#but i got stuck writing it 10 times so i scraped it

[sweetteainthesummerx]

⋆·˚ ༘ * oh, my, my, my ⋆·˚ ༘ *

nhl masterlist !

pairings: quinn hughes x childhood friend!reader, jack hughes x platonic best friend!reader, quinn x artist!reader

warnings: angst and comfort, fluff

summary: you and quinn throughout the years, and how you fall in love <3

song: mary's song (oh my my my) by taylor swift

word count: 4.4 k

notes: I love lake quinn sm :)

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

our daddies used to joke about the two of us, growing up and falling in love, our mamas smiled, and rolled their eyes

"oh, she's so tiny!" ellen cooes, cradling the little bundle of pink, "and she has your eyes, birdie."

your mother smiles at the nickname her college friend had given her freshman year, when a bird had pooped on her head during a girl's night out.

it stuck (literally), and almost 10 years later, as her best friend holds her babygirl, she's reminded of everything they'd been through together.

"congrats, man. the first girl in the family!" jim slaps your dad on the shoulder, the two men smiling at their wives.

"oh, she's just precious." you yawn, and all of the adults are reduced to an awwing mess.

quinn toddles over, chubby toddler legs still unsure. he lands on his butt half a foot away from ellen, who lifts him up with the hand that wasn't holding you.

"look, quinny."

quinn reaches out a finger towards you, and jim is about to chide him when your tiny little fist locks around it. his wide eyes widen even more. you gurgle happily at him, and for the first time in a while, he goes completely still, enraptured by the baby in front of him.

"oh." your father whispers.

"well, that's your son-in-law now," jim laughs.

"hey, don't count out jack! they're closer in age, after all."

your mom rolls her eyes, as ellen snorts, "let's not pre-write our kid's futures before they're five, please."

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••..

i was seven and you were nine, i looked at you like the stars that shine

"y'know, birdie," ellen starts, "the boys might be right."

"no, they cannot eat four pb and j's and then go to the carnival-"

"no, not the little ones!", ellen laughs, "our husbands. they might be right."

"oh, that? the whole son-in-law thing?" your mom grins, as she watches luke chase after you with a worm.

the two women are silent and thoughtful as you - screaming at the top of your lungs - duck behind quinn, who sternly tells off his little brother. your sticky hands lace with his, naturally, albeit a bit awkward the way only kids can be.

you absolutely adore quinn. he's your protector, the one you turn to more often than not. jack is your best friend, and you remind her of that often. luke is your baby brother, the one you coddle and fuss over.

and the boys adore you just as much; jack plays pirates with you all day, Luke follows you like a puppy, and quinn...

he's staked a claim on you that makes your mom laugh, but worry a little when your older and you inevitably find someone who isn't him.

it never occurred to her that he might be the one.

"oh my god." your mom says as your dad walks in with jim.

"ha! see? I know I put money on my son for good reason." jim says gleefully, and quickly pipes down at ellen's dirty look.

"jack is also your son, man." your dad shakes his head.

"seriously? you guys made bets on the future love lives of your prepubescent kids?"

"birdie, it's just a joke!"

he eats his words as quinn leads you through the door. you're in tears, a nasty scrape on your knee. he's got your hand cradled in his.

ellen and your mom fawn over it, how brave you were, but all you could remember is how quinn held your hand the whole time.

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••..

take me back when our world was one block wide, i dared you to kiss me and ran when you tried

when you're ten, you almost have your first kiss.

you're going through a phase, really, when all you would wear were your overall jean shorts, a big t-shirt and your red converses. you have little pen drawings all over your shoes and shorts.

now, when you look at the photos from back then, you cringe a little at how lanky and young you look.

you're with the boys at one of the neighbouring lake houses, a couple of other girls and a few guys too.

everyone there lived on the same block, so it was odd that you hadn't all hung out together before.

quinn can tell you're uncomfortable around the other guys, who are loud and frankly very obnoxious. even his 12-year-old self can tell.

he tells you that you can all leave and go get ice cream near the boardwalk, but you refuse. you're 10 already, you can handle a few new strangers.

somehow, spin the bottle is brought up and you find yourself sitting cross-legged as one of the older girls - who's kind and much more grown than you - tellsdyou how to spin the bottle.

your hands shake and the backs of your knees are slick with sweat, but you spin anyways. you want to seem cool and older too.

you watch the root beer bottled patter as it turns, the ting, ting sound dissonant with your thumping heart.

it lands on quinn.

your quinn who knows all of the words to the spider man movies, who gives the last popsicle to you and lets you tuck your feet under his thighs when you get cold.

this is a disaster, you think, because you don't know how to kiss! are you supposed to use your tongue? you almost gag at the thought.

quinn can see your very apparent panic, and the only thing on his mind was to make it of away.

he wants to hold your hand, but when you turned nine you had decided that boys had cooties, so you refused to touch him or his brothers.

"...we don't have to," he offers, scratching his neck. one of the boys boo, and you flush.

you shook your head, "i want to."

he smiles, shy and boyish and your heart goes into overdrive.

his face matches yours in colour as he scoots forward awkwardly, cupping your face the way he'd seen his dad do to his mom.

as he leans forward, you burst into tears. if you kiss him, and he's disgusted by your kissing skills - or lack thereof - he wouldn't be your quinn anymore.

you run out embarrassed, leaving quinn's hand outstretched and the older girl from earlier confused and worried.

you think that you had ruined it all, but later that night when quinn offers to take you to get ice cream and lets you get two scoops, you know nothing can tear the two of you apart.

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••..

take me back to the creek beds we turned up, two A.M. riding in your truck and all I need is you next to me

the year quinn turned 16, he gets his boating and drivers license.

when the first real day of summer - he doesn't count the days until he sees you and the lake house again - starts and he finds you making eggs and bacon in the kitchen, he gives you an offer.

"hey, chickie." he tugs playfully at the string of your apron. jim had given you that nickname because of your mom's. chickie, like a baby bird. jack liked to call you chicklet, and Luke followed suit.

the adults think you've outgrown that name, and only call you chickie sporadically.

it's become special for you and quinn, sacred even,

"hi, quinny." you answer in the same tone, swatting him with the spatula in your hand.

"give me a piece of bacon and i'll take you out onto the water. i'll even let you drive a bit when we're far out." he murmurs as you turn the stove off.

"really?" you squeal, and he winces jokingly.

"yes, yes! finally!" you throw yourself at him, letting the older boy catch you around the waist. he grins into your hair, his cheek muscles unused by the seasons without you.

"okay, kid. pipe down. where's my bacon?" he grumbles, but he smiles when you turn around to fix him a whole plate.

you forget in all of your excitement that he doesn't even like bacon.

it's pathetic, really, but he missed you. he still does even though you're less than a foot away from him, salting your scrambled eggs.

he finishes his food faster than you do, and leaves to set up the boat with your promises that you would hurry.

he's excited; he hasn't seen you since christmas, and then, he had to share you with jack and luke and his parents too.

that year, you and jack had become decidedly closer, and quinn knows he has to establish that boat time was for you and him only.

so when jack and luke both follow you onto the boat, whooping and screaming, he's pissed.

and on top of that, he has to drive the boat while you and jack banter and threaten to shove each other off of the moving vessel.

it wasn't fair: you're his person. you guys did gas station runs together, you always looked at him with sad puppy eyes when you were cold.

he'd always grumbled and give you his sweatshirt when you refused to bring a jacket and ended up shivering. you always begged to braid his hair when the sun was at it's highest and there was nothing to do.

so yeah, excuse him if he was mad that your time together was interrupted by jack and luke of all people.

so when you walk up to him, hair messy and wearing nothing but your bathing suit and one of his old hockey jerseys, he tries his best to ignore you.

"quinny!" you exclaim, nudging his shoulder, and once more when he doesn't answer.

he glances quickly at you, but one look is enough to make his chest squeeze in that way that it started to do since last summer.

you had always been beautiful, but you were starting to be seriously gorgeous.

your hair is windblown, skin tanned and freckled with eyes bright from the sheer novelty of it being summer again.

you'd started to fill out more; the tiny bikinis you - and he - loved made something hot tug in his lower stomach.

tucking your hand into the crook of his elbow in the way that always makes him soften like butter, "I thought you were gonna let me drive!"

"ask jack to teach you," he snarks, and regrets it immediately at the hurt on your face.

his chest tightens, like someone has taken the hurt on your features and shoved it between his rib cage so he couldn't breathe.

the two of you don't talk for the rest of the day.

quinn feels like an asshole, and he really doesn't like how you refuse to sit in your normal spot next to him during movie night, instead opting to tuck yourself between the edge of the couch and luke.

and the salt on the wound was when you don't laugh at the stupid jokes he makes for you, especially.

his mom asks him what he had done when he goes to get more popcorn in the kitchen.

"what? why did you automatically assume I didn't something?" he asked, offended.

"because, that girl sticks to you like a magnet," ellen smooths his temple, "and because no one makes you smile and talk like she does. you've been silent all day."

the next night, he shows up at the door of your room in the lake house your two families shared.

he knocks, and pokes his head in, "chickie?

you're at your table, drawing again like you always were.

he keeps the little sketch of him you made last summer in his wallet, tucked under the picture of all of the hughes boys and you.

you ignore him, and he flops on your bed. the floral sheets your mom bought when you were 11 smells like you. he tries not to be creepy and inhale - at least too noticeably.

"gas station run?" he asks.

you finally spare him a glance, "quinny, it's past one o'clock, and it'll take at least 20 minuted to get there."

"please? I really want chips."

you sigh, ever the martyr, and agree. neither of you mention how the hughes stock up enough snacks to last at least 2 months the beginning of every summer.

the battle of who cracks first kept on, until finally, on the way back from the gas station, quinn sighs, "I'm sorry.

you frown, clearly not impressed, "I don't even know why you're sorry."

"god, this is embarrassing-"

"quintin, i swear-"

"i wanted the boat ride to be just us two!" he exclaims loudly.

there was a beat of silence, only the chirp of crickets that crept in the tall grass you could hear through the open windows of jim's truck.

the light on the radio shined, 1:59 AM.

"what?" you ask, a little confused and very much flustered.

"i missed you, chickie, and jack is always monopolizing your time! you're my person and-"

"are you jealous?"

"what?"

"oh my god, you are! you're jealous!"

"no!" he splutters, grateful that it's pitch black outside, because he can feel his ears heating up.

you laugh, tugging at one of his curls, as he grumbles something about not letting you eat any of his salt and vinegar chips.

"quinny?" you ask a little while later, when he's pulling back into the drive way, "y'know that you're my person too, right?"

you look soft and sleepy, under the light of the car, in one of his hoodies and sleep shorts.

he swears he turns into liquid in the drivers seat.

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••..

well, i was sixteen when suddenly, i wasn't that little girl you used to see

"I wouldn't worry about that, chicklet." jack throws his arm around you, and you roll your eyes at the many girls starting to glare at you.

"I don't know what you're talking about." except you do.

there's a girl flirting with quinn, and she's pretty. she's got tattoos on her arms, and she's tall, almost tall at him.

you take a break from the self-deprecating comparison between yourself and her to admire quinn for one second.

he's gotten so tall and broad, all the signs of boyhood gone, except when he smiles that special smile for you. the one when his eyes get all squinty and he bares all of his pretty teeth.

your heart twists, because he hasn't smiled at you like that all summer.

you don't know what you did wrong. maybe he's outgrowing you. he'll be a college man next fall, and you're still in high school.

he's got the whole world in front of him, and well, you couldn't blame him if he didn't want to settle for you.

you realize your feelings for him the beginning of the summer.

or you uncover them, because if you're honest, they've always been there.

and right now, you're wearing your heart on your sleeve, because he looks so handsome in a tight black t-shirt and shorts, a backwards cap on his curls.

his biceps look huge, and between the teenage hormones and the two shots in your system, you want to climb him like a tree.

the more romantic side of you wished you had your charcoal and parchment, so you can copy down his likeness for when your old and greying and you can't remember how he looks illuminated by the moon and bonfire.

"yeah, sure. you're clueless." jack snorts, and he makes his way to the drink table at the party you're at.

you pass by Luke, who's preoccupied by a girl way too old for him, and go sit closer to the fire.

you're mad.

you're mad because you've dressed up real cute, in a tiny black tube top and denim shorts.

you're mad because your hair is curled the way quinn likes it.

you know that for a fact because every time it looks like that, he comes up behind you to wind his fingers through a strand. it was a hassle, and he won't even look at you.

"what's a pretty girl like you doing alone?"

it's a boy with mussed, brown hair and a nice smile.

he's cute. peter, or pierre, he introduces himself. he reminds you a bit of the boyfriend you had first semester of sophomore year.

you've had boyfriends, and quinn has had his relationships, but summer was sacred.

that's why you felt ill when you flirted with him, not because quinn was a mere 20 feet away, starting to glance over and frown.

quinn has always been a jealous motherfucker; you'd give it 5 minutes before he comes over.

you try not to gloat when he comes over in 2.

"hey, chickie. time to go." he tells you, taking you cup and winding an arm around your waist.

you roll your eyes, pushing him off, "no, I'm good here,"

quinn crosses his arms and puffs out his chest, biceps flexing in front of you.

the boy smiles - you've already forgotten his name, something p - and shrugs at quinn.

he's mad now, you can tell, but you wrap you're fingers around the other boy's elbow to egg him on.

"oh, for- that's it. c'mon."

suddenly, your feet are swept out from under you, and you're thrown over his shoulder.

you frown, realizing that you're in the air.

"hey!" you protest weakly as people turn to look at you. quinn continues his trudge all the way to where he's parked his dad's truck and dumps you on the hood like you weigh nothing.

"what are you doing?" he asks, eyes dark, "that guy is no good-"

"no! what are you doing?" all of your frustration pools in your throat, and embarrassing tears are starting to prick at your eyes.

"you won't even look at me all summer, you're flirting with some girl and you get mad at me? you're being such-"

he shakes his head, looking as exasperated as you feel.

"do you know how hard it is-" he breathes out shakily, "how difficult it is to control myself around you?"

"what?" you ask, heart beating in your ears, "what?"

"i have been in love with you since i was 12, chickie." his tone is begging, and so are his eyes.

he looks pained, and you want to relieve it so, so badly. but he still won't touch you. he's hovering away from you, like he has for the past month.

"i love you, and you see me nothing more than a brother, like how you see jack. and it hurts, here," he rubs the heel of his palm between his ribs, "to know that you'll never want me the same way."

"quinn-"

"no, let me talk. I've spent the past 6 years pining after you. I've tried to move on, but all...nothing compares to you. I want you so bad, chickie, but..." he turns from you, head in his hands.

now, if you weren't like 3 beers and 2 shots deep, you would realize that he can't really go anywhere because you're quite literally on the top of his car.

but drunk you is clearly a dumbass, because you think he's trying to leave. so you tell him what's actually on your mind.

"i love you!" you blurt out.

he turns slowly, "what?"

"i love you too. i thought you didn't want me because you're leaving for college, but i want you so bad, please-"

the next thing you know, he's between your legs, so warm and solid, pulling you in by your cheek like during that spin the bottle game 6 years ago.

you let him kiss you for real this time, you let him push up your shorts to feel more of your skin, you let him lick into your mouth.

he pulls away, and you whine, tugging him in again.

he laughs, which makes you laugh in turn, and you slide down the hood as you giggle. he catches you, because he always does.

"i love you." you tell him, and he flushes, nuzzling into your neck.

"say it again," he demands, just because he can.

"i love you, my quinny." you coo, and he wants to crawl into your skin and settle there forever.

"i love you too, chickie."

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••..

oh, my, my, my

"told you so." Jim tells the rest of the parents.

the four of them - the weirdos - are on the second floor, leaning on the bannister as you make breakfast with quinn.

well, you make breakfast and he's distracting you.

he's got his arms wrapped around your shoulders from the back, and the two of you waddle like a pair of penguins around the kitchen gathering ingredients for pancakes.

you're giggling, and he's got a half-smile on his face.

you look so happy together than ellen and your mom are ignoring jim's gloating.

they are even kind enough to ignore the exchange of money between the two men, after all, your dad had bet on jack and lost.

"i can't wait for their wedding."

"hold on, now!"

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••..

a few years had gone and come around, we were sitting at our favorite spot in town and you looked at me, got down on one knee

you're on Quinn's lap, content and warm. the two of you had gotten up to watch the sunrise, first day of the summer at the lake house.

it's nice to have everyone in one place again, the two of you coming from vancouver, the boys from new jersey.

the past couple of years had been hard; a year or two long distance, until you went to study architecture at UBC after quinn had been drafted.

this year, 24 and 22, you finally get some rest and the promise of settling down more.

quinn's captain, and you have a good job that lets you work remote and do what you love.

and more importantly, the two of you are always together.

"babe?" quinn asks, running a hand down your arms, "c'mon, let's go to the dock?"

you don't protest, just happy to be at your childhood lake house.

he leads you there, like he always does.

"pretty." you stare out at the water, orange and pink sky meeting in the still horizon.

"yeah." quinn gives you a smile, rare for anyone else.

but he has always smiled for you, and you greedily hoard them in your memories.

"got something to show you," he pulls his wallet out, the two pictures in the clear flaps catch your eye.

one is a polaroid of you and your boys. quinn is 15, jack is 14, you're 13 and luke is 11. all of you are lanky and awkward, wrapped around each other and grinning ear to ear.

the other is also a polaroid, taken by ellen a year or two ago, when all of your parents came to visit your Vancouver apartment.

quinn's arm is around your shoulders and you're clinging to his side, one hand curled around his waist and the other on his chest. you're smiling at the camera, and quinn is smiling at you.

"cute," you tell him, but he digs a finger into the little pocket.

"fuck," he swears when whatever he's looking for doesn't come out.

"here, let me," you offer. you retrieve a piece of thick parchment with your smaller hands.

it's a sketch of quinn you did when you were in your early teens.

it's not great, you have to admit. the lines aren't smooth like how you sketch now, but the ink and paper is in pristine condition.

"quinn...you kept this?" you ask softly, oddly emotional.

when you look at him, he has a weird look on his face. he scratches his neck.

you stare at each other for a moment, the familiarity of your love almost stifling in the cool morning air.

and then he drops down on one knee.

you start crying, immediately.

that sets him off, and the two of you are blubbering as he tries to get through the speech he wrote in his notes 7 months ago after he got the ring and you were in the shower.

he tells you he loves you, how he's never going to leave you, that you're going to build a life together, just like how you've done everything together since you were kids.

you believe him, because your quinn is nothing if not earnest and steady.

you let him slip the simple ring onto your finger, and he lifts you up into strong arms to kiss you.

you're so deliriously happy that your teeth clash with his in a smiling kiss.

your families cheers from the porch, and you laugh, watery and heart full.

jack runs up first, swinging you around and clapping his hand down on quinn's shoulder.

Luke kisses your cheek and hugs his older brother, as ellen and your mom hug you together.

jim wraps his arms around you, pressing his lips to your forehead, "thanks for helping me win the bet, chickie." you chuckle, reaching for your dad next.

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••..

take me back to the time when we walked down the aisle, our whole town came and our mamas cried, you said I do and I did too

the wedding takes place a year later, in a small winery near the house, because ellen and your mom refused to let you have the wedding on the dock.

this was your compromise, because it's a small affair.

your dad walks you down the aisle to quinn. you're smiling, like there's a hanger in your mouth because you're just so happy.

he cries when he sees you, and so do the other hughes boys.

you hear your mom and ellen, tears meeting shaky smiles on their faces.

your own college friend, your birdie, fixes your veil and holds your bouquet.

sweet promises are exchanged in your vows, and when you have your first kiss as mr. and mrs. hughes, all of your loved ones cheer.

quinn sweeps you off your feet and bridal carries you to a change room so you can switch into your reception dress.

he sees you later as jack, who volunteered to be the mc, announces you guys as mr. and mrs. hughes.

quinn's eyes are hot and dark as he sees your smooth skin under white lace, and whispers something into the shell of your ear that makes you pink.

you dance together, with his brothers and his dad, with your own too.

but the last dance is saved for the two of you.

"i can't wait to grow old with you, chickie." he whispers romantically.

"you'd make such a cute old man," you tell him, and he rolls his eyes.

you laugh, and so does he.

forever sounds real good to you.

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

© sweetteainthesummerx.tumblr. all rights reserved. unauthorized copying, translation, or claiming of my writing or any works as your own is strictly prohibited.

[dystopicjumpsuit]

hey hey hey, for the first kiss prompts-

the uncontrollable smile they break into either after or during the kiss itself with... Jesse!

happy writing <3

Thank you for the request @multi-fan-dom-madness! I got a flash of inspiration during the thotting hours, so I bring a Thanksgiving present for you. (That's totally how Thanksgiving works, right?)

A/N: Happy Thanksgiving to my American readers! May your turkey be as juicy as Jesse’s thighs.

Pairing: Jesse x Reader (GN)

Rating: T but MDNI as always

Wordcount: 720

Warnings and tags: Fluff, banter, kisses

Summary: Jesse performs "emergency field medicine."

Suggested Listening:

Masterlist | Sign up for my tag list

There’s an ARC trooper in your office. He has his back to you as he inspects your shelves full of plants, holoframes, curios, and even a few actual paper books. You don’t recognize the kama, so he’s not one of yours—though you have no doubt that the Jedi generals would lecture you for getting attached to the troopers that way. 

