#if you couldn’t tell i suck at outfit design. yet another thing i must work on

[k1tty5]

mezalean smalletho won’t leave my brain

closeups

and also extra doodles because i’m going to goinsane

[boldlyanxious]

Light in the Window

Jasonette July prompt 10: light

Jasonette July

My masterlist

Marinette jumped as there was a crash outside her window. She cursed loudly as she realized she ended up with a long, jagged line of stitching going off the wrong direction. At least she had just started this part and it would be on the inside so no one would see the mishap. She glanced over at the window. It had gone very silent but the crash was too loud for it to have been something that would have crept away without her hearing it.

She supposed she could use a stretch anyway. It wouldn’t do to not check out something hitting her window at this hour in Gotham. Too many possible things to go wrong. She didn’t want to test her luck against the City of Crime. But test it she had apparently, she thought with a sigh as she looked through the curtains.

She pried the window open to check and see if the form outside her window was breathing. She didn’t know all the characters that ran around on the rooftops in this city. They seemed to have a full cast of rotating characters. It was basically a vigilante soap opera. Too many of them used red as a main color. Perhaps it was inspired by Deadpool. They couldn’t show weakness so they had to camouflage the blood from any injuries.

The man moved and groaned slightly as his arm flopped off her window as she pushed it up. He jolted when his hand landed on his chest. She sucked in a breath as he went from laying there appearing dead to shooting his hand out to grasp her wrist in a death grip instantaneously. She backed away and started what would have been a surprised squeal if his hand hadn't covered her mouth muffling any noise she would have produced. He slipped through the window and closed it and curtain in a quick motion. He pushed her against the wall with his hand that was still covering her mouth. He made a quiet shushing noise before removing his hand and then walked over and turned off her light leaving her apartment in total darkness.

Marinette should have looked for a pamphlet or guide to the rooftop cast. It was something she had thought about but hadn’t done yet because she had hardly left since moving in. She had supplies and groceries delivered and there was a trash chute in the hallway. She hadn’t needed much yet and had a lot of work to do. Learning about the outside world here was not that high up on her to do list. She would have to hope that since he hadn’t already attacked that he would not find cause to do so.

She could have done a better job decluttering her pile of boxes that she hadn’t unpacked. She realized this as she tripped on a stack and then nearly fell over another. She hadn’t realized how close he had left her to the hazard. But before she tumbled all the way to the ground he had caught her mid fall and pulled her off her feet. She was awkwardly against his chest and thrashing until he set her down somewhere else. He moved her hand to the counter so she could tell that he had put her down in the kitchen. He must have some sort of night vision in his helmet.

“Do you have a light in here?" he asked.

“There is a switch by the fridge.”

A brief shuffle of feet and a flick and the soft glow of the kitchen light brought them out of darkness. Marinette still wasn’t sure what to say. He seemed to be moving around a bit, possibly checking for injuries. Now that there was enough light to see, she could see that he had guns on him. So, probably not one of the less dangerous ones. She didn’t think they used guns much. He righted himself a moment later, she could tell he was still on high alert and looking around her apartment. She moved herself closer to her abandoned place setting from earlier and tried to pick the quickest route to the door just in case she needed to escape.

“So, umm, who are you?” Marinette tried to sound casual.

She, of course, couldn't see his expression when he turned his head to look at her, but she imagined it was a quizzical expression on his face. Probably most Gothamites, native or otherwise had a good idea of most of the players around. Maybe he was one of the main characters and was offended that she didn’t know him.

“Are you new here?” he asked.

“Yes, not quite as new as you seem to be right here in my apartment. But I moved here recently.” she paused, not able to help a bit of snark in her current state. “The packed boxes are not just my choice of decor.”

She was glad to hear what she thought might have been a chuckle under his helmet.

“Most would probably tell you to leave them packed and just leave.”

“Everyone I know told me not to come at all, but my work is here.”

“Guess you can’t fault that.”

“So you aren’t offering a name, but you also don’t seem to be heading out. I was making some tea. Do you want some?”

“That sounds really nice. I would love some. Since you are so graciously offering your hospitality.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

She turned away to start the water and went about getting some snacks while waiting for the kettle to boil. He seemed to have no issue helping himself to whatever she had put out after removing his helmet to reveal a lensed mask beneath it. She ended up having to go in search of additional offerings because she hadn’t considered how much the man would eat. She pulled out noodle bowls she had made ahead to have easy food for herself and offered him one. It was simple to do with the kettle already freshly boiled.

She turned back around and slapped his hand away from the last macaron. Then gasped in shock when she realized what she had done. She still had no idea who he was. He laughed at her again before he picked up the macaron anyway. But instead of eating it he walked around to where she was sitting and lifted it up to her mouth. Marinette blushed as she took a small bite of it. He must have still been laughing at her because he leaned his face close to hers before he put the remainder in his own mouth.

“These are very good. I couldn’t just let you have the last one.”

“It's fine,” she said, her cheeks still burning. “I was due to make more soon anyway.”

“You made them? It is definitely settled, I will have to come back for more.”

“I don’t even know why you came here now. Unless you just didn’t have any food and needed some of mine.”

“I followed the light. I needed to lose someone following me.”

“Are you in danger?"

Her unasked question was whether or not he had put her in danger. He carried his tea and bowl of noodles and sprawled out on her couch before answering.

"They will have moved on tonight or will soon. I'm relatively certain no one saw where I went."

She set her own food on a tv tray and sat down on the other side of the couch. She was trying to pretend that this was all perfectly normal. She went about setting her food and tea up how she liked in silence. She didn't know what to say and he was content to remain silent. She could feel him watching her but she didn't want to turn and make eye contact with his mask lenses.

“Tell me about yourself.” He said breaking the silence.

“There isn’t much to tell. I moved here to expand my client base.”

“Where did you come from?”

“Originally I’m from France but after fashion school I took a semester in New York to get additional skills and help with understanding the language.”

“Fashion?” He raised his eyebrow at her.

“Not everyone can be as confident as you and run around the rooftops every night in an outfit that looks like that.”

He leaned close to her when she said that. She was pretty sure he was trying to intimidate her but she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Apparently her could tell though.

“Are you laughing at me?” she shook her head and bit her lip harder. “I like you. You either take no shit or you have no self preservation.”

“You have been here for a bit and you seem to have developed a vested interest in keeping me alive.”

“Did you not notice that I am carrying guns? I’m very good at using them.”

“I did. But you also ate all my food and decided you want to come back for more of my macarons.”

“I could get cookies anywhere. I’m a crime lord. I get whatever I want.”

“You probably won’t get better than someone who grew up in a French patisserie. But maybe that doesn’t matter if you are a crime lord resorting to hiding out in the apartment of a lowly fashion designer.”

“I like this. I don’t get a lot of people willing to talk to me like this.”

“Maybe its just because I don’t know who you are.”

“Could be. But I think you just can’t help yourself.”

He stood up and began walking around her apartment looking around. He spent a couple minutes looking at her designs in progress and then picked up her sketchbook. He held it up silently and she nodded, giving him permission to look in the book. When he got to a blank page he doodled a little picture and then closed the book without showing her. He looked back out the window and seemed to come to a decision.

“Thanks for the shelter and the hospitality. I guess I never got your name.”

“I didn’t get yours either.”

“I’m the Red Hood.”

Her eyes widened slightly. He chuckled. “So you have heard of me then.”

“I’m Marinette,” she said while nodding.

He walked up to her and brushed her hair from her face gently.

“I hope to see you soon Marinette. Its been a refreshing experience.”

With that he put his helmet back on and left through the window her came in and disappeared into the night. Marinette decided she was finished working for the evening and went to bed without bothering to put anything away. That certainly had been an interesting encounter. She wondered if he really would come back. She would have to buy more groceries if he did.

Taglist

@jasonette-july-event | @theymakeupfairies | @emjrabbitwolf | @vixen-uchiha | @trythisagainlove | @trippingovermyfeet | @tbehartoo | @adrestar | @zynna

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

Stalker X Stalker, Part 2

First part

Next

Perma tag: @nathleigh

Stalker x Stalker taglist: @aespades

Tim wheeled his bike into the alleyway nearby and set the alarm to call him if someone messed with it beyond the normal ‘must touch cool thing’ instincts.

