#i already lack creativity. it's been worse this month or so than ever. maybe sometimes theres nothing else to be done

[toxifoxx]

n one gets him like i do no one understands him like me no one is as insane about him as i am STARTS GNAWING AT THE THE BARS OF MY ENCLSOURE

[slightlyrebelliouswriter23]

hey so i'm hoping to get some writing advice about creative burnout? like i seem to write in fits and spurts. some months i can churn out a oneshot or chapter everyday and some months i can do one (1) creative thing only. so i'm wondering how to prevent creative burnout and how to just create more smoothly <3 thank you!

Creative Burnout & How To Ward Against It

First, I’d like to preface this all by saying you’re definitely not alone. You probably already know this, but sometimes it’s nice to be reminded.

I know from personal experience that creative burnout can leave you feeling hopeless, detached from yourself—the kind of identity crisis no one needs in 2020. 

So buckle in, folks. It’s a dosy.

I. The Symptoms

Not to be the local WebMD page here, but signs of burnout can include:

Procrastination (more than usual)

Dreading writing and feeling stuck or overly perfectionistic when you try

Physical tiredness and/or irritability

Feeling like everything is monotonous

It’s more than just writer’s block. It’s a physical and emotional exhaustion response to something that goes deeper than a simple lack of inspiration. In my experience, and from a bit of research, I’ve found that what your brain is really looking for is dopamine.

Dopamine is essentially your brain’s chemical reward system for doing something interesting or exciting to you. As someone who is diagnosed with ADHD, I have chronically low levels of dopamine, so this is a constant struggle for me—but it is absolutely made worse by creative burnout.

II. The Problem

Studies have shown that the more we do A Thing the less that thing will give us dopamine (unless a component of the activity changes regularly). This is because eventually our brains desensitise to the stimuli provided by the activity, and subsequently, we become disengaged.

But it’s not necessarily The Thing (i.e. writing) that becomes boring. Actually, more than a few factors could be at play here, and the first step to finding a solution is to identify the problem.

1. ENVIRONMENT LACKS EXCITEMENT/CHANGE—

Sometimes, the monotony of everyday life can feed creative burnout. This becomes especially applicable in quarantine when you’re not leaving your house.

What we don’t realise is that even something as small as the variables of driving to and from work, or interacting with passing coworkers, gives us dopamine. So if you have the same routine every day that does not involve any added variables, your brain will begin staunching that dopamine supply.

2. EITHER TOO EASY OR TOO CHALLENGING—

In 1975, Hungarian-American psychologist, Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, coined the term “flow”, which refers to a heightened state of creativity and concentration on an activity. Csikszentmihalyi posited that if your skill level is equal to the level of challenge in any given activity, you will experience this state of flow.

The chart below is taken from Csikszentmihalyi’s own study on the subject of flow and motivation. It examines “your skill level” on the x axis in relation to the “challenge level” on the y axis.

Essentially:

Too much challenge + not enough skill = anxiety, worry (which might lead to procrastination and perfectionism)

Too much skill + not enough challenge = boredom, apathy (which might lead to monotony, irritability, and other depression-like symptoms)

Skill level = Challenge level = Flow

3. NOT ENOUGH “ACTIVE” STIMULATION—

When it comes to dopamine seeking, there is a distinct difference between active and passive stimulation in the brain.

Active stimulation is any form of activity that you have to actively engage in. For instance; exercising, doing a crossword puzzle, or reading a book. These kinds of activities not only give you dopamine, they also facilitate critical thinking and problem solving thought processes, which act as catalysts for creativity.

Passive stimulation, on the other hand, comes in the form of television, social media, and YouTube. It’s anything you can consume without having to actively engage. Passive stimulation will indeed give your brain dopamine, however, it won’t activate your creativity.

The problem also lies in the speed at which you receive the dopamine from passive activities. Passive stimulation is so easy to access that the more you consume, the harder it becomes to pick up active stimulation. Your brain expects a hit of dopamine just by picking up a phone or turning on the TV—it becomes addicted to the quick fix of a Netflix binge.

III. The Solutions

Based on the problems mentioned above, I am going to list a few solutions. Keeping in mind that not every solution will work for everyone, these can act as both preventative measures and remedies for someone who is currently burned out.

1. CHANGE UP YOUR ENVIRONMENT/ROUTINE—

Aim to do at least one thing per day that will add “variables” to the monotony. This can be as simple as going on a long walk, dressing up in that bold outfit you always wanted to wear to the office but never did, or sitting at a different workspace in your home.

Anything you can do that’s simple, but might provide an extra variable to your day to spice things up. Note: this shouldn’t be the same thing every day.

2. CHALLENGE YOURSELF MORE—

If you find yourself bored by your work, try challenging yourself more. This could mean setting goals for yourself that go a bit beyond what you’ve been doing. 

For example, if you’ve been writing 500 words per day, see if you can beat your own word count every day for the next week. If you’ve been writing mainly fluff pieces, switch it up and do an angst piece. See if you can write a book in a month, or start a blog where you don’t write fiction at all!

Anything you can do to add a little kick to your workload. Note: Beware of challenging yourself too much! This can lead straight back into burnout.

3. CHALLENGE YOURSELF LESS—

If you’re on the flip side of that coin, and find that you are anxious, procrastinating, and perfectionistic when it comes to writing, fret not. Just because you’re experiencing any of these things, doesn’t mean you’re incapable of doing the job with your skillset.

It just means your perception of the job needs to be shifted.

Procrastination, at its heart, is a fear of failure, which results in actively avoiding the negative emotions associated with the task that causes this fear. Perfectionism is a type of procrastination that is a combination of a fear of failure and a fear of success (or, more accurately, other’s critiques of your success) all at once.

Neither have anything to do with your actual skillset, but they have everything to do with your perception of your skillset. Obviously, this is a harder thing to fix, as it has to do with deeply ingrained levels of self-esteem.

What I can offer you is a tactic to trick your mind into thinking you’re capable.

If you have a task, big or small, and you are feeling overwhelmed by it (like you might go curl up in bed and scroll Tumblr), immediately break that task up into smaller tasks. Keep breaking up the smaller tasks until you have the smallest possible part of the bigger task without doing nothing.

Then do that smallest possible thing.

If your goal is to write a 2000 word one shot, a small part of that task is writing half of it. An even smaller part of that task is breaking the one shot up into “scenes” and writing one scene. For instance:

Jude wakes up to a sore throat, a runny nose, and a fever.

She tries to go to work, but Cardan, being the mother hen that he is, threatens to never make her another grilled cheese sandwich (her favourite food) ever again if she doesn’t stay home.

Jude agrees begrudgingly, and Cardan sits her down in front of the TV with a bottle of Gatorade. He leaves to go get medicine from the store.

When Cardan comes back, Jude is worse than before. He makes her soup and saltine crackers and spoon feeds her.

She complains the whole time and, in her feverish state, threatens to never buy him another bottle of wine (his favourite food) ever again if he doesn’t let her feed herself.

Each bullet point represents one “scene” of about 200-400 words each. Obviously, there will be more details that you work out as you write. But with these five smaller scenes, your goal is no longer writing the 2000 word one shot. Your goal is writing the first of the five scenes.

If you complete the smallest possible task, you can stop, and you’ll still feel like you’ve accomplished something because you can cross off that task from your list. But chances are, by the time you cross off one task, you may have inspiration enough to keep going.

4. ENGAGE IN ACTIVE STIMULATION—

Since active stimulation has been proven to turn on the creative “tap”, try incorporating more of these activities into your daily routine:

Exercise: As the resident couch potato, I hate to say that exercising is good for creativity, but it is. Even if it’s just going on a short walk, so long as you’re moving.

Reading: Sometimes you have plenty of ideas, but no words to fit those ideas. Fill your well of words by carving out an hour or two each day for reading a good book.

The Creative Process: In the writing world, the creative process is a process of about 20-30 minutes that the writer partakes in every day before they start writing. This process should be creative, but also have nothing to do with writing. You can try colouring in a colouring book, painting, organising a page in your bullet journal. Anything that is creative but does not make you think about everything you have to do that day. Think of it as creative meditation.

Listen to music: Having APD, I personally can’t listen to music while I write. However, studies have shown that if you listen to at least ten songs per day, it will significantly benefit your dopamine levels and overall mood. If you’re like me and prefer to work in silence, maybe stick on a couple songs during your creative process. If you can manage music and writing together, get out those headphones!

5. KEEP A REGULAR SCHEDULE—

I know this is the most cliche point in the book, but it’s valid. This doesn’t mean do the same thing at the same time every day over and over, because ultimately we’re looking to avoid monotony. 

But having pillars of structure to bolster the excitement can definitely work to keep you from slipping into burnout. Going to sleep, waking up, and having your meals at relatively the same time every day are good examples of this. 

Feel free to change up the things you do between breakfast and lunch, but make sure you have those pillars of consistency so your brain knows that a break is on the horizon and doesn’t get tired.

6. PACE YOURSELF—

This is particularly difficult for those of us who are coming out of a creative burnout, but I urge you to pay special attention to this one. If we are suddenly hit by inspiration and the writing is flowing and flowing and flowing, eventually we will hit the point of highest dopamine capacity for writing.

Not putting a check on the flood of inspiration coming out of a creative burnout, I’d argue, is actually a guarantee that many of us will experience burnout all over again. It becomes this vicious cycle in which we are trapped.

While it feels great to write non-stop and receive immediate validation for that work, try to limit yourself to how much you’re writing and how immediately you post your writing (if you plan on posting it).

Whenever I finish a one shot or a chapter of something, I like to allow at least one day for editing before I post. This timeframe is important, because it acts as a buffer of rest between writing marathons. 