Good thing I’m not a Jedi.

Whoever he is, he’s a big kriffing dude. ARC troopers always look extra imposing thanks to the pauldrons, but damn, this one must have needed custom armor to accommodate those muscles. His helmet is off, and all you can see is the back of his shaved head.

“Hello,” you say. “Can I help you with something?”

Translation: Who are you, and what the kark are you doing in my office?

He turns, and you catch a glimpse of a large Republic cog tattoo.

“Jesse?!” you exclaim, rushing across the office to fling your arms around him. 

He doesn’t even stagger a little bit as you collide with him, just wraps his arms around you in a tight hug. Impulsively, you press your lips to his cheek.

“When did you get back?” you demand.

He beams at you with a smile that’s too brilliant to be contained. “About ten minutes ago. Came straight here.”

“And I was stuck in a meeting,” you say with disgust, drawing a laugh from him. 

“I haven’t been waitin’ long,” he replies.

“Well, I’ve been waiting for you forever!” you exclaim. “How long is ARC training, anyway?”

An odd expression flickers over his face, and he hesitates before he replies, “I’m not actually allowed to say. Sorry.”

“That’s all right; I’m just happy to have you back,” you grin as you lean back to admire his new armor. “Look at you, Mr. ARC Trooper! You look great.”

“That’s ‘Lieutenant ARC Trooper,’” he says with a tiny smirk.

“You got promoted? Jesse, that’s amazing!”

“Yeah, I didn’t think I’d ever make it past sergeant, either,” he jokes.

“That’s not what I meant,” you laugh, slapping his chest and immediately regretting it when your knuckles collide with the hard plastoid armor. "Ouch!"

“How was that?” he asks.

“2/10, do not recommend,” you reply, shaking your hand to ease the stinging.

“Let me see.” He takes your hand gently in his and holds it close to his face to inspect it. “I think it might be fatal.”

“Better get Kix in here before I keel over,” you say, trying to ignore the warmth of his fingers and the rough texture of his gloves on your skin.

“No time,” Jesse replies gravely. “I’ll have to perform emergency medical treatment.”

He kisses your knuckles softly, and your heart begins to hammer in your chest.

“Did they teach you that in ARC training, or did you pick it up from Kix?” you ask, trying to keep your tone light.

“It’s a top secret ARC procedure,” he replies. “Very advanced medicine. I doubt Kix has heard of it.”

“I’m so lucky you were here to kiss it better,” you say. “I’d hate to die of a scraped knuckle.”

“Funny story,” he says. “This procedure requires multiple rounds of treatment.”

Your breath stutters to a halt. “It does?”

“Mm-hmm,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to each of your knuckles individually. He grazes his thumb across them, and suddenly you forget all about the pain. 

“I think it’s working,” you say.

He raises his other hand to your face, stroking his thumb over your lips as his fingers caress your jaw.

“Better try one more thing, just to be safe,” he says as he leans close to you, his lips a breath away from your own.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Just to be safe.”

His lips brush against yours softly, and it feels like the galaxy stops spinning around you, because you’re finally kissing Jesse, and it’s even better than you imagined, and his lips are kriffing perfect, and he tastes suspiciously like the candy that you keep in a bowl on your desk, and you never want it to end. Eventually, though, you have to come up for air, and he cups your cheek as you rest your forehead against his.

“You know,” he whispers, his breath warm against your skin, “I’ve been waiting for you forever, too.”

[darknesseddiem]

hi babe !

i hope your doing okay !! can i request n°10 and n°13 with roommate Eddie Munson, some angst and fluff pleaaaase ??

love u

nono 🫶🏻

𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥

"With the raven's wings retreating into the night, the cold air carries the faint whisper of your escape—a haunting reminder that, just this once, you’ve slipped through the shadows."

This blurb is part of the writing game created by me, join me and the raven in this maze of stories. 𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚'𝐬 𝐇𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐥.

Ever since you moved in with Eddie, your life turned into a complete circus, and not the fun kind.

I mean, this guy made it his personal mission to torment and annoy you in every possible way. It was like he had a sixth sense for when you were in a good mood, because that’s exactly when he'd show up with his unbearable attitude and ruin your day.

You’d be chilling on the couch, finally finding your zen after a long day, and boom, Eddie’s at your side with some ridiculous comment or a loud snack, crunching like a rock concert in your ear. It's like he had an alarm set to interrupt any hint of peace you managed to scrape together. He was the king of passive-aggressive vibes, and his superpower was turning your bliss into chaos.

But it wasn't like you had much of a choice. You'd just moved out of your parents' house, and your wallet was emptier than a ghost town on a Tuesday night. Plus, you had a lease binding you to this disaster zone of an apartment, and breaking it wasn't exactly in the budget.

So, there you were, stuck with Eddie the Terrible, who seemed to think that personal space was an urban legend and that common decency was for other people. Every time he walked into the room, it was like a dark cloud rolled in, and you couldn't help but wonder what cosmic force had brought the two of you together. If only you'd had a crystal ball before signing that lease.

Everything seemed totally fine at first. When Steve and Robin introduced him to you, he seemed chill, fun, even charming in that "he's probably got a ton of friends" kind of way. If only you'd known what you were signing up for...

The first few days living together in the apartment were bliss. He helped you with the move, carried all the heavy boxes, and went out of his way to make sure you felt comfortable. He was quiet when you needed silence, even respected your sacred moments on the couch while you binge-watched Modern Family. But, you know what they say, when the deal seems too good, it's time to raise an eyebrow.

It didn't take long for Eddie's true colors to start leaking out. Those same colors were about as subtle as a clown at a funeral. The same guy who had been so considerate and quiet suddenly turned into a one-man circus, complete with loud music and a never-ending collection of weird hobbies that made you wish you could build a soundproof bubble around yourself.

Silent nights turned into your own personal heavy metal concert, and your sacred couch time was constantly disrupted by the RPG campaigns he insisted on hosting at the apartment. Oh, and let's not forget about the marathon sessions he spent in the bathroom, perfectly timed to when you were running late. It was like the old Eddie had vanished into thin air, replaced by a cheap knockoff who didn't understand the concept of a volume knob—or basic courtesy, for that matter.

Gone were the days of quiet evenings, replaced by head-banging riffs that could wake the dead. Trying to watch your favorite show? Forget it—there was always a horde of his geeky friends crowded around the kitchen table, rolling dice and arguing about some wizard’s spell-casting ability. You'd go to grab a drink and feel like you'd wandered into the middle of a convention.

And those bathroom stunts? A whole new level of infuriating. You'd be in a rush, scrambling to get ready, and he'd be in there for what felt like an eternity, probably reading one of his comic books or watching cat videos. The guy had a sixth sense for the exact moment when you'd need the bathroom, and he used it to make your mornings an absolute nightmare.

Which brings us to the present moment: you pounding on the bathroom door like there's no tomorrow, hopping up and down like a kangaroo, and shouting for the thousandth time. "Eddie, I swear to God, if you don't come out of that bathroom right now, I will pee on your bed!"

The only response you got was a noise that could only be described as someone eating in the most grotesque, inappropriate way. "Wait, are you... are you watching ASMR while I'm about to explode into a puddle of pee? Oh no, you did not. You are going to hear from me!"

The sound from inside got louder, and then he replied, "Sorry, I can't hear you. I'm busy watching this guy stuff a whole chicken leg into his mouth."

It took every ounce of restraint not to break down that door and give him a piece of your mind. Eddie's antics had hit a new low, and your patience was hanging by a thread. This was the pinnacle of absurdity, the kind of moment that made you question every decision that led you here. You'd been through a lot with Eddie, but this? This was a whole new level of "what the hell." It was like living with a YouTube compilation of the most obnoxious trends, all crammed into one bathroom-occupying nightmare.

You might need a whole new strategy—or, at this point, just a new apartment. Because if this was a glimpse into the future, you weren't sure you wanted to stick around to see what else Eddie had in store.

“Please, for the love of God, let me pee…” you said, almost on the verge of tears. This was getting exhausting. Eddie must've sensed the shift in your tone, because the annoying sounds suddenly stopped, and the door swung open to reveal a metalhead with frizzy hair, wearing Looney Tunes pajama pants.

He had this sheepish grin on his face, like he knew he'd pushed you to your limit but didn't quite realize how close you were to snapping. He stood there in all his ridiculous glory, holding his phone with a paused video of some guy eating what looked like a plate of ribs, totally unbothered. "Hey, no need to be so dramatic, it's all yours," he said, stepping aside as if he wasn't the cause of your impending bladder explosion.

You shot him a look that could've melted steel, then dashed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you. As you finally got your much-needed relief, you could hear Eddie outside, humming some awful heavy metal tune to himself. It was like he had zero clue—or zero care—about how his antics drove you up the wall. He was just Eddie, living his best life, while you were left to deal with the chaos he left in his wake.

After the morning incident, you grabbed your coffee and headed straight to work, determined to shake off the chaos that was life with Eddie. But you could only escape for so long, because lunchtime rolled around, and you returned to the apartment, only to find a scene that looked like something straight out of a sitcom—think The Office, but even more ridiculous.

Eddie was in the kitchen, wearing an apron that said "Kiss the Cook," with his hair pulled back in a makeshift ponytail. The whole place smelled like something was burning, and he was frantically waving a dish towel at the smoke detector, trying to get it to shut up. It kept beeping, and every time it did, Eddie flinched like it was personally attacking him.

On the stove, there was a pan with some kind of unidentifiable charred mess, which he was desperately trying to scrape off with a spatula.

Your smile vanished the moment you noticed that the charred thing in the skillet was none other than the octopus you'd bought just the day before.

"What the hell?" You were furious, and it didn't help that Eddie was grinning like he was some kind of innocent angel.

He shrugged, clearly oblivious to the level of your outrage. "Oh, that was yours? My bad, I thought it was just... some random squid or something." He scratched the back of his head, as if he'd just made a minor mistake and not destroyed a perfectly good piece of seafood. The sight of him smiling like that only made your blood boil even more.

Your plans for a delicious lunch were now literally ashes, and Eddie was standing there like he'd just successfully solved a Rubik's Cube. You had to take a deep breath to keep from shouting. You'd put a lot of effort into picking out that octopus, and now it was just a blackened lump that even the trash bin would reject.

"How do you not know the difference between an octopus and a random squid? And who just grabs something from the fridge without asking?" you shot back, trying to keep your voice from escalating into full-blown rage.

Eddie looked around as if hoping to find an excuse or an escape route, but there was nowhere to run. He was cornered, and he knew it.

That was the last straw. Tears welled up in your eyes, and Eddie's expression shifted from cheerful to guilty in an instant. Before he could say anything, you turned and bolted out of the apartment, exhausted by the whole ordeal.

You couldn't stay there another minute. The anger and frustration had been building for weeks, and now it had boiled over. You needed space, air, and most importantly, a break from Eddie and his chaos. You didn't know where you were going, but you knew you couldn't be in that apartment for another second.

You walked for what felt like hours, letting the cool breeze and the distant sounds of the city calm you down. The world outside was peaceful compared to the constant drama of living with Eddie. As you strolled through the park and sat on a bench to collect your thoughts, you realized just how much the situation had been draining you.

You didn't go back home for the rest of the day. Instead, you found solace in the simple things—grabbing a coffee, listening to music. Anything to clear your mind and remind yourself that there was a whole world out there, far removed from Eddie's antics. You needed this time to figure out your next move, to decide if you could keep living with him or if it was time to break the lease and find a new place.

The one thing you knew for sure was that you couldn't keep going like this. Living with Eddie had become too much, and you'd had enough. It was time to put yourself first and find a way out of the madness.

As soon as you returned, he tried to talk.

"H—"

"Don't talk to me," you snapped, cutting him off mid-sentence. No room for discussion, no excuses. Just the sharp edge of your words.

Eddie looked taken aback, his eyes widening as if he'd just been hit by a surprise splash of cold water. You'd never spoken to him like that before, but you weren't in the mood to hear whatever half-baked apology or lame excuse he was about to offer. After everything that had happened, you just needed space and silence.

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded and backed off, his usual bravado deflating like a punctured balloon. You could feel him watching you as you walked past, but you didn't turn around. The time for talking was over, and you didn't owe him anything. You'd already had more than enough of his antics for one day.

You went to your room and closed the door, thankful for the barrier it provided. It wasn't much, but at least it gave you some distance from Eddie and his chaotic energy.

After some time reflecting, you decided it was time to talk about your decision. You went to the living room, where Eddie was watching one of his nerdy movies. He was glued to the screen, engrossed in whatever epic battle or spaceship chase was playing out.

"We need to talk," you said, standing by the couch with your arms crossed. Eddie turned his head, startled, but didn't say anything. He paused the movie, knowing this wasn't just a casual chat. "This isn't working," you continued. "I think it's better if I look for another place to live."

Eddie blinked a few times, processing your words. He shifted uncomfortably on the couch, scratching the back of his head. It was clear he hadn't expected this conversation. "You're leaving?" he finally asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

You nodded. "Yeah, it's just... too much. The constant noise, the bathroom thing, and then the whole octopus incident," you said, laying out the reasons. "It's not healthy, and I can't keep dealing with this."

Eddie looked genuinely regretful. "Hey, I'm sorry about all that. I didn't mean to—"

"It's not about apologies," you interrupted. "It's about needing space, needing peace. We just don't work as roommates, and that's okay. But I can't keep living like this."

He nodded like he understood your reasons, but what he said next was not at all what you expected.

"Ever wonder why I always bug you?" he asked, looking at you with an expression that was hard to read.

You frowned and shook your head, genuinely puzzled. "No, not really. I just figured you were... I don't know, Eddie."

He took a breath and then, almost sheepishly, replied, "It's because I want to get your attention."

Okay, what the hell? Your heart suddenly raced, and your mouth opened in a shocked gasp. Was he serious? All those antics, the noise, the drama—it was all because he wanted you to notice him? It sounded like something out of a high school rom-com, and it left you reeling.

"Wait, are you kidding?" you asked, trying to process what he was saying. Was this some sort of joke? But the look on his face told you he wasn't messing around. This was real, and he was genuinely trying to explain himself.

Eddie seemed to sense your disbelief, and he shrugged, looking a bit embarrassed. "I know, it's dumb, right? But I don't know how else to talk to you. You seem so... I don't know, together. And I'm... well, I'm me," he said, gesturing to himself like he was some kind of cosmic disaster.

This conversation had taken a turn you weren't expecting. You'd come here to tell him you were moving out, and now you were dealing with a confession that threw everything into a whole new light. What were you supposed to say to that? It was hard enough dealing with his shenanigans as a roommate; now he was confessing that there might be more to it.

He continued, "Ever since Steve and Robin introduced us, I’ve been interested in you. You’re so smart, beautiful, and funny that I found myself falling for you, little by little."

Oh my God, it felt like your heart was about to burst from the rollercoaster of emotions you'd experienced today.

"Was it a stupid way to get your attention? Yes. Was I a jerk? Absolutely," he said, rubbing his temples like he was trying to make sense of it himself. "But I got so lost in my own feelings that it was the only thing I could think of to make you notice me..."

This wasn't at all what you expected when you walked into the living room. You'd imagined a straightforward breakup with your roommate, but now here he was, confessing that he had a crush on you. And not just any crush—one that had apparently driven him to turn your life into an ongoing episode of Jackass.

It was a lot to take in, and you didn't even know where to start. Part of you was still annoyed at him for all the chaos he'd caused, but another part of you felt a twinge of sympathy. Maybe Eddie wasn’t just the relentless man-child you thought he was. Maybe he was just... confused and desperate for your attention.

"Eddie," you began, struggling to find the right words, "you can't go around making my life miserable just because you like me. That's not how this works." You shook your head, trying to ground yourself. "I'm glad you told me how you feel, but this isn't the way to handle things. It just makes everything more complicated."

Eddie looked genuinely regretful, as if he realized that his antics might have done more harm than good. "I know," he said, his shoulders slumping a bit. "I didn't think it through. I just... I don't know, I panicked."

The whole situation was like a scene from a cheesy romantic comedy, but it was happening in real life, and you weren't sure how to navigate it. You'd come to tell him you were moving out, and now you had to figure out how to deal with this unexpected confession without losing your sanity.

You sighed, feeling like you'd been caught in the world's most twisted emotional chess game. After a moment of gathering your thoughts, you confessed to him, "I can't say I don't feel anything for you either... From the first day, I liked you, but I'm just so mad about everything." It was time to set things straight. "We can try something more, if you promise to never pull those idiotic stunts again, or I swear I'll kill you." The two of you chuckled at the last part.

Eddie's eyes lit up, a smile spreading across his face like you'd just given him the best news in the world. He looked almost like a puppy that had been let back inside after getting caught in the rain. "I promise, no more of that stuff. I mean it. If I do anything dumb, you can smack me with a frying pan," he said, putting his hand over his heart in a mockingly solemn gesture.

You couldn't help but laugh at his exaggerated seriousness. It was hard to stay mad at him when he was being so goofy. "I'll hold you to that. I have a pretty big frying pan," you replied, raising an eyebrow.

Eddie chuckled, clearly relieved that you weren't storming out the door. "Deal. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry. I really am. I didn't mean to make things so hard for you. I just... I guess I went about it in the worst way possible." He rubbed the back of his neck, a little sheepish. "But I'll do better, I promise. If it means we can try something, then I'll be on my best behavior."

It felt like a weight had been lifted, and the tension in the room eased a bit. You knew there'd be a lot of work to do to make this living arrangement function without the constant drama, but at least now you had a new understanding between you. It wasn't exactly the romantic journey you'd pictured, but at least it wasn't a total train wreck.

"We'll see," you said, giving him a half-smile. "But one more thing, Eddie—if you ever lock me out of the bathroom again, I won't just threaten to pee on your bed. I'll do it." The laughter that followed was a sign that maybe, just maybe, things might work out after all.

“Okay, I’m starving,” you said, breaking the mood with a light touch. “Sushi?”

“Sushi?” He grinned and pitched his voice into a silly imitation, making you roll your eyes. “Eddie, I’m serious,” you said, trying to sound stern.

“Eddie, I’m serious,” he repeated with an even bigger grin.

“Stop mocking me,” you whined, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Stop mocking me,” he echoed in an exaggeratedly whiny voice.

“I’m getting the frying pan,” you threatened.

“Sushi sounds great to me,” he replied instantly, flashing you his best innocent smile, you rolled your eyes and went to order the food.

You wouldn’t lie—even his idiotic ways had managed to win your heart too, but you’d never admit that to him.

[dangerpronebuddie]

Writing Patterns

Tagged by @thekristen999 thank you dear!💜🩷

Rules: list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

I think I'm okay at setting the tone of a fic, but sometimes I'm not sure. Let's see...

Baby, I'm Never Gonna Leave You

“Did you know over sixteen hundred California residents have been murdered by serial killers since 1900?” Buck asked, staring down at his phone. Eddie turned the ambulance down a side street. “That's not creepy at all,” he drawled.

Lost Control And Rang Your Bell

Why Buck bought it, Eddie still doesn't understand. Why Buck felt Eddie needed (let alone wanted) any half sentient device anywhere near his property, Eddie doesn't know.

The Only Thing He Has To Fear

Buck picks at the fraying edge of the scratchy hospital blanket, glancing up every now and then when a familiar head passes by the small window in the door. Buck's kinda glad he's hesitating. He just didn't know why. And he's too scared to wonder.

Kiss Me Once Cause You Know I Had A Long Night (from chapter one)

Buck was making a lot of fuss over nothing. It was a scrape. Nothing major, or even life threatening. It stung like hell, but it wasn't bad.

My Life Is Gonnto Be Bee-u-tiful

“Looks like we're gonna be playing it old school for a while,” Buck says, watching as Eddie places- of all things- a digital thermometer in the pile of junk he's collecting. He wonders if Eddie plans on burning it all.

They Say She's Gone Too Far (This Time)

"If this one doesn't go anywhere, Pepa can just forget it," Eddie said with a wave of his hand. "Cancelling dinner with Tia Pepa." Eddie scowled at his smart watch. "Would you butt out?"

One That Makes Me Feel (Like I Feel When I'm With You)

Buck was distracted. And that probably wasn't safe, considering he was acting as a ventilator in a dark ER lobby.

The Pain Is UnBEARable

Eddie folded his arms and watched the fourth rematch, leaning against the engine beside Bobby, who rubbed his forehead with a sigh that most likely made his lungs cave in. Buck, Hen, Chim, and Ravi had already spent more than enough daylight bickering over the issue. Eddie didn't even get involved. He'd much rather admire the forest than participate in whatever it was the others thought they were accomplishing.

I Could Scare Less About Your Costume

In the end, it was all Karen's fault. Eddie would swear on any holy object offered that Karen Wilson was wholly responsible for all of it.

Spirits Moving Musically

"Buck, do you have any idea how many calls we get to those places?" Eddie folded a shirt he was almost certain was Buck's and shifted his phone to his other ear and shoulder. "I know, I know, but it just seems so cool!" Buck persisted. Eddie heaved a sigh. Okay, maybe it did. But... "Do you remember the call with the bats during my probie year? Or the one last year when the guy got his finger chopped off by the guillotine? Or I dunno, last week, when the banshee got stuck in her harness?"