Once he was sure that his bike couldn’t be easily stolen, he turned back to where Marinette was waiting for him.

She struggled with her phone with her gloved fingers. His lips twitched into a grin and he took a moment to school his face into a neutral expression before he started over.

After a second, her head turned to look at him and she flashed a wink, pocketing her phone.

“Cheers!” She chirped, flashing him a wave.

Tim raised an eyebrow at her behind his domino mask. “I hate to break this to you, but that’s a British thing.”

He could only see the top half of her face, and yet he was sure she was pouting. “Kwami, this is Canada French all over again.”

“Canada --?”

“They speak the language all wrong,” she said, as if that made it make more sense.

“I feel like you’re implying that I speak English wrong.”

“Would you rather I say it outright? ‘Cheers’ is a cute word and it sucks that Americans don’t use it.”

“Is this really a hill you’re going to die on?”

“Not just a hill I’m going to die on, it’s the hill.”

He scoffed lightly at that, then turned to get the door for her. The moment they stepped inside they tensed. The silent stares pressed in on them on all sides and he felt Marinette shuffle just the slightest bit closer to him as they took their place in line. The Gothamites continued watching them -- no, they were watching her -- warily, and of course they were (new people in costumes usually meant pain for them).

Well, he could assure them she was safe, at least.

He slowly, carefully, threw his arm over his shoulders. Marinette’s hand twitched towards the arm on instinct to throw him off, but otherwise she didn’t give much indication that what was going on was weird. There were a few more tense seconds before people turned back to what they were doing, visibly relieved by the fact that she was apparently on the good side. Chatter started back up.

Marinette relaxed slightly under his arm and he gave her shoulder a little squeeze in a weak attempt at comfort.

“Kwami, I forgot how much being a new hero sucks.”

“Vigilante,” he corrected her absently.

She rolled her eyes. “At least try and make it sound like you’re not a cop with a bird theme.”

He sputtered, pulling away to cross his arms over his chest. “Hey!”

“Am I wrong?”

“Yes!”

She rested her hands on her hips.

“We break laws!”

She snickered. “So do cops.”

Tim… didn’t have a retort for that. Luckily, he didn’t need to have one, because it was their turn to order. Neither of them hesitated and within a minute they had their drinks and were out the door. They waved for the few cameras pointed at them on their way out, false smiles lighting up their faces, and then quickly ducked back into the alleyway to have their drinks in privacy.

“I’m going to start going places as Red Robin more often since it seems to mean I’ll get served quicker,” joked Tim as he leaned against the wall.

She gave him a puff of laughter and then pulled the bottom of her mask up to take a sip of her caramel frappe. He watched her expression for a moment and then decided that it must have been good because she didn’t instantly recoil. He pulled his coffee to his lips and took a confident gulp, only to choke.

“Shit,” he hissed, fighting the urge to spit it out.

Now that he knew what to look for he could see the pain behind her eyes.

“It’s really bad,” she informed him, purposefully just a moment too late in her warning.

He huffed a little, looking at the cup in his hand. It’s an iced coffee! How do you even mess that up?

There was a beat as the two vigilantes considered their options, before giving each other shrugs and downing their drinks. It may have been bad, but at least it was caffeinated. Marinette, lucky her, had an easier time of it because she’d gotten whipped cream with hers. He was tempted to snatch the drink from her hands to have something to wash down the cup threatening to sully the good name of coffee for him…

But he didn’t have to. She smiled and offered him the last of her whipped cream. He squinted at it suspiciously as if expecting it to be poisoned. After the coffee incident just a moment before he wasn’t about to take any chances.

She rolled her eyes. “It’s actually good, promise.”

“If you’re lying I’m taking back vouching for you to Batman,” he told her.

Her eyes crinkled with mirth.

“I’m serious! If it’s terrible I’m marching back to the Batcave --!”

“All the way back?”

“Yes! All the way back to the Batcave! And I’m going to revoke my vouching!”

“Oh noooooo, not the vouching!” She said, bringing her hands to her cheeks in mock terror. When he continued to ‘glare’ at her she snickered and assured him that: “It’s fine, I’m pretty sure it’s from a can.”

He squinted at her, because canned whipped cream was still far below his normal standard, but he did end up taking it. It was… okay.

“See? Not poisoned.”

“Very suspicious thing to say unprompted but okay.”

She grinned, reaching over to swipe some cream off his nose. “You’ll die in exactly four hours”

He rolled his eyes. “Hm. I guess I should go home and work on making an antidote, then.”

“Yeah. Good luck with that. I’ll see you later.” She leaned forward and pressed her mask to his cheek in a sort of kiss before heading off.

He watched her leave, smiling to himself. He leaned back against his motorbike absently, thinking.

Well, he supposed he didn’t need to watch her to make sure she was safe anymore. She was Ladybug, she could take care of herself in a fight…

But then a thought occurred to him: she couldn’t detect him when he had been watching her earlier. He bit his lip anxiously. Sure, he was trained to evade detection but did he really want to chance it? In a place like Gotham the ability to tell when you’re being watched is an absolute must.

Okay. Fine. He’d watch her just a little longer…

~

Marinette frowned when her phone rang while she was doing some late-night work.

“Yeah?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be asleep, M’lady?”

A wide grin stretched across her face and she fell back in her bed. “Chaton! And here I was thinking you would never call!”

Adrien laughed. “Well, our time zones don’t exactly match up and I forgot that your sleep schedule is less of a schedule and more of a suggestion.”

“Fuck you, too, then.”

He laughed and she could hear him shifting around on the other side. She heard him zip something up on the other side and she lit up. “When’re you coming over?” He sighed and that was all it took to let her know that he had bad news. The momentary silence afterwards as he tried to figure out what to say was a good indication, too.

“I can’t, unfortunately. The Son of Hawkmoth moving away right after he gets jailed isn’t a good look. The United States Government isn’t that eager to have me, either.”

She wasn’t about to give up that easily. “Just steal the horse miraculous from Fu and come over illegally.”

He snorted. “Yeah, no, straight up disappearing is even more suspicious, thanks.”

Marinette frowned. She supposed that made sense…

She pulled her cat plush over so she could rest her head against it. “It’s so boring without you.”

“You’re making new friends, right?” He questioned, concerned. “I saw on the news that you’ve met the other vigilantes already.”

“Yeah, I guess… but they clearly don’t trust me.”

“Well, did you trust me when we started out?”

“No…”

“So give them time. They’ll realize you’re the best person on Earth soon enough.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, obviously. They’d have to be blind not to notice that.”

“Well, one of them is called Batman --.”

“I’m hanging up on you.”

He laughed at her and she smiled as she burrowed into her plush.

“Thanks, Chaton.”

“Anytime. Now, go to sleep.”

She rolled her eyes and hung up on him without promising him anything.

~

He leaned against the concrete of the roof, head on his arms to prevent scratching up his chin as he watched her through the window. He kind of worried about her having the blinds open like that, anyone could look in at her, but at least she closed it at night.

Still, he couldn’t deny that it certainly made things easier for him. She did most things by window light -- to save electricity, he theorized -- so he didn’t have to work all that hard to keep track of her.

Currently, she was working on stitching some pieces of an outfit. Her tongue poked out of her mouth a little when she concentrated, he had learned. A tiny part of him wondered if she did that as Ladybug, too, and he just couldn’t see it under her mask.

He kind of wished he could ask. Maybe one day he would (if they ever got close enough for him to reveal he’d been watching her without her knowledge, of course).

His phone buzzed in his pocket, pulling him from his thoughts, and he groaned to himself as he synced his earbuds and picked up.

“Yeah, B, what do you need?”

~

Listen, Marinette liked her job. She had the privilege of designing most of the outfits she did and that was a lot of fun -- certainly more fun than working solely on commissions -- but… sometimes she just wants to be told what to do. Artist’s Block is real and it fucking sucks.