You can take however long you need for the editing process, but definitely make sure you have a set amount of time in place. Otherwise, your brain might not have enough time to come down from what is essentially a writing high, and you will always need to reach greater heights in order to achieve that same level of dopamine.

~~~~

Overall, the most important things to take away from all of this are: 

Change up your environment

Keep your brain actively stimulated 

Have pillars of structure between which you can run about chaotically to your heart’s content

PACE YOURSELF!

Hope this helped. Happy writing!

-Em 🖤🗡

Writing Tip Masterlist

Fic Masterlist

Celebrate 2K with me!

[eryiss]

Ship: Freed x Laxus

Rating: Teen

Summary: Laxus has returned to the guild, but is still scared of not being accepted. Freed does what he can to help, and insists that Laxus attend some of the events held in the guildhall. Over the course of a year, and four different parties, the guild starts feeling like home again. And Freed, well... Freed has something to confess.

Notes: Hi. This was a little thing I wrote becuase I haven't done enough canon-verse writing; that and I want to procrastonate from uni work. I hope you all enjoy it, and sorry for any mistakes.

Links: FFN, Ao3

Part of the Party

The Summer Solstice

Freed was, despite what some might claim, rather fond of parties. Not so much in the way a typical Fairy Tail mage might do; he didn't find pleasure in getting as drunk as his body would allow, starting a fight, and collapsing in the mountain of rubble they'd created. Rather, he went to the guild parties to nurse a glass of wine, watch the inevitable decline in both intelligence and balance of his friends, and watch from the side-lines. It was his own form of enjoyment, and yet it had somehow given him the reputation as, as one of his guildmates had so eloquently put it, a boring stick-in-the-mud bastard.

That had been Natsu, who at that moment was wobbling haphazardly towards the bar, hugging Pantherlilly as if he were his own cat, singing at the top of his lungs with neither pitch nor tone. Hardly a reputable source of judgment, Freed concluded.

Still, that was the reputation he had gained, and he wasn't helping that tonight.

Rather, he was making it worse. From the moment he had arrived he had refused any drinks, had perched himself at a table on the second floor as to overlook the party but not be a part of it, and hardly spoken to anybody; not the most convivial actions for celebrating the summer solstice. It hadn't been for lack of wanting to be involved, but rather out of necessity. This was Laxus' first guild event since he had returned, and he hadn't been entirely enthusiastic to go.

It was a problem that had Freed worried. Laxus had been accepted back with open arms, and yet he was still skittish around anyone other than the Raijinshuu. He had been forgiven, but didn't seem to believe it, and avoided everyone as much as he could. Freed knew that, had he not been forceful with his friend, Laxus would have spent the night alone.

So they'd made a deal. Laxus would attend the party, but he was allowed to leave at any moment.

Freed felt that this was maybe too big a step taken too quickly, and he'd only realised that as they approached the guildhall. Laxus was… off-kilter, and this might push him over the edge. So, he had decided that if the worse did happen, Freed would be sober and waiting to help Laxus with it. But it didn't look like he needed it.

"You can't just watch him all night, you know," Mirajane commented as she walked up the stairs, holding a glass of chocolate milkshake; if he couldn't have alcohol, Freed would indulge in other ways. "You might enjoy yourself more. He's doing okay."

"I know," Freed agreed, taking the drink and placing the used glass from earlier on Mirajane's tray. "But I think, the longer he's down there alone, the better. He needs to be fully submerged without his crutch."

"His crutch being you, Ever and Bicks?" Mirajane asked, and Freed nodded. "That's why they're avoiding him, then."

"Indeed, although I suspect Ever would gravitate towards your brother no matter what," Freed chuckled a little, and Mirajane preened a little at the reminder. "Though I must admit, Bickslow, Loke and Natsu being so close does concern me. They're chaotic enough as is, I'd rather not deal with them all together."

"I think they're playing tic-tac-toe," Mirajane frowned a little. "I think it's only a matter of time before Loke suggests making it strip tic-tac-toe, but it's innocent enough right now."

"Perhaps bring me a bucket of water, I could probably pour it over them all from here should they get too involved in their game," Freed mused aloud, and Mirajane laughed a little at the thought.

They both remained in silence for a while, Freed watching as Laxus had a somewhat awkward looking conversation with Reedus, who seemed to be requesting Laxus model for a painting sometimes in the future. Freed smiled a little, hearing Laxus say that he'd consider it; a step in the right direction already. Before his excommunication, Laxus wouldn't have given a second before denying the request, it was nice for him to be making the effort.

Too engrossed in his pride for his friend, Freed missed the slightly sad look on Mirajane's face as she looked down at him. Because of this, when she spoke again, Freed found himself on the back foot and ill-prepared.

"Have you told him yet?" She asked, voice soft but words making Freed freeze. She continued. "It's just that you said that you would, and I really do think he'd-"

"It's not the time," Freed spoke softly, but with firmness.

"When will the time be, Freed?"

"He's," Freed began, but stopped and sighed. "His life is a mess right now. He has nowhere to live other than my sofa, feels like the place he's called home for most of his life doesn't want him there, and doesn't know what to do. It would be cruel to add something else onto that."

"I understand that, but it might be nice for him," Mirajane shrugged. "He likes you back, he always has. He's just not been ready for you until now."

"Well, if that's the case, then we can both wait until things are a little less precarious," Freed stated, putting an end to the conversation.

Mirajane didn't seem to want to push, so Freed looked over the banister to the lower floor to see that Laxus' conversation with Reedus had ended. He looked a little lost for a moment, and Freed let a smile flicker onto his face before it immediately died. Laxus couldn't see it yet, but Lucy was approaching him. She, more than anyone else in the guild, was the person Laxus was most scared of speaking with. He had been avoiding her like the plague, and by the expression of determination on her face, she had noticed.

Freed wanted to intercept, or at least break his own rule and be there beside Laxus. Many times, Laxus had expressed regret for how he had treated his guildmates, and more than anyone else he believed Lucy could not forgive him. Many of the others had known Laxus before his shift in character, but Lucy had only seen him at his worth. He couldn't believe that she would give him any benefit of the doubt.

He clearly didn't know her. Freed had thought that way, until he'd been forced to speak with her about fixing his issue with his hair – something that should have been humiliating, but had instead been easy, and without complication. The woman was kind, nothing less.

"He'll be fine," Mirajane assured Freed. "She just wants to get to know him, and he's been okay with everyone else. It'll be fine."

"I know," Freed said, not believing his own words.

They watched from afar as Lucy finally came face to face with Laxus. He was clearly tense, face unmoving and words stilted. Lucy seemed unaffected, chatting away as she so often didn't with enthusiasm and with cheerfulness. Freed had often wondered how so much optimism could be contained in a single person, but he was glad for it now. This was good, it was going fine.

Until it wasn't.

Freed couldn't hear what had been said, but without warning, Laxus erupted into lightning. He was consumed by it within a moment, and bolts of flickering magic shot out of the door, breaking it open and lighting up the city as it darted through the streets. Laxus was gone, and Lucy was left with her mouth agape, silent in her shock. Freed hissed, placing his milkshake on the table and storming towards the staircase. Teleportation runes had consumed him before he had reached the top step, and he found himself in his sitting room, with Laxus on the sofa, hunched over, crying weakly and trying to stop.

With a small breath, Freed stepped forward and placed a hand on Laxus' shoulder. Laxus tensed, but leaned into it.

"I am so proud of you," Freed whispered. "You were spectacular, and did so well."

Laxus didn't respond. That was how the rest of the night went, until Laxus' tears subsided, and he slept curled up, head resting on Freed's lap. All in all, despite how it had ended, Freed knew that this had been good for Laxus, and was something of a breakthrough for him. As the man gently snored, and Freed ran his hands through his hair, Freed repeated himself in a quiet whisper.

"I am so damn proud of you, Laxus."

---

Freed's Birthday

The singing was a little too much, Freed found.

Discordant, with its volume inversely proportionate to its talent, it sounded somewhat like a bag of cats trying to fight with a set of bagpipes in the middle of a tornado. Well, perhaps that was slightly hyperbolic and fanciful, but he'd had his fair share of champagne throughout the day and as such was allowed to enjoy his creative side.

He'd awoken to his team making him breakfast – pancakes, pain au chocolates, and cinnamon rolls – before he had been taken to the guild. As normal, it was a loud and rowdy affair. The peculiar tradition of his yearly fight with Natsu took place, a grand meal had been prepared, and he'd been sung to. Very very loudly.

Still, it was a nice day. A tradition.

It was good to have Laxus there, too. The blonde had been present for the breakfast, and Freed had expected that would be it for his inclusion of the day. A month had passed since the summer solstice party, and Laxus' time spent in the guildhall was still minimal. Other steps had been made – he'd modelled for Reedus, set up a weekly training session with Gajeel, and went on an incredibly unexpected mission with Happy – but he still struggled with the guild as a whole. He confessed that their team spirit was too much, and it felt like he was intruding.

Freed didn't want to push him. The first party had kicked him into action, and now Laxus was getting to know his guildmembers both old and new, and if doing so one-by-one was what it took then so be it.

But, Laxus had come. He'd eaten, drunk, and Freed had caught sight of him and Gajeel laughing together while the rest of the guild sang at him. It was nice to see, and it had made the signing more bearable. Slightly more bearable, anyway.

Then, the presents came.

As always, they were an onslaught of gifts, some personalised, others more general. Levy had gotten him a first edition copy of 'The Mechanics of Magic', Erza a grindstone to polish his sword on, Reedus a painting containing all of his team and Laxus in the heat of battle, and Lucy a set of quills and ink. He thanked them all graciously, touched by the effort that had been spent on them. His guildmates really were too kind.

The thought made him look up, glancing towards where Laxus had been. Freed hoped that, upon seeing the forgiveness and open kindness he was receiving, Laxus might feel more involved himself. When he looked up, he saw that Laxus had left the guildhall.

Dammit.

He sat through the rest of the gifts, trying to remain focused but unable to feel bad. Eventually they ended, and the party moved onto the next stage: Gajeel and his guitar. If Laxus' departure wasn't excuse enough for Freed to leave the guildhall and go into the courtyard, then the music certainly was.

Once outside, it didn't take him long to find where Laxus had ended up. Freed had hoped that his friend hadn't left altogether, and was gratified when he saw him sitting on the edge of the pool, his boots bedside him and his trousers rolled up. Freed smiled as he walked forward, kicking off his own shoes and folding his own trousers to his knees. He sat beside Laxus, letting his calves rest limply in the cold water in the pool. Laxus shifted a little, clearly in his own head and not having noticed Freed's approach.

"Hey," He murmured quietly. "Sorry I didn't… I couldn't… just got a bit much, y'know."

"I understand," Freed said immediately. "I'm impressed that you managed to-"

"You don't need to do that. I appreciate it, but I don't need you telling me that I'm making steps," Laxus argued, smiling a little. He bumped his shoulder into Freed's, as if to make sure Freed knew he'd taken no offence.

"Very well," Freed nodded. "I'm glad you're here though, it wouldn't have felt right without you."

"I can't let my right-hand man celebrate his birthday without me," Laxus grinned, and Freed chuckled quietly, lifting his foot and watching the ripples that the action caused. "Speaking of which, I should give you this," Laxus leant away from Freed for a moment, reached for something, and handed Freed a hastily wrapped box. He didn't meet Freed's eye when he handed it to him. "I was gonna give it to you in the morning, but wanted to force myself to come here so held off. So, erm, happy birthday."

"Thank you, Laxus," Freed smiled, taking the box with a smile.

"You don't know what it is yet," Laxus grinned a little. "Bicks didn't get you a speedo this year, maybe I wanted to keep up the tradition."

"If you did, then there would be a sense of irony because you'd be the one ended up in the pool," Freed chuckled. "And he did, actually. Somehow, and I can only blame Mirajane for this, he had it baked into my slice of the cake," Laxus barked out a laugh. "It was lime green. In a few years' time I'll have a whole rainbow of them."

"Wonder what he'll do when he runs outta colours," Laxus grinned, before nudging Freed again. "Open it."

Freed did as instructed, and halted a little when he realised what it was. It was an Armillary Sphere. It seemed to be made from solid gold, shining under the lamps strewn across the courtyard. He gently ran his hands over the incremental engravings, adjusting the device slowly with a look of wonderment on his face.

"It's beautiful," He whispered. "How did you…"

"I don't know if you remember, but we did a mission together a couple years back and finished it early. We got pretty pissed after, since neither of us had had a break for a while," Laxus was a little red in the face. "We were lying in a clearing somewhere, looking at the stars. And you suddenly started naming them all, telling me all the stories associated with the consolations. You kept going, you could even figure out our coordinates based on what we could see. You just kept talking about stars, and astronomy and I never forgot it. You mentioned that you used to have one of these in yer old house, and I saw it in an antique store before I came back to the guild and thought you might have liked it."

"It's incredible," Freed was a little breath taken. The fact Laxus had brought it before returning to the guild was just… "Thank you, Laxus. It's… perhaps one of the nicest things someone has done for me."

"Aw don't say that," Laxus laughed a little, but there was a quaver in his words. "Not when I've got the heights of the speedo collection to contend with. And what did Gray get ya? A monocle? Who the hell put him up to that?"

"In fairness, I did gift him a scarf for his last birthday. Which, with him is the equivalent of throwing a pebble into an active volcano with how long it'll stay on his body," Freed chuckled. "I did tell him that, so I suspect the monocle is his act of revenge."

Laxus made a little laugh, leaning back on his hands and watching the ripples across the water. Freed did the same, shifting slightly and allowing his side to press gently against Laxus'. Laxus didn't move, and Freed had a soft smile across his features as he allowed a yawn to split his lips. A party was nice and all, but this was better.

---

Halloween

"Fuck," Laxus gaped as he looked at Freed. "You take this seriously, huh?"

Freed chuckled a little at Laxus' reaction. As demanded by Bickslow, Freed had kept his costume a secret from everyone, including Laxus. That had been a difficult feat, given that Freed had removed his desk and books from his office, turned it back into a bedroom and they had become official roommates. The costume had been tucked away in the back of his closet for a month, and this was the first time anyone other than Freed himself had seen it.

As always, the Raijinshuu went in a themed costume. This year, fighters throughout history. Evergreen had insisted on being a Viking, Bickslow had chosen an old Rune Amry uniform, and Freed had decided on a gladiator.

The costume was hardly the most accurate, historically speaking, but Freed liked it. His torso was covered by a leather chest plate, complete with straps to hold it in place, a single metal shoulder guard, and a red cape that hung to his lower back. His modesty was protected by a tunic which ended above his knees. He had also adorned sandals that wrapped around his legs, and he'd forgone the helmet as it seemed unnecessary in the end. The look was completed with his sword that was attached to his hip, as normal.

"I forgot, you haven't seen any of our costumes, have you," Freed chuckled. "What do you think."

"It's…" Laxus seemed to pause for a moment. "Good. Really good- creative, I mean. You put a lot of effort into it."

"Thank you for noticing," Freed smiled. "Are you ready to go?"

"Give me a couple minutes to change," Laxus dismissed, and Freed frowned as Laxus retreated into his bedroom.

Laxus had been adamant that he wouldn't wear any costumes at all, because he wasn't into that kind of thing. It was what Freed had expected, and honestly he was happy that Laxus was willing to come at all. Laxus had been at the guild more often lately, and Freed felt that maybe his birthday party had helped with that. Perhaps it was nice to know that Laxus could get some time alone, gather his thoughts, but still be a part of the guild's events.

Freed sat on the sofa for a moment, having to adjust his position when he realised that his tunic had a tendency to ride up and show… everything. Better to know now than to make the mistake in the guild where his friends would be delighted to mock him for it.

Maybe he should allow for another anachronism and wear some boxers…

The door to Laxus' room opened, and Freed looked towards him immediately. A spluttering of laughter slipped out before Freed could stop it, and Laxus raised an eyebrow at him, amusement obvious in his face. He stepped forward, spread his arms to better reveal himself, and grinned.

"Just as good as yours, right?" He joked.

It wasn't as good as Freed's. Laxus' costume consisted of a fairly cheap red suit, a white shirt with ruffles of all things, and a pair of red devil horns. It was put together in a rush, had no detail given to it, and was perhaps to most delightful thing Freed had ever seen. One year ago, when Freed had been celebrating the holiday without Laxus, he wondered if the blonde might have scoffed at the Raijinshuu's new found fondness for Halloween. Now, Laxus had a smile that was almost goofy on his face, wearing a costume that he'd made for himself. Freed couldn't ask for more.

"It's certainly a costume," Freed smirked, and Laxus laughed.

"You know, I'm dressed as the devil," Laxus all but sauntered forward, a good look on the man. "And if you're a demon, that kind of makes me your king, right? And, as your king, surely you should show me some respect and kneel for me."

Rather than allow that comment to affect him – boxers really would have been a good idea – he immediately spoke again. "Say that to Mirajane and I'll pay your tab for a month."

"Nah, I like my organs on the inside," Laxus grinned, walking towards the front door.

"You know that the moment Bickslow and Ever seen that you're willing to wear a costume of any kind, they're going to drag you into our tradition whether you like it or not," Freed taunted as he closed the door and locked it behind him. "I'm afraid to say, Laxus, that this," He gestures to himself. "Is your future."

Laxus paused for a moment, then smiled a private smile.

"I can think of a lot of things worse than that, Freed."

---

New Year's Eve

Laxus Dreyar and Lucy Heartfilia were having a drinking contest.

It was perhaps the only thing that Freed had seen that might convince him that miracles were real. But there they were, two pints of beer in front of them both, drinking as if their lives depended on it. Even more ridiculous, Laxus had been the one instigate it. He'd brought the tray of drinks over, looked Lucy dead in the eye and claimed that, if she drank hers before he did his, then he'd pay for every drink she got for all of January.

Freed watched from above, smiling a little as he leant on the banister. As normal, he had spent the party with a glass of red, watching as his guildmates got drunker and drunker, making asses out of themselves for his amusement. It had been perfect, and he was delighted that Laxus seemed to be getting involved.

"Shit," Laxus cussed loudly when he placed his glass down. "Where the hell did you learn to drink like that?"

Lucy said something in return, but it was too quiet for Freed to hear. She had clearly won their wager, and Laxus seemed to be in good spirits despite the financial loss. They spoke for a little while longer before breaking apart, Lucy walking towards her team, Laxus looking around before spotting where Freed had decided to stay.

He took the stairs to the second floor two by two, grinning at Freed widely when he was face to face with him. He wasn't drunk – Freed had seen Laxus drunk before many times – but he was in high spirits. It was nice to see.

"Hey," Laxus greeted. "You still sticking up here, huh?"

"Best place to be," Freed shrugged, leaning on the banister when Laxus was beside him. "You can see everyone stumbling and falling, and there's no chance of one of them vomiting on you."

"You really know how to party, huh?" Laxus teased, and Freed chuckled.

For a moment, they watched over the guild. Their arms lightly grazed one another, and Freed found himself smiling a little. These moments hadn't happened before. Laxus hadn't ever allowed himself to slow down, to enjoy himself. Ever since Laxus had come back, he'd been more… contemplative. He allowed himself moments of calm and time to think, and Freed enjoyed sharing those times with him. Over the last year, he'd spent many hours in silent company with Laxus by his side, and those moments had become very dear to Freed.

"Was talking to Mira," Laxus spoke up again. "Said you made a promise to her, that you'd tell me something before the year ended."

"Did she?" Freed mumbled slightly. He would be having words with the interfering woman.

"She did," Laxus agreed, looking towards Freed with a soft expression. Freed kept his gaze on the guildhall below. "But, between the two of us, I don't think you should."

Freed froze. "You don't."

"Nah, I don't," Laxus agreed. "Because everything you wanna say to me I already know. Have for a while, but I've been too shit scared to deal with it. Not anymore, though."

"Is that so?" Freed asked, not conveying tone. Where was Laxus going with this?

"Yeah. Pushing away my feelings nearly fucking killed me, and it ain't gonna happen again. And the thing is, everything you were gonna say to me, I know I wanna say to you. But I don't think I've gotten to that point yet, so instead I'm gonna ask something of ya."

"Ask what of me?"

"I'm gonna ask you make a promise to me," Laxus stated. "I'm gonna ask that you promise that," he looked to the countdown clock above the door, "in forty nine seconds, you kiss me. I'm gonna ask that you promise to go to dinner with me tomorrow night as my date. I'm gonna ask you promise me you'll let me show you how much I fucking care about you, and how much I know I'm gonna love you the second I can," His voice wavered slightly. "Because I really-"

Freed cut him off, leaning up and cupping Laxus' cheek with his right hand. He leant forward, pressed their lips together and kissed Laxus for the very first time. Bells rang and fireworks exploded around them, but neither man cared. Freed melted into the kiss, and Laxus wrapped an arm around his waist to pull him closer.

"I promise," Freed whispered, before starting another incredible, explosive kiss.

[southsidestory]

Hey! I LOVE all of your writing! Thanks for sharing your work with us! I saw that you like kakasakura... any chance you would ever write for them? 🙏☺️

Thank you so much, nonny! I’m so glad you enjoy my writing.

As for KakaSaku... well, there’s definitely a chance I’d write for them, because I already have. 😅 I’ve just never posted it.

But since you sent me this sweet ask, I’ll share the first scene of a KakaSaku fic I’ve been toying with. FYI even though Sakura is a chuunin and this is in the period when Naruto is traveling with Jiraiya, Sakura is 18. Because I said so, and this fanfiction land, where my rules are the only rules lmao

.

.

Kakashi’s mission ran over. It turned out that quietly assassinating a samurai lord constantly surrounded by underlings wasn’t as simple as he’d expected. The assassination itself was almost absurdly easy, but getting Lord Akinobu alone long enough to do it wasn’t. He ended up spending almost two weeks in the Land of Iron before an opportunity presented itself.

The trip back to Konoha was uneventful. He should report to the Hokage right away, but he felt a shower and nap were in order first. After he woke up, he watered Mr. Ukki, who had withered a little in his absence. Kakashi suspected that his house plant was indestructible, but two weeks was a long time even for it to go without attention.

He would ask someone to look after Mr. Ukki when he went on missions, but he didn’t have anyone. His neighbors resented him for coming and going at all hours, and his friends were… well, kept at arm’s length. Which was how he liked it. But unfortunately his independence meant poor Mr. Ukki sometimes went without water for a while.

Kakashi meant to go directly to the Hokage tower, but he spotted Gai buying watame from a street vendor and couldn’t resist getting two for himself.

“You only did that to one-up me,” Gai said sourly.

Kakashi continued on, cotton candy in hand. The blue one was the same soft shade as the sky overhead, and the pink was almost the exact color of Sakura’s hair. Like the smooth inside of a conch shell, or the cherry blossoms she was named for.

He hadn’t seen Sakura in three or four months, and he wondered how she was faring. He heard about her occasionally from his fellow jounin. What a skilled kunoichi she’d turned out to be, with the promise of becoming as strong as the Hokage herself someday.

Not much surprised Kakashi, but Sakura did.

He handed the blue cotton candy to a passing child, whose mother immediately yanked it out of his hands and glared daggers at Kakashi. The little boy wailed and reached for the spun sugar treat while his mother lectured him about not taking food from strangers.

Kakashi ate the pink one as he meandered his way toward the Hokage tower. By the time he arrived, he’d finished the cotton candy. He pulled his mask back up over his face, dropped the plastic stick in the lobby trash can, and went up the stairs to Tsunade’s office.

“You’re late,” she said, without looking up from her desk.

Kakashi leaned against the wall, tempted to pull Icha Icha out of his kunai pouch, but Tsunade’s temper and monstrous strength were a formidable combination. He’d like to keep his nose unbroken.

“It was hard to get Akinobu alone.”

Tsunade snorted. “You were the youngest shinobi to be promoted to chuunin in the history of Konoha, and you know a thousand jutsu. You’re creative enough to kill a measly samurai in a timely manner.”

Kakashi didn’t argue. Fighting with the Hokage was an exercise in futility.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I ought to dock your pay.”

He shrugged. “If you want.”

He had a nice nest egg set away, thanks to his thriftiness and over ten years of A-rank and S-rank mission rewards.

Tsunade sighed. “I expect your report on my desk by twelve tomorrow. And I do mean twelve in the afternoon, not midnight.”

Kakashi nodded with all the deference he could muster. “As you say, Lady Hokage.”

She didn’t look like she believed him, even though he did plan to turn in his mission report on time.

Probably.

Someone knocked on the door, and Tsunade called, “Come in.”

It was Sakura, carrying a stack of binders and looking very harassed. “I got those files you asked for, shishou—”

She stopped dead, green eyes wide as she looked up at him.

“Kakashi-sensei!” Sakura’s words were ruthless and so painfully high that he almost winced. 

She hurried to set the binders on Tsunade’s desk, then turned back to him.

"Hey, Sakura. Long time no see."

The surprise fell from her expression and something harder took its place. 

"Yeah," she said. "Been busy?" 

"I was on a long mission," Kakashi said. 

She raised one rosy eyebrow. "Oh? Four months long?" 

Apparently Sakura hadn't grown out of her passive aggressive streak.

"Two weeks,” Tsunade said. “And it shouldn't have taken that long.”

Sakura smirked. "Are you losing your touch, Kakashi-sensei?" 

He laughed a little. "Don't get too big for your britches. I can still take you."

She opened her mouth, no doubt to toss some retort at him, but Tsunade beat her to it.

“Don’t be so sure. You might be surprised by what she’s accomplished.”

“With a proper teacher,” Sakura said sweetly.

Kakashi scratched the back of his head. “Don’t blame me. If any students besides Team 7 had ever passed the bell test, I would have had more practice before you guys.”

“Please. You didn’t have any problems teaching Sa—” She paused for a moment, and in that brief silence Kakashi heard everything she wasn’t saying. She shook it off and went on. “You taught Sasuke fine. Naruto too sometimes, even though he was dead-last in our class.”

Kakashi canted his head. “Sasuke and Naruto were focused on becoming better shinobi. You were too busy nursing a school-girl crush.”

That was a low blow, but he wasn’t going to take all of the blame here. Sakura was as responsible for her lack of growth as a genin as he was. 

She clenched her fists at her sides. “So I wasn’t worth your time? Is that it?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“You might as well have!” She took a few steps toward him, glaring ferociously enough to intimidate a lesser man. Too bad for her he’d seen worse than a spitting mad chuunin. “At least you’re finally honest enough to admit it. Not that you haven’t already made it astoundingly clear how weak you thought I was.”

Tsunade stood up and put her hands on her desk. “If you’re going to brawl, take it outside.”

Sakura’s chest was heaving with ragged breaths, her gaze fierce. She barely topped five feet and might weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet, but size didn’t mean much for a kunoichi of her caliber. Especially a girl trained by one of the legendary Sannin.

“Fine,” she said. “Let’s go to the training grounds.”

“Come back and challenge me when you’re a jounin.”

He ruffled her hair, and Sakura smacked his hand away.

“Don’t treat me like a child, Kakashi!”

That brought him up short in a way that her temper tantrum hadn’t. She never called him by his name alone.

“Then don’t act like one.” He looked to Tsunade. “Am I free to go?”

She waved at him vaguely. “Get out of here before Sakura kills you.”

Kakashi took the shortest route home, barely hearing the hustle and bustle of the village around him. Mrs. Kurosawa, one of his neighbors, berated him for something on his way up the stairs to his apartment, but he didn’t bother to listen. He locked his door behind him, took off his hitai-ate, pulled down his mask, and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. He should read, maybe watch TV. Reruns of his favorite soap opera would start airing in an hour, and he needed to catch up before watching the new episode. Immersing himself in Marriage Contract would help him wind down from his overdrawn mission.

And his fight with Sakura. Which, if he was honest with himself, bothered him more.

He shouldn’t have called her feelings for Sasuke a school-girl crush. He’d watched Sakura’s childish infatuation grow into love, and diminishing it was downright cruel.

Some people would say that thirteen was too young to understand love, but Kakashi knew better. Shinobi learned hard lessons of the heart long before other children. Rin had loved him, and Obito had loved Rin. Kakashi didn’t know who he’d loved. He lost them both before he could figure it out.

Maybe if their team could bring Sasuke home, things would turn out better for Sakura.

He hoped so.

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

Once Bitten, Twice Stupid prt 184 prt 1

184

Three wolves were a nightmare on his household budget. Not feeling particularly like cooking, they’d lived off the extra food Hunk had brought over until that’d run out and Lance had left the shopping to Rieva and Matt. Matt acting as if vegetables had insulted his family, Rieva not buying him a few big blocks of chocolate because too much sugar was bad for the twins. They were both banned now and Lance was having to get creative with stretching every meal as far as he could make it go with rice until he was both apologised to and bribed with chocolate.

Keith had taken over their bedroom. Not that Lance minded, things were still shaky and Keith still getting used to his ego, but their bed was now back to how it was. Blankets upon blankets with more blankets that Keith wasn’t allowed to tamper with because they made it easier for Lance to sleep. He was officially in his third trimester. The idea of giving birth more daunting than ever. Getting out of bed involved a three point turn, and there wasn’t a moment that his hips didn’t hurt with the weight of their foot and a half long subs. In some ways it felt to Lance that he was back at the start of his pregnancy. All he wanted to do was nap. He came out of a nap to pee, then straight back into the next nap. His hours now more nighttime, sleep rhythm out the window. How normal humans coped marvelled him.

It’d been a week and a half since the full moon. Keith had broken three forks, two knives, a cup, a bowl, and a plate, all by accident as he tried to help with the washing up only to use too much strength. His boyfriend felt bad. Insisting he’d replace everything, though Lance had countered that politely. What was the point of getting new things until Keith could control his strength. Currently Keith and Matt were hanging out the washing, while Lance was avoiding Rieva. She’d gone and put ideas in his head, that he now couldn’t get out of his head and seemed to haunt his dreams.

She thought he and Keith should have sex. Lance wanted to wait. But the sexual tension only seemed to be growing. He’d snuck off into the shower in the middle of the night with a vibrator just to keep a level head come morning. Usually he was the one oozing pheromones, yet lately all he smelt was Keith. The second things looked as if they were going to get heated, Lance would pull away, not wanting to force himself on his boyfriend. It was hard. So damn hard. Waking up wet and horny, aching for Keith, only to slip off to the bathroom and take matters into his own hands. Sometimes he couldn’t come, making him feel infinitely worse. If he talked to Keith about things, he felt like he’d be forcing their relationship. Plus Keith was still learning that privacy was a thing of the past now he could hear everything.

All he wanted was to be able to wait until Keith was ready.

“Lance?”

Hearing Keith call his name, Lance shocked himself as he moaned in response. There was nothing sexy about the sandwich he was currently making to satisfy his cravings. Coughing fakely to clear his throat, he knew he couldn’t take back the sound, but didn’t want to acknowledge it either

“W-what’s up?”

“Matt and Rieva are going for a run. They asked if I want to go with them”

Lance’s silly horny hopes soared, then in the same heartbeat crashed back to reality. Keith needed to be off doing wolf things and getting used to that side of himself.

Slicing through the tomato he’d been working on, the vampire tried to keep his voice level

“You should go if you want to. It’ll be good for you”

“Are you okay? Your scent is all over the place”

Fuck his scent. Pressing his lips together, Lance hummed instead of replying

“Mhmm...”

“If you don’t want me to go...”

“No! No... shit...”

He didn’t want to limit Keith. He didn’t want to bind him either... though he kind of did... Angry with himself, he nicked his finger on the knife.

Striding into the kitchen, Keith took him by the wrist, pulling him over to the tap to wash the wound

“Are you okay?! What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Sorry. I’m a bit distracted, but you should go. It’ll do you good”

“If you really mean that, why won’t you look at me?”

Lance knew the moment he looked Keith in the eyes he’d be well and truly fucked

“It’s nothing”

“You can tell me. I’m not going to get mad. If I’ve done something...”

Stupid Keith and his stupid considerate feelings. The question hurt more than his cut finger and he’d done a pretty good job on that

“It’s not... it’s fine. I’ve got this, it’s healing already”

“Lance... Please... I want to know what I did”

God give him strength