Absolutely no pressure tagging: @lover-of-mine @monsterrae1 @fortheloveofbuddie @disasterbuckdiaz @daniwib @steadfastsaturnsrings @exhuastedpigeon @13shadesofanni @ronordmann @tizniz and anyone who wants to! 🥰🩷

[radiowallet]

Eyes Open - Chapter 9

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x Amy Oliver (ofc) Summary: Amy and Marcus are happy. WC: 2.7K Warnings: 18+ MDNI Canon-typical violence, talk of police work, a blatant show of testosterone, blood, injuries, kissing, making-out, dry humping, a smidge of dirty talk hurt/comfort, slow burn, yearning, idiots friends to lovers, financial stressors, second chance romance, workplace romance (sort of), older love interest, single parents, DID I MENTION THE YEARNING?

Series Masterlist II Main Masterlist II Marcus Moreno Masterlist

Cross-Posted to AO3

Part 8 >>> Part 10

For any new writing follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications.

------

“Mommy, why are you smiling like that?”

“Because I’m happy.”

“You look crazy.”

Amy's eyebrows shoot up into her forehead, not sure how to answer her daughter’s question. She tries her best to school her expression into something more neutral but fails almost immediately. Harris snorts into her bowl of cereal, milk spraying out across the kitchen table. A muffled ‘sorry’ is mumbled around a mouthful of crunch berries, and before Amy can offer an alternative, Harris is mopping up the spill with the sleeve of her shirt. 

And she still can’t stop smiling. 

——

“Why are you smiling like that?”

“Like what?

“Like you slept with a coat hanger in your mouth.”

Marcus sneaks a glance to the passenger seat where Missy is watching him, eyes narrowed, one sneaker propped on his dashboard. He briefly considers playing it off and changing the subject, but that tactic hasn’t worked on her in years. 

“Just happy, kiddo. What can I say? Just really happy.”

He watches Missy bob her head from the corner of his head, her own smile stretching her cheeks. 

“Next time they should come to our place.”

If possible, his smile gets even wider. 

——

“Hey, Oliver, you got that list of potential informants from Saturday?”

“…Oliver?”

“Oliver!”

A stack of papers and a cup of coffee hit Amy’s desk one after the other, and she blushes when she glances up and sees Derek staring down at her. There are certainly better ways to start a Monday morning than the chief of police catching her daydreaming about brown eyes and very kissable lips. But who could blame her, when the memory of Marcus’s touch was still so fresh, the bruise of his kiss still seared into her skin? She was already counting down the seconds until she could see him again, her mind on anything but police reports and notary stamps, only able to think about the way he – he…

“Oliver!”

“Shit! Sorry, Derek,” she apologizes, ducking her head and grinning despite herself. She shuffles through the mess, looking for the papers he was asking for when a cough draws her attention back to her boss, the cup of coffee he had put down nudged in her direction. 

“Seems like you need this.” 

“Thanks,” she offers between sips, closing her eyes and humming at the familiar taste. 

She hears the scrape of a chair and looks over as Derek takes a seat beside her, something stuck between a smile and smirk looking back at her. 

“Someone on your mind?”

“Oh god, what do you know?” 

It seemed only fitting that he knew about her and Marcus. A skilled detective with years of experience beneath his belt who has had a front row seat to the back and forth for years now? Of course, he knew.

Derek throws his head back, his trademark laugh filling out the stiff Monday morning air. “Not much, but I think I can take a good enough guess.” 

Amy snorts into her mug, taking another sip before returning to the task at hand.  “No jokes or warnings? Nothing about ‘bleeding hearts’ or ‘vigilante shit’?”

“It’s not like it would change your mind,” he reasons, leaning back in his chair, the heel of his boot resting across his knee. “Would it?”

“Mmmm, definitely not,” she hums, the smile returning to her face. She pulls out the list Derek had been asking for and passes it over to him with a wink. 

“You can spare me the details, Oliver. I’m happy you’re happy, but just do me a favor?”

The tone in his voice catches her ear, and she takes care to stop what she’s doing altogether, giving him her full attention. For a moment he doesn’t say anything, sharp eyes watching Amy from only a few feet away. Not for the first time, she wonders how much Derek really knows about her friendship with the Heroic and how even as it progresses so seamlessly into more, there is one piece of the foundation that remains. He clicks his tongue to the back of his teeth and shakes his head, telltale smirk returning. 

“Come find me when you’ve got these reports done. I need to take a look at them before the briefing about Wednesday night.”

——

“Falling in love with that file over there, Moreno?”

“Hmmm, what’s that?” Marcus asks, not looking up from the papers in his lap, Miracle’s question hardly registering, save for the call of his name. Whatever it is, it’s not nearly enough to distract  him from the memory of Amy’s kiss, and suddenly he’s wondering if it’s too early in the day to call her. Surely, she’s at work by now, and Marcus can’t think of a better way to brighten his own morning than by hearing her voice. He’s just about to reach for his phone when suddenly a blonde mustache is directly in his line of sight.

“Anybody home up there?”

“Jeez!” He shoots out of his chair, Miracle Guy’s intrusion into his personal space. “Warn a guy next time!”

“Oh, you mean the three times I called your name while you were daydreaming weren’t enough?”

Marcus feels his smile slip for the first time that day, his cheeks heating up at the realization he had been caught red-handed. The other man smirks before straightening and sauntering back to his seat on the other side of the room. He makes a show of swinging his hips back around and sitting in his chair before fixing a Cheshire grin directly on Marcus. 

“Sooooo…did you do something slutty?”

“Get back to work.”

“That’s a yes,” Miracle declares triumphantly, cheating his eyes back down to the file in his lap. 

“Not your business,” Marcus counters, shaking his head and doing his best to focus on his own work, hoping the subject would be dropped for good. The last thing he wanted was to reduce his weekend with Amy down to typical locker room talk, no matter how well-intentioned his friend was. No, this was something he wanted to safeguard, and protect, in any way he possibly could. 

They work in silence a little longer, only the scratch of Marcus’s pen to fill up the space between them. He’s just starting to make a little bit of headway when he feels it, the stare of blue eyes from across the room. Sure enough, Miracle Guy is still watching him when he looks up, but his features have evened out to something tempered and genuine. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” he tosses out, cheating his eyes back down to his lap. “So, when you seeing her again?”

Marcus doesn’t bother pointing out that he had yet to actually confirm the shift in his relationship with Amy (or that it was even Amy that had him so distracted in the first place). Instead, he tosses the stack of papers onto his desk and folds his hand in his lap, giving up fully on killing his smile.

“Friday.”

Miracle Guy nods, leaning forward to meet Marcus’s gaze head on, his own smile splitting his lips. “What would you say to seeing her sooner?

——

The assumption has always been that Miracle Guy is dumb. People see the cape and the muscles and the smile and they draw conclusions to a very obvious (if not boring) narrative. Marcus grew up side by side with the other Heroic, a tenuous rivalry that blossomed slowly into a friendship that spanned two weddings, two kids, one devastating loss, one almost retirement, and one fake alien invasion. 

The two men brought out the best and worst in each other over the years. Miracle was strong, so Marcus took up swords. Marcus was quick on his feet, so Miracle took to the skies. They were so different in so many ways, but when push came to shove it didn’t really matter that Marcus was named team leader. Miracle Guy looked good on a lunch box and so that was his role to play. The face. The smile. The whole package. 

But the world didn’t know. 

They didn’t see it. 

Miracle Guy was the smartest of them all. 

And so when he pointed out one distinct pattern that Marcus had overlooked in every case filing, every box of evidence, every shake down of a perp, he knew the other man was right. About a lot of things. 

The air in the station feels less stale today, something static sparking at the tips of his fingers, even just the potential of Amy’s smile leaving Marcus breathless. He spots her quickly, her head bent low over her desk, her pen moving in short, sweet strokes, a half-empty cup of coffee beside her.  He shifts where he stands, giving himself a few seconds to collect his thoughts, admiring Amy from afar in the meantime. From the outside, she appears focused, her eyes sharp and her pen strokes precise, but Marcus doesn’t miss how she pauses every so often, the scratch of her pen falling silent, the tips of her ears tinging pink.

He can’t help but hope it’s him that has her so distracted.

She looks up, the weight of his eyes on her finally catching her attention. He gives a small wave, not bothering to hide his grin, delighted when she matches him beat for beat. He moves quickly after that, not slowing until he’s beside her.

“I didn’t think I’d see you today,” Amy greets him before taking a sip of her coffee. From the look of disgust on her face, it’s gone cold but she takes it in stride, standing and moving to the coffee pot behind her, mug in hand.

“Me either,” Marcus admits, his hand coming to the back of his neck. He watches her patiently as she tops off her lukewarm coffee before pouring a cup for him, adding his preferred two sugars with a smile and a wink. 

“So is it safe to assume you’re here for more than just a sweet surprise?” She murmurs, brown eyes cheating to where Baldwin’s door is shut tight.

“Guilty.”

Amy takes his confession in stride, handing him the mug of coffee before leaning in to kiss his cheek. It’s soft, a barely there brush of her lips, but still, he can feel his heart rate pick up speed. It’s another addition, something small and sweet, the change in their dynamic more apparent than ever. Her eyes find his, something warm spilling out between them, and before she can move away he leans in and steals a quick kiss of his own. 

“Okay,” she hums, settling back down in her seat and motioning for him to do the same. “Spill. Tell me about your day.”

Marcus grins but obliges, scooting his chair in until his knees just graze Amy’s. She doesn’t say anything, but he can feel her push her own leg forward into his space, and he takes that as his cue to talk

“Miracle Guy and I were doing a little bit of work today. Going over some of our notes from the past few weeks, and he noticed something interesting.”

“Mmm? What’s that?” She asks, not looking up from her own work, the perfect picture of feigned indifference. 

He takes a sip of his coffee, nodding his head left then right, trying to match her nonchalance. “The only piece of evidence collected.” 

——

Amy hadn’t really thought much about the bags of money from the weekend. Not since they had fallen into her face, interrupting her kiss with Marcus. After their giggling had quieted, and Marcus had leaned back in for one more kiss, softer and sweeter on the second go around, she carefully stacked the bundles of cash back on the shelf and promptly put them out of her mind. 

Until now. 

She can feel the heat of Marcus behind her as they navigate the narrow stairwell down into the evidence locker. Tendrils of warmth curl down in her stomach, the memory of Saturday morning still fresh in her mind. Somehow returning to the scene of their first kiss feels more intimate than anything else they’ve shared since, and it takes every ounce of willpower for her not to turn around and recreate the moment beat for beat. 

It isn’t just Amy that’s distracted by the memory, the brush of Marcus’s lips along the nape of her neck giving away his own thoughts. As her feet touch the bottom step his hands find her waist, holding her in place, his breath insistent across her skin. Logic falls to the wayside, one calloused palm cupping her chin and turning her head until their lips finally meet. 

The kiss is hurried, sharp and sweet, breaking apart and coming back together again and again. Amy does her best to hold on, one hand finding the bend of Marcus’s elbow, the other planted to the wall, chipped paint catching beneath her fingernails. She gasps into the kiss and his grip only tightens at the sound. Suddenly, she's spinning, her back to the wall, his chest pressed to hers, teeth and tongue taking even more. 

“Missed you,” he murmurs into the kiss, refusing to part from her lips any longer than necessary. 

Amy is vaguely aware of the growing risk, the busy precinct one floor up, filled with an endless number of people who could walk in and steal this moment. And still she can’t stop, kissing Marcus as if he was the air inside her lungs, breathing him in and holding him close and praying for forever. His tie between her fingers and his hands in her hair, and how could it be that only a week ago she was convinced this man didn’t want her. 

Couldn’t want her. For all the things she carried from point A to point B. 

Amy was never so sure of how good it felt to be wrong. 

Level heads and a gentler touch eventually prevail, the kiss ending with soft smiles and pink cheeks. But Marcus doesn’t pull away, even as his eyes find a spot over her shoulder, the shelves of evidence splitting his attention. 

“What are you looking for exactly?”

His jaw ticks hard to the left, his brows bunching in with the effort. When answers, it’s with his own question, something like guilt coloring his words. 

“How hard are those bags of money to open?”

——

It turns out, not very hard at all. 

Amy pulls one of the neatly stacked bundles down, running the tip of her finger along the sealed edges.

“You can’t open it here, because you’ll cut through these signatures,” she points to the scribbled names of two officers. The ones who had collected the money from the scene of the crime. “But if you cut here,” she slides her finger down to the bottom of the bag, “you can reseal it without it being too noticeable.” 

“It’s weird though,” she hums with the afterthought, turning the bag back over in her hands. “Once we confirm the money was obtained illegally the FBI comes to haul it away. Must be hung up ‘cus we confiscated it over the weekend.” 

Marcus nods in agreement, a sharp buzz starting to ring in his ears. He’s acutely aware of the lines being crossed, Amy’s voice pitched to a low whisper, her tone rushed with nerves. New layers of guilt are sticking to his every thought, and he hates how unsure he is of both of their motives. Is she willing to help because she always has, his friend first and foremost, their relationship built around little lies just like this one? Or is this something bigger? The memory of their kiss still bruised into her lips as she willingly helps him take something he knows he shouldn’t? 

“Marcus?” She calls his name, pulling his attention back down to her, her own eyes narrowed in thought. “What do you think is in here?” 

Slowly, eyes never leaving hers, he takes the bag out of Amy’s hands and places it back on the shelf behind them. With his hands free, Marcus cups her cheeks and leans in, pressing his lips, first to the crease in her brow, to the tip of her nose, and then finally, to her lips. When he pulls back, he keeps her close, her breath warm where it mingles with his own. 

“I’ll find another way.” 

------

A/N: Thank you to everyone for reading.

[frannyzooey]

What's your Pedro fandom origin story?

Let's see....I was super heavy into the Game of Thrones fandom, but only for Sansa/The Hound. I didn't even give Pedro a glimpse when he was on that show. Then I watched The Mandalorian and really liked that it was exactly like a western, but still -- no hyperfixation. Just thought he was kinda cool.

Then I watched Prospect, and became obsessed with tracking down fic for Ezra, of which there wasn't really any...I wanted so, so bad for someone to write Ezra/Cee (no one @ me), but since there wasn't really anything out there, I read the same 10 fics over and over and went back to GoT.

THEN I watched Season 2 of the Mandalorian during the beginning of quarantine, broke my leg and was trapped in my basement apartment with two children to be homeschooled and a full time virtual job and a busted leg....so I leaned hard into daydreams about a western Din whisking me away, lol.

I lurked for a long time, posted the first chapter of TMTC with all of 7 followers and fucking devoured fic like nothing else on Din. I scraped the bottom of the barrel on that man, bled the site and Ao3 dry, and then watched Narcos and had a sexual awakening 😍

I reached out to every single person in the fandom I could about how good the show was, read and reblogged as much fic as a human could and got totally enamored with this idea that there were so many people out there being so brave and creating and was so super fucking inspired by all of them, that I stuck around...and I am still here, three years later!

I really found my people ❤

[jedi-enthusiast]

Rules: Tag 10 people you’d like to know better!

I got tagged by @shootingstarpilot <3 so here we go!

—————

Relationship Status: Single, and honestly it’s kinda nice—yeah I’d like a romantic relationship, but I find being single very…peaceful. Plus I have some great friends, so I’m not particularly upset about it.

Favorite Color: Forest Green or any shade of Dark Blue

Favorite Food: Toasted Sourdough Bread + any number of toppings. I go through so much sourdough bread because I’ll buy a bunch of different toppings and just eat fancy toast the whole week. Some of my favorite combinations include-

- Bacon, Fried Egg, and Cheddar Cheese

- Pepperjack Cheese, Caramelized Onions, and Fried Green and Red Peppers

- Queso and Jalapeños

- Mayo, Bologna, and Fried Egg (don’t knock it, until you try it—I know it sounds weird)

Song Currently Stuck In My Head: Vigilante Shit by Taylor Swift (tbh any song by Taylor Swift will constantly be playing on repeat in my head)

Last Thing I Googled: “Alternative writing platforms for Google Docs that aren’t like Word”

Listen, I’ve seen so many people being like “oh, you need to switch from Google Docs to another writing platform, they’re gonna let AI scrape your data!” (I do not know how true that is) and I was like “yknow what? Sure, I’ll try to find one”

BUT EVERY OTHER PLATFORM IS BASICALLY JUST WORD UNDER A DIFFERENT NAME AND I LITERALLY HATE USING WORD

So yeah, at this point, Google can just take my data—I’m sure that explicit CodyWan one shot I’m writing is gonna come in handy for them in the future (/sarcasm)

Time: At the time of posting, it’s 11:14 pm, I’m in Eastern Standard Time

Dream Trip: I’m not much of a trip planner, but I’d love to go to somewhere with a nice big forest and mountains everywhere, preferably somewhere cool but not cold—somewhere peaceful

Something I Want: Ngl I’d kill to buy a nice lightsaber, but I’m headed to college soon and idk if I’d use it there

—————

Tagging my hoes ( @pro-penlicker and @girlmaster132 ) and then @itsgoldleaf @ankahikoibaat @adiduck and open tags for anyone else who’d like to join!

[writebethany]

20 questions for fic writers

Just because i saw it and wanted to 😂

How many works do you have on ao3?

138

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

2,336,801

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Started with Warehouse 13 and bering and wells, then wandered into OUAT and Swanqueen, then DWP and Mirandy, then a stint in Pitch Perfect 2 specifically for Becommissar because mmm Kommissar, a blip into Supergirl some for Supercat, more for General Danvers (tangentially also Supercorp but that's more for the fact that I run the chirstmas exchange than anything, love those kids, not my usual ship), and a crossover or two with Legends of Tomorrow with Supercanaary in there too in that same era, two seconds in ot3 shipping in The Greatest Showman because Jenny Lind mhm, one fic in Steven Universe because poly!diamonds, then into Harry Potter for anything to do with the Black Sisters and Hermione and occasionally Lucius which is still on going, but a bit backburnered because I've also fallen into writing fic for The Librarians this year centered around some pairing of Cassandra, Eve and Jenkins for the most part. Basically. It's a lot, and a lot of bouncing around between larger eras in specific fandoms lol.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Ask me No Questions (I'll Tell You No Lies) [HP Hermione/Narcissa/Anathema], Heaven When We're Home [HP Hermione/Narcissa], By All Accounts [Supergirl, Supercorp (apprciate you guys but I'm still confused by that😂)], Coffee Shops and Vigilantes [Supergirl/Legends of Tomorrow, Supercanary], Sincerely Yours [HP Hermione scores a hat trick]

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

I try to as much as possible, especially in smaller fandoms. Sometimes I get a bit overwhelmed at it falls by the wayside, but I come back eventually.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Uhhhhhh there's usually one in every fandom I stay in for long enough where I just go full nuclear angst and no happy ending. Probably the worst of the worst Offenders is "I Hate to Kill You (I Hate to Die)" for obvious reasons if you've read it, but "of all the things I never told you" and "Halfway Through the Woods" are also up there and in probably last place but still *very* angsty is "Better This Way"

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Hard to pick. Save for those fics I'm a happy ending hoe. Probably the most rewarding happy ending will be for "The Sun Must Set to Rise" but that isn't published yet. I'm actually procrastinating the wrap up that story right now by doing this 😂😅

8. Do you get hate on fic?

Out right "you suck" hate? Once or twice. But there has been whining in the past on my stories about how I never finish anything or that I update too slow and why am I like this. *Those comments get responded to with some lessons in manners*

9. Do you write smut?

*looks at the tab beside Sun Must Set to Rise* I have no idea what you're talking about. But yeah, some pwp but a lot of smut as the pay off in long fics to put that cherry on top of them.

10. Do you write crossovers?

Have before, though they aren't my main thing, and unclear if Supergirl/Legends counts since like. The shows actually did that themselves once a season 😂

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I think I ended up on a scraping website that people posted about on tumblr all of once. Not mad about not having to fight that lol.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I've had people ask before, but they're on different databases than ao3 so I haven't really checked on how that went for them.

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

Several! Two of my closest fandom friends have cowritten with me and one IRL friend. Some of them got finished, others did not, but it was fun along the way.

14. What’s your all-time favourite ship?

??????? I know there are people out there who have stuck in one fandom and only one fandom for longer than I've been writing and they definitely have the answer to this, but I have ADHD and doooooo not. If I had to pick at gunpoint, I'd probably say Harry Potter Hat Trick, but unless you point a gun at me I'm not answering.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but probably won’t?