Thankfully, Gotham gave quite a bit of inspiration. The difference between Gotham and Paris was striking. Paris was pristine; lots of tourists meant keeping the city in a constant state of newness, all bright colors and surfaces so clean you can see your reflection in them. Gotham, on the other hand, felt exceptionally lived in; graffiti, decaying buildings, cracked sidewalks…

She found a nice vantage point that overlooked the city and looked out over the horizon. That was another difference between the two: the height of buildings in Gotham was far more varied than those of Paris. It was more interesting to look at, she thought.

(It had been a point of annoyance at night as she could no longer jump from rooftop to rooftop with ease, but that’s not the point here.)

Maybe she could do something inspired by all the different heights. Audrey would probably like a dress like that.

She smiled walking to a nearby gargoyle. Red graffiti dubbed them Charlie, and who was she to not use his preferred name?

“Hello, Charlie, may I sit on you?” She joked quietly.

Charlie did not answer, not that she really expected him to.

She perched herself on the gargoyle’s back and pulled her sketchbook from a secret pocket in her leather jacket. She hummed tunelessly as she sketched out the shape.

Layers of different lengths -- and different colors, too, of course, she thought as she pulled out some colored pens (what’s the point of different layers if you don’t make it rainbow?) -- and oh it definitely had to trail a little in the back for the drama…

Artist’s block hit her like a too-high wall on patrols as she stared at where the bodice needed to be. What should she do? Obviously it needed to be relatively simple otherwise she risked the dress being an eyesore but…

It was just her luck that the moment she came to a decision about what to do for the bodice and accessories is the moment the first water droplet hit her sketchbook. She pulled her gaze to the sky and noticed the storm cloud overhead.

Shit, it was starting to rain.

She looked back down at her sketchbook, irritation spiking under her skin.

Option one: tough it out and continue drawing so she doesn’t risk forgetting the idea she’d had.

Option two: don’t risk her outfit (or her health, she guessed) and just head inside like a sane person.

… Marinette chose option one. She wouldn’t be herself without the occasional bad decision.

She drew her jacket over her head and hunched over her sketchbook as she continued sketching out her design.

Except, after a few minutes, she didn’t feel the beat of the rain on her jacket. She blinked a few times because she could still hear the rain nearby and she started to wonder if she had died somehow before she caught the sound of someone moving just out of her seeing range.

She turned her head to see a man holding an umbrella over her head, her jacket falling back to rest on her shoulders.

She gave him a once over. It was a little paranoid, she could admit, but she was in Gotham; it paid to be cautious. He was wearing a thick trench coat and gloves, which was a big red flag. He also had open posture -- more open than was natural, actually -- what with his slight slouch and hands spread wide in a somewhat placating gesture. The only good thing was that he was keeping a respectful distance, even standing a bit in the rain in order to avoid crowding her.

… well, he had an umbrella, at least.

She gripped the gargoyle tighter with her legs just in case he decided he wanted to try and push her, then turned to face him more.

“Hi,” she said carefully.

“You know, it’s illegal to be up here,” he said, flashing her an almost blindingly white smile.

She grinned. “You’re breaking the law, too, then.”

“Yeah. I won’t tell on you if you don’t tell on me.”

She reached a pinky out and, after a second’s hesitation, he returned the gesture.

Deal made, he wiped some of the water away with gloved fingers and took a seat beside her.

He clearly trusted her more than she trusted him, even allowing his legs to hang over the side of the building. She wondered why, vaguely, but she couldn’t exactly go and ask...

So, instead she smiled and said: “Thanks for the help. Water stains are a bitch to get out of leather.”

“You’re welcome, but I really can’t believe you went out without an umbrella in this city of all places.”

She shrugged sheepishly. “I’m a little new here, to be honest.”

She watched him carefully out of the corner of his eyes. The man frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by her laughter.

“I’m kidding, I’m not stupid enough to genuinely tell someone that. I was just going for the Manic Pixie Dream Girl aesthetic.”

His shoulders relaxed in a way that would have been imperceptible if she hadn’t been trained to check body language. She let herself relax her grip on the gargoyle a little as well; he had been concerned about her right then, he was probably pretty safe. Safe enough to not strain her legs too much, at least.

“Well, I do like your aesthetic,” he said.

She raised her eyebrows. “The Manic Pixie Dream Girl stuff, my outfit, or what I’m drawing?”

“All of it. But mostly the outfit.”

She felt a faint blush rise to her face but she brushed him off with a: “Yeah, thanks, but I’m not about to start taking fashion advice from a guy in a trenchcoat.”

He gasped and brought his free hand to his chest in mock offense. “Excuse you, this is peak Gotham fashion!”

“It’s shady, that’s what it is.”

“That’s what Gotham fashion is!”

She couldn’t have rolled her eyes harder if she tried. And she did try.

Her gaze fell back to her work and she sighed as she pulled out her pens and started working on finishing up her sketch.

“So, what’re you up here for?” She asked because she didn’t want to risk him getting bored and leaving with the umbrella.

“Hm? Oh, I do photography in my spare time. Figured I’d scope out some new areas.”

“Know all the best places in Gotham?”

“You have no idea.” The man flashed her a grin. “It’s been a while since I’ve gone in person, though, so I figured I’d get some update shots.”

“Well, if we both need to go sightseeing around Gotham for our things, why not do it together?”

He raised an eyebrow at her but she could see the way his lips twitched downwards with concern. “Trust me that much already? We’ve just met.”

“Well, you seem like a nice guy...” She smirked. “And I could totally beat your ass.”

He scoffed and unbuttoned his trenchcoat to prove to her that he did, in fact, have muscles hidden beneath all those layers and she laughed before she noticed the shirt he was wearing.

Holy shit. She’d made that shirt. He was wearing one of her shirts. She could see the gold stitching partially hidden beneath his collar, and fuck maybe she was concerned about all the wrong things.

Her eyes narrowed in on him just slightly. He clearly wasn’t actively hiding the shirt and didn’t seem concerned that he had shown her, which meant he:

a) didn’t know she was MDC,

b) saw her as just another artist,

or c) was showing her on purpose so she could make an informed decision about being his friend.

So… he didn’t seem to be a threat to her.

Maybe she could do some checking up on him, though, just to be safe.

She smiled. “I realize I never got your name. Probably would be a problem if we’re going to be spending more time together from now on.”

He grinned. “Yeah, it’s kinda hard to be friends with someone if you don’t even know their name. I’m Tim Drake.”

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” she said, watching his expression carefully.

He remained impassive. She wasn’t sure what that meant -- or if it meant anything at all, for that matter.

She pulled out her phone and offered it to him, taking the umbrella so he could type his number in with both hands. That done, she stuck the phone back in her pocket and smiled up at him.

“I’m stealing your umbrella, by the way,” she informed him, grip tightening on the handle in case he tried to take it back from her.

He grinned and made no move to do so. “If you must. Can you at least walk me inside the building before you run off with it?”

She giggled. “I guess I can do that, yes.”

~

It had been a long time since Tim had fanboyed this hard.

If he was any younger, he would have fallen back on his bed and squealed like a person in those old movies. As it were, he still wore a dopey smile.

He had MDC’s number! And not her work number, because he’d already had that, this was her real number!

And, even cooler, she might just let him go with her to get inspiration! Who wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to watch one of their favorite artists do their thing?!

… oh, yeah, also the protection thing, obviously. That was the whole reason he was doing this, after all.

It would be so much easier to protect her if he went out with her on these excursions. Just being around men tended to ward off potential assailants. It was perfect!

Which meant he wouldn’t have any reason to follow her for her own protection anymore…

Wait, what about when she needed to go out for chores like groceries? She’d still need to be safe for that! Gotham is a scary place! What if someone tried to follo -- what if someone tried to mug her or something dangerous like that? No, she still needed his help!

Yeah, no, he has to do this. It’s for her own safety.

[all-the-names-are-taken-aaaaa]

Saving Paris Final Straw

"We head back to Paris tomorrow" Tikki said sadly.

"Yeah we do" Marinette putting the last letter in the last envelope. "China is nice but we have a job." Sliding the envelopes into her bag Marinette moves to hug her dear friend. "We will come back when we defeat howkmoth."