“You haven’t done anything wrong”

“Then why are you acting like this”

“Because I’m mad at myself. It’s not you. It’s me. Can you please just let me clean this up myself?”

Krolia had asked him if he’d had sex with Keith. Lance choking on air. The question coming out of nowhere, making Keith snap as the others laughed. He could feel the warmth of Keith soaking in through where he held his wrist. His damn dick twitching. He knew how good their sex life had been and now he... he wanted to jump Keith’s bones. For no apparent reason, Keith moved behind. His breath tickling Lance’s ear

“Could it be something else... like maybe your horny?”

Lance shuddered as Keith rutted against him

“Keeeeith... don’t...”

“Why not?”

“Because... I’m... trying to be... respectful”

“Matt and Rieva won’t care. They’ve already taken Kosmo ahead”

“So you knew... and you were testing me?”

“I heard you and Rieva talking. You could have talked to me”

Turning the tap off, Keith placed his hand on Lance’s belly. Nipping on his ear, Lance closed his eyes as he tried not to be swept alone

“You’re still healing... we don’t... don’t know... if... Keith...”

“I want to fuck you. I want to bend you over the kitchen table and fuck you until your fingers break the wood”

Jesus Christ. Werewolf Keith was as much of a slut as drunk Keith. Lance’s ego was all for having attention lavished on him. Some days it was on edge about Keith, but for a vampire, it seemed okay with Keith now the moon had passed and Keith was settling nicely. Sliding his hand down the front of Lance’s yoga pants, Lance’s head lolled back as he moaned

“Fuuuuck... babe...”

“Like that?”

“Mmm... feels... good”

“Then you’ll like what comes next even more”

Before Lance could ask what came next, Keith pulled his hand away. One moment he’d been at the sink, the next he was laid out on the kitchen table with Keith pulling his pants down. Bent as much as he could be thanks to his belly, the kisses they shared were frantic. Teeth gnashing painfully against teeth. Canines and fangs cutting each other’s lips as Lance moaned. Fuck. He needed this so much. He needed Keith so much. He wanted to feel their bond. He wanted to feel connected. More so then he wanted to be respectful. His overthinking went out the window. He wanted Keith to blow his mind. Nearly a full month without sex left him starved. Fucking Rieva was right, not that he’d tell her.

Keith didn’t seem to care about being patient and taking things slowly. Unable to stop himself, he tore at Lance’s shirt, Lance taking over to strip himself as Keith got the message and pulled his own off

“Fuck... I want to be in you already”

Shirts were thrown somewhere. Lance eager for more kisses as Keith fought with his jeans. It frustrated him that he couldn’t help, but his frustrations were rewarded by the strong mind numbing scent of Keith’s arousal. How one man could be so damn sexy annoyed him. Keith’s teeth poked over his lips, hair already mussed...

“You smell so fucking good. Look at you... I can smell your wetness...”

“Babe, I get you want to talk sexy, but less talking and more fucking...”

Keith grabbed him by the hips, yanking him to the edge of the table, before Lance was seeing stars. Legs up on Keith’s shoulders, the kisses he’d wanted went out the window as Keith buried his face down there. Fucking hell... the position couldn’t be comfortable for Keith, but his tongue... oh god the things Keith had done with that tongue... now he was... there was no hesitation. No asking. Keith seemed to see right through him and knew what he wanted. Slow and tender could wait for later. Now was about being in the now

“Keeeith...”

Gripping Keith’s hair, his boyfriend alternated between tonguing him and sucking him off. Lance lasted all of three seconds thrusting thirstily into Keith’s mouth, Keith growling as he swallowed what he could, before pulling back and catching the last pulse on his tongue. They’d barely begun and Lance was wrecked. They definitely shouldn’t be doing this on the kitchen table, but he was definitely going to hit Keith if he suddenly stopped before burying himself balls deep.

“Babe, you ready?”

Lance opened his eyes. Chest heaving. Legs shaking. Wrecked. But for all the passion, his boyfriend had stopped to ask...

“Yeah... God, yes. Please, babe. I want to feel you”

Keith smiled at him. A smile just for him. A smile that he appreciated yet frustrated him because he totally needed Keith to hurry up here

“You’re so damn pretty”

Lance deflected. He didn’t want to think about he looked like an already stuffed turkey with his bits and pieces up in the air for further stuffing

“And you’re horny”

“My pretty mate... fuck... I don’t know if I can last”

“I don’t care...”

With Keith being werewolf, Lance let himself feel absolutely everything. Not that he hadn’t before, but each and every time he’d marked Keith he’d felt guilty later. He’d fist the sheets to avoid scratching up Keith’s back... His nails scratched the wood of his table as Keith drove into him enough force that if his hands hadn’t been on Lance’s hips keeping him in place, he probably would have ended up falling off the table backwards. When Keith noticed, he’d made him grab him by the arms, Lance nearly wailing from the relief he felt as he came around Keith. Their bond was still there. That feeling that they were going to be okay. It wasn’t the same. Not in a bad way... just... a different way. But it lacked none of the warmth or glowy feelings that’d been there before. Keith lasting twice as long before he finally came, Lance clenching hard, feeling as if Keith was coming way too much yet didn’t want to waste any of it... not that it would do any good. Keith had long since knocked him up with his wonder sperm.

Carefully pulling out, Keith went into awkward mode. Lance knowing it was because they couldn’t cuddle with his stomach in the way and with him still sprawled across the kitchen table. Reaching a hand out, Lance could definitely go for cuddles and a nap, once they’d cleaned up. He had pretty much no energy left for anything other than being in Keith’s arms

“Help me up...”

His boyfriend looked conflicted

“Keith?”

“You look tired”

Yep. He’d called it

“I am... but I know a certain dark haired man who wants cuddles right now”

“I should have waited until...”

“Babe... don’t. That felt amazing... but now I’m stuck and I’m sticky”

Spinning around, it was almost comical as Keith searched for the tea towel beside the sink. Once he’d found it, he turned the taps on too hard, spraying water from the force against the bottom of the sink. Keith clearly couldn’t do the brain... which pleased Lance’s ego. Getting the tea towel damp, Keith then nearly dropped it

“Babe... I’m okay”

“I... uh...”

“Fucked me senseless?”

“Uh... um... yeah, that”

Lance hadn’t pointed it out, but since waking from his coma, Keith had started using the word “um” a lot more than he’d used to. He didn’t want to worry him by bringing it up. The brain was a complicated thing. The blood could only do so much...

“I... um... got carried away”

Struggling to sit himself up, Lance held his arms out, uncomfortable as heck over the cum between his belly and dick. He felt all squishy

“Hey, come here for a moment”

There was hesitation in Keith as he came into arms reach. Lance pulling him as close he could with his arms over his shoulders and his feet against the backs of Keith’s knees

“I’m okay... and you’re okay...”

“I just realised I didn’t think about the twins... what if I hurt them?”

“I’m built tougher than that... they’re okay... we’re okay”

“But... I... um... didn’t think. It felt so good that I...”

His arse was amazing. Keith had told him that many, many times

“Babe. Hey, no. Whatever you’re thinking, no. I didn’t... tell you I was feeling so pent up because I didn’t want to make you feel rushed or that I wanted anything more than you. Our sex life has always felt good. I like feeling like you wanted me as much as I wanted you”

Keith sighed softly, almost sounding regretful

“I’m still horny”

“Well, it has been a long time since we... did the do... and I’m pretty sure Rieva is currently laughing with Matt about us being horny idiots. I’m sleepy, but I think maybe we could... fool around a little more? In our bed?”

“You’re sleepy”

“Slow lazy sex isn’t so bad... especially when my big bad boyfriend is here to carry me up the stairs”

“Who says I’m carrying you upstairs?”

Lance shrugged

“Me. Now. I don’t think I can walk”

“Are you sure...?”

“I’m very sure. I’m very sure that you should listen to your pregnant mate and help me clean up before you carry me upstairs and give me so many kisses that I never want to leave our bed again... after I’ve peed”

Keith snorted at his comment. At last. He’d succeed in his mission to drive away Keith’s annoying overthinking

“You do pee, a lot”

“I know. It’s like my routine. Nap. Pee. Nap again. Remember to eat. Try to do the right thing. I’ve a very busy vampire”

“I can tell. Did... did you feel...”

“Amazing. Our bond felt a little different but I still feel like you’re the only one I could ever be like this with”

“It felt... warm... and... you felt... amazing. My ego... is happy”

Given Keith had most likely been horny since the full moon, his ego probably felt great satisfaction in being intimate with their mate

“It can’t be easy. Having so many new sensations to get used to. But we’re going to be okay”

“Are you sure I really didn’t hurt the twins?”

“Babe, they’re fine. Me on the other hand, I’m getting all crusty”

Keith wrinkled his nose

“I am too... can we take a bath? I want to take a bath”

“Can I wash your hair?”

He missed washing Keith’s hair. He missed the little things like that which all added up to a whole lot of small affectionate moments

“I’d like that”

*

Keith felt a Pringle’s ad. He’d popped and he couldn’t stop. His ego relished wrecking Lance. He’d tried to slow himself down when they’d had sex in the kitchen... tried and failed. Lance felt made to fit around him. Not that he hadn’t before, but he’d felt so damn much... a twinge of sadness did come with it. He’d loved Lance so completely as a human. He’d wanted to monopolise him. Now he had to share with his ego that was telling him that he had to take better care of Lance. He didn’t know how to take better care of Lance.

When Lance washed his hair, Keith couldn’t describe the new way he felt about. He’d enjoyed it before, but like with sex, it felt different now. He hadn’t been able to keep himself, reacting that mental fantasy he’d had as he’d first started drying Lance off, only to end up bending him over the bathroom counter and... well... it still hadn’t felt enough. In a lot of ways it felt like when Lance was in heat. His body so willing, and his scent screaming for more... only now, his scent was telling Lance kind of the same things and it felt weird.

He’d noticed Lance slipping out of bed. Then he’d been unable to not hear what he got up to. When Lance would cry, he’d wanted to go to him, his ego telling him he was a bad person for not going to their boyfriend. He just didn’t know how to settle himself... especially when he’d come twice and felt no signs of fatigue. He didn’t... know what to do with that. It left him with feelings that hurt to try and sort out. That he was being greedy. That he was making Lance feel used without knowing he was being used, even though Keith didn’t really get why he thought Lance was being used when he himself wanted to be intimate with Lance and wasn’t simply going there because Lance was convenient.

Even when they climbed into bed together, Keith couldn’t help but rut against Lance. Lance who desperately needed sleep and cuddles, not another orgasm and a good jabbing. Was he meant to be this horny? Lance was heavily pregnant. He looked ready to give birth as it was. His hips had widened and his stomach sat lower. When Keith watched his love’s stomach, he could see the way the skin moved as their twins moved. Plus Lance had been extra tired lately. Had he been pushing Lance too far and not noticed? Was this why Shiro wanted him home? Because he was bad for his mate? He couldn’t shut his brain up. He didn’t get the whole “mates thing” and Google hadn’t been kind. Werewolf porn was an actual thing. He didn’t want to... be like the wolves in the things online. He cherished Lance. He wasn’t just... someone to sex.

Sighing against him, Lance had placed Keith’s hand on his stomach, with his own over the top. Keith couldn’t help but squirm. From how hard he’d come, there shouldn’t be anything left down there, but still he wanted Lance so badly he found himself pressing forward to bury himself the best he could into his boyfriend. Lance had moaned. Lance had moaned and his body seemed to think it okay. His boyfriend felt so damn good that it was hard not to hard and rough as he slowly rocked against him. When he’d come, he hadn’t known what to say... Lance sleepily murming not to pull out as he wriggled back against him, falling asleep within moments... without having come. He felt like he belonged in a jail for horny werewolves. His ego would be quite happy if this was how things remained for the foreseeable future, and Lance seemed okay with it, but did that mean he was the only one freaking out here?

*

Thank god Matt and Rieva had work, and Lance was down for a nap. That’s all Keith could think about as he shut himself in Lance’s office. He’d wanted to go see Coran, but Platt was out of the question for now, so he’d been waiting most of the morning for the house to be clear. He was still unsure that being horny was okay. Lance seemed okay. Very okay seeing he’d woken up to Lance sliding into his lap and a very vigorous round of sex. While Lance might be okay with things, and he’d been very okay with things, he still wanted to know if having sex was okay.

Three cups of coffee and a trip to bathroom later, he’d had the courage to finally call. Using Lance’s landline, he kind of felt weirdly official, kind of like he was ringing up to order one dose of sexual advice. Being Coran, the phone had barely started ringing before it was picked up and dread flooded Keith’s stomach

“Lance! How are you my boy?! How’s our twins?! How’s our Keith?!”

Right. Coran was expecting Lance

“Um... Hey, Coran. It’s Keith...”

“Keith, my lad! How are you?!”

Keith moved the phone away from his ear. It didn’t matter how many kilometres were between them, Coran was loud

“I’m sorry to disturb you... I, um... have a question”

“Pish-posh, disturb away”

“Okay. I... guess... I was wondering if it’s okay for me to have sex with Lance?”

Someone shoot him. If the floor could swallow him right now, that’d be great

“This is not the conversation I expected. Has something happened between the pair of you? Don’t tell me you failed to preform”

Fuck. Of course Coran had no discretion talking about sex. If he started a trip down memory lane, Keith was going to hang up

“Um... think the other way”

“You can’t keep your hands off?”

“Kind of... yeah. My ego wants him all the time and I feel guilty”

“Keith, you’re a young wolf in your prime! You have a lovely mate, who’s highly compatible with you. These things are to be expected...”

“That doesn’t make it okay. Lance barely does anything but sleep. He’s exhausted. And I’m not okay with wanting to jump him when he needs his rest!”

There was a pause. Keith praying the pause didn’t lead to a story

“Ah. Yes. Perhaps I misspoke. What I meant was if Lance was happy and it was consensual...”

“Lance is too exhausted. I ended up jumping him in the kitchen. Even when he fell asleep, I wanted to keep touching him and I hate it. He needs to rest. How do I curb this?! I don’t want him to feel used but I feel like me not being able to control this is kind of the same as using him. I love him. I don’t want him to just roll over and cater to my needs!”

“Might I ask how long you’ve been feeling this way?”

“Yesterday was the first time... since... well...”

“Ah. Well I do have some idea. It could possibly be because you scent other wolves in the air and wish to stake your claim. It may also be due to this all being very new to you. You were rather horny on your first night of the moon without your mate there”

Keith looked to the ground. No convenient chasm opening to swallow him up

“I was?”

“You were. You howled the first night, not at all happy. Now I’m thinking about it, I suspect your ego is trying to bond with Lance as it missed its chance with the moon. Your compatibility is against you here. Vampires don’t naturally bond with werewolves. Lance isn’t a common vampire. His scent is appealing to both vampires and werewolves. You’re trying to appease your mate as your ego thinks it’s done something wrong by not being with him under the moon. Yes. It all makes sense now”

“I don’t care if it makes sense. I love him. I don’t want to be some kind of rabid animal”

“You’re not rabid. Your ego is still learning and it’s trying to make it up to Lance. There are plenty of things you can do that will help with the bonding between your egos”

“Other than sex?”

He wasn’t getting a story? Oh thank god. Lance would have laughed if he’d known he was sitting there listening to Coran’s sex life

“Other than sex. Grooming. Werewolves have a love of being groomed by their mate. Try small things like massage or brushing his hair. Vampires are quite the divas. The enjoy looking and feeling good. Though it may not be your thing, Lance does enjoy face masks. He and Allura had quite the time relaxing with face masks. Allura was talking for days over how he styled her hair for her”

“When did that happen?”

He hadn’t heard about this... or had he and he’d forgotten?

“Lance had... quite a hard time accepting your anger upon waking. Allura finally able to get through to him. He stubbornly refused to leave you side. That’s not to say he was alone. Pidge and Hunk visited as often as they could... You were quite upset. Accusing him of “shacking up with Allura the moment you were out of the picture”...”

Keith groaned. Recovering Keith was an arsehole

“He left that out. Coran, I don’t know how to face mask”

“Ahhh, but you have access to that amazing invention called the internet. Technology these days is truly amazing, back in my youth we’d never have dreamed such a thing. You could try making dinner for him. I suspect he’s working hard to feed the three of you well”

Keith loved Lance’s cooking, but if he had to have rice again he might murder the two other wolves in the house

“Rieva and Matt doomed us to rice. They didn’t buy the right amount of chocolate Lance wanted. If I cook, they’ll want me to cook for them. Plus, I think Lance is worried about our finances right now”

“That boy of ours does have a habit of worrying. If you’d like, I can transfer you through to Allura”

And have Allura knowing he was calling up to discuss his sex life? That was a hard pass

“No. I... um... guess I was getting too impatient”

“The most important thing to remember is that Lance loves you. He chose you. If you’re having doubts or urges, you should talk to him. He’s always been a bit uptight about his own urges. I’m sure he understands that right now you’re frisky. He won’t hate you for talking to him”

“Yeah. You’re probably right. I just didn’t want to worry him...”

“Is he really that bad?”

[let-it-raines]

CS JJ Day 13: The Spectacular Ms. Swan (1/1)

1959. New York City.

Women aren’t supposed to have their own voices and opinions, and they certainly aren’t supposed to be funny. Emma Swan, however, has a lot of opinions and is damn funny. She also doesn’t care what anyone thinks. 

Except maybe Killian Jones, a comic who has been her supporter since the day she bailed him out of jail after one of his comedy routines. 

Rating: Teen (language mostly)

a/n: I wrote this one-shot last month after watching the Marvelous Mrs. Maisel and told @shireness-says that I was determined to get it finished before my baby showed up, and she said that baby girl would probably show up early out of spite. She didn’t and @shireness-says doesn’t get bragging powers about being prophetic or something. ❤️

Thanks to the admin at @csjanuaryjoy for keeping this GREAT event running!

Found on AO3 | Here |

-/-

It started on accident.

Really, most things in her life do.

There was the getting pregnant at seventeen and then having to get married because it was 1952 and all sins could be forgiven if she was married to the man she slept with.

“He’s a good man,” her mother had said. “A wealthy man. You’ll never have to work a day in your life. Think about the child. Think about your reputation.”

Then there was being a mother and learning that she actually liked it even if she did have things she wanted to do with her life beside spend her days cooking and cleaning and reading every book in existence to Henry until she had to begin making up her own stories to fuel her son’s seemingly never-ending creativity and imagination.

There’s nothing and no one in the world who Emma loves more than Henry, and that will never change.

But he certainly wasn’t in her plan.

Neither was actually falling in love with Neal or enjoying their life together, at least for the first few years. Because, well, he wanted her to be a housewife who always wore heels and measured her waist and her thighs every day to ensure she didn’t gain weight, and Emma much preferred wearing flat shoes and eating a hot dog at a Yankees game instead of a salad at home or some overpriced restaurant. So, of course, like any man who had a wife who didn’t fit into his carefully drawn out lines, Neal wandered away with woman after woman and always came back…to his secretary.

Emma saw them in her bed in the middle of the day, and as much as she had turned a blind eye in the past, she couldn’t do that anymore. She didn’t say anything that day. What she did, instead, was drop Henry off at her parents’ apartment, go to the Rabbit Hole downtown, get drunk off her ass, and then get on stage and tell a room full of strangers the very intimate details of her life.

They laughed.

And laughed and laughed, and a woman sitting in the back of the room came up to Emma with a business card in hand and said to call her tomorrow when she was the slightest bit more sober because she thought Emma had a career in comedy.

So Emma called.

And now, three years later her son is seven, she’s divorced (thank goodness, she thinks, even if her mother is still disappointed in her), and Emma is traveling around the United States as the opening comedic act for the singer Sky Manhattan, which might be the most ridiculous stage name Emma has ever heard.

But she doesn’t care. Not at all. She doesn’t care about stage names or what kind of airplane or train she’s traveling on. She doesn’t care if she’s wearing the newest brand of shoes (she is) or the most on trend dresses (she’s got those too) with a fabulous collection of hats. All she cares about is that she has this thing that’s hers and hers alone. No one can take it from her or threaten to take her to court over it (well, actually they can, but not if she watches her language while on stage) and it’s hers. It’s not because of her parents or her shitty ex-husband who dumped his secretary for a woman who works at the Revlon counter or anyone else.

It’s because she’s damn funny, and she’s accidentally made a career of it.

She’s not making much money and still can’t afford her own place, but it’s a start. Who cares what anyone else thinks?

Oh, she cares about Henry. That’s the one thing she cares about most of all, and if he asked her to give it all up, she would. He’s the only one she’d do that for, and he’s also the only one who wouldn’t ask. Her mother thinks this is worse than getting pregnant out of wedlock, her father happened to walk into a show where she made a joke about her parents’ sex life, and the both of them have repeatedly asked her why she’s doing this and to stop doing this.

Now, they support her, but they also don’t understand. They both come from wealthy families, her mother the heiress to an oil fortune and her father a lawyer, and they’ve never understood why she’d want to go up on stage and tell crude jokes for a living.

(They’re not all crude, but it does happen sometimes. Okay, most of the time. It depends on the venue. But she’s gotten smart about that because jail is not something that appeals to her.)

But this is what she does, and when she’s finished touring, she’s going to fly back to New York, settle into her parent’s five-bedroom apartment in Manhattan, and spend all of the time that she can with her son. Neal never wants to watch him anyway despite his custody threats, so Henry’s always with her parents when she’s gone.

(“It’s not the man’s job to watch his child,” Neal says. “I’ll take him for a beer when he’s old enough.”)

The only bad thing about her job is leaving Henry, but they talk on the phone every night. She’s doing this so she can be happy, like she wants him to be happy when he gets older and is chasing his own dreams, and so maybe one day she can have a little something for herself that she didn’t have handed to her.

“Emma,” Ruby yells out, “be ready in five minutes. And remember today is a clean show, and what’s our number one rule for clean shows?”

“Don’t say ‘fuck.’”

“And our second rule?”

“Don’t say ‘fuck.’”

“You’re a genius, darling,” Ruby sighs, blowing Emma a kiss before walking out of the room with her heels clacking behind her. “And I’m the best manager on the planet.”

That quip was for Sky’s manager to hear, and Emma has to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Whale will kill her if she laughs at that. Or cut her set time in half. Emma would prefer neither, but she guesses dying won’t really be that bad.

-/-

She only says fuck once during her set, it’s a complete accident, and only two people walked out of the restaurant.

Emma would call that a success.

-/-

“With olives please,” Emma tells the bartender, holding up two fingers.

“You know, you can simply order a bowl of olives, and they’ll bring it to you.”

A smile creeps up on Emma’s face, and she swivels in her chair at the sound of a familiar and far too cheeky British accent. “Killian Jones, as I live and breathe.”

“Emma Swan, as I breathe to live.”

“Oof, not one of your best jokes.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.” He leans in to press his lips against her cheek, one side and then the other. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“At a bar in a hotel in Miami? The better question is what are you doing here?”

Killian scoffs and settles down on the barstool next to her, shrugging his suit jacket off and handing it to her. When she raises her brow, he nods down at her lack of sleeves on her dress and all of her pebbled goosebumps. “You’re chilled, and I don’t think your boy will take it well if you freeze to death on my watch.”

“It’s Florida in May. I’m not going to freeze to death. But aren’t you a gentleman?”

“I’m always a gentleman.” He turns away from her quickly and holds up a finger to get the bartender’s attention. “Can you get me a glass of whatever your best rum is and a bowl of olives? And put her drinks on my tab.”

“You are not paying, Jones.”

“I am paying. It’s not often that I see my favorite comedian.”

“You’re full of shit if you say I’m your favorite comedian.”

“Well, if we’re being technical, I’m my own favorite comedian, but I felt that was a little too much to say. I’m trying to be less of an asshole.”

Emma leans her head back and laughs before tugging Killian’s suit jacket around her shoulders. This bar is cold, probably to combat the sweltering heat outside, but she’d never admit that to him.

“I don’t think you can be less of an asshole. Being an asshole is who you are.” The bartender puts their drinks and a bowl of olives in front of them, and Emma immediately pulls the olives off the toothpick in her martini. “I’m the opening act for Sky Manhattan. That’s why I’m here. We’re on tour.”

“What kind of name is Sky Manhattan?”

“It’s his stage name.”

“Fucking dumb stage name.”

“You’re so eloquent with words.”

Killian winks. “That’s why they pay me to talk on television.”

“They pay you to talk on television because you’re funny and you look like a man in every catalog on the shelf at Bergdorf.”

“You flatter me.”

“I try. I want your ego to become so big that your head explodes and you can no longer pop up in random places.” She takes another sip of her drink and leans over to gently push his shoulder. “Seriously. What are you doing in Florida? You live in Manhattan in a fancy apartment.”

“Says the trust fund baby who lives with her parents in their fancy apartment.”

“Hey.”

Killian holds his hands up in mock apology all the while his grin reaches from ear to ear so that his eyes crinkle and the blue of his eyes shines under the dim light of the bar. “I’m working on a show here. It’s only temporary. My contract is up at the end of June, and I’ve had this lovely place to call home for a month already.”

“You’re staying here?”

“Aye.”

“In the land of pastels and peppy waitstaff? Where the bathrooms are pink?”

“It’s a nice change of pace, and since I’m not paying for it, I don’t give a damn.”

“That’s more like you,” Emma laughs, twisting a little further on her stool and leaning into his space. “I’m going to be here for two weeks. Why don’t you come to a show? I think you’ll really like my routine and the guy singing after me is pretty good too.”

“Is that all you have to convince me?”

Her heart picks up its pace as Killian’s hand brushes over her thigh, a light and fleeting touch. “I can get you a free drink and all of the shrimp cocktails you want.”

“I was going to say no, but the shrimp cocktails really do it for me.” He leans in, closer now, and Emma very nearly closes her eyes in anticipation. Of what? She knows, but she won’t even let her mind go there. “I have to run to work. Why don’t you meet me here Saturday night? I’ll take you to dinner and show.”

“I’m working Saturday night.”

“We’ll go after.”

And with that, Killian Jones is throwing cash onto the bar top for a tip and then walking away, leaving his jacket with her.

Damn, she missed him.

-/-

“How was your last day of school, kid?”

“We had cupcakes, and I had two.”

“Two?”

“I wanted three, but Mrs. Horowitz wouldn’t let me have another one.”

“I bet she didn’t want you to spoil your dinner.”

“Cupcakes could have been dinner.”

Emma laughs and stands from her bed, pulling the cord on her phone with her. “Cupcakes are not dinner. Has Grandpa been feeding you cupcakes for dinner?”

“Nope. But he does give me chocolate.”

“Ah, of course he does. I’m going to be home to see you next week before we go to the Catskills for a few days and then I go to Vegas. Are you excited?” There’s no answer on the other end of the line, just a bit of static. “Henry? Kid? Kid?”

“His friend Avery is here, Mrs. Cassidy,” Ashely says over the phone. “He went to play.”

“It’s Swan, Ashley,” Emma huffs. She doesn’t want to snap at Ashely because she’s a sweet girl and helps with Henry far more than she should as her parents’ housekeeper. “Neal and I are divorced, and I changed my last name to my middle name.”

“I have to go, Mrs. Cassidy,” Ashely mumbles. “The boys are climbing on your father’s bookshelves.”

At that, there’s no one on the other end of the line, and Emma doesn’t get the chance to speak to her parents or tell Henry she loves him.

This is her life.

-/-

“Ruby Lucas, I am not going on a date with someone you met today.”

“Why not? He’s from New York, is here on a trip, and he’s cute. I think it could be a good match, and it’s been so long since you dated, which is different than sex, mind you.” “I’ve been divorced for two years and on the road for most of that. I don’t think many men want to date a divorced mother who is a stand-up comedian. Half of them think I’m a witch.”

“That’s because men are idiots.” “And yet you want me to date one?”

“One date,” Ruby sighs, slipping on her heels and smoothing out her skirt. “He’s got money, and he knows people who can sponsor you. Think of it as a business dinner and not a date.” “Well, I can do business dinners, but I can’t tonight. I’ve got plans after the show.”

“The dinner is before the show. What the hell do you have going on after the show? I don’t have anything booked for you.”

Emma turns from Ruby and fixes her blouse, tucking it in before raising her finger and brushing away the red lipstick that’s strayed to her skin. “Killian Jones is in town. He’s taking me to dinner.”

“Ah.”

“What?”

“Well, if you’d told me the man you were sleeping with was in town, I would have changed the date of your dinner with Walsh despite me thinking you need to go on more actual dates and not just sexual rendezvous.”

“I am not sleeping with Killian.” “Please. You can lie to me about a lot of things, but I know when you’re fucking someone.”

“I have never slept with him.” She turns around so Ruby can see her eyeroll. “He’s a friend. He helps me with my routines when we’re in the same city, and he sends Henry an absolutely useless gift at least three times a year. So we’re going to dinner to catch up, and maybe I’ll get some new material for you.”

“I wouldn’t care about new material if you’d fuck Jones.”

“I’m going to fire you as my manager.”

“Never, darling. Now, tits up. You’re meeting Walsh Osbourne in the bar at six. Sweet talk him until you get a meeting for some commercial auditions.”

“I’m doing this for commercial auditions?” “We’re doing this to get our foot in the door for television. You can’t hop straight to one of the variety shows your lover Jones is on.”

“I will stab you with my heel.”

-/-

“Yeah, my son is really into baseball. I got him some tickets to the batting cage and a new bat for Christmas. He – ”

“You’re not funny,” Walsh mumbles after interrupting her in the middle of her answer to his question about what her son is interested in. “I thought you were supposed to be funny. What’s the point of dating you if you’re not funny? I knew women couldn’t be comedians and that you were just a nice piece of ass and a good pair of tits.”

It takes two seconds for Emma to pick up her glass of wine and slosh it across the table at Walsh. She’s been sitting at this table for fifteen minutes, and she doesn’t plan on sitting here any longer.

“Fuck you.”

“You’re also apparently a bitch,” Walsh spits out as she stands. “I have connections, and you can say goodbye to all of them.”

“I don’t need the connections of a sexist pig who doesn’t think women are capable of being funny. I can guarantee you, Mr. Osbourne, that we are, and if you take offense to women not laughing at your jokes or not telling their own jokes all the time, maybe you should look in the mirror and figure out that you’re the one who couldn’t tell a joke to save his life.” “Fuck you. I hope your performance is a failure tonight.” “It’ll certainly be better than yours.”

-/-

She kills it in her set. She’s fucking spectacular and funny, and everyone who thinks otherwise can screw themselves.

Everyone who thinks she has to spend her days only being funny and coming up with jokes can screw themselves as well.

-/-

She sees Killian slip out right before she closes and introduces Sky.

-/-

“Was I funny?” Emma asks, tugging Killian’s suit jacket around her shoulders. She was going to give it back to him tonight, but it’s chilly again. Plus, he’s wearing a different fitted black suit tonight, and he doesn’t need it back right now.

“Pardon?” “How’d you like my set? I know you were watching.” “Was I?” he ponders, tapping his finger against his lips. “I wouldn’t know.”

“You’re being an ass, and you said you were trying to stop that.”

His brows move across his forehead, that same cheeky smile still on his lips. “I may have been there.”

“And what’d you think?”

“Buy me dinner first, and then I’ll tell you.”

They go to a restaurant that doesn’t seem to believe in white-colored light bulbs or volume limits, and Emma loves it. A band is constantly playing, dancers moving around the floor, and the steak she has is quite possibly the best steak she’s ever had.

Killian Jones has always known how to plan an evening and pick out a restaurant.

“Shall we dance?” he questions as Emma leans back into her chair, absolutely full even if she feels lighter than she has in quite some time.

“What?”

“Dance with me, Swan.”

“I don’t dance.”

Killian stands and holds his hand out for her, blue eyes sparkling even under all of the colored lights. “All you need is a partner who knows what he’s doing.” “And you do?”

“Of course, love. I’m an expert in…movements.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but she takes his hand anyway and melts into the warmth of him as his fingers curl around her palm. “That wasn’t your best work. You’re slacking lately.”

If he responds, she has no idea. The music is too loud already, and it gets louder when they move closer to the band. The songs have been fast and upbeat all night, and yet the moment they start to dance, it changes into something soft, slow. It’s probably for the best. Emma really doesn’t know how to dance (or sing) despite everything asking her why she isn’t a dancer when she tells them she’s a comedian, and she’s pretty much got two left feet out here. So she places one hand more firmly in Killian’s, another around his neck, and they sway back and forth.

It’s not proper how close they are, body pressed tightly against body, but she’s never cared for proper.

She’s never cared for rules and expectations, and while that stung when Neal told her that was one of the reasons he strayed from their marriage, she knows that nothing he says is anything she should listen to.

It’s okay if he strays from the conventional path sleeping with her without them being married and going off and fucking his secretary, but the moment she doesn’t want to cook a ham every night, she’s the one who’s too wild.

