying to enjoy a nice meal. After that he felt like he hadn’t been able to get you to say more than a few words. You who was usually so open and conversational. You who he’d spent more time with recently than just about anyone else. You who he could always talk to, joke around with. It was frustrating that you wouldn’t just tell him. He remembers feeling frustrated, of getting short with you. He regretted that. But that was when he was sure something was wrong. He might have ignored all the signs before that but as soon as he felt you had closed yourself off, he wanted to know why. Wanted to figure out what was bothering you, what could have happened. A fight with Felicity? Bad news about an audition? Maybe he’d said something offhanded and hadn’t realised he’d upset you (god if thats the case I want to know even more so I can apologise a hundred times over). He asked about it all, wanted to make things better, but then you were letting rip. Completely off book and unscripted, even when he gave you cues to get back on track. He would have been impressed with your performance except he was so taken aback by it. Without thinking he’d reached for your hand. He can see it happening in his mind, as if he were viewing the scene from above. The way you’d wrenched your hand away, leaving his sitting uselessly in the middle of the table. And all he could hear was “clingy and needy” in your voice with such…what was it, disgust? Hatred? And before he could so much as open his mouth to stop you, you were gone. That’s not what was meant to happen. You were meant to leave together and laugh about it afterwards. He wasn’t meant to be walking through London on his own, trying to figure out what went wrong.

It was then that Ben looked up and realised he didn’t know where he’d walked to. He considered stepping into a bar with all the noise to drown out your voice, all the alcohol he could handle to make him forget. Clingy and needy. But he thought better of it and turned to hail a cab instead. What he couldn’t stop himself from doing was calling you, though he was left disappointed when it went straight to voicemail. He listened for the beep as if he were going to leave a message but when the beep came he didn’t know what to say. What could he possibly say? What changed? Am I really so clingy? What can I do? Closer to home he tried again but the same thing happened. He hung up before the beep.

As he was letting himself inside his phone rang and for the length of a heartbeat he thought it was you. But it wasn’t. It was just Peter telling him that the video had gone live, congratulating you both for putting on such a good show, being so convincing. He ran through some early statistics, something about how many times it had been shared already, and then followed it by saying they wanted separation for a few weeks, until the make up dinner. Ben listened in a daze. When Peter finally hung up Ben opened twitter. The video was easy to find. He put his phone down on the kitchen bench and moved to pour himself a drink. Maybe he didn’t have quite as much alcohol as a bar, but he had enough to do the trick. His phone was staring at him the entire time. He shook his head, moved the phone to his pocket and headed to his bedroom. His guitar was there, the perfect way to clear his head. He picked it up, sat on the end of the bed and, without thinking, he played the opening chords of that song. Your song. With a slight clatter as his hands knocked the wood, he let the guitar drop back to the bed, trying to dig his phone out of his pocket. The video was still there, waiting for him. Proof. It wasn’t a nightmare, it wasn’t made up. He couldn’t see your face from the angle it was taken. But he could see the tension in your shoulders, the way you pulled your hand back as if you couldn’t think of anything worse than having him touch you. And he could hear you. Clingy and needy.

Ben watched it just the once, unable to suffer through it again. It wass already playing on a loop in his head, he didn’t really need the visual reminder. And then he called Joe. There wasn’t really much else he could do. No one else he could talk to about it. Joe had seen it, had watched it, and he commented on how good it looked, how real it seemed. “I think that’s because it was. Y/N went completely off book. We didn’t plan it to be like that,” “Is that why you look so shocked?” “Yeah, guess so.” Ben gulped down a mouthful of his drink and wished he’d brought the bottle with him. “I’m trying very hard not to call her something beginning with B right now,” “Joe she’s not a bitch, she’s…I don’t know. Something must have happened, I just don’t know what. “Maybe she’s starting to crack? Pressure of keeping up a fake relationship is getting to her,” “Can you try not to sound too excited by the idea. I’d remind you I do actually love her and if things work out between us I’d like for you to meet her.” “You can’t blame me for disliking her when I get a call from you every other day telling me she’s broken your heart again,” “You’re such a drama queen,” “Fine, I’ll try to keep my dislike to a minimum. But could it be that? I know she doesn’t have the same baggage as you but it’s probably not easy for her either,” “She called me clingy. Needy. Why would she say that?” “Because she’s a bitch.” “Bloody hell Joe,” “Unless…” “Unless what?” “Is there any chance she knows?” “You mean about me? Come off it, absolutely not. It’s not like I tell everyone I meet about it. You’re the only person who knows.” “Alright, then it must be something else.” “What do I do? I can’t,” Ben sighed, “It was meant to be different. We were going to have words at the restaurant and then go home together looking tense and then laugh about it when we were alone but instead…instead I’m home alone with half a bottle of whisky and a fake girlfriend who won’t answer my calls. What the fuck am I meant to do with that?” “Just give her some space Ben. You don’t know it was you. It could have been any number of things. It might just be that she was having a bad day and because you were already set to have the spat, you caught the brunt of her frustration. She’ll call in a day or two, embarrassed and apologising and you can go back to pining in peace. Out of curiosity, what was the fight originally going to be like?” “Oh, um…We’d decided that I was going to suggest she meet my family and she was going to say she wasn’t ready for that and it was all getting too serious or something like that.” “Well, that’s pretty much what she actually said isn’t it?” Ben thought for a moment. He’d been so wrapped up in her description of him, he’d not really thought about the overall message of her monologue, “Yeah, I suppose it is.” “See, she wasn’t as off script as you thought. She just jumped the gun a bit and took you by surprise. I’d guarantee that it’s something else entirely and you just happened to be the unlucky outlet for her anger.” “Maybe you’re right. She did say that thing about pretending everything was okay and acting like we’re serious….how I love her more than she loves me,” “And you’re certain she doesn’t know,” “100 per cent. She’s never had the chance to find out,” “Then of course I’m right, it was just an issue of timing and you being in the line of fire,” “Maybe I should see her,” “No! Bad idea Ben. Really bad idea.” “I just want to be sure it wasn’t my fault. If I’d been less wrapped up in pretending she was my girlfriend then may-” “Stop beating yourself up. Just try not to drink too much and get some sleep. She’ll sort herself out and call when she’s less mortified by the whole thing.” “Okay, yeah,” “And for fucks sake, stay off twitter,” Ben hung up, feeling marginally better but unable to shake the feeling that it was somehow his fault. Clingy and needy. Clingy and needy. Clingy. And needy. The way you’d spat the words at him. The way you’d stormed out. He sighed, slumped forward, and ran his hands down his face. No, Joe’s right, it’s not you. But, as much as he repeated it, Ben still found tears clinging to his palms as he pulled them away.

                                                      ***

Ben looked at his phone and bit his lip. His eyes shifted back to the ocean of brake lights ahead of the car and then back to his phone. He was already running late and the traffic didn’t seem to be moving. God he did not want to be late. Not after everything that had happened. Not after you’d cleared up the mess from the fight, not after he’d made such an effort to be less clingy, to give you more space. Things weren’t back to normal by any stretch but at least you were talking again, at least you’d missed him. The conversation you’d had the previous night, staying on the phone to watch TV. He’d been surprised by your suggestion but equally as thrilled. It had to be a sign that you felt something too. People don’t just watch episodes of TV over the phone for anyone, do they? He was in with a chance, he knew it. But, in the hours after the episode had ended and the call with it, he’d come to one conclusion. He had to tell you. He had to bite the bullet and tell you. If he wanted something real with you, you had to know. And if he kept it secret any longer it could lead to more arguments which he definitely did not want. What he wanted was for you to understand why he’d become so attached, and hopefully, to reciprocate. So he was going to tell you. And he couldn’t be late.

As the car inched forward Ben made up his mind. He was going to be there on time, one way or another. With a thankful word to the driver he got out of the car and hurried onto the pavement, beginning to walk towards the restaurant. He’d spent all day feeling like he was about to have a heart attack, chest aching with how badly he wanted to see you and how nervous he was about your reaction. He wasn’t going to fuck up now. As he walked a display in a shop window caught his eye and he quickly stepped inside. The bell tinkled as he entered, getting the assistant’s attention. She gave him a up and down glance as she greeted him, as if trying to determine the occasion based on his outfit alone. “Welcome to Coming Up Roses, what can I do for you?” “I need a bouquet,” “I can certainly help with that. Any flowers you had in mind?” “Uhhh not really. Spur of the moment,” “Well what’s the occasion then? I have flowers for everything from weddings to funerals, I’m sorry to Congratulations,” “Um, I’m about to tell the girl of my dreams that I’m in love with her,” The woman smiled, “I’ve got just the thing,”

A minute later and Ben was once again hurrying up the street, clutching the freshly wrapped bouquet, his heart pounding as he tried not to worry about how much time was passing. He had to pause at one point to get a map up on his phone, unsure of the restaurant’s exact location. He was further away than he thought and quickened his step, threading through groups of people on nights out, trying not to bump into anyone. You were already there, waiting. He could see you from half a street away and ran to meet you, kissing your cheek and handing over the bouquet before he really registered that that’s what he was doing. It was only as you were smelling the flowers and complementing them that he realised you were there, actually there, and he suddenly felt extra nervous about it all. “I saw it in the shop and, um yeah, I don’t know, they seemed nice, a-and I know you, um, like nice things, so,” Ben wanted to die, wanted to be sucked into a hole in the ground, sent through a time warp, anything to not be there babbling at you like a fucking idiot. “It’s very sweet of you, thank you,” “I’m glad you think so because right now it feels kinda cliché and cheesy.” Shut up “Now you have to carry them around all night,” fucking shut up, “what was I thinking?” for the love of all that is holy, “And god can I just shut up. Sorry.” He didn’t know what had come over him, but he wished it would go away. And things only got worse as he looked you over, took in your whole appearance. Seeing you just made him want you even more, especially with how gorgeous you looked. He wanted to kiss you, tell you. But he had to be able to speak to tell you and he wasn’t going to be able to do that until he relaxed a little. A drink, that’s what he needed. He downed his first one fast, willing it to work its magic. It did help calm him, though your laugh just made his heart race again. Halfway through the next glass he felt like he could say it and was on the verge of just getting it out into the open when you were interrupted, shown to your table. He took it as a sign that it would be bad timing and that he needed to wait. Instead he focused on just having a good night with you. The memory of your last dinner was still in the back of his mind but he pushed it away by reminding himself that things were better now. He felt himself relax more as you talked and with every touch you gave him. The drinks were definitely part of it too but he put it down to you mostly. How much you sooth him, how happy he finds himself when he’s in your presence. He could breathe properly again. You startled him a little by saying Joe would want to meet you but of course, you don’t know that he knows that it’s all a big production so you just meant it in a friend-being-curious-about-the-girlfriend type way. Very far from the truth. But Ben agrees and changes the topic.

When dessert arrived, he thought maybe that could be a good time to say it because it’s the end of the meal and you can leave quickly if you need to. But before he get’s to it he finds himself asking something else instead. “Can I ask about these last couple of weeks?” He hoped he hadn’t wrecked the evening by bringing it up but he was curious too, “Was it good? The space, did you get what you wanted from it?” Ben worried at his lip as he watched you slowly finish your mouthful and set the spoon down. “Yes. I’m not going to lie and say it wasn’t helpful because it really was. Just, having that break from everything. I think I really needed it. But I really really missed you too.” That was a relief. Proof that you were on the same page again, back to normal. And proof that you did care about him. “I’m glad. It was hard not seeing you but yeah, helped me figure some stuff out too. Confirmed some other stuff.” “Like what? If you don’t mind me asking.” This is it, this is your moment, “Like, um,” He wanted to say it, had the words picked out already but, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t risk driving you away again, causing another scene. Maybe he could say it back at his place, away from the cameras and the interested public. Maybe that would be smarter. All the same, he felt disappointed with himself for not having the guts to just tell you, and to try to cover the moment asked if you wanted to leave. As you step outside he remembers the kiss that was expected and he leans in to remind you. It’s more than a kiss though, different to all the other times you’d kissed. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to it. Any excuse really. And he says as much when he, somewhat accidentally admits to having missed kissing you. It was a thought that somehow slipped out of his mouth, but either you didn’t hear him or you were too caught up in the moment to say anything. Or she feels the same. He pushed the hopeful thought down as you kissed him back. His heart pounded as he felt your hands on his chest, as if it were trying to tell you what he’d been too much of a coward to say. And then you whined and settled on his lap and god what a fucking gorgeous sound. He’d spent months getting off to the memory of a hum and now you were gifting him a whine? An eager, excited whine at that. The sort of thing he’d been trying to imagine and it was so much better than anything he’d come up with. Your hand was in his hair and he very nearly echoed your noise back to you from that alone, but it caught in his throat as you kept kissing him, tongues twisting, your chest pressed against his. He wanted to hold you close and touch every part of you he could reach all at once, unsure of whether to grab your arse or you hip or the back of your neck. So he did a bit of it all, slid his hand along your arm and then down your back and then to your arse. And all too soon it stops. He could have cursed that driver and the heartless car horn that interrupted and sent reality crashing back down around him.

Once you were inside the safe zone of his house, away from the act, he expected things to go back to normal. You’d take off your makeup and then make a cup of tea and fill a glass of water for your flowers and you’d wind down with something on TV before you both went to bed. He’d have to have a shower to get off without you suspecting anything because there was no way he was going to be able to sleep with the memory of your tits pressed against him and your whine and your kiss swimming around his head. But you don’t walk to the bathroom like you normally do. He pulls the wallet from his pocket, places it deliberately next to his keys. But you still haven’t moved. He turns slowly, notices the way you swallow and lick your lips and he swears he’s on the verge of asking what you’re doing or saying something about it being a mistake, at least the thought crosses his mind, but you were standing so close (when did she get so close?) and when you kiss him again he just kisses back.

It’s a mistake probably, definitely, he knows that. He can hear the siren in his head again telling him to stop, pull away. But the problem is that it doesn’t feel like a mistake, doesn’t feel like it should be, and when he takes a step back you step with him and again and again until he’s somehow on the couch with you on his lap again. And why would he stop that, why would he say no to you when you fit there so perfectly and you feel so good? And all he can think about is that whine and that hum from all those months ago and he wants to see what other sounds he can pull from you so he drops his lips to your neck. “Wait, wait,” He’s confused as to why you’re stopping him and even more confused when you’re not in his arms anymore. “It’s rule one Ben,” Bugger rule one. Bugger all the fucking rules, you’ve broken most of them tonight anyway if they weren’t already broken. A voice in the back of his head reminds him what a big mistake that would be, but it can’t argue against making out. Making out isn’t against the rules and you know it too, you hesitate when he says it out loud. “I’d be good to you Y/N, you know I would,” he’s not sure if he’s talking about here and now, physically, or something deeper, something in the realm of boyfriend but what does it matter because both are true. You shake your head, “You know this isn’t real, right Ben?” And then it all comes out. That you knew about his crush. And everything stops. Just stops. He can’t breathe, air doesn’t exist anymore, and he’d say his heart had stopped too except he can hear it pounding in his ears, drowning out whatever you’re saying. You knew? You’d known for months? All those times Joe had suggested it, all that time he spent worrying about keeping it from you and you already fucking knew? And then everything seems to speed up all at once. The air rushes back, as loud as his heart, which only doubles it’s pounding until he can feel it trying to punch a hole through his chest and escape. Rational thought returns, connecting dots and drawing conclusions almost faster than he can keep up. “Is that why you were upset before the argument? Is that why you didn’t want to see me for the last two weeks?” “I thought some space might help you stop feeling that way.” He has to laugh at how fucking ridiculous an idea that is. That space would have ever helped him purge you from his system. Love isn’t that easy to get rid of. And his tongue must have sped up with the rest of his body because he’s saying it, the thing he’s been putting of saying, the thing he’s been wanting to tell you all night, and he wishes he could stop because this isn’t how he wanted it to go. This wasn’t how you were meant to find out. But no matter how much he screams at himself he can’t take it back. It’s out there. And you look horrified. “You love me?” Three words have never been spoken with more contempt than you managed to cram into that once sentence. “You don’t have to say you don’t feel the same, I know.” Your silence cuts through him like a knife, shredding what little hope remained. His heart isn’t beating against his chest anymore. It’s been kicked across the room and lies lifeless against the wall.  “That’s what I thought.”

He can’t be here anymore, can’t look at you. He wants to leave but he remembers all the cameras outside, reminds you of their presence in case you’re planning the same escape he is. He’s trapped there and so are you. So he puts as much space between you as he can, heads to his room and slumps heavily onto the end of his bed. All he can think about is those three words, you love me? Not a hopeful question. Not even stunned surprise.  More of an accusation. He tastes blood but otherwise barely notices when he tears his lip with his teeth. You must hate him for getting you both into this mess. He hates that he’s done it, that he’s put you in this position. And he knows you’re never going to want to speak with him let alone see him again. And he knows that as soon as the cameras leave, you’ll leave too. And that thought hurts just as much as everything else. You’re moving about, he can hear you walking around. It sounds like you’re pacing. Five steps and then a turn and then five more steps, another turn. Something about the rhythm breaks through his overactive, panicking, worrying mind. Something about it calms him. Maybe it’s that knowing you’re restless and agitated makes him want to comfort you, despite everything he’s feeling. Or maybe it’s just because the sound of your footfall means you’re still here. And if you’re still here then maybe he can smooth things over. He doesn’t expect to fix everything. He’d understand if you still wanted to erase him from your contacts and pretend you were only ever colleagues. But if he can just explain himself, explain that he never meant for this to happen, explain why he kept it from you or tried to anyway and maybe explain what he’d wanted tonight to be instead of the clusterfuck it’d become. If he can get any of that out then maybe you won’t hate him quite so much.

He says your name softly, not sure he’s allowed to say your name, “I heard you pacing.” “Sorry, I’ll keep the noise down.” “No, that’s not- it’s okay. I just thought, since we’re both clearly awake and since they haven’t left yet, I thought you might like a cuppa.” “I didn’t think you drank tea,” Have you really not noticed yet? He never bought tea bags, until you started coming to stay over regularly. Twice you opined about not being able to have a cup of tea before bed and that was all it took for him to start keeping them in his cupboard along with the biscuits you prefer. That’s how he knows it’s love. He took a breath as he pulled out mugs and stuck the kettle on, resolutely not looking at you. If he looks at you he’ll spill his guts and won’t be able to stop. He has to make tea first. Just the way you like it. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.” It comes out the second he looks at your face and it’s only that you’re telling him you understand that he doesn’t immediately say more. He drops his eyes to the brown liquid in his mug, undrinkable in his opinion, but a perfectly adequate distraction. He needs to get the words right this time. No stumbling and stuttering, no blurting things out without thinking. He needs to say it right so you��ll listen and understand what he’s trying to do. “I promise I understand where you’re at and I’m not going to try and convince you or to chase you or anything like that. I really am trying not to feel this way.” He glances back at your eyes, terrified of what he’d see there. “It’s okay Ben, I know you wouldn’t. I just wasn’t expecting you to drop the L bomb.” “Please don’t hate me,” it’s a whisper compared to everything else he’s said but there’s no way to make his voice stronger. It’s the thing he’s most worried about and admitting it out loud to you is harder than he imagined it would be. “I could never,” the sincerity with which you say it is almost enough to make him cry but the hug is what pushes him over the edge. It’s more warmth and kindness than he thinks he deserves after everything he’s done. And it’s exactly what he needed. Comfort and reassurance in one simple gesture. He wraps his arms around you for the third time that night, his face pressed into the cook of your neck, and you let him, squeezing back, as he lets everything out.

                                                        ***

The night after you met Joe, Ben visits him again, this time without you. It had always been the plan, to see Joe a few times, as much as the press circuit would allow, while he was in the US. But after the previous night it’s more necessary. And yet, Ben was struggling to vocalise any of his questions. It’s not until after dinner, when Joe suggests they take their drinks out onto the veranda, that any of it comes up. It’s peaceful out there, sitting in the cool night air, each of them taking turns to swig from their beer bottle as they talk. But Ben’s mind is constantly disrupted with thoughts of you. It’s the first time since all the promotion stuff started that he’s had more than a couple of minutes away from your side. Joe isn’t helping, constantly glancing at Ben, frowning, as if he’s trying to work something out. But he’s the first to crack, making it easier for Ben to talk. “How’s it going?” “Press is fine, bit boring. You know how repetitive it can get,” “And you know that’s not what I meant,” “Yeah. Nah, everything’s fine. Mostly,” “Mostly?” “It’s not easy having to share a room with her. I mean, it’s fun though. I’m glad she’s the one I’m doing all this shit with. We’re mates and we’ve been working so closely for so long now that we…get each other. Like there was this interview where one of the questions made me uncomfortable and she knew straight away and broke in to take some of the heat. She just says whatever she can to make me laugh or ease the tension or whatever will help. And I know when she’s getting nervous and needs a break or a fresh cuppa. But when it’s just us in our suite it’s…hard. I don’t know, I’m just trying to keep some distance even though there’s not much to be had. What did you think of her?” “Honestly?” “Of course,” “She’s perfect for you. Except for the not being interested part.” Ben nodded, letting his eyes fall to where his fingernail was digging into the label on his bottle. “Although…” “What?” Ben looked back at Joe, “You think she might be?” “I don’t know. And I don’t want to get your hopes up. She certainly doesn’t think she is. I asked her about it while you were out here last night and she was adamant that she doesn’t think of you that way but that’s not how it looked to me.” “We had a moment yesterday. Just before we came here. Nearly kissed.” “Seriously? Again?” “I stopped it. Kind of wish I hadn’t. Maybe if something happened, she’d change her mind,” “I know I’m not part of this situation and I wasn’t there and can only go off of what you’ve said and the one time I’ve met her but, for what it’s worth, I think you made the right call.” “Yeah?” “I don’t think you want anything to happen with her until you’re both more sure where you stand. Definitely not while you’re stuck sharing a hotel room.” “But what if -” Joe shook his head, “I watched her last night. She looked at you a lot and not just because you were the one talking. She also smiled a lot whenever your attention was on her. I was half expecting her to say she had a thing for you but wasn’t sure if she should tell you or something like that. So I think there is a good chance she is attracted to you but for some reason, doesn’t want to admit it and I think sleeping with her would just make things more complicated and worse for both of you. You said she had her little freak out thing when you were hooking up after that date. You don’t want to let things get further and have her freak out again.” “Yeah, you’re right. I’m just confusing myself because we’ve been in such close quarters. I just wish things were more certain y’know? Like, she keeps saying she doesn’t like me as more than a friend but then we’ll have a moment like we did in the hotel, or like on the plane when she was leaning on my shoulder to help with my crossword puzzle, or when we fucking made out. And then I’m back getting my hopes up only for her to turn around and crush me again. And it’s probably nothing anyway. Just pent up urges since we’ve been fucking trapped in this for months now.” “I don’t know man, it might be more than that. She seemed really into you last night.” “Nah. She’s horny and I’m there and that’s why we’ve had these near kisses and stuff. She’s said she doesn’t like me so that’s it. Maybe it’s better that way anyway.” Joe shook his head again but let the subject drop, “So how long are you here for again? There’s this restaurant up the road I should take you to.”