"Hey Claude!" Marinette yells to get the boys attention. She inwardly flinches at how loud her voice got. "Yo Mari what's up" the boy says exactly. "Well it's your birthday today. Allegra said these are your favorite." Marinette does her best to act like her normal self as she hands the box to him. Claude takes the box and pauses for a moment "thanks Mari. Didn't know you did this for the whole school" Marinette laughs "we have a small school and you are kinda new so why not?" Claude made a mental note to ask Allen if Marinette always does these sort of things. Something seems off...

"We should head to class" Marionette points in the direction of her class. "Oh yeah we should thanks again Mari" He says rushing to his class. "Sweet you got a Marinette special!"Allan says almost as soon as Claude enters the room. "Of course he did Nette never forgets a birthday." Allegra states as if it was normal "Happy birthday by the way"

"Wait this is normal? Like I'm not in her class and we aren't friends. How does she even know it's my birthday" Claude asks setting the box on his desk. "Well she is part of the student council so she has basic information on everyone. Like birthdays and allergys. And I asked her one time why she did it. I believe her exact words were "it hurts to be forgotten and a single act of kindness can change everything." Allegra reveals.

"It's not just birthdays dude. If she knows something big has happened good or bad you will find yourself receiving some sort of amazing gift." Allan states and Aurora joins "Yeah when I lost the competition last year she made me a whole outfit to wear to the next competition. I tried to pay her but she refused. When Marc got sick she gave his mom some special soup from her uncle. It made him feel better almost eminently."

"Danm she's amazing." Claude says sitting down. Everyone in the school must have some sort of gratitude or respect for her going so far to help. "Too bad her class does not seem to realize that." Kagami stated with a broken pin in her hand. The entire room goes quiet. Kagami rarely enters conversations before class. The fact she was talking and the angry tone her voice held was not something anyone expected.

Allegra holds a sad look on her face "it is true. At this point I'm scared she will go back to..." Another pin broke. Allan gasped. Aurora made a chocking sound "No way. No way it could get that bad again" Allan then screeched "Hawkmoth that son of-" Kagami throws an eraser at him. "She would do anything for her friends. I have seen her fight off an akuma and manage to keep a butterfly away. I was not able to catch her befor she left as I saw it threw the window." Kagami states looking down. Claude felt even more respect for this girl.

"Look eather way she wouldn't want us having this conversation right now. She would want us to calibrate with Claude." And so they forgot for a while.

An akuma alert rang out around lunch. "My lady may I say you look perrrrfect today" chat says completely ignoring the akuma. "Chat we need to talk once this battle is ove" her voice is so plain no teasing on nothing. Chat nods and the akuma is taken care of quickly.

"Chat... My civilian self has been hurt a lot recently. I nearly became acumatized multiple times. I believe Hawkmoth is targeting me so I-" chat rushes forward to hug her "please don't leave"

Ladybug pushes him away "Chat I can not feel anything. No emotions No pain. It is because of a type of medicine. It only does this to a few but I am one of the few. I have to protect Paris so it had to be done" she swings off befor. Chat can respond.

Marinette sighed as she finishes up some of her commissions. "It is so hard to act it out Tikki. I could not do it as ladybug it would only destact me." Tikki sits on her shoulder nodding sadly. The other kwamis did not take the knees well eather but it was their only choice at this point. Even Plag was considering a new chosen if his did no learn to take things more seriously quickly.

A ring went through the room. "Time for another one." Marinette mumbles picking up the bottle of anxiety meds she used to take so long ago. Marinette has a unique reaction to the meds in that she feels nothing. It's rare and can be fixed by changing meds but Marinette lives in Paris and Paris is under attack by a magical supervillem.

One by one people in the school had special days and were greeted by presents from Marionette. The thing that was different was each presents was accompanied by a letter stating how she felt about the person. Several people were moved to tears by these letters.

"Marc what is wrong?" Aurora notices the look of completely shock and horror. He turns the phone to his classmate who lets out a scream quickly everyone rushes over including Ms. Mendeleiev. As soon as she sees the picture "were is she?" Marc drops his phone "Chloe and Nathaniel bought her to the nurse. She's how you described it Allegra..." Horror spreads through the classroom Kagami leaves not long after. It's silent for a long while... "This is their fault." Allan finely speaks. "Those letters were written befor she started the meds. When did she start the meds again" Aurora whispers. "Befor my birthday she went on that trip" Chaude states.

Allegra moves to the front of the classroom and stands beside Ms. Mendeleiev. "Look we do not know everything but we know Marinette. She would never have gone back on those meds unless she absolutely had too. All we can do is support her. Try to avoid her class we are all too angry. It would only cause problems if we acted right now. Everyone try to stay calm last thing we want is an akuma from this." Allegra takes out some chocolate from the teachers desk and hands it out. One of the ways to avoid akumas is to eat chocolate since it is scientificly proven to make people happy.

Later that day however Aurora overheard a conversation between Mylene and a new girl named who likes to be called Mix.

"Wait if all of the stuff Marinette makes is free then were does the costume money go?" Mix asks while looking over the budgeting from former plays and the current one. "Oh I donate it to charity" Mylene is so excited over explaining the charity that she does not notice the concerned look on Mix face. "I already donated this year's amount-" Mylene is cut of by Mix "but we do not have the costumes yet"

"It will be fine. Marinette can handle it" Mylene responds "Mix could you come help me fix some props" Aurora yells from were she is messing with tangled up Christmas lights. "Yeah no problem" Mix rushes over happy to be out of that situation. "Go along with what I say. We need out of hear quick." Auroror whispers. Mix nods. "Dang these lights are busted let's look for Mr. Bernard." Auroror says loud enough for most of the group to hear. "Yeah let's go" Mix says and they leave quickly.

"Fred Haprèle, my apologies about the abrupt meeting" Mr. Bernard sits down across from the father and daughter.

"It's no problem at all to come assist with anything my daughter may need." The man says.

"Yes well as you know Mylene has taken most of the response ability for costumes. We have a budget so there is always a good few hundred dollars. I have always wondered how she got designer cloths for that price though. I figured she worked out a dill with the maker since is a school event. It appears I was mistaken" Mr. Bernard pauses. How exactly do you tell someone their daughter stole to move up in a charity organizations? Of course Mylene winds up proudly explaining everything was free so she donated the money and moved up so many levels.

"You what?" The man stares at his daughter flabbergasted. "It appears she has also already done so this year as well." Mr Bernard states feeling bad for the mad.

"What the hell Mylene that is not your money to give away! Do not tell me your friend refused the money I have seen your plays. They trusted you with a huge responsibly and you do this" Fred Haprèle yells standing up. Only then does his daughter have the understanding to look ashamed. "But it went to charit-" "no it went were you thought you could gain the most from. We are leaving. Mr. Bernard please call me when it is figured out how much is owed and apologize to Marinette for me. She is the one that makes the costumes she is in the same class as Mylene."

Aurora and Mix later found out Mylene was pulled from Drama club until she could pay everything back. The next day they started planing extra fundraisers so they could afford costumes. Marinette at some point popped by and said she would design them for free but the club refused and eventually settled for whatever they could raise would go to Marinette.

Once the school found out about the drama more than Ms. Mendeleiev class started to distance themselves from the akuma class. Only exceptions being Marinette, Chloe, and, Nathaniel. When Marinette was not in class she was accompanied by people from other classes. They respect Marinette and her class was down right toxic. They tried to trip her regularly and said things under their breath a lot. After so many students expressed their concern for the girl in pink it was a matter of time before she transferred classes. It sucked the other teachers how Caline Bustier tried to fight it saying she was the class representative so she had to stay. Going as far as to try to guilt trip the girl. Too bad she couldn't feel guilt and Lila was all to glad to take the position from her. Some reports were made that day.

Though each class wanted the bluenette in their class it was decided she would transfer into Ms. Mendeleiev class.

"I got back on the meds because Hawkmoth is targeting me because of my strong sympathy." Marinette had long since figured out that they knew and just decided to answer their unasked question. The chalk in Ms. Mendeleiev hand shaped. Kagami created a crack in her desk. Allan popped the bouncy ball he was playing with. Auroror and Alegra stood up to get chocolate quicker then they ever had befor. Claude held his hands together to keep from lashing out. Marinette has been through enough they all thought as she lead them through breathing exsersizes.