Probably "Sometimes it's Soft Hands and Mailing Envelopes" it was a big part of my life in 2015 and I obsessed over it and wrote it and its sequel at such a fast pace, especially for going into my senior year of college. But I've reread the prequel and it's cute and I started reading it over again and just went 'I know where I wanted this to go, I can see how I would get there, I don't want to do that though' because it's a very slice of life story about moving in with your girlfriend and both you and your girlfriend navigating a new job/grad school and I've lived both of those experiences now, and especially I do not want to relive grad school, but also I don't usually write long slice of life things anymore. Sci-fi/fantasy and plot heavy for lyfe lol. But I do wish I had finished it at the time.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I think over arching plot, like I'm good at fitting the pieces together where they need to go to make a believable story, which is good when you tend towards writing more mystery-esque 'solve a problem' fic. Also dialogue as a secondary. There is no struggle here to make these bitches say words.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I have DEBILITATING wordy bitch disease. This could be managed if I edited stories before posting them, but I don't. I'm doing well to edit my original work, thanks. So it leads to a lot of fics that are probably 20-50k too long and drag on the point for a bit. I *have* gotten better at it though. The White Queen is probably 100k too long oh my god, I try to forget she exists, even if it's one of the most popular fics I've written.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I have before, mostly in Pitch Perfect since Kommissar is German. It was a good experience. I probably wouldn't do it again unless I either knew the language or it was made up. In text notes so the reader gets what was said are the most awkward thing to deal with in the history of ever.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Warehouse 13. I hadn't known about fic for that long before starting to write for it. I also hadn't realized that I was a big ole homo, which in the late 00s/early 10s fanfic was the only fucking way I was going to see two ladies kiss and by god I was going to leverage the award winning writing skills I had gained writing terrible, original, teenager ficition to do it.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

I think for a long, long time it was Of Cats, Giraffes, and Mice. It's just so very soft and caring and for a long while I could just feel that care and sink right into it and it just felt like the best thing I'd ever written. Rereading it now, it's still a very good fic, but I'm starting to see the little holes here and there as I grow as a writer. It's still good! I love it to death, and to talk about favorites without it would be incomplete, but I think that it's important to mention that even your best work eventually loses a bit of shine, no less dear, a huge stepping stone in the right direction, just not the top one anymore.

I think now my favorite is Heaven When We're Home. It has all of those hallmarks that Of Cats, Giraffes, and Mice did, if shorter, and there's a lyrical note to the writing and word choice in it that I have NO idea how I did (not being sober when writing probably didn't hurt) and I'm still chasing that sort of writing even now 2 years later.

[watchyourdigits]

47-50 for the OTP ask game. also <3 <3 <3

<33

Sorry it took so long to respond, been stuck in the trenches lol

Answering for both Frankie/Danse AND Evelyn/MacCready bc this set of questions inspired me for them both. I hope you don't mind! Also I got carried away again with these mb mb

47.  Are they extroverts/introverts?

Eve/Mac

Evelyn would probably be considered the extrovert of the two of them, though only barely. Eve is not afraid of confrontation or any other social consequences, where MacCready much prefers to keep his head down & skip out of fights where he can. I feel like their choice in weapons does a decent job reflecting this notion (sniper rifle vs melee combat). Both of their social batteries are artificially fueled by alcohol (chems too, in Eve's case). So both are introverted-ish, but Eve is more bold and brash?

Frankie/Danse

Frankie is easily the extrovert and generally a very charismatic (and genuine!) fella. Where Danse doesn't understand social cues well, Frankie willingly chooses to ignore them. He's good with talking and can drag most anyone out of their shell or talk them down. Whatever the situation calls for, he's a charmer for sure. Danse doesn't understand small talk and finds having to engage in it to be exhausting.

48.  Who would bring home a homeless animal?

Eve/Mac

I haven't thought about this before! I think MacCready is mostly wary of animals, given he spent so much time in a cave growing up. Most fauna that aren't small (aka normal sized) rodents make him nervous. Eve might bring home a stray dog or two, so long as they looked tough and mean enough to be trained up into guard dogs.

Frankie/Danse

Frankie. No contest. He grew up on a farm and has a soft spot for all creatures, big and small. Except deathclaws. Heh. Anything that's got four legs and fur is fair game, though. Danse hates this (they have enough mouths to feed as is), but he secretly likes the cats that find their way into Sanctuary a lot and frequently can be found with at least one of them (usually Aurora, the lil orange runt).

49.  Do they match outfits for special occasions?

Mac and Eve most assuredly don't do this, but Frankie and Danse? Hell yeah!! It's a military thing - a way to distinguish themselves from others, as if their outfits were uniforms. They both take comfort in the familiar, and the idea of uniforms is a small piece of their past lives that they've carried over. Oh man, now I really want to write a one-shot on how the outfit matching habit started 😭😭

50.  Who would protect who in a dangerous situation?

Eve/Mac

Evelyn would be the one protecting MacCready ~7 times out of 10, especially in close quarters, where he's more easily visible to enemies since Eve relies entirely on stealth. Also, she would bring the world to its knees if anything were to happen to him, but he's prone to ending up a damsel in distress when she's around. She's starting to think he does it on purpose.

Frankie/Danse

Danse often does a lot more protecting of Frankie than the other way around. Frankie can be a little reckless (something about surviving like three wars and a deathclaw might have given him an invincibility complex) in the field and has gotten himself into some close scrapes - especially since he refuses to use anything other than his shotgun and isn't exactly the best when it comes to stealth. Danse often has to lecture him after the fact, usually while patching him up.

[djnusagi]

What is MANGADEX

I just put out a seven track album called MANGADEX that I’ve been working on since 2020 and I wanted to talk a little bit about the process behind it.

MANGADEX is about a particular part of my life. For a lot of my life, especially my adolescence, I was extremely antisocial, and I still am to some degree. I’ve known I was transgender since I was 12, and I’ve explicitly “wanted to be a girl” since I was 7. Like I was always a little bit “off” and uncomfortable with maleness and bad at performing it but when I was 7 I became obsessed with wanting to be a girl. But I didn’t know about trans people yet, and I knew enough to know that if I started telling people I wanted to be a girl it would go badly for me. When I finally learned what being trans was I told my parents. They reacted really badly but after a year they relented and took me to a “gender clinic”. That only made things worse. I won’t go into detail but I was like 13 and spent hours being interrogated by adults about my sexuality, masturbation, and all variety of unpleasant topics. Eventually they determined I wasn’t trans and I would  eventually grow out of.

After that I tried really hard to repress my dysphoria, which didn’t go well. It only got worse and worse as I got older. I became extremely withdrawn and antisocial, I never left my bedroom except when I absolutely had to and spent most of my free time engrossed in escapist fantasy through video games, anime and manga. I also used the internet a LOT. The internet was also where I read most of my manga and watched most of my anime, specifically through the websites MangaDex and kissanime.

In 2020 I had the idea to make two albums that would work as companion pieces. They would both be reflections on dysphoria, escapism and isolation. The first album, which I decided to call MANGADEX, would be a more positive album, focusing on the trying to find a way out of this state and what little good I could scrape out of it. This album was planned to be shorter (at one point it was a four track EP), with more emphasis on flashy sound design and high energy tracks influenced by dance music. The second album would be called kissanime. It would be longer (I’m anticipating about 10 tracks), with a focus on how fucking depressing and miserable this period in my life was/is. kissanime is going to be a lot sadder, with more atmospheric production (basically a bunch of Drain Gang type beats).

I’m aiming for a march release date for kissanime, but who knows when it’ll actually come out. MANGADEX was meant to come out in October and it just dropped a few days ago on December 2nd. If nothing else there’s a track on kissanime about aging and birthday’s that I wanna put out as a single on my actual birthday (March 6th) so hopefully I’ll be able to do that. I also have way more than 10 tracks in various stages of creation for kissanime, and I had to cut a track I was really excited for from MANGADEX because I just couldn’t figure out how to finish it. So after kissanime is out I’m gonna finish up all the leftover shit, maybe pad it out with some loosies, and call the resulting album nhentai (thanks to my friend PixelQuiet for coming up with that name, she’s a really cool gamedev and you should follow her)

But the thing about these two albums is that they don’t 100% represent where I am in my life anymore. The part in my life they’re about will probably always be with me to some extent and I’m honestly not fully out of that space yet. But when I started HRT in August 2021 it triggered a very slow move towards a more healthy social life and a healthier (though still extremely negative) relationship with my body. I’ve learned a lot about myself since then and I think I’ve grown a lot as a person. After I’m done with this series of albums I wanna do an album about where I am now. I’m stuck in my home town living with my parents and wanna get out. I’ve already begun writing for that album actually. I also want that album to be more guitar-centric and have sort of a post hardcore influence. Anyways, if you read all this then thank you. I hope you’re enjoying MANGADEX and I hope you enjoy kissanime when it finally comes out.

- V

[anonymous-nobody-ghoul]

1. Whatever font is there when I open Word or Google Docs. I don't care when I'm initially writing. I just want to get it down. When I'm posting I'll usually change it to something different if I feel like it.

2. I could write by hand. I actually used to exclusively write by hand when I started in middle school and until I found an app to write on my phone. Even then I had a specific notebook filled with ideas and little blurbs. I just recenty typed them all onto my computer. Also only I only write with pencils. I make to many mistakes not to.

3. I pretty much only write during class or when I'm putting things off. I also have to put on music that doesn't have words or I'll get distracted or can't write.

4. For feral in a good way, its "broken." And in a bad way, its "moist."

5. If I have an idea in my head and I write it down, I'll never be able to imagine the story in my head again. The first time I was like "That's a great idea! Let me write it down!" And I have never been able to imagine that story again in my head. This has proven true for every story I have in my head that I have written down. Unfortunately that is the same for the stories I am currently writing...

6. My family will find it. I do NOT want to explain any of it to them. Except my sister. She's cool.

7. Love people being able to see and like what I write. I hope I'll live up to their expectations.

8. Without dialogue for sure. I've actually done that before for an english class and it was so fun! I'm very used to have a TON of dialogue in my stories. My teacher challenged me to write a story without dialouge as extra credit. If I can find it I'll post it.

9. I believe in ghost. If just for the fact that its cool as hell.

10. I don't believe that a piece of writing has ever "haunted" me. I either look fondly on something, hate it, or just forget it. While it isn't really a piece of writing I do have something of mine that "haunts" me. A thought I had for years in my head whenever we were driving away from bad weather. I said it once outloud when I was in a friends car. "Its like we're running away from the clouds." My friend and her mother were "haunted" by those words. We are no longer friends for some not so happy reasons. I'm "haunted" by the fact that anytime she might be driving away from bad weathe that she might once again think about what once was. Just like I do.

11. I actually had to look up what "kill your darlings" meant. I don't know if I do that really. I do have some alternatives for certain scenes I write. I actually have a whole different prolouge to "Safe Space" because I was writing it and didn't like how it was exactly. I scraped the original prolouge and rewrote it entirely. However, I still have the original prolouge cause I still liked it. It just wasn't what I wanted for "Safe Space."

12. My first wish would to never be stuck trying to think of a certain word and getting stuck again. I have literally stopped writing stories, mid sentence, because I couldn't think of a certain word I wanted to use. I do the same for school assignments as well. My second wish would probably be getting rid of my writing superstition. I want to be able to visualize more to "My Crazy Love" and "Safe Space." I've only got what I visualized before I started writing them. My third wish would be the ability to WRITE IN THE SAME PERSON WITH OUT RANDOMLY CHANGING THE PERSON I'M WRITING IN.

13. I struggle writing emotional stuff. I basically put myself into the shoes of my characters and if I can't imagine myself with those feelings (i.e. vulnerability, sadness, love) I can't write it. On the other hand, I've never had a problem writing violent or gorey scenes.

14. I do not lend my books put anymore. Even when I was a kid I didn't lend books out to anyone. I lent a book ONCE to a friend (same as 10) after she beged and promised she would take care of it. She returned it with the spine broken! I didn't lend books to anyone again. Except when my mother made me lend my younger brother my books. The first time I was forced to, it was the first Artemis Fowl book my teacher got for me. He somehow ripped the pages from the front cover and spine. He also damaged the front cover by somehow ripping holes into it! My mom "fixed it" with BLACK ELETRICAL TAPE. When I had a breakdown over it, she said she'd buy me a new one and I didn't let her cause I'm emotionally attached to my posessions. The second time was with my 1984 book that he took camping with his GF. It rained in the night and the entire book was water damaged. I do have books I'll never get back. My sister and I gave all our manga to a friend after my mother made us get rid of it cause she thought I was a lesbian. When I turned 18 I asked for them back and the friend said that her mom had "accidentally donated them" and that she would give me all her money to make up for it. I said no and just wrote off thousands of dollars spent on those manga.

15. I personally try to keep my books as pristine as possible. It's just how I personally like to keep my books. I don't mind what people do to their own books. HOWEVER. If you do that to a library book or a loaned book we can never be friends. Dog-earing is on thin ice with library books, but don't EVER do that to any books I won't lend you.

16. I've used empty gum wrappers, recipets, other books, feathers, random ripped paper, business cards, and full sheets of paper as bookmarks. You pick.

17. For "My Crazy Love," it was originally an X Reader, not and X OC. Also Elizabeth and Daniel had different names. Elizabeth's was obviously (y/n) and Daniel was James. The characters were based of my and my friend in middle school. We used to talk about Creepypasta all the time and made our own characters that were siblings not by blood. The backstories for our characters are actually are based on our lives. However, the friend decided calling me a whore randomly was okay and so I kicked him in the nuts and said we were no longer friends. I also originally posed "My Crazy Love" on Deviantart and Quotev when they were the most popular fanfiction sites. You can find the original chapters 4-9 + a "Halloween special" right now on quotev. Jack is also based on a kid I knew from school. Why? I don't remember. I think I was just trying to think of a person who would know both Elizabeth and Daniel and he just fit the bill. I could have also been pissed off at him for some reason.

18. The whole story of "My Crazy Love" came from 1) my role playing with the real life Daniel and 2) a Creepypasta fanfiction I read about the reader in a mental asylum and escaping to Slender Mansion after seeing Slenderman watching her in the asylum. It was on Deviantart and I cannot find it anymore. I was just like, "that would be fun to write about" and so I did. It was as cringe as you think a 6/7th graders writing about Creepypasta with their Mary Sue-ish OC turned x Reader you can think. (If you have a specific passage you want to know about let me know and I'll try to respond with how it came to be.)

19. I started writing when I could start writing in kindergarten. I loved making up short stories and telling people them. As I moved from elementary to middle school I started writing short scary stories. Then one winter, I wrote a fanfiction about Black Butler x Alice in the Country of Hearts crossover on like 20 front and back sheets of printer paper. I didn't know what fanfiction was at the time and just wanted to write about a chatacter that reincarnated everytime they died as different Alice in the Country of Hearts characters to help the Phantomhive line. It wasn't even romantic, just a kid having fun.

20. I'm choosing to publish my perfect WIP. I most likely won't ever have someone I love romantically. I just get infatuated with someone for like a week then I'm not anymore. I have my animals and my family and I'm perfectly fine with that. Hell, I'll just get my friends to all buy houses in the same neighborhood and have a little family like that.

21. I never want to quit writing and would never dream to never have started. It brings me great joy to write, even if nobody else liked it or even if I never post it. I just love getting stucked into the world and zoning out into the story. Its relaxing and therapeutic for me.

22. I have different folders for different stories. Then I have separate docs for each chapter, the chapter revamps, and any chapters that had different scene versions. So I'll have Chapter 1 as a doc, then a sepreate doc for Chapter 1 Revamp, and another doc for Chapter 1 Alternative. I also have a doc with all the chapters in one with a table of contents and cover page. I call it the book doc.

23. Normally I'm writing in one of my classrooms during a lecture. I always make sure to sit near the door and if possible the last row. I also like to sit with at least one empty chair between me and another classmate. I always write on my laptop with a external mouse plugged in because my touchpad buttons don't work without nearly breaking my finger to get them to register. I work in crome if I'm writing in Google Docs. I will always have at least one tab open on crome for music that I listen to with my maroon skullcandy bluetooth headphones. If I'm writing on Word I'll open the previous chapter, the current chapter, and the book doc open at the same time. I do the same for Google Doc just also with my drive folder open as well. I usually sit crisscross, on my knees, or sitting one one leg with the other resting on the seat and my head resing on that leg in my seat. I don't know how to "properly" type, but I can type quickly with multiple fingers. Then I have one of two writing styles. Get so sucked into the world that I don't notice the passage of time, OR writing feels like its taken forever and it's not even been 5 minutes. If need be I'll go and reread the previous chapter(s) to get my ideas flowing.

24. I start of with the beginning pretty much fully fleshed out and some middle parts fleshed out. I only start writing after a while of my imaging the story in my head. I just have to figure out everything alone the way. I never have a really good idea if any about how the story is going to end.

25. In "My Crazy Love," Dennis and Tina are dating and only started dating as a result of Elizabeth and Daniel's first trip "downstairs" and the resulting cafeteria bloodbath. If Elizabeth and Daniel hadn't gone the Tina and Dennis wouldn't have meet. Tina was on infirmary duty when Dennis was attacked and was assigned to watch after him. They became close and started dating, but keep it on the down low as its not allowed.

26. The characters are me, just as I am them. They are apart of myself, and I use them to get through my emotions. It's why its so easy to write violent scenes for me cause I get easily angered. It's easy to get out of their heads cause I'll just distract myself or get interrupted at the end of class.

27. The most stressful character to write for was Daniel before I changed his name from James to Daniel. It was just a constant reminder of a friend who betrayed me when I kept having to write his name.

28. To be honest I love writing for all my chatacters. Well, except the ones your meant to hate cause I hate them. It's fun being able to shape and mold them to my will.

29. I get most of my inspiration from other writers, from songs I listen to, and from my own emotions. If I'm in a funk I'll put on some music thag fits the mood I need to express, or I'll reread some stories that I like, or just wait until I'm in the same emotional space as the characters to write.

30. I have written about my dreams, but I've never taken inspiration from them. All the dreams that I have and remember are bad dreams about being abandoned in some post-apocalyptic nightmare after saving my family or having to find my sister but being unable to. I'm actually a lucid dreamer, but I can't change what happens. I just know I'm dreaming. I have written in my dream, but just about what's going on in the dream or like a dream contract thag I have to write to further the dream along.

31. I am sincerely greatful for all the love I have received from what I have posted so far of "My Crazy Love" and "Safe Space." It brings me great joy that the silly little stories in my head also bring joy to others. I hope everyone will continue to enjoy the stories I post just as much as I enjoy writing them.

32. "And I will skin you alive, burn you into a roast, and hack you into pieces to feed to the most savage animals I can find and laugh at your demise!" from Sar61_Sanz6's "The Rule of a Queen" on Ao3. I found this fic because I was listening to "Queen of Mean" from Decendents 3 and wanted to read a songfic based on it. I got what I wanted an more! I just love a goody two shoes breaking character and becoming badass. Plus its a crossover with Batman and has a poly relationship. Love rereading it whenever I get into a bad mood. Or want to feel powerful.

33. I knit, crochet, sew, and bake. Some of you may have seen the pictures of my Solar Lunacy Y/N cosplay and Aya Drevis cosplays that I sewed. I also sew plushies and I sew them by hand. They don't really crossover into my stories. I have made an Eyeless Jack plush before that I still have.

34. It's a comma? I'm shit at grammar so I just let whatever doc I'm using to autocorrect what I'm writing.

35. When I'm writing for school I just do not write transition sentences. I really do not care for them and I get good grades so. As for my stories... I just write how I feel like and don't really care about any rules. If it sounds and looks good I'll keep it.

36. So much about random shit. I know about a lot of animes that I haven't watched or read. I know a lot about Greek mythology. I obviously know a lot of murdery and torture stuff. I know a lot about certain mental health issues. I know a lot about gay shit. Just so much, yet not enough.

37. Probably that I'm very screwed up and very knowledgeable about random crap. I've got a lot of personal writing that's not very happy stuff. And I have written so many different research papers about random crap that I still remember.

38. Chapter 4 of "My Crazy Love" has a section that was written when I was very upset. So it is a bit different from the other chapters. I get very depressed sometimes and when I get tired I'll write comfort stuff. I was feeling a certain type of way and so I wrote it and decided to keep it. This is typically how all my emotional scenes happen.

39. I just what to finish the story. That's what keeps me going.

40. Here's one of my own creation.

I've got enough negativity in my mind to last me a life time;

So don't tell me you want to die.

I got enough problems of my own; I don't need yours as well to hang on over my head.

That kind of talk make people you love leave you;

Makes them doubt themselves and there love.

Make them think they aren't worth it;

That they don't deserve it.

So stop with all the negativity;

We don't need it.

Come and join the family;

Just forget it.

Why does one persons actions make you want to die?

Just forget about and it come into the light.

Weird Questions for Writers (because writers are weird)

1. What font do you write in? Do you actually care or is that just the default setting?

2. If you had to give up your keyboard and write your stories exclusively by hand, could you do it? If you already write everything by hand, a) are you a wizard and b) pen or pencil?

3. What is your writing ritual and why is it cursed?

4. What’s a word that makes you go absolutely feral?

5. Do you have any writing superstitions? What are they and why are they 100% true?

6. What is your darkest fear about writing?

7. What is your deepest joy about writing?

8. If you had to write an entire story without either action or dialogue, which would you choose and how would it go?

9. Do you believe in ghosts? This isn’t about writing I just wanna know

10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you?

11. Do you believe in the old advice to “kill your darlings?” Are you a ruthless darling assassin? What happens to the darlings you murder? Do you have a darling graveyard? Do you grieve?

12. If a genie offered you three writing wishes, what would they be? Btw if you wish for more wishes the genie turns all your current WIPs into Lorem Ipsum, I don’t make the rules

13. What is a subject matter that is incredibly difficult for you write about? What is easy?

14. Do you lend your books to people? Are people scared to borrow books from you? Do you know exactly where all your “lost” books are and which specific friend from school you haven’t seen in twelve years still possesses them? Will you ever get them back?

15. Do you write in the margins of your books? Dog-ear your pages? Read in the bath? Why or why not? Do you judge people who do these things? Can we still be friends?

16. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever used as a bookmark?

17. Talk to me about the minutiae of your current WIP. Tell me about the lore, the history, the detail, the things that won’t make it in the text.