                                                      ***

The closer he got to his parent’s place the more tightly wound Ben felt. Bringing a girl home to meet the family was always at least a little nerve wracking – wondering whether they’d like her, whether she’d like them, how many embarrassing stories he’d have to sit through. But he could safely say that with you it was worse than with anyone else. There was so much history with you, despite never having legitimately dated, that he couldn’t stop thinking about. You meant so much to him. And he knew his mum was going to love you (how could she not) and that meant he was going to be asked why it took him so long to bring you around and about where it was headed and they were questions he didn’t really feel up to answering. Of course, on top of all of that, there was the prospect of sharing a room with you, maybe a bed. You hadn’t entirely worked out the arrangement and not knowing was just making him more nervous. Not just for himself either, for you as well. If he was nervous he could only imagine you were too. You were going to be facing questions as well, judgement from a new family. A family you didn’t even want to be part of. So he kept close to you all night. Because it’s easier to pretend to be a couple when you’re by his side and it’s easier to avoid tough conversations when he has the excuse of introducing you to someone else up his sleeve. And it’s so much easier to keep his folks away from you when he’s got your hand in his. He does circuits of the garden with you, chats to everyone with you, repeating the story of how you met and the fiction of how you started dating. And the whole time he’s trying to make sure you’re comfortable and enjoying yourself at least a little because you don’t even have actual feelings for him to push you on. He’d gladly endure first meetings with every single member of your family tree if you asked but he knows you’re only there because you have to be. Unfortunately, he’s also had a bit to drink so eventually he has to relieve himself, silently cursing his bladder because it means he has to leave you on your own. You don’t seem to mind too much. If anything, it feels like you’ve found your feet and are actually having a good night which he’s glad for. But he still goes as quick as he can.

He’s on his way back when he sees you and instantly realises something’s wrong. Your leg is bouncing so rapidly it’s a wonder you don’t knock the underside of the table, and you’re looking around as if you’re trying to find him. His first thought is that someone has said something inappropriate. There’s plenty of drunk cousins around and who knows what one of them might have said or done in a misguided attempt to be charming or impressive or flirtatious. But then he realises who you’re sitting next to and his stomach drops. So he hurries over to the table and takes the seat beside you, laying his hand on your knee to try to calm you. It works well enough for you to be able to sit there a little longer until he can find a reasonable excuse to leave the table and his mum. He’s not in the mood to be at the party anymore and leads you to the exit, politely waving off anyone who tries to convince you both to stay a little longer. “Better?” he asks once you’re outside, relieved when you say yes. “She mentioned us getting married,” “What? Why the fuck would that have come up?” Ben couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He’d been prepared for a lot but not that. “It was just a passing comment but I….” “It’s okay, c’mon, let’s go home you can tell me everything.” Without thinking he pulled you into a hug, breathing out when he felt you lean into him.

By the time he got back to the house Ben wanted another drink. You’d sat under his arm the entire ride back, keeping quiet, obviously lost in thought as you absentmindedly played with his fingers. Every brush had made him want to take your hand properly and tilt your head up to kiss you, irresponsible and selfish as it might be. One of the upsides of being back home was knowing where his parents hid their best booze, so he dug out a bottle of his dad’s Johnnie Walker, feeling a little like a teenager again, pinching a drink to impress a girl. You laughed though so he counted it as a win. But the reason you were alone together, no longer at the party, was still weighing on him and clearly on you as well. “So what happened back there?” He handed you a glass and waited until you felt you could speak. “I guess it was just harder to be around your family than I was expecting.” Everything you said made sense he supposed. He’d not really considered it that way because he wasn’t so much lying as just playing pretend. But, as much as he wished you were on the same page, he understood where your guilt came from. He tried to make you laugh again but when it didn’t work he set his glass down and took your hand. “Seriously, Y/N, there’s nothing to feel guilty about. The premiere is coming up in a couple of weeks and then pretty soon after that we’ll break up and I’ll tell them it just wasn’t working. They’ll accept it and never have to know the truth. And then we can forget this whole thing and move on.” His chest tightened at the thought of it, not being allowed to even pretend to have you anymore but he clamped down on it for your sake. “But it must be hard for you too. Having me here and everything,” He half shrugged, looking down at where his thumb was brushing the back of your hand softly, “I’m a big boy, I can handle it.” Ben glanced back at you, about to tell you it was sweet of you to care about how he was doing, but when he saw your expression he stopped.

He was a little shocked by the kiss, stumbling back a step or two, the warning siren blaring in his head again. Everything told him to run away and yet his feet were frozen in place. Joe had been right when he said he shouldn’t do this, and he’d been here before. It hadn’t gone well then so what made him think it would be better this time? But somehow he can’t find the words and you kiss him again and he decides he’s going to let it happen. He’s sick of trying to fight how badly he wants you and you clearly want this too. If you didn’t you wouldn’t be trying to undress him. He decides he’s going to let himself be selfish for once and just go with it. After the decisions made it all turns into a bit of a blur really. You’re leaning against the table and then he’s carrying you up to his room and it’s like every almost kiss, every missed opportunity and pent up moment you’d never let yourselves have is breaking all at once. You’re on his bed now and god he’s wanted you like this for so fucking long and who cares if it’s wrong. One night won’t matter. And he’s surprised by how wet you are when you pull his hand towards your cunt but he loves that you’re taking the initiative and that you clearly want him just as much as he wants you. You don’t tell him to stop. You tell him how to touch you, what feels good, and he loves that about you too. Even more than he loves how you sound saying his name as you clench on his fingers and shiver through your orgasm and fuck, he thought the whine from last time was a captivating sound but it has nothing on this, on how you sound when you cum for him. He’s going to be thinking about that moment, about you saying his name like that forever. He wants to be inside you, wants to hear it again, wants to make you feel even better and he’s forgotten where you are and how you got there so he leans over and realises this isn’t this room. This room isn’t as prepared as he’d like. For a moment he thinks that’s it and maybe it’s for the best except then you say you have condoms as you get up and rummage through your bags. He wants to know why – were you planning this or are you always just prepared like that? – except then you’re coming back towards him and he really doesn’t care why, just that you do. You climb on top of him and he feels breathless at the sight. He wants to worship you, every inch of you, and he wants to be as close as possible, pushing himself up to kiss you again because he loves you. He says it without meaning to but he doesn’t care, he’s just trying to get you to moan his name again, rubbing your clit until you’re both finished, breathing hard against each other. You’re kissing along his jaw and he wants to stay like that forever, blissed out and tangled in each other’s embrace. But reality rushes back, ignoring how desperately he’s trying to cling to the moment, and he realises how messy everything suddenly is. It hurts too. Knowing it’s not real, knowing that you don’t want what he wants. He remembers what he said just moments before, that confession whispered against your lips, and it makes him feel queasy with embarrassment on top of the heartache that’s already setting in. How many times does he have to put himself through this pain before he gets it through his head? It’s not reciprocated. It never will be. “I’ve gotta…” Ben nods his head in the direction of the door, hoping you’ll fill in the blank yourself. He wants to leave but he also wants to stay there with you, so he settles on shifting out of your reach and looking over at you, not quite able to meet your eye. “I wasn’t expecting that to happen,” Weren’t you? “Neither. Are you okay?” “Yeah. I, um, it was really good and I-I think I kind of needed it.” Ben tried to smile but it didn’t feel like it worked properly. Sure you needed it. A quick fuck to break the forced dry spell. He wanted to run from the room, flee the scene “It was good for me too. Really good. But it can’t ever happen again.” He averted his eyes again, focused on slipping back into his underwear. There was half a second where he looked around for his shirt before realising it was out at the table with the unfinished whiskies. He’d have to tidy up so no one would be able to work out what happened.

Ben downed what remained of both drinks, the burn of the alcohol a welcome distraction, though much too brief. He grabs his phone from the table, drops the glasses onto the kitchen sink and heads outside to throw the used condom into the garbage bin. As if he was going to leave the evidence of his cowardice and misjudgement inside for anyone to find. Ben turned to head back towards the door, but he didn’t want to walk through it. Inside he’d have to face you and he wasn’t sure how to do that yet. Instead he walked down the sideway into the backyard, taking a seat on the retaining wall by the flower bed of peonies. It’s not exactly warm sitting there in just his boxers and his fingers shake a little as he unconsciously find’s Joe’s name in his contacts. Joe must be busy or asleep or something (What’s the time difference again?) because he doesn’t pick up. Instead the call goes to voicemail. “Joe, it’s Ben here. Um… you’re gonna laugh so hard when you hear how fucking stupid I am,” Ben forces a laugh himself, “So I, uh, I just told Y/N that I love her….again….while we were having sex.” A pause as it sank in, “I’m not even sure how it…how we got to… We were just talking and then we were in bed and…. But it’s okay because I told her it could never happen again,” Ben thinks of how affectionate you’d been after, kissing his jaw and his nose, clinging to him, but it wasn’t real, it was just your post-sex, post-orgasm mood. He starts to laugh, less false but not entirely natural either, “I have to drive back with her tomorrow. Christ. Talk about bad timing, huh. But it’s fine though, it’s fine, totally fine. Joe, it’s fine. Because it wasn’t real. We’ve both been pent up and she spent all day with my family and had to listen to my mum talk about us maybe getting married. This was her reward. And that’s all it was. And I’m the idiot for hoping it could ever be more than that. I mean it’s not like friends don’t sometimes fuck, right? Especially when they’ve been drinking and pretending to date. Sex doesn’t have to mean feelings and it doesn’t for her and that’s fine.” There was that tight feeling in his chest again. Ben cleared his throat. “The drive will give me a chance to tell her it was a mistake. Because it was. This whole thing was a mistake. It was a mistake to fuck her and it was a mistake to bring her to meet my family and it was a mistake to pretend to date her and the biggest mistake of all of them was falling for her. And I haven’t been doing enough to reverse that. I know I said I have been, but I haven’t. I got caught up in the maybes and what ifs and I didn’t really try to move on. But now I…. It’s gotta fucking end sometime. I can’t keep doing this. So I’ve got to tell her it was a mistake and I don’t love her. Maybe I never did. Maybe I’m the same as her and it was all just because I was horny. Whatever. Now I can move on with my life. She doesn’t love me and I don’t love her and she’ll just be some bitch I nailed and we’ll both be happy, right?” Ben sighed and swiped at his blurry eyes. He’s not sure if the voicemail cut out midway through his thought process but it probably doesn’t matter. Movement from upstairs catches his eye. You in his old bedroom, getting dressed and leaving the room. He’s a little worried that if he heads back inside now he’ll bump into you on your way to get a drink from the kitchen but he can’t sit outside in the chill air all night. He takes a breath and swipes his knuckle over his eyes again before heading back inside, creeping towards the bedroom. You weren’t anywhere to be seen, though he guesses that means you’re in the bathroom. When he reached the bedroom again, he dug into the closet and pulled out a number of spare blankets, stealing a pillow from the bed. It’s not a particularly comfortable nest that he makes but it’s warm and doesn’t smell as much like you as the bed does. The pillow still holds a trace of you, but he flips it over and the scent is gone. He’s there when you get back, already pretending to sleep, curled in on himself facing away from you. “Ben?” He squeezes his eyes tighter shut, listening as you flick off the light and tiptoe back towards the bed. There’s a creak of springs as you get comfortable and then another as you move again. “Ben?” Your voice sounds even softer that time and Ben is tempted to answer but he bites his tongue. “Ben I-I…. Goodnight.” There’s another creak as you settle back down again. Ben lies perfectly still until he’s sure you aren’t going to move again. He doesn’t want to hear whatever you’re trying to say. It’ll just be everything he already knows. So he keeps quiet and feigns sleep in the hopes that real sleep will bring it’s respite sooner rather than later.

                                                      ***

Ben’s phone rang and he admonished himself for hoping it was you. He was meant to be getting over you. Besides, the hope was misplaced. It was his mum. “How did Y/N’s audition go?” “Uh,” It took him a moment to remember the excuse he’d made up, “yeah, well I think.” “She’s lovely, Ben. I’m glad you finally let us meet her,” “Yeah,” He didn’t know how else to respond but his mother didn’t need much more encouragement than that. “You should bring her back soon, I’d love to have more of a chance to get to know her. It was a bit hard with so many people there.” “Yeah, um, I’d have to check when we’re free.” He said, dragging his fingers through his hair. “I’m sure you could find one night for us,” “Yeah. But there’s the premier coming soon and we’ve both got auditions and meetings lined up so I don’t know for sure. But let me talk to Y/N and we’ll find a day that works.” “Maybe a weekend? You could stay for a couple of days then, wouldn’t have to rush off.” “We’ll see. Depends.” “Don’t leave it too long honey,” “I won’t mum. Sorry, I’ve got to run, expecting a call back about something.” “Alright, love you,” “Love you too mum,” Ben threw his phone to the other side of the couch and sighed. He’d been expecting that call but that didn’t make it any easier to get through. Not when he’d spent the last few days thinking about that night and everything that had happened. The way your lips felt on his, the way you’d looked sitting on his lap, the way you’d sounded when you came. He shook his head as if he were an etch-a-sketch but the thoughts didn’t disappear, they just morphed into thoughts of later, in the car on the way home. How you’d nodded when he’d said he didn’t love you, clearly overjoyed with the news but trying not to show it.

 Ben hadn’t gone cold turkey with you, there was still some contact, but he refrained from anything too unnecessary, spent as much time as he could with his other friends, and tried to keep any replies to you as simple as possible. Unfortunately his parents was less restrained. A few days later his mum called again, checking if he’d had a chance to invite you over yet. The day after he received a message from his dad suggesting he come down for lunch on the weekend (and encouraging him to bring you along), and then a couple days after that there was another call, one which he ignored. Every time he was thrown back to that night. But not even ignoring the calls helped. It just left him dwelling on everything and it didn’t even deter them. When next his mum called he found himself in yet another conversation on the topic and only just managed to stop himself from hanging up in her ear. He couldn’t do it anymore. It was pointless, all of it. The part of him that had thought you’d fall for him if you slept together had been proven wrong so there was nothing left to hope for. But with his family and friends thinking you were dating, always asking after you, and with you texting him memes and requesting his help, how was he meant to move on? What he needed was a clean break. But the breakup wasn’t scheduled until after the premiere and it wasn’t like a date had been set, it was up to the studio or your agents or someone else. And Ben wasn’t sure how he’d be able to wait it out that long.

 A breakthrough came in an email from Peter, an update about the movie Ben had signed on for. Originally it was meant to film in England, but those plans were in the process of changing. Part of it would still be done around London but now it seemed a big portion of the filming would happen in Spain too. Peter seemed unsure as to how this change would clash with the plans for the breakup but Ben saw it as the opportunity he needed. He wouldn’t be leaving until after the premiere anyway so it wouldn’t change your last public appearance together, but it would also work as the clean break he’d been looking for. Plus, as he reasoned to Peter, they could use the distance as an excuse for why the breakup happened. Peter seemed to like the idea and agreed that the change of location wouldn’t affect anything enough to make Ben drop out. Ben was relieved, having been excited about the project since he first picked up the script, and began looking forward to getting away from you properly. Being in a completely different country would give him the time and space he needed to stop thinking about you. It would be easy to sever all ties to you and get on a plane and move on, maybe meet someone who could drive you from his mind. He’d have to break up with you though, not just through the press but as a friend too. He couldn’t have you texting him while he was away or commenting on photos he posted online. It had to be complete. He had to remove you from his life entirely. After the premiere would be a good time to tell you. He’d pull you aside at the party or maybe tell you in the limo on the way home. It’d be hard to explain but you’d understand. She’s probably been wondering how to get rid of you anyway. Surely, you’d be pleased to hear he was going to leave you alone, not bother you with his stupid feelings anymore. You’d agree it was for the best.

                                                      ***

The night of the premiere snuck up on Ben. He’d been distracted with warding off his parents every invitation, on top of sorting out everything for his trip to Spain. Before he knew it the night had arrived making him feel equal parts excited about seeing the final product of what he’d spent so many months working on and anxious about seeing you. All he could think about was what he was going to say to you. He felt bad about cutting you from his life but there was relief too, knowing it’d be over soon. As he dressed in the suit his stylist had picked out he went over the speech he’d mentally written. It’s just a breakup, you’ve done it before. Tell her you’re sorry but you can’t see her anymore. That’s all you have to do. So, it was with this confusing mixture of emotions that he got into the limo and he only felt more ill at ease as he approached your place to pick you up. “You look lovely,” he said as you climbed into the car beside him. It came out more robotic than he meant it to. But there was a sense that this was the last time he’d be allowed to properly look at you so, while you were getting settled and taking in the interior of the limousine, he allowed himself a final chance to look you over. A hundred other adjectives to describe how beautiful you were, all dressed up and glowing, popped into his head but he kept those to himself. He couldn’t second guess his decision now. It was the only way to stop caring about you. And yet, he could feel his resolve crumbling just from being near you for the first time in weeks. No. Don’t let her get to you. This is why you can’t be in contact. Ben felt his hand curl into a fist as he reminded himself how useful the space would be. What he needed was some rules, guidelines to follow to help him stick to his plan. He ignored the irony as he came up with them. No holding hands. Actually, make that no physical contact. No voluntary physical contact anyway. He was bound to be asked by someone to take a photo with you or appear on camera with you and he couldn’t refuse if they asked for him to touch you or kiss you or anything. Do as many interviews as you can without her. That would hopefully keep interactions to a minimal. Don’t look at her during the movie.

 It was surprisingly easy to stick to the rules as you both made your way down the red carpet, but he knew it wasn’t so much his choice as it was how busy and noisy and chaotic everything was. People called his name from every side, reporters looking for quick interviews, fans looking for autographs or photos. He was able to sidestep you easily, answering questions that were thrown at him on his own until someone asked if they could speak to you both at once or get a photo of you together. Whenever you were waved over to join him, he attempted to maintain as much space as he could, but you seemed to have set your own rules just to make it harder for him. You took his hand, leant your head on his shoulder, stood so close your leg brushed against his, stroked your hand over his arm, anything and everything you could to be closer to him. Ben wasn’t sure if you really were acting more affectionate (clingy and needy) than normal or if it just felt that way because he was attempting to hold back. He put up with it though, unable to do much besides press on to the next interview without you. The hardest part was when you reached a bank of photographers who wanted a number of photos of the happy couple. Someone called out for him to kiss you and then suddenly the entire crowd was calling for it. He kept it soft and brief, though a part of him regretted not making the final kiss you’d share better.

 After that he was able to escape you for a little, talking to people as everyone gathered in the theatre to watch the movie. He didn’t look at you again until he was on stage with you, introducing the film and saying his words of gratitude and celebration. But even that didn’t last long and then he was able to take his seat and focus his attention on the screen. Watching himself was always a bit of a weird experience. Part enjoying what he’s helped create, part critiquing his performance, and part wondering why it had been edited the way it had been edited. But somehow it was even stranger sitting beside you and watching you play at being in love with him. He recognised expressions, small smiles and looks, that you’d given him on dates during the course of your relationship. Just proof of how fake everything with you was. It left him with a bitter taste in his mouth and an oddly jealous feeling in his gut. And he could feel you looking at him but he stuck to his rules and kept his eyes fixed ahead.

 He turned to his other side afterwards to talk to Alfie, wondering aloud how everyone would react to the movie and laughing about how well it had turned out. Ben couldn’t think what to say to you, knowing the inevitable end was coming. It was closer now that everyone was heading to the after party. So he was grateful when Alfie joined the two of you in your car. “You two ready to party?” He laughed, “Fuck I love that work gives me such a good excuse to get plastered.” Ben laughed along but he was stuck by the realisation that of course there’d be drinking. He’d have to watch how much he had, especially around you. He didn’t want to say something he’d regret or not be able to explain himself properly. “I think shots are in order to get us started. Meet you both by the bar?” “Sounds like a plan Al,” “I’m making yours a double Jones. We’ll have him dancing on the table by the end of the night, right Y/N?” “Oh I’d love to see that.” Cameras flashed as the small group got out of the car. Alfie headed off down the line, catching up with one of the others, leaving Ben and you on your own. Ben felt you press into his side, hanging off his arm, and thought about what waited in the club. Alfie with shots followed by champagne and cocktails and whatever else would be pressed on him during the night. He didn’t want to blurt it out or let it slip in front of other people. He had to tell you before he’d had anything to drink, just in case. It was now. It had to happen now.