That is how an entire school minus the akuma class and Marinette stormed the Agrest mansion after a month of tracking every akuma and documenting Lila working with Hawkmoth. They happily hand over the jewelry and footage to Queen Bee and (Nathaniel) Foxi.

The school watches in amusement as the akuma class falls apart. Marinette does no extra favors for them. Only birthday gifts. Her new friends show her her worth.

"Adrain she was never your everyday ladybug. She is everyone's everyday ladybug. She is the reason Hawkmoth is gone. You are lucky she pulled those favors to make sure people don't think you are like your dad" Chloe snaps. "She what-" Adrian starts. "Oh you idiot do you really think the media would not destroy you if given the chance? MDC is Marinette. A lot of people respect her and owe her a lot. Her word alone could end someone's career yet she chose to protect you and your stupid class. Wish Alya good luck with the lawsuits by the way. The warning ends soon. She she really listen to her lawyer when told to remove posts within 24 hours."

[princess-of-riviaa]

Tastes So Good

Pairing: Walter Marshall x Reader

Summary: He’s your best friend’s step-dad, but that hasn’t stopped you from lusting after him since day one.

Author’s Note: Dark(ish) oneshot with Henry Cavill’s Walter Marshall from Night Hunter. Although he has a daughter in the movie, the character Ana is made up for this story.

Warning(s): age gap (reader is 18), daddy kink, size kink

Word Count: 4.1k (I’m really sorry, this was supposed to be short but my Henry-Cavill-thirsty ass can’t shut up about this man)

YOU

“I’m gonna go get a drink,” you told Ana as you climbed out of the pool, water droplets sliding down your body.

Your best friend didn’t even reply, too caught up in the conversation she was having with her boyfriend. The pool was filled with people and the backyard was loud. Ana knew a lot of people and had invited at least thirty people to her seventeenth birthday. Your birthday was last week, and though it was a milestone--18 years old, you were finally an adult!--you had opted to just spend the day with Ana at the mall.

You walked inside the house. Everyone was busy partying outside, so the living room was completely vacant and quiet. You entered the kitchen to find Mr. Marshall standing at the island with a cake, looking very much out of his depth. You giggled at the look on his face. He wasn’t one to get overwhelmed easily. And he clearly had yet to realize he wasn’t alone, otherwise his face would have been a blank mask. It was impossible to tell what your best friend’s dad was thinking at any given time.

That was the main reason you’d refrained from making a move on him all these years; that, and the fact that, as a loyal follower of the law, he wouldn’t have gone anywhere near you as a minor. So you were left to your own fantasies of what those muscled arms would feel like wrapped around you and exactly how skilled those hands were at certain activities.

But now you were an adult. And currently, you were half naked, dripping in his kitchen. You mustered up your courage and moved closer to him. “Need help with the cake?”

He looked up at you, then eyed your outfit and the way it did little to cover up your intimate parts. Though his eyes lingered, his face was unreadable as always. He said, “I didn’t hear you come in, Y/N.”

You gave him your sexiest smirk. “I’m good at sneaking around.”

Whether he caught the double meaning in your words or not, he said, “This is embarrassing but, uh, I can’t seem to figure out this icing.”

You laughed and walked around to his side of the island. He held the icing container in his hands, though the cake was still undecorated.

“I’m not exactly an artist,” he admitted.

You held your hand out to him. “Good thing I am.” You weren’t an artist actually, but you did know how to cook and bake, and you’d been decorating cookies and cupcakes since you were a little girl.

He handed the container over to you and began your work. You were only half aware of the way he watched your tongue stick out slightly in your concentration, though the majority of your attention was on the icing. It took no more than five minutes to cover the cake and write “Happy Birthday Ana” on the top. Your body had stopped dripping with pool water by the time you finished.

“Thank you,” Mr. Marshall sighed, clearly relieved. “The cake would have been a horror show if I had touched it.”

You giggled.

He grabbed the container and slid some frosting onto his finger before handing the container to you. “Want some?”

You nodded, but instead of taking the container you grabbed his hand. His eyes were locked on you as you put his finger in your mouth and licked the icing off, keeping your eyes on his the entire time. You continued licking his finger long after you’d gotten all the frosting off and moaned before saying, “Tastes so good.”

“You really don’t know when to stop,” he said, but he didn’t pull his hand away, his focus locked on your mouth.

You watched his gaze darken as you added a second finger to your mouth and began sucking and licking, showing him just how good you could make him feel if you had another part of him in your mouth. You pulled his hand back just to say, “I’m eighteen now, you know.”

His blue eyes jumped back to yours. For a second he looked between your eyes and your mouth, and your stomach clenched because you thought this is it, he’s finally going to kiss me. But he looked away and sighed. “You’re Ana’s best friend.”

“She’s thinking about graduation and college and her boyfriend,” you pointed out. “I doubt she’s really going to care who her father is fucking--”

He snapped back to look at you and brought his hand back to his side. His expression was hard, cold. “I never said anything about sex, Y/N.”

You raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “So you don’t want to fuck me? You don’t want me on my knees for you, my tongue teasing the tip of your co--”

He closed the distance between you and grabbed your chin in his hands, making you shut up. “Don’t say another word.”

“Tell me you don’t want me,” you dared, your hand trailing down his chest. “Tell me you don’t want me to touch you, or you don’t want to see me naked, or you don’t want me writhing beneath you and moaning your name--”

His mouth was against yours a second later. The kiss was fast and rough and dizzying. His beard scraped against your jaw and the feeling made your stomach knot with need. You moaned into his mouth, half out of surprise and half out of lust, and he wrapped an arm around your waist to pull you tighter against him. The outline of his erection pressed against your bare stomach. You wrapped your hand around his length and began to stroke him over his jeans.

But as quickly as he’d kissed you, he stepped back. A shaking hand shook his curls out of his face. You stepped towards him but he spun and put his back to you. “I can’t do this. You’re a child.”

“Mr. Marshall--” you began, but he was gone before you could finish your sentence.

...

WALTER

The house is quiet when he comes home from work. Ana is at her mom’s until summer break, so he has the place to himself for the next two months. He tosses a frozen, pre-prepped dinner in the microwave and waits for it to warm up. One glance at the island, at the spot where he’d kissed Y/N less than forty-eight hours ago makes his stomach knot. She’d offered herself up completely for him, the picture of temptation, and he’d almost given in. He’d almost fucked her right on the island besides his daughter’s birthday cake. His dick twitches in his pants at the thought of it. Ana’s best friend. Of all fucking women to be attracted to, it had to be his daughter’s best friend.

The microwave beeps and he jumps, startled from his thoughts. He takes the steaming food out--an unappealing meal of chicken and steamed vegetables--and grabs a fork before moving to the living room. He opens the file of his current case and begins reading the overviews of the top three suspects. 

Walter’s only halfway through his meal before there’s a knock at his door. He’s instantly tense. Ana is at her mom’s. There’s no one else who should be knocking on his door at eight in the evening. He grabs his gun from the kitchen table, where he’d set it down after coming home, and heads to the front door. One look through the peephole tells him it’s Y/N. He sighs and tucks his gun into the back of his jeans before opening the door.

She’s dressed in a black trench coat and heels. It’s May, so the weather doesn’t warrant the need for a trench coat, and Walter’s instantly suspicious. He can see the faint shine of lipgloss on her mouth and her hair is hanging around her shoulders and wavy--she didn’t straighten it like she normally does (which is definitely not a feature he’s noticed about her, that she can’t stand her natural hair and straightens it every morning before going anywhere).

“Y/N,” he sighed, hating how his body reacted to the sight of her--his hands longed to reach out to her; his mouth ached to kiss hers; and his dick was suddenly alert and awake. “Isn’t it a school night?”

“I graduated last year,” she reminds him. “You keep forgetting that I’m a year older than Ana.”

Ana. The first and foremost reason Walter couldn’t claim Y/N as his own.

“She’s not here,” he told her.

“I know,” Y/N confessed. “I just finished hanging out with her an hour ago. She’s cramming for her AP tests next week.”

“Then why are you here?” Walter questioned. It came out colder than he’d intended for it to, but if being mean made Y/N go away then he’d do it, even if he didn’t like it.