18. Choose a passage from your writing. Tell me about the backstory of this moment. How you came up with it, how it changed from start to end. Spicy addition: Questioner provides the passage.

19. Tell me a story about your writing journey. When did you start? Why did you start? Were there bumps along the way? Where are you now and where are you going?

20. If a witch offered you the choice between eternal happiness with your one true love and the ability to finally finish, perfect, and publish your dearest, darlingest, most precious WIP in exactly the way you've always imagined it — which would you choose? You can’t have both sorry, life’s a bitch

21. Could you ever quit writing? Do you ever wish you could? Why or why not?

22. How organized are you with your writing? Describe to me your organization method, if it exists. What tools do you use? Notebooks? Binders? Apps? The Cloud?

23. Describe the physical environment in which you write. Be as detailed as possible. Tell me what’s around you as you work. Paint me a picture.

24. How much prep work do you put into your stories? What does that look like for you? Do you enjoy this part or do you just want to get on with it?

25. What is a weird, hyper-specific detail you know about one of your characters that is completely irrelevant to the story?

26. How do you get into your character’s head? How do you get out? Do you ever regret going in there in the first place?

27. Who is the most stressful character you’ve ever written? Why?

28. Who is the most delightful character you’ve ever written? Why?

29. Where do you draw your inspiration? What do you do when the inspiration well runs dry?

30. Talk to me about the role dreams play in your writing life. Have you ever used material from your dreams in your writing? Have you ever written in a dream? Did you remember it when you woke up?

31. Write a short love letter to your readers.

32. What is a line from a poem/novel/fanfic etc that you return to from time and time again? How did you find it? What does it mean to you?

33. Do you practice any other art besides writing? Does that art ever tie into your writing, or is it entirely separate?

34. Thoughts on the Oxford comma, Go:

35. What’s your favorite writing rule to smash into smithereens?

36. They say to Write What You Know. Setting aside for a moment the fact that this is terrible advice...what do you Know?

37. If you were to be remembered only by the words you’ve put on the page, what would future historians think of you?

38. What is something about your writing process YOU think is Really Weird? If you are comfortable, please share. If you’re not comfortable, what do you think cats say about us?

39. What keeps you writing when you feel like giving up?

40. Please share a poem with me, I need it.

[dorefasolsido]

43. Omg it's been a while

10 HOW’S

How did you get one of your scars?

Two years ago I was rollerskating with my sister and a tiny rock got stuck in my wheels, so I basically flew forward and slid headfirst into some debris. Luckily, I have plenty of experience falling on rollerskates, so there was no significant damage, but my elbows were hella scraped. So I still have a scar on one of them.

How did you celebrate your last birthday?

I didn't do anything for my birthday, really. I wasn't feeling it anyway, and one friend was celebrating her move to Germany on that day with a picnic, so I just went to that instead. But I am planning to do something for this one! I haven't received any presents in two years lol

How are you feeling at this moment?

Pretty good right now! I finished all my work for this month, so I can take a bit of a break, and thank god for that.

How did your night go last night?

Well I was working my ass off until like 1:30 AM lol. It's not that I had to, but inspiration hit hard, and I couldn't let it go to waste.

How did you do in high school?

Pretty well in the academic sense, that was never too difficult for me. Very poorly in the social sense, though I did have some friends, only one of which I am still in touch with today.

How did you get the shirt you’re wearing?

I think my mum bought it for me ages ago, it's probably from my high school days.

How often do you see your best friend?

I saw her last in 2018 since we live in different countries, and lots of things came up in the meantime that prevented us from visiting each other. I want to do that soon, though.

How much money did you spend last month?

I feel like I was more thrifty in June? Aside from the Scandinavian trip I paid for, I think I tried to contain myself a bit.

How old do you want to be when you get married?

I don't want to get married.

How old will you be at your next birthday?

I'll be 29 very soon.

9 WHAT’S

What is the most important part of your life?

Hmm, my family and my writing. I do a lot of the latter, but mostly not for myself, which is something I want to change.

What did you do last weekend?

I was working throughout the weekend (the joy of end of the month deadlines), and aside from that, nothing special. For the past week I barely even left my house because I am on a socializing break, and it's been so wonderful.

What did you last cry over?

I don't really remember tbh. But I must have cried recently because June is somehow always such a bad month for me. So I was in a pretty gloomy mood before I went on my socializing break. But that has been really healing.

What are you worried about?

About the book translation deadline lol. I'm not even halfway through, and they already asked me when I am going to deliver it. At the same time, though, I can't force myself to work on it now.

What is your mother’s name?

I'm too paranoid to answer that.

What always makes you feel better when you’re upset?

Run BTS or any BTS content really, driving around aimlessly while blasting music, those awful sweaty dance cardio workouts. And like, renewing my hair colour.

What would you rather be doing?

Right now, nothing. I'm happy I finally got to do this, since I either wasn't in the mood or was too busy for months.

What’s the most important thing you look for in a significant other?

I guess what would be the most important is just understanding and respecting each other. Everything else can fall into place if those two things are there.

What did you have for breakfast?

Nothing.

EIGHT HAVE YOU’S

Have you ever done something outrageously dumb?

Oh for sure. Just recently I've texted someone I know I absolutely should have no contact with. But eh, so far so good.

Have you ever had sex on the beach?

Nope.

Have you ever been backstabbed by a friend?

I don't think I've ever been outright backstabbed, but I've had moments when I realized, yeah, this person is not my friend.

Have you ever been out of the country?

Yup.

Have you ever dated someone younger than you?

Nope.

Have you ever liked someone who already had somebody?

Well yeah, I sometimes get these platonic crushes on taken people lol. I would never do anything about it, and I genuinely think it happens because I know they are unavailable and therefore are "safe".

Have you ever been brokenhearted?

Sure have.

Have you ever read an entire book in one day?

Oh yeah, Stephen King's Carrie just last year. It's a short book and it hooked me right in, I spent the whole day in my room just reading.

SEVEN WHO’S:

Who is the last person you saw?

My sister.

Who is the last person that you texted?

My best friend.

Who called you last?

My dad, I think? But I missed the call, and he talked to my sister instead.

Who is the last person you hung out with?

Aside from my sister and grandma, no one in particular in almost two weeks. But I've had more than enough hanging out at the beginning of June.

Who did you hug last?

No idea, maybe my parents when I came home?

Who is the last person that texted you?

My best friend.

Who was the last person you said “I love you” to?

Oh I have no idea, I don't say that very often.

SIX WHERE’S:

Where does your best friend live?

In Lithuania.

Where is your favorite place to be?

Depends, but right now, I enjoy nothing more than being right here in my childhood home alone.

Where did you sleep last night?

My bed.

Where did you last hang out?

Two weeks ago I met two of my friends at one lake in Belgrade.

Where do/did you go to school?

Elementary and high school in my hometown, university in Belgrade.

Where did you last adventure to?

Well, I did quite a bit of mountain climbing at the beginning of June.

FIVE DO’S/DOES

Do you ever wish you were someone else?

Yup, quite often. Not because I hate my life or anything (well, most of the time lol), but because I would like to experience how it is to be, I don't know, a famous singer, or an astronaut, or an explorer, or all these other things. I can't do all that in this one life, I've chosen my path and I don't regret it, but still, it would be cool to have all these other experiences.

Do you think anyone despises you?

I'm not really sure. I don't think anyone full-on despises me, but I can think of at least one person who might dislike me. Yet, at the same time, she does like texting once in a while.

Do you like someone right now?

Nope.

Does the future scare you?

Eh, sometimes. It depends, sometimes I feel like I can take on anything, and sometimes I have no idea how I'll make it past 30.

Do you have any secret powers?

Not that I am aware of.

FOUR WHY’S:

Why are you best friends with your best friend(s)?

We've been there for each other through good and bad, it's easy to talk to her about anything, and we are both very different but also match really well.

Why did your parents give you the name you have?

I have no idea lol. I think my dad wanted to name me after my grandpa if I was a boy, my mum was against it, but it didn't matter anyway, because I turned out to be a girl. I mean, Mila can be seen as a shorter version of my grandpa's name, soooo, maybe that's why?

Why did you get a myspace?

I actually never had it lol.

Why are you doing this survey?

This looked fun! I like surveys that have some kind of a theme or a special style or something like that.

THREE IF’S:

If you could have one super power what would it be?

Teleportation because ho boy, I could spend a 15-minute break literally anywhere in the world.

If you could go back in time and change one thing, would you?

I wouldn't after all.

If you could live anywhere, where would it be?

Germany (probably Berlin) or maybe Lisbon. Japan is high up on my list of countries I want to visit, but since I haven't gone there yet, I can't say if I'd like to live there.

TWO WOULD-YOU-EVER’S:

Would you ever shave your head to save someone you love?

Yeah, why not. I mean, hair seems like a small price to pay for someone's life.

Would you ever get back together with any of your exes if they asked you?

Hopefully not.

LAST ONE:

Are you happy with how your life has turned out?

I'm okay with it

[confusedshades]

Care to write a little "it's okay to be afraid sometimes" for GhostBat? Especially if it's Khoa who's afraid.

So I'm going to preface this by saying it is very long and that I have no idea about Khoa as a character beyond my research for this ask. Never watched anything nor read anything with him in it, so if this is wildly OOC, sorry. Let me know if you want me to take another crack at it!

#10: "It's okay to be afraid sometimes." featuring GhostBat

Bruce grimaced as he tried to reach behind his shoulder to check how bad the laceration was. His movements were restricted between the stiffness of his broken and subsequently healed back and his long list of shoulder injuries. He'd had a long career in crime fighting and his body bore the evidence of it after multiple decades. He looked over to Khoa who stood staring out of the single window, keeping guard while Bruce patched himself up, sitting as he was on the table, leg propped on the single rickety chair to elevate the bandaged ankle.

He and Khoa had tangled repeatedly in different cities, with different masters but at the end of the day they still retreated to lick their wounds and went back to tangling. Khoa was perhaps the only person with whom his entanglement hadn't changed. Talia. Selina. Harvey. Enough time passes and enough history happens and things fall apart.

This time though. This time was different. Khoa had always been pragmatic and sharp. But his pragmatism and sharpness had a different edge to them. A different but familiar edge.

Bruce continued patching up what was left of his injuries as he ran the entire fight and interaction over again in his head trying to place that familiar edge. He inhaled sharply when he realised what it felt like.

"Who was it?" He asked.

"Who was who?" Khoa didn't look away from the window, but Bruce could see part of his mask in the reflection.

"Who was it that you lost?"

"Don't be ridiculous. If you are done patching yourself up we should move to better shelter."

"Khoa... you're acting like you don't want to be alive anymore. Like you don't care if you live or die in the fight."

Khoa looked away from his post briefly to consider him. He threw a shirt and coat over and moved to start erasing their presence from the dingy room they were in.

Bruce caught the shirt and pulled it on, but left the coat for now. He grabbed Khoa's forearm when the man was close. "Who was it?"

"Do not let your emotional sentimentality cloud your judgement. You and I are nothing alike."

"Nothing alike huh?" Bruce swallowed against the ever present ache of Jason's loss. "Then why do you act like you just lost your child?"

The way he froze made sympathy rise in Bruce. He knew the pain of losing a child. Parents.....parents weren't equipped with how to deal with it. Nor with how to live with the unusual cruelty of outlasting a child. It was a particularly cruel experience.

"Who was it?" He murmured.

For a moment silence stretched in the room, broken only by the soft sounds of the city filtering in from the cracked glass of the window.

"I lost an apprentice. Nothing more." Khoa went back to cleaning up.

"What happened?"

For a few minutes nothing happened. Bruce was sure that Khoa was ignoring him. But as his own children said, you couldn't out stubborn the Bat and all Bruce had to do was wait.

"There was a fight. The building collapsed. He had rushed ahead and there were ten civilians stuck. I got them out but it was too late to save him." Khoa's voice was level, soft but Bruce knew the man was hiding his emotions under the blankness.

"When you fight,"

"Let it go Batman."

"Khoa. Listen to me and then if you still wish then I won't bring it up again." Khoa nodded and leaned over the single counter top, back towards Bruce. Refusing in any way to be active in this conversation.

Bruce straightened from where he half sat on the table, lowering his propped up leg. "I lost my son a few years ago." God, that still scraped his mind and throat raw whenever Bruce considered it, even with all the time that had passed. He pushed past it though, because he needed to. Khoa needed him to.

He cleared his throat and started again. "I lost my son a few years ago. There was a difficult case, someone died, we had an argument, he ran away and got captured by one of the Gotham Rogues. If I could go back, I'd do everything differently but I can't. We don't get that luxury. Instead I threw myself into fighting crime night after night. Stopped caring about things. About people. And someone had to eventually grab me and remind me that it's okay to be sad, that it's okay to be afraid sometimes. But fighting to not live is not acceptable when people depend on you."

Bruce hobbled over to where Khoa stood. Minute tremors ran through his arms where they held him up. Bruce laid a gentle hand against Khoa's shoulder. "You can't keep fighting to die Khoa. You have to make sure you honor the memory of those you loved and lost, and that you never make the same mistake again."

The slightest pressure back against the palm resting against Khoa's shoulder had Bruce leaning towards the other man. He'd blame it on his ankle.

"It doesn't get easier but other things become more immediately important. You figure out how to prioritise, how to focus around the grief."

"Okay"

They stood like that, silent, keeping company in their grief - both old and new - as the night darkened outside, and the city life moved on.

For the ask game you can find here!

[dustedmagazine]

Bela Koe-Krompecher — Love, Death and Photosynthesis (DG)

In Love, Death and Photosynthesis, Bela Koe-Krompecher chronicles an often overlooked but vibrant underground scene around Columbus, Ohio in the 1980s and 1990s.  Told in an episodic, even fragmentary fashion, with short entries that jump around in time, the book doesn’t glamorize the music life. People live in awful apartments and scrounge for rent and drug money.  They imbibe liver-destroying quantities of beer and hard liquor, and they are loyal but not always kind to each other.

And yet, while base level existence is somewhat bleak, it’s at least possible. For a brief time in the least celebrated parts of the Midwest, people could scrape by on crappy part time jobs and make art and music the focus of their lives. I don’t know where you could do that anymore.   

Much of the action takes place at Used Kids Records, a ramshackle operation at the center of Columbus’ scene. Says Koe-Krompecher, “Music may have been a commodity out in the world, but at Used Kids, it was an inherent right. It was tiny, just a cramped shoebox of a store, with thousands of records crammed in every corner. The décor was made up of hundreds of flyers from various punk and indie shows and old LP covers.” Founded by Ron House of Thomas Jefferson Slave Apartments and Dan Dow of the Gibson Brothers, the shop became a meeting place for the oddballs and misfits and geniuses who made up Columbus’ unlikely indie scene, and in these days of streaming, when you can hardly find a record store anymore, it sounds like paradise.

Everybody who was anybody came through Used Kids. Robert Pollard turned up whenever he was in town. Jim Shepherd could be spotted huddled in a corner with Mike Rep. Lamont Thomas of Obnox did a shift or two behind the counter. Joey Ramone made a once a year stop when the Ramones played Ohio. The New Bomb Turks were regulars.

This is all really just background, though because the book centers on two characters who never got to be very well known: Jerry Wick and Jenny Mae Olds.

Jerry Wick was the lead singer in Gaunt, a nervy, volatile guy who loved music in the same desperate way that Koe-Krompecher did. “Almost nightly we bounced between the Dube and Stache’s; we watched Scrawl, the Afghan Whigs or Tar. And endless parade of bands travelling across the stage of our lives,” Koe-Krompecher wrote. Moreover, the two friends didn’t experience music passively. They had to dance.

“Jerry was quite a good dancer, one who would let his emotions empty out of his body, his pointy teeth poking out of a grin cast towards the heavens, beer in one hand, the other raised high above his head,” Koe-Krompecher writes. “At live shows so many of our friends in the underground rock scene were too self-conscious to dance…Jerry and I would be in the front of the stage at any show. The opportunity to be transported was too precious to waste.”  

Gaunt’s first single, split with New Bomb Turks, launched Anyway Records, the label Koe-Krompecher and Wick started (which continues to put out records today). Like many American bands of the late 1980s and early 1990s, Gaunt got swept up into a signing frenzy and was subsequently dropped. Wick, himself, was killed in a hit and run accident early in the morning on January 10, 2010. A punk to the end, he had never owned a car. He was riding a bicycle home when he was stuck.

The other indelible character is Jenny Mae Olds, Koe-Krompecher’s high school sweetheart who decamps their rural town for Columbus after high school and becomes a fixture in its indie scene. Her story is heartbreaking, a mash up of talent and alcoholism, originality and mental illness, which ends in homelessness, hospitalization and finally death.

“Jenny was confounding as an artist, at times brilliant and at others a pathetic mess who would rather smash her equipment and drink beer than practice or play shows out of town,” Koe-Krompecher writes. Though the two of them are only a couple for a few years, Koe-Krompecher spends the rest of his life looking after her. Koe-Krompecher eventually quits drinking, qualifies as a social worker to help other addicts, marries and has a family. Olds is an alcoholic her whole life and refuses to even think about stopping.

And yet, you can feel the pull of her charm, how she’d disappear for days and turn up somewhere, holding court and entertaining strangers with her imaginative stories and art. Even when confined to a nursing home, she wheels wildly through the halls, making friends with everyone, getting laughs in the most desperate places.

“Some people burst quickly, like a living firework, or in small twinkles, the flashing of a firefly. Jenny was both—at first she burned brighter than the surface of Mercury and then later she was transformed into something small, bleak and feeble. Her light was extinguished by drowning it gulp by gulp over the years,” writes Koe-Krompecher.

Koe-Krompecher describes Jenny Mae and her music so vividly that readers may end up wanting to hear her music. He was kind enough to send me a copy of Jenny Mae’s What’s Wrong with Me, a 2021 compilation of her singles and unreleased tracks, which is harrowing and lovely, a pop garage lost classic that, like its singer, can break your heart.

As a person who grew up in an alcoholic home, I found some parts of this book very hard to read.  However, no question that it’s a really fascinating glimpse at an under-covered corner of the indie-rock world. Koe-Krompecher was right there in the middle of it all. He somehow not only survived but took good notes.  He continues to maintain the excellent Anyway Records, one of the best small garage punk labels in America, supporting the scene without, like so many of his friends, succumbing to it. 

Jennifer Kelly

[giantroboticplatypusbutt218]

Following this advice helps with ADHD too.

Most people know that ADHD is linked to a naturally low amount of dopamine in your system. What a lot of people may not know is that dopamine is less the 'pleasure' chemical and more the 'satisfaction' chemical. Yes, it's released when you eat food and get a good grade in social interaction, but it's also released when you beat up or run away from a perceived threat. It's your reward for doing something that keeps you alive, and it's your signal that you're done with whatever you were just doing.

The biggest problem people with ADHD (as well as anyone lacking in overall satisfaction) have is getting stuck doing things that repeatedly give you a quick but small boost of dopamine. Playing mobile games, watching TikTok videos, perusing Wikipedia (or is that one just me?), etc. Eventually you stop getting dopamine for doing the thing, but you just keep doing it anyway, because you remember getting a reward from it. The oasis has run dry but you keep scraping through the sand hoping you'll find more water eventually. It's empty. You have to leave before you lose the energy to escape.

Obviously, given that the chemical you're searching for is literally the chemical that tells you you're done with your current task, stopping whatever you're doing is really hard because you literally don't feel a reason to... so what do you do?

Well, first, as soon as you realize you're doing something that's no longer satisfying stop immediately, as though it will literally burn you if you don't. Close it like an impulse. Speedrun it. I often close 10 Wikipedia tabs at once in the middle of reading them. Next, bathe in the fact that you've done something good for yourself. It may have sucked to do but now you're awake and have the ability to choose something better.

Time for the next hardest part: Doing something better. That's where the post above comes into play. You don't need to start looking for clubs to join (for me that might just restart the doom researching) but think about something simple that you have been meaning to do but haven't and use the above list of rewarding activities for inspiration. I just picked up a pile of mail sitting on my dresser and put it in a box I had laying around. Then, I remembered the mail on my bookshelf and put that in there too. Then the mail in my desk. And so on.

Your goal is to start small and build up to doing things that are gradually more satisfying. Remember to focus on the fact you accomplished something, and not that the thing is finally done. More "yay, the mail is cleaned up" and less "ugh, took me long enough." My mail got put away as well as a bunch of loose receipts I had laying all over too. I was so happy that instead of mentioning that the above post applies to ADHD in the tags, I added it to a reblog to hopefully help anyone else in the same situation as me.

Maybe be a little cautious believing the science stuff I said behind dopamine since I'm not an expert, and after I looked through like 5 websites to verify my statements I realized I was doing the Wikipedia thing again and stopped, hence why I'm here typing this and not still looking into it. But please do consider taking this as a sign that if you're currently stuck doing something that isn't satisfying to stop and reconsider. I saw this post and put away my mail, and then I starting writing this, and after I'm done writing I might take a shower.

Summary: Complete something small; That thing can be getting yourself out of whatever repetitive thing you're stuck doing. Gradually complete larger goals using that list of rewarding activities as inspiration. Remember to focus on the satisfaction and don't scold yourself for not doing it sooner. You'll get better at all this over time, but don't feel bad when you get stuck again. Just start from the top and keep building up a momentum using the satisfaction you feel.