 As soon as he was inside, Ben looked around for somewhere he could have a quiet word with you, somewhere no one was likely to overhear. A nearby mirrored hallways seemed the perfect place. Everyone else was busy heading into the main room and it was out of view of the photographers still hanging around outside, waiting for the stragglers to show up. “Can I speak to you over hear a sec?” he lead you around the corner, looking around to double check for eavesdroppers, “So, there’s something I need to…Y/N?” he realised you hadn’t been paying attention, probably keen to get inside and celebrate. “Yeah, sorry, Um…” Ben didn’t hear what you said next, too busy trying to remember everything he wanted to tell you, “I was going to hold off until later but I don’t want to let something slip after a few drinks or anything like that. I can’t do this anymore. This whole thing was a mistake that I should never have agreed to and I need it to be over now.” He could see how confused you were, “You know they’re going to break us up in like a week, right?” “Yeah well, that’s too long to wait. I’m breaking us up now.” He kept talking, sure the shock of it would wear off and you’d agree with him once you’d heard it all, “And…I don’t think I can see you again, not for a while at least. I need some space to forget this ever happened. I, um, I start my new job in a few days so I think they’ll probably use that in the magazines to explain our breakup. And I don’t expect I’ll see you until after it’s finished. If then. So…good luck with that witch movie. Take care of yourself.” He didn’t want to hear you agree with him, didn’t want to hear you say it was for the best or that you were going to suggest the same thing or even a goodbye. So he pushed past you and followed the noise until he found the bar. As promised Alfie was there, with a few others, a shot glass in each hand. He handed one to Ben. “Where’d Y/N go?” “Oh, uh, loo. She’ll be here in a minute.” “Well here’s to a job well done and hopefully some fucking record breaking box office numbers,” “Cheers to that,” Ben clinked his glass against Alfie’s and downed the shot, hissing a little, “another?” “Read my mind,” Ben lost himself in conversation and drinks, chatting with those around him for a while before moving on to talk to more people. Beer in hand, he headed towards the side of the room where a couple of the other main cast were sitting. Claudia looked up as he approached, “Heya Ben! Where’s Y/N? I haven’t seen her all night,” It was only then that Ben realised he hadn’t seen you come in after he’d left you in the hallway. He glanced around in an attempt to spot you, a pang of worry shooting through him but then he stopped looking. She’s not yours to worry about anymore.

                                                      ***

Ben woke up with a minor hangover the day after the premiere. Maybe it was karma. Despite what he told himself, he’d kept an eye out for you all night, but never saw you and he was more than a little worried that it was because of what he’d said. It was tempting to call and ask where you’d gotten to but a quick glance at the clock told him you’d likely still be asleep anyway. Besides, he knew he shouldn’t. He’d told you he wasn’t going to see you again and he intended to stick to his word. Instead he sent a group message to his mates and invited them around for one last hang out before he left for Spain. The next call he made was to his mum. “Hi honey. How’d the premiere go? “It was really fun, movie looks good.” “How long before you fly out?” “Couple of days,” “Shame there’s not enough time for you and Y/N to come over for dinner,” “Yeah, um, about that… we broke up.” “What? Why?” “It just wasn’t working. Mutual decision, we both felt it had run its course but decided to keep it quiet until after the premiere. So, yeah, no dinner, even if I was going to be in the country.” “Oh, honey, are you okay?” “Yeah, fine. Like I said, we both knew it was coming so y’know, no hard feelings or anything.” “It’s a shame, she was so lovely,” “Yeah, well, sometimes things just don’t work the way you think they will.”

The boys arrived in the afternoon, bringing a mixture of snacks and a few beers with them. They settled in the living room to play video games. Ben liked the company. It was a good distraction. Or it would have been if talk hadn’t turned to you. “Bit surprised you wanted us here and not Y/N. Figured you’d spend your last days in the UK with her,” “Why would I when we broke up?” “You what? When?” Ben shrugged, “We broke up. Few days ago,” “Jesus man, I’m sorry,” “Don’t be, it’s fine. I dumped her.” “Yeah but you had to go to the premiere with her right? That’s rough,” “Was a bit but there was an open bar so I coped,” Ben laughed. “Might be time we got him back on the market then,” “What? We only broke up a couple of days ago,” “You’re clearly not too cut up about it,” “What the fuck would you know, you’ve been single for what is it, three years now?” “Well you didn’t tell us when it happened, and you never even told us when you got together. We found out through a magazine, so obviously you weren’t really that serious about her” “We were waiting until after all the movie stuff was done, and that’s bollocks.” “Excuses. Besides, getting someone new to suck you off is the best way to forget an ex. This is your phone right?” “Oi give that back,” There was a scuffle as Ben tried to grab his phone back but he was outnumbered and pinned down as the boys redownloaded his Bumble app and signed in for him, laughing about how he used the same password for everything. “She’s fit, give her a like,” “Oh I like her, might be a bit tall for you though Ben,” Ben rolled his eyes as he watched them swipe on profile after profile until they heard a noise that meant one of the girls had sent him a message. “There you go Ben, didn’t take long did it. You’ll forget all about that Y/N chick in no time,” Ben snatched his phone back, “You guys are such wankers,” “That’s not very nice considering we’ve just got you a new girl,” There was laughter and more teasing as controllers were passed around and the game was loaded. Ben closed the app, thumb hovering over it to delete it again. But maybe they were right. Maybe someone new would be good. He set the phone down again and turned his attention to the game.

                                                      ***

Spain was beautiful and having a new movie to work on was the perfect distraction, especially considering how many stunts, fight scenes, and action sequences were involved. It gave him a chance to meet more people in the industry, people he was excited to work with, and really focus on something other than you. The cast went out together frequently too, dinners at local restaurants, drinks in the hotel bar, getting lost in an unfamiliar city. There was no trace of you there, no reminders of date nights, nothing but work and a new country to explore. Occasionally he’d get a notification that a reporter or curious individual was trying to message him, asking questions about you and the split but he ignored them. Ben deleted the Bumble app too within the first few days, knowing he wouldn’t use it. There was no time, even if he’d wanted to hook up with anyone. He could always reinstall it once he was back home. Once he knew you were in the past. Because the problem was that at some point every night, Ben would get back to his hotel suite and be left alone again. For a while he’d be able to think about what scenes would be filmed the next day, maybe practice some fight choreography. But eventually he’d run out of distractions and then all that was left to think about was you. Peter had sent through the first articles that reported the breakup and since then he’d found himself wondering if you’d moved on yet, found someone else to date now that you were allowed to. He’d considered checking your Instagram account but had held off, knowing it was a step in the wrong direction. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know anyway. He hadn’t gotten over you enough yet to deal with photos of you and another man together.

 This night was much the same as the others had been. Everyone met up for dinner, followed by a couple of drinks and then headed back to the hotel to unwind. Ben decided to call it an early night. He’d spent a good part of the day hooked up to harnesses and wires, being flung at a wall over and over. He was sore and tired figured some extra rest would do him good. He was just settling into bed, trying to keep his mind on the TV show he’d put on when he heard the knock. He listened closely for a moment but it couldn’t be for him, he’d put up a do not disturb sign on his door, so he turned back to the TV and flicked to a different channel. Another knock. It definitely sounded like his door but who would it be? Maybe one of the other actors? But they’d all heard him say he was going to have an early night, so surely not. Again Ben ignored it. The third knock got Ben out of bed, stumbling to the light switch and then the door, ready to politely tell whoever it was to fuck off and let him rest. “Sorry but can you not see the do not dis- Y/N? What ar-” Ben was surprised. Surprised you knew where he was, surprised you’d come there after he’d told you he didn’t want to see you, surprised that you were covering his mouth to shut him up. “You wouldn’t reply to my texts and I didn’t know if you’d listen to any voicemails I left you but I have something I need to tell you so that’s why I’m here.” There was a beat as Ben waited to hear what could be so important that you’d come all the way to Spain to tell him. “I love you.” He gasped but your palm was still over his mouth so he couldn’t say anything. It had to be a joke, didn’t it? But you didn’t look like you were joking. He waited, listening as you explained everything. It was wonderful to know you felt the same but his shock didn’t lessen. He’d been so sure about everything. So sure about how little you’d felt for him, so sure you would have understood why he needed space. And now you were here telling him the exact opposite? It was unfathomable. Maybe it was a hallucination? Maybe he’d got a concussion when he hit the wall too hard earlier. Does concussion make you hallucinate? But blinking didn’t make you disappear and the hand against his mouth felt real enough. “I’ve missed you so much, so fucking much, and all I’ve wanted is to see you again and hear your voice and hug you and I’d really like to date you for real, or at least be friends again because not having you in my life is complete shit.” Ben felt tears prickling his eyes as he realised how backwards he’d had it. You loved him. You. Y/N. You loved him so much you’d flown to Spain just to tell him. “That’s all I had to say,” you said softly, pulling you hand away. Ben staired in disbelief for a moment but you looked as if you were fighting the urge to run for it and it brought him back to his senses. “Thank god,” it was all he could think to say as he reached out to hold you, pulling you tight against him and kissing you the way he’d wanted to kiss you for so long. Relief flooded his system when you kissed back. He didn’t have to forget you or force himself to move on. It had been an impossible task anyway. He was glad to stop trying.

 It’s only when someone makes a noise further down the corridor that he lets you go, asks if you planned to stay, lead you inside and towards the couch. There were things he needed to clear up first, before he could let himself be fully happy with the situation. He looks at you properly then. You look tired, worn out. He’s not sure if it’s from the late hour or the flight or because you’ve not been sleeping properly but it makes him feel guilty that he upset you. He hates that he pushed you away and wasted months trying to get rid of you when you’d both actually wanted the same thing, to be together. But you’re here now. He reached out to brush a strand of your hair behind your ear, almost dizzy with joy that he could do that. “I’m really sorry for how I acted,” You smiled softly as you took a seat and Ben fell into the spot beside you, unable to take his eyes from you. He lets you lead the conversation, trying to sort out his mess of emotions as he explains himself. I thought if I told you I’d never been into you, acted like it, then I could make it true.” “Did it work?” “Of course not,” How could you ever think it would work? That he could just forget you so fast, after he’d fallen for you so hard? “Which is why I pushed you away.” You nodded, seemed to understand where he’d been coming from. He hesitated before reaching out to grab your hand again, a little afraid of touching you lest you turn to smoke and vanish. But you didn’t. He stifled a yawn, hoping you wouldn’t take it as his disinterest in the conversation. He’d stay up as long for as long as it took to go over everything, no matter how tired he was. “Has there been anyone else?” “Anyone else what?” “I saw a thing about you dating again,” That was surprising, not what he’d expected you to bring up. He hadn’t even realised it had been reported on. But he shook his head, explained about his friends encouraging him to move on. It seemed to satisfy you because you leant on his shoulder, let him hold you. He apologised when he yawned again, about to suggest he put a pot of coffee on so he could keep talking. But then you suggested going to bed and he had to agree.

 As soon as his head hit the pillow Ben knew he’d fall asleep fast. Even with the excitement of your arrival and the buzz of joy you brought. He kept his eyes on you. Everything seemed too good to be true. You grabbed his hand and placed it around you, shuffling as close as you could. “You’re actually here, yeah? I’m not just dreaming it?” Ben asked, voicing aloud his biggest worry. “I’m here Ben.” She’s here. In your bed. “Don’t leave, okay?” “I won’t.” She’s here and she’s staying. “I love you,” he needed to say it again, to make sure you knew that he still felt the same. “I love you too,” It was comforting to hear you say it again too, made his heart burst as he kissed you again. He didn’t want to stop but he was much to tired to do anything else. Still, he fought sleep for as long as he could. He’d lost so much time being apart from you that, now he had you back in his arms, sleep felt like a waste of precious hours. Hours he could spend kissing you, being with you, making sure you felt loved. He couldn’t fight it forever though, eventually had to give up. The last thing he saw before he shut his eyes was you, smiling at him, as you lay beside him.

                                                      ***

It had been a long day what with moving you into his house. Even after the boxes were inside and everyone who had been helping out had gone home, there was still a lot to do. Everything needed to be unpacked and put away. Ben had been clearing space on all his shelves and in all his cupboards to fit everything you’d brought with you. Plus there was new furniture from Ikea to unpack and construct. Like the chest of draws he’d been working on before he got up to stretch his legs and grab a glass of water. He caught sight of the magazines that had been left in the kitchen and, chuckling at their stories of marriage and babies, stacked them in a neat pile before he grabbed his drink. As he walked back through the living room he saw you, curled up on the floor beside the box you’d been working through. “Y/N?” Ben shook your shoulder to wake you, trying not to laugh as you blink at him groggily, still half asleep. “Alright, cuddle bunny, up you get. Time for bed, yeah?” “But the boxes,” you argued though it was unenthusiastic and slurred with sleep. “The boxes will be there tomorrow. C’mon, come with me,” Ben half carried you to the bedroom and helped you under the covers, leaving you with a kiss on the forehead before heading back to the draws he was halfway through building.

 By the time he was finished putting the draws together Ben was feeling fairly tired himself. He moved the spare screws off the floor so no one would step on them and then headed back to the bedroom. You were still there, sleeping soundly. Ben paused in the doorway to look at you. It was a sight he loved, you in his bed. The first time you stayed over and slept in his bed rather than the guest room had been a monumental occasion though the novelty of it had worn off a bit now, especially with how frequently you’d stayed at each other’s places before the move. But still, he’d never get sick of seeing you beside him, where you belonged. Same as he’d never get sick of making you tea or trying to convince you to eat an actual breakfast or making you laugh. It was in that moment, leaning against the doorway of the bedroom you now shared, one wall lined with boxes of your belongings yet to be put away, it was then that he knew he wanted to marry you. Have a family with you, spend his life with you. He’d go out and buy a ring once you were moved in properly, though he could hear his friends telling him to wait a little longer, see how everything was living with you first. But that didn’t matter. He wouldn’t have to give it to you straight away after all. But he knew that was what he wanted with you. And now that you were together, after so much time and trouble, he never wanted to let you go.

[redsector-a]

AO3 Ask Game

I was tagged by @themarshalstale which, thank you so much! I feel like I always get missed on these (I know why, it’s been 84 years since I published anything but still). 1. How many works do you have on ao3?

46 it seems. Which...look I’m slow man so that’s not surprising. lol Also crippling depression does not make for much production, at least for me.

2. What’s your current AO3 wordcount?

309662 according to the stats.

3. How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

So do I could only AO3 or in like life? lol I suppose it should only be on AO3 since this is an AO3 ask game. Hrm. Basically AO3 can be summed up as: Marvel (in several iterations - all Avengers related) Torchwood Highlander But isn’t it more fun to consider my entire fandom life, which, I’m sorry, I’m old so...yeah. Not all of this is was published and beyond that a lot is not available anymore...which is likely for the best. Highlander Star Wars Babylon 5 Ronin Warriors/Samurai Troopers Marvel (again, several iterations also of note Avengers and X-Men both count) Torchwood Star Trek LOTR Stargate (SG-1, SGA) Mortal Kombat I dabbled with the idea of Potter fic but never got past the ideas stage.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

1: You rearrange me till I’m sane Clint finds himself spiraling into a deep depression after the Battle of New York...until the Winter Soldier ends up saving him and inadvertently giving him a new purpose – to save the man that the Soldier had once been – Bucky Barnes. Not one to be outdone, the Soldier decides that his new mission is to ensure that Clint remains alive himself. Protecting a blonde man with a self-destructive streak is somehow very familiar to him. Through the back and forth of who is saving whom they cross the country and learn more about themselves and each other – and perhaps find a reason for living. 2: Five Dates Bucky Didn’t Realize He Was on And the One He Planned Himself To say that Bucky was surprised when Clint kissed him was an understatement. But it was nothing compared to the shock he felt when he learned they'd been dating for months without him realizing it.Clint gets whisked away for a mission before they have time to talk and Bucky is left to figure things out on his own - hindsight being 20/20 he can't help but wonder how he missed things the first go around.

3: Puck Luck Bucky Barnes is used to the ups and downs of an NHL season. He's used to the unpredictability of the game, knows that bounces don't always go your way, but that doesn't make a broken hand in the final third of the season any easier to deal with. Especially not when he ends up with an impromptu roommate/personal assistant in the form of one Clint Barton - his agent, Natalia Romanova's (rather attractive) friend he hadn't known existed before his injury.

It's just for six to eight weeks - what could possibly happen in that span of time?

4: Loose Lips Launch Ships

Based on the following prompt: “We go to school together and I think you’re cute and apparently you’re also the pizza delivery guy and my little sibling opened the door screaming hey sibling! you know that kid you’re in love with? you really weren’t kidding when you said his jawline could cut steel holy shit-” Bucky is the pizza delivery guy. Clint's younger (foster) brother has a big mouth.

5: Indelible Bucky Barnes has a pretty decent life – a good job, good friends, a cat that adores him - but something is missing. He’s always found body art to be beautiful and inspiring, and on a whim (and with the hope that maybe he can find what he’s missing) he decides to take the plunge and get a tattoo. That's how he meets Clint Barton. Clint's talented and compassionate and there is an instant spark between the two of them. It's not long before Bucky finds himself wondering and wanting more from the relationship despite the ghosts of the past that crop back up. Because Clint makes him feel normal in a way he truly hasn't for years...

(this was pre-Alpine so I was totally chuffed when canon confirmed Bucky’s status as a crazy cat lady (affectionate).

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not.

I really really really want to do it but I often times don’t end up doing it. There are a few reasons. First, I am akwward AF and bad at interaction adn I feel like just saying thank you would be...not enough? Second - I often times tend to like...turtle (aka retreat into myself) when life gets Too Hard/Busy which happens a lot to me (sigh) and then I miss the vague window in my mind in which it would be okay to respond and then it’s even more weird. I do love and cherish all of them. Like there was one months ago that made me go “hmm...I didn’t think I was going to do a sequel to that fic (You rearrange me till I’m sane), timestamp glimpses sure but a sequel hadn’t come to mind” but then the comment made me think! So...who knows? lol Anyway, I literally have been rereading some in an effort to try and get myself going again. Know that if you have commented, I love you.

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

At the moment? Probably: Look at you look at me Bucky's in love with Clint - problem is he's really not supposed to be. For Winterhawk Week 2019 - Forbidden Love (I really don’t want to give away the spin in the fic but...if you’re familiar with the Secret Avengers Vol 2 run circa 2013ish (aka when SHIELD initially ‘took control of the team’) that’s a bit of a hint as to the spin). Were it done, Torch Song would be up there. ;) Torch Song Clint is sent back in time, via an alien device, to 1938. While he tries to figure out how to get back home, he takes up singing and entertaining to make ends meet and does his best to not disrupt the timeline.Then he meets a 21 year old Bucky Barnes. --- A torch song is a sentimental love song, typically one in which the singer laments an unrequited or lost love, either where one party is oblivious to the existence of the other, where one party has moved on, or where a romantic affair has affected the relationship.

7. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve ever written?

Does *wanting* to write crossovers count? lol I want, so badly, to do more crossovers and fusions (which...are kinda deeper versions of crossovers in a way). The only one I do have posted is a crossover between Highlander and Torchwood -

The Immortal Mr. Jones A series of vignettes (some long, some short) in the life of the newly immortal Ianto Jones. My most ambitions project that I have been working on since late 2011/early 2012 is a fusion of the Avengers with Stephen King’s the Stand. I will get that done at some point *shakes fist*  The Stand, for those who don’t know it, is an epic 1000+ page novel about a flu epidemic (I know) that wipes out over 99% of the population and then two figures representing Good and Evil pull the survivors in two directions for a showdown. So basically it’s a non-powered modern AU set in that universe. It’s a passion and comfort project. lol

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Yes. Well, minor bitching back when I was in a prior fandom because I tagged a pairing in a fic but it was pre-slash and not labeled as pre-slash. I got hate on...I think it was Torch Song? And I’ve gotten hate on tumblr re me and my fic in general as well. Fandom! *jazz hands* Oh! And I’ve also been hit by those reviewers within Winterhawk (among general Clint pairings actually) who like rate you on either number scales or the “meh” scale. Which isn’t hate exactly but...it’s passive aggressive bullshit because I can’t believe none of them realize at this point that the authors can see their bookmarks - you know?

9. Do you write smut?

Yes. Do I write it well? I have no idea. lol

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I am aware of. Well...there was, I think, one of those reposting sites that had a few fics on it but I don’t think it was being passed off as someone else’s? I can’t quite recall. It’s why I have a note on AO3 about reposting my work anyway.

11. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not entirely, but sort of. Let me explain - I am part of a PBEM game; which for those unfamiliar since it’s a term that was most heavily in use 15-20 years ago, in which you basically do a round robin type writing thing but rather than everyone writing the same characters you write your own characters and you play off what other people have done. Another way of looking at it is  it’s basically DnD without dice and written down rather than done out loud. You also don’t have to all be around at the same time. It’s a lot of fun and yes I have been in it for 20 years even though there aren’t many of us left but they are some of my dearest friends and fabulous writers. Wins all around.  One of the other writers and I have actually toyed with the idea of doing a co-written fic actually, mostly because we work super well together and keep getting ideas for things but can’t really do them as rpgs since the pbem style isn’t used much anymore.

12. What’s your all time favorite ship?

Winterhawk probably. Though, let’s be real - Han & Leia are epic and amazing as are John & Delenn (from Babylon 5).

13. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Does wanting to expand The Black Stallion books as a wee child count? lol Not much of that was written save for world building ideas but there was a great oral tradition of telling stories to my friends. Otherwise...maybe a tie between Star Wars and Highlander. Star Wars was a love since I was super young but the writing bug didn’t hit me until around the same time Highlander was a thing as well.

14. What’s your favorite fic you’ve written? You rearrange me till I’m sane for sure. Though Torch Song, if it were finished, would be tied I imagine (I suck at picking favorites). Honorable mention to Puck Luck and Indelible. Tagging: I have seen this like a million times (okay 5) so I feel like everyone has been tagged already that I know. But...I guess... @vexbatch @crazycatt71 @heartonfirewrites and @disruptedvice sorry if anyone has been tagged before.

[grimoire-of-geekery]

Perfecting One’s Craft

Today, I read this prompt on a Facebook page I follow for witchcraft content: “What do you think is the perfect Full Moon ritual?”

My response was all about harmony in competence, being able to work together with my coven seamlessly, without any stopping for instruction.  Just... flowing together in a sort of dance of activity and group veneration and celebration.