He never thought she was funny either. That should have been the first sign.

“I’ve been thinking, love.” “I never like when you do that.”

“Yes, yes you do.”

Killian hums and turns them in a circle, his hand sliding lower on her back. “What were you thinking, Jones?”

“You’ve made comments about my jokes being off, and I don’t know…I suppose I don’t feel the need to be funny around you, and it’s nice. There’s not all that – ”

“Pressure? Expectation? The need to always be thinking two steps ahead?”

“Exactly. As much as I like bantering with you and coming up with new material, I like that I can talk about whatever the hell I want without worrying that I’m being too boring.”

Emma looks up at him and sees his soft smile and blue eyes she finds more charming by the minute. “I like that I don’t have to be funny with you, too.”

“Good.”

-/-

“So, quite the nice night.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s five in the morning.”

“Ah, well,” Killian sighs, waving his hand out to the ocean and the few boats moving over it. The sun isn’t rising, not quite yet, and she can still see the stars twinkling in the sky. “We haven’t gone to bed yet, so I still consider it night.” “Well, if you consider it to be night, how can I deny that?”

“You can’t. Where’s your room?”

“Fifth floor. Where’s yours?”

“Seventh.”

They walk in companionable silence until they find the outdoor staircase that leads to their rooms. Emma’s heels are in her hand, have been for the past few hours, but her feet still ache. She should have changed into her flats after the show, but she didn’t stop to think before heading to meet Killian at the bar. Suddenly, they’re standing on the fifth floor, two doors down from her room, and then they’re there standing on either side of her hotel door.

Killian blinks, and Emma blinks back, not sure whether to speak or to search for her keys. She might be too tired to think coherent thoughts. She also might not want this night to end. It’s the first time in a long time where she hasn’t spent hours trying to impress someone, and if she goes to bed, that’ll be over.

(She doesn’t want it to be over.)

(She wants just this one thing, this one night.)

“You’re staring.” “So are you.”

“Well, I do have a particularly pretty face, love.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes, leaning against the wall and closer to Killian. “Are you going to tell me what you thought of my act now?”

Leaning closer, Killian brushes his hand over her forearm and up her shoulder until he’s tucking her hair behind her ear. A shiver runs down her spine, working its way into her bones, and her skin pebbles. “You were fucking spectacular, Ms. Swan.”

Emma’s cheek blush, and since she can’t look into the ridiculous blue of Killian’s eyes, she digs for her keys in her clutch and pulls it out, sticking it into the lock. The door swings open, the bed immediately in sight, and Emma feels Killian’s intake of breath. She also feels him stepping away.

It’d be so easy to ask him to come inside and ask him to unzip her dress and untie his tie until they’re both undressed and panting against each other, but it’s also just as easy to step inside without him, right?

Right.

(Maybe not just this one thing on this one night.)

“Goodnight, love,” Killian tells her. “I’ll ring you when I’m back in New York.”

“Henry and I will both be waiting.”

-/-

Neal calls her when she’s in Las Vegas two weeks later to tell her that she’s a horrible mother.

He’s seen his son once (for an hour) in the past month, and he lives ten minutes from him.

Emma has seen Henry three times, one of which was for four days in the Catskills, and she’s traveling the country on tour.

She is not a horrible mother, and she will not let Neal’s voice get in her head. Not anymore.

One more month of this, and then she’s home for two months before they go to Europe for the rest of the tour. She can do two weeks in Las Vegas and two more in Palm Springs.

She can.

-/-

Killian sends her a postcard from New York in the beginning of July.

I’m back in New York. Your boy has already convinced me to take him to a Yankees game. I’m sure we’ll be on our fourth visit by the time you get this.

I promise I’ll try not to corrupt him while you’re gone.

Killian’s an asshole.

But a good asshole.

(And maybe he’s not really an asshole at all.)

-/-

“Ah, that sweet smell of urine and concrete,” Ruby sighs as their taxi pulls in front of Emma’s apartment building. “I’ve missed you.”

“There’s been urine and concrete in all of the places we’ve been.”

“It’s not the same, and you know it.”

“I know, I know.” Emma leans over and kisses Ruby’s cheeks. “It’s been fun, my friend, but I don’t want to see your face for at least a week, okay?”

“I don’t want to see your face for two weeks.”

“Then we have an agreement.”

Emma laughs as she exists the car and motions for the doormen to come and get her bags. She definitely has far too many of them for as much as she doesn’t care about clothes, hers seem to keep expanding. She takes one suitcase and a hatbox and quickly walks into the building and to the elevator, and the operator hits the button for her floor. She’s bouncing with excitement, her feet nearly coming out of her shoes, and she’s so close to Henry she might buzz right out of her skin.

“Mom,” he yells when she opens the apartment door. Emma drops her bag and her box and bends down until Henry is running into her arms. “You’re home.”

“Yeah, kid,” she whispers, cupping the back of his head. “I’m home.”

-/-

“My mother wants me to meet a man.”

“Excuse me?”

Emma brushes past Killian into his apartment, and she lets out the low whistle she always lets out every time she’s here. Whereas her apartment is filled with antiques and furniture that can’t be sat on (thanks Mom and Dad), Killian’s apartment is sleek and modern. It’s all clean lines and black and white decorations with little pops of blue. It’s a man’s apartment, and she’s always loved it.

Plus, the view of the Hudson is spectacular.

“I never wanted to be a woman whose entire life revolved around cooking, cleaning, and waiting for their husband to get home to not acknowledge any of that,” Emma rants, kicking off her shoes and immediately walking to his liquor cabinet. She can’t reach the shelf with all of his good stuff, but there’s a cheap bottle of rum just within her reach. “My mom seems to think that I need a husband to rein me in from my ‘rebellious’ phase.”

“You had a husband. You hated being married.”

“I didn’t hate being married. I hated being married to him.” “Ah.” “What?”

“Well, there’s a difference?”

“Yes, there’s a difference! I imagine being married doesn’t suck if you like the person you’re married to and if he doesn’t sleep with every woman he meets.” She pours both she and Killian a tumbler of rum and hands him his glass. He eyes her but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he tilts the glass to his lips and takes a large gulp. “I just…I don’t know why my mom thinks it’s imperative for me to get married again.”

She walks over the couch and curls her legs underneath her while Killian sits in on the other side, propping his feet up on the coffee table. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

Killian clicks his tongue again, and she’s never noticed how much ginger is in his beard before now. “Well, you’re basically an old maid.”

Emma kicks her foot out at him. “You’re the worst.”

His lips curl into a smirk. “I am undeniably the greatest. And look, your mum is old-fashioned. She doesn’t get why you wouldn’t want to marry just anyone or why you want to spend your days traveling around the world making dick jokes. The one about his dick being so big it was a Richard was inspired, by the way, even if I did know that it was inspired by me.”

“I will stain your white rug with my drink.”

“I’ve got a very nice woman named Greta who knows just how to get that out.”

“Who knew being crude on late night television paid so well as to have a Greta?”

“You did, Swan,” he laughs, taking another sip of his drink before placing it on a coaster. “But back to your mother.” Emma rolls her eyes, but Killian pays her no attention. “She thinks the way to happiness is being married to a nice man and having him provide for you. You have to let her know that you don’t want another Neal or someone you’re only with because it’s proper. You want someone who you love and who lights that fire in your soul that you don’t want to be put out.”

“Someone who I don’t feel the need to be funny around.”

“Yeah,” Killian says slowly, a red blush dusting his cheeks, “someone who you don’t feel the need to be funny with, someone you don’t have to put on an act around.”

There’s always been something about Killian Jones that has unsettled her and yet made her feel comfortable. The night they met she had to bail him out of jail because one of his performances was deemed too crude by the police presence in the bar, and they’ve been circling around each other ever since. He’s wormed his way into her life, and she never really noticed. It’s been in short conversations and trading jokes at a bar, but then it was getting together for dinner and him taking Henry to Yankees games. It was dancing in clubs and almost, almost, almost asking him to come into her hotel room.

It was having him know her better than anyone else knows her.

Slowly, Emma rises from her spot on the couch and walks over to Killian, pressing down and placing her knees on either side of his thighs before she raises her hand and thumbs at the scar on his cheek while her other hand brushes his hair back. Killian blinks up at her, his mouth no longer smirking. Instead, he’s softly smiling at her, and Emma feels a long-forgotten flurry in her stomach.

“Emma – ” She leans forward until her forehead presses against his and until her nose is nudging against his. Killian’s hands are warm against her waist, and she feels it all the way down to her bones, seeping deep within her. “What do you think you’re doing, sweetheart?”

“Being with someone I want to be with, someone who I don’t have to put on an act with.”

His lips are soft and gentle, a fluttering of a movement against her own, and it’s the exact opposite of what she thought kissing Killian would be like. She thought, if anything, they’d be drunk and stumbling across the room, clothes falling to the ground and lips not marking their intended target. She thought her mind would be too fuzzy to think.

That’s not at all what’s happening.

All she can think about is how much she’s wanted this, even if she didn’t realize it but in fleeting moments after nights of alcohol, and how natural it feels to have his scruff burn her chin and to have his lips caress hers.

This is good.

This is a fire she would never want to put out.

“You’re not going to regret that and talk about it in your act, are you?” Killian chuckles while kissing the corner of her cheek and then her jaw, his lips like magic.

“Regret it? No. Put it in my act? Absolutely. I’m not sure how I’m going to make it funny, though,” she sighs, pressing herself further into him, “because there’s nothing funny about this.”

“No, love, I don’t think there is.”

-/-

She wakes up the next morning to Killian kissing her bare skin and whispering words to her that have chills running down her spine.

They go to a Yankees game with Henry, and Killian buys far too much ice cream, not that Henry would complain. Not the Emma would either. She’s too damn happy for any of that.

And he doesn’t judge her for eating a hot dog.

-/-

All Killian wants for Emma is to be happy and live life how she’s always dreamed of living her life, not by whatever standards are expected for her.

Oh, and to keep on being the spectacular Ms. Swan.

(It’s Mrs. Jones now, but the stage name of Ms. Swan has a nice ring to it.)

(She keeps on being damn funny.)

-/-

-/-

Tag list: @csjanuaryjoy​ @stahlop @shardminds @carpedzem @captainsjedi  @galaxyzxstark @thejollyroger-writer @kmomof4 @tiganasummertree @xellewoods @idristardis @karenfrommisthaven @shireness-says @scientificapricot @captswanis4vr @a-faekindagirl @ultimiflos @jamif @dreameronarooftop15 @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke  @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @teamhook @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog @superchocovian @ultraluckycatnd @cs-forlife @andiirivera @qualitycoffeethings @jonirobinson64 @mariakov81 @spartanguard @snowbellewells @hollyethecurious (because we talked about it yesterday...let Lenny live 😉)

[bangtan-madi]

546 Days Without You — Four: Day 20

Pairing — Seokjin x Reader

Tags — boyfriend!Seokjin, older brother!Yoongi, producer/songwriter!MC, military au (ish), idol au (ish)

Genre — fluff, angst

Word Count — 3.1k

Summary — Kim Seokjin is your entire world, and that world falls apart the moment he and your older brother Yoongi are conscripted into the South Korean military.

Part — 4 / 15

Warnings — seclusion and depression, a couple brief mentions of eating disorders (no detail), general sadness, unhealthy work behaviors and coping mechanisms, enlistment

(gif not mine. credit to original creator.)

Previous — Next

For weeks after Seokjin and Yoongi enlist, the news stations and other various media outlets are covering it 24/7. No one expected Yoongi to enlist this early, and the circumstances around Seokjin's enlistment haven't died down since they were released. In the midst of the chaos, there were rumors floating around about BTS, BigHit, and you. More specifically, you and the eldest member.

It hadn't gone unnoticed the way you acted right before he left for the military. While you both had tried very hard to be inconspicuous, gossip never really goes away. At this point, you're used to it, and you couldn't care less about what everyone else thinks.

Life hasn't been the easiest the past month. Each of the members has been dealing with their absences in different ways. 

Namjoon has been burying himself in work, focusing entirely on the next album. He's been writing and working with the producers nonstop. You've hardly seen him at all the past few days. Hoseok has been a light amid the darkness, trying his hardest to pick up the motherly slack where Seokjin left off, but even he is struggling to keep a smile on his face. He's even tried to crack terrible dad jokes, but they're not quite enough to fill the void.

Jimin has taken the news hard, and has shifted back into his self-destructive habits. Eating hasn't been a regular thing, and he's been practicing both dancing and singing nonstop. He's always been one to move to express himself, but the lack of proper self-care has been eating away at him. Taehyung has been no better. One of your oldest friends has shrunk in on himself, becoming a much quieter, more demure version of the ray of sunshine everyone adores. He keeps to himself most of the time.

Jungkook is the person most outward with his struggles, but with no one to share them with, he's resorted to exercising and sports. The youngest member has always been athletic, and it's always been a stress reliever for him. On an ordinary day, that's a good thing. However, like the others, he's using these activities as a crutch, a distraction, a way to cope with losing two oldest brothers.

And you're no better than any of them. You can feel yourself spiraling more every day. At the beginning, you tried your best to help each of the members with their emotions. But the more you took on, the further you fell away. No one realized how much of the band's weight Yoongi and Seokjin bore. They were foundational pillars. Without them, the dorms feel empty.

As does your apartment. Seokjin was always lively, especially in the privacy of your home, and not having him there makes it feel so damned dark. No matter how many lights you turn on, the shadows remain.

It's due to this fact that you've been spending most of your days and nights in Yoongi's Genius Lab and not at home. Being around Yoongi's work, his memorabilia, his passion projects, it makes you feel safe. Just being around your brother's things brings you immense comfort, but being around an empty apartment? 

That does the opposite.

Headphones on and notebook in front of you, you lounge casually on the sofa across from Yoongi's producing setup. The screens create a blue luminosity, and his unfinished music blares in your ears. You were hoping that being here, hearing his voice, would reignite your own creative spark, as you haven't written any of your own music since the departure. Seems all it's done is bring you lower into the darkness and let your demons rise higher around you.

Your phone buzzes on the cushion beside you. Hoseok's face illuminates briefly before disappearing, along with the other half-dozen notifications—most of which were from him, to begin with. He's called a few times over the weekend and texted nonstop. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what he's doing.

It's Christmas Eve, and no one is talking. You'd called your parents earlier that week and told them that you'd be spending the holidays in Seoul instead of traveling to Daegu. You blamed it on the weather, the distance, the urgent work on the new album, the wish to be with the boys—which was everything but the truth.

If you're honest with yourself, you don't want to see your mother's face when she looked at you. You know how much she sees Yoongi in you; the two of you are more alike than you'd care to admit. When she sees you, she sees him, and the whole room gets quiet and sad. The holidays are miserable enough without that constant reminder. 

Taking even a brief look at Hoseok's messages ends up being a mistake.

You shake your head and flip the phone over, not wanting to let them distract you. Just because you decided to stay in Seoul doesn't mean you want to celebrate.

In your mind, there's nothing to celebrate.

Sometime later, there's a loud knock on the studio door. Through the foggy glass, you see a tall silhouette. The figure knocks again, this time ringing the bell to accompany it.

"[Y/n], open up."

"I'm working!" you shout back.

Hoseok doesn't move. "You know, I could just open this if I wanted to. Yoongi gave me the code before he left."

You scoff, "Liar. He never gave that to anyone but me."

There's a pause, then a click, and the door swings open. Hoseok leans through the door, cocking an eyebrow in your direction. "Who's the liar now? You're not working, you're moping."

You ball up your most recent attempt at a melody and chuck the sphere at his head. It misses, but only barely. "Yeah, what about it?"

"God, you're such a brat sometimes." He moves over to where you sit and, slipping his arms under your frame, hauls you into his arms. 

"What the hell, Jung Hoseok—"

"—I'm intervening because this has got to stop, and someone's gotta do it," he interrupts, keeping a firm grasp on you as he shifts you onto his back and continues out of the studio. Closing the door with his foot, he keeps a gentle grip on your thighs, and you wrap your arms around his neck. "I've already forced Namjoon and Jungkook to come back home, and I tricked Jimin and Taehyung into showing up from their hiding places. We've got to talk, all of us."

There's a quiver in his voice as he continues down the hallway, one that makes you pause a little. "Hobi..."

The brunet sighs, "I'm sick of the silence, [Y/n]. Sick of it."

The hallway falls silent as he drags you from Genius Lab to the living room of the boys' dormitories. When you enter the large, open space, you see the rest of the boys seated in various places. Jimin stands to the side of the sofa, where Jungkook and Namjoon recline on opposite sides. Taehyung sits cross-legged on the floor across from them, elbows perched on the edge of the coffee table.

Hoseok slides you into the armchair next to Taehyung, ordering you to stay put. Pulling your knees up onto the cushion, you give the third-oldest member a scowl.

"Blackmail," Jimin mutters, flashing Hoseok his infamous side-eye.

Hoseok takes his stance off to the side, in an area where everyone can see him. He huffs a breath and places his hands on his hips. As he looks to each of you, his annoyance grows.

"We're not leaving this room until we get some things sorted out and start talking again. So...who wants to go first?"

A moment of silence passes before Jungkook murmurs, "What's there to talk about? We've all just been busy."

"That excuse isn't going to fly, not on Christmas Eve. We've been like this for weeks, and I—I can't take it anymore." Hoseok runs a hand through his dark hair, exasperated. "Ever since Jin and Yoongi left, we've barely interacted with each other. Namjoon, you've been working nonstop. Same with you, Jimin."

He turns to Jungkook and Taehyung. "I get that you love being at the gym, but all the time, Jungkook? And Tae, we hardly see you anymore. You're so quiet, and it's worrying me." He turns to you, chocolate brown eyes turning up at the corners. "You're the same, [Y/n], but you've held yourself up in Yoongi's studio. We can all tell you're suffering, but honestly, I've been too scared to knock until tonight."

"Some of us just need some space, Hyung," Taehyung states, voice deep and nonchalant. 

Hoseok crosses his arms over his chest. "The space is hurting all of us. It's not helping. I thought giving everyone some time would make things better, but we've all gotten worse! I hate seeing everyone I care about fall to pieces."

"What are our options?" you suggest, gesturing to the side with your hands, as if motioning to the outside. "The whole damn world is a rumor mill right now. They're freaking out about Seokjin and Yoongi, but on top of that, they're catching wind of Jin's love life! And I'm involved now. Our families are being harassed with question after question. Eomma had to close down the restaurant for a few hours last week because of the reporters! We have every damn right to be upset, to be angry, to want some space."

"Maybe we're not doing so well, and while a lot of that is due to outside circumstances, I'm willing to bet those things only make what's happening inside that much worse," Hoseok replies, attempting to keep his voice even. "The outside is only stirring up our internal struggles, but they were there before. I saw you start to go downhill even before they left, so you can't blame it on that, [Y/n]."

"Are you saying we shouldn't miss them?" Jimin retorts, his tone coming out short and abrasive. 

Hoseok laughs dryly and throws his hands up in frustration. "Of course not! I miss them too! You guys aren't the only ones that are sad about our hyungs. But I have to be the one that smiles. I have to be the oldest now. I have to keep the happiness alive—because that's what they'd want—but I'm exhausted. I—I can't keep doing this."

The current oldest finishes his mini-rant, plopping down on the sofa between Namjoon and Jungkook. He rests his elbows on his knees, burying his head into his hands. "I'm next, you know? My timer's counting down, just like everyone else's. But if this is how you're gonna react acter I enlist, then I'm dreading it even more."

"Don't say that," Jungkook says, turning to face Hoseok.

The brunet shakes his head, running his hands over his face as he scans the room. "We can't keep falling apart every time this comes up. We knew it was coming. We thought we were prepared...but I guess not. We have to talk to each other. We can't shut each other out. I'll pull a Yoongi and kick each of your asses until we get this fixed and out into the open." 

He turns to Namjoon, taking in the leader of the group with careful eyes. "You're quiet. Please, tell me I'm not making things worse by calling for an intervention, because I'm at the end of my rope and...god, I don't know what else to do."

Namjoon's eyes focus on his clasped hands, features soft despite his clenching jaw. "Maybe you've got a point." His gaze shifts upwards. "We've all been going back to our old crutches, the things we use to manage stress and sadness. In moderation, they're good—healthy even. But we're letting them consume us. It's the same as if one of us were to go to alcohol, or drugs, or women. These crutches are just as bad for us, but just less obvious. Hoseok is probably the only one that's noticed each of us spiraling."

He breathes out, then stands to pace the room. All eyes focus on him as his voice comes out soothing and authoritative. "We've gotta start thinking about this as a tour. We need to come together as a group, as a family, and talk about these things before they tear us apart. We've had fights before, and we've always discussed and made changes going forward. We have to do the same thing here."

"What do you suggest?"

Namjoon turns back to the only sensible person in the room. "We need to rely more on each other and less on our vices. That's different for each of us. For me...that means not working twenty-hour days and forgetting basic things like eating, sleeping, showering."

Jungkook makes a face, forever the member most sensitive to smell. "Yes, god, please take a shower, Hyung."

Namjoon chuckles, and the mood in the room is instantly lifted. "Right after we finish, I promise. But I think we all need to admit to our weaknesses and acknowledge that we need help with them. Nothing shameful in that. I went first, but what about you?"

Jungkook speaks up first, his voice soft and endearing as he hugs a throw pillow to his chest. "I distract myself with my hobbies. Maybe I've been spending a little too much time at the gym...or playing games. Maybe not enough time talking with the group."

Namjoon places a tender hand on the youngest's shoulders, flashing a proud smile.

"I've been hiding from everything, I think," Taehyung admits, getting a little courage from Jungkook's truth. "Without Yoongi or Jin, and with some of my closest friends hiding away, I let myself shrink and go back to that sad place I fought so hard to escape."

Seeing the way Taehyung curls his shoulders inwards causes you to get up from your chair and sit behind him on the floor. You wrap your arms around his middle and rest your cheek against his back, holding him tightly to you. 

Jimin speaks next, awkwardly shuffling where he stands. "I don't want any of you to worry about me. I'm just dancing, that's all."

"Way too much, for way too long, and without proper meals," Hoseok gently prods.

Jimin's gaze shifts to the floor. "Yeah...Yeah. I guess that's true. I just—I haven't had an appetite lately. The only thing that's made me feel better is dancing, so I do that instead..."

Hoseok walks over to Jimin and collects him in his arms, seeing the younger member struggling internally to admit his feelings. Jimin rests his head on Hoseok's shoulder as he tells Jimin to focus on his breathing.

"You're not alone in that, you know," Jungkook states.

Waves of realization wash over you as you hear each of the members being honest about what they've gone through the past few weeks. It breaks your heart to see them all struggling, suffering, all of it in silence. And along with the heartbreak is guilt. You should've noticed more. You should've said something. You should've done something.

Anything more than hiding away where no one could find you.

You turn your head and hide your face in Taehyung's hoodie, feeling like the worst friend in the whole world.

The other Daegu native places his hands over yours on his middle, glancing over his shoulder at your face. "Your turn, Noona."

You look over the curly-haired boy's shoulder, towards the rest of the members who are watching you. You shrug off your guilt and sigh, "It's like Hobi said. I hid away and made you all worry. I just—I felt angry, and sad, and lonely. And I made everything worse by secluding myself in Yoongi's studio. And I'm sorry for that."

Taehyung threads his fingers through yours, offering a tiny version of his boxy smile. "You don't need to be sorry, [Y/n]. We're all dealing with things in different ways."

His sweetness causes you to tear up. "Still, I owe you all an apology. I should've known that you all would be hurt by the conscription, too. I was selfish to focus only on what I'd lost. I—I love you all so much, and I promise I'll do better."

One by one, each of the members slips to the floor and contributes to the group hug around you and Taehyung. Wrapped in their warmth, you start to feel your emotions stabilizing. It seems that everyone else is feeling the same, for you all breathe a sigh of relief at the same time.

After a few minutes of pure, blissful silence, you turn your head to the side and murmur, "Is anyone up for a movie or something? I don't wanna go to bed just yet, and I miss you guys."

Jungkook is the first to nod eagerly, his head popping up out of the group with a wide smile plastered on his face. "Can I pick?"

Namjoon chuckles, "Sure, but no zombie movies. You know Hobi can't stand those."

"Yeah, they make him piss his pants," Jimin giggles.

Hobi gawks at the members as each of them departs towards the theater room, eventually giving playful chase after the youngest. 

"Are you going to be okay?" Taehyung whispers as you two are left alone.

You nod against his shoulder, press a chaste kiss to the back of his head, and help him off the ground, smiling the first smile you've had in weeks. 

"As long as I have you five with me, I guarantee it." 

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Poison and Wine || Morgan & Miriam

Just two undead gals being pals.

@meflemming

The hide, not yet treated, floated in the water like forgotten flotsam after a wreck, or perhaps a dead body. Morgan had only floated in the deep after coming back from the dead, where she could rise or sink at will. She couldn’t imagine how she might have looked if her curse had tried to drown her instead, if Remmy would have had to fish her out with a hook, or their bare hands, but maybe it would have been something like this. “And you say this helps you feel more alive?” She asked, curious underneath her snark. “Do you think this is like, a thing for people like us? Searching for life in more death?” she mused.”I’ve spent a lot of time this past month watching animals die and thinking about taxidermy.”

Hair pulled back and sleeves rolled up, Miriam added a few chemicals to the water so that the hide didn’t damage while it soaked. It’d be a while before it was ready to go into the liming process, but she had a few pieces in various states of treatment to show off to Morgan since the other woman had been curious enough about the process. “Well, perhaps it’s a thing for you, but this goes a bit further back for me,” Miriam said, lips quirked up. She washed her hands, explaining, “Leatherworking has been in my family since before we moved to White Crest several odd generations ago. Though, I will admit, the process of dying has become much more interesting. I suppose since I can’t do it again…” She raised an eyebrow. “Taxidermy, though? An interesting pursuit. A fun one, too, I’ve heard.”

“I didn’t take you as someone into tradition, Mim,” Morgan said. “You seemed like such a renegade. Still, I mean you’re heading this operation by yourself. And everything here is…” More than a little impressive. Even to her undead senses, the leather workshop was rich with the smell of creation, death into a different kind of life. The tools were heavy, plain, and simple. The tables, spacious. Everything had its place, its purpose, its balance. It looked like the most beautiful puzzle to Morgan. “Yeah, you can’t really watch your own death, you only remember the part where it hurt, and where it was quiet. Or--I mean, do you? Still remember?” She sped along with the other train of discussion, just in case it was too personal, even for the strange bond of undeath between them. “Yeah, well, my girlfriend dabbles and I spent a lot of time in the shed where she works. Playing with glass eyes and small specimens she’s done. It’s kinda neat, how they get suspended in time, sometimes a little prettier, a little happier looking than they were before. Some of them still look alive, if it weren’t for how still they are. It’s...interesting, I guess. I think skinning the critters is going to be the hardest part, if I ever try. I kinda go apeshit for some nice, raw, dead tissue.”

“I have a head for business and a talent for making things, dearest,” Miriam said breezily. “And I put more work into this business than my father ever did. I actually make things. He simply ran them.” She looked around her home workshop, everything neat and orderly and accounted for. Her father had it built for her after… well, after. No windows for sunlight to escape in, and it was connected to the house through the wine cellar. It was the perfect workspace for all sorts of work, and Miriam took more than a little pride in it. She grew quiet, trying to think of her death. The car wreck, the pain and the heat of it, was still fresh on her mind. “I remember it rather clearly, though I couldn’t even begin to tell you when the troubles of my life ended and the troubles of my unlife began. Someone, though, came along, and here we stand. Making leather.” She walked over to a piece that was closer to being finished, the hide already cured and turned into actual leather. She’d been toying around with it, a messenger bag, perhaps, tooling floral designs into the flaps of it. On the table in front of it was the designs sketched out more clearly onto paper, so she had a rough idea on what she was creating. Next to it was a sketch of a pair of heeled boots she thought about attempting, though it’d been quite some time since she’d attempted shoes. “It’s all a bit macabre how we make beautiful things out of death, isn’t it? Jackets, taxidermied animals, it was all living once and we… I don’t guess I could say that I’m doing much to preserve it, but.” She looked Morgan over. “You’re still very new to all of this. Control comes with experience. Until then… Perhaps you can help her with the less bloodied parts?”

Morgan hadn’t considered that Miriam’s work would be a pragmatic choice. But she’d never had anything passed down to her except her curse, nothing she could use or consider her own. She was used to using whatever she had on hand, though. And this, well, she could admit was a pretty good ‘whatever’ to lean on in a crisis. “Do you identify more as an artist or a craftsman?” She asked, hearing Miriam’s pride in doing the heavy work on her own. “Oh, yeah, I think...that’s the hope right now. I haven’t really got up the nerve  to see her while she’s working, but I fiddle with the tools sometimes, the glass eyes. It’s weird, what pains people will take to make something fake look like it has a spark of life. Although,  I think it’s all in the lid sculpting, from what I can tell. Even in people, it’s the skin that signals emotion, or the eyebrows,” She gestured to Miriam’s own expression with a smirk.

Morgan wandered over to the work in progress, ghosting her finger along the shapes tooled into the leather. “With leather I guess it’s different,” she said. “What do you think about, when you’re making it into something? What are you trying to capture?”

Considering the question, Miriam cocked her head to the side, considering her work. “I suppose it depends on who you ask. One of my teachers in college would have said an artist. Between my sketches, and I’ve dabbled in other mediums. But some businessmen I’ve worked with would say a craftsman. All the work that goes into the craft, the labor behind it. But you asked me.” She paused. “I’d say there’s an art to the craft. I can do practical. I made a saddle once. Someone recently asked me for a harness.” Though, that one seemed to be more for pleasure than practicality. “But I like detail, and adding artistic flair to my work. I want it to be personal. When I do something, I like it to be one of a kind. I have two employees for the shop in town. We all work everything by hand, though they rarely cure their own leather. I buy supplies for them, and they make it lovely. They make it into art. So, I suppose it’s all about the piece, really.” She smirked, allowing her face to be more expressive. “There’s your convoluted answer for the day. Though I’m sure I’ll have more. And people don’t want it to seem fake. They want it to seem preserved. A dear family pet isn’t really dead, only sleeping by the fire. They want the illusion of well-preserved life.”

Miriam looked over at the piece, moving a bit closer to Morgan. How strange; she was rarely around other members of the undead. It was almost as quiet as if she was alone in the room. Not a single heartbeat between the two of them. “Mostly I’m trying to capture what the buyer wants,” she said wryly. “But sometimes, I’m simply playing around. I think about what looks pretty. If it’s something I could stand to own myself or not. I might see a design in something and think I can do it better, so I make the attempt. The end result is either something that can be sold at an extremely high price or an extremely low one.”

“You’re gonna hate this, but putting my spin on a commission was my favorite part of the alchemy-crystal game,” Morgan said, looking thoughtfully at the sketches on the table, carefully picking up one sheet, then the other. “Every once in a while I got some really boring, overly-detailed request, usually ugly too. But some people would say, I want an amethyst mirror, I want a smoky quartz ring holder that reminds me of my cat’s left paw, and that was it. That middle space, where what they want becomes part of the challenge, or the fun, was the best. I don’t even know how many sketchbooks like these I threw out.” She brushed her hands on her skirt, as if dusting away the memory, the longing for those hours. “Whatever I do next will be the old-fashioned way, don’t worry,” she said wryly. “A set up like this would be nice. It feels lived-in, for lack of a better word. I bet you could pass a whole day here and not notice a thing. Or maybe that’s just me? Time has a way of getting slippery. I’m not good at coming home when I’m supposed to unless I set an alarm. If it wasn’t for everyone else, I don’t think I’d mind so much. Days and nights don’t mean as much when you don’t sleep. But I guess that’s different for you, you sleep a little, right?” She danced her fingers on the edge of the table, pressing down, testing how much of it she could feel. “Do you have anyone, that makes time matter for you?”