But it seemed to have the opposite effect. Her eyes lit up, making the brown of her irises look golden. “Can I come in?” When he opened his mouth to say no, she added, “I’m thirsty.”

He sighed. It would be ungentlemanly to turn her away while she was needing a drink, so he stepped back and let her in. He walked to the kitchen and she followed him. She stayed back as he poured her a glass of water. But when he offered her the glass, she didn’t take it.

She looked up at him through long lashes. “That’s not what I’m thirsty for.” Before he could respond, she untied her coat and let it fall to the floor. She didn’t wear anything more than a bra and underwear underneath. They must have been a set because they were the same shade of baby pink and had the same lace designs. Walter’s dick jumped, straining against his jeans that were suddenly too tight.

“What are you doing, Y/N?” He questioned, but his voice came out weak and breathy. God, the things he wanted to do to this girl.

Y/N stepped closer to him and said, “I’m proving to you that I’m not a child.”

YOU

Your heart had been racing as you’d knocked on the door, when he answered it, when he finally let you in... But the look on his face when you took off the coat had made all of it worth it. He wanted you. You knew that without a doubt now. And tonight you were both going to get what you wanted.

“Y/N...” he said as you knelt in front of him. His tone was a warning, but he did nothing to fight you off as you reached for the button of his jeans.

You pulled down his jeans and boxers enough to release his cock. You gasped at the sight of it, already hard. Hard for you.

“What are you--fuck!” He cried out once you wrapped your mouth around his tip. You ran your tongue along the sides of his cock, teasing him. “I’m going to hell for this,” Mr. Marshall moaned as he closed his eyes and let himself enjoy you.

You spit onto his head and wrapped your hand around him, moving your spit up and down his entire length. He was large in length and girth and you struggled to fit all of him in your mouth. The tip of his cock brushed against your throat and you struggled not to gag and you continued taking in all of him. You struggled to breathe through your nose as he gripped your hair and began moving your mouth along him to a speed that he liked. You coughed and gagged, your throat tightening around his length with every other thrust, but he didn’t stop fucking into your mouth. Your eyes began to water. Your tears mixed with drool but you didn’t care. You’d wanted this for so long, wanted to taste him and let him use you, and now he finally was. God, you loved being legal. His cock twitched in your mouth. You’d been with enough guys to know that that meant he was close to coming. You moaned around him and he grunted as he began thrusting into your mouth faster, faster, faster--

And then his cum was shooting down your throat. It was warm and salty--addicting. You wanted to taste him again and again. After several moments he pulled out of your mouth. The kitchen was filled with the sound of both of you breathing heavily.

You looked up at him, your eyes still watery and vision still slightly blurred. His eyes met yours and he cursed under his breath. With the tears and drool all over your face, you probably looked disgusting. You stood up and stepped towards the sink, wanting to clean yourself off, but he just pulled you against him and kissed you. His lips were soft but rough against your own, a completely different feeling from his cock. His tongue pressed against your mouth and you parted your lips, letting him lick inside your mouth. He was rough and needy and impatient, fighting for dominance against your tongue. You let him win, basking in the way his tongue licked inside your mouth and made you feel like he was kissing every inch of you at once.

“Jump,” he breathed into your mouth. He moved his hands under your thighs and you understood what he wanted. You jumped and he wrapped your legs around his waist, your mouths never leaving each other. You gripped his curls in your hands, clinging to him. He began walking somewhere but you didn’t know where. You were too busy kissing him like your life depended on it to notice what was going on around you.

He finally set you down against something soft and warm. You pulled away from him to see you were now in the living room. He’d lain you down on the couch, still slightly warm from where he’d been sitting a few minutes ago. There was a TV tray to your left, upon which sat a plate of chicken and broccoli, half-eaten, and a folder with work documents inside.

“Mr. Marshall,” you said as you looked up at his body hovering over yours.

He frowned and said, “Don’t call me that, Y/N.”

“What would you prefer?” you wondered.

“I’d prefer for you to stop talking so I can kiss you,” he said before latching his mouth onto yours.

You moaned into his mouth and reached for him. You clutched his shirt in your hands and struggled to take it off. He understood what you wanted and pulled back just long enough so he could take it off and toss it on the ground. He leaned towards you again but you pushed his chest back, wanting to admire all the muscle and hair on his chest. He looked even bigger without a shirt on. You hadn’t thought that was possible. He was twice your size and ripped with muscle, from his shoulders to his abs. His arms were huge too, veins barely visible along his biceps. You eyed the dark hairs that swirled around his pecs and the hair along his stomach waist, which disappeared beneath his jeans.

“Like what you see?” The words were joking but his voice was serious.

“You have no idea,” you admitted before reaching for his jeans. “Take these off.”

He paused and considered something. “Tell me you’re not a virgin.”

“Would you still fuck me if I was?” you wondered, purely curious.

He thought about it. “I don’t know. I can’t say yes, but I can’t say no either. Your first time should be right. You should be with someone you care about, a boyfriend that’s actually your age.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his sweet words. “Well then it’s a good thing I’m not a virgin,” you said as you began tugging at his pants.

“Someone’s impatient,” he noted as he rose to his feet and undressed himself.

“I’ve been wanting you to fuck me for two years,” you admitted. “Of course I’m impatient.”

“With that filthy mouth, I’m not sure why I ever thought you were a virgin in the first place.”

You didn’t reply. The words had been lost in your throat as you took in the sight of him in front of you. His thighs were thick and sculpted with muscle like a greek god. You wanted to ride those thighs, to feel them clench and press against your pussy as you came on top of him... You eyed his cock, already growing hard again. His body was so perfect it was unreal. The thought of this man fucking you... You moaned.

He was back on top of you a second later. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pressing him against your clothed core as he looked down at you. He took in your dark, lustful gaze; the way your mouth parted with need; the way you arched your throat for him to kiss.

“How bad do you want me, baby girl?” he whispered in your ear before sucking on your earlobe.

You threw your head back and latched onto his shoulders. You were dripping for him already. You had no doubt you’d already stained your thong--the thong you’d bought specifically with him in mind. He pressed his bare thigh to your core and applied just enough pressure to make you moan. “Fuck, daddy!” you cried out, and then you froze with embarrassment. You couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Daddy, hmm?” he growled into your ear. “I like the sound of that, little one.”

You moaned and writhed beneath him, bucking your hips up against his thigh.

“You’re dripping,” he breathed, feeling your wetness pool in your underwear. “Already so needy for me.”

“Fuck me,” you moaned.

“Ask nicely,” he replied with a smirk as he kissed down your neck and chest before grabbing your breasts between his hands.

Your body warmed under his touch as he massaged your breasts in his large hands, which made you look so tiny underneath him. “Please fuck me, daddy!”

“Shit, baby girl,” he breathed before burying his face between your breasts--

And then ripped your bra clean off. You gasped in surprised and looked down to find your breasts bare to the world, your nipples hardening in the cold air. “That was a hundred dollars!”

His blue eyes jumped to yours. “I’ll buy you a new one,” he promised before taking one of your nipples in his mouth and squeezing the other one between his fingers.

You moaned and clenched onto his hair as he made your body writhe with pleasure. “Daddy... I need you inside of me.” Your hips continued to buck up desperately. You rubbed your core along his thick thigh, but that wasn’t enough. Not right now. You needed his cock. You needed him to make you come undone.

“Okay, baby girl,” he agreed before pulling back and resting his weight on his thighs. He eyed your thong and smirked mischievously. “Well, since your bra’s already ruined...” In one quick pull he ripped your panties in half. “Might as well finish these off too.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he raised your underwear to his nose and sniffed the mere sight of that filthy act made your walls clench around nothing.

“You smell like heaven, baby girl,” he muttered. “I can’t way to see what you feel like.”

You whined and reached for him. He let you hold onto his forearm as he lined himself up with your entrance and entered you. You cried out, both in pleasure and in pain at the size of him.

His gaze jumped to you. “I really don’t want to stop, but if you need me to--”

You shook your head. “Just go slow.”