Beautiful clear sky at night, gathering in a clearing of trees near running water, drawing sigils and leaving patterns of leaves and stones on the ground, running through the woods together, doing secret things and working little spells...

Magic.

This is the goal for me, really.  Having been in many covens and practicing groups over many years, and having worked on my own practice every day for a long time, I’ve come to want the “work” part of the work to move smoothly, and the “heart” part of the work to be the part that draws more focus.  I want my witchery to be a done deal already, spells flying off my fingers and words spilling from my lips like sparks from a fire, effortlessly and swiftly to light the world aflame.

And most of the time, I’m happy to report that they do.  Not always though.

I think it’s really normal for people to want this.  It’s normal to want to be competent, to be skilled, to be knowledgeable.  That’s another way of saying “powerful,” right?  “In control.”  A competent person doesn’t get blindsided by misfortune or trouble, they have things they can do to set the world into the right order.  They respond well to pressure, because they know they can handle what the world throws at them.

Right?

Sure, but not all the time.

I was just talking with a friend recently about how frustrating and tedious it is to have to do regular uncrossings and protections and magical “maintenance.”  She asked me if I thought it was necessary for all spellcasters to do things like that, and... I hated the answer I gave her.

Because yeah, I kind of think it is, and that pisses me off.  Literally, I told her “I'm a bitch-queen, I don't do that lemon-scented pledge witchcraft shit unless I have to.”  That’s how I feel about it.  I don’t mind cleaning or fixing things, so long as they stay that way once I’m done.  I’m not into the whole “fix it, but you’re gonna have to keep that shit up, every week or month or whatever, because nothing stays perfect forever.”

I hate that it’s apparently necessary.  I also have realized that I have accepted that it’s necessary.  It’s not just a matter of getting one’s hands dirty, it’s just... the drudgery of it all.  I hate feeling obligated to do chores over and over again.  I react like a grumpy toddler about the entire idea.

But it’s still necessary.  As it says in a spell one of my friends coined, “sweep sweep, sweep the floor, sweep the bullshit out the door.”  We can’t just leave things alone and hope they’ll work out.  We have to keep up our maintenance.

And the thing is, the whole “chop wood, carry water” thing helps us get good at our magic.  Like the Karate Kid learning martial arts from everyday routines, our regular ritual practice is what makes us able to get competent at the big stuff.  There’s a reason Wiccan traditions often involve casting circles even when it’s not strictly necessary for the spell.  The faster and more competent a person is at their fundamental practices and “root” rituals, the better they’ll be to handle ambitious work, and experimentation is how we grow our Craft.

Competence is not something we get to have just because we want it.  We have to work at it, even though I’ll be the first to admit that mostly all the work of the Craft is fun.  Hells, I even enjoy kitchen witchery, even though I loathe regular kitchen stuff (and don’t even think of asking me to cook anything edible).

In the Risting course I and other instructors in my tradition teach, we have three tiers of instruction- beginner, intermediate, and “advanced.”  Each tier has a specific vision and goal.  The first tier is set up so that anyone who finishes it can walk into any standard witch’s group (coven, loose gathering, convention open ritual, etc) and participate competently.  She can do wards, she can call spirits, she can help raise power, she can even invoke entities.  She’s been taught how to use her psychic senses, and she’s learned how to do basic manifestation and conjuration, so she’s competent for standard spellcasting.  She even knows some basic candle magic, group incantation, and the whole “cone of power” thing so popular in modern neopaganism.

The second tier is for competence (and hopefully eventual excellence) in more complicated practices: accurate divination, effective glamour and persuasion, enchantments beyond the standard consecrations (blessings and curses).  The third tier is for stuff that most people consider “advanced,” though literally people practice this stuff completely untrained, because witchery is a natural part of a witch’s being.  We’re talking healing, weather-working, and making use of our ability to astral project without turning into a frivolous gullible idiot who believes she’s the True Incarnation of Cleopatra and Pikachu’s Love Child™ or the second coming of Magneto (that is not an exaggeration, it is representative of things I have actually heard over the years).

My point is, the courses we teach in my tradition are focused on competence, because it’s the sticking place for a lot of us.  We try to teach our classes in groups most of the time, so that we can help people establish the necessary habits in a fun space with friendly faces.  When we can see that others struggle too, that nobody has everything down perfectly no matter what level of experience they come in with, it helps a lot.

I think I decided to write about this because I’ve seen a lot of “fad-Craft” over the years, and I’ve decided to step away from the constant race of the popular in my practice.  As I previously mentioned in December, this year I’ve dedicated my focus toward “Embracing the Mythic,” and that means looking for timeless rather than flashy.  It means taking the time to perfect my Craft, rather than getting frustrated with slow progress and jumping ship to something more entertaining (which I am occasionally wont to do).

In short, it means Seven and Eight of Pentacles.

I have grimoires that need entries.  I have wards and “spring cleaning” spells to do, talismans and amulets to perfect, herbal sachets and witches’ hands to make, familiars and spirit-allies to make offerings to, and lots and lots of paper magic to do.

Sure, it sounds tedious when I lay it all out there like that, but the only time I don’t love my art is when I’m depressed, and I’ve actually found that accomplishing something meaningful for someone (myself included) makes me feel better, so a lot of this work will do double duty by getting me out of my funk.

I’ve been rereading a lot of my old Mercedes Lackey novels, in an effort to remind myself not to give up and to take pleasure in small details (both which are consistent themes in her stories).

That’s enough rambling from me today, I think.  Just wanted to get all of this down while I was thinking about it.  I hope all of you find your work to be rewarding and your burdens light.  Blessed be!

[tarotchariot]

Return with past pick a card

Pick a card reading: Dealing with the hurt

“

This is a free pick a card reading for those going through a challenging or hurtful situation. I’m not certain how these will turn out, but I hope they bring some kind of clarity, peace or comfort to any of you. I understand that some may feel lost and almost begging silently for some help, yet not seeing anything to get advice or a sense of stability from again.

I will use 6 groups to choose from, believe it or not - simply because to me, 6 symbolises harmony and reciprocity. Please know that you are not alone, and something will find you in a wonderful moment.”

So moving on, please take a quiet moment and use your intuition (for example taking 3 deep breaths and clearing your mind, or envisioning a number perhaps)

And choose between the numbers 1, 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , or 6

____________________________________________________

Group 1 :  

Knight of water, The dreamer, Unity, 3 of air, synchronicity

Alright you guys, you had quite a few cards here. At first glance, it’s appearing like a new start is necessary. Maybe something didn’t go well at work or school, or what you thought was a solid and stable place has become uncomfortable due to someone in your vicinity.

It’s odd, it’s looking like someone wasn’t entirely truthful. The angels want to point out that there will always be light and dark.

Getting the vibe of feeling left out, not part of the group anymore. Or at least not feeling like you are. Maybe someone has literally excluded you or pushed you out because of something they see as “bad” in accordance to the groups beliefs or interests. I’m seeing a crisis of faith here.

There’s quite a few possibilities. I’m seeing, maybe for just one singular person that they have lost someone that mattered very much to them. I get such a playful and light hearted energy about the person. Whether you believe in life after death or not, if it were for certain a thing I could say one thing they would be saying to you, even now: Please laugh, have fun.There are so many things to be happy about.

There is a deep loneliness, and for that I feel for you, so much. Your Angel(s) are right next to you.

For others, feeling left out or excluded, most likely undeservedly. However, I’m getting the message that you are being guided to a new way of thinking and being, and to acknowledge that there is good and bad in everyone. No one is perfect, we each have our shadow. Please try not to take their treatment of you personally. It’s more to do with them, and not you. It is projection. It’s likely you have witnessed and seen who can be trusted and cannot. Run with that fact and hold the lovely one(s) close.

Those in this group are being guided extremely in the form of synchronicity. Please be on the look out for further advice, and insight through the following forms, and even more:

Music that really resonates Conversations you over hear Signs out and about Seeing a similar image many times Hearing the same kind of message similar times An idea keeps popping up in your mind Some of you may want to move forward with a creative project. It’s encourages as it will aid you in positively letting out your emotions. Not only that, it may be simple and overlooked, but simply by just spending time and being around any loved one or friend (not even talking directly about your situation) will give a small bit of peace and gratitude.

This is a signal of a new chapter, and you are guided to have the fun you are meant to have.

Hope that did somethin’.

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

GROUP 2: 

Queen of earth, Page of air, Ace of earth, The miracle of forgiveness

There seems to be an issue surrounding give and take. Queen of earth talks about kindness, practicality and nurturing. It could also symbolise a mother, or someone who has motherly energy.

With the theme of pentacles, the material, and page of air here who seems to have a wolf around them, I wonder if you have been taken advantage of in the material sense (financially, physically). And it seems you are very aware of this, since forgiveness is the crux, and the advice. It’s like the more you get, the more they take.

I’m seeing there might be debt as well. I’m seeing someone here who has had to uphold a whole lot. You’re the kind that can make things happen. I’m also seeing great resentment, and that doesn’t happen from just anything. Yes, I can’t help but see someone else having a hand in your finances and do whatever they like, or did that in the past. Wasteful. Basically - it’s not fair and it’s cruel, because there’s something here that I see that you want to do, but this is getting in your way.

I’m seeing a talent in you that is not to be wasted. Know that it cannot be taken away - it is yours, and god given, No one can truly take what matters. The comment I receive from the angels is that the abundance for you will always come. What is truly yours and needed will always find its way to you. I feel a very powerful solidarity, independence and ambitious feeling.

Your future is yours, not theirs. Not anybodies.

I would like to also say, that despite this, there really is actually love still there. Whether you want anything to do with them in the future is another thing. You’re asked to (in whatever tiny way you can) try and understand them. Understanding is the first step to forgiveness. And forgiveness opens up doors and new energy for you personally.

I recommend that you try and understand the truth of forgiveness, and not just what you hear or see on tv, This could become something that actually drives you further.

I really see you as such an inspirational and strong person.

That’s what I see for you, thank you.

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

GROUP 3: 

Page of earth, six of earth, awakening, eight of air, take time to breathe

So here there are themes of feeling trapped, having to wait, unemployment/difficulty finding a job or career and possibly even being taken advantage of as a student or in a low level job as a trainee. Off the top of my head.

Patience is a big note here. Something is not happening as fast as you would like here, and I can understand how scary/stressful that can be. You might be scared about your security or future here. I’m seeing that you have put a lot of effort into this situation. I’m also seeing that maybe you have felt alone as well, hints of valentines keep coming up.

I’m seeing that you might be under a lot of scrutiny/judgement, so I’m wondering if you guys have been suffering in terms of anxiety or being just plain down, or more. If you have been struggling with confidence or motivation or anxiety, I encourage you see a professional or join a support group/forum online. Even talking things out in a journal can release a lot of that pent up energy,

I’m sensing a lot of pressure that you may be placing on yourself, and I hear the angels want me to say “Darling” withsuch love and care. Please give your worries to the angels. They say they will take care of them. And will take care of some issues.

Oooh, I am truly seeing so many pent up emotions that they encourage you get out - if you have to scream at the ocean, or in a car, do it.

Get it all out, empty your mind for some quiet time, and just be.

You will see the appropriate solutions at the right time, and as a result of taking your mind away from its current habits, you will be so much more capable of seeing them.

Please, give yourself a break. The angels want you to see just how good things are in some ways, and how much you may be focusing too much on others.

Take some time and be willing to see things differently, things can change just that much. The angels want to say how much they love you and adore you, feeling much love for you here. I hope you can feel the peace they want to send you in this writing. And you are capable of so much.

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

GROUP 4: 

King of water, The magician, Live your joy

With the king of water here, it’s showing you may be finding it difficult to trust people or life. What feels difficult here is that you may not be receiving the help or advice that you deserve and should be receiving as a default.

It might be showing that a paternal figure in your life is withholding themselves or even being manipulative. Basically, not being the role model they should be.

More than anything though, I’m seeing that you want to create something, something that really gives you joy, that truly speaks for you and is your honest expression. Which makes me think: perhaps there is someone who doesn’t like that. There is certainly an abrasiveness there.

For whatever reason, perhaps someone here doesn’t accept you, or your self expression, or whatever it is that makes you feel right.

When it comes to this, the answer is very simple. Choose to release those binds.

How, you ask.

2 things. simply practice this self expression or take part in whatever it is that you want - that will set the energy up. 2. raise your vibration. Do not involve yourself in the negativity, refuse to take notice of anyone elses expectations or judgements. in general have more fun, express gratitude, see the positive

Truly embrace whatever this is. If it has to be, let it be at night when others are asleep, and build your confidence. Change things bit by bit.

a few of you here may be psychic, or have a spiritual hobby or talent. Embrace this role, you are meant to be someone who spreads higher knowledge and support.

There’s someone I see that plain just doesn’t like change. But hey, since when did it have everything to do with them? never. This is you. The message I’m getting for you guys is: be proud. Be so darn proud of you. No one will ever be big enough to diminish you. You, in spirit, the divine part of you, will always be such a special and wonderful thing to behold. When you live your joy and your truth, you shine like no one else. Let this change you, shape you and gravitate towards joy no matter what this person, or people say. You can create the life you want.

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

GROUP 5: 

Three of fire, ten of earth, express your creativity

I’m seeing some distance with loved ones here. perhaps there has been a quarrel, a falling out. Or perhaps a family member has moved a fair bit away. I’m feeling a family or community that was once warm, has experienced some kind of change that has left you feeling quiet, humble and retrospective.

if this is not family, it could be a group of friends that felt like family, or a job where you felt like a family with the team.

I’m seeing for sure for some, that there was a blow up and the effects are still rolling. You may feel as if the effects won’t end, but it appears you will be left alone in that way for the time being. It seems very much on your mind.

It is really looking like the aftermath of a big storm here, a sweeping change or an eruption from an argument that has separated two or more people. For a couple of you it might have been triggered by something very small. I’m seeing a lot of hurt here, true heartbreak. Please know that there will be peace. Things always calm after a storm.

No one seemed to be necessarily right or wrong, it appears to have been something that simmered in the distance for a long time.

All I can say is now, you are on solid ground and it’s time to calm down from it all. Something the angels want to put forward is that the strangest things happen, and we may not understand for the longest time, but it triggers the right change for us, or sets us on a certain route for our most divine path.

I’m seeing the universe, and its connections and paths that we all take, that as humans we couldn’t understand. I do see that one day, when you are comfortable and feeling at home, safe (which I promise you will be) - you will get the zap of a vision. How things worked out. Why. What it led to.

Moving forward I can see the suggestion of working as a co creator and envisioning how you want things to go. What do you want for yourself, or you and your family. What kind of connections do you want. Be as creative and imaginative, and extreme as you want.

The message I get from the angels, again and again, is calm. Take time to be calm, cool down from it all, take a rest, and feel your angel/guide next to you, supporting you and shielding you.

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

GROUP 6: 

seven of water, renewal, knight of earth, the inner voice

For some, I’m seeing being worried about the loyalty/faithfulness of another - the recommendation seems to be to look at the dedicated actions of the person. Do they display through action and practical means that you are their priority? (other than their purpose or work of course). Use this as an opportunity to both review if you feel you are receiving the level of dedication and care that you deserve and need.

Perhaps your person has been unfaithful in the past and you decided to give them another chance, but again, there is worry. There are too many factors that you may be holding onto from the past that have no part of the thought process you should be taking, or judging with currently.

So either way, it appears to be a time when you need to judge for yourself, are you able to trust the other or if this gives you what you need. Are you willing to go forward with it? Not just recklessly, not for the sake of it, but after great thought and deliberation.

For others, I’m seeing feeling at a loss as to what to do next in their life/career.I know all too well that this can feel scary and like a major crisis. Straight up, I can say from experience that the answers come gradually, and in a relaxed way in the right timing.

The guidance in both cases is to listen to your inner voice, your higher self.

I know, it sounds a bit annoying, or like it might not give you fast answers but it’s the way that you can feel confident in your own conclusion. It won’t come from anyone elses judgements, words or coercion.

Come to a point where you know you, you know what you want and need, and you only accept the right things.

When it comes to making your decision or conclusion, you may need to discern whether this comes from the angels or higher self, vs the ego. If it comes from the ego, it will speak in terms of winning, of gaining something, or appearing a certain way. If it’s from spirit, it’s often for the highest good of everyone involved, is sympathetic, loving and understanding. It does not judge, only seeks to help.

I would like to affirm for everyone here, that there is much love for you here. And let everything you do, be because of love. Of yourself, and others.

Thank you.

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

“Wowwwww that was a lot. Guys, I hope that helped in some tiny way.

I do this simply out of love. I wish you all the best.”

(A copy of an old pick a card reading by myself, not shown on this account until now)

[brave-clarice]

“Clarice” Liveblog: Episode 7

disclaimer: there’s going to be discussion of a lot of little details I disliked in this one, but as a whole, I liked it a lot better!

honestly? Clarice’s coworkers have every reason to question if she’s “okay” given what we’ve seen so far on this show.

and yeah, coming back from leave a week after being repeatedly tortured does “seem soon”.

AG Martin is using Clarice just as badly as Crawford ever did.

why does Krendler look so sharp? tailored waistcoat, crisp shirt...his costumes would look more in-character for Hannibal than Paul Krendler. I don’t get it.

not sure I like the “my people mined coal, so we know when we’re okay to work” flex, but...whatever.

she makes some truly uninspired costume and hair choices look great

“who am I, James Bond?” are you an FBI agent or aren’t you, Krendler?

BIG Jack Crawford and his Pepto Bismol vibes, but dammit, Krendler should NOT be like Crawford!

now Ardelia’s back to collaborating with Clarice on a case like it’s no big deal??? way to make her look like a hypocrite. again.

idk, I still think Ardelia could have an FBI subplot AND be part of Clarice’s life without constantly working with Clarice within an FBI context (their careers don’t really intersect in the books). those things aren’t mutually exclusive.

“he died instantly” um, is Clarice a medical examiner now? I know she’s got a forensics background, but she’s just now seeing the body.

“Cody didn’t feel any pain” how does Clarice know that and why is confident enough to say it to the kid’s mother?!

also, are victim’s family members usually allowed right into the crime scene like that? paging @special-agent-pendragon​!

“let’s talk when we can” Clarice, honey...you literally live with Ardelia, lmao.

the crooked lawyer’s office reminds me a LOT of Chilton’s office in Silence.

Paul Krendler: Good Guy and Faithful Husband...don’t know him!

and again...this is a waste of time on Clarice’s show.

she’s so dang cute!

hey, a reference to Ardelia’s grandma!

Clarice and Ardelia working on a case together at home, off the clock, is way more on brand!

also Clarice eating junk food...that’s my girl :)

I too sometimes eat Lucky Charms out of the box, haha.

omg, Ardelia’s actual grandma!!!

and: a reference to her frying pan, the one Clarice looks into after reading Hannibal’s letter!

Clarice is finally laughing and drinking and having a good time with her best friend...I’m so happy about it.

literally exactly what I wanted/this show NEEDED

“at least my father‘s still alive” oh...my god...they really made Ardelia Mapp say that to Clarice... I...don’t know what to say except that I hate it. the scene was so great otherwise, too.

to be clear, imo this is not an appropriate thing to say to your best friend, ever.

Clarice might be drunk, but her nonchalant reaction (giggling!) is all wrong too, particularly for this Clarice, who’s always been shown as deeply traumatized/haunted.

maybe I’m 100% off-base on this, but I feel like Ardelia’s backstory in this show is at odds with her career choice: why does she go into law enforcement at all? does she truly believe she can make a substantial difference? hope this is addressed at some point.

“I can’t believe you never told me that before” I know this is expository, but I can’t believe it, either, Clarice.

there’s no indication in the books that Mrs. Starling was “always angry” or that Clarice was intimidated by/scared of her outbursts. she saw her mother as a pillar of strength! I don’t like this change tbh.

“he was the law. he was important” mmm...Clarice’s father was not important, and that’s the core of the tragedy, of her anger. it’s why Hannibal calls him the “night watchman” and the reason the Starlings didn’t receive any money or support after his death. he was expendable.

to be fair, I guess maybe this is supposed to be what Clarice’s idea of him was as a child.

this scene is full of little things I don’t like, and Clarice’s father giving her the add-a-bead necklace is definitely one of them.

in the book, Hannibal guesses that Clarice is afraid her beads now look tacky (having been previously trendy in the early-to-mid-80s...so, well after her father’s death). there’s NO indication they had any sentimental value (in fact, they’re never mentioned again iirc)--and with four kids to support, how can he afford to give his eight- or ten-year-old daughter decent jewelry, anyway???

I like the IDEA and the FEELING of that scene. just not the dialogue. and the entire thing is slightly undercut (imo) by Ardelia’s earlier mean-spirited comment. idk. it was cute, but this show’s writing is its own worst enemy.

Ardelia called her “Starling”! :)

Clarice’s costume is yet again blah, while Ardelia’s is great...anything but 199x, though.

money shot!

whew...didn’t see THAT plot twist coming.

Good Guy Paul Krendler continues to be a thing for some reason.

does the Hoover building only have one hallway?

Krendler gaslighting Clarice because someone is blackmailing him doesn’t hit the same as Krendler undercutting her career because he’s a sexist jackass who wants to fuck her. sorry.

Good: Clarice laughing/smiling/joking/having fun with her friend! A (could-have-been-better) bonding scene with Ardelia. Clarice getting to work a field case and the iconic shots that come with that territory. Ardelia’s grandma! Not a single mention of the Bill case, thank God.

Bad: Some of Clarice’s snap forensic judgments...they just felt too fast and unconvincing to me. Everyone’s costumes and hair continue to underwhelm me. (Why has Paul Krendler stolen Hannibal’s wardrobe? Why can’t Clarice wear something even remotely exciting?) Ardelia’s awful “at least my father’s still alive” comment. The muddled implications about Clarice’s mother (especially in an episode about an abusive mother).

Ugly: Krendler subplot, as usual.