“You were certainly good with your craft,” Miriam said, only a bit begrudgingly. She had the decanter Morgan made in the house, filled with quality bourbon. She’d yet to actually drink any of it, but she stared at it sometimes, torn between being disgusted and impressed. “I’ve always liked it when customers give me that bit of creative license, the freedom to give them what they want without it being too specific.” She did raise a single eyebrow a bit at Morgan’s comment. “Morgan, dear, I know it’s not quite the same,” not as wholly wrong, “as it was before, but, for better or worse, you’ll always be using magic with whatever you apply yourself to for the rest of your days. There’s no more old-fashioned way.” She looked around, taking pride in her workshop, the one place that she felt at home. “I do pass the whole day in here occasionally. Sometimes several days. No eating, no sleeping, no noticing the time until it’s pointed out to me.” She shrugged, leaned against the workbench. Miriam didn’t slump; she was raised better than that, but she did grab a pencil and twirl it between her fingers, thoughtful. “I sleep?” She hated how it sounded like a question. “Not for long, and it’s not… I don’t particularly dream or anything. I suppose it’s just rest. The closest I got to sleeping lasted for several years and was closer to death, I think.” She watched Morgan’s fingers and the slight dent in the table they caused. She didn’t say anything about it, though, too focused on the question. Did she? No. She had acquaintances, occasional dalliances, but no one who made time matter. That had been Theo and his family and her family. They were all gone now. Now, all she had was revenge, and that didn’t make time matter; it just made it drag. “I have my work,” she said breezily, while not being specific as to what work she meant. “It’s no person, but it serves its purpose.”

“What do you mean no more old-fashioned way? Like, because--” Because she was dead? Or un-dead rather? Morgan hadn’t thought of it that way before. Obviously what had happened to her wasn’t the norm. Dead people, generally speaking, did not come back. The soft nothing space she had slept in was the end of all things. There were no more sunrises or lovers or rabbits any more than there was no more sleep, no more taste. And with magic dead inside her, she carried that betrayal. She hadn’t thought that it was keeping her alive, somehow. That it had seeped into her corpse and carried her through her existence. But if it wasn’t her heart, what else could she call it? “Because of what I am? W-what--” She looked down at her hands, pasty and dead and--still, somehow hers. “Does that ever bother you? That you’re a little magic too? That the same energy in the universe that I used to control is part of why you’re still here? I just-- I’ve never even thought of it that way before,” and now that she had, now that she could, her mouth quirked upwards in a small guilty smile of wonder. How could she never have asked herself that before? And how did Miriam know, and want to comfort her with that truth? “I just wonder how you could, much less say it so easy like that.” She looked at Miriam thoughtfully, and wondered if her loneliness had been part of why she’d felt drawn to her before. She’d lost so much, even before she died, and she knew pain well enough to become bent and twisted by it. How heavy must it be to do that? “You should let yourself have people, Miriam,” she said. “Sometimes they’re the only thing that makes a day mean anything.” She held her gaze for as long as she could. Morgan wasn’t sure if Miriam would listen, if she knew that she meant it, but she hoped. Morgan rubbed her hands on her skirt and reached under the table to pop the dents she’d made smooth again. “Is there, uh, anything else I can see?”

“On the nose,” Miriam said quietly. “We’re just dead things reformed by something impossible to truly understand until we’re no longer quite dead.” She’d spent hours thinking on it, fretting about it. What she was, what made her, or, rather, unmade her. She had, for the early years, clung desperately to the idea that she might have survived that wretched car crash. It wouldn’t have killed her. She would have been fine. She’d been resentful of others like her, particularly those who weren’t bound to the town or molded by white-hot revenge. Eventually, she’d come to terms with magic, what it was and what it was for. “I have no problem with magic, Morgan. I truly don’t. It’s a beautiful thing, you know. But it doesn’t belong with humans.” How humans perverted magic. They used it and twisted it into beautiful things, sometimes, like Morgan’s crystals, but also awful, wretched things. “Magic corrupts them all, in the end. Kills them. It killed us.” Miriam places a hand over her unbeating chest. “Only difference is that it keeps us alive as well.” She knew she wasn’t going to get Morgan to see her side. Spellcasters, even former ones, rarely did. Though, she supposed that was usually because the conversation was a bit one-sided; she talked, they screamed. It made it so hard for them to hear her. The last one had screamed until he couldn’t; he’d been about useless, unable to tell her about any local covens or even how to fix her White Crest-locked predicament. He left his shoe, too. She saw it out of the corner of her eye but was careful not to draw too much attention to it. Instead, she met Morgan’s eyes and smiled. “Perhaps you’re right. It’d do me good to have,” she paused, ruminated on the word, “friends. We are so useless alone.” She clapped her hands together and looked around. “There’s not too much else going on in here, but there’s a set of stairs and a tunnel that connect to the house’s wine cellar so I can avoid sunlight. My mother’s idea.” It was also so the staff wouldn’t see the family’s bloody secret lurking around in the dark, but still. It was a nice gesture. “I have a fairly decent collection of alcohol. It’s practically useless unless in large quantities, but it’s pretty to look at.”

“A car killed you, unless there’s more to the story. Not that you have to share either, but—” Morgan shrugged, mouth stretched in a sympathetic grimace. “But my family curse killed me. So you’re not wrong there. I just didn’t think about magic as bringing me back. The magic I did before didn’t really look like this.” She slid off her cuff and showed the scar near her wrist in the shape of Remmy’s mouth. “But you’re right. Nothing else to call it.” She tugged the cuff back down and tugged on her sleeve for good measure. “And I am, about having friends. I don’t know how much you believe me, but I mean it. You should get to have people, Miriam. It means a lot, to be known.” She smirked at the idea of the wine cellar. “Hey, at least you can get drunk at all. I’m down to appreciate the aesthetic though.” She wandered over to the walls, looking for the stairs and room in question. She’d thought there’d be more, but it was almost a relief to see that Miriam held on to some of her humanity, even with the side murder.

“A car headed to confront my husband, who was only using me for money so that he could fund his coven’s magic is what killed me,” Miriam said with a shrug. It was fine. She’d come to terms with it. Her jacket was on the back of the chair she was standing near. She stroked the sleeve gently. “See, it’s magic that’s keeping us alive. Not what human’s can practice, of course.” They were doomed if spellcasters learned how to do whatever bullshit it was that made vampires and zombies. Then again… Necromancers. Miriam fucking hated spellcasters. She smirked, though. “Well, I do thank you for that, Morgan. I should invest in some people. Friends.” She batted her eyelashes, knowing it probably wouldn’t work with Morgan having a girlfriend but not being one to turn down an opportunity. “We can be friends, I hope? Put all the silliness of the past behind us?” She led the way to the stairs, wondering if she should move the shoe but deciding against it. “Have you tried mixing alcohol with, I don’t know, organs? That might get you a little buzzed. Blood always helps me.”

“People aren’t investments,” Morgan childed mildly. “It doesn’t necessarily speak badly of you if things don’t ‘pay off’ the way you want. What speaks well of you is that you try anyway.” She answered Miriam’s fluttering lashes with a coy smile, a roll of her eyes. It was a little late to pretend there wasn’t something of a connection between them. Mriam understood what it meant to walk through death in a way like she did, and without a reason to fear her, Morgan found the return of a feeling she’d had before: a wish that Miriam would let someone ease her pain a little, that she would let go and allow herself a different way of being. “We can be friends, yeah,” she said gently. “And, tragically, no boozy combo I’ve tried yet seems to take the edge off. So that’s one point for vampires!” She followed Miriam towards the dark hall, trailing her fingers on the wall. She noticed a stray shoe strewn absently as she went, pointing to it as she asked, “Do you, uh, get a lot of company down here?”

“Nonsense,” Miriam said. “I was always taught that people were investments. Good ones, if you went about it the right way.” But she could see what Morgan was saying. Relationships were meant to be enjoyed. They were good things, usually. Unfortunately, when all was said and done, Miriam had done a bit too much to allow anyone to get too close. She didn’t regret any of the wretches she’d killed; why, she could barely even remember their faces. Sure, the first few times had been rough, and sure, she ached for something to fill the whole inside of her, the one that wasn’t desperate for revenge and blood. But she was quite good at pushing all of that aside, pretending she was whole. She was still a young vampire, after all, more years in the ground than she’d spent as a creature of the night. Perhaps she’d eventually get used to feeling like this. And, if not, well. She’d read that vampires could turn it all off, if they so desired. Whatever would happen to her if she couldn’t feel her anger and rage? Her thirst for revenge? She didn’t know. Maybe she’d find out. “Darling, you can still go out in the sun. I’d trade all the booze in the world for a nice day sunning down at Dark Score. But maybe we can find something out there for you.” Looking at the shoe, she gave Morgan a wink. “Well, I did say I liked to have dalliances, didn’t I?”

Morgan winced, feeling guilty for bemoaning her eternal sobriety when Miriam couldn’t even watch a sunrise. She couldn’t feel a sunburn or a winter chill anymore, but she could stand in the light and the snow and imagine what it was like. She could remember, at least for now. “What, you mean drinking away the undead existential crisis isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?” She asked wryly. “That’s a fair point, you know,” she said. “More than. Sorry. Although, apparently there’s a giant squid in the lake that may or may not eat people, so maybe you’re not missing out on too much.” She really didn’t need to know anymore about Miriam’s dalliances, however charming calling them that sounded in her dated cadence. She scampered down the stairs after Miriam, ready to leave all of that behind and see the rest of her place.

“There’s nothing like a drunken bender every few weeks to destroy your liquor cabinet,” Miriam joked. Though, she wasn’t actually joking, seeing as how she could smell last week’s rage in the form of spilled wine all over the cellar. She sucked in her cheeks frowning. “I forgot about the mess down here. Those undead existential crises tend to end in a bit of broken glass.” She gave a short laugh, but she could clearly smell blood, human blood, underneath all the wine. And if she could, she figured Morgan could as well. “It’s nothing to apologize for, darling. And I have heard about the squid. See, I can’t recall anything like that happening back when I was alive.” Miriam really needed to learn to clean up after herself better. And, perhaps a wine cellar wasn’t the best place to torture a little witch bitch into giving her information on a coven she apparently didn’t know anything about. There’d been some spilled wine, spilled blood, and a new rosebush in the garden. But no cleaning of the wine cellar. It was a shame, too. In her rage she’d managed to break a few bottles of very pricey vintage. It was a waste on all fronts. She walked over to the stairwell leading to the house, a sigh on her lips as she stepped over the mess. Miriam gave Morgan a tight smile. “I’m sometimes unaware of my own strength and anger, these days.”

Maybe if she hadn’t died and made a passtime of stuffing her face with viscera, Morgan wouldn’t have been able to notice the difference between wine and bloodstains on sight. She might not have been able to sense some bits of dead skin, dead something, ground into the floor. But she was salivating in a way that made her clench up with undease. Why was she feeling the hunger pull? Why was there blood mixed with broken glass. Morgan stopped short, surveying the mess. She looked up at Miriam’s thin smile, too sharp to reach her eyes. She didn’t need to ask, she shouldn’t. The whole reason she had stayed away from Miriam for so long was because she knew what she was capable of. She didn’t just carry darkness in her, she had hatred. The kind of hatred that lead to a mess like this. Blood spread in so many directions couldn’t be from anything swift or easy. She backed away slowly. “Y-yeah, um...I can see that. That’s…” The smart thing to do would be to come up with some non threatening question to indicate she didn’t care or at least wasn’t going to push. But as she crept back up the way she came, eyes fixated on the stains she couldn’t un-see as blood she asked, “Who was that? How many...how many people do you bring down here?”

Miriam frowned. A part of her recognized that she should apologize, try to start this over and appeal to the tentative friendship that had been forming between the two of them since before Morgan even died. Miriam wouldn’t lie, she’d grown a bit fond of the witch even while she wanted to kill her, just as she’d always been fond of Theo’s sisters and friends. But Miriam had been raised to not apologize, even before she’d been turned, so she didn’t, couldn’t. Whatever. “It’s mostly just wine, you know,” she said as a way of explanation. But that wasn’t good enough, probably. Readjusted. She smiled, an attempt to soothe. Sometimes, Miriam forgot that she was more bite than bark. “Morgan, I would never harm you, you know. Not anymore. I have no reason to even try.” She adjusted her posture, trying to appear non threatening, but she could no more do that than get Morgan to forget their first encounter. So, she sighed and took a seat near the steps that led to her house. They were on opposite sides of the wine cellar, at an impasse. “I don’t ask for names,” she said. “And she didn’t have any information. Just a drifter, lucky bitch.” Really, Miriam couldn’t be to blame for killing the woman. She’d practically rubbed it in Miriam’s face that she could leave and perform magic while Miriam was stuck in this town as a living corpse. She closed her eyes and took a soothing breath that she didn’t need. “I don’t know. Not many. Wine cellars make terrible places to conduct business, you know. Too many breakable things that I don’t want broken.” She ran her finger through a dark, sticky substance near her heel.

“Miriam--” Morgan began, her voice soft and heavy with disappointment. What had she expected? Where was the surprise in any of this? She stopped, tugging on the roots of her hair as she tried to take in the cold, matter-of-fact way Miriam talked about her killings. It reminded her of Deirdre when she was at her worst, when she was the thing her mother wanted her to be. How could Miriam be this way in so short a time, after one heartbreak? Had she loved him that much, that nothing could exist for her besides that hurt? She let out a long sigh. “I know you wouldn’t, Miriam. I know that,” she said. “But I wish you would let this go. Or at least that I could understand how--why this is so important to you. If it’s so fulfilling, why do you have to turn yourself off like that.” She nodded in her direction, taking in all the signs, the hard lines, the heaviness of the apathy. It was somehow more horrible to look at than the blood. “I just...if it was really that worth it, I don’t think you would have to be like this about it. I think if you understood you can have something besides hating people who never hurt you…” What? She wasn’t sure. She couldn’t see another version of Miriam hiding under the darkness, exactly. She knew she was lonely, driven, proud. Sometimes, under the weight of her death and her un-life, she could be funny. But Morgan didn’t know what else. She just wanted to believe it existed. Another breath. It was stupid, she didn’t need to breathe at all, but if she could float some air into her, maybe she could understand why she felt this upset over something she should have known all along.

There was a part of Miriam that wanted desperately for someone, anyone, to understand. She couldn’t let it go. It wasn’t from a lack of trying. After she’d killed Theo, when the high from it all had faded away, she’d cried until she couldn’t. Her mother had been the one to find her, a bloody mess, a shadow of a human being, sobbing over what was left of the husband she’d killed. Her mother, prim and proper, who had left the rearing of her daughter to her stern and more business-oriented husband when Miriam had been more interested in leathers than satins, didn’t know how to react to seeing her child the murderer. The monster. She never did. And yet she’d tried to comfort. And Miriam had let her, had thought this was a one and done situation. But there was no such thing. She couldn’t explain the hunger or rage that was only quieted by others’ screams. Morgan would certainly never understand it. Instead, Miriam kept her face impassive as she licked the blood and wine off her fingers, her eyes flashing red at the taste. She smiled, both sharp and sanguine. “Dearest, I’m only being myself.” She leaned back against the steps. “At least, what’s left of me.” Her hate must be fed to be tempered. She’d learned that the hard way. Miriam would stop if she only knew how.

Morgan lingered in the stairwell, wondering again what in all the earth she had been thinking of in coming here. Why she didn’t have her fill of Miriam from the last time. Had she really set aside the hatred in her eyes over a shared dread of eternity? Was the numbness, the pain between them really enough to scrub away the things she’d done? When she’d been alive, Miriam had sent her to the flipping hospital, of all things. She looked at the woman, resigned and stubborn on the ground. She was so lost she couldn’t even argue with Morgan, couldn’t even fight her.

Morgan crossed the room, stepping over the mess out of respect for the dead. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know sorry’s are stupid, but since I actually know how it is to wake up and feel chunks of yourself missing, I feel like I’m allowed. And--I just don’t think those empty spaces have to stay that way. Not for you, or for anyone else. There has to be something different, something better for you.” She bent down, closer than she had ever been to Miriam yet. She ghosted her fingers over Miriam’s hair and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I wish you would look for it some more,” she said. Then she turned back the way she’d come and left.

Not meaning to, Miriam flinched back from the tenderness of Morgan’s touch. She hadn’t experienced anything like that in so long. Not even the people she’d slept with recently had been tender. But she didn’t cry, for what it was worth. Didn’t allow tears to even begin to well in the corners of her eyes. But she felt worn around the edges and seen. It was fucking with her head a bit. Did Morgan seriously think she could be redeemed? After all that she’d done? There was no redemption for her, only vengeance and the final death that it would bring. This was what she knew, what she felt in the pit of her cold heart. But she couldn’t find the words to say it. Instead, she said, “Shut the door on the way out, sweetness.” It wasn’t loud, and it lacked her usual bravado. She stood up slowly, a phantom feeling in her bones, like her true age’s weariness was catching up to her, and she went in the opposite direction. She was going to have to clean up herself, it seemed. Didn’t matter. She had a bit more time on her hands than she planned for the evening, anyway.

[thou-lost-ght]

Searching for Belonging  (An essay I created in an English class in 2015)

Searching for Belonging

      Have you ever felt incomplete, blank, or just do not feel like you belong?  Have you had certain events take place in your life that caused you to feel this way?  I know I have.  All my life I have been searching for where I belong, because really I have no clue.

      I wake up every morning expressionless.  No, not because that is how most people wake up.  I wake up knowing that I am not going through a life like most people.  I am always haunted by the recurring images of the past, my past.  A past that has changed my life, who I am, and how I act or think in different situations.  If you must know,  my past is very corrupted.

      First of all, my parents, as well as most of my father’s brothers, were dropouts.  They never finished high school and I guess it’s because they just didn’t want to take life seriously.  It lead to a very difficult life.  In order for my parents to provide the usual essentials that we need to survive, they both had to work.  However,  no matter how many times my siblings and I were left at home so they could work as much as they could, it still was not enough to get much to provide for all of us.  While they worked, my oldest sister who was only sixteen at the time and was barely old enough, had to babysit the rest of us.  There’s ten of us; five girls and five boys.  I know what you’re thinking. “TEN KIDS!!” Yeah, crazy right?  It was already hard enough for my parents to just have five of us.

      When I was six years old, my siblings and I were separated from our parents.  The main reason why was negligence.   A while later, we were able to see them, but it was only once a week.  At the age of seven or eight, I found out that my father was arrested and was sent to jail.  I did not know why, but when I found out, I had many questions for him.  I wondered, “Why did he do it?  When will he get back out?  When can we live together again?”  At the age of ten my mother left for the states.  What sucks is that she did not even tell us.  Maybe she did, but I would have remembered.  The last I remember seeing her, she was visiting me while I was in the hospital for a serious head injury I had. It was only for split seconds as I was still not well enough to stay awake.  She took my two oldest sisters with her and I have not seen them since.  As for my father, my younger siblings and I still continued to see him once a week for several years.  There were some difficulties which unfortunately lead to the ending of all visits.

      You’re probably wondering,  “How does this tie to my topic, ‘Searching for Belonging’”.  Well you see,  when my siblings and I got separated from our parents, we were taken in by one of our relatives, an aunt and uncle.  To me I felt that both of them did not have parental love and affection or even guidance that every child needs.  Though at the age of ten there was an arrangement for me to move in with one of our other uncle’s.  I thought it would be good because I thought I would be able to escape, but I was wrong.  I was mistreated the whole time.  Even up until now.  All my life I have grown with anger and hate, which I have been able to hide from those around me, such as my friends.  Unfortunately, I still never had parental guidance, or love and affection.  I feel like because of that, I had forgotten how it really feels to have parents.

      A few years passed and my siblings and I grew more apart from the separation.  Not to mention our aunt, whom they are still living with, probably “still” feeds them crazy ideas and lies.  Not being with my siblings,  it has also made me forget what it is like to have them.  It is as if I became the only child.  If you are still wondering how this ties to my topic, don’t worry, I’m getting there.  Anyway, I do hear stories from my friends or see how they are with their parents and siblings.  It makes me feel so distant from mine.  Which I am.  My uncle has two daughters, but it does not make up for the loneliness I have at home.  Home is supposed to be where family should be.  But, unfortunately, we are all over the place.  My uncle does not make a good father figure to me either.  That is how I feel, at least.

      A few months after my uncle took me in, and meeting his oldest daughter(my cousin), who is four years younger than me, she began to think that I was their slave.  Yes, you read that right.  She thought that I was their slave and she has been thinking that for a few years.  She got that idea from her dad.  He had me do this and that, fetch this and that, and even throw this and that.  When I did something he disliked, even if so little, he would always yell or scold me.  And so his daughter ended up doing the same thing to me.  Besides the yelling and scolding.  Did I stop her, no I did not.  Because I felt like her dad was just going to scold me again.  So for a few years, I felt like I was treated like a slave.

      Throughout my elementary school years, I was bullied.  I was one of those very weird kids who pretends he can fly or threatens his reflection, pretending that it’s the enemy he is confronting.  Most of the time I went to school with wet clothes.  I was always teased and told I stink.  Half the time I ended up being sent home too.  Although I did get bullied for other things.  It was constant and it caused me to keep skipping school a lot.  I was only in the first grade and I ended up having to repeat it the next year.  After that I never skipped school or class.

      I did not have many friends.  I did have a few, maybe about three to five.  But the bullying, the family separation, the constant slavery, etc., it was not enough to feel like I belong.  The whole time, I felt like I was at the bottom of the food chain.  Then I went on to middle school.  I matured a bit more,  and I also gained even more friends.  It honestly seemed like I was getting to know and being friends with almost everyone I meet.

      I began to feel like I was starting to belong or be accepted.  I even put myself out there by joining sports, and I got much attention.  The bullying didn’t stop, it just wasn’t as bad.  I felt a lot was changing; sports, more friends, even my first relationship.  Things seemed to be turning around for me.  It did make me want to be around my friends more often.  They would always take away that loneliness, bring a smile upon my face, and shine some light in the dark areas of my heart.  I still had some empty pieces.  Pieces I felt my friends alone could not fill.

      Everyone has a talent or a hobby; something they can do, or has a characteristic that everyone likes.  I have always felt that I don't have any.  I can’t draw, I can’t sing, I can’t play music, etc.  I have very little creativity.  Occasionally, there are moments that I do get creative though I always have a hard time trying to get it out of my head.  Whenever I do get these once in a blue moon moments, they always come to me at the last minute.

      I would try to motivate myself to find a hidden talent or a hobby, but there are times when I just get lazy or even quit.  When that happens, I end up believing that it is not for me, and that I do not have any talents.  I have always believed that having a talent is a huge thing.  Talents can help you get yourself out there.  It can help make people know who you are because you can do this one certain thing and you’re known because that is what you can do.  I can do neither, and so it is hard.

      There are times that when I would see people who are dropouts or really struggle in life, my blood begins to boil.  Why?  Why does my blood boil when I see them or when I am near them?  I do not know.  I can only guess it is because my parents as well as other relatives, were dropouts.  In a way I blame them for their failures as well as the separation and I end up having negative feelings for some people that are struggling.  I would end up thinking, “Maybe you should have been taking your life more seriously.  Maybe then, you would not be in this kind of lifestyle.”

      The same goes for my uncles.  They lost my respect.  Not only because they are dropouts, but also because their attitudes and their behaviors are irritating.  They can be childish at times and I can only think of their immaturity.  I do not shake their hands to greet them.  Sometimes I do not even look at them.  Harsh, right?  I know.  I end up thinking again, “You dropped out.  You gave up on your education and now you struggle.  You are not better than me.”

      You see, I search for belonging because I lack what every person should have.  The main reason, I suspect, is family.  I always hear from people that family is forever and they always stick together.  It seems though, that it did not apply to my family and I.

      Belonging is the acceptance as a natural member or part.  Searching for belonging is the constant thoughts of low self esteem that goes with negative thoughts of not being good enough.  It is one of the main reasons some people wake up feeling blank or incomplete.  It is one reason unanswered questions are brought to light.  Many people go far and wide to search for belonging.  It can be very frustrating and it can cause depression and anxiety.

I want to emphasize that this is an essay I created for an English class in 2015. The reason I wrote this is because we were assigned to write about something about ourselves that no one knows about. I came up with nothing else but my childhood for this essay. I know in this essay, I am depicted as a disrespectful and angry person, though think...what child isn’t that is going through what I did or worse?

[slxyangel]

Pain and Noise (Duff x Reader)

Summary: I was fed up with just about everything that constituted my life, so I started playing.

Warnings: Unprotected sex, mentions of violence, swearing, panic attack.

Wordcount: Almost 5k

A/N: First fic I ever write, I am nervous and this was originally in Spanish, so be nice with my best try of a translation. Enjoy :)

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!!

Masterlist: https://slxyangel.tumblr.com/post/189625800403/masterlist

The pain in the back of my hands was intense, searing, and growing worse with every minute I spent holding the drumsticks and unloading my rage over the drums in the studio. The accumulated tension stiffened my fingers, the muscles in my arms were numb and it had been a while since I started feeling my nails spiking my own skin because of the pressure I was putting on it. I didn’t care; I preferred to feel that rather than the anguish that had been threatening to rip off my chest these last few weeks. I don’t know how much time I spent like that. What I do remember is the pain. And the noise.

I also remember sitting on the stool during a little while the guys were out, I’m not sure what for, maybe to grab some food or take a break. They had been working on the album for months, and these days of polishing, re-recording, fixing and tuning everything up for the final version were being especially hard; they deserved a breather. “And so do I”, I told myself while I held Steven’s drumsticks and gave it a second thought, maybe it wasn’t a good idea. He, as any other percussionist, didn’t like it when someone else fiddled with his instrument, not to mention if it happened without him being around to control it. I could only hope that he didn’t show up in that very moment and caught me, because I don’t think I would have the strength to explain him every thought that was circling my head the moment I decided to play his drums, and even less not to drown the whole story with my tears. I mean, come on, it was only going to be a little while.

I had been working with the band practically since the recording process for Appetite for Destruction began. I was in my last year of university, and needed an internship to complete my learning agreement, and, I still can’t comprehend how, my best friend’s father got me plugged-in in Geffen Records. They were the ones who decided that the best option for an audiovisuals student was in the recordings for a young rock band’s debut album. This is how I ended up being Mike Clink’s personal assistant and hanging out with Axl, Slash, Izzy, Duff and Steven. The chemistry had been practically automatic, I got along with them pretty quick and, even though I started being basically the coffee girl, I was always very comfortable in such a creative and carefree environment.

I remember those first days in which Mark, my boyfriend, used to drive me to the studio in his car. I could drive, of course, but my new job seemed almost more exciting for him than it did for me, so he insisted in getting me there, picking me up and making me tell him every little detail of my brand-new work life. He was thrilled when I told him how I had spent twenty minutes of my first day talking with Slash and he had shown interest about my studies, my reasons to be there and my general life. “If we’re gonna work together, we might as well be friends”, he said. The guy told me that he had a snake, that his parents were artists and that’s why he had always been so involved with music. He also said he got his first guitar when he was 15 and that he and the guys ended up together out of sheer coincidence, but they had realized they were the perfect combination, so they were really excited about their new project. It was there that I realized I was in the right place and, even if, worst case scenario, the rest of the band hated me, at least I had a new friend.

However, my worries couldn’t be any more unfounded. Once I had talked to Saul, the rest of it went smoothly. Axl was quite a character, for instance, a guy you felt like looking at. Wherever he was (because he couldn’t stand still for a second), your eyes would be glued to him. He had an enviable magnetism no matter what he did: singing one of their songs, bringing order to the mixing desk, finishing off half a liter of Jack Daniel’s… He was the kind of person who seems out of reach from every one of us mortals but, deep down, is a cinnamon roll. Our first interactions (mostly his, let’s be honest) were filled with double intentions. In any case, now that I see it in retrospective and compare it with the way he treated other girls, I came to think that this was his way to know women in general, his default mode. Actually, those anecdotes of conversations I had with the vocalist were worth a fair dose of laughing for Mark and me during our more than usual supermarket-pizza, Ben-&-Jerry’s-ice-cream dinners in the flat we shared. Over time, Axl’s phase of blatant flirting with me faded away, making room for a really close friendship between the two of us.

Izzy, on the other hand, treated me almost as if I was an experiment. Do you know the feeling when you arrive to a new school but the year has already started and everybody is curious about you? Well, that was more or less how the guitarist reacted to my incorporation. He had never been too talkative, or, at least, not as much as the rest of them, so my first days with the brunet can be summed up to him joining conversations between me and someone else, to learn a bit more about me without having to ask directly; to my hand-waving gestures and his responses raising his chin or his eyebrows; or to him offering me drags of his cigarette from time to time, while we waited for the rest of the guys to record their tracks so we could all go partying together. It was interesting. It was entertaining. It was even funny to see us unfolding, adapting to each other until we gained full trust. We could argue that his more reserved, almost wary personality and my own, more explosive and versatile, complemented each other as two puzzle pieces; one had what the other lacked.

And, while Izzy complemented me, Steven understood me. We were two peas in a pod: energetic, chaotic and jam-packed with energy. Basically the kids in the team. Like two naughty twins, we loved to terrorize the studio. We threw stuff at each other, we laughed like crazy, we yelled from one corner of the room to the other the dumbest, most absurd shit you could imagine… One of the activities I enjoyed the most was to scare away the chicks from him. Some afternoons when he was chilling on the couch, unaware and concentrated on hitting on whatever girl he had just met, I arrived, seated next to him on the couch and went full on clingy-ass-girlfriend with him: handsy and unbearable. I interrupted the groupie and put up with Steven’s deadly glares until, after a while, the girl took off, sometimes walking towards one of the other guys, sometimes straight to her house. The drummer always got mad at me when I did this to him, but his anger never lasted for more than ten minutes.