I think people get mixed up a lot about what is fun and what is rewarding. These are two very different kinds of pleasure. You need to be able to tell them apart because if you don't have a balanced diet of both then it will fuck you up, and I mean that in a "known cause of persistent clinical depression" kind of way.

[shepherd-of-the-stars]

(Don't) Return to Vegas

Hi @emeraldsage98 ! Thank you for your immense patience. I had to redo this several times over. Anyways, here’s your secret santa gift, finally! I hope you like it!

Word Count: 13,756

Published: Sep 16, 2019

Edited: June 16, 2023

Summary: A night of drinking led to a marriage Alfred and Ivan don’t quite remember. But it isn’t about that night, it’s about the time they spent after. One is the son of the Kirkland Clan’s head, and the other, the leader of their enemy, the Russian Bratva. But the two lovers turned their eyes away and covered their ears as they faced their trials together. RusAme, Mafia AU. Rated M for murder 

Warnings: non-graphic murder, drinking, implied mafia and hitman stuff, injury with a gun, angst(with fluff)

Rating: M

Also available on FFnet and ao3

Prompts inspired: 

2. "M, angst with a happy ending? (Mafia AU):

After five years, in his mid twenties, finishing up his dissertation for his phD while working full time with NASA, Alfred's finally settling into a life without the paranoia of constantly looking over his shoulder for someone to come and drag him back to the home he'd fled.  Of course, that's when his husband pops back up to do just that.  (could be an angsty ending or a happy ending, surprise me!!!)"

3. "M, humor/romance (Mafia AU):

The Kirkland Clan is a mafia family,  and Arthur's oldest son Matthew stands to inherit.  His youngest son, Alfred, is thought of as too kind hearted to get involved with the business, so they've kept him out of the underground for his entire life. What they don't know, is that he's World Class Assassin, Siren, who made a huge name for himself initially for the sheer success of the honeypot assassinations he'd pulled off. World Class Assassin Siren...who just got accidentally drunken married in Las Vegas to his number one rival World Class Assassin, General Winter, after they'd both tried to off the same target.  Winter, who was also the head of Russia's Bratva.  And then, they find out."

And:

1. Cross-dressing Alfred

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

Pride. 

It was the only reasonable explanation as to why he was here—alone—on a beautiful spring evening. The smoke from his cigarettes was so thick that he could push through it with his hands. Yet he didn’t open a window, and he didn't turn on the bathroom fan. 

Instead, he chose to sit silently in a dark hotel room—his only source of light was from the moon above and the city life below, streaming through the thin, closed curtains. Occasionally, he would stand and walk to the gap between them to look down at the building across the street, but when he saw the dark room of his target, he sighed and sat back down. 

Hours had gone by and he swore his sniper—aimed at the room—had collected a thin layer of dust on its metal body. He was on his last cigarette, but he didn't dare leave the room to buy another pack in fear that his target would appear and he would miss his only opportunity.  

Ivan Braginsky—head of the Russian Bratva—had no reason to waste this kind of time. With a wave of his hand, he could have this man eliminated without having to leave his house. But he was here, in Las Vegas, thousands of miles from his home, doing the work of a soldier, because he had something to prove. 

The gunshot wound on his shoulder had long since healed, but the scar it left behind reminded him daily that he had lost his touch. After he had assumed his role as the Bratva’s leader, the title he had fought tooth and nail to earn—World Class Assassin: General Winter—slipped through his fingers like sand. Head honchos like him shouldn’t dirty their hands doing assassinations; it increased their risk of getting caught. So he “retired”—forcefully—and his lack of field work had caused him to become uncoordinated, careless, and feeble. 

It was something he simply wouldn’t accept. 

And that brought him here, sitting alone in a hotel room instead of enjoying the night like every other poor soul that traveled to this dump. Gambling, spending, fucking—those things were not on his to-do list. He was here for one thing, and one thing only: to take out the bastard that dared cheat him in a deal. It had taken him weeks to track him down, when in the past, he could have done it in days. It was another stab at his pride. And if the man didn’t show up in the hotel room Ivan planned for him to be in, then he would return home in a very, very foul mood. 

But at last, the lights in the room turned on just as he took the final drag from his cigarette. He pressed the butt into the full ashtray and checked that his weapon was loaded before looking down through his scope. What he saw made him scowl deeply. 

His target was there, but in his arms was a blonde woman who pressed so closely to him that if Ivan were to take the shot, she would be taken out as well. In all his years of work, Ivan had never hurt a civilian. Willingly, at least. That fact wouldn’t change today. 

Ivan watched in disgust as the woman pushed his target onto the bed and crawled on top of him—twisting and rolling her body. He tried his hardest not to gag as they kissed, then pulled away from his scope for a moment just to rub his eyes. If only that woman knew what he had done. She wouldn’t want to touch him with a ten-foot pole. 

As he returned to his scope, he groaned in annoyance to see his target in a blindfold. If they were going to do that, Ivan didn’t want to watch for much longer. He could get the job done in the morning after the woman left. But if she stayed behind, he could take—

Wait. 

He furrowed his brows as he watched the woman’s face turn from seduction to malice. Her lips moved as she spoke, and her hips continued to grind against the man under him, but her hands had reached for her purse and pulled out, not a condom or handcuffs, but a syringe. 

Heroin? No. Her face would not be so twisted with disgust if that were the case. And that vial that she loaded the needle with, it was much too… neat. He watched as the contents were injected into his neck. There was a struggle, but the woman held him down with a venomous look on her face. Frozen in curiosity, he could do nothing but watch as the woman climbed off of him and let him rise for mere moments before he fell to the ground where he flailed then fell limp. 

The woman walked up the window then, letting Ivan see her in full view. The red dress she wore was form-fitting and it matched the ruby color of her lips. And her eyes, they were such a vibrant shade of blue that they sparkled even in the dim light. A look of satisfaction crossed her face as she breathed in deeply and scanned the windows of the building Ivan was in. For a brief moment, he thought she spotted him. Their eyes locked for only a click, then she smirked, and the curtains were closed. 

It was over in seconds. 

He cursed and stepped back from the scope, his hand pressed against his eyes. "Siren," he muttered, cursing the name. It had been years since he had faced his rival. So long that he had almost forgotten the name. 

Siren—known for their honeypot assassinations—had risen in rank faster than Ivan, and the Russian hated them for it. It had taken him years to earn that title, and he was bested by a rookie. Siren was flawless and fierce, never once failing to get their target. While others kept their distance to keep from getting caught, Siren never shied away and faced every target head on. And never once did they get caught. 

And there was another thing: Siren always left their mark. They wanted people to know they had done the job. It was almost a game to them. After they seduced and killed their target, they threw the body into a filled tub and doused them with chemicals until their body was almost unrecognizable. Then they decorated the water with flowers on top, making it look as if they died a beautiful watery death; it was what earned them their name. Siren blurred the line between assassin and serial killer; it was an insult to their profession.

He cursed the name over and over as he packed away his weapon. Hours upon hours of waiting and all of it wasted. He now knew why his target had taken so long to return to the hotel; the bastard had spent the night frolicking with Ivan’s rival. 

Sliding his gun case under the bed, he washed up and hurried to the building across the street, hoping to catch Siren in the act. This would be the closest he’s even been to his rival, and he would not waste this opportunity. He knew which room they were in. It would be so simple to burst in and take them down, but it would make Ivan a suspect once they found the body. Unlike Siren, he didn’t have a disguise and it would be over for him once he was caught. 

Not wanting to take the risk, he could do nothing but sit in the lobby and wait. 

(x.x)

Rage clouds judgment. Ivan Braginsky knew that. Yet he still fell for it like a young child who didn't know any better. He had waited in the lobby, flipping mindlessly through fashion magazines as he scanned each passerby, looking for those vibrant blue eyes. Siren, Siren, Siren, he chanted in his mind. Waiting and waiting for the woman in red to appear. Siren, Siren… sirens. 

Police sirens. The wail of an ambulance. A crying maid and a frantic manager. “There’s a body in the tub,” she whispered through her tears. The policeman had sushed her, but Ivan had already heard. 

He stood with his stomach boiling in anger. They had found the body and Siren was long gone. It was stupid—idiotic—to think that Siren would just walk out the front door. And yet Ivan sat there like an abandoned dog waiting for his owner. 

With a headache beginning to form, he made his way to the bar down the road. He needed a drink—desperately so. When he stepped in, he was instantly hit with the drunken howls of young patrons and the heavy bass of club music. It was loud, and it didn’t help the aching in his head, but the noise drowned out his maddening thoughts. 

He slid into the bar stool and waited. And he waited and waited. Dear God, he was so sick of waiting. He glared daggers at the bartender who was spending more time chatting up a young man than doing his job. But in his defense, the man was tall, blond, handsome, quite charming, with soft blue eyes hidden behind a pair of red glasses. He thought about bringing him back to the hotel for one night, but that would have to be after he had gotten his drink. 

Perhaps he should throw something at the barkeep. His eyes drifted over to the ashtray in front of him. Mischievous fingers circled the glass rim—it was an action he regretted instantly. His fingers were gray with ash and he didn’t even have a napkin to wipe it off with. 

Rolling his eyes, he looked back over at the bartender who had finally returned to doing his job. But he still had not come over to take Ivan’s order, and Ivan continued to wait. 

“Here.” A voice sounded beside him and a wet napkin was thrust into his vision. His eyes flickered up to the young man—the one who had been chatting with the barkeep earlier—then down to the napkin. “It’s not chloroform, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he laughed. It was an infectious and delightful sound. “Saw you get your hands dirty. Thought you might need it.” 

Ivan hesitated for a moment more before he finally took the napkin from the man. “Thank you,” he said smoothly, looking into the man’s soft eyes. They were blue, like Siren’s, but the vibrancy was not the same. 

“My name is Alfred, by the way.” The young man shot him a flirtatious wink. 

"Alfred," he greeted instead of giving him his name. His decision made the young man pout. 

He caught movement in the corner of his eye—the bartender coming his way—but before he could speak, a drink was set in front of him. "Here’s your whiskey sour. Courtesy of the young man to your left." 

His eyes followed the bartender’s line of sight until they landed on the young man. Alfred raised his glass with a sly smile before downing the rest of its contents. “You looked like you needed one. Don’t worry, it’s on me.” He sent Ivan another wink, and Ivan felt the corners of his lips turn upwards, just the slightest.

Perhaps this night would not have to be a complete failure after all. Just because he wasn’t able to get his target didn’t mean he wasn’t allowed to enjoy the rest of his night. Besides, it wasn’t like he could bring his target back and kill him again. He would simply have to move on.

“Barkeep,” he called, holding up his two fingers. As the man came over, Ivan handed him his credit card. “Open a tab for me, if you will. The name is Braginsky, Ivan. And…” he paused as he glanced over at Alfred who had made a face like he enjoyed the sound of his name. Then he leaned over the bar so he could whisper something to the bartender. With a nod, the man left, tapping away at his computer before turning to prepare a drink. 

“So it’s ‘Ivan’ then?” 

“Braginsky,” he finished for him. 

Alfred smiled and added, “Jones.” 

“Braginsky-Jones?” Ivan teased. 

The man laughed, tucking his hair behind his ear as his eyes sparkled behind his lenses. “Only if you want it to be.” His cheeks held a delicate pink color—perhaps from embarrassment, perhaps from his drink. But the more Ivan stared at the young man, the more he took a liking to it. 

Picking up his glass, he toasted it in Alfred’s direction before taking a short sip. The whiskey burned down his throat—sliding like fiery silk. Its bitterness mixed with the sour of the lime and the sweet of the syrup, complementing the whiskey beautifully. It was a perfect blend—skillfully balanced—and he reminded himself to leave a large tip later. Alfred had been right; it was just what he needed. 

"So, Ivan, if I tried to guess what's bothering you, would you turn that anger on me?” Alfred had settled into the barstool next to him and was playing with his empty glass mindlessly. 

Ivan glanced up at him while taking another sip and made a silent hand gesture that said, “go for it.” 

The man turned in his seat to face him, then looked Ivan from head to toe with eyes that reminded Ivan of a detective. He was silent for a moment before he gave a nod and crossed his arms. “Someone stole your business,” he said confidently.

His answer caused Ivan to chuckle—the sound of his voice rumbling in his chest. It was close enough to the truth that Ivan set down his glass to clap slowly. “I’m impressed. How did you figure that out?”

“I can read minds,” the young man laughed, wiggling his fingers around in the air. “No, I’m kidding. I’ve just been through a lot of guys. Shit that sounds weird. I’m not like that, I promise. I just mean that I work with a lot of men. No! Oh that sounds worse. I’m around men all day? Fuck.” He buried his face in his hands. “I’ll shut up now.” 

He laughed again—something that came as easily as breathing around Alfred. Even with his hands covering his face, Ivan could see the man’s ears turning red with embarrassment. There was something about him—that unrestrained bliss—that made Ivan gravitate towards him, and he made no attempt to stop it. 

The bartender returned as Alfred was lifting his face from his hands, just in time to see a glass being placed in front of him. “Here’s your cosmo,” the bartender—David, his nametag informed him. “Courtesy of the man to your right.” 

Alfred turned to Ivan, and Ivan returned the wink Alfred had given to him earlier as he pocketed his card. “Trying to say something?” Alfred picked up the delicate martini glass and looked at Ivan with a teasing look. The liquid was a light pink and decorated with a thin orange twist on the rim. It was strong, but it was also sweet and… fruity. 

“I simply don’t like owing people things,” Ivan answered, clinking his glass against Alfred's when the young man seemed to be frozen in place. 

"You know that's not what I'm referring to."

"What is it you are referring to, then?" 

"You ordered me a cosmo."

"It was the first thing that came to mind." 

"Yeah right." Alfred lifted the thin glass to his lips and took a sip to hide his amused grin. As much as he hated its girly appearance, it was a good drink. The taste of alcohol was masked by the sweet cranberry and orange, but it held enough kick to make his soft cheekbones flush. Blue eyes flickered over to glance at his new companion as he enjoyed his drink, then they crinkled in a smile before he turned away to enjoy his own. 

The silence that followed was a comfortable one, and it was one Ivan was content with. Yet he still yearned for more. Ivan found the need to hear the man speak again. To see that smile on his face, and to hear that infectious laugh. He didn’t understand the urges, but he didn’t try to deny them either. “What about you?" he asked, setting down his glass. 

"Huh?" 

"You. Why are you here? You don’t seem to be here for the engagement party." He paused to gesture over to the group of partiers that were so wild with their festivities that the entire bar knew.

"Oh. You wanna try and guess?" Alfred turned towards him and struck a pose, presenting himself to Ivan. Ivan laughed, and Alfred's laugh soon mingled with his. 

"No,” he finally answered. “I would prefer you tell me."

"Aw come on. Where's the fun in that?" A small pout formed on his lips and Ivan resisted the urge to lean forward and—

"I'm not a fan of guessing games,” he said, cutting off his own thoughts. 

"Just this once?"

Ivan locked their gazes, his dark, violet eyes hooded and demanding. "You will tell me." 

Alfred sat with his mouth slightly agape, then timidly looked down at the counter. "Jeez" —he kicked his legs childishly—"when you got an accent like that, I guess I can't say no." 

"Go on, then." He watched him with curious eyes—only leaving him for a moment as he tipped his head back to finish his drink. 

“Well,” Alfred paused to run his hands through his soft hair and his expression turning slightly smug, “I don’t wanna brag or anything, but I’m here to celebrate a job well done. I did my homework, put in the work, won over the client, and bam!” —his fist shot up into the air—“sealed the deal. Now daddy’s got some change in his pockets.” He patted his pockets then, indicating he was talking about himself. 

“Congratulations, I suppose you have achieved what I could not.” Ivan held no venom in his voice. It would be petty of him to spit on this man’s success simply because he had failed his own. But it didn’t mean he didn’t feel that tinge of jealousy in his gut from not being able to say the same. 

“If you had tried guessing, I would have said ‘yes’ to whatever answer you gave me. Like, you could have said I’m just looking for a hookup and I would have said ‘yeah’.” 

“Well, are you?” 

"Hey" —he shrugged—"two birds, one stone." Keeping his smug expression, he took another sip of his sweet drink but grunted softly as a bit of the liquid escaped his mouth. His eyes locked with Ivan’s, then his tongue swiped across his lips in a way that was much too sultry to be an innocent act. 

Ivan felt his gut twist in need and he reached for his drink to distract himself. But when he brought the glass to his lips and tipped it back, he realized it was empty, and he had no object to divert his attention to. He was forced to focus only on Alfred, yet he found that it wasn’t a bad thing. 

"Hey, David," Alfred called out to the bartender, "get this man another one. On my tab.” After getting the bartender’s confirmation, he turned to Ivan with a smile and hopped off the stool. “Well, enjoy your night. I won’t bother you anymore. Thanks for the drink.” Downing the rest of his drink, he sent Ivan another wink before he blended back into the sea of people. 

Alfred had left so suddenly that it had left Ivan’s mind reeling. Had he misinterpreted their interaction? Sure he was a bit rusty when it came to the romance department, but he was absolutely sure Alfred had been flirting with him. And yet he had left him alone at the bar after buying him a drink. 

That thought made Ivan pause. He had told Alfred earlier that he was a man that didn’t like owing people things. Either Alfred was insistent on getting Ivan a free drink, or he expected to be chased. One glance across the bar indicated that the second option was the correct one. Even through the crowd of people, Ivan could still spot those blue eyes on him as he settled in a seat at the other end of the club. 

Well, if Alfred insisted on playing hard to get, then Ivan would just have to play along. He ordered another drink and waited for it to be prepared before he stood and waltzed over to the corner that Alfred had settled himself in. A woman from the party had situated herself in an empty spot next to him, but with one quick, “leave,” from Ivan, she scurried off like a frightened mouse. 

“Well”—Alfred set the beer in his hand aside and folded his hands on his lap—“that was kinda rude.” But from the smug look on his face, Ivan knew that it wasn’t a move he disliked. 

He set the drink down on the table and took the seat the woman had just vacated, then slid the glass towards Alfred. “I owe you a drink,” he said simply.

Alfred eyed the glass then reached over and plucked Ivan’s drink right out of his hand. He looked him straight in the eye as he took a sip of the whiskey that Ivan had already drank some of. “Don’t know if you drugged it. Just to be safe,” he hummed with a light shrug. 

“I assure you, if that had been my intention, you would already be tied up in the back of my van.” It was a joke, and it was clear Alfred knew it, but before he could even reply, a chorus of excited shouts from the engagement party drowned out all the conversations in the bar. 

Ivan breathed out a sigh and reached out to take a sip from Alfred’s drink before flagging down one of the employees. “Are any of your private rooms open?”

The employee hummed under her breath in thought as she tapped through her tablet then nodded her head. “Yes, sir. Looks like we have one of them open. Would you like me to—”

Ivan was already standing before she could finish. At his standing height, he was almost a head taller than her. “Lead the way.” He took one step before pausing and turning back to Alfred. “You are invited to join if that is what you wish.” 

With a smirk, Alfred threw back the rest of Ivan’s drink before following them down the dark hall. 

[-w-]

Two hours, a couple appetizers, and a forgotten number of drinks later, Alfred was crying over the wedding scene in a romance comedy. Though the private room may have sounded like something much more dirty, it was really just a room where people could drink privately and choose what they wanted to watch on the television. 

The two had gotten bored of channel surfing and neither of them had wanted to watch sports, so eventually, they settled on a film being shown after a funny scene had caught their eye. And now, at the film’s end, Alfred was drunkenly crying over the two main characters finally walking down the aisle while clinging to Ivan’s head and hugging it like a pillow. 

“It’s so beautiful!” he sobbed, wiping his tears with the back of his arm, “They’re so lucky to have each other. I’m never going to be like them!” Out of jealousy, Alfred grabbed the nearest thing and chucked it at the TV. Luckily, it turned out to be a balled up tissue which didn’t make it very far. 

This caused him to cry out even louder, the noise beginning to make Ivan’s ears ring. “Shhhh.” He wiggled out from his hold to shush him, his finger completely missing his lips and sliding across the side of his face. “You… shhh! You are beautiful. You will make very pretty husband.” his voice was slurred and he could barely keep his head from swaying. 

“I can’t!” he wailed, “My dad won’t let me! I wanna be a pretty bride and wear a dress! Suits are so yucky! I wanna be big and pretty!” The drunk couldn’t find the word for stuffy and he eventually ended up pressing his tear and snot-covered face against Ivan’s shirt. 

He cried there for a good minute without Ivan prying him off, mostly because Ivan was too wasted to notice his shirt was getting soaked. “No, listen,” he said a bit too loudly as he peeled Alfred off of him, “today is follow dreams day. Is good day! Is do what you want day! You are going to be pretty bride because you deserve happy!” 

It took a moment or two for the words to even register in Alfred’s mind, and when they did, he stood up abruptly and threw up his hands. “You’re right!” The motion made him stumble but he, shockingly, did not topple over. “Today is my day! I did a big job today and I deserve it!” 

“Yeah!” Ivan mimicked his pose, the disorientation from standing making him hit his shin on the table and knock a couple glasses onto the floor. But he didn’t pay any attention to them. “Today, you get married!” 

“Yeah!” Alfred laughed and headed to the door but suddenly stopped, making Ivan bump into him and practically flatten him against the door. “Wait wait wait…” He turned around, holding a finger up. “I don’t have a husband.” 