Overall? Better. Much better. Absolutely a case of “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts”. Despite its subject matter, this episode was a lot more pleasant to watch than the previous two. Clarice had a limited amount of character development beyond “doe-eyed and traumatized,” she actually got to laugh, enjoy life, eat junk food (!) and solve a case with a friend before it all went to hell. 

I want more, though. The writing leaves a lot to be desired. There were a lot of small details of which I was critical, namely Ardelia’s insensitivity towards her best friend (unfortunately, this seems to be part of a pattern) and several minor but jarring and pointless changes to the books (mostly having to do with the Starlings). Most of the ViCAP team is still pretty one-dimensional, Krendler continues to get way too much screentime, Ardelia is hit-or-miss.

And Rebecca Breeds has to milk every moment and every line for whatever nutritional value it’s worth re: Clarice’s character. Even after seven episodes, I don’t feel as Rebecca’s Clarice has been allowed to fully emerge as the iconic character we know from the books. But I’ll keep on hoping...after all, there are at least three episodes to go!

[stillness-in-green]

If it's any consolation, I'm sure that the Advisors and the rest of the MLA (Re-Destro, Trumpet, Geten) will show back up sooner than the final arc, just because we're going into Year 2 and the students would find great 1 on 1 or team opponents with the Advisors. Re-Destro and Geten are heavy hitters (and Geten could be tied to Dabi, Shoto and all that somehow) and they were locked up with Mr. Compress and Machia, but who do you want to see first from the Advisors?

Thanks, anon; I certainly do hope we'll get to see more of them.  Admittedly, my main concern is that I so liked what was going on with the Paranormal Liberation Front that even if we do see all of the MLA types again, if it's only in the context of speedbump battles for the students, that's still going to be a letdown.  Better than nothing, to be sure, but I really do want them to join back up with the League, even a League that's confused and out of sorts under All For One's hand.  I love RD's big spiritual-awakening-flavored crush on Shigaraki, the cross-organization tensions and relationships, just as much as I love the depth the MLA brings to the world outside of just what's going on with the heroes.

I'm fairly frustrated with how the MLA fared during and after the raid, largely because it's awfully hard not to conclude that, if what we have right now is all the erstwhile-MLA are ever going to come to, Shigaraki would have been significantly better off if he'd just killed them all and shacked up with Ujiko for four months.  And that would be such a waste!  The end of My Villain Academia was such an enormous triumph for Shigaraki! I want his victory to amount to something more than what we've seen, something that shows that both his strength and his mercy will pay off for him in the long-term, will be a concrete benefit to him rather than, with the benefit of hindsight, the reason everything went so wrong.

Particularly with Re-Destro, since Horikoshi saw fit to have Dark Shadow all but one-shot the man, and Edgeshot defeat him off-panel, it's really not going to mean much to me for him to have a big fight with students unconnected to anything else.  The drama's rather gone out of it at this point.  That's particularly the case since, if he's no longer connected to Shigaraki's plot, it's that much easier for him to just be off-paneled and forgotten about.  But, if Rikiya gets looped back in with the League, if his gratitude and admiration of Shigaraki mean he still has a role to play in Shigaraki's arc, that makes it much easier to get invested in any fights that role will lead him to. Ditto the MLA more broadly; it's categorically ridiculous to present that organization with the kinds of numbers, breadth of influence and legitimate grievances they have, only to try to sweep them back under the rug exactly like Shigaraki accuses heroes of doing with everyone they can't save. 

To say the least, I'm pretty invested.  But I appreciate your consolations and am trying to hold out hope that we'll get some good stuff with them yet!

My anxieties aside, and to hit the other portion of your ask--who would I like to see first among the Advisors?--hit the jump:

(All nicknames and shorthand are taken from this post.) 

Well, it'd be nice if they could all get at least as much to do as the Eight Bullets back during the Hassaikai arc, seeing as they got a similar splash page spread introducing all their faces.  There are considerably more than eight of them, of course, but even if they never get more attention than e.g. Galvanize or the hose-faced guy who iced Midnight did, at least then we'd have some idea of their power sets and at least one angle on their personality.

Assuming we aren’t going to get full breakdowns on every single one of them, there are still four things I'd really like to see happen with the MLA/the Advisors: the student fights we're expecting, the jailbreaks we're being told about, the reunion with the League I'm praying for, and for literally anyone in the in-world media to try and get their side of the story.

Student Fights: Seeing the guy who killed Midnight again is as sure a bet as any of these get.  Momo is an important enough character, with enough sustained arc, that she will have to get something else to do before the series is over.  Taking command of a group battle against real opponents--ones with more responsiveness and agency than Gigantomachia--would be in-line with what she's been moving towards so far.  I would, however, love it if that fight would be more challenging than a straightforward battle of tactics.

I headcanon Hose Face and Scarecrow as, respectively, an ex-con and a dude with physical disabilities--both people who have ample reason to want to change the series' status quo irt human rights abuses in prison and overly restrictive quirk use laws.  I'm not expecting the canon to validate me on what amount to wild guesses, of course, but I want those Advisors in particular to have motivations more nuanced than, "They're quirk supremacists; who cares why they're willing to put their lives on the line over this?"

A feel-good revenge match in which a bunch of teenagers lay the smack down on characters whose humanity the audience is asked neither to know nor care about would be lazy, and counterproductive to the series' current thematic concerns. Give Momo her victory, by all means, but don't give it to her easy.  A confrontation like this would be a good way for the less central Class A students to begin wrestling with the question of who, exactly, heroes "save" and what it is that people need to be saved from, exactly the way Deku and Uraraka and Shouto are now wrestling with these questions.

As far as other fights go, I'd also love to see Brand and The Question pop up again. They're probably the two I'm most curious about purely in terms of what their quirks are.  Why does The Question wear a mask, and what's he like that he wound up in Mr. Compress's chain of command?  And with Brand, what kind of quirk does he have that's powerful enough to land him a ranked position in the Guerilla Warfare Regiment but indirect enough that he fights with a sword?

Prison Breaks: I wouldn't expect this to be particularly involved, probably more of an aside than anything, but I want the Bindi Ladies to spring Hole Punch Face, thus getting us an angle on what's going on with that particular trio.  Aviator Teeth can come too because I want at least some hints about what his deal is.

I'd also love to watch Horikoshi even attempt to retroactively justify some of the logistics of the single-day capture and subsequent detention of 17,000 super-powered, combat-trained people.*  I mean, I don't think there are any feasible explanations for that, but I'd be curious to see what he'd come up with, especially if every possible answer just makes Hero Society look worse! We have only ever seen Tartarus as an example of the prison conditions in this country; I'd love to hear more, and an MLA-focused jailbreak would be a great way to show it.

PLF Reunion: Of course, my number one thing to see with a reunion is Re-Destro being just as dismayed as Spinner is over Tomura's possession.  I crave more serious attention being paid to Rikiya's profound awe over Shigaraki's freedom, and would love to see his reaction to Shigaraki apparently losing that freedom.

Aside from the obvious, though, if the PLF does start piecing itself back together, I expect to see Sanctum again, given the attention he's gotten so far, and the fact that he's now the highest-ranked member of the Tactics Regiment.  It'd be great to get some explanation for how he can possibly be "the longest-serving member of the Liberation Army," given that the Army was generations old already when Re-Destro was just a child.  (If we do get that information, I imagine my own explanation will be jossed hugely, so I would also be happy to take time with Sanctum that doesn't explain the discrepancy but also doesn't invalidate my headcanon.)  

In the context of the regiments reforming, I'd also like to see Nimble and Aster, both because this manga needs more women, and because I'd like to see more of how Spinner and Toga interact with the people they were nominally commanding.

Media Attention: Trumpet's my number one hope here--the lack of any look into the state of the government in HeroAca Japan has been a total let-down since his introduction**, but I was particularly annoyed that the last time we saw him he was smiling (albeit in a fairly haggard way), giving me hope that we might next see him doing his part to portray all of this in a light that would sway public opinion.  And then literally one chapter later, we get prison guards talking about how the Hearts & Minds Party, a perfectly legitimized political party with representation on the national level, has been perfunctorily dissolved less than twelve hours from when the raid started.  How is there even an argument that the system heroes were upholding desperately needs to change?

I'm very tired of the media in BNHA only ever showing up to beg for/demand that heroes tell them what’s going on, particularly those damn press conferences. Journalists do investigative work! Newspapers employ reporters to actively seek out news!  Reporters in free countries don't just sit around waiting for the government or heads of major industries to graciously hand them press releases!  For heaven's sake, Trumpet was the head of a major political party.  People should be foaming at the mouth trying to get a statement from him!  

Especially with public trust in heroes breaking down, there should absolutely be intrepid reporters out there looking to get to the bottom of any of the layered conspiracies the public's just been hit with and told to just write-off as a bump in the road on the return to normalcy.

Anyway, Trumpet's the obvious choice, but if I could be sure the manga would validate my headcanons about Nimble and Scarecrow's disabilities, I'd be happy to put them in this position, too.  Trucker Toad would be another good candidate, if there's any basis to my idea that he is or used to be a transport driver who's seen a lot of the country outside the areas e.g. the Top Ten Heroes are patrolling.  He's obviously a good candidate for getting back to that idea of anti-heteromorph bias, too.  But really, I'd take anyone who can give a cogent explanation of the MLA's position on self-determination and the various ways Hero Society has exacerbated quirk-based discrimination.

Anyway, that's about where my thoughts are on where I hope the MLA people are and what we might see of them.  Thanks for the ask!

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

*Or as many as 100,000 more than that, depending on how through the statement, "Their bases around the country were also attacked, and their supporters rounded up," was meant to be.  An influx of 116K people, incidentally, would triple Japan's current carceral population.

**Why! Why would you introduce a politician and then never even glance at your setting's political situation??

[songfell-ut]

Chapter 2, bc this is happening

Yo. I’m charging ahead on this project because I’m a terrible mother and my kid is getting a lot of (educational) screen time during the day while my husband works from home and I get this written. It remains based on this comic by @lostmypotatoes​. It’s so long that I split off the end and it’s mutating into Chapter 3. Lots of talking, with Stuff to come of it very soon, no worries.

Now featuring a cut! Thanks (what’s an easy nickname for you? “Lost”? “‘Tatoes?”) for the tip on how to very easily do that.

Lastly, I have login shenanigans to deal with, and have been chatting with Lost (?) using @ikustioa on my phone, so I suppose that’s my blogging/personal handle now. Anyway, here we go:

~

Three nights later, Sans woke with a jerk. Someone in the next room was sobbing. It wasn't a memory or nightmare, he realized a moment later, and it wasn't the priestess; it was a small child, crying so hard that it could barely breathe. Steeling himself, the boss monster slid out of bed and listened intently.

He heard a woman whisper something, and the child's sobs quieted as a familiar sound came through the door. It was the same humming that had de-powered his blaster the other day, though not the same tune. The skeleton took a moment to be sure that the glow in his eyes was out, then cracked the bedroom door open.

Frisk was kneeling, bare-headed, with her arms around a little boy of perhaps eight or nine years. In the light of one lamp on the worktable, Sans saw a dark patch of blood in the child's hair. Frisk glanced at the skeleton, giving him a wan smile, still humming. Sans closed the door enough that the child wouldn't see him.

The priestess waited till the boy had calmed down to the occasional sniffle, then leaned back and reached for something on the table. "I've got a treat for you," she said cheerfully. "Do you like peppermint?"

The child thought it over, and nodded.

"Wonderful, because that's exactly what this is. You'll feel better in no time." She held out a glass bottle. "You can have three big swallows, but only three, all right?"

Well played, Sans thought, framing it as something he got to have, not something he had to take. Sure enough, the little boy gulped it right down, smacking his lips as the young woman retrieved the bottle. "Good. Can you do something very important for me?" she asked. Nod, nod. "Can you lie down and count to one hundred? That'll make the magic work better. Let's go to my office."

The child went with her quite willingly. After a few minutes, the High Priestess re-emerged into Sans' field of vision. Her pleasant expression was gone, replaced with one that actually made him feel a little sorry for whoever had pissed her off. Then he remembered the blood on the kid's head. "Anybody you want me ta kill?" he asked through the door.

"Don't tempt me." Frisk jerked a sheet of paper from a stack on the desk, grabbed a pen, and began writing rapidly.

Sans checked the time. "God damn, what's that kid doing awake at two in the morning?"

"Being beaten." The pen scratched viciously across the page.

He decided to shut up. Frisk soon finished the message, blew the ink dry and folded the paper in thirds, then sealed it and marched to the outer door, where she woke up the guard on duty. Sans heard her reaming the guy about doing his job properly, serving a writ, and not letting a guy out of the castle. She came back in, only to return to the office.

This seemed to be typical for her, as far as Sans could tell, though it usually wasn't this dramatic or this late at night. If she wasn't off at church or giving him lessons, she was talking to someone who needed help and apparently couldn't get it elsewhere. He had yet to see her do something for fun, or sleep more than five hours at a time.

Meanwhile, his daily routine had been surprisingly low-key. The first day, after being flagrantly mind-controlled into agreeing to stay, he'd eaten some more, then slept for another dreamless twenty-four hours. The next morning, she'd let him have another pile of food, then started his apprenticeship by showing him the most common ingredients for potions and how to identify them by sight, as he couldn't smell and didn't have much sense of touch. Yesterday had been a review, emphasizing that a mistake could literally kill someone, and she'd given him a book of basic recipes, asking him to make a list of any ingredients he found that she hadn't already introduced.

It was kind of annoying to have homework, and he was starting to get cabin fever, but otherwise, the whole experience hadn't been too terrible. He was relieved and disappointed that she kept the veil on almost all the time, which reduced the distraction somewhat, though she persisted in having a fantastic shape, and he was really starting to enjoy the sound of her voice. When he could focus enough to ask questions, she was patient and encouraging, and let him use all the paper he wanted to write down the answers. She was obviously pleased that he cared enough to take notes, though not in a smug or irritating way; it just made her happy, and that made him...not unhappy.

It was also still novel to talk to a human who wasn't afraid of him. He hadn't seen many humans up here besides the little boy, and figured they were forbidden to come into her rooms unless they desperately needed help, or could sneak past a sleeping guard. That was fine with Sans, though he'd overheard one cleaning lady being so persistent that he really wanted to come out of the bedroom and tell her to piss off. Unsurprisingly, Frisk had asked him to not do that.

There were only a few real mysteries so far. One was a pile of letters she'd brought in on the second day and tossed into a basket of also-unopened envelopes standing by the roaring fireplace in her workshop. He'd caught her looking at the basket a couple of times, as if debating whether to burn them all, but she never did it, or opened any in front of him.

The biggest question was how she knew he could teleport, and the nature of his blue magic, even if was getting more red than blue these days. He had unthinkingly used the latter to grab a couple things yesterday, and his magic had almost immediately died out. He didn't know exactly how she was doing it, but her barriers weren't just blocking him in: they kept his power so muted that he couldn't have summoned a single bone. It seemed that he'd be allowed to use some magic to make the actual potions, and that was it.

Well, there was time to worry about that later. The injured kid had made him think of Kris again, which made him think of the book passage Frisk had quoted at him. He'd have to ask if she...wait, no, he didn't have to ask. She'd given him carte blanche to read anything he found in her bedroom or workshop. Sans tapped the nearest witchlight on, noting that it was much weaker than the ones Underground, and started perusing the shelves.

Fifteen minutes later, Frisk knocked on the door, waiting for him to grunt acknowledgement before she came in. "I'm sorry for waking you," she said, dropping into her chair with a deep sigh. "There's going to be hell to pay in the morning."

She did look like hell, with bags under her eyes and a smear of blood on her cheek. Sans put the book down and tapped his own face, and she got the hint, rubbing her cheek with the back of her hand. "Ugh. That poor child." She sighed again, curling up and resting her head on the arm of the chair. "I'll wash up in a minute."

"Didn't you just get back from a thing?" he asked, wondering if she was always this cavalier about bodily fluids.

"Yes. His Holiness decided we needed more midnight services, and I have to be there every other night." She rubbed her eyes. "Flynn must have followed me back here. People aren't supposed to know where I live, but word is spreading. At this rate, I'll have to move again."

Sans drummed his fingertips on the bedpost. She'd found an oversized stool to use in the workshop, but there were no armchairs big enough for him, so he spent most of his leisure time on the bed. "Bein' High Priestess sucks. How long ya been at it?"

"Three years. The last Thea was assassinated, and they had to find a replacement as fast as possible. Out of all the minor priestesses available, I was the only one who passed all the tests. It's been...instructive."

"Hm." That didn't surprise him. A human strong enough to block a boss monster's focused attack had to be pretty rare. "How old are ya, anyway?" he asked, suddenly curious.

Her eyes shut. "Twenty-two. I was educated in a convent, ordained at sixeen, High Priestess at nineteen." A mighty yawn was partly hidden in her arm. "Lucky me."

Sans didn't know much about humans, but he was pretty sure that was young as hell for so much responsibility. The problem was that she was good enough to handle it, which meant they'd pile on more and more until she went nuts. "Nah, it sucks ta be you. Any way you can get out of it?"

"Well," she mumbled, eyes still closed, "I can die, or marry, or go back to the convent and become the Mother Superior, which would also be until I die." Frisk yawned again. "The Feast of All Saints is next week. That's when the last High Priestess was murdered."

Something prickled up Sans' spine. "You spend all yer time doin' church stuff, kissing babies and healin' puppies or whatever. Why the hell would anyone wanna kill you?"

"I meant it when I said I have influence in the Church and at court. I don't hate monsters, which is inconvenient for several people, and I'm not quiet about it, which is extremely inconvenient for many more of them. Besides, my natural father is very wealthy, and his other childr—"

"'Natural' father?" he queried. "What, do some humans have unnatural kids?"

Her eyes opened. She looked lovely in the soft light, but troubled and sad, so much that he wished he hadn't asked. "I'm illegitimate. My father never married my mother, and our life was...bad. Very hard, for a very long time." The priestess rubbed her fingertips together, as if seeing more dried blood. "He was a very busy man, but he only has one legitimate heir. After his second wife died, he started tracking down his children born out of wedlock, and it's an open secret that he'll leave each of us a large amount after he passes."

"And whoever's left gets a bigger piece of the pie?" Sans guessed.

"Exactly. As far as I know, there were fourteen or fifteen of us, but magic runs in his side of the family, and most of his children became sorcerers. Almost all of my half-brothers have been killed fighting monsters. Two of my half-sisters blew up in an experiment that went wrong. There are only six of us left, including the—his heir."

Sans' eyes narrowed. "What is it with humans an' explodin' stuff by accident?"

He couldn't read the look on her face. "If we knew the answer to that, history would have taken a much better course."

Of course, that made him think of Kris again. It seemed pretty inevitable, so he might as well ask... "I don't s'pose," he mumbled, "there's a record of the humans who went t'the Underground on that last trip? Maybe what happened to 'em after they got back?"

Frisk raised her head a little. "That depends. We know exactly which nobles, sorcerers, and other dignitaries attended. Do you mean one of them?"

"Nah, this was a servant, I think. Prob'ly. I dunno." The skeleton felt his eyes lighting up again. "He was only 4 or 5. S'comin' up on thirteen years ago, so he'd'a grown up by now."

The priestess frowned. "No one that young was in attendance, so far as I know, and I've read every account that I could find. May I ask why you want to know?"

"Nah." Sans flexed his hand around the bedpost. "Forget it."

Frisk sighed, carving a design into the plush chair with her thumbnail. "Well, I'm afraid the answer is no. There's no record of the servants who came along, except the ones who were killed, and that didn't include any children. You'd have to check with each of the—" She sat up. "Wait. I know someone who was there—my mother. Do you want me to ask her?"

"Hell yes, I do!" Sans' hand tightened, splintering the bedpost. He guiltily released it. "Did she talk much about it? What all did she tell ya? Can I ask 'er a coupla things?"

The priestess laughed, quieting him with a wave of her hand. "Sans, please! She's been very sick recently, and I don't want to excite her too much. I will ask her anything you need to know, thank you. And yes, she talked about it to anyone who'd listen. She's the one who told me all about monsters, and what you're actually like."

Sans sat forward, but she forestalled more questions with another gesture. "First, her name is Rosa. Did you ever meet her?"

It did sound familiar. "I think so. Little, blonde, wore her hair up?"

"That's her. She would've been in charge of any children they brought along, but she never mentioned any of them to me." Frisk tapped her finger on the chair arm. "She did say there were things she wasn't allowed to talk about. She worked for the Duke as a nurse, and she would never disobey him."

He wondered for a moment if that meant the guy was Frisk's father, but was too excited to dwell on it. "What'd she say about us?" he asked curiously.

Frisk hesitated. "Well...she didn't talk very much with individual monsters, but she said the Queen was very kind and made sure to tell each of the humans how glad she was to have them visit. The King was also very courteous. He tried his best not to frighten anyone, and he thought it was rude that the servants weren't allowed to eat with the nobles."

Sans' foot started tapping. She raised an eyebrow at him, and he reluctantly stopped. "Who else?" he demanded.

The next moment, they both heard the office door open into the workshop. "Miss?" came a plaintive voice.

Frisk was at the bedroom door in an instant. "What is it, Flynn?" She closed the door most of the way.

Damn it all to hell. Sans grumpily listened to the child explain that he'd scratched his head and sorry, there was blood on the couch now. Frisk explained that wounds got itchy as they healed, and to please not scratch it, and that it would be much better to wipe his hands on the towel she'd put down than on the furniture. Then he had to be cleaned up again and a bigger bandage applied, and someone was sent for to take the boy somewhere he could sleep safely.

A thought stabbed at him as he listened to the proceedings: that was how she knew he could teleport and zip things around without touching them. King Asgore had insisted the monsters show off their powers in various amusing ways so that the humans would be less afraid of their magic. Sans thought it was a bad idea at the time, and look what came of it!

Frisk eventually came back to the bedroom, drying her hands on her skirt. "Let's cut t'the chase," Sans said quietly as she sat down. "Did she tell ya about any skeletons?"