And then there was Duff. He was something else, something different. I had never had such a connection with anyone, and even less with anyone I had met for so little time. Duff had his own light, like an extremely bright star, and I was flashed by it but, at the same time, he irradiated a delightful kind of warmth, too nice for me to voluntarily step away. He was fun, he was compassionate, he was sensible, he was a little bit mad and he made everything unspeakably easy. The rest of the band spent their days saying that we should have sex or betting on whether we were or weren’t conscious of the sexual tension they assured was too obvious between us. At first, we either told them to fuck off or went along with it, but without giving it much of a second thought. At the end of the day, I was dating Mark, who I adored, and Duff knew it. We were nothing but friends, like the rest of the guys.

Weeks went by and I kept getting closer and closer with the bassist: we talked about everything and anything, we told each other countless anecdotes from our lives before arriving to L.A., and he even sometimes helped me with the paperwork. More than once, even though smoking was allowed in the studio, the two of us stepped outside to do it, and a break that was meant to last for 10 minutes ended up being one hour long. When this happened, Slash had to come out for him, wielding his guitar and threatening to smash it on his head if he wasn’t back inside in the following fifteen seconds. In fact, some of those days when it took me longer to finish my job he would stick around and offer me a ride home before he headed to the club, so that Mark didn’t have to come pick me up that far that late.

Of course, it was all being too good to be true. The first day this happened, when I arrived home in “some other dude’s car, instead of a fucking taxi”, Mark’s own words, I found a version of my boyfriend that I didn’t like one tiny bit: wary, silent and mean. When I asked what his problem was I already saw the answer coming, but I just refused to believe he was going to get all possessive over such a nonsense, he had never behave like that. That night we went from yelling at each other to the silent treatment in a matter of a few hours, and the next day, when I got to the studio in my own car for the first time since the guys knew me, that place looked like goddamn press conference. They took less than two minutes to notice I was a little bit off, and less than five to tell me “Dump him, fuck Duff”. I couldn’t help but laugh. I hadn’t broken up with Mark, we had just argued; I would speak to him and we would fix things; that’s what couples did. Bitch, you thought.

For the next few days everything seemed to have turned back to normal: my boyfriend and I were okay, he said he was sorry and begged me to let him apologize by being my chauffeur again. I didn’t quite feel like rocking the boat after that night, so the idea of not driving myself to work didn’t seem that bad, until the days Mark started arriving a little earlier each day. Five minutes, fifteen, half an hour before my cutoff time, as if he had to make sure I went back home with him, as if he had to keep an eye on me. In fact, one of the days in which he arrived with a bigger margin of time, he decided it was a good idea to wait inside the studio while the band was recording, and argued that “it would be a lot more boring to wait in the car”. Over the last days, the guys had noticed how pissed it made me the fact that he was chasing after me, behaving like an asshole and little more than tying a leash around my neck, so Axl stepped up and asked him to leave, since the guy wouldn’t listen to me. I have to admit I was surprised with how calmly the vocalist took the intrusion, taking into account his normally short temper. He told Mark that “it wasn’t his problem if he wanted to be his girlfriend’s chauffeur, but he couldn’t simply burst into a private property as if it was his house, and even less when they were working.” To be honest, that was one hell of a comeback, because if the singer had exposed the real reasons why he wanted him out, the other one would have clutched at straws to the philosophy “She is my girlfriend, you don’t get a saying on this.” But on his argument and on his turf, Axl had the upper hand.

Despite all the efforts, Mark told him to mind his own business and that, if the redhead kicked him out of the studio, he would be behaving like a total dick. Then, as if the destiny was trying its best to fix things, sarcasm be sensed, Duff showed up in the anteroom where we were. As soon as my boyfriend saw him, his eyes started blazing, and it only took the bassist telling him he had to leave and that I was still in my working hours so I wouldn’t go with him, for his fist to connect with Duff’s jaw in a nasty jab. And hell was fucking raised.

Axl pushed Mark, who was holding my arm with the same hand he had punched the blond with two seconds ago. Not letting go of me, he tackled the vocalist, mumbling something I can’t remember. Then he walked towards the front door, grabbing me with him. “Let’s go. Now”, he ordered. His fingers dug into my skin with such anger and despair that I could already feel the bruise forming underneath, and I was half shocked, half scared shitless. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to get in the car with him and I didn’t want any more punches either, but in any case my limbs were not responding to the commands my brain tried to make, whichever they were. It was then that, halfway across the room, before reaching the door, Mark stumbled and fell, finally releasing my arm. The first thing I saw when I lifted my eyes was Duff standing there, with his mouth covered in blood, shaking his right hand once and breathing heavily.

- If you ever touch her again like that, I’ll kill you.

While Mark was trying to get up, Slash stormed in from the recording room. He had seen the events of the last two minutes from his position behind the glass, and he wasn’t going to take any more of that shit. Right before the other one went ballistic attacking the bassist and blood started to hit the fan, Saul grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and kicked him, literally, out of the place. Once the metal door had closed between Mark and us, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I vaguely remember I started hyperventilating, on my knees, on the floor, and the sound of punches hitting metal on the outside was all but helping me calm down. As tears streamed down my face and I frantically run my fingers through my hair, a hand started trailing my back. It was a soft touch, slow, really slow. Making its way upwards and then going back down, over again. The noise level had considerably decreased, and now all I could listen to were whispers, the sweetest whispers coming from the mouth of one single person. “Shhhh, easy. You’re having a panic attack. It’s okay, you’re okay, I’m here. Breathe.” Little by little my quick and superficial breathing became steadier, and after a few minutes I was able to stand up to sit on the couch. The beating on the door had stopped, and I realized all the guys were surrounding me, worried look on their faces, as Duff, seating beside me, still had his hand in my back.

_________________

It had been two weeks since that day. After the incident, I sure as hell wasn’t going to be under the same roof as Mark, and even less with the fight still recent. Who knows what he would do to me as soon as I crossed the threshold… The guys profusely insisted that I could stay with any of them, but they let me use their phone to call my best friend when I told them I would be in very good hands with her. Laura received me with a warm hug the moment she saw me, and that night, at her home, we cried, we ranted and we ate ice-cream until we couldn’t take any more. I have to admit that, given the circumstances, she managed pretty well to get me into bed feeling kinda happy. But of course, nothing lasts forever. I was about to graduate, with no home (the foster-bed in Laura’s house didn’t count), no boyfriend and no plans of work, projects or future in general; ahead of me there was a massive precipice with seemingly no ending. Besides, the production process for Appetite was coming to an end, and so did my internship and the months of togetherness with the band. Now was the time for press conferences, concerts and, if it all went well, the tour. To be honest I was super happy for them. I had seen the birth of that album, and I was blindly certain that with such a masterpiece they were bound to success. It was inevitable. But in any case, that meant the end of what had given me the most joys in the last four months and, if apart from all the financial and emotional stability I had gained during my college years, someone took that away from me… what did I have left?

__________________

After that much time hitting the drums, I had ultimately interiorized the beat so much now I was just reproducing it on loop, with my eyes closed and breathing heavily. I was so self-absorbed that I didn’t realize the door had opened and someone had stepped into the studio. Suddenly I felt how, behind my back, two hands softly landed on my shoulders. I didn’t stop playing. My arms moved now with less vigor to the beat I had marked from the beginning, while those fingers gently traced small circles in the back of my neck, comforting me.

Duff.

It had to be him, I was certain.

Little by little I reduced the speed of my movements, gradually, until I completely stopped playing. When I left the drumsticks on the snares and turned around in the stool I saw him. He was standing there, right in front of me, asking with his eyes, a calm and expressive look on his face. An almost imperceptible sigh escaped my lips. He was worried about me.

- Good thing it was you who entered, and not Steven – I said, half jokingly, as I stood up, hoping to relax the tension built up between us.

- Yeah – he laughed softly. – Had it been him he would have ripped the drumsticks off your hands and hit you with them.

I laughed too, quietly, bitterly. This was too much for me. The words we never said were floating around, like a thousand needles falling into a tailspin above us; eventually, they would have to land. The worst part was that I didn’t know if I craved that moment or, on the contrary, dreaded it.

It looked like he had read my mind when he slowly, almost asking for permission, held my hands. I startled a bit with the contact, but I let him go on. Duff looked at them for a second before he noticed the tiny wounds I had unconsciously inflicted on myself digging my fingernails too hard a while before, at the drums. Without saying a word, he started caressing them very softly, as if he wanted to calm, more than my physical pain, the sentimental one. He was breathing deeply and slightly frowning. He was concentrated in trying to make that feeling disappear, the confusion, the guilt, the fear… the stream of emotions that had been threatening to break me for some time now. He looked me in the eyes. In that very moment, the temperature inside the room raised a few degrees. We were really close. So close I could feel his breath on me, listen to his heartbeat accelerating with every second that went by, see how his lips lightly parted, practically not at all, only a hint of the thought that filled our minds in that place, in that moment. Then, almost involuntarily, as an instinctive reflex, I stretched my neck upwards. That was the only sign he needed to make the already scarce distance between our lips disappear, and kiss me.

The contact was slow, sweet and full of longing. Our lips moved rhythmically, perfectly fitting on each other’s. Duff was still holding my hands, and I could feel my breath accelerating progressively. I released one of my hands and placed it on his neck, stroking the hair on his nape and helping myself keep balance in my tippiest toes. He saw my struggles and moved his free hand to my waist, firmly holding me so that I wouldn’t fall. All of a sudden, I felt the urge to be closer to him, even more. Everything that I hadn’t been able to do and that had bottled up inside of me was now too overwhelming, and I didn’t want to fight it anymore. Our kiss intensified, we hungrily enjoyed each other, panting. The next thing I knew was that Duff had placed his hands on the back of my thighs and lifted me up. I wrapped my legs around his waist and leaned my arms on his shoulders, so I could keep kissing him while he crossed the room and sat on the leather couch, with me straddling his lap. He ran his fingers up and down my thighs, slightly lifting the hem of my dress, as if he was testing some boundaries that I hadn’t set and, at this point, I didn’t plan to.

I was euphoric, nervous and loaded with desire. In a burst of braveness or lust, I’m not entirely sure, I started to buck my hips, back and forth, following a slow path at first, which progressively accelerated. The friction of my underwear in direct contact with his leather pants was about to drive me mad, and I couldn’t stop. His hands, which a moment ago were on my hips, guiding them, started moving over my lower stomach, tracing the edge of my panties in painfully slow motions. His breath was also heavier, somehow ragged, and I felt him hardening beneath me. His lips were stuck to the base of my neck, lightly sucking as I, with my eyes closed and lips parted into a silent “O”, gently pulled his blond hair. My core grew more sensitive by the minute, and when I thought I wouldn’t be able to hold the moan trapped in my throat anymore, his fingers touched my most sensitive spot, turning my steadily rocking hips not that steady for a moment.

In a matter of seconds, and with his hand working wonders between my legs, I got rid of the dress, which only bothered, and the perspective of my almost absolute nudity on top of his entirely dressed body made me shake with arousal. His free hand took care of my breasts, now exposed, as I dug my nails into his shoulders, underneath the sleeveless shirt he was wearing.

-  Take it off – I managed to blurb between gasps.

-  What? – Duff seemed confused, too concentrated on something else for having been able to follow the road of my own thoughts.

-  Your shirt, take it off. I want to touch you.

A shit-eating grin lit up his face right before he separated in a quick motion from that piece of clothing and threw it somewhere else. Immediately after, in a total change of the atmosphere, he laid back on the couch and, placing his hands behind his head, said:

-  Then touch me.

I didn’t hesitate for a single second. My hands flew to his shoulders, his arms, his shoulders again and went down his chest as I peppered kisses all over his lips, jaw, neck, collarbones… I took my sweet time while swinging my hips against the fabric that separated my pussy from his erection, and my nails traced a descending path down his torso, really slowly. I could notice how he was growing desperate; I felt his breath, now turned into a subtle growl, against my hair; I realized how shortly he had managed to keep his hands off me, since now he was caressing my flanks, my back and my chest. When I reached the cord of his pants with my fingers, I slowly undid the knot that tied them together and slipped my hand underneath, without stopping my hip motions. The very moment I found the base of his length, a soft grunt escaped his lips. He was driving me insane.

After a while arousing each other, we couldn’t stand the teasing any longer and Duff took the first step to getting rid of the clothes that were still around. I stood up and took off my sandals so that he could slide my panties down my legs, grazing my skin along the way. He also let go of both his pants and sneakers, tossing them on the carpet. Our moves were clumsy thanks to eagerness and anticipation. I once again sat on top of him, in our initial position, only now there were no clothes in the middle of the road. I could feel him against me. Touch. Friction. Desire. His expert fingers moved now freely over my core, as he left little love bites under my left ear. I kept on rubbing his cock, fully hard and a bit wet, while, with my other hand, I held on to his hair for dear life. We were close, really close. It felt as if every centimeter of my skin was on direct contact with Duff. He was everywhere, every corner, every goosebump, every scar… With all this overstimulation, my moans filled the room, and I didn’t have enough sanity to realize anyone could come in. I was a mess.All of a sudden, right when I was seconds away from cumming, his hands disappeared from my core. Even though I couldn’t see myself, I was sure in my eyes one would be able to read the anticipation and confusion.

-  Wait – he said in a desperate whisper -. I want to feel you, I want to be inside of you.

If he hadn’t stopped touching me a moment before, I am sure that sentence would have sent me to the wildest of orgasms, but it wasn’t the time for my sweet release. Not yet. He put his hand right next to mine, on his cock, and, with an almost unbearable slowness, he brought the tip of it to my entrance. A trembling sigh fell from my lips and we looked into each other’s eyes. Then, I gently let my hips descend on his lap, and he completely slid inside of me, letting escape an unearthly growl that gave me chills. He had dropped his head back, leaving his neck and collarbones exposed to me, but I had my eyes closed as I tried to control the delightful contractions that were about to take over me. I felt him inside of me, extremely deep. As if we were two pieces of the same puzzle, as if we had been manufactured specifically to be together. Now THAT was overstimulation. Once my body had adjusted to him, I started motioning my hips up and down, holding on to his shoulders so that I didn’t lose the limited balance I had left. He once again was looking at me, with his hands on my waist as I kept the path. Close, very close. His arms slid around me and I kissed his lips eagerly. Our moans died in one another’s mouth while the movements became faster, erratic, frenetic. It was becoming more and more difficult to keep my sanity, I was almost raving with pleasure, and the moment our lips broke away to take air and we looked at each other, nose to nose, without stopping for a moment, I couldn’t hold it any longer. I came with a flashing intensity, pronouncing his name countless times, asking God knows who for this moment to last forever. I couldn’t stop screaming, and when Duff begged my name and I felt his liquid warmth filling every bit of me, I saw white.

_______________

His hand stroked tenderly my naked back while my breath came back to normal against his neck. The same as that day, but at the same time entirely different. I was still on top of him, he was still inside of me. I hadn’t yet gathered the strength to pull him apart from me, but he didn’t seem willing to get separated either, so we stood like that for a while, I don’t even know how much, but I don’t care. This felt utterly intimate, intense, extremely ours and totally apart from the rest of people, from the rest of things. It was a parallel universe inside of a crystal ball. It was the embodiment of all that was right. What we had been, without knowing or admitting it, even to ourselves, waiting for all this time.

[gb-fics]

Pay Attention To Me

Fanfiction:

Kiryuuin Shou x Kyan Yutaka (Golden Bomber)

Note: This fic is based on Golden Bomber’s song “Kamatte Choudai”. I tried to mirror the call-response structure of the song. Also, the story is stretched out over several years, but there are no dates in there, you will surely figure it out for yourself. If you don’t know the song, here is a live video of it (^-^) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8k49syxQgng&list=PLfqPMBk7WLwv7YTDmbENr8EcpjVFmtrHL&index=6&t=0s

Shimote shimote~!

Shou felt tired after working the long shift today. All he needed right now was a hot bath and then he would hopefully fall asleep fast.

Originally, he had planned to work on some songs tonight, but he just felt too tired now.

Lately, he had been thinking that maybe it would be better to just give up. He should be working full-time; make money like the rest of humanity and stop chasing his stupid dreams. Their band would never make it.

Truth was, that they weren’t very good. Sure, they had some funny ideas, but nothing that would carry through more than a single show. And their music skills were mediocre at best.

Maybe he would have a chance, if he replaced some of his bandmembers – or started a new band altogether. But it wasn’t easy to find someone who was good at playing their instrument and willing to support Shou’s crazy ideas.

The thought of breaking up the band again had been on his mind for a while already now. But he hadn’t brought himself to tell the others yet. He hadn’t brought himself to tell Yutaka yet.

Because Yutaka was always so cheerful and optimistic when it came to their stage programs, and because he looked so handsome when he smiled at Shou, that Shou was scared of making that smile disappear. In Yutaka’s presence he felt a bit like he felt in the presence of cute girls – he wanted to look his absolute best and not disappoint them. Yutaka wasn’t a pretty girl, though. And the pressure of trying to look good only made Shou more awkward anyway.

Next time they met, Shou would break the news to the others. Next time he saw Yutaka, he would tell him that he was done with the band. They were going nowhere with it and he was wasting his energy and time, which he could spend on earning money to pay for gas and electricity until the end of the month instead.

The perspective wasn’t exactly uplifting, but Shou would just have to arrange himself with the fact, that he would never be happy. He would not lead the life of an artist he had always dreamed of and his creativity would just dry up eventually. What did it matter? A lot of people gave up on their dreams every day. Shou would become one of them. He would die a little inside day by day, but finally, he’d feel so numb, he wouldn’t even remember what it felt like to be passionate about something. He hardly remembered now.

The doorbell let out a screaming buzz.

Shou groaned and shuffled over to the intercom.

For a second, he considered pretending he wasn’t home yet. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone. He felt like lying down, giving up on his hopes and dreams and never get up again.

“Yeah?”, he asked as he pressed the button that connected him to the intercom downstairs.

“Shou, Shou!”, an excited voice blurted back.

Shou closed his eyes for a moment. He didn’t have the energy for Yutaka right now. He just didn’t.

“Shou, let me up, I need to show you something!”, Yutaka begged.

Shou gritted his teeth.

“I only just came home. I’m tired”, he said.

There was a moment of silence on the other side.

“It won’t take long”, Yutaka promised. “Now, let me in. Let me in, Shou, just let me in!”

He was starting to fall into a sing-song with the last words and Shou desperately hoped that Yutaka wasn’t here to show him his skills as a vocalist. He had been through it all. The trumpet, the bass, the guitar. Yutaka had been a genius on neither of those. But Shou had heard him at karaoke before and knew that it could always get worse. It was typical for Yutaka to change his mind fast.

But it was Yutaka, anyway, and Shou thought of his handsome smile. He knew that his weakness for Yutaka would cause him serious trouble someday.

He pushed the button to open the door downstairs and heard a low buzz.

 (Shimote shimote~!)

Yutaka rushed up the stairs, the guitar bouncing on his back. He was eager to reach Shou’s apartment, eager to show him.

He had sensed it lately, during band practice. Shou didn’t believe in the band. He was close to quitting.

And as for himself, Yutaka would have been fine with that. He did not want to end up in the kind of life, where he just lived from day to day and never stood out. But it felt pretty much like what he deserved. Yutaka wasn’t outstanding at anything he did. He changed his interests fast – trumpet, bass, guitar – because he couldn’t find joy in anything for too long. If it had been his future alone, he would have been willing to give up.

But he had seen Shou perform on stage. He had heard his songs and he had heard him sing. Shou did not belong with the peasants. He wasn’t like Yutaka, who had neither talent nor ambition. He was the most astonishing person Yutaka had ever met and he would make sure that Shou got out there onto the big screens where he belonged, and if it was the last thing he did.

Impatiently, he knocked against Shou’s front door, until it was finally opened.

Shou still wore the blue and white uniform from work. He looked incredible tired. Not a surprise he was close to giving up.

“Hey, I practiced the song you gave me”, Yutaka announced without waiting for a proper invitation and pushed past Shou, slipping off his shoes and walking right through.

He would call the room he entered the living room, but the apartment was so small, that it was also the bedroom, the kitchen, the place where Shou worked on his music and where he stored his belongings.

He pulled up a chair – the only chair in the apartment – and sat down, unzipping the cover of his guitar.

“And this couldn’t wait until the next band practice?”, Shou assured and sat down on the floor cross-legged in front of Yutaka.

In spite of his obvious exhaustion, he looked amused. Shou mostly looked amused when he eyed Yutaka, as if he was just waiting for him to do something funny. Sometimes, Yutaka felt bad that he couldn’t live up to the expectations in Shou’s gaze. He wasn’t funny and he wasn’t creative.

“It couldn’t wait”, he confirmed.

He did not explain that he was scared there never would be a next band practice. That he was scared of being left behind and of Shou giving up on his dreams. He was scared of not having anything to look forward to at all, when he got up in the morning. What had kept him going until now was just the believe, that one day he would see Shou succeed. It was a second-hand dream, but at least it was something to dream about. As for himself, Yutaka was short on dreams.

He also didn’t tell Shou, that he hadn’t been able to wait, because he took any excuse to hang out with him that he got. He liked to marvel at his brain that seemed to be overflowing with ideas. And he liked looking at his face, that wasn’t handsome by common standards, but so unique you couldn’t help but love it after a while. He liked being around Shou, because he was the only extraordinary thing in his life.

“Alright, then go ahead”, Shou agreed and gestured towards the guitar on Yutaka’s lap.

Only now did Yutaka realize he was supposed to plug in his guitar somewhere. For occasions like these, an acoustic guitar would be more convenient, but Yutaka didn’t have enough money to afford another instrument he hardly played. Shou surely owned an amplifier, but with the lack of space, he probably didn’t keep it at his apartment. Yutaka would have to perform on his electric guitar like this, relying on the meek sound he caused with it. He felt stupid for rushing here without thinking about it first. He should have waited for next band practice, when they had all their equipment ready.

“So?”, Shou asked.

Yutaka felt his mouth go dry and suddenly he was nervous.

He had been so proud when he finally made it through the song without mistakes, he had wanted to show Shou desperately. He had wanted Shou to look at him and be impressed. Next to him, Yutaka sometimes felt invisible. He was crazy enough to play along with Shou’s ideas, but not crazy enough to come up with them on his own. He was good enough to play a song on guitar after long practice, but not talented enough to actually write it himself. He was handsome, but not so much it was really stunning and there was nothing unique about his looks. He had nothing that made him stand out, but he wanted to be seen by Shou badly. He admired him so much, he wanted to be noticed by him, he wanted Shou to pay attention to him. If he actually managed to improve his guitar skills, maybe Shou would finally look at him with at least the hint of pride and admiration that Yutaka felt for him.

But deep down he knew that he wasn’t good enough to make Shou notice him and that he did not deserve his attention at all. The pressure of these thoughts did not help to make him feel relaxed.

“Ehm”, he stuttered, his mind going blank and his fingers forgetting the hours of practice immediately.

He felt like that on stage, too, when people were watching him. It was one of the reasons why they would never make it as a band. If he was a good friend, he would set Shou free. Without him, his chances as an artist would probably improve. But Yutaka was selfish. Not because he wanted to be famous himself. He rather wanted to experience Shou’s fame from up close and maybe, on the way, gain enough abilities for Shou to finally have a reason to pay attention to him.

After clearing his throat once more, Yutaka started playing the song, that Shou had written two weeks ago. Yutaka had the assumption that Shou had tried to make the guitar part as simple as possible for him, but he still managed to play it only barely so.

Shou kept watching him, looking up from the floor to him calmly. His small, dark eyes made Yutaka really nervous. He hit a wrong note. Surely, Shou would be disappointed in him now.

He checked Shou’s facial expression. It did not change. Worse. He had expected Yutaka to fail. The thought made Yutaka feel so stressed, he hit another wrong note.

By now he felt like bursting into tears or thrashing the guitar by slamming it to the ground over and over again. He kept on playing. Because he had come over to prove Shou he was able to do it, he couldn’t just break off in the middle of the song.

Towards the end, he started rushing. He was aware that he was playing too fast and butchering the rhythm as well as hitting more wrong notes than necessary, but he couldn’t bear it any longer. He just wanted to be done with it.

He strung the last chord and then there was a moment of silence.

Shou did not say anything at all.

“Ah, man, I suck so bad, we will never make it!”, Yutaka cried out.

“You’ll get there”, Shou said soothingly.

Yutaka stared down onto his guitar. He knew that Shou was just trying to be nice.

“You sure?”, he asked.

Shou chuckled.

“I really don’t know”, he admitted.

His honesty caused Yutaka to look up. Surprisingly, Shou did not look mad. He was smiling at him.

“I’m sorry for holding you back”, Yutaka said quietly.

Shou shook his head and leaned back, so his back was resting against the wall now.

“You are not holding me back. You pushed me until here. Without you, I’d never have founded a band to begin with.”

He paused thoughtfully for a moment.

“People love the crazy shit you do on stage. Maybe we should focus on that more than on the actual guitar part”, Shou said slowly.

He was looking at Yutaka, but it seemed as if he was seeing right through him. His mind appeared to be elsewhere.

“Let’s think about it. What could you do when you are supposed to play the guitar instead?”

Yutaka bit his lower lip. It was painful to have Shou look right through him as if he wasn’t there at all. It was painful, too, he had to come up with an alternative for Yutaka, because he wasn’t good enough at what he was supposed to do, and not creative enough to think of something else instead for himself.

If Yutaka was the best guitar player in the world, Shou would surely pay attention to him.

But he wasn’t the best guitar player in the world, so for now he had to focus on what he got.

“So, you are not quitting the band, are you?”, he assured.

Still caught up in his own thoughts, Shou shook his head. He was smiling slightly and Yutaka thought that at least he had caused that. He maybe didn’t achieve anything on his own, but at least he had inspired Shou.

“Not yet”, Shou said. “Not yet.”

 Kamite Kamite~!

The meeting had been long and tiring. Shou wanted to return to his apartment and not spend another minute in the office rooms.

Golden Bomber had made it. They were actually famous now – a miracle for a band like them. He did no longer have to worry about paying the rent or not being able to do what he loved. Shou would be able to do what he loved for the rest of his life. If it wasn’t with the band, it would be solo activities. His name was known in the entertainment industry now. No more office jobs for Kiryuuin Shou.

But with fame, there had also come a load of responsibility and work. He hated the meetings and felt stressed about writing songs, where he used to enjoy the music and the singing. He wished he would be able to talk to someone about it at least, but his friends from the past had either left him or could not identify with his troubles anymore. He had met some other musicians, but had not become close enough with any of them to share his worries.

There were his bandmembers, of course, but things between them were complicated. Shou was the one writing the music, he was the one coming up with the stage program, he was the one in charge of meetings and organizing and talking to the management. It was too much for him at times and he felt overwhelmed and left alone with it. On the other hand, he could sense that the others were scared of approaching him. They treated him like their leader, but that also erected a barrier between them. Shou didn’t have bandmembers. He had employees.

With Yutaka it was slightly different of course. They had started the band together; it was their project. But even around him, Shou still felt isolated. He stood out, because he was the only musician in the band. Sometimes, he would have preferred to fit in more smoothly.

He was about to step out of the corridor leading him outside, when a door swung open to his left. It was the door of the room in which they stored their equipment. They needed a lot of equipment for their shows. They paid rent for the room, too.

Yutaka stumbled out of the room. He looked deranged.

Shou hadn’t known that Yutaka would be in today, but then it wasn’t unusual for them to hang around the office rooms before the start of a new tour. Props had to be built, costumes had to be tried on.

“Hey, Shou!”, Yutaka shouted and his face lit up.

In his right hand, he held a tube of super glue.

Yutaka reminded him of a puppy sometimes. He always seemed excited and happy when he saw Shou, eager to show something new to him, and in possession of only a very short attention span.

Shou usually wished Yutaka would give him a break.

But at the same time, he felt affectionate towards him. If it wasn’t for Yutaka, he would never have kept the band going. If it wasn’t for Yutaka, they wouldn’t be famous today.

Shou remembered the day Yutaka had showed up at his apartment and delivered a horrible guitar performance. He had been about to quit the band. He had been about to give up on his dreams. But then he had seen how hard Yutaka was trying. And Shou had realized that he had no right to throw Yutaka’s dream out of the window along with his own. He had wanted to keep on trying for Yutaka’s sake.

And, if he had quitted the band that day, it would have meant a future without Yutaka. They would have stayed friends, sure, but over time they would have lost touch for sure. But the band had promised a future for both of them, a future of them together. Watching Yutaka play guitar that day, Shou would have done anything to have a future with him.

Lately, he wasn’t so sure it had been the right decision, though. They had become famous, but at what cost? Shou felt worn out and sometimes he wished he could go back to that day and choose a boring, average life.

“Great you are here”, Yutaka announced cheerfully. “I want to show you something.”

Shou hesitated. He wasn’t in the mood for one of Yutaka’s shows, but then again, there wouldn’t be a day where he felt livelier any time soon.

And if he was being honest, all those years had done nothing to make him indifferent to Yutaka’s smile. He looked so hopeful and full of believe for Shou, that Shou couldn’t bring himself to let him down.

“It won’t take long”, Yutaka promised and disappeared through the door again.

With a resigning smirk, Shou followed. He knew that line already.

 (Kamite kamite~!)

“Tada!”, Yutaka shouted and pointed at the cardboard monstrosity in the centre of the room.

A short look of surprise flashed across Shou’s face.

Yutaka loved that face. He loved its sheer dimension and the small eyes and the gap teeth and how wrinkly it got when Shou made faces. Lately, he hadn’t seen enough of it.

Fame was nice and he was glad for the stable income and he was happy for Shou, too. But it wasn’t what he had imagined their future to look like. Most of all, he had thought he would prove more useful to Shou. But even now, he was still planning most of the band activities on his own.

“It’s a … dragon?”, Shou assured and walked around the prop in a circle.

He did look fairly impressed. He was only looking at the dragon, though, not at Yutaka.

Lately, Yutaka wondered if Shou considered going solo and leaving the rest of them behind. It would be good for him. He had created a name for himself by now and didn’t need to drag along the baggage of three unnecessary bandmembers. But Yutaka didn’t want to be left behind. He wanted to stay by Shou’s side, even if he had nothing to offer to him. Even now, Yutaka was his biggest fan. No one believed in Kiryuuin Shou’s abilities like he did.

“Yes, yes, for that guitar solo we talked about.”

Shou nodded slowly, still not turning his head away from the dragon.