The two stood at the door for a minute, their eyes squinted as they tried to figure out what seemed like the hardest question they were ever asked. Alfred, much too drunk to stroke his chin, began stroking his neck and his face. 

“I have idea!” Ivan piped and pointed to the ceiling. He almost fell back because of it but managed to catch himself. “I will be husband!” He pointed a finger at his own chest and smiled triumphantly at being able to come up with such an amazing solution. 

Alfred made a dramatic gasp, even putting his hands to his face. “Yeees! My handsome husband!” Out of glee, he hopped his way over to Ivan's open arms and embraced him. “I have a husband! Alfred Jones-Bag-, uh… Bagkin… Skis…”

“Braginsky.” Ivan finished for him, laying his head on Alfred’s. “Alfredo Jone-Braginsky.” He giggled at the name. 

“I like your accent.” Alfred purred. He reached up to pat Ivan’s cheek and to try and kiss him on the lips but had missed completely and ended up somewhere on his chin. “Come on. Let’s make me Alfred Jones-Bragkinsky.” And Ivan was too drunk to correct him again. 

[-w-]

“Now get out!” 

Ivan barely had the time to stuff his wallet back into his suit pants before the wedding shop’s security had shoved the two out the door for trying to have sex on their couches while they were waiting for the payment to process. With them being so drunk, it was only due to Ivan flashing his Black Card that they were even allowed into the shop in the first place.

Alfred, now dressed in an expensive and layered wedding dress, was having a lot more trouble walking than he had before. He still wore his pants and sneakers underneath since heels would have led to broken ankles, but with Alfred’s state of mind, even sneakers couldn’t save him from stumbling. 

Next on the list was getting to the chapel. They had skipped the step for getting a certificate but with their one track minds, issues with the law were the least of their concerns. Waving down a taxi was an easy task since it was a busy street, so soon, the two were one step closer to living Alfred’s dream.

“Hey, Ivan.” Alfred turned to Ivan who was almost buried in the frills of Alfred’s dress that had been stuffed into the back seat. Ivan gave a grunt in reply. “I think,” Alfred paused and took a minute to take the veil off of his head and put it on Ivan’s, “I think you should wear this! You look so nice.”

Ivan didn’t object at all. He just giggled and helped Alfred adjust the tiara on his head. “Of course I look nice! You’re not only one who can be pretty. We’re pretty pair.” He leaned in to kiss Alfred but only managed to land one on the nose with the veil blocking the touch, yet he didn’t seem to notice. 

The ride there had only taken two minutes with it being so close to the shop. Ivan, who couldn’t really see what bills he was holding in his hand, gave the driver a hundred dollar bill and told him to keep the change. 

Getting out of the car resulted in Alfred falling on the sidewalk. The layers of the dress saved his knees from being scraped. But with Ivan’s big tip, the driver was more than happy to help the two get out and on their way to the chapel. 

With their incredible luck, another couple had just finished their ceremony. All the rose petals, rice, and decorations had already been scattered around and set up, and even though it looked like a mess, the only thought that went through Alfred’s head was, “This is perfect. This was meant to be.”

“Hey!” Alfred called out to a man who must have been the priest and stopped him. “I need you to marry us.” 

The priest let out a nervous laugh, seeing the two were obviously drunk. “I’m going to need a certificate. And you need to book 24 hours in advance.”

Alfred frowned and took a minute to pull up his entire dress to get to his pants pockets underneath. There, he pulled out his phone and took some time to get to his bank app. “Look,” he showed the man his phone, the amount in the 6th digits and almost to the 7th, “do the thing and you’ll never have to work here again. I will transfer it right now.” 

The priest’s change in attitude was immediate. It had taken only a few minutes for them to do the payment and afterwards, the priest guided Ivan to the altar while calling another man to stand in as Alfred’s father and walk him down the aisle. 

Ivan had refused to take off the veil that Alfred had given him so he was the one wearing it at the altar as Alfred staggered over to him. Even Ivan was having some trouble standing still. Another man had been called to just stand behind him and make sure the big man didn’t fall over. 

But standing still was the least of Ivan’s concerns. All he cared about was how magnificent Alfred looked as he came down the aisle. And for Alfred, all he cared for was the almost godly image of the man who was going to set him free of the burdens of marrying someone he didn’t want. He was going to marry Ivan because he wanted to, but mostly because his father wasn’t there to stop him. 

The rings they exchanged were ones Ivan wore as a necklace. The rings of his parents, killed in cold blood in front of him, their bodies left to rot, and Ivan, still young, forced to be in the same room as their decaying bodies until the authorities found them. It was the reason for his line of work and a reminder of what was most important in life: family.

And now, Ivan and Alfred wore them on their fingers. The sizes were not a perfect fit but they fit well enough. They were simple silver bands, the original owners’ names and their dates of marriage engraved on the inside. They were not perfect, but to the two being wedded, there was nothing else better in the world. 

They exchanged kisses next, the priest having to move the veil out of the way for Ivan since he didn’t have the ability to do it himself being preoccupied with trying to kiss his new husband. And with a little help, they found their way to each other’s lips, sealing their union. 

[-w-]

The first thing Alfred registered when he was harshly dragged back into the waking world was the immense pain in his head that prevented him from doing the simplest tasks. He couldn’t even remember the date without heaving out in pain. 

Even trying to remember the events of last night was a struggle and made it feel as if someone was stabbing knives into his skull and twisting the blades. And there was no way in hell he was going to open his eyes anytime soon either. He could see the sunlight through his eyelids and it was already blinding him. Opening his eyes would mean the end of his days being able to see. 

So he laid there quietly, perfectly still, and let the memories slowly come back to him at their own pace. He remembered Vegas, he was here for an assassination job, but what had happened from there? 

Breathing out a heavy breath, he curled inwards and moved his hands up to grip his head. But feeling the bedsheets against his legs, his bare and naked legs, made him freeze. Then one by one, little details began popping into his head: he was naked, he was in bed, and someone was in the bed with him, someone big, and that someone was naked as well. 

Oh fuck. Did I sleep with my target again? Alfred questioned in his head. But after some time, he reasoned with himself that he did not. He remembered seducing and luring his target back to the room. He had tricked him into wearing a blindfold with promises of “a kinky surprise,” but in the end, that surprise turned out to be a syringe needle through the neck with an injection that would force him into a cardiac arrest. 

There was no way Alfred had slept with his target because Alfred had watched him die. He had sneered and laughed at his target as the bastard writhed on the floor, and while he died, Alfred told him every little thing he had done wrong that led to this event. The memory of his pained face made Alfred smile as a chill of satisfaction shot down his spine. 

The body behind him moved, bringing his mind back to the present and he tried a little harder to recall what had happened after. Dropping the body into the tub and filling it with acid and flowers, going back to his own room to change out of his feminine costume, going out to the bar to celebrate, and meeting—

Alfred breathed in a sharp breath. The person at the bar. It was Ivan. The charismatic man who had wiggled his way into Alfred’s heart faster than anyone he’d ever met. Not only had he wiggled into it, he had stolen it and managed to put it under his name. 

Alfred Jones-Braginsky

Or was it “Braginsky-Jones”? He couldn’t remember. Either way, it had a nice ring to it. 

“These are my parents’ rings.” The drunken Ivan took the chain off his neck and handed it to the priest. “I have never taken them off, but now I give them to you.”

Alfred now felt that ring on his finger. It was too small—barely made it past the knuckle—and he knew that if he were to take it off, it would leave a purple print on his finger for being too tight. But instead of trying to pry it off, he rubbed his thumb against the warm metal and memorized every dent and groove. It was his wedding ring, and he’d never take it off. 

His thumb stopped moving when he felt Ivan stir. The man was waking up from his slumber and returning to Alfred’s world. Alfred didn’t move. He wanted to see how Ivan would react when he was asleep and knowing he was unconscious. 

Alfred had expected Ivan to pull him close, to kiss his neck and gently tell him to wake up, but he didn’t. Instead, Ivan slowly pulled away in a way that wouldn’t wake Alfred, if he were still asleep. 

He lifted Alfred’s body up just enough to pull his arm out, then Alfred felt the bed shift as Ivan sat up. He heard what felt like a small struggle before there was a small jolt then the quiet ‘clack’ of metal on wood. 

Ivan had taken off his ring. 

Alfred’s body grew cold when he felt the bed shift again, then Ivan’s hand grabbed hold of Alfred’s left, and investigated the ring on his finger. The man cursed under his breath when he realized chances were low that he’d take it off without Alfred waking but he had to try it anyway. 

The flesh of his finger twisted as Ivan tried to wiggle the ring off, but still, Alfred feigned sleep. Ivan twiddled and tugged, and with each motion, Alfred could almost feel Ivan growing desperate to get the ring off as if Alfred had stolen it from him 

Ivan—who he thought was his Prince Charming, his knight in shining armor, his Romeo—was taking back the ring without even saying a word. His heart wrenched, feeling like a snake had wrapped around the organ and was squeezing every last ounce of life he had left. A lump had already formed in his throat and he was scared that if he were to open his mouth, his feelings would spill out. 

As Alfred felt the ring go past his knuckle and slowly began leaving his finger, he clasped his hand over Ivan’s, stopping him from taking back the symbol of their marriage. He didn’t care what the consequences were; all he wanted in this moment was for Ivan to stay. 

Ivan tried again to slowly pull away, thinking that perhaps Alfred was just grabbing him in his sleep, but Alfred tightened his grip and curled his other hand into a fist so that Ivan would have to pry it open in order to get the ring. He expected Ivan to do just that, and perhaps try to fight it off his hand, but Ivan had tricked him yet again with his actions. 

Ivan’s free hand reached towards Alfred’s face and brushed the hair out of his still closed eyes, a chaste kiss on his forehead following. “Alfred,” his tone was neutral, but soft, “do you think it was a mistake?” 

Alfred couldn’t read his tone and it was driving him insane. If it wasn’t for his eyelids twitching as he tried to keep his eyes shut, Ivan might have believed that Alfred was still asleep. But after his long silence, Alfred shook his head ‘no.’ 

He heard Ivan let out a sigh, feeling the warm breath on his cheek. Then he was rolled over so his back was resting on the bed and his face angled at Ivan. But still, he kept his eyes closed.

“Trust me, love.” 

Alfred’s hands were brought up to Ivan’s lips and kissed until Alfred caved and released Ivan’s hand. He didn’t stop Ivan from removing the ring, trusting him, and then Ivan stayed silent after placing the ring on the nightstand. Alfred had to clench his jaw and steady his breathing to keep his emotions in check. 

“Alfred, will you look at me?” 

He didn’t want to, immediately, but Ivan was patient and waited until finally, Alfred opened his eyes to the blinding sun and looked at him. What Alfred expected to see was Ivan sneering at him, waiting to make fun of him for clinging to what was possibly a one night stand, but after Ivan had wiped away the tears that had welled up in Alfred’s eyes, Alfred was met with a gentle smile. 

His own hand was brought into his line of vision and Ivan gestured for him to look at the finger the ring was previously on. It was purple and dented under his knuckle and he didn’t feel the tingling until now. 

“If you kept that ring on, doctors are going to have to amputate your finger, silly. I’ll get you a new one, one that fits, I promise you.” 

With the light bouncing off his hair and his eyelashes, and his kind eyes, and his caring smile, Alfred believed that Ivan was an angel. Ivan kissed his finger until the tingling was gone and warmth filled his body; the entire time, all Alfred could do was stare. 

This moment he wished would last forever seemed to end in an instant. Ivan had managed to kiss from his finger to his lips leaving Alfred pink from his neck to his ears. He was so sweet, so soft, making Alfred love him even more than he already did. 

“You’re real, right?” he found himself saying, and he was met with the sound of Ivan giggling at the funny words. 

“Yes, I’m real. Don’t think you can get rid of me that easily. I’m here to stay.” 

Keeping true to his words, Ivan had stayed with Alfred. 

The two rescheduled their flights in order to give them enough time to spend the day together and to purchase promise rings. They were a lot more awkward with each other being sober but were still a very fitted match. And with one last kiss at the airport, they exchanged contact information and parted ways. 

In the first year, the two kept the relationship long distance, getting to know each other through texts and calls. And more and more, they grew closer even though they were so far away. 

In the second year, they began to visit one another on trips, occasionally. Sometimes Alfred would visit Ivan, and sometimes, Ivan to Alfred, always giving a week or a month’s notice because of their schedules. 

In the third year, those trips grew less frequent. Their schedules didn’t line up like they used to and there was never any time. 

And in the fourth year, the two grew tired. Not of each other, but of the situation. They grew tired of the heart-breaking news of “I’m busy that weekend” and had to cancel plans. They grew tired of lonely nights where the other was too busy to pick up calls. And they grew tired of cold and empty beds after the other left to return to their home. 

So in the fifth year, during one of Ivan’s visits, Ivan broke the news to Alfred that he had bought a house in Alfred’s city. He proposed to Alfred again and they remarried, officially this time. They moved in together, decorated the house together, and let their love grow and flourish in their new warm home. 

The paintings of flowers with skulls and other mundane things were Ivan’s choice. “It’s art.” he said when Alfred gawked at the price tags. As for Alfred, he chose real plants over painted ones. While Ivan argued that it would increase the amount of bugs in the house, Alfred reasoned that the plants would help clean the air. And even though Ivan had agreed to let him fill the house with plants, it sometimes irked him when Alfred would name the plants and call them his children. And sometimes he would kiss the plants more often than he would kiss Ivan. 

“I think we should put Henry on the table in front of your sock painting.” Alfred said, pointing to Ivan’s painting on the wall. 

“First of all, it is not a sock painting. It is abstract and only you think it looks like a sock. Second, which is Henry?” Though it seemed like an argument, Ivan was smiling. It was just another one of their play fights, no harm was ever done. 

“It’s a sock and you can’t change my mind. But anyways, Henry is the snake plant,” After silence and Ivan’s stare, he continued, “the green one with the leaves that stand straight up and have a yellow edge?” A slow blink, and a sigh from Alfred. “The one I put on the toilet seat.”

Finally, Ivan grunted in recognition and draped an arm over Alfred’s shoulder. “The govno plant stays where govno belongs.” 

“If that word means ‘shit’, I will choke you.” As Ivan smirked and tilted his head up to expose his neck, Alfred gave Ivan’s thigh a playful punch. “Henry is a good kid and he’s cleaning the bathroom air.” 

“Then he stays there. He has a job to do.” 

“...You’re right.” Alfred huffed, leaning on Ivan’s shoulder. The two took a couple seconds to just relax and enjoy being in the same room together, knowing they would still be here the next day. But Alfred soon grew bored of the quiet and turned to Ivan. “Okay, what about Antoinette?” he waited. “She’s the purple hydrangea plant.” 

Ivan hummed in thought and then nodded. “Acceptable.” 

In a flash, Alfred had jumped off the couch and hurried to the second floor to get the plant. He was eager to put his plant into a new place, and to possibly cover up Ivan’s painting. It wasn’t that he hated it, it just looked a lot like a sock and he didn’t want guests asking why they had a painting of a sock. 

Antoinette was currently placed in Ivan's office. The room was meant to be the house’s second bedroom but since they didn’t plan to have children anytime soon; were going to sleep in the same bedroom; and didn’t anticipate any stay-over guests, ever, their second bedroom became Ivan's office. From the beginning, Ivan had made it very clear that Alfred was never to touch any of Ivan's files in the room claiming it contained the personal information of clients that, by contract, could never be seen by the eyes of anyone outside of the company by threat of a lawsuit. 

That threat had made Alfred even more curious. Being naturally nosy, he had wanted to see if what Ivan said was true, but every time he had tried to pick the locks on the file cabinets or hack into Ivan's computer, something in his mind convinced him that doing so was wrong. 

As he made his way into the room, he brushed his hand over Ivan’s metal filing cabinets, seeing if he could read them with his mind. He wondered what information was so important that Ivan had to lock the door every time he worked. But every time he asked, the answer was always the same. 

"It's confidential, Alfred. I don't want you getting in trouble."

He had just picked up the plant when his phone began to vibrate in his back pocket. Putting the plant back down, he reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone to see that the caller was his father, Arthur; the image of a green dragon breathing fire and a caller ID of “Mr. Always Mad” told him so. 

Letting out a soft groan, he waited before answering, “Hey, dad. What’s-”

“That scoundrel is the head of Russia's Bratva.” The silence that followed lasted so long that Arthur had to call out Alfred’s name to see if he was still there.

“Who?” Alfred asked with a nervous chuckle that made his voice shake. But he knew exactly who and Arthur knew he knew as well. Being the one to live with Ivan, Alfred knew the man had many things to hide. He heard the hushed phone calls, smelled the scent of gun polish, was wary of Ivan’s long trips away from home, but Alfred never questioned them. Or he didn’t want to. 

That shining image of Ivan, his perfect husband, the love of his life, he wanted to keep it, but that image was beginning to fade. 

“I have evidence, Alfred. That man is dangerous and I need you to leave him right now. He’s not who you think he is. He’s probably using you and you know exactly why.” 

As my son, you must trust no one. Every person you meet may be someone who is trying to use you to get to me. 

Arthur had told him that when Alfred had fucked up the first time and dated someone he shouldn’t. After that, all of Alfred’s lovers needed Arthur’s approval, but Ivan had come up clean in all of Arthur’s background checks. Until now. 

“You hated him from the beginning. You have a bias against Russians and you know it. How do I know this isn’t just another one of your little tricks to break us up?” 

A heavy sigh was heard through the phone. “I know I have been very harsh on him but this time, I do have evidence. I’m going to send you DNA tests. One was taken from an encounter with their head. One of my men had shot him and he left his blood behind. We took samples so we’d have the proof if we would one day need it and turns out, we did. I stole a hair from your bathroom, Alfred. The samples match.” 

Alfred was laughing loudly but his hands had begun to grow clammy. His grip on his phone tightened so much that he was afraid the screen would crack. “Yeah okay. Anyone can print out a DNA test. You’re going to have to try harder than that.” And with that, he ended the call, muted his phone, and grabbed the plant. 

“Gotta be a joke, right?” Alfred whispered to Antoinette, his only way of reassurance. He rubbed his cheek against the cool petals and made his way downstairs. Halfway down, he paused and looked at his husband through the balusters. They framed him as if he was behind the bars of a jail cell and Alfred had to tear his eyes away from the sight. But the picture was still burned in his mind and followed his vision like an afterimage. 

“What was so funny?” 

Alfred flinched just slightly but he made it look like he was just adjusting his hold on the plant. “Oh nothing. My dad called and he said he’d volunteer to cook Thanksgiving dinner. Can you imagine? He’d burn the entire house down!” His voice didn’t flatter even the slightest as he lied straight through his teeth. Ivan had fallen for it. He was laughing too and had gotten up to stand behind Alfred as he adjusted the plant’s position on the table. 

As Alfred busied himself with the plant, he felt Ivan lean in and leave kisses on the back of his neck. Kisses this light and innocent couldn’t be ones of someone as demonous and horrid as the Bratva head, he told himself. Someone with this much blood on his hands can’t live with themselves this easily. But Alfred was not one to talk. With his body count, he still lived as if he had never hurt a fly. Perhaps they were more alike than Alfred first thought. 

“Ivan,” Alfred reached his arm back so he could thread his fingers through Ivan’s hair and keep his husband’s head on his shoulder, “would you ever lie to me?” 

Ivan breathed out heavily, his breath making the flower petals sway, and his arms wrapped around Alfred’s torso. “Yes, I would.” 

Alfred hesitated a little, “About what?” 

Ivan was silent for a while before letting out a soft groan, “I lie about not knowing the names of your plants. I know all of them and when you’re not home, I talk to them too because I get lonely.” 

The unexpectedness of his answer made Alfred chuckle. “And what else?” 

Ivan made an annoyed noise and slumped against Alfred. “Okay okay, you caught me. Your cooking is almost as bad as your father’s but I don’t want to hurt your feelings so I choke it down.”

“Excuse me!?” 

“Sometimes I eat before coming home. Especially when you make chicken. You never season it and it’s always so dry.” 

“Amazing. After two years, tonight's going to be your first night sleeping on the couch.” 

“You asked for the truth so I gave it.” 

“And as punishment, I get to top tonight.”

“I don’t like it when you top because you always finish so soon.”

“Okay, Ivan. We’re done with the confessions.” Letting go of Ivan’s hair, Alfred gave his husband a light smack on the forehead and turned around to kiss him. Even when their kiss ended, he stayed close, enjoying the warmth of his breathing. 

It was Ivan that broke their peace. “Would you ever lie to me?” he asked, returning Alfred’s question. 

Alfred took a while to answer, taking his sweet time caressing Ivan’s face and admiring every one of his features while he became lost in thought. And the more he thought, the more he realized that it was unfair of him to ask Ivan that question. His own life was full of secrets he kept from Ivan and he lied so often that he sometimes forgot what was a lie and what was the truth. Who was he to expect the whole truth out of Ivan when he himself was lying about almost everything? 

Perhaps some things would be better kept secret. Alfred didn’t really care that Ivan was the head of the Russian Bratva. The Bratva was the Kirkland Clan’s sworn enemy, not Alfred’s. That was business, and this was Alfred’s own life. 

“Yes, I would,” he finally echoed. And before Ivan could continue, Alfred placed his finger on Ivan’s lips. “But some things are better kept as lies. You keep your secrets and I keep mine. But I swear on my life that I will never hurt you or betray you.” 