"Yes." Frisk folded her hands and looked straight at him. "Two brothers, Sans and Papyrus."

Sans laced his fingers together to avoid accidentally destroying anything else. "And...?"

"She liked them very much," Frisk said calmly, "especially Papyrus. Sans was friendly, but she said he watched their every move, and it made them nervous." The priestess smoothed her skirt over her knees. "Papyrus was a joy to be around. He was very full of himself, but there wasn't a mean bone in his body, and he considered it his duty to welcome the humans as much as possible. My mother talked about him more than any other monster." She coughed. "Apparently, his spaghetti was terrible."

"...Sounds about right."

Frisk looked at him sharply. "I wanted to ask you about that, but...are you all right?"

Sans couldn't answer. He'd avoided thinking too much about home, especially the fact that he'd already been gone for a week when he got caught. It'd been easy to tell himself that he could always bust out of here if he needed to, or that the lady would let him send a message or even go have a quick visit before coming back here, but...

"Are you Papyrus' brother?" Frisk asked.

"Yeah," he ground out.

The priestess shook her head. "I don't understand. R—Mother said that Sans was shorter than any of the humans who came to the Underground, and the only boss monsters mentioned in the official histories are Asgore and Toriel. Can you tell me what happened? I wasn't sure if you were the same skeleton, you seem so diff—"

"A lot of shit happened, that's what." Sans lurched to his feet, and she had to tip her head back to look up at him. His sockets were glowing again. "Ya know what? I'm tired, an' you look like crap. Time for night-night." He jerked the door open, rattling the hinges. "Good luck cleanin' up. Blood's a bitch to get out. Trust me, I know."

She rose quietly, folding her hands in the style he recognized from the very first time he'd seen her. "All right, then. Good night, Sans," she said, and walked past him, out of the room.

He didn't slam the doors shut behind her, but it was pretty close.

~

Once she had control of herself again, Frisk wiped her eyes and resumed scrubbing the couch. She kept glancing underneath it, and as she threw yet another towel into the laundry basket, she decided, To hell with it, and pulled the couch aside. A nearly invisible seam in the floor showed where a board could be pried up to access her hidden safe. There was no lid, no lock, and no key, just a solid golden film that vanished when she pressed her thumb into its center.

The High Priestess surveyed the contents: several tight-folded papers, a bag of high-value dinar, a sack of silver ingots, a few pieces of jewelry, and a small box. She selected the box and removed its rosewood lid to reveal a tiny glass orb, something swirling around on its surface like smoke. She stared at it for so long that her knees began aching, but she didn't notice. Her vision blurred again, and she jammed the lid back on the little box, shoving everything back into the safe, re-sealing it, thumping the floorboard into place and pushing the couch back. Not today, she told herself fiercely. She didn't care what Sans said or how he acted. It couldn't be worth it. Nothing could!

~

The next day, after a late breakfast, Frisk quizzed him on the differences between various herbs and powdered animal bits and their uses; they looked over the list he'd made of new ingredients, going through the recipes and identifying how each item worked in each potion. That was the first time she demonstrated how to mix and infuse something, and the first time she warned him, "You have to be careful how you feel when you make potions. Intent is always important when you're using magic—you fully intend to cause damage, and I fully intend to protect, which is why we're good at what we do, yes?"

He shrugged philosophically, and she half-smiled. "Well," she continued, "it's similar when you're making something for someone else to take. If you're in a foul mood and you want to cause harm, or you simply don't want the person to get better, you might as well be concocting poison, or giving them water. Of course, your feelings don't matter if you're just throwing herbs into a pot, but these work as well as they do because you're putting a tiny bit of yourself into it. You have to make sure that it's a good bit."

"Pretty sure all my bits are bad by now," Sans remarked. "How's about I make some poison instead?"

Frisk shook her head, leaning over the table. "No one is all bad, Sans. Here." She took the glass stirrer out of the miniature cauldron bubbling away in the middle of their workspace. "I'll infuse it now. Watch."

He did observe closely as she bent forward, though probably not the way she'd intended; he just made sure he was looking at the potion when she glanced up at him. "Try thinking of someone you care for, and imagine it's for them." She opened her hand over the cauldron and, to his surprise, let out a low whistle, piercingly sweet.

A mote of light drifted from her palm and settled into the mixture. It seemed to sparkle for a moment, then resumed being a potion. When he concentrated, though, he could feel a little tingle of magic in it. "I won't ask you to try it till you have better control of your emotions," she said. "Right now, you're so angry that I don't know what would happen."

A different note had crept into her voice. Sans shifted his bony weight on the stool. "S'not like I can help it."

"Perhaps," she said. "You probably don't even notice it anymore. It's become a part of you, through whatever stuff has happened since the humans left the Underground. And before you ask, my mother is ill again. We can't speak with her until she's better."

There it was; he'd wondered if she was going to pretend he'd never snapped at her. "Well, you can only ask me so many personal questions before I get touchy, lady. Frisk." He tapped the worktable a couple of times. "Look, I know ya have a lot on yer plate, an' havin' to deal with me isn't much help. I just want t'know...is there any way to tell the others I'm not dead or somethin'? My brother's gotta be out of his mind by now, and I don' want someone comin' after me and gettin' caught."

Frisk shook her head, and his SOUL sank to the floor. "I'm sorry, Sans, but that's out of the question," she said, soft but firm. "Our King has forbidden any humans from coming within a day's walk of the entrance to the Underground, and let's be very honest—what would happen if a human came up to you out of nowhere and said they had an important message to give the monsters?"

Sans' jaw clenched so hard that the priestess put her hand out, not quite touching his arm. "Sans, please. If there was any way to—"

"Forget it, okay? Just...never mind." The skeleton glared at the windows facing out from the workroom. Like everything else in this damn place, they were too small for him to fit more than his head through. He'd gone through this in his own mind a dozen times: even if he could break through the wood and stone, he could sense the barrier set behind the wall to block his shortcuts. The one along the outside wall was heavier than the ones in the bedroom, which were permeable, purely there to track his movements. It was debatable whether this one could be physically broken with...something, but the moment he tried, she would know he was trying and stop him with a stronger barrier.

Hmm. What if...what if he waited till she wasn't here and couldn't get back in time to stop him? If he broke through when she was distracted, and far enough away – say, doing her church stuff in the middle of the night – then there wouldn't be much she could do. He could escape and decide later whether he wanted to come back or—

Wait. Come back? What the hell was he thinking? Why would he choose to be locked up by any human? No matter how pretty, and gutsy, and sweet and nice-voiced and...

Crap.

Anyway. He wouldn't come back. He'd have to be sure to grab his notes and a few books for Alphys; Frisk could always get more copies. He already had plenty to report to King Asgore, though he felt a little uneasy about letting ol' Gorey know that the most powerful barrier-making human was a determined sorceress whose SOUL could probably make you invincible. Actually, he felt a lot uneasy. Maybe he'd keep that to himself for now.

Too bad he couldn't bring her with him...

"...ans. Sans?" Frisk was touching his radius. She'd lifted her veil, large brown eyes turned up to his. "Are you all right?"

Sans studied her for a long moment, reflecting that Papyrus had always wanted a pet. The idea was more appealing than he'd have liked to admit; he had to dismiss it with a shake of his head, and shake it again to get it loose. "'m fine, kid. Remind me what this stuff was for?" After all, he thought darkly, he'd always told Pap no. Pets were too much trouble, especially if you got attached to them. Besides, what would they feed her?

A knock on the outer door startled them both. Before Frisk could respond, the door opened, and in strode a tall, thin man in dark robes, holding a box under his arm. "High Priestess. Honored guest," the man said in a cool, whispery voice, giving them a short bow.

"Dr. Serif? This is a surprise," the High Priestess responded, replacing the veil as she stood up. "I wasn't expecting you so early. Sans, this is Dr. Serif, the royal sorcerer. Doctor, please meet Sans the skeleton."

The man regarded Sans with mild curiosity. "I am very pleased to see you again, Sans the skeleton. Has Her Eminence been treating you well?"

"Uh...yeah," said Sans, nonplussed. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

The royal sorcerer bowed again. He was unnervingly pale, the effect enhanced by dark eyes and long black hair framing his face. "I helped transport you from your cell to this room."

"It took magic," Frisk said helpfully.

He'd figured as much; magic was the only way humans could do any damn thing. The boss monster looked at the box under the doctor's arm, which had a strange feel to it. He couldn't tell what it was, but he knew he didn't like it.

"This is for you, as we discussed, Your Eminence," the man said smoothly. "I will leave it in your office."

Frisk looked so uncomfortable that Sans glanced at the sorcerer, but nothing was visibly wrong. The man ignored them both, striding past the table and opening the door to her office. They heard rustling, and the doors closing as he stepped back into the workroom. "That will be all. Good day, my lady, Sans." With another bow, the doctor turned and left.

"Weirdo," said the ten-foot skeleton. He found he didn't want to look away from the door lest the guy come back and catch him unawares. He hadn't been threatening, but something about him was very off.

"He's...unique." Frisk sat down again. "Now, this infusion is almost ready. We'll leave it at room temperature for another ten minutes or so before we stir it again. In the meantime, you can add two drops of peppermint oil, mint, orange or lemon extract..."

~

The rest of the day passed without major incident. Frisk had to stop in the middle of concocting a burn salve and leave Sans to finish it, though she cautioned him not to infuse it yet. She rather envied him; she had to walk to the other side of the castle to go over her parish's monthly accounts, balancing foot-long columns of tiny numbers to check that tithes and alms had come in and gone out properly. They never quite did, though it had gotten better in the past year, as she had made it increasingly clear that she was not interested in stealing from the poor or turning a blind eye to it, even for a few hundred extra dinar in her own column.

The attempts at bribery were particularly insulting because she didn't need it. The realm's High Priestess was entitled to half a percent of the Church's total monthly income, and through the magic of frugality and compound interest, her personal fortune had grown to the point where she didn't want to use any of it. Life was so strange; as a small child, she had only eaten once every couple of days, and now she could decide not to buy her own estate and maintain a huge staff for it.

She was starting to wonder, though, about a rumor she'd heard regarding several hundred acres of land that would supposedly be up for sale in the next few months. They were principally wheat and barley fields, no more than two days' walk from the Underground's main entrance. That was food for thought, indeed.

Frisk eventually finished and stopped by the kitchens on her way back to her room. Sans was still wary of what he ate, and she took care to have more than one damned fork now when she tasted his food for him. She wasn't worried for herself: if she didn't have time to eat in the kitchen, she routinely paid several of the staff a bit extra to make sure that everything they brought her had come straight from the pot or the pan, with no chance for someone to add any surprises.

That had felt hypocritical at first, but she'd soon realized that she couldn't rely on people's consciences or sense of duty to keep her safe. Many, like the guard captain, were loyal for loyalty's sake, but many more of them needed external motivation, and she was helping the cooks and servers support their families. And she wasn't literally stealing from orphans to do it!

An overstuffed basket sat outside her chambers, and the guard hastened to open the door and push it inside for her. Frisk carried the tray to the table, setting it by Sans' elbow as he compared nearly identical recipes in two separate books. Then she dragged the laundry basket over, pulling a sail-like garment out end over end. "Here you are," she said around an armful of fabric.

The skeleton looked up, scowling at the interruption. "Wha?"

"This is for you." Frisk tried to hold up an enormous shirt, then an enormous set of trousers. "I had them measure your clothes when we washed them for you. They made you another set."

Sans slowly got up and took the shirt from her, holding it against himself. It was sturdy linen, almost as thick as the canvas shirt he wore now and much softer. The skeleton turned it this way and that, poking the material. "What's this for?"

Pause. "It's a shirt," said Frisk. "It goes on the top half of your body. Humans need it for protection against the elements, and modesty, but for you, it's principally so that you have a shirt on."

He acknowledged her smartassery with a respectful nod. "I mean, wasn't this a pain to make? I hope nobody expects me t'pay fer this. Not my fault if what I got on ain't pretty enough for ya."

"Oh, it was. Getting something that size made up so quickly cost me more than I paid for all the clothes I've had this year combined. But you're not a slave, you're my apprentice. That means you're working for me, and I'm keeping track of your wages. It'll take a while to pay this off—" Frisk stuck her arm through one of the trouser legs, flapping it to shake it out. "—but I think you'll manage it before you leave."

Sans had another odd expression. "Yer payin' me for the stuff I make? I thought apprentices were the ones payin' to learn."

"I consider the knowledge you'll bring back to the Underground to be your apprenticeship fee, and as this arrangement wasn't your idea in the first place, we're bending the rules," she said patiently. "I see you've made three sets of burn salve, two of which look useable, and you're almost done with a cough elixir. Fair market value for those is about ten dinar total, so minus the infusion I'll do for you, you've earned about seven already."

"Hm." He scratched the side of his head. "What am I payin' you for my food?"

Frisk laughed, shaking out the other leg. "The pleasure of your company." At his blank stare, she shook her head and uncovered the tray. "No one charges their apprentice for room and board, Sans." The priestess put down the trousers, picked up the fork and leaned in for a bite of baked fish.

The skeleton pulled the tray away, making her stab the table instead. "If I owe ya money, you're definitely not gonna poison me," he pointed out, and began shoveling it in.

"You're right," Frisk said gravely, trying and failing to hide her grin. "I'm glad you've had time to mullet over."

Sans pounded the table with his free fist, rattling the glass vials. "Might as well, just for the halibut. Right?"

She covered her mouth with the back of her hand. "That was weak. Think of a better one and let minnow," she said around it.

"You're right," he said, and waited for her to take a bite before he added, "We really need to scale back."

They had to stop laughing long enough to eat. By the time dinner was over and Frisk had carried the dishes out, both were relaxed enough to be sleepy. "Dunno why I keep wantin' to go t'bed, all I've done is read 'n catnap," mumbled Sans, trudging into the bedroom and flopping onto the mattress. "'m not even usin' my damn magic."

"You're eating human food, so your body is getting more nutrition and working harder to process it," Frisk pointed out, settling into her chair. "Mother said the humans all had to eat more to stop being hungry Underground." She tried not to burp out loud. "Besides, you're probably still recovering from the energy you spent being captured and then trying to kill me. Thrice."

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that." The skeleton stretched all the phalanges of his toes, flexing them in turn. "Probably won't do it again," he added truthfully.

"Thank you." Frisk also stretched her legs out, Sans noticing how absurdly tiny her feet were as she got up from her chair with the recipe book. She reached down to dog-ear the page they were on. "Well, I—"

He whisked the book out of her hand and flipped it open to smooth the page out. "Use a bookmark, woman! What are ya, some kinda barbarian?"

"It's an old book! They're all creased anyway," she argued, trying to take it back. He held it over his head, roughly a mile out of reach. "All right, then, fine," she said with a smirk. "I'm going to take a bath. Read through and find five more ingredients to discuss when I get back." She shut the door on quiet skeletal griping, smiling to herself.

~

The next day passed in a similar fashion, at least outwardly. Frisk took careful note of everything Sans made, ignoring his suggestion to dock him the price of the ingredients when he screwed up; luckily, he was catching on fast, even if she wouldn't let him infuse anything yet. She also wouldn't tell him how much his new clothing had cost, saying only that she'd let him know when he broke even. What really got his attention was her adding, "If you make enough money, we'll send a few bushels of wheat back with you. No one can be upset that you were gone for so long if you come bearing gifts, can they?"

Sans was glad he didn't have facial muscles or anything similar to betray his inner turmoil. He'd had a lot of second thoughts last night about bashing his way out of here, due in small part to the new outfit and the possibility of bringing food to the Underground, but mostly because she was working her brain-magic on him again, being attractive and kind and easy to talk to like the terrible, sadistic person she was...not. She was not remotely terrible or sadistic, and that was the problem. He still didn't understand it, or how it was getting worse so much quicker than he'd anticipated. He just wanted to get away before she entangled him any further.

Then he'd started thinking of Snowdin right before he fell asleep, and for the first time since he'd been captured, he had dreamed of home. He dreamed their house was cold and dark, with no one upstairs and a single light on in the kitchen. A female form was silhouetted in the kitchen doorway, hands on hips, facing something slumped over the side of the couch. "C'mon, Pap. He's probably just out on another hunting trip," she argued.

"...IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MAKE ME FEEL BETTER?" The thin, nasal voice hurt Sans' SOUL, and not just because he'd desperately wanted to hear it again. This wasn't his boisterous, indomitable, recklessly cheerful brother; this was a small, heartsick Papyrus, one Sans hadn't seen or heard in a long, long time. The last time it happened, at least Sans had been there for him. Now Sans was gone, too.

"Hunting animals, Papyrus! He's hunting animals. Not humans." The woman thumped the wall for emphasis, knocking little bits of plaster from the ceiling. Dammit, Sans had told her to quit doing that. "That's gotta be it. We don't eat humans, and he knows how bad the food situation is, right? So..."

"I DON'T CARE WHAT HE'S DOING. ...WELL. NOT MUCH." The skeleton heaved a sigh, raising his face from the couch cushion. "...UNDYNE, I...I CAN'T REACH HIM. IF HE'S ALL RIGHT, WHERE IS HE?"

And then something had seeped out of the darkness and gently enclosed Sans' mind, blotting out the dream like a sponge on spilled water. He had woken up knowing that it wasn't a dream, and was instantly enraged—he'd been so grateful that the nightmares had stopped, and too damn stupid to figure out that she'd set a barrier up against external influences, including dreams shared with Pap. He'd ponder the full ramifications of it blocking nightmares another day; the memory of his brother's expression had decided him. Agreement or no agreement, he was getting out of here tonight.

Of course, he couldn't pack up the stuff he needed before their lesson was done, or right afterward. He wasn't worried about giving himself away: as an accomplished bullshitter, he knew he was behaving perfectly normally. The moment dinner was cleared away, he called dibs on the bathroom, which had a nice, huge tub that he wanted to use one more time. When he was done and she'd gone in and locked the door – and after the usual stab of curiosity as to what she looked like outside of clothes – Sans quietly put everything he wanted into a satchel he'd found under the worktable, and stowed it behind the door in the bedroom, where he had to wait until she was done getting dressed.

The one odd thing was that after she emerged from her dressing room in her full priestess-y regalia, she went into her office and spent a few minutes doing nothing that he could hear, after which she was wearing a different brooch. She'd had a white one on the first day they met, but this one shone with a greyish light under her veil.

"Goin' so soon?" he asked carelessly. It was ten o'clock.

She smiled. "If my duties only included saying words and a few songs, I would sleep much easier. There's always someone to speak to before and after services."

"Gotcha. Well, have fun. 'm gonna read somethin' with a damn bookmark 'fore I go to bed—I forgot t'ask, mind if I try ta make a few things while you're not here?"

"Go right ahead. You'll pay for it if you burn down my workroom, so I'm trusting you to behave." Was he imagining a weird little inflection there? No, she looked totally wonderful. ...Normal. She looked totally normal. "Good night, Sans," she said, adjusting her veil.

"G'night, Frisk." He stretched out on the bed as she shut the door.

That was it, then. He might not ever see her again. It...wasn't a good feeling. In fact, it felt pretty bad. Time to quit feeling it, think of Pap, and focus on his plan of action.

The plan: well, for starters, it would be dumb to try breaking out immediately. He wished he knew exactly where the chapel was. He'd heard occasional church-type singing off in the distance, but that didn't give him an idea of how far away she'd be during the service, or for exactly how long. Instead, he watched the clock and fidgeted, as nervous as the first time he'd faced down a group of human sorcerers.

Maybe this was a dumb idea. Maybe he should just ask her to take down the barrier keeping him from dreaming with Papyrus, just for one night. She was too kind to refuse, and intelligent enough...

...to ask him for more information in exchange. Frisk knew he used to be a normal monster, and might think to ask if he'd always been able to speak across dreams; it wouldn't be too far a stretch for her to keep questioning how he became a boss monster. She'd also realize that if she let him communicate with other monsters, he could tell them several things that she would prefer they not know, including her identity and full capabilities. It was one thing for her to take a calculated risk and let him go back to the Underground with that information, or – much more likely – to make him forget it before he left; some humans had the ability to excise bits of memory like that. It'd be another thing entirely to permit a conversation that no one else could even hear. She was nice, not stupid.

So Sans waited until eleven forty-five, and then he sat in the workroom with the satchel looped around his wrist for another ten minutes, nerves humming. Then he got up, went to the double doors leading out of her rooms, and silently picked up a seven-foot decorative statue standing at the room's threshold, wedging it inward across the doorframe. He went back to the workroom, judged the weakest place in the outside wall, reared back, and slammed his fist directly between two of the windows.

~

Frisk had started to relax as the organist began playing and incense floated in the chapel air. She was opening her mouth for the first hymn when a warning note sounded in the back of her mind: the barrier to her workroom's outside windows was tingling, and then it suddenly burned away, the warning note sliding all the way up to a full-blown klaxon.

She gritted her teeth so hard that it hurt, controlling her expression with a supreme effort as the voice in her head screamed, Sans, you two-faced sack of fertilizer!

The only good thing about the situation was that she wasn't leading this service. Therefore, it was odd, but not completely conspicuous, when she stepped to the back of the choir, touched her new brooch, and vanished.

[arabellaflynn]

For anyone who didn't catch it on other social media, I have finally moved out of the "temporary" apartment I was stuck in for 7 months, thanks to a lot of emotional and logistical support from friends, and a generous amount of financial support from the folks who gave to my GoFundMe. I am endlessly grateful to all of you, and if I weren't so goddamn tired right now I'd be more eloquent in saying so.

I've spent the past few weeks of unpacking and working out the bus routes around my new place trying to figure out how to explain what was so terrible about the last one. Most attempts devolved into page upon page of rage, which is not really what I want to be doing here. On the other hand, I also don't want to downplay how bad it was. 

Spoiler: The temp apartment was Very Very Bad.