He hesitated before pushing himself further inside of you. Your walls clenched so tightly around him that you thought you were going to cum before he’d even bottomed out. He leaned forward and kissed you softly as he entered you further. Your moans and occasional whimpers were swallowed in his mouth between kisses. It took a full minute for him to fit all the way inside of you. Even then he didn’t move for another minute, letting you adjust to his size. He kissed you deeply as he began to move inside of you. His hands grabbed onto your breasts and began massaging them again. You cried out, already feeling yourself too close to the edge.

“You gotta stop,” you breathed, “or I’m gonna cum.”

“That’s the goal,” he replied against your lips and moved even faster inside of you.

You cried out, clutching tightly to him as your vision went white and you came around his cock. He didn’t slow his pace, didn’t show any mercy on your body as he claimed you as his own.

“Fuck daddy...” you whimpered.

“You feel so good baby, feel so good around daddy’s cock,” he murmured, clutching tightly to you as he picked up his pace again. “I want you to cum again. Cum for daddy, baby girl.”

Your legs were already clenching tightly around his waist as you neared your second orgasm. He felt like pure heaven inside of you. His cock was so big, touching every inch of you as he pounded away. Within a matter of seconds you threw your head back and came again, milking his cock with all the energy left inside of you.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck. “You’re gonna make me cum, baby girl.”

“Cum inside me,” you moaned, only half aware of everything in your blissful state.

He continued fucking you hard as he said, “As much as I want to, and you have no idea how badly I wanna fucking cum inside your tight little pussy, I’m not about to start something I can’t finish.”

“Then cum in my mouth,” you compromised. “I wanna taste you again.”

He groaned at your words and tightened his grip on your hips, chasing his own high. He let out filthy groans and grunts as he fucked you. The look on his face was so fucking hot--the way his mouth fell open in a grunt, how his eyes and nose scrunched up in absolute pleasure. God, it was filthy. He pounded into you a few more times and then pulled out of you in a flash.

“Get on your knees,” he barked.

You complied and a second later he shot his load straight into your mouth, your lips wrapped around his cock. You swallowed every last drop of his warm seed, savoring the bitter aftertaste.

He pulled out of you once he was done and sat down on the couch. The look on his face was impossible to read. “You should get home. It’s late.” He wouldn’t look you in the eye.

You shook your head, though he couldn’t see. “No. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to have your way with me and then just kick me.”

His eyes were cold when they flicked up to you. “That’s what you wanted.”

“I wanted the first part,” you agreed, “not the part where you treat me like a whore after.”

He looked like you’d slapped him. “Y/N, we shouldn’t have--”

“But we did!” you exclaimed. “And we both liked it.”

He breathed in deeply. “You’re right. I’m sorry. You’re not a whore, Y/N. I care about you, and that’s why I can’t let this happen again.”

“No,” you were sobbing now, your heart breaking right in front of him. “You don’t get to do that either. Don’t act like you’ve had your fill of me!”

“What the hell do you want me to do?” he shot back. “It’s not like you can be my girlfriend. I can’t take you out on normal dates. Even if you were closer to my age, my lifestyle... I don’t have room in my life to date someone.”

“You mean you can’t risk it,” you clarified. “You can’t risk losing someone.”

“No!” he agreed. “And I sure as hell can’t risk losing you!”

The fear was clear in his eyes. You didn’t know what to do to comfort him. So you just straddled his lap and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, hugging him for as long as he needed it. Hesitantly, he hugged you back.

“Okay,” you agreed. “We’ll figure this out. But you don’t get to shut me out.”

His arms just wrapped tighter around you in answer, like he was never going to let you go.

[toomanystoriessolittletime]

Haunted

Summary: As the daughter of Viggo Tarasov you knew everything and everyone. And you knew John better than anyone else. But no one was supposed to find out about it.

Pairing: John Wick x Reader

Warnings: there’s so much filth in this I’m telling you

Wordcount: 4.033 unfz

A/N: Hey so with the intention to give John some love this happened. Probably will write a sequel to this. Don’t know when though.

Masterlist

A fake smile. A fake smile was all you were capable of tonight. It was your father’s birthday. And no matter how much you hated the world he was living in, you loved him. Against all odds. He had taken you in when your mother wanted to give you away and raised you on his own. Well the nannies did. He had just turned nineteen when he took you in. 

“You look pretty.” A familiar voice behind you said. Turning around you looked into your brothers eyes.

“Iosef.” You fake smiled some more.

“The skirt is a little short, don’t you think?” He asked, kissing your cheek.

“None of your business little brother.” You smiled sweetly back.  He rolled his eyes and turned around to leave you alone.

Walking over to the bar you ordered a glass of champagne, looking at the mirror behind the bar. Your hair was braided in a big bun on your left shoulder. The hairstylist had outdone herself. You didn’t wear a lot of makeup, just your deep red painted lips. The black leather dress hugging your body like a second skin. Your boobs never looked better. Biting your lips you leaned on the bar, waiting when you saw him. He was standing on the other side of the bar looking at you. John had been away for a while. You took you champagne glass, winking at him before you turned around. 

“Happy Birthday nána.” You said, hugging your father tightly, kissing his cheek.

“Thank you, my malishka.” He smiled. He raised an eyebrow at you as he looked at your outfit.

“John won’t even be able to enjoy his evening if he has to take care of all the guys in this room.” Viggo whispered, his hand on your back.

“I can take care of myself, Dad. I don’t need John to protect me, he’s your guard dog.” You said.

“That makes him yours too. Even if you don’t like it.” He kissed your cheek again. As you turned in his arm you caught John’s eyes on the balcony outside.

“I’m gonna go outside for a bit.” You smiled. Viggo squeezed your hand and nodded. Slowly you made your way through the room, aware of all the eyes following you. If it was because of the way you were dressed, or because you were the only one out of the family who chose a life outside the brutality of the high table, you didn’t know. 

Your life was almost normal, apart from you rent free penthouse apartment in Manhattan your father had gifted you for you thirtieth birthday a couple years back. As a fashion designer you had made yourself a name in the industry, and you made it all without your father's influence.

You sat down in one of the lounge chairs, your head tilted up towards the sky to try to make out some stars. The last time you had seen a clear sky full of stars must have been when John had taken you to Iceland. 

John and you…. You weren’t a couple per se. Yes you loved him, and you were pretty sure he loved you, but the thing with the two of you could never work. Your father would have him killed if he ever found out about the two of you. John had been the only man you had ever slept with, the only friend you ever called when you had a bad day, the only man who seemed perfect for you, even if he was twenty years older. Yes you had tried dating other men. But all they saw was the money of your family, not you.

“I can hear you thinking.” John said. You turned your head to see him leaning against the wall, a cigarette between his lips.

“And what am I thinking?” You asked, turning your head back to look up.

“You’re overthinking.” 

You chuckled as you pushed yourself up from your seat. Slowly, making sure your hips swayed from side to side, you walked over to him, seeing how his eyes seemed to undress you the closer you got. Stopping in front of him, you looked up into his dark eyes. Even with your high heels he still was a head taller than you. His all dark suit made him look so dangerous, yet you couldn’t help but smile as you saw that he was wearing the tie you had gifted him.

“You look so sexy in that dress…” He whispered. You bit your lip.

“And you aren’t allowed to touch me all night…” You whispered back. Looking around to check if someone was watching you got on your tiptoes, close to his ear.

“How badly do you want to fuck me against the wall right now John? Want me on my knees my tongue doing wicked things to your perfect and hard cock between my lips.” 

You heard him inhale deeply.

“You’re playing with fire Honey.” He growled.

“Oh… I know.” You kissed his cheek and turned around, suppressing the dirty smirk as you walked away from him.

You could feel his eyes on you the whole night. With whomever you talked, wherever you walked… Even if you couldn’t see him, you knew he was there, in the shadows, watching.

“When am I getting some grandchildren daughter?” Viggo asked at some point. You were sitting at the table, dinner had just been served, drinking your second glass of champagne. You shrugged.

“First I would need to find the right man.” You sighed, a pinch in your heart as you saw John walking past Viggo.

“You are the most beautiful woman in New York City, I am sure there are men everywhere you want you.” Viggo said. You smiled.

“Just because they want me, doesn’t mean I want them nána. Apart from that I don’t have time for children. I’m taking the label to Paris Fashion week this year.” You said. The confirmation had reached you just this morning that you would get your own runway show this year. 