“Would it be possible to make it breathe or something?”, he asked. “Hiding a small smoke machine inside maybe?”

Yutaka felt stupid immediately for not having thought of it on his own.

He had wanted to prove to Shou that he wasn’t useless. That being in a band had benefits, too. That he wasn’t alone in carrying this weight. He had checked the meeting schedule of the management. He had waited for the meeting to end, to catch Shou in the corridor as if by accident. He had wanted to cheer him up, when he seemed to doubt that he had chosen the right path.

Had he been less selfish, now would have been the point to let go. Maybe he had been right to hold on to Shou all those years ago, but by now, he’d probably be better off without Yutaka. But Yutaka was scared that Shou would choose the easy way for himself. He was popular now and he was good at producing music. Maybe he would decide to become just another musician, without the spark of what was new and original about Golden Bomber. Even if Yutaka didn’t believe in the band, he did believe in the concept. He believed that Shou was meant to become something more than just a vocalist. He was the born entertainer and he should not give up on any of that.

“Maybe”, he answered hesitantly. “I’d have to make some adjustments.”

“Great”, Shou said and clapped his hands to signal that the conversation was over.

He had not looked at Yutaka once.

For a while, Yutaka had thought that if only he became the best cardboard artist in the world, then Shou would finally pay attention to him. He had to admit that he had already failed at becoming the world’s best guitarist. He had not just failed; he had given up completely. Yutaka practiced the guitar very irregularly by now. He hadn’t felt the passion necessary to keep going.

Then he had believed in cardboard and building the stage props. He really had believed that he had found his creative outlet, the one thing that made him unique. But even with that, he started to grow tired. By now, he was only doing it, because it had to be done. Because maybe, if he did it well enough, Shou would look at him.

Yutaka wondered if he lacked something that other people had, something that told them what they wanted to do with their life. For him, it wasn’t just about his entire life, though he didn’t know what he wanted to do with that either. He couldn’t stay interested in anything for too long. Maybe Yutaka just had a shallow personality.

“You want to grab lunch?”, he suggested.

He wanted to make up for the time in which they had lost sight of each other almost completely. He wanted to be with Shou, because he enjoyed watching him and listening to him talk about all those crazy ideas of his. He simply wanted to be with Shou, it was what had led him to suggesting the band in the first place, and what made him hold on to it now.

Also, Shou seemed lonely lately. He had isolated himself from the other members and Yutaka worried, if he was feeling alright. He couldn’t allow Shou to break. The world still needed him.

“It’s evening already”, Shou pointed out dryly.

“Fine”, Yutaka said. “So, you want to grab dinner?”

Shou snorted and shook his head. He looked amused now. Yutaka was glad when he saw Shou smile like that. As long as he smiled, he was still alright. As long as he smiled, he hadn’t given up yet.

“You won’t shut up unless I agree, right?”, Shou assured.

Yutaka beamed at him.

He didn’t feel the happiness of his own smile entirely. He wished he could be better for Shou. But as long as he hadn’t found the thing yet at which he was better than anyone else, he’d have to live without Shou’s attention. He didn’t have to be by his side as an equal. Just watching out for him was enough already. Just keeping him in a good mood was enough of a reason to keep smiling.

“I won’t”, he agreed.

“Alright, alright”, Shou said and smiled.

He looked tired nowadays, but happy enough right now.

“So, you are not tired of seeing my face around all the time?”, Yutaka asked and walked over to the door.

What he really meant was if Shou would leave him behind any time soon. Because Yutaka had nothing to offer, no talent, no interest, nothing that made him special.

“Not yet”, Shou said. “Not yet.”

 Shimote shimote~!

Things weren’t amazing yet, but at least they were better. Shou had gotten used to being the frontman of Golden Bomber and he had gotten used to people admiring him exactly for that. He wasn’t waiting any longer for the hype to end. He was no longer afraid that real life would catch up with him sometime and that he would have to turn serious. Shou had missed the right timing to take on a serious image by far.

He got along better with his bandmembers, too. That day, on which he had built the cardboard dragon, Yutaka had reached out to him. He had forced Shou to go out with him for dinner and they had talked – actually talked, about the band and the music and their future. And Shou had realized that he wasn’t alone in this. Even if he was doing most of the work on his own still, he knew that the others got his back.

Sometimes, it was a little much, though. Like today. The recordings for the new album had completely exhausted him and the thought of Yutaka, Kenji and Jun probably lazing around in their pyjamas somewhere right now made him furious. He wanted that kind of life, too, at least sometimes. He wanted someone else to do the work for him. If he just worked a little longer, his savings would be enough to retire. Lately, he was thinking of that as a possibility.

Shou wrapped a scarf around his neck. His throat felt sore from singing all day. He knew it was a bad sign. A sign that he was reaching his limits again.

He walked past the small waiting area, ready to step outside, when he noticed someone sitting on one of the folding chairs.

Yutaka jumped up as soon as he saw Shou.

Shou didn’t even feel surprised. Yutaka seemed to have a sixth sense, when it came to Shou. Whenever he felt down and exhausted, whenever he was close to giving up, Yutaka showed up on his doorstep. And he was always beaming and he always had some kind of news that he needed to tell Shou immediately. And afterwards, Shou always felt better, although usually the company of other people exhausted him. Whenever Shou’s trust in himself began to falter, Yutaka was there. He seemed to have enough trust in Shou for both of them and it always made Shou want to keep going just a little bit longer. Maybe he would give up eventually, but not yet, not yet. Not while Yutaka still looked at him like that.

“Hey, what are you doing here?”, Shou greeted him.

“I knew there would be recordings today”, Yutaka said. “I asked the staff for the address of the studio.”

“Did you wait here long?”, Shou asked.

Yutaka shook his head. His grin was lopsided as always.

“Nah, you know I always show up late anyway.”

Shou nodded with a smirk, but stayed silent, curious what Yutaka would want from him this time.

“I just wanted to give you this”, Yutaka said hastily and pulled something out of his pocket.

He held out the small paper to Shou with the slightest bow.

Shou felt weird about this gesture of respect. It reminded him of the distance between them. Back when they had started, he had never wanted there to be a distance between himself and Yutaka. But at least they were working together now. At least he saw him often. That was enough. Enough to not give up on the band just yet.

He took the paper that turned out to be a ticket.

“Oh”, Shou said quietly.

His stomach tightened uncomfortably. The logo of Yutaka’s theatre company took up a large part of the ticket.

He wanted to feel proud of Yutaka for achieving something on his own, outside of the band. But he couldn’t really bring himself to feel it. It only made him experience his own failure more strongly. Shou hadn’t been able to build anything else for himself. It also brought back the fear. The fear that someday it might be Yutaka, who left him. That he would be the one growing tired of Shou and of the band. Eventually, Yutaka would end it, if Shou didn’t end it first.

“Well, thank you”, he added lamely.

 (Shimote shimote~!)

“It’s for the show in January”, Yutaka explained hastily. “It’s on the weekend, I thought you’d probably be free then.”

The words spilled out too fast and he started to stutter slightly.

He had wanted to impress Shou. He had wanted to prove to him that he wasn’t just useless. Just because he hadn’t been able to contribute anything meaningful to Golden Bomber, didn’t mean he lacked talent completely. Maybe stage acting was his thing, the thing he was passionate about, the thing he was good at.

Admittedly, he had also thought that about being in a band and playing the guitar. He had thought it about building props, too. Now it was acting. There was a fair chance, he would grow tired of it as well.

But this time, it was different, because he had actually achieved something. He would appear in this play without Shou’s help and without Shou’s contribution. For a moment, he had really believed that Shou would be proud of him. That, if he saw him on stage all on his own, he’d finally notice Yutaka.

That was why Yutaka had been so eager to hand him the ticket. He had received it only today and had called up the staff to ask for Shou’s location to show it to him immediately.

But Shou did not look proud. If anything, he looked disappointed. Yutaka wondered if he had made a mistake.

“I’ll definitely be there”, Shou promised.

Yutaka had the feeling that he wanted to leave. He was looking at the ticket in his hand. Yutaka wished that only for once, Shou would look at him.

“And don’t worry”, Yutaka said lightly. “I will credit you in my Oscar winning speech.”

Shou laughed quietly and finally looked up.

He looked worried, but then he always looked worried. Yutaka wished he could make him feel at ease with himself. It was all he had ever wanted to do.

“But if this works out, you are not leaving the band, are you? You won’t leave me behind?”, Shou assured.

For a moment, Yutaka stared at him dumb-founded.

It was a possibility that had never occurred to him. He was great at dropping stuff. Like he had dropped trumpet and bass and eventually the guitar. He wanted to drop cardboard art as well. He might want to drop acting, too. Dropping band activities was something that he had thought about before. Because he was no good anyway and because Shou’s chances stood better without him. But he had never once considered to leave Shou’s side.

He was aware that Shou did not need him anymore. Yutaka liked to believe that Shou had needed him before, that he had needed the encouragement, someone to push him when he felt like giving up. But he was past that point now. He had reached the point Yutaka had always believed him capable of reaching. Because Shou was talented and hard-working and he was creative and funny and full of the weirdest ideas.

When he didn’t want to leave, he had to admit, that it wasn’t for Shou’s sake. Yutaka wanted to stay by his side, because he admired Shou. And it wasn’t the kind of admiration you could practice from afar. He wanted to be close to him, he wanted to be the first one to hear about his ideas and look at his face when he laughed and hear his voice more than anyone else. Frankly, it was the kind of admiration that was much closer to love.

It had taken Yutaka some time to acknowledge, but by now he had figured out why he hadn’t been able to give up on the band. Why he had been able to give up on everything else, on playing instruments, on preparing their shows, but not on the band itself. He didn’t love music and he didn’t even love performing. But he loved Kiryuuin Shou.

“I won’t leave! By now, you should know you are not going to get rid of me”, Yutaka protested loudly and threw back his head with laughter. “I’m just building up an alternative for myself, in case you decide to kick me out someday.”

Shou tilted his head and squinted his already small eyes. He was mimicking a thoughtful expression. Finally, he seemed to reach a conclusion.

“Not yet”, Shou said. “Not yet.”

 Kamite kamite~!

Shou felt good. He felt so good, he was humming under his breath. What had once been a rare experience, had turned out to be the regular state of his life by now. Shou had come to terms with his career and with his bandmembers and with his own work. Mostly, he had come to terms with himself.

There wasn’t anything left in his life he could ask for. Well, there maybe was one thing, but he had made his peace with not getting that.

They had just finished recording the broadcast and although it was late at night already, Shou did not feel like falling asleep any minute. He hadn’t been this rested in a long time, in spite of their packed schedule.

Once he retreated his jacket from the dressing room, he’d be able to go home and catch a solid night of sleep.

He pushed open the door to the dressing room. He had seen Kenji and Jun leave earlier and expected to be the last one in the building, but he had been mistaken.

Shou smirked to himself, when he saw Yutaka bending over one of the tables, packing his bag before going home. He always moved his arms a little too violently. It looked as if Yutaka was angry at his bag.

Surely, he would now start rambling about happily. Shou had always been able to rely on Yutaka to cheer him up at any given moment.

Yutaka looked up.

“Hey”, he said.

He was smiling, but it did not look very convincing. In spite of the makeup he wore, Shou could see the circles beneath his eyes. His voice was quieter than usual.

“Hey, what’s up?”, Shou asked.

He tried not to sound alarmed. Hopefully, Yutaka was alright. Maybe he had broken up with someone? Shou felt a treacherous pang of joy at the thought. But then he recalled that Yutaka hadn’t been dating anyone lately.

“Just tired”, Yutaka said.

Shou eyed him suspiciously. He knew Yutaka very well.

Sometimes, he forced himself to appear happy, but even then, the core of that happiness was always real. Even at the very beginning, when they had started out, Yutaka had sometimes lied to him. Shou had been able to tell that Yutaka covered up his own doubts about the band only to motivate him, but he had also been aware that the believe underneath those doubts was true. Whenever or not Yutaka had wanted to give up at times - deep down, he had always believed in the band more than Shou did.

Shou pulled up a chair and sat down. The seating surface felt cold.

“Don’t lie to me”, he said. “What is it? You have a new stage play coming up, don’t you? Shouldn’t you be excited? Did something happen?”

Yutaka looked down at him for a moment and then let out a deep sigh.

He grabbed another chair and pushed it closer to the middle of the room where Shou had seated himself. When he sat down opposite to him, they were very close, their knees almost touching.

“I should be excited, shouldn’t I?”, Yutaka said. “But I just feel like I’m no good. I haven’t made any improvement with my acting in the last years, just like I have made no progress with my guitar skills.”

“Hey”, Shou said gently and reached out for Yutaka’s hand to squeeze it shortly.

He let go again almost immediately. He did not want Yutaka to know how much he liked touching him.

Shou looked into Yutaka’s face and wondered where his enthusiasm had gone.  All those years, it was Yutaka’s smile that had pulled Shou through. He had not wanted to let Yutaka down. He had wanted to prove worthy of the admiration he saw written on his face, whenever Yutaka looked at him. If he was being honest, he had wanted to give him something to admire in the first place. Everything Shou had ever achieved in his life felt like the awkward try to impress his crush. He had only become an artist, so Kyan Yutaka would pay attention to him.

Now, Yutaka only looked tired and not very impressed at all.

“You are good at acting”, Shou said. “You became quite good at guitar. Also, your guitar solos and the props you build for them are awesome.”

Yutaka looked down onto his lap.

“I don’t know”, he said quietly. “I just feel like I was never outstanding at something. I wanted to become the best guitarist in the world, but I’m just mediocre. I wanted to create the most astonishing props in the world, but by now I only do it, because it has to be done by someone. I thought I would become a world-famous actor, but now I’m still just doing small scale stage plays. I just wanted to be the best at something.”

 (Kyan-sama!!)

He wanted to explain how he felt. After all this time, Yutaka just wanted to explain himself.

He stared down onto his own hand, that Shou had touched so casually just now. He probably wasn’t even aware of what he had done to Yutaka with that.

Yutaka had done his best to stay positive throughout the years. Because Shou had needed him to stay positive. Yutaka had believed in the band for both of them.

But lately, there had been a change. Shou had found his place in life. He was content. He didn’t need Yutaka’s believe in him any longer. Shou believed in himself now.

And although Yutaka told himself that this was what he had wanted for Shou all along, he knew that it was a lie. What he had wanted more than anything else was for Shou to pay attention to him. Because whenever he was in the room, Yutaka couldn’t turn his eyes away. From the very beginning – no, even before their story had actually begun at all – he had been Shou’s biggest fan.

Now, it didn’t matter anymore if Shou knew or not. Yutaka was done trying to impress him with any of his barely average skills. Shou had reached the dream that Yutaka had had for him. Now it was time for Yutaka to give up.

He was going to reveal his biggest secret: That he did not hold passion for anything. His interests changed too quickly, because Yutaka had never really brought himself to care about anything in his entire life.

“Stupid”, Shou said softly. “There is something you are better at than anyone else.”

Yutaka looked up.

Shou was staring right at him. He wasn’t distracted by anything else. He was paying close attention to Yutaka.

“Yeah, and what would that be?”, Yutaka wanted to know.

“Kiryuuin Shou”, Shou said. “You are the absolute best at handling him. In the entire world.”

Yutaka swallowed. He wasn’t sure if Shou really was looking at him for the first time in years, or if Yutaka had just been so caught up in his own worries, that he had missed every time Shou looked at him before.

“Whenever I was feeling low”, Shou continued. “Or lonely, or overwhelmed, you were there. It’s almost as if you could sense it every time, when I grew insecure. And you always did or said just the right thing. Golden Bomber might be your project more than it is mine. I never needed a guitarist. I didn’t need a good actor or someone, who build the props. I needed someone to push me through all this. I needed you. I’m your special skill.”

And Yutaka looked into Shou’s eyes and they were warm and dark and full of admiration.

Yutaka had always been worried, because he didn’t feel real passion for anything. But finally, he realized there was one thing he had been passionate about all along.

He had switched his instruments. He had changed from guitar to props. He had adjusted his focus from props to acting. But he had kept doing all of it for Shou. He was the one constant that had never changed over all those years. Because there was something that Yutaka did better and he did it harder and he did it more persistently than anyone else.

“It’s because no one in the world loves you as much as I do”, he said quietly.

He expected Shou to pull back or at least look surprised at the confession. But he just nodded. Since he was sitting hunched over, his face was close. Shou always sat hunched over. He wasn’t wearing makeup today. Yutaka could see all the wrinkles and unevenness of his skin.

“And you won’t stop doing that now, will you?”, Shou asked.

Yutaka smiled, because he finally knew what he was good at, and because Shou was looking at him and he was finally paying attention to Yutaka. Now, that he had finally made it, he had no intention of giving up.

He leaned in closer, until their lips were almost touching. He wasn’t going to quit.

“Not yet”, Yutaka said. “Not yet.”

[kaz3313]

The Demon in his Closet

@two-nipples-maybe-more this...has taken me too long

Shadely ahead so don't like don't read (though if you're mildly curious please stay)

(My read more is broke (stupid Tumblr) so I apolgize ahead of time)

Will be posted on Ao3; Private message me if you're interested in the link

(Please, please reblog ❤ Thank you all in advance)

[[MORE]]

The Bently was parked outside a bungalow down in the country, away from the busy streets of London. Usually the Bently would only momentarily stop to let an angel out and then speed off, Queen blasting. Aziraphale and Madam Tracy, rather just Tracy now but the Madam was still used more often than not, would meet every month to discuss various books. Most would call this a book club but the Principality said a club couldn't have only two members. 

Crowley decided to tag along but because he didn't know a thing about the book, and little interest in the discussion, he sat idly flipping the pages of the copy Azriphale had brought. He began to make the letters crawl around and soon enough he'd changed an entire paragraph. The sentences became short and choppy. Due to that change he wasn't sure where to put all the commas so he started to sprinkle them in even when they weren't needed. That and the question mark, which he finally reasoned to put at the end of his new incomplete sentence. 

   "Crowley! Return that paragraph right back to what it was! And if you're so bored you don't have to stay," Azriphale sized the book placing it on the other side of the table. The letters start to slink back into position but the commas got so lost in the mess they were more spread out than before.

   "You know, I'm sure Sergeant Shadwell wouldn't mind talking to you. I remember when you used to call and he'd get the closest thing I ever saw to a smile on his face," Madam Tracy stated.

   "That's only cause when I called he knew he was getting paid," It was barely audible but Crowley's voice raised a tad higher.

   "Well, maybe" She gave a smile one that Crowely had seen many times (thinking back the first face he ever saw it on was Eve's even if she didn't smile much). though he still couldn't decipher it fully. It said something and that something was what she knew but what she knew and what Crowley knew must be two different things. 

 Crowley decided it's best to ignored the out-of-place knowing smile. He gave half a nod and left the room. He could hear the two go back to chatting about their favorite characters (neither could pick just one) and the various scenes before he clicked the door shut.

Shadwell was at the kitchen table sipping at his mug. He watched Crowley waltz past the first time he passed the room. Then he passed again this time donning one of Tracy's hats. Then a third (this time the hat had been taken off)and then a-

    "Aye, the kitchen's in here," Shadwell finally announced after Crowley passed the room for a fifth time. It wasn't a large place; not too small either but it wasn't the kind of place where you could miss an entire room. 

   "Oh, condensed milk?" Crowley asked as he walked in the kitchen. He scanned the area, various pots and pans (all Madam Tracy's) were arranged in shelves, fresh cut cucumber slices lay on a cutting board begging for someone to take a bite, and knives are placed all in little black sheaths . The quality of the counters though were lacking. The wood was chipping off in little dry chunks. In a year it would need a replacement.

He sat down next to the man whose only answer had been a glare. 'Maybe he'd like to talk to you,' Crowley repeated what Tracy said in his head while looking at Shadwell. He had a soured withered look on his face but when didn’t he? Well, 1960's but that was a little over a half a century ago. People changed like the weather and Shadwell must’ve been an unforecasted storm. Save for pointed questions about witchcraft the younger man would’ve never recognized his older self.

      “Demons,” Shadwell turned in his chair and Crowley’s shoulders already sagged. Best case scenario he would be threatened with a finger pointed and bible verses would be yelled for a half an hour. Worst Case scenario the bungalow would catch fire and Crowely would be forced to do some demonic intervention to put it out (or carry all the occupants out). The scenario that follows is neither worst nor best and it wasn’t something previously thought up or considered (which was surprising as creativity was his specialty). “Demons don’t have fathers, do they, laddie ?”

 Crowley bit his lip and didn’t respond. 

     He remembered the first question Shadwell asked after the first time Crowely introduced himself as ‘Anothony J. Crowley Jr’.

     “How’s your father?” This question would be repeated during any time they’d meet in person, even if the time was short. Sometimes the Witchfinder would even add “ You look a lot like your old man. ‘Cept for the haircut. Good genes you got there, ”. Crowley would give a brief little ‘alright’ or ‘well’ but overall kept it brief when his “old man” was mentioned. No further questions were ever pressed but eyes gave away too many secrets, one of the reasons Crowley dons his shades, and Shadwell’s were no exception.

    The man wanted more (dare he say it was a hunger); When Crowley made an offhand comment that his father was feeling ‘under the weather’ Shadwell sucked in a sharp breath and his eyes widened. It was the most expressive he’d been since 67 and Crowley ended up, throughout the entire conversation, reassuring that his father was perfectly healthy now. ‘’Was just a small cold, nothing to worry about,” but worry never left him in that meeting. Only at the next, when he spoke about his father traveling somewhere, did he see Shadwell's shoulders relax.

 “Y’know, I thought you’d catch on sooner. I have the same tattoo and the glasses,” Crowley whispered, as if it was important to keep hidden. The only people within a five mile radius were busy discussing plot, themes, and the next book from the 1800’s to read and neither would know the connotations. At least the optimistic clung to that hope. He didn't want to deal with any more trouble than he had too. 

 “ Thought you was Mafia,” Shadwell put his cup down. 

    “Oh...good, I guess,” Just talking felt like robbing a museum and having to walk with tip toed feet to avoid an alarm sounding. Hushed voices and vagueness was supposed to end after the Not-Apocalypse and this entire discussion left a sour taste in Crowley’s mouth. Maybe he should've just stayed and tempted more paragraphs to change. A slightly huffy angel was better than what this conversation had in store.

    "Didn't give any notice," If you listened closely you could hear the change in his voice.It was vastly different than his usual coldness. Held something more; something Crowley tried again to ignore. "No warning".

     "About being a demon?" Crowely offered; maybe they could just sit in awkward silence for the rest of the half an hour.

     "Leaving" The voice audibly shook and Crowley adjusted his sunglasses just to make sure they were still there. He never left; at least it never felt like leaving? He just didn’t meet up with him again. He didn’t need to. It wasn’t his fault Shadwell became old and harsh.

 He felt an awful feeling building up so he insisted it to himself again. This time aloud.

    “Isn’t really leaving if I turned up again. Just gone momentarily,” Crowley, instead of looking at Shadwell, focused on the cucumbers he saw earlier. Why were there slices lying there anyway? They couldn’t have interrupted Madam Tracy’s cooking, for she knew today was book club day. It didn’t even seem like it went to anything either-like they were misplaced in the grand scheme of things (or rather in the small kitchen). 

     “Why’d you even come here?” Shadwell asked his voice returns to his usual cold bitter tone . Crowely wasn’t sure if that was better or worse him sounding like this. The demon waves his hand in the general direction of the "book club" in response. “You usually just drop the Southern Pansy off,” 

     “Don’t call him that,” Crowely snapped and turns to the other man glaring. He found the glare turned rather quickly to locking eyes with him (not that Shadwell could tell).

 “Now I got your attention! Figures,”

     Crowley continued to glare (stare) mouth pursed tightly. He didn’t have the heart to look away but couldn’t think of a proper response.He hated being tongue tied-he hated this entire situation. And like most things, the M25 or things he'd find glued to the street, this was entirely his doing. 

   

 “ And that’s all you have to say,” Shadwell shook his head but his eyes lingered and suddenly it feels like 1967.

     Club lights flashed in the background as Crowely explained the heist was cancelled (it would’ve been more of an issue but he gave everyone the pay they would’ve received). The two others involved took the money before leaving, no other reason to stay, but Shadwell stuck around stealing glances. The man was obviously trouble but Shadwell wasn’t scared of trouble; if he served more time, so be it. He was young and took more risks and thought he was invincible. 

 “Cigarette,” Crowley asked but it was more of a statement than anything. He already handed one to him and pulled out a lighter. He kept glancing back to his car and often had eyes on a thermos it; no one else would’ve noticed but it was rather hard not to pick up on if he’s the only one you're focused on.

 “Rough day?” Shadwell asked as the red haired man finally left his eyes long enough from his Bently to notice the gazing.

 “Could say that, there’s a reason I cancelled the..” Crowley, after lighting Shadwell’s, dropped the lighter. Before he could pick it up Shadwell leaned in lighting the cigarette with his own without taking it away from his lips. Crowely tried to find words, maybe a thank you, but found it easier just to leave his mouth slightly opened. Finally he found his voice “Since we’re not going to any church tonight, want to hit a bar? I could go for a good drink,”.

 That’s where it started for them. Coincidently it would be where it ended as well. 

 Just like the day they first met he remembers the ‘last’ day in detail (not in perfect detail but more details than any other day in the week). It was several months after their initial meeting and they’d just left a bar they frequented almost every other week.

 “Wouldn’t be wise to stay the rest of the night,” Crowely said getting into his car after Shadwell was going to follow suit. “Have to go meet with someone early at the park,” He mumbled the rest already starting the engine. The smile on his face was odd (little did he know at the time it wasn’t odd it was the just the first genuine one). Then the Bently sped away. 

It was sudden and several weeks afterward Shadwell would wait outside at their meeting place for hours. The day he gave up waiting  was when he’d fallen asleep on the bench and he woke with his wallet gone. To say it was a devastating realization would be an understatement. He’d have no luck finding him but when Crowley walked into a small rundown cafe (before introducing himself as junior) he swore his heart skipped a beat. 

 It was different now though and that thought brought him back to reality.   

 

 “Do you remember our nights at the clubs?” Shadwell asked; he was desperate to stay wrapped up in the past but he wanted the demon to join him. Maybe then time would return for just a few moments. Enough to say a proper goodbye and perhaps even heartache would be lifted.

 “I wouldn’t take you as one to want to reminisce,” Crowely said remembering every night all too well but in no mood to recount the events of old. He expected that eventually he’d be deterred by his coldness but instead the man presses.

 “You danced like a rabbit on steroids,” Shadwell stated and he saw Crowely suppress a smile ( and maybe a laugh as well).

 “I I don't think I've ever seen a drugged rabbit- though I can't say I'm not curious now. But on topic of dancing- At least I didn’t step on anybody's toes,” Crowley retorted back but light shifts into his voice.

 “N’ae, you did and quite a lot too. I just never said a word ‘bout it,”

 “No- I think your misremembering. Must’ve been somebody else that crushed your toes,” Crowley continued to deny.

  “Wish it could’ve been like that; after we…” ‘Break up’ wasn’t the right phrase but Shadwell felt it at the tip of his tongue “After we parted ways didn’t really get to dance,” or go out, or dress up, or even kiss, or-

 “...Nobody at all...” The air thickened again; Crowley's face fell. It could’ve been a question or a statement but it came out hushed and soft; that’s the part that mattered anyway.

 “Jezebel, uh, ex Jezebel, talked a little bit ‘bout it here an’ there but we don’t do anythin’ besides stay in the bungaloo. Well, we go out to the market but hardly call that a proper date. ” 

  Crowley stuttered something out in response but it being a mix of syllables that didn’t form any words of any known language, while slightly impressive, did not help get anything verbally across. He wanted to say many things an “I’m sorry,” the simplest of it yet no matter how he moved his mouth nothing came out. Then he thought “sorry” was a little bland anyway and wouldn’t serve any sort of justice. Another logical response would be to talk about what the other so desperately wanted to talk about. Clubs, lights, dances, and other happier times. But then the demon reasons that happier times were the worst to talk about when they were long gone and had no chance of repeating. The conversation would turn into choked poorly held back sobs and how was he going to explain that one to Madam Tracy or Aziraphale (a small inkling in the back of his mind said something along the lines of how he wouldn’t have to explain too much to Tracy but that still left a talk with his angel). So instead he continued to stare at Shadwell hoping the guilt that had taken over his features would be enough of an apology.

  Crowley didn't expect wrinkled hands to cup his face but he didn't protest the sudden touch either. The man had been longing to have contact with the one he fell in love with so long ago and Crowely, with everything he's been through, knows how it feels. He repeated that it's the least he can do and another part of him whispers that he wouldn't protest even if he wasn't obligated. Shadwell continued further, as he shuffles they’re chairs closer together, and pulled Crowley toward him; Locking lips. 

 “Mngk,” The glasses fall to the floor from the sudden movement and if not for a little demonic intervention they would've shattered. He reached to pick them up but found Shadwell had grabbed them first. They were held just out of reach. Instead of a curse, demand, or even an undignified whine he lets his hand fall limp and deepened the kiss.

  “The eyes are the windows to the soul” a bright man once said but he’d never looked into Crowley’s, not many were given that opportunity. He was soulless, the gift from God stripped away from him so long ago, but his eyes betray like any other’s. Sure, physically they were different yet, if you could look past the unusual yellow and ignore the shape of the pupils emotions were as obvious as a lost tourist.

     Passion was the first thing Shadwell could see; It was, to no avail, attempted to be pushed down but the more someone tries to hide it the more it shows in another place. A fiery thing passion was, it flared up in spurts but could burn out just as easy. He drops the shades he was previously holding hostage, it’s obvious now that Crowley will make no attempt to snatch them back, and digs his fingers in the red hair (a little harder now that it’d been cut but that didn’t deter him). Maybe if he held tight enough the flame wouldn’t burn out.

     Guilt was fast approaching in the other’s expression, he’d noticed it earlier even with those glasses, but he tried to dismiss the notion. It was inevitable, why with that southern pansy in the other room. Though, like anything, out of sight out of mind and Shadwell dares to enjoy this moment even if it meant sacrificing seeing those lovely exotic eyes.    

  It never crossed his mind that perhaps the guilt was from the standpoint of Crowley realizing how he had wronged him rather then the thought that his significant other was in the next room.

 Arms, that had first lay to the side in wary, wrapped around him. The two hadn't felt the others physical touch in a few decades yet they clung together with such familiarity that people sparing a glance would mistake them as an older couple. Those who bothered to look closer would see the desperation, that only those apart for too long have.

  For a moment Shadwell thought it was 1967 again (only this time it didn’t have to be discreet,or rather they didn’t have to worry about any law. The two were being very cautious all things considered). He could smell the exhaust embedded in the streets and hear the chattering of voices (that were, more often than not, hushed). People passing by not giving the Bentley a second glance (out of self preservation not disinterest) as two concealed shady men (well man and demon) tested their luck.  The cushions of the Bently were nicer than the hard wood he sat in now but he ignores. After all, the only thing that mattered, and that didn’t change, were soft lips.  

  

 “Crowley, dear! We’ve finished our meeting! ” An angelic voice called from the front of the house; unknowingly doing his job in disrupting sin. 

Crowley was the first to break away from the kiss but he continues the embrace. He leans down his mouth just above Shadwell’s ear.