Ivan smiled and kissed Alfred’s finger and then took hold of his hand to kiss his knuckles. “I too swear to never hurt you or betray you. And that’s a promise I will hold forever. Please know that I don’t want to lie to you, but there are things you shouldn’t know.” 

“I know.” And in his eyes, Alfred knew that Ivan knew what he meant. The two weren’t idiots. Both were master liars and knew how to spot one a mile away. They knew all the signs of someone working for the underground; they just didn’t want to face the truth. So they kept lying, even though the truth was already told. 

[-w-]

“Are you listening to me?” Alfred leaned his body forward so he was facing his father who was sitting in the front seat of the car and driving at an accelerated speed. The younger had been dragged out of his home and stuffed into the car without any explanation, and the only reason he didn’t fight back was because he didn’t want to punch his dad or his brother. “I asked what the hell is going on!”

When his father didn’t respond and held his stoic face, Alfred turned to his brother and punched him in the arm. “Tell me right now or I’m selling your bear sanctuary to the lumber company.” And when Matthew didn’t respond either, Alfred sat back down and pulled out his phone. 

Putting it on speaker, he speed-dialed the number going to the company’s head and waited, glaring at Matthew through the rear-view mirror. It was the threat Alfred used often and came in handy a lot so he had placed the number on speed-dial. 

Matthew had begun to grow nervous and kept glancing back at Alfred then over to Arthur and back again. 

The phone clicked. “Alfred?”

“Vik! Been a while since I heard your voice.” His own voice sounded cheerful and carefree but on his face, his eyes were wide with anger, staring straight at Matthew. 

“Yes, it has been a while. Why are you calling?”

“Yeah, so I heard you’ve had your eyes on one of our reserves?” 

Matthew reached out to grip Arthur’s arm but he shook it until his hands detached. “Alfred, please.” he whispered, reaching behind the seat to try and grab the phone. 

The man on the phone laughed and continued, “Your brother’s bear reserve? Yes. I’m guessing you two are having a fight again?”

“Yes, we are. But he doesn’t seem to be giving in. I might get to sell it to you this time!” Alfred smiled wide at his brother, showing all his teeth. 

As the man grunted and waited for their fight to settle, Matthew tried desperately to get the phone but Alfred plastered himself against the door so his brother couldn’t reach. 

“Name the price, Vik. He ain’t giving in.” 

Vik on the other end made a long, exaggerated thinking noise, knowing Alfred would never sell the land, but he’d still play along. “How’s ten dollars a square acre sound?” 

“Oh ten dollars a square acre! That’s so generous! I can’t accept that!” At this point, Matthew had taken off his seatbelt and was trying to climb into the back seat but Alfred held him off with his feet. “I can sell you the whole reserve for uuuuuh…” he looked straight into Matthew’s eyes, “one peanut butter cup.” 

“One peanut butter cup? I can’t afford that. All I have is a single chocolate chip I dropped from my cookie.” Vik and Alfred were close. He knew this game. 

“Perfect!” Alfred looked at Matthew as he backed off and tried to beg Arthur but the man was stubborn, something Alfred clearly inherited. “I’ll come by your office at 11am tomorrow with the papers. Don’t forget the payment!”

“Stop! I give! Don’t touch my reserve, asshole!” 

Alfred made a smug face before pretending to pout. “Aw, sorry, Vik. Maybe next time.” 

Vik gave a dramatic sigh and groaned, “Yes, next time. Goodbye, Alfred.” 

Alfred hung up and leaned forward, “Talk.”

“Don’t you da-” 

“It’s Ivan.” Matthew cut off his father and tightened his fist. “The authorities finally pinned him and they’re on their way to your house to arrest him. I wiped your name from the records so it says that Ivan lived alone. If you were in that house when the police arrived, they’ll accuse you of harboring a criminal or being a partner in crime. We needed to get you out before they got there.”

“I warned you, Alfred. I told you to leave that man, but you didn’t listen to me. This is for your own good.” Arthur never took his eyes off the road when he spoke and his voice stayed calm and emotionless. “You’re better without him.” 

“You’re wrong.” Without waiting for the car to stop, Alfred popped the lock and threw himself out of the car. It was only because of his fast reflexes that he had managed to quickly roll away from incoming traffic and make his way onto the sidewalk. 

“Alfred!” Arthur stuck his head out of the car window to shout at his son. His threats were quickly silenced by the cars behind him honking for him to move. 

Alfred paid him no attention and instead gave the car one last look before sprinting back towards his house. The aches in his body from his scratched and bleeding limbs didn’t bother him one bit. All he cared about was getting back to the house before it was too late. 

[-w-]

After scaling a couple six-foot fences, stealing a bike, and paying someone to park their van in the middle of the road so Arthur couldn’t get through, Alfred had made it back to his neighborhood drenched in sweat. He prayed to any deity that would listen to grant him one wish: that Ivan was home safe and the police had not arrived.

But his prayers fell on deaf ears. As he turned the corner, he saw a hoard of bright blue and red lights from the crowd of squad cars surrounding his house. He hit the brakes on the bike so hard that he lost control and plummeted onto the concrete. 

The noise had alerted one of his neighbors who was being interviewed by an officer. She quickly looked up and pointed her crooked little finger at him. Alfred could read off her lips that she had said, "that's him" with a sinister face as if she had waited so long to see him jailed. Before he could even get back on his feet, the officer had shouted for backup and was charging towards Alfred. 

Alfred scrambled to get back up and took off running with the enemy hot on his heels. They shouted orders for him to stop or they would shoot. But that wouldn't happen, right? 

He tried to reason with himself that they wouldn't. His heart pounded in his ears and his shoes beat against the pavement as he cursed under his breath. He shouldn't have ran. He practically proved his own guilt and admitted himself to prison. 

Shots rang out behind him with the bullets ricocheting off the concrete below. They were actually doing it. They were shooting him. The situation was more dire than he thought. They really thought he was a criminal.

A piercing pain shot through his leg as one of the bullets had hit their mark. He shrieked as his leg failed to support him and sent him tumbling into the ground once again. His breathing was ragged and his leg burned with pain he couldn't describe. All he knew was that the bullet had gone straight through him and it took only seconds for the ones chasing him to pin him to the ground. 

He was cuffed and dragged to the squad car, his wound leaving a trail of blood on his way there. They didn't care for the wound at all and some had even cursed at him, saying he didn't deserve the treatment. Some even taunted him and made the pain worse by grabbing his injured leg as he was forced into the back seat. With his hands restrained, all he could do was writhe in pain as they drove off. 

"Don't get your fucking blood in my car, bitch." the cop driving growled at him, "I'll make you lick off every last stain." 

"Fuck you." Alfred snarled back, kicking his good leg against the divider separating them. He hated that his voice shook and tears burned in his eyes. His pant leg was already drenched and his head was light from the loss of blood. 

More than ever he wanted to be free and fight this man for destroying his life, but he was only doing injury to himself as he left marks on his wrists from the struggle against the metal cuffs. He clenched his teeth, black spots clouded his vision and his body felt cold. And before he knew it, he was slumped on the seat, lost in a dark sea of numbness.

[-w-]

A single gunshot through his leg wasn't enough to kill him, but with the trials that had followed his arrest, Alfred had wished that the bullet had gone through his head and not his thigh. Not only had it left him with a slight limp and two scars, it forced him to sit through months of courtroom battles with trips back and forth from court to prison. 

Sometimes he wouldn’t even appear in court, but he was still forced to sit through every painful second via a camera and a screen. Arthur had connections strong enough to get Alfred into a private cell, but in the daytime, he was forced to be with the other prisoners. Some had thought he was just a pretty boy to be messed with, but after just the first day, everyone knew not to touch him. And if they did, then by the time Alfred is through with them, they would have at least one permanent injury. 

Most fights had been started by Alfred himself. He had so much anger pent up inside of him and all this stress weighing on his shoulders. The trials had forced him to say cruel and insulting things about Ivan as his crocodile tears spilled in buckets at each confession. He had been painted as a victim of Ivan’s schemes, “used as a cover to pretend to be a normal civilian,” his lawyer had told him to say, and Alfred had hated every moment of it. 

The stories tainted his mind. They had been made to sound so true that Alfred had almost begun to believe it as well. But he knew, deep in his heart, that not a single word of it was fact. He had loved Ivan, and he knew that Ivan loved him. He was never used, never assaulted, and Ivan had never forced him to do anything he didn’t want. 

Outside of the trials when he was alone with his lawyer, he always asked if he had word of Ivan, but the man always told him no. His husband had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth and no one knew where he had gone. 

He had planned to search the entire planet for Ivan the second he was freed, but at the end of the trials, he had been put under police watch for five years but that was all. Alfred had gotten off with a slap on the wrist. The judge, the jury, the lawyers, and most of the press attending the trials had all been bought off by Arthur, by threat or by cash. Without his father’s influence, Alfred faced decades in jail. 

Ungrateful brat or not, Alfred was still a Kirkland, and Arthur would rather die than have Alfred deface his name. To have his own son be the traitorous whore that slept with the enemy would be such an insult that Arthur would kill Alfred himself if the electric chair didn’t claim him first. 

But by some miracle, not only did the media and the city’s people believe the story, but so did the people of the underground. The Kirkland Clan’s hatred for the Russian Bratva grew tenfold hearing how their leader’s son was used, and the Russian Bratva cheered on their former head for being able to infiltrate their enemy in such an insulting manner. 

Alfred had been caught in between the sugar-coated words of pity and the sexual taunts from both sides that he could only bear for so long. After just a month, he had decided to move to another state where Arthur’s business didn’t reach, but with his police watch still in effect, he was denied at the state border.

Five years trapped in this state was hell. Alfred had grown accustomed to his twice-a-month trips, and being unable to leave made it feel like a prison of its own kind. 

In time, the story of Alfred had faded. People had stopped talking about it and quickly moved on to the next celebrity scandal, and for that, Alfred was grateful. With his assassin gear and costumes destroyed in “an unfortunate electrical failure that sparked a fire in the storage unit,” Alfred was forced to live a normal life under the watchful eyes of the authorities. 

Now with nothing exciting to do, Alfred fell back on his first life plan: to get a PhD and work for NASA. His father had been opposed to it because he wanted Alfred to help run the organization beside Matthew, but now that Alfred was being watched like a mouse in an owl den, Arthur had no choice but to grit his teeth and wish him luck. 

It had taken him all five years of his sentence to earn that degree. Five years of sleepless nights, full days spent at the library, crying over math with classmates, and of course, a little bit of partying, had rewarded him with a PhD in aerospace engineering, and with his internships in between school, a full-time job at NASA. 

He had given his speech as valedictorian, gone to court to have his police watch officially removed, and a day later, packed his bags and left for Vegas. Unlike his trip there years ago, the hotel room was lively with his fellow graduates there to keep him company. And when night came, the four headed out into the hot streets of Vegas for an evening of fun. 

The men easily became overwhelmed by the many things to do in the bright city. It was Mathias, an architecture graduate, that spoke up first. “We can’t keep walking around like this with our hands in our pockets! What do you want to do, guys?” 

“Fuck I know.” Sadik, a graduate in biology, scoffed and took his hands out of his pockets.

Gilbert, an engineering graduate who knew no shame, had thrown his hands into the air and shouted, “Strip! Club!” And as if magically created with Gilbert’s fantasies, the flashy neon sign of a woman on a pole had appeared at the corner of the street. 

Gilbert looked at his friends with pleading eyes, and with a couple of indifferent shrugs, Mathias and Sadik had agreed to go. They turned to look at Alfred who had held his hands up and taken a step back. 

“Hey, whoa, um, I’m not going. You guys have fun but I got somewhere else to be. Besides, if I’m there, you guys won’t stand a chance against me.” Alfred smirked and laughed as his friends jumped on him with playful punches and noogies, but in the end, they weren’t going to pressure him to go and had gone to the club after making sure that Alfred was okay being alone. 

He stood at the corner of the street watching his friends disobey road rules for the sake of getting to the club faster and rolled his eyes with a chuckle when he saw them shout at a car that had honked at them. Only when they were inside did Alfred finally unplant his feet from the ground. 

Everything here was new and remodeled, but even if it wasn’t, the last time he had walked these streets, he had done so while piss drunk. But with the help of a map and directions from a taxi driver, Alfred had finally made it to where he wanted to be. 

A wedding reception had just ended, it seemed, and two brides, one tall and beautiful and the other like a ball of sunshine, came out of the chapel with bells ringing and flower petals showering their loving kiss. 

The scene made Alfred ache with jealousy and his hand went to unconsciously clutch the ring he wore on a chain underneath his shirt. His wedding ring—the one Arthur had told him to toss out—had never left his side. He kept the ring with him for five years in hopes that one day, Ivan would return and put the ring back on his finger. But the harsh reality was that Ivan never did. Even so, Alfred’s heart never strayed and he turned down the many relationship offers he'd received in Ivan’s absence. 

But at one point, he had to accept that he would never see Ivan again. He needed to take his own advice given during the valedictorian speech and move on from the darkness of the past to see the light of a new future. 

With a deep breath, Alfred took the chain off his neck and unclasped it to slide the ring into his palm. He pocketed the chain then held the silver band up to the neon green lights of the sign, watching the flashes of color dance across the metal. 

“Well,” he muttered, “guess it’s time to say goodbye.” With his parting words said, he slipped the ring onto the branch of the tree beside him. If someone found it, then he hoped that the ring would be given to someone who would live a marriage happier than his own. 

Without looking back, he left, his steps feeling lighter as if he had been freed. Not of Ivan, but of the pain of waiting for his impossible return. He turned his head to the sky to breathe the air, and even though it reeked of gasoline and sewage, it was the freshest air Alfred had ever breathed. 

He had his hands stuffed in his pocket, his steps crossing one another as he bounced to the tune of his own humming, when a shout interrupted his peace. 

Over the sound of cars and Vegas life, he heard the sound of someone shouting, “Sir!” He thought nothing of it at first, his humming resuming its made up tune, but then the shouts drew closer to him. 

The man’s voice made Alfred’s heart sting with pain. It was a voice he had known so well, but instead of turning around to meet the source of the cries, he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and quickened his pace. 

Heart beating faster, he willed the voice to disappear, to stop calling out, but it only came closer until Alfred broke out into a run. The voice chased him, calling out for him to stop, but Alfred didn’t listen nor did he turn around. It had called him out by his name and the familiar sound threw him into the wind, making him forget how to move his legs and trip over his own feet. 

The sidewalk left scratches on his palms, but he ignored the pain, more concerned about getting away from who was following him. But Alfred’s stumble had given the pursuer enough time to catch up. Large hands helped Alfred into a sitting position and quickly examined his hands to see the injuries. 

“Oh, God. Alfred, it is you. Why did you run?” the voice spoke. The face of the voice haunted Alfred’s memories but he kept his eyes tightly closed and shoved away the man in front of him. “Alfred please. What’s wrong? It’s me! Ivan! Did you forget?” 

Alfred’s eyes snapped open and he had only glanced at the face for a split second before he slapped it so hard it fell out of his vision. “Why the fuck are you here!” he screamed, his voice sounding small in the empty streets. He had run so far that the two were alone on the quiet residential streets. “You’re supposed to be dead!” 

He grabbed Ivan’s collar and pulled him up again so they were eye to eye. His mouth opened to speak but shock halted his voice. It wasn’t the Ivan he remembered. This man had hair that was dark black and eyes that looked to be dark brown. It couldn’t be Ivan. This man wasn’t Ivan. It was a joke. 

But when the man groaned and rubbed his sore cheek and then muttered a soft, “ow…” Alfred’s heart couldn’t stop speeding at seeing the familiar face. It had to be Ivan. Who else would it be? He had even said it was his name. 

“That is not what I expected your first gesture to be…” He moved his face muscles around, testing out the pain. “I expected something more like a hug.” 

As the man spoke, Alfred could only sit there in silence, analyzing every part of the man’s face. Besides the hair and eyes, this man also had a short beard, light wrinkles, and a beauty mark next to his right eye. 

“You don't know how long I've waited for you, Alf-”

“You’re not Ivan.” he cut him off. “Don’t say my name.” 

“Al-... Mr… Kirkland…” he said the name slowly, using Alfred’s real surname and not the one he had taken. “Please. I know I don’t look like I used to, but I am Ivan. I needed to change my face because the police are still looking for me. It’s me, my love.” Ivan reached out for Alfred’s hand but Alfred snatched it away from him and scooted back farther until his back was against a shrub.

“No! I don’t care. I came here to toss out that stupid ring because you never came back for me. Do you know how much it hurts to feel like you’ve been abandoned? Huh?” When Ivan stayed silent, Alfred continued. “I hate you. I fucking hate you. You left me alone to deal with all the pity and all the shame while you were here living a new life in Vegas. You were here drinking martinis every night and I was at home being watched by the fuzz for five years. 

“You left me alone in an empty house where every night I would sit at the bedroom window waiting for your stupid head to pop up and take me away. But you never fucking came and it hurt so much that I had to move back in with my dad!

“I thought that I could give you up by burying myself with work and books, but every single day, I looked at my flowers and all I could think about was you!” His voice rose at each line and soon his eyes welled up with tears. “You-” he paused, voice breaking, “I was alone and everyone told me you were a monster. They told me you never had it in your cold heart to love me. And I believed them because it was easier than waiting for you to come back to me.” 

His last words died into a whisper as he sobbed into his hands. All his pain pent up from the years since Ivan had left him spilled out of his heart. Even if it pained him to get the words out, once they were out, he felt a sense of relief. 

Warmth surrounded him when Ivan’s arms pulled him into his chest. This warmth he had missed so much had finally returned. For the longest time, Alfred wailed into Ivan’s shoulder, making the shirt messy and wet, but Ivan held him close the whole time, whispering apologies into his ear as he cried too from hearing Alfred’s suffering. 

“I never wanted to leave you,” Ivan croaked, “I’m so sorry that you were alone. I’m so sorry.” He pulled away and wiped the tears from his lover’s eyes, then held his face in his hands so tenderly that Alfred feared he’d cry for another reason. 

“I waited for you everyday too, Alfred. I came here because I knew that fate would one day bring us back together. I knew you were under police watch so I couldn’t go back to you because I knew that the second I stepped foot into our home, they’d kill me. I didn’t want you to see me die, Alfred. I waited. I waited so long and watched so many weddings and all I could think about was you.” He reached out for Alfred’s hand then moved it so Alfred’s fingers touched the ring on Ivan’s finger. “I never took it off. Never.” 

Ivan reached into his pocket and pulled out Alfred’s ring. He had taken it off the branch and was now offering it back to Alfred. It was his choice. If he really hated Ivan and wanted to move on, then he could refuse the ring. But if he still loved him, then the object that bound them was his to take. 

Alfred sat in silence for a while. So long that Ivan had begun to think that Alfred had truly given up on him. Perhaps he had waited too long and their love had faded. And perhaps the pain was just too much to be forgiven. 

But as Ivan slowly lowered his hand in defeat, Alfred reached out, gently plucking the ring from his palm. He sniffed and wiped off the mess on his face aggressively with his sleeves before holding the ring out to Ivan. When Ivan didn’t respond, Alfred snatched his hand and pressed the ring back into his hand and then held out his left, fingers spread and palm facing down. 

“If you want me back,” he sniffed again, voice wavering, “then you put a ring on it yourself.” He couldn’t keep a straight face. His frown had spread into a wide smile even as his lip trembled. 

Ivan didn’t waste a single second, quickly sliding the ring back onto his husband’s finger before pulling him into an embrace. The crying had started once again, but this time they were tears of joy. 

“I’ve missed holding you like this, dorogoy. You make my heart burst!” Ivan laughed, his crying making his words sound muddled. 

“Me too.” Alfred cried into his shirt. “Me too...” 

The sob fest went on until their tears ran out and their knees ached from being on the concrete for so long. So after a bit of a struggle to get back up with their wobbly legs, they headed back to the chapel, hand in hand. 

“I’m still mad at you, you know.” Alfred spoke, his voice hoarse from crying. 

“That’s alright.” 

“I’m serious.” 

“I know. Oh! I forgot!” 

Ivan brought Alfred’s hand up to remove the ring, but just like the first time he had attempted to do so, Alfred’s hand clasped around his wrist and stopped him. 

“Alfred. Trust me.” he whispered with the same softness as Alfred remembered. 

Putting all his trust into Ivan, Alfred let go and let him remove the ring. He watched as Ivan got down on one knee and held the ring out to him as if it were the first time. 

“Alfred Kirkland, will you marry me? As Alyosha Morozov?” 

Alfred snorted at hearing the name and swiped at his wet eyes. “Alyosha Morozov? Really?” 

“I had to change it to start over. Will you start over with me? Be Alfred Morozov-Kirkland?” 

Alfred chuckled and shook his head. “No.” He smirked at Ivan’s shocked face. “But I will be Alfred Jones-Morozov.” Then he held out his hand for the ring. For the second time tonight, a ring was put on his finger, but this time it was for the sake of new beginnings, not old bonds. 

He pulled Ivan back onto his feet so he could cup his face and kiss him until he was out of breath, then he kissed him some more until their crying made them so short of breath that they could only press their foreheads together and feel the heat of each others’ breath on their lips. 

But it was enough. As long as they had each other again, it was enough. Alfred’s hands were scratched, their knees hurt, their faces were a mess of tears and snot, but in their hearts, nothing was better than this. 

Nothing.