The tl;dr is that I was offered someone's spare room on the condition that I help out a little extra with household chores and caring for their rats, because the pet owning roommate had recently had back surgery and was still mobility-impaired. What actually happened is that as soon as they realized I had any basic life skills whatsofuckingever, I was cornered into becoming the 24/7 on-call House Adult. I would have gone on strike, but the other two people in the apartment were so terrible at coping with absolutely any aspect of being alive that if I had, one or both of them would probably be dead now.

That is not hyperbole. I sat back at one point and realized that I had talked to 911 dispatch five times in the preceding four months. None of those calls were for me. To be clear, I ain't mad about other people having medical problems. All five of those calls were appropriate and necessary uses of emergency services. I just resent the hell out of being the default option for handling all of it, even though none of the medical emergency problems were mine, and there were other people in the house. Literally, Short Roommate had a catastrophic asthma attack one night, and when she was wheezing too hard to talk she passed the phone to Tall Roommate -- who immediately ran to the other end of the apartment, banged on my door, and handed the phone to me. It got to the point where I just told the operator what was up, went downstairs to unlock the door for EMS, stood in the corner answering the occasional question until they hauled someone off to the hospital, and then went right back to bed, because none of this was my problem. And that's just the 911 calls, not even counting the number of times I had to talk her down out of a dissociative episode, or any of the other shit I was not warned about and did not volunteer to do. They wore me down until my only response to "a fellow human can't breathe" is "fuck's sake, why am I even involved here".

They both needed a lot more, and a lot more professional, help than they could possibly have gotten out of a random civilian roommate. They both fought tooth and nail against actually getting any of it. Every time Short Roommate was dragged to the hospital, her discharge papers included a big fat packet full of social services, resources, and business cards for actual physical people to phone. I know this because whenever I cleaned the apartment, I found them on the fucking floor, whereupon I placed them on her fucking keyboard, and told her point-blank to call these people. As far as I know, she never did.

I am neither qualified nor equipped to be a live-in caregiver for anybody. There is a fucking reason I have never wanted children. I keep critters because if you give them food, water, toys, and boxes to sleep in, you can leave them to entertain themselves for hours while you work or sleep, and no one will arrest you.

There was a bunch of other stuff. Tall Roommate rarely if ever cleaned anything, including herself, unless directly ordered to do so and given a detailed list of instructions of what you meant by "clean". I only ever got her to wash her own damn dishes once, and I did it by messaging her from the other room 'I just found a mouse in the sink eating snacks off your dirty plates GO DO YOUR DISHES'. She had a laundry list of problems, but the relevant one here is that she was high-support-needs autistic with no support and zero inclination to find any. 

[Did I mention the mice? We had mice. All over. The rats murdered two of them when they got into the cages, looking for the free-feed bowl.]

Short Roommate clearly loved her rats but didn't actually do any of the rat care beyond petting and playing. One of them was tremendously sick at one point and needed meds q6h. She was supposed to be helping with that and didn't, which meant that I went several weeks on a maximum of six hours of uninterrupted sleep a night. I tore the fuck into her for that one, pointing out in exactly so many words that some of these meds were painkillers and if the rat didn't get them on time HE SUFFERS. Not doing any of the grunt work, Short Roommate evidently thought rats were so easy she should just keep getting more of them! She rescued two, one of whom was preggo, kept several of the babies, and started talking about waiting for one of the girls to grow up so she could breed him with one of her younger boys. 

Gentle Reader, I promise you the only reason I did not strangle her in her sleep that very night was that I knew, deep in my heart, that I could not move the body down two flights of stairs by myself, and if I left it up to Tall Roommate, the corpse would still be in the apartment today.

If I were inclined to any sympathy, it would have died when Short Roommate moved out to shack up with New Boyfriend and New Boyfriend's Mother. She initially took all the rats with her, which made them officially not my problem anymore, but I woke up one morning to a message that said something like "[New Boyfriend's Mother] says that if I show up to our new place with the rats she's not going to let me in, [Tall Roommate] is coming back with all the rats and everything they own". I found out later that this was because their new place was in section 8 housing, where you are not allowed to have pets that aren't service or support animals. Which Short Roommate had known the entire time, and just... made no plans for. At all. Unless "ignore everything until bitchslapped by reality, then panic and make unreasonable demands of other people" counts, I guess.

Eight rats. She dumped eight rats on me. Eight. I wound up taking care of them all without help; Tall Roommate was incapable of keeping anything in her habitat clean, including herself, and I wasn't willing to let her neglect animals. I was actually down to one rat of my own, having lost my two venerable old men, and was looking for a new friend or two for Tseng. Which I had to stop doing, because nine fucking rats is a lot of rats, and I couldn't in good conscience bring Rats nos. 10 & 11 into this shitshow. Naturally, none of the rats got along; two pairs of boys had to be kept apart, and both of them tried to pick fights with poor Tseng, and four of them were girls that had to be kept away from all of the boys for obvious reasons. It was exhausting and a catastrophe.

Once I had the rats she apparently made no further effort to re-home them, although she did keep telling Tall Roommate to come knock on my door and take pictures of them. (I put a stop to this. Tall Roommate did it because Short Roommate had broken up with her to shack up with New Boyfriend, and Tall Roommate had literally no way to cope with this other than try desperately to get her back.) I bugged her to do something about this until, predictably, I had to contact the local rat rescue people to find fosters less than a week before my moving crew was scheduled. When I told her, she replied "oh, I was just about to submit that". Sure you were. And while you're here, I have this nice bridge to sell you.

[The four girls and two youngest boys went to Mainely Rat Rescue. It looks like the boys have already found a home, but the girls are up for adoption. I kept the two old men, who both have special care needs; Garion has breathing problems that involve his own asthma inhaler and a steady diet of NSAIDs, and Errand has attitude problems that involve picking fights with any rat who isn't Garion. They're both just shy of three(!) and unlikely to find homes through a foster program, plus I'm already their third caretaker, so I couldn't send them off with a stranger. They are currently sulking because I wouldn't supplement their dinner with all of my dinner -- which is to say, they're fine.]

The point is, my brain just about died off. The only time in that apartment that I didn't spend cleaning up after three grown adults, two of whom weren't even me, were the weeks after Short Roommate moved out to shack up with New Boyfriend, which she had broken up with Tall Roommate to do, and Tall Roommate took it so badly she ended up inpatient before she ate a bottle of Tylenol. (I called 911 when I overheard her plans. It was about 50% "a fellow human is in need of help" and 50% "argh jesus fuck THIS IS NOT MY JOB please go talk to someone who is actually paid to deal with this".) I am slowly clawing my way back to the surface, so if you'll just bear with me, I'll be back on Twitch this Sunday 3-7 Eastern, and type out more things that have been on hold while I tried to retain at least some of my marbles.

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[lildevyl]

BlankGamePlays

Summary:  Ethan finds himself face to face with one of Mark’s older Egos, that became reborn thanks to the Community, the Author.  And he gives Ethan a choice, become something incredible or continue to be the “Nobody Sidekick” of the Channel and just be “Mark’s Friend.”

TW:  Mention of abuse, physical injuries, hospital, hostage, imply domestic like abuse.  Based on the Unnus Annus video “Mark Punish Ethan.”

@dezzydynamite, @weirdmixofweirdness,  Don’t kill me!  But yes, I did finally write and post it!!!  Based on this post!

(Ethan’s House)

“Mark” entered Ethan’s house, and smiled like he usually did, getting ready to shoot today’s video.  He had everything set up, for the “shoot” and was just waiting for Ethan to finish his cup of coffee.  It didn’t take long.  Ethan literally downed it in almost one gulp and then headed out with “Mark” to finish up recording.  That was until Ethan started to feel uneasy, and very dizzy.  Geez, he needs to lighten up on the sugar or something.  The next thing Ethan saw was “Mark” coming over to him as he laid on the ground.

“Wakey, wakey!”  “Mark,” said as he pulled the bag off of Ethan’s head.  They were in a room with one of the lights turned on and a camera right behind “Mark.”  But something seemed off.

Ethan groggily came too.  “Mark?”

“No, not quite, but then again I wouldn’t expect you to know me.  Or remember me,” “Mark” said sadly.  “You see Ethan, I’m one of Mark’s older Egos.  Well, I was but thanks to the Community I’m back now.”

It took Ethan a moment or two, racking his brain about Mark’s Egos.  He’s met them all, hasn’t he?  Older Ego?  Let’s think for a minute.  It’s not Darkiplier, not Wilford, not Dr. Iplier, not the Host, or Bim, or King.  Then who?  Mark brought back a lot of the older Egos in Markiplier TV.  Hell, it took Amy, Tyler and himself to convince Mark to bring back some of them, because of the tie and memories from Cyndago.  Wait, Cyndago.  Mark, did a few sketches with them.  Including   .   .   .    Oh, hell no!  It couldn’t be!  Ethan looked around and sure enough, there was a pen set and journal-like book.

“I know who you are,” Ethan said with his breath hitching in his throat.  He just hoped that he didn’t sound scared.

“You do?”

“Yes,” Ethan answered.  “You’re the Author, but how are you here?  I thought  .  .  .  I thought that you - faded?”

“Oh, I did.  That’s how the Host came to be.  The original me became the Host when my story ended.  But there weren’t enough people in the Community to keep me alive at the time.  And sadly Mark thought that I wasn’t important enough to be included in his little “through back sketch” when he brought back all of his old Egos.  Yet, he included the Host,” the Author stated.

“Ironically, it’s the Community that’s the reason why I’m here again.  You see Ethan, us Egos we depend on two things.  One, we depend on our Creator to remember us and two we depend on the Community to remember us.  Now, for some of us, all we need is the Community.  But in some cases, rare cases like myself, if an Ego fades but the Community, in general, gives that Ego enough attention and love.  Then that Ego can in a way be reborn.”  The Author answered giving Ethan a calculated look.

“Then why are you here?  In my house?”  Ethan asked hoping that Mark started to come by or at least started to wonder what was going on.  Ethan had a bad feeling and didn’t like his options.  He vaguely remembers the Author and what he can do.

“Well, that’s easy Ethan.”  The Author turned around to where the pen set and the journal sat and picked both of them up.  He turned around and faced Ethan. “I want to help you.”  The Author smiled.

Ethan was at a loss for words.  Help him?  Help him with what?  As far as Ethan was concerned he had a nice life.  His YouTube Channel was doing well.  He and Mark decided to start a Channel together and they both agreed to delete at the end because it’s the journey that is most important.  He had a girlfriend that he was in love with, has a nice house and Spencer is a great pet.  Ethan couldn’t wrap his brain around what the Author was implying.  What did Ethan need help with?

“I see that you’re confused here,” the Author began.  “You see Ethan, I want to help you by having you be something more.”  The Author smiled, now he has Ethan’s attention.  “Ethan, what do you want more than anything else?  Do you want to be your own person, be more confident?  Finally, getting to that one million subs?  Finally being taken seriously?”

Ethan didn’t say anything because yeah.  He has thought about that!  Doing YouTube for seven years and he hasn’t hit the one million sub count yet.  He wanted to be more confident because let’s face it.  He wasn’t exactly the most confident when it came to Mark or Sean or Bob or Wade.

“I see that I got your attention.  Let me, put it this way, Ethan.  Do you really want to stay in Mark’s shadow?  Always being the “Sidekick '' and nothing more?  Oh, don’t look at me like that!  You know it’s true!”  The Author turned around grabbed an iPad off the desk and brought up Tumblr and a few other Social Medias.

There, were posts saying “If I hadn’t done that backflip then I might never be here today.”  Mark and Ethan announce Unnus Annus their new Channel, Mark with all the reporters and microphone, and Ethan just has one microphone and no reporters.  More and more, memes like that.  More and more posts saying if Ethan had never been on Mark’s pannel or done that backflip, then no one would have known who he was.  It was like the whole PewDiePie shoutout all over again, with Sean!  To say it didn’t get on Ethan’s nerves nor did it get to him.  Ethan would be lying through his teeth because yeah it hurt!!!!

It hurts that Mark has twenty-five million subs when he and Mark have been doing this at the same time!  It hurts that Sean has close twenty-four million subs!  It hurts that Bob and Wade have over one million and two million subs and he barely has that million sub count!  And for many fans and reporters to literally cast him off, push him aside and say that Unnus Annus was Mark’s Channel?  That he didn’t belong?!

Ethan closed his eyes and took several deep breaths.  Something wasn’t right. Why was he thinking like this?  Why was he acting like this?  He didn’t actually think like that, did he?

The Author smiled, ah so he was getting to Ethan.  Perfect.  Maybe with a little more pushing, he’ll finally get his revenge on Mark and the Community for, ever forgetting about him!

“I can help you, Ethan, for a price,” the Author bargained.

“What kind of price?”  Ethan asked not realizing that his eyes darkened.

“Helping me get back at Mark,” the Author answered.  “Think about Ethan.  You can finally be the YouTuber that you want to be!  I can help you with that!  You can finally hit one million subs, be confident, not be remembered as “That Guy that did backflip.”  Aren’t you tired Ethan?  Of always being the “Sidekick” that no one really cares about?  Aren’t you tired of Mark getting all the glory and you have nothing to show for it?  Why should Mark have twenty-five million subs and you barely have one million?  You’ve been doing YouTube a lot longer if not roughly the same time.  And speaking of which, isn’t Sean about to hit twenty-four million subs here?  Or how about Bob?  He’s what already past one million subs.  Wade has over two million subs.  And Tyler is close to one million on Twitch.  And yet, here you are, seven nearly eight years later and not even one million subs.  Just the “Sidekick” in the Unnus Annus Channel.  Just Mark’s friend.”

The Author smirked.  Oh, yes, just a bit more pushing, he almost has Ethan.  He just needs to break him a little more.

“It’s up to Ethan.  Do you want to be the man that you always wanted to be?  Or do you just want to continue to be the “Sidekick?”  Just Mark’s friend?  I can help you.”

“H-how?”  Ethan asked barely above a whisper.

“I’m not as powerful as I once was but see this book and pen set.  It was from when I was originally created.  In it, you can write whatever you want, pour your heart and soul into it and should come true.  And in many ways make it look like it’s real.  To the point of even fooling a doctor until the page is torn.  Then it’s like nothing had ever happened.  Let me, bring the more confident, bolder, even darker side, out of you so you can take on the world.  And in return, you help get back at Mark.  It doesn’t have to be something as crazy as to what Dark’s got planned.  Just something to teach Mark a lesson about taking his friends for granted.”

(Ethan’s House)

Mark raced over to Ethan’s house not caring for one minute about the traffic laws.  His friend was in danger!  Ethan never showed up for the shoot that they were to going to do today.  Mark at first thought that Ethan either forgot about the shoot because of something he was doing on his own Channel or something might have come up.  He left a couple of voice mails but he didn’t really think it was a big deal at the time.  But that was before, he saw the “New Unnus Annus” Video.  Mark’s heart practically stopped at what he saw.  Someone, another Ego, pretended to be Mark and was beating up Ethan!

Silver Shepard was with him in the passenger side of his car.  Mark thought it was best if Silver was with him instead of flying over.  No need to get the people of Los Angles talking about seeing a Super Hero when Silver technically shouldn’t really exist in their world!  Mark was so hoping that Silver would help him!

He knew that Silver and a few others had every right to hold a major grudge against him when Mark decided to “Cancel” the Egos.  Basically, Mark stopped making videos with them, because after what happened with Cyndago. Mark just couldn’t take it!  So, he stopped making those kinds of videos.  It wasn’t until Amy, Tyler, and Ethan had suggested with Markiplier TV to bring back some of the old Egos for the fans.

Luckily for Mark, Silver didn’t hold a grudge against him.  And after Mark had explained the whole situation and the reason why he decided to do all that.  Silver forgave him and understood why Mark did what he did.  But not all the Egos had the same outlook.  Unfortunately, Mark had his suspicions on who it might be but he just hoped that he was wrong and that he wasn’t too late!

When Mark and Silver both arrived at Ethan’s House, Mark wasted no time and ran to the front door.  Calling Ethan’s name and looking in every room he could possibly think of!

“Over here, Mark!”  Silver Shepard called.

Mark ran over to where Silver called from and Mark stopped dead in the doorway when he the shape that Ethan was in.  Ethan was lying in a chair, bust lip, bleeding from the mouth, black eyes, all kinds of scraps and cuts litter his face.  Ethan made a noise, flinching away from Silver.  But what truly broke Mark’s heart was when he entered the room, Ethan made a noise between a cry and a moan.  As if he was scared of Mark.

“Ethan, it’s me.  It’s Mark!  I won’t hurt you, Ethan.  What happened?  Who did this to you?”  Mark tried to console his friend.

Silver did his best to hoist Ethan up without aggravating any of his injuries. “Mark, we need to get him to Dr. Iplier.”  Silver stated.  It looked like he needed to take charge, for both Mark and Ethan’s sake.

“You’re right, Silver,” Mark agreed.

(Dr. Iplier’s Clinic)

Ethan lied in the hospital bed in Dr. Iplier’s bed.  He wasn’t sure how, but somehow they manage to get him to Egopacalpse and into Dr. Iplier’s Clinic.  Ethan wasn’t sure if he was happy or mad at that.  It’s not that he minded Dr. Iplier.  He was one of Ethan’s favorite Egos that Mark did.  He had a lot of fun playing the patient when they brought that character back.  It was the fact that Dr. Iplier’s Clinic was too close to Iplier Manson.  Now, called Ego Inc.  And Darkiplier was there.

But Ethan didn’t really pay much attention.  His mind kept going back to the - could he even call it a conversation?  With the Author and the offer that he made.  Ethan wasn’t what to think about that.  So, he just lied in bed waiting for Dr. Iplier to come and let him, checkout.  Ethan won’t admit this, but he hated hospitals!

“Alright, Ethan, I checked everything over.  You’re going to need to take it easy for a while.  I mean it!  No high-stress levels at all!  I already spoke to Mark and he said that you guys already have some backup videos that can be posted until your one hundred percent.  So, please take it easy!”  Dr. Iplier instructed.

“No problem doc!”  Ethan reassured waiting for Mark to come and get him to take him home.

“All set Ethan?”  Mark asked grabbing Ethan’s things and waiting for Ethan.

“Yeah, get me outta here!”

(Ethan’s House)

Ethan breathed a sigh of relief and just sank into his couch.  Home.  He was home!  Nice cozy, simple home!  Ethan still couldn’t believe what had happened, but then again a part of him could.  He was just glad to get out of that damn clinic!  It had nothing to do with Dr. Iplier, he wasn’t that bad of a doctor.  But Ethan just can’t stand hospitals!

Ethan’s head shot up when he heard someone approaching.  He smiled when he saw who it was.

“I held up my end of the bargain.  Are you going to hold up yours?”  Ethan asked.

The Author smiled and handed Ethan the book and pen set.  “It’s all yours!  All you have to do is give it a drop of your blood and it will be fully custom to you and you only!”  The Author told Ethan.

Ethan smiled.  He took out the one page that described everything that happened in the video and all his injuries.  Ethan ripped it out of the book and then torn it to shreds.  Within seconds, Ethan felt and looked like nothing had ever happened to him.  He took one end of the pens and pricked his finger and let a drop of his blood drop onto the book.  It glowed for a minute until it resets.  Ethan then smiled, with his eyes completely black as gave his full undivided attention to the Author.

“What’s our next move?”

==========

Tagging:  @d-structive, @weirdmixofweirdness, @juju-on-that-yeet, @septic-dr-schneep, @reverseblackholeofwords, @m4delin, @fischyplier, @isa-ghost, @a-humble-narcissus

[starshineskyandthepowerofrock]

The First Step

Part 2 of Starshine, Sky, and the Power of Rock.

Wow. Just... wow. I'm gorgeous. I run my hairbrush through my lavender hair one more time, mostly just to savor the smooth, silky texture under my manicured fingers. Just looking at my hands, you'd never guess they were callused from playing guitar. I close my eyes one at a time, and as I gaze into the wall-sized mirror in my walk-in closet, my glossed lips tug themselves into a little smile, because my cosmetologist really didn't have to go that hard on my lids, but he did. Speaking of my favorite servants, I think my tailors have hit a new high because this dress has a beautifully layered skirt with the perfect amount of poof, and they knew how well midnight blue goes with my tan complexion. I roll my right wrist, something I'm prone to do since the tiny silver bracelet my parents gave me when I first got adopted is a lot tighter on fourteen-year-old me than it was on six-year-old me, but I'm not gonna not wear it! My fuzzy cat ears twitch as I place the finishing touch between them: a gem-encrusted tiara, the center gem of course taking the form of my favorite shape, a star. No points for guessing why that is.

I'm not always this well-dressed... Well, okay, I'm always well-dressed but today especially so because it marks one of the most important days of my life. I'm not supposed to go out there before I'm called, but now that I'm ready, the urge to make a premature entrance is incredibly strong. But I can't do that, it would throw everything off-schedule! So, I'll just have to make do until then. Eight years of being my only consistent friend in this behemoth of a palace has left me really, really good at entertaining myself.

I exit my closet, cross my bedroom, and seat myself at my desk. I open my journal to a fresh page, and close my eyes to sit in my thoughts for a minute, only for a minute to turn into a half-hour, because the palace is moving abnormally fast in order to pick up kids from all over the kingdom in just one day, and the sound of the air rushing by my window is far too interesting. Deciding to write whatever comes to mind, because there's a lot of thoughts right now, I pick up my pencil and get to work. Every few minutes, my stomach drops gently until the distinct thud of the palace's base touching the ground comes. The stream of graphite thoughts pouring onto the paper is stoppered each time, and I stare past the wall in front of me to imagine what the kids from this province will be like. My head turns to the glass double-doors leading to my personal balcony, and I take in the clues as to where I am. Elegant mansions framed by lush plant life signal we've reached Hillside, snowflakes in late summer indicate the Frostlands, streets paved with rock candy mean we've reached Dulcet Falls, and so on. At one point, all I can see is a featureless field, and the rumble of a spaceship landing means the kids from the Lunar Alliance must be here. With each landing, a new burst of voices bubbles up from floors beneath me. My longing to see new faces, finally the same age as me, finally in the same class as me, grows greater and greater each time. I truly can't believe this day will be the day I-

A knock at my door sends my heart into a frenzy. I stand up and snap my journal shut in one move. I take one last look out my window, and see the stormy Isle of Isolation separated from me by miles of shimmering blue ocean, which means we've landed on the East Shore. The kids from Saline Deep are here, and they're last on the list, which means it's time! I stop in front of the mirror for what is supposed to be a quick wrinkle-check on my dress, but I guess I'm a second too long because the servant at my door speaks up.