  “Next month?” 

  “Aye…” 

  “Next month,” He affirmed his own question getting up to leave. Shadwell waved the sunglasses but Crowley produced some from his pocket already slipping them on. He left with not a word more.

   Despite his words Shadwell found himself surprised when Crowley showed up at the kitchen table the following month. And he felt the same the next month.. And the one after that.

  “ I’m not leaving, y’know that by now. I’ll come back again,” Crowley said as he stood at the kitchen doorway. He’d been in and out six times now.

  “And if you don’t? I’d rather be surprised than disappointed, again”.

Crowley never mentioned it in the following conversation; he found it easier to dance around then set himself up for having his feet stepped on. Even if, deep down, he knew he deserved every bit of it.

 No one deserved their heart broken for fifty two years, especially if it had been their lifetime. Crowley could only hope to dull the pain he caused. And with seeing hints of smiles and held back laughs- maybe he could count himself as successful.

 Even if it only lasted for ten more years. 

[aroworlds]

I’ve been having a lot of health problems these past three months. Every time I think I can get back to posting online, something happens immediately afterward. (This last week is insomnia. I wish not sleeping meant I could just hop online at 3 AM and schedule posts instead, but the increased pain from lack of sleep makes me less able to type and think.) It’s frustrating because it makes it so difficult to express myself and interact with other people. I’ve also had my skin condition flare up in ways that make moving and flexing my hand difficult, and a lot of times where I can use a mouse but can’t type or can type but can’t use a mouse!

The other reason for my absence is that I will not survive if I don’t get some sort of financial support for my creations. I live in a capitalist world, a world that is incredibly unforgiving for most creatives and is all but impossible for marginalised ones. Unfortunately, disability means I need more money than most, not less, to survive. The medication that makes me most functional isn’t covered by the PBS because of my age: I need to find $35 AUD a month in addition to my other many medications because the government thinks I’m too young to need it. I’m aware that my life would have been even worse without this medication, which ... well, it’s hard to type that without crying. This disaster is the best I seem to be allowed to get at the moment, and that’s heartbreaking. It’s just heartbreaking.

I can’t even halfway function anymore without that medication, and I can’t afford to take it on a regular basis. But because of my disabilities, I find working regular jobs difficult. I need work that lets me work for an hour and then stop for three when my hands are bad; I need work that lets me not work for a week when I can’t. I need a flexibility that isn’t dependent on someone else’s schedule, and the only way I know to do that is through my own work.

But, because I am disabled, I can’t create my usual content and make content for a subscription service like Patreon at the same time. I’ve had to take time off one to prepare content for the other. I do not know how well I’ll be able to interact with my community and make subscriber-only extra content at the same time when the first one alone was already difficult, and because I’ve been so struggling with sleeplessness and porokeratosis and migraines and pain, I didn’t get enough content prepared ahead of launch.

I’m going to have to think about this blog, what I can do, what I should do, what kinds of interactions I can keep up with, what I can’t. For one thing, I have 700 posts in the draft folder waiting for tags so I can queue them, and I’ve moved to posting four times a day because this is getting ridiculous. But I’m also considering moving to a no-tag format to cut down on my workload, as much as tagging is important for access, filtering and organisation. The (very full) inbox is another dilemma. Maybe if I do two asks a week instead of trying to keep up with everything as it comes in, which I very much can’t? I don’t know. I really don’t.

The reality is that this blog gets more replies, asks, messages and content-added reblogs than I can ever keep up with. That alone would be a full-time job for a disabled person like me. But if I do all that, I can’t do the work that I’m hoping will someday help me conjure that extra $35 AUD a month. I’m ignoring a lot of you not because I’m ignoring you but because I cannot respond to you if I want to do other things--and sometimes those “other things” aren’t “draft a subscriber-only post” but are simple things like “fold my laundry” or “make lunch”. It’s the hardest thing in the world to not even have the spoons to talk to my friends when they want to talk to me, and the guilt of not being able to communicate with other people when they approach me isn’t that much easier to bear. Do I write a post that expresses myself or do I talk to a friend? What if that post is important for me to express? How do I manage all this when my spoons are so limited?

(The things that may help make blogging and internet interaction easier for me cost money I don’t have. If I could dictate to someone who’d type my stories, for example--because fantasy names, speech to text and my Australian accent and autistic-fast speech are a disaster of incomprehensibility--I’d have more spoons for other online work. But I don’t have that money, so...)

One of the reasons I’ve been putting together the Aro Arrows site--an archive for aromantic-themed stock images--is because it’s something I can do for the community when I can’t type or express myself in words. It makes me feel like I’m doing something worthwhile even when words (typed, dictated) are impossible, and I think having free-use stock image options for professional websites and publications is important for a community looking to grow beyond Tumblr. So another thing I’ll be looking at is finding a balance between stories/posts and non-text-based creativity, because it’s easier for me to do a bit of both instead of mostly one or the other.

I’m in a difficult situation, and I see no good way out of it. Other than the realisation that I need to make my creativity help me pay for my medication, which means--because I am disabled--recognising that if I concentrate my spoons on that, I have to let go of or make compromises on other things. Do I know yet how I’m going to do this? No, I don’t!

In the meantime, if you have a $1 a month to spare and you want to support me, I do now have a Patreon. I’m posting something new every day this first week, which so far includes an exclusive Marchverse story, early access to a new Hallo, Aro story and early access to DNI-style aro arrow pride banners (part one, part two). There’s more banners and another exclusive story to come in the next couple of days as well.

Thanks so much for reading and your understanding. It’s genuinely appreciated.

[krystalkoya]

Ad Hoc | 01

So I finally did it. My first published fic, hopefully it’s not as cringe as I think it is. If y’all like this let me know. I have a couple ideas for this fic that I won’t completely give up on if at least one person likes this

read on ao3! 

pairing: coworker!hoseok x reader

genre: enemies to lovers (the superior trope!), future angst, future smut (18+), humour

rating: nc17

word count: 3.1k

chapter warnings: none!

———

Summary: Landing your dream job as an advertising exec at Kim Entertainment straight out of college was nothing like you imagined. Mostly due to the fact that your college rival, Jung Hoseok, sits ten feet away from you and never misses an opportunity to make your life a living hell. When a position opens up at the firm to be chief of advertising, you jump at the opportunity, but not without having to go up against Hoseok who is also vying for the position. In a dirty game of deception and betrayal, the last thing you expect to come out of it is love.

Series Masterpost

———

Dear god if you had to sit through another minute of this goddamn staff meeting you were going to kill yourself. That is, if the meeting didn’t bore you to death first.

Ever since the company had come under new management a few months ago, the new manager, Minho, had instituted routine monthly meetings to go over the company’s goals, its relationship with clients, projected sales for the year… you know, all that business mumbo jumbo.

And that was all fine and dandy. In fact, you actually thought the meetings were beneficial… if they were being held once every few months or so, not every damn month of the year. But, like a good employee, you faithfully attended each monthly meeting just to hear that nothing had changed since the last one.

If you were being honest, you had no idea how Minho got so far in his career. He was a nice guy, too nice really, a little awkward, but absolutely no balls below the belt whatsoever. The man couldn’t even tell Barbara, the resident granny (who, frankly, was due to retire ten years ago) that she was taking too long on her breaks. And not the socially acceptable one or two minutes late but more like fifteen minute breaks becoming thirties instead.

Looking past the fact that the man seemed the type to be terrified of his own reflection, you guess you could see why corporate hired him — when it came to marketing, he knew his stuff.

Just as you were beginning to ponder what you would be having for lunch that day, a reuben from the sub shop down the street sounded nice, but then again you had been craving Mexican lately…, you suddenly felt a [not-so-light] kick to your shin.

Jerking in your seat, you looked up to see the smirking man beside you. You were about to retaliate with a scolding and an even harsher kick to the shin but before you even had a chance he was he shushing you with a finger to his plump lips, pointing in the direction of Minho to indicate that you should pay attention.

“… to conclude our meeting today, I have some good news pertaining to the advertising department.“ You perked up a little in your seat, thoroughly intrigued for the first time ever first time that day.

“Corporate wants to change things up a bit in the ad department. That’s why they told me to let you all know that a new position is opening up here to be Chief Advertising Officer. CAO if you will.”

At the silence that ensued in response to his attempt at a ‘joke’, Minho took that as his cue to explain it (which only ever makes things worse).

“Get it… CAO, like CEO and CFO. They’re… they’re acronyms.”

“We get it, it just wasn’t funny.” Calls, you guessed it, Barbara from her seat in the back. The only one bold enough to say what everyone else was thinking because she’s set for life. Minho won’t fire her, a) because of the lack of balls situation mentioned earlier, and b) out of fear of securing a lawsuit for age discrimination on their hands.

At this point, it was just better to let the old bat retire on her own terms — she only had about a year left, two tops.

Minho, poor guy, shakes his head defeatedly, ignoring Barb’s comment in favor of finishing his announcement. Chuckling awkwardly, he begins again, “Right… Ah- as I was saying, a new position is opening up to be Chief of Advertising. Corporate wants things to be a little more streamlined in the ad department. They’re thinking a head of advertising position will achieve that. Anyone can apply so if you think you have the necessary skills, by all means have at it. But unless anyone has any further comments or concerns, this meeting’s adjourned.”

Usually you’re already up and on your feet before Minho can say ‘any further questions’ but today you’re left stewing in your seat. As a member of the advertising team here at Kim Entertainment you couldn’t be happier in your current position. But now that this opportunity had been presented to you, you couldn’t turn it away. More creative freedom and a higher salary? There was no way in hell you weren’t getting this promotion.

But with opportunities always come challenges. And you don’t know how you managed to forget one of the biggest challenges standing in your way ever since you started working here a year ago.

“I actually have a question, if you don’t mind.”

God, even the sound of his voice irritates the mother-loving shit out of you.

“Yes, Hoseok, go ahead.” Minho says, slowing in his collection of the papers on his desk.

Jung. Fucking. Hoseok.

“So what differentiates the Chief of Advertising from a regular person on the ad committee? And salary? What’s that like?”

“Of course, yes the perks of the position! You can expect a higher salary. It’s not set and generally depends on your experience and skill set, but it will be higher nonetheless. But some of the other benefits more freedom to work on your own commissions or projects, and you have final say in what ideas get pushed and what doesn’t.”

Everyone and everything that stood in your way could suck your left tit as far as you were concerned — you were getting this job. And fortunately, you would get to bury Jung’s ass in the process, a win-win situation for you.

“And, the interview process. How does that work? Is it just the standard interview and a ‘Congratulations, you got the job’ or a 'Sorry, better luck next time?’ or are they looking for something more?” He asks, arms folded and leaning back in his chair, his head tilted slightly in inquiry.

Despite not wanting to admit it, the man did ask good questions. You had been wondering this yourself.

“Oh! How could I forget! Yes there’s going to be a standard interview but in addition to that they also want to see an example of your own work. A personal project, if you will.”

A personal project? So in other words, they want to see what you can do when you are given full creative control over a project. This works out great because this has been exactly what you wanted to do for a while now. You couldn’t wait until the members of your team let you take the reigns on a project. Sure it was nice having a team to bounce ideas off of but sometimes, the feeling of being shot down for an idea you felt strongly for was disheartening.

“Come see me in my office so I can give you the full rundown of what corporate expects to see from you for this position.” He says looking at Hoseok before adding, “And that goes for anyone else who plans on applying. But for now, meeting adjourned. Let’s keep up the good work guys. I like what I’m seeing, great improvement from last month.”

Literally nothing had changed from last month, but that is the last thing on your mind right now, as it is too preoccupied with figuring out what you are going to do for your personal project. And also, how you are going to make it better than Hoseok’s as he is clearly also interested in the position.

As everyone begins to file out of the conference room, some chatting excitedly with each other, others uninterested in a job offer that has nothing to do with them, you follow suit. As you make the trek back to your desk, a pep in your step while you run over all the possible ideas you have for your personal project, Park Jimin falls into step with you.

He bumps his shoulder against yours as you walk, alerting you of his presence, rather violently, you might add.

“Big opportunity right? I have no doubt you’re applying for it. Or am I wrong?”

You give him a look. “You bet your cute ass I’m applying. I’d be an idiot to pass up this opportunity. I just have to figure out a way to outdo that asshole Hoseok and I’m set.”

Jimin flashes you a grin saying, “Aww, you think my ass is cute?” He briefly glances back at his derriere, giving himself a pleased smile before he turns back to you. “I’ve been doing this new thing where I incorporate squats into my workouts. They’re killer on leg day but I guess they’re finally paying off. Anyways, what have you got against that guy? Seriously, he’s not a bad dude from what I can tell.”

“Yeah, to you maybe!” you exclaim.

By this time you have reached the break room and Jimin reaches for the coffee pot to pour himself a mug while you watch him, thoroughly annoyed with the direction the conversation has taken. He offers you a cup but you shake your head, leaning against the counter with a sigh.

“Him and I… we have history. Goes back to my college days and I’d rather not relive those thank you very much.”

Jimin turns around to face you, leaning his back against the counter as well as he takes a sip of his coffee. You giggle when he grimaces, presumably because he forgot to add in the appropriate amount of sugar and creamer to the bitter cup of black coffee.

His next statement, however, wipes the grin right off your face.

“Ooh, a romantic tragedy. Tell me more. What, did he dump you for another girl and now you’ve got some sort of vendetta against him? Spicy. Tell me more.”

“What? No! Absolutely not. First of all, I’ve never dated nor will I ever date that asshole. And second of all, why couldn’t I have been the one dumping him?”

Jimin shrugs, muttering into his mug as he takes a sip, “I guess it could’ve gone that way too. But it’s easier to imagine him dumping you because… and don’t take this the wrong way… you’re you.”

Okay ouch. You’re offended to say the least. “And what is that supposed to mean?!?” You explode. You were doing that a lot today. Jimin must be in the mood for mischief.

“I tell her not to take it the wrong way and what does she do, she takes it the wrong way,” he mutters into his coffee mug, almost as if he’s talking more to himself than to you.

“Listen, no offense, but you didn’t seem like the type to be popular throughout college, or high school, or… at all really. You’ve got this quirky, kinda awkward, vibe going on with you. Don’t get me wrong, it’s cute but you don’t strike me as the type to be the ‘life of the party’.” Despite the fact that you’re glaring daggers into the side of his head right now, he elaborates. Unfortunately for you (and fortunately for Jimin), looks can’t kill.

“…Hoseok on the other hand radiates 'I was popular my entire life’ type of energy. I was thinking maybe you two hooked up or even dated for a bit but he dumped you to avoid jeopardizing his social status. Again, no offense to you or anything. If anything I’m offending him, because he was the asshole in this hypothetical situation.“

"You’ve put lots of thought into this haven’t you?” You say incredulously, truly astounded by how elaborate his story is.

Jimin takes a sip of his coffee (now appropriately sweetened) and sighs dramatically. “Sadly, yes. I’m afraid it’s kept me up into the wee hours of the morning for several nights now. So please, do me a favor and tell me what happened. I’m right aren’t I?”

Try as you might to deny it Jimin was right. At least partially. The part about about you and Hoseok dating or hooking up or whatever definitely wasn’t true, but is is true that the two of you ran in different social circles. You were more likely to be caught with your head in a textbook than at a party, where Hoseok seemed to have spent at least 40% of his time in college.

With a sigh you relent, dropping your guarded stance and admitting your defeat.

"Ok, fine, you might be onto something.” Jimin’s eyes widen excitedly and you’re quick to elaborate before he can get anymore ideas.

“Hoseok and I were never together in any way, thank god, but it is true that we were at completely separate ends of the social spectrum.”

Jimin smirks proudly but you pointedly ignore him.

“And… there was a brief moment in time where we were actually friends, or acquaintances, I guess? But that didn’t last long.”

“Friends? The two of you?”

“Very briefly. We stopped being friends when I found out he was a gigantic asshole. But I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Let’s get back to talking about that promotion. I was thinking– ”

“Promotion? You mean the one I’m going to get?”

At the sound of a voice that didn’t come from one of the two of you, you and Jimin snap your head around to see Hoseok standing near the doorway of the breakroom.

Unfortunately for you the universe had not answered your calls for a stress free day void of having to interact with the devil in a suit standing a couple feet away from you. Better luck tomorrow.

“Ew, have you just been standing there like a creep listening to our conversation this entire time?” you scowl out at him.

Hoseok shakes his head, hands in his pants pockets and a sly smirk on his face as approaches. He walks past the both of you, not paying you any mind, as he stops at the coffee machine and pours himself a cup.

“No. Trust me, I have better things to do than eavesdrop on your conversations. I just happened to come in and I heard the two of you talking about the new job offer opening up.” He’s not even looking at you, the pretentious prick, too focused on stirring in the appropriate amount of creamer into his cup.

“Want some advice?”

“I don’t ” you bite back.

He ignores you. “Hey, I’m just looking out for you. I don’t want you to get your feelings hurt when I get the job so I wouldn’t even bother applying if I were you.”

He’s still stirring that stupid cup of coffee and the fact that he’s not even looking at you while he insults you, like you’re not even worth the time of day, is extremely infuriating.

At this point you are seething, but you try your very best to not to go off on him as much as you want to. Working with him on a daily was already difficult but now that you two are vying for the same position? Oh, things are only about to get a hell of a lot worse.

“Thanks for your concern, but if you’re so sure that you’ve got this job already then you won’t mind if I go ahead and apply then. Since you don’t consider me to be any competition then it should be fine, right? Or did I read this all wrong and you’re actually worried I might get the job over you?”

Finally finished meddling with his coffee, he licks the red stirrer clean with his tongue and discards it with a flick into the trash can nearby. Mug in hand he spins around and leans against the counter, flashing a smug grin your way. And you’d be lying if you said that it didn’t affect you at least a smidgen. His smile was stunning, smugness to it and all. So what, he’s attractive. You still hated the man’s guts.

“I tried to warn you so I don’t wanna see any tears when I get it. But I suggest you get used to calling me 'Chief’ from now on. Has a nice ring to it doesn’t it?”

And before you can respond he’s already brushing past you and heading back to his desk, no doubt thoroughly enjoying the fact that he got the last word in while you’re left to gape like a fish out of water.

There’s a moment of silence while Jimin just stares at you seething at Hoseok’s retreating form disappearing into the main room. You almost forgot he was there at all until he finally speaks.

“God, the sexual tension between you two is strong. Can’t you guys just fuck already and end… whatever this is…?”

“Jimin!” you exclaim at him. “What you just witnessed was not sexual tension. It was just passionate mutual hate for each other.”

“Uh huh, sure.”

“You know what, fuck you.”

Jimin’s airy laugh floods your hearing and you wonder not for the first time how someone so mischievous could look so innocent.

“Listen, I just need your support with this, can I trust you to give me that?”

“Right, about that. I was thinking of applying for the position too.”

You give him an incredulous look. He can’t be serious.

“Jimin, you’re in accounting.”

“So? You heard the boss man. He said anyone could apply!”

“Yes, anyone with the right credentials. Do you have a degree in marketing or advertising or any other remotely related field? No you don’t. Come on Jimin, I don’t have time for this right now. I’ve already got enough on my plate dealing with Hoseok, I don’t need to add you to the mix.”

“Relax, I’m just kidding. My department can’t lose me. I’m the best accountant they have. And trust me, you have my full support. I have no doubt you’ll get the job.”

You give Jimin a bright smile and thank him dearly. Despite being a pain in your ass at times, he really was a great coworker and friend at that. He’s one of the few people always reassuring you when you’re nervous about a pitch or an idea you have in mind.

Still, you couldn’t help but feel apprehensive. You hated to admit it but Hoseok was good at his job. If there was anyone who could beat you out of this promotion it was him, not to mention you have no idea who else was considering applying for the position as well. But you were determined. You had to get this job. And you’d bury Hoseok and whoever else decided to go up against you to get it. But first things first… you needed a project idea.

[mrchalamet-mrstyles]

A rebuttal. Of sorts.

I am putting this under a cut for people who want to avoid the wank. I don’t blame you, I would if I could, trust me. I would normally ignore (I've ignored A LOT) but people keep wanting to bring me back into everything so I wanted to set a few things straight.

This is a post made by rainbowdazzle, day before yesterday about me. Hi, I’m the anti. She posted another, much more scathing and hateful rant yesterday but I didn't manage to cap it before she deleted (why? Stick to your guns if you are going to fling them around like this) and I wanted to clear a few things up about this whole ugly ungodly mess.

First, you all should know that Steph and I go way back. Almost two years now we've known each other. We were pretty close, in fandom friendship terms. We shared a Twitter private group chat with a couple of other fandom old timers, back in the day. We were also in another group chat that didn't go so well for Steph. Ask her about it sometime and ask her who had her back then. I lost friends in that chat because I stood up for her. Legitimately went to bat for her when there were people in that group doing to her, exactly what she is doing to me here. (I can search my phone, I'm sure the screencaps of all that mess are buried in there somewhere) But she keeps throwing around the accusation that I threw my friends under the bus and I would like to ask how? Where? When? And what is it she thinks she is doing here?

I changed my mind. That is my biggest crime. I saw some things in Armie that I didn't like and decided he didn’t deserve my stanning heart or time. I also really looked at what I was hoping for, between these people, with lives and families and careers, and didn't like the person that made me. I've been in cheating scenarios personally. It's not fun and it's not good and I wouldn't wish that on anyone. So. I didn't want to be involved in shipping them in real life anymore. If, at some point, they do wind up being a couple, then I will be the first to congratulate them, but until then, it's none of my business. I never tried to convince anyone to think like me and I never was ugly or mean to those that don’t. If you want to ship them, have at it. I don’t. It’s that simple.

True there have been things said in the heat of the moment that I wish I never had said and would take them back if I could. But I never went on an attack. Anything heated that has come from me, has been in defense of myself, in cases like this. If this anon had seen fit not to bring me into any of this (why they did, I would love to know) I would never have thought to make this post. I have my say and I move on. I have moved on.  

I never called anyone delusional. I have searched my blog for any reference I made using that term that has become the Charmie battle cry and there is nothing about Charmies I have called delusional. I may believe that some of the ideas I see tossed around are delusional, but I have never called anyone that. Ever. It is not my fault if you read an answer to an anon, or a rare comment I make about any of this and infer I am saying that OR if you somehow recognise yourself in anything I say. That is not my fault. That is not my intention. If you identify or feel anything I say is pointed at YOU that is your problem and maybe you should look at your behavior a little closer. I never call out anyone publicly the way Steph feels the need to do here. Charmies are the ones that feel the need to put my name out there. Still. Even when it's been months since I've had anything to do with any of this.

Anons, stop using me to stir up shit. For all the anons I've received, telling me to move on and leave fandom already, you make it impossible for me to do just that. I'm doing nothing but posting pics of Tim and Harry and my BTS boys, or talking about writing, trying to encourage creative outlets but you all keep beating this dead horse by bringing me into fights I don't even want to have anymore.

As for the PR hullabaloo. Again, my words twisted and taken out of context to use as a weapon against me. It is NOT a lie that I know someone with legit (family) ties to Sony. That is something I am willing to swear on. It is not a lie that the boys were encouraged to hype their friendship during promo. Read that again: they were told to hype their FRIENDSHIP during promo. They couldn't be encouraged to hype something that wasn't there. They are friends. They are close and love one another. I never said it was all fake. Some (Steph) read my comment and took it to the extreme. I was a hater to even mention it. It's a fact. That's all. It doesn't negate anything from promo. It just means they did their job really well because we have no idea where the difference would have been. I only ever mentioned it because I do see Charmie content that goes well  beyond the level in lack of common sense and if some took these things into consideration, maybe the strife and the angst of the failed hope of meet ups in Cannes (or whatever wish Charmies have on a given day) wouldn't be taken so hard by so many. I hoped it would give a measure of lowered expectations if the truth were known. For example, knowing they hyped a bit explains the lack of sm interaction much more easily than they are covering their tracks. This isn’t saying their sm interaction was all fake or for PR, it just offers a different perspective on it. That is it.  But to mention any thing could have been PR related (they would have been stupid not to? It's a business after all!) in the eyes of Charmies is a crime worse than anything else. That's all I'm trying to say and all I meant with any of the stuff I said.

I doubt this post will change anyone's mind about me, but there comes a point, when you see yourself being accused of things you know just aren't true, that you have to speak up.

[nathangarrettx-blog]

✧ ┆ ( SEBASTIAN STAN, 33, CISMALE, HE/HIM ). I just saw NATHAN GARRETT running around Freeridge, I wonder what they’re up to? Maybe they’re busy working as a BARTENDER & PIANO TEACHER. Either way, word around town is that they’re known for being PASSIONATE and CYNICAL, but I wouldn’t be so quick to judge them. + ( jana, 24, gmt+2, she/her. )

Hi there angels! I’m Jana and this is one of my favorite muses called Nathan. I’ve been writing him on and off for a few years now and am super excited to play him around here and hope y’all will enjoy this lil grump, too (he has good days, I promise). Under the cut you’ll find some random information on him along with some stats!

THE BASICS

Full Name: Nathan Garrett Age: thirty-three Occupation: Piano teacher by day and bartender by night to get by, his dream is to make a living with his music alone as a concert pianist Nationality: American, his mother is of Romanian descent Sexuality: Homoflexible Birthday: August 13th Zodiac Sign: Leo Qualities: loyal, curious, honest, passionate, creative Flaws: hot-tempered, arrogant, cynical, sarcastic, doubtful/mistrusting MBTI: INTP-T Moral Alignment: Neutral Good Enneagram: Type 4

THE FAMILY SITUATION

Father: Nicholas Garrett (estranged, no contact) Mother: Ivona Garrett (estranged, very little, sparse contact)

THE LOOKS

Faceclaim: Sebastian Stan Height: 6′ Hair Color/Length: Dark brown and short, usually styled up and back yet unruly at times, mostly because he drags his hands through it a lot (here’s a picture for reference) Facial Hair: Nathan usually always sports a bit of stubble but never anything that could be classified as a beard. Sometimes he’s clean shaven. He makes sure he looks neat at all times unless he’s in one of his ruts where he couldn’t care less about his looks. Eyes: Blue/Grey, they’re usually rather dark. He also usually has rather dark circles beneath them due to his lack of sleep and stress levels Complexion: Pale with warm undertones, he tans easily in the summer and therefore always looks a little bronzed Body: Athletic yet slim, he doesn’t work out excessively but tries to exercise whenever he can Style: Nathan likes to keep things simple and usually dresses in basic shirts and jeans. He’s always dressed well though and makes sure that he is. He doesn’t wear the most expensive clothes but owns a few high quality leather jackets that he pairs with button down shirts and a good pair of boots. He also likes bomber jackets and coats. Here are some examples of things he’d wear: x | x Smells Like: Since he’s a smoker (even though he’s trying to quit) he always makes sure that the smell isn’t as present on him. He chews gum a lot and always has mints on him so a bit of peppermint is always mixing with his overall scent which is rather earthy yet fresh and a little citrusy. His fragrance of choice is Dior Homme but he changes it up whenever he feels like splurging.

ABOUT

Okay so this is Nathan! He’s a private babe but also rather friendly when he’s having a good day. On his bad days he tends to be a little grumpy but don’t fret, he’s a nice guy deep down (mostly) even though he hates showing it

He’s very soft on the inside but hates nothing more than seeming vulnerable or approachable - he likes his solitude and is very protective of it which is why he built up an almost unbreakable wall around himself

He’s from Ohio originally but is looking for a completely fresh start (once again) and moved to Freeridge three years ago

Nathan grew up as an only child with rather distant parents who had high expectations for his life that he just couldn’t live up to, mostly because he didn’t want to either. He was known as the rich, spoiled kid when he was in high school (he wasn’t that but his family had a lot of money) which had already alienated him from most kids and left him rather lonely - a pattern that went on through his entire life

This guy works as a bartender by night and a piano teacher by day to make a living after failing to follow his dreams of becoming a concert pianist despite the fact that he’s not keeping his hopes up, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be successful with his art

He’s also not exactly rich and barely makes ends meet each month but gets by somehow

He complains a lot but tries to be a more positive version of himself these days

This guy is jaded and most definitely scarred by a few things that happened to him, including family issues he never really talks about (to do with his sexuality and rebellion when he was a teen and overall difficult personality) and relationship stuff, toxic friendships, etc. - he pretty much lost hope that he’ll ever meet people who’re actually genuine which makes him incredibly mistrusting

To make things worse he had an affair with a married man four years ago that went on for an entire year. They met at a bar in New York he often played piano at and bonded over their passion for music and writing but they also connected in a way Nathan never had with someone before and what was supposed to be a slip-up turned into something more. It was the first time he ever felt like he belonged and was truly understood and heard which is why it shook him up entirely when things went downhill and his expectations couldn’t be met by his lover. He hasn’t dated ever since and promised himself that he’d never let himself be this vulnerable and real ever again.

He’s a firm believer of “getting rid of people who’re not good for you” which is why he doesn’t have a lot of people in his life left

As in he doesn’t have any contact to either of his family members and is pretty much just pretty lonely by default (and by choice) but he’s not sad about it, he thinks his life is easier that way and he tries not to dwell on it unless he’s feeling a little bitter and like his cynical self which happens more often than he’d like

He is incredibly good at playing the piano so you’ll most likely hear him play no easy pieces ever. This man practices hard each and every day and wants to improve constantly, he’s also classically trained

Nathan has quite the temper if he gets upset but is usually pretty chill to be around and enjoys meeting people despite his loner personality when he’s having a good day. If someone’s friendly towards him, he’ll usually be friendly in return. He’s trying to change after all and wants to become a stronger, better person and a little less withdrawn and moody.

Usually he tries to keep to himself though even though he knows some more human contact would be good for him

He’s working hard on getting his life back together after letting it fall apart over the years and tries to become a better, happier version of himself because right now he’s rather bitter

He’s also smart and observant of his surroundings. He’d like to think he’s good at reading people even though he ignored that quality in the past years because of his rather self-destructive ways

Overall, he’s nice if he wants to be but jaded and scarred by the things he went through which messed with his trust in people and made him a little anti-social

If you want to know more about anything at all, just shoot me a message or reach out to plot! I have a little connection page up for him but I’m always up for pretty much anything! :) I’m also really excited to be here! <3