"Your Highness, ten minutes to showtime."

An involuntary yelp escapes my mouth. "Coming!" I reply, and soon I'm speeding down the spacious halls as fast as my high heels will allow. The next few minutes are a whirl of knots of excitement in my stomach and vocal warm-ups and warm honey-lemon sprayed into my throat at just the right angle as to be effective without making me cough. The music of the Band of Light rolls from the stage, and my heart beats in time with the drums. The first chorus is almost over, and then, just like we practiced... then... then...

"And now, students of the Royal Academy of Rock," the announcer's voice booms, "the moment you've been waiting for..."

Yes...

"The Heir to Light..."

Yes, that's me...

"Your destined savior..."

Yes, yes, yes...

"and your future queen..."

Yes, very accurate, we're so close...

"Her Royal Highness, PRINCESS! STAR! SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE!"

I bound onstage, right to my designated tape X, and a wave of adoring screams nearly knocks me over. My hips, my arms, my everything moves to the beat. I'm one with the music, analog yet pulsing with electric power. This is the auditory paradise of rock. The lyrics flow from the depths of my belly, clear and controlled. The only thing I'm princess of right now is the stage beneath my decorated feet. My euphoria numbs the pain in my cheeks from endless smiling at my adoring subjects, who, starting tomorrow, will be my adoring classmates. The controlled storm of perfect noise climbs to a glorious climax and falls to silence, which is soon broken by another wave of cheers.

"Hello, everyone!" I mean to say but end up shouting into the mic. More cheers make my heart do a back flip in glee. "I'm... SOOOOO excited to get to meet you all! From now on, I'm your classmate, Star, so let's have an amazing four years and train to OFFICIALLY join the Band of Light!"

The stage melts into fairy dust beneath us. The accompaniment and I are lowered to the floor of the throne room. I curtsy and nod and make joyful greetings my whole way down to the three gem-encrusted thrones on the other side of the stage. My parents are already there, dressed in gowns practically spun from sun and moonlight. My mom, Queen Diamond Shine, smiles serenely at me as I make my way over to them. My mama, Queen Sunshine, rises from the center throne and wraps her arms around me in a delighted hug, which I return. My hands stop at her shoulders as usual, because if they tried to reach her back, they'd run into her golden fairy wings. Her tightly curled, yellow hair is cornrowed on one side and set free on the other and her deep skin sparkles with flecks of gold. She kisses my cheek and we sit down.

"Ohmygoodnessohmygoodnessohmygoodness," I rave to them. "I. Can't. BELIEVE this is happening!"

"Believe it," Mama says. She takes Mom's hand and gives it a squeeze. They exchange proud smiles, which makes my smile only widen.

The announcer next to my throne removes a sizable scroll from his pastel jacket, signaling the First Year Introductions are about to begin. This has happened at every Orientation Day I've been to since my first year as a royal at age six. Every year, I got but a taste of the students of the Academy, because at any other time during the school year we were "distractions to each other," so my contact with them was as limited as possible. But now... now I'm meeting kids I'll know for years to come. I'll grow with them, I'll learn with them, I'll-

"STAR, OH MY GOODNESS, HI!" a certain flame-haired catboy shouts before pulling me into a hug.

Okay, so my friend count isn't zero, stop taking everything so literally. But Citrus was my friend in the orphanage even before I was a princess, so he was an easy one when he started going here last year. But it's been a lot harder to make new friends since I moved to a palace that doesn't stay in one spot for longer than a few days.

"Hi, Citrus!" I say, returning his hug but immediately pulling back. "The Introductions are for first years, and you're a second year."

Citrus' eyes flick from the announcer, who looks a bit miffed that he's been delayed, back to me. He blinks, then smiles. "Oh, you're right, we'll catch up later!"

"Oh, no, don't let me scare you away!" I say. "Here, sit. Help me break the ice." I pat the arm of my throne, which is broad enough for him to sit on. And sit he does.

Most of the kids greet me the way you'd expect people to greet arguably the most famous person alive. High-pitched laughter, clumsy curtsies and bows, not knowing what words are right so settling on not words but incomprehensible wails. They'll get used to me. My joy comes from guessing how they'll be once they've regained the ability to speak. I am able to strike up a couple brief conversations, with help from Citrus, but they are few and far between. Par for the course, all of it, nothing to get upset over.

There are a few things nagging at me through all this, I will admit. See, early on in the long list of first years, the announcer called out an "Ack... dah... ler, Sky...laaar..?" a name that simply did not sound like a name – at least not the kind I was used to hearing – and also a name to which no one responded. I expected the unfortunate bearer of this name to approach timidly, explain that the pronunciation was wrong, and be too embarrassed to ever speak to me again. Instead, no one came, and so Introductions continued. I'd turned to my parents at this moment. Mom was leaning towards Mama, whispering confusedly into her pointed ear. Mama wasn't concerned, though, so neither was I. I haven't forgotten that, though...

The other thing is that, every year, the palace takes off the moment all the students are safely inside. It's usually a big deal. But now that I think of it... I'm compelled to raise to my feet.

"Is something wrong, Star?" Mom asks.

"I'd just like to look out a window for a second," I say. And I go to do just that, with Citrus right behind me.

"What's going on?" Citrus asks.

But I'm already at the nearest window. "I knew it," I say. "What are we still doing on the East Shore?"

Citrus gives a small frown of confusion. "Good question," he says.

With night falling, the Isle of Isolation stands out much clearer as the towns or whatever monsters live in begin to light up. Now I remember why I don't like landing on the East Shore. Those monsters can practically see us from their houses! Just because I was destined to defeat them doesn't mean I'm ready to face them today! I march back to my throne.

"Why are we still on the ground?" I ask my parents.

Mom adopts her serious face. "I've been meaning to ask that question myself," she says, looking at Mama.

Mama inspects her gilded nails. "There's a straggler or two. We can't leave until everyone's here," she says casually.

"Uh, yeah," I say, "But there's a point when a straggler becomes a no-show."

Mama smiles. "Trust me," she says. "Anyone with what it takes to get into here is not a no-show."

Mom raises an eyebrow, but leaves it be. So I do the same.

I've managed to miss a couple letters' worth of surnames during my time away and we're now approaching the G's.

"Oh no," Citrus whispers. "More Glades, I bet."

I flip my hair over my shoulder in disapproval. "Citrus, the Glade bloodline has served the royal family for generations, we can't go disrespecting them like that," I say loudly. Then, I drop my voice to an undertone. "A set of quadruplets came in last year. Why would they want to deal with a fifth one?" We giggle behind our hands.

"Glade, Gossamer!" the announcer shouts.

We stop giggling. Five elf girls, four familiar and one new, sashay my way. Each sports an impressive volume of bouncy forest green ringlets. Breezy, Aspen, Dewdrop, and... ugh... Summer Glade have this new girl flanked on all sides. They're all decked out in typical Hillside flair, with flowing fabric and dainty jewelry and oh, so many flowers. This introduction is supposed to be about Gossamer, mind, but Summer is the one to speak up before this girl so much as opens her mouth.

"This is Gossamer, I'm sure you've heard," she says, placing a ringed hand on her sister's head. "We know she can't technically be in our band, but she's basically going to be with us, so... you know..." She gives me a simpering smile.

I look her up and down, not changing my expression. "What do I know?"

Summer fails to hold back a scoff. "Oh, you know how far back our families go... even if you're adopted... So, why not extend some of that, ah, specialness to our little sister here?"

I raise my eyebrows, as though I only now understand the implications, despite them being the same implications she's been dropping since exactly a year ago when she pulled this exact shtick for herself. "Oh, I see, yes!" I giggle. "Well, Summer, I assure you your sister will be recognized as just as special as you four."

Summer smiles brightly, triumphant.

"...Who are all just as special as everyone else here," I say, unblinking.

Summer's smile decays into a barely concealed scowl. "Okay," she says, and pulls her sister away with the rest of her little crew.

Citrus leans towards me once more. "How can you even stand talking to her? Remember when she dumped chili in my shoes?"

I smooth my skirt, not looking up. "Of course I do. But I'm in school now, and I can deal, honeybun. Stick with me and you'll be fine."

A few more nervous greetings later, and yet another cause for concern arises. This time, a guard comes. He's soaked. I'd hardly realized it's been raining outside. He leans towards Mom and whispers in her ear. If he's only telling her, it must be a safety concern.

Okay, hold on, calm down. Mom will have it taken care of. I avert my eyes from them, trying not to eavesdrop, but the guard has severely underestimated the hearing ability of cat people and I can't help picking up one word: vampire. Citrus heard it too. We look at each other with concern, then both turn to my parents. The guard hands Mom an iridescent envelope. It looks like an acceptance letter to the school. Mom turns it over in her hands, brow knit. She stands, clearly ready for action, but Mama grabs her arm.

"May I see that?" she asks.

Mom hands her the envelope, and Mama inspects it herself. "Describe them," Mama finally says, not looking up.

"Adolescent female. Black cloak. Uh, yay tall," the guard says, gesturing to about the height of his shoulder.

"Does she have albinism?" Mama asks.

The guard blinks confusedly. "Uh, I'm no doctor, but probably?"

Mama smiles. "Oh, it's her!" She scoffs. "And you had me worried! Bring her in."

The guard stares for a moment, then leaves.

This whole conversation makes absolutely no sense to me, but I figure Mama knows what she's doing. Mom, on the other hand, seems apprehensive.

"Why don't I just go check things out real quick?" she asks, gathering her skirts.

"That won't be necessary, Diamond," Mama replies.

Mom hesitates for a moment, but relents. "Okay," she sighs then sits down, leg clearly bouncing beneath her gown.

Everything is seemingly normal for a few moments, but the great doors to the throne room suddenly begin to creak. A sliver of light forms between them as they open, and a cloaked figure stands in the center of the doorway. Beneath the shadowy hood, all I can make out are two glowing pupils, burning white hot. The stranger, trailing rainwater from their worn combat boots, makes their way across the now silent throne room. All eyes are on them as they trudge forward, straight for me. Is this... Is this the vampire they were talking about? But, no, that was impossible because what would a vampire be doing in our school? Plus, vampires have red eyes. These eyes are more of a very pale blue, which I suppose is slightly less unsettling. Nevertheless, I shrink back into my throne until my back is flat against the seat back.

The person now stands before us, not bowing or anything. I turn to Mama. Her smile hasn't faded during all of this.

"Ah, Skylar Acdalur, so glad you could join us. I understand you've had a long journey?" Mama asks, as though this person isn't dripping all over the freshly polished floor.

Skylar, apparently, nods.

Mama takes a quick glance at their cloak before remaking eye contact. "I can have someone take your cloak for you."

Skylar's eyes widen. "Oh!" they say. Skylar quickly removes the tattered cloak, revealing an incredibly pale, skinny girl underneath. And when I say pale, I mean you could lose her in a snowstorm because her skin, her hair, her everything is ghostly white, save her eyes, which are still blue, though no longer glowing. The pointed ears protruding from her messy hair make me initially think her a diseased, abnormally poor elf. But then too many points click. The sunken, glowing eyes... the fact that we're right next to the Isle of Isolation... I look down at her mouth...

Fangs!

[ordinaryschmuck]

Top 20 BEST Animated Series of the 2010s-7th Place

>Insert long exaggerated sigh here<

It’s here that I really, really, REALLY hope nobody that I know personally is reading these.

(Also, sorry that this was a day late)

#7-My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic (2010-2019)

The Plot: In the land of Equestria, a unicorn named Twilight Sparkle moves to a happy little town called Ponyville to learn about the magic of friendship. There, she meets her best friends Applejack, Rainbow Dash, Rarity, Fluttershy, and Pinkie Pie. Together they’ll do what most friends do. Which is to sing songs, defeat creatures who seek to destroy everything, and learn that friendship truly is magic.

Now, I know what you might be thinking. Hell, I knew what you were thinking before I even explained the plot: “Isn’t this just a show for little girls that twenty-year-old losers fell in love with? How is this in the top 10?!” Now I’ll be the first to admit, there was a time when I didn’t get it either. When I heard that a fanbase grew around a My Little Pony reboot, I thought people were losing their minds. But, on one fateful day in 2014, my curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to watch ONE episode that seemed interesting to me. Unfortunately, it was the first episode in season two, and I had no idea what was going on within the first few minutes. So then I decided to watch the entirety of season one and then ONLY watch that episode in season two. And the episode after that because apparently, it was a two-parter. And then I watched the next episode after THAT because it also seemed interesting to me, plus the episode after that, for no reason other than I just wanted to. And then I watched all the rest of the series until the season four finale. And the two spin-off movies called Equestria Girls and Equestria Girls: Rainbow Rocks. Soon, I found myself reading fan-fiction, writing fan-fiction, looking at fanart, and even reading these spin-off comics that aren’t even canon, but I just couldn’t leave this magical world because it TOOK ALMOST A WHOLE YEAR FOR THE FIFTH SEASON TO PREMIER! ALL BECAUSE I JUST WANTED TO WATCH AN EPISODE WHERE A CHAOS CREATURE MENTALLY BROKE OUR MANE CHARACTERS! AND YES! I DID WRITE MANE INSTEAD OF MAIN BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT THIS SHOW DOES TO YOU! IT MAKES YOU SO ACCUSTOMED TO THE WRITING AND LINGO, THAT’S WITHIN BOTH THE SHOW AND IT’S INSANE FANDOM, THAT YOU’LL END UP CATCHING YOURSELF FROM SAYING MANEHATTAN INSTEAD OF MANHATTAN!

>SCREAMS WITH INSANITY<

…

So as you can tell, this show is surprisingly good once you get infested.

The biggest hook it has is the animation. While it doesn’t beat The Amazing World of Gumball’s quality, it is pretty impressive when considering that it’s all done in flash animation. Most flash animated cartoons tend to look cheap and slow, and Friendship is Magic is thankfully one of the rare exceptions. The movements are insanely smooth, and the facial expressions are pretty comical to look at. Even in the background of scenes, viewers will notice a lot of little jokes the animators put in. Seriously, the biggest reason why I kept watching the series for so long was that it was nice to look at (which is the case for most people, from what I’ve heard). And the best part? The animation somehow gets better with each passing season. And only 0.1% of the time does it show it’s cheapness, which isn’t that big of a deal considering there are two hundred and thirty-two episodes with a twenty-two-minute runtime. That’s nearly five thousand, one hundred, and four hours of animation that’s good for 99.9% of the time. While you could argue that it’s not the best, it is still pretty good animation quality.

Another thing that drew me in was the comedy. Keep in mind, this doesn’t mean Friendship is Magic is the funniest show on the list (that also goes to Gumball). Humor is subjective, and just because I found myself laughing with this series, that doesn’t mean everyone will be on the same page. That being said, I was surprised by the fact that I found the show funny in the first place. It’s hard to pinpoint what type of humor the show relies on (for me, at least). For some cases, Friendship is Magic has dialogue-based jokes that use smart or random lines to get a laugh out of audiences. Other times it's visual humor that requires slapstick or comical facial expressions that will make people laugh. But while its comedy falls between two different spectrums, that doesn’t change the fact that I find myself losing it every once in a while. Even during some of the worst episodes of Friendship is Magic, there’s at least one line or gag that got me to chuckle at least once.

However, both the animation and the comedy cannot top the main selling point of this series: The characters. Friendship is Magic might just have one of the biggest cast of characters out of any show on this list. Most of them manage to be funny, relatable, and are downright likable to watch. What’s even more astonishing is how well this show handles character growth. To be fair, there can be certain characters whose development is slow, but for the most part, everybody grows significantly with each new lesson they’ve learned. There are even moments when the characters say something along the lines of “I’m no longer that pony I used to be anymore because I finally learned how to change.” However, this doesn’t mean that every pony in the show is worth the time. There are a few unlikeable characters, but they’re either meant to be unlikable, forgotten after an episode’s end, or are redeemed after a triumphant return.

This is good because it’s the characters that make the stories in the show work. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is split into two different storytelling genres: Slice of life comedy and adventure fantasy. And unlike Steven Universe, it’s Friendship is Magic that mixes both these genres together perfectly. I’m not joking when I say that an episode where Twilight rekindles an old friendship can be just as intriguing as an episode where Twilight fights this soul-sucking centaur made to look like the devil. Hell, some fans even argue that the slice of life episodes are even better than the adventurous episodes. Because while the adventure episodes are cool and action-packed, it’s the slice of life episodes where the characters are allowed to grow the most and are actually given time to be themselves. As for the grand adventures, while their fun to see, the cast is forced to stick to their central personality traits to move the plot forward.

Unfortunately, as fun as this show can be, I can’t wholeheartedly recommend it. Not because there are elements that I think are bad, but because there are elements that might turn people away from watching. And the most significant repulse this show has is also the most important hook.

Yes, the characters in this show are great, but there’s also a lot of them. Some might even say too many. By season nine alone, there are a total of twenty-seven different characters that have the possibility of taking/sharing the spotlight in an episode. And that’s not even counting important figures, recurring antagonists, supporting characters, and even recognizable background ponies (yes, that’s a thing). Because if you want to add those to the mix, you’ve got yourself a total of one hundred and twenty-seven characters (give or take). That is one hundred and twenty-seven different names, faces, and personalities to try to keep track of. Luckily the personalities are easy enough to remember, and it’s mostly the most (in)famous figures that make a return. Even for some of the obscure characters, the show is kind enough to give a brief recap so the audience can get caught up. However, this is reasonably a lot to take in for a casual viewer. Case in point, in season eight, the show decided to add six new characters to the main cast, and it only took me a season and a half to learn their names correctly. It’s even worse since these “new” characters can sometimes feel like carbon copies of the Mane Six (Yes, that’s how the main six characters in the show are referred to as. Deal with it).

And the excessive amount of unnecessary characters are just one issue to deal with. The lessons that the show teaches are another. Before I say anything, I want to clarify that this show has fantastic lessons it teaches kids. In fact, there are even great lessons that are perfect for adults and only adults (know your audience, I guess). However, here’s the thing about morals: Not everyone will share the same view on what’s good and bad to teach children. Every person on this planet has their own life experiences, and with those experiences come different ideas of how the world works. One person can believe that a lesson is good, where others view it as awful and potentially dangerous. Things get especially bad when specific morals are misinterpreted or taken too literally. The best example is the episode “Do Princesses Dream of Magic Sheep.” I believe that there are two possible lessons within the episode. One is that to truly be forgiven, a person must seek forgiveness from themselves and others. The other conceivable moral is that the cure for self-destruction is to get over it and move on without any professional help whatsoever. Now, take a wild guess on which lesson gets talked about more. And in all honesty, I blame poor/rushed writing that causes specific morals to be muddled, as well as a person’s own life experience in whether or not you find an episode’s lesson to be intriguing or insulting.

Another thing that depends on one’s own personality is (kinda spoilers ahead) how this show handles reformations. I may have commented on how Steven Universe uses redemption poorly, but it’s even worse in Friendship is Magic. This show seems to have the idea that the transition from bad to good is as simple as flipping a light switch. Now, on the one hand, this is not something I should be mad about. The show’s title is Friendship is Magic. So, of course, the series would push that making friends will lead to peace and prosperity. Where making enemies will lead to war and violence. The problem is that from a storytelling standpoint, it isn’t that entertaining. Or, at the very least, not as much as it should be. The art of a good reformation is taking the time for the transition to be believable. Characters suddenly deciding to become good seemingly out of nowhere will do nothing but have audiences rip their hair out of frustration. It doesn’t help that most of the villain’s reasoning and backstories are pretty pathetic when they actually should be sympathetic. However, while the reformation itself can be frustrating, I personally think some characters are made more intriguing post redemption. Don’t get me wrong, these villains were great as they were, being the perfect mix of both funny and terrifying. But when the show actually allows characters to grow and deserve the hand-er-hoof of friendship, they begin to have more fascinating personalities to dissect. Now, not everyone is going to feel this way. And if you genuinely believe these villains were better as villains, I can absolutely see why. But for me, I’ve come to enjoy how far these ex-cons have come from their more evil days. 

But none of this compares to the final controversial element that this show has to offer, where there is a fifty/fifty chance that you’re either going to love it or hate it. I, of course, am talking about...the songs. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic has four different types of songs. Depending on the episode, these musical numbers have many purposes. They can move the story forward, only work within the episode’s context, try to one-up Disney, and reveal everything you need to know about a character. Now here’s the thing about the music: I don’t hate it. I’ll admit that the lyrics are pretty lackluster most of the time, but at least most of them sound pleasing to my ears. But I have heard how some people seem to hate these little numbers, and I’m willing to put money on that fans even skip them. Everybody has their own tastes in music, and there’s nothing I can do to convince them otherwise. Only respect their opinions and hope they do the same to mine.

In the end, your enjoyment of this series, once again, depends on who you are. Some of you might think this is a dumb kid's show that should only be viewed by children. Some of you will understand that this show has great characters, comedy, and animation, but you just don’t think it’s for you. And some of you might be like me. A person overwhelmed with curiosity over the weirdest phenomenon in the last eleven years and ended up being pleasantly surprised with how magical the show turned out to be.

(And just a heads up, you don’t have to watch the Equestria Girls spin off series or movies in order to enjoy Friendship is Magic. EG isn’t technically canon, and the only noteworthy thing that makes it worthwhile is Sunset Shimmer. And while I personally don’t hate it, I completely understand how others will. But you do need to see My Little Pony: The Movie (2017), though. It surprisingly plays a big part in season 8 and beyond.)