“Don’t forget your duty to the family.” Viggo pointed out, making you suppress the urge to roll your eyes.

“You have Iosef for that.” You grinned, making Viggo laugh.

“You are right about that. Iosef…” You zoned out as your father began to talk to your brother. John looked at you from across the room. There he was, all you ever wanted, but couldn’t have. Sighing you emptied the second glass of champagne. Suddenly you couldn’t wait to be home. Conversations like this were why you got out of it all. The only thing that kept you sane when you were still living at home had been John. At first when he had started working for your father you had been scared of him. He never smiled. For years. Or at least when you saw him. It was sometime shortly before your twentieth birthday that he had saved you from being kidnapped from the chinese who still had some unfinished business with your father, that your opinion of him changed. He hadn’t left you out of his sight until you were fast asleep that night, staying with you until the morning. 

Your father had been gone for a week and John hadn’t left your side because you had been scared shitless. It was then that you saw another side of him.

You were walking back from the bathroom, intending to go home when a hand grabbed your wrist and pulled you in the dark corner behind the wardrobe. A body pressed you against the cold wall making you shiver. Lips crashed down on yours, and you couldn’t fight the sigh from deep within your chest. It seemed like John had enough of your little game. With force he parted your lips, his tongue fighting over dominance with yours, as your hands wandered up his back into his hair. Possessively one of his hand grabbed your ass, the other hand on your nape bringing your closer to him.

“I bet you’re just as soaked as I am hard right now... “ He quietly growled against your lips, kissing you again. The way he was working your body making your knees weak.

“John… John stop. Someone will see…” You whispered, pulling at his hair, making him groan. He left your lips, wandering down your neck, sucking on the skin before he inhaled deeply.

“You’re wearing the perfume I bought you…” He whispered, kissing your collarbone. You bit your lip to keep yourself from whimpering.

“If you weren’t wearing that leather skirt i would fuck you right here, your family in the next room be dammed…” His tongue dipped in between your boobs.

“Fuck…” You whispered, bringing your hand in front of your mouth. You were dripping with arousal, regretting the decision to not wear panties underneath. You felt his hand on your knee, slowly pushing the skirt up as high as possible. You bit into your hand as you felt his hand run up your inner thigh. At this point you wouldn’t care if he fucked you right here.

“Fuck you’re soaked.” He groaned, he pulled your hand away from your mouth kissing you hard as his fingers brushed over your pussy. He chuckled.

“No panties. Such a bad girl.” He whispered, two of his fingers teasing your clit. You bit into his bottom lip.

Loud footsteps in the hallway let John stop all his movements. You heard some talking in russian, making out your father as one of the men talking. Looking up at John you were about to push him away when he began to rub your clit again. You shook your head at him, opening your mouth in a silent cry as he pushed a finger into your entrance. You could clearly hear your father only around the corner while John added another finger. Closing your eyes you bit your lips as you let your head fall back against the wall. Pulling his fingers out he stroked your slit, gathering your juices and quickly rubbed your clit. He grinned as he looked down at you, seeing you fall apart. You could already feel the familiar tingle of your orgasm approaching, John kissed you again, his finger leaving your clit to push inside you again scissoring his two fingers inside of you, finding your G-Spot.  The voices seemed to come closer, and you put your hand over your mouth in hopes it would dampen your nearing climax.

Your walls already clenching around him you closed your eyes, hoping you would be able to keep quiet when he pulled his finger out, his hand leaving your pussy. With a shit eating grin he brought his fingers up to his mouth, sucking your juices off. You opened your mouth to say something when he put his finger into your mouth, his head coming closer.

“Your father is just around the corner…” He whispered. You sucked on his fingers, tasting yourself. Swirling your tongue around his fingers, you made him groan. Biting his finger, you grinned as he pulled them out of your mouth. The voices and footsteps moved away, making you breathe out loudly.

“I hate you John.” You said.

“I don’t think so.” He whispered before he kissed you again.

“You might wanna check your make up before you get back to the table.” He whispered with a smirk before he left you alone in the dark.

The ache between your legs wasn’t leaving you to actually follow the conversation on the table. Not that someone would have expected you to anyway. As a woman your opinion wasn’t as important as the men’s anyway. 

John was sitting across from you at the table. The stern expression on his face he alway had when he was working, even if he was supposed to enjoy himself. But his eyes… his eyes weren’t really focused on anything except you.

“Nána I’m going to go. I’m meeting someone.” You said, getting up from your seat.

“Someone?” He asked with his eyebrow raised as he got up. The table chuckled.

“Yeah.” You answered him, kissing his cheek.

“Let John take you to your… someone. You shouldn’t be out in the city by yourself at night.”

He kissed your cheek. You smiled up at him. Against all that he had done, he still was your father, who always took care of you.

“John? Would you take her to wherever she wants to go? Igor is going to take over for the rest of the night.” Viggo said as John made his way towards you. He looked at you.

“Of course Viggo.”

John was the perfect gentleman. He helped you into your coat as you said your goodbye’s, silently thanking the heavens you wouldn’t have to see them for another couple of months. With his hand on you upper back he guided you out of the restaurant and into the elevator. When the doors closed you breathed out relieved.

“I should tell him.” You said quietly.

“He will understand. He wants me happy.” You turned around, careful to leave some distance between you, there were cameras all around.

“He won’t.”

“How do you know? How can you be so sure of that?”

“I know another man than you, Kroshka.” He said with a dark tone. Closing your eyes you turned around. You felt him step closer to you.

“I’m trying to get out.” He whispered.

“I’m trying to get out and then maybe, when we’re not right under his nose…” His breath ran over your neck. You swallowed, opening your mouth to breathe out shakily. He had told you that this life wasn’t what he wanted to do for the rest of his life. 

“What then?” You whispered.

“Maybe then I won’t have to stop when we’re in a dark corner. Maybe we can find a way…” The elevator doors opened. You could see John’s car in the garage in the front. You began to walk towards it, thinking about John’s words. If he were to get out… If he would ask you if you leave with him… A part of you had always been wondering how he really felt about you. He opened the passengers door for you and waited for you to take a seat before he closed the door and walked around the car to get into the driver's seat. As soon as the door closed behind him, his lips were on yours, his arms pulling you into his lap to straddle him. He ripped at your leather skirt, tearing the slit even higher. 

“John.. Not here… “ You gasped as his hands wandered up your thighs.

“The windows are tinted…” He groaned. “I just need to taste you.” His teeth pulled at you bottom lip as one of his hands lay flat on your pussy, making you push your chest against his face.

“Everybody knows we left together…” You whimpered as he began to move his hand.

“Fuck them…”

“You just said something entirely different…” You bit your lip, your hands grabbing the car seat, as he pushed two of his fingers inside of you.

“I swear to god if you won’t make me cum I will serve you your balls for dinner….” You groaned as he fingerfucked you. He chuckled. His thumb came up to your nub, slowly circling it as his other hand cupped your breast.

“Ride my fingers and you get to cum.” He said, his dark eyes looking up at you. You rolled your hips, throwing your head back. Pulling your dress down his face sank in between your boobs, the scratching of his beard over your skin making you whimper as you felt your climax approaching. 

“Fuck me John….” You moaned.

“Not yet. Not here…” He groaned, his lips closing around one of your nipples.

As you felt your climax washing over you, you pulled John’s face up, your lips crashing down on his to dampen your moans. Closing your eyes you rode it out, shivering when he flickered your clit again, being too oversensitive. You felt him smile against your lips.

“You know I do, right?” He whispered. He would never say that he loved you, yet deep inside you knew, even if you were more confused about him in any way.

“Me too.” You said.

“Where do you want to go?” John asked as he drove the car out of the garage. Sitting in the passenger's seat, his hand on your thigh, he looked at you.

“I wanna go home.” You said.

Parking the car in the underground car park on his usual place of the building you were living in you didn’t wait for him to open the car door for you. Taking your purse you were out of the car before he could even look, already walking towards the elevator. He ran after you, pushing you against the wall of the elevator, pressing the button for the penthouse. Pushing your arm over your head, he held your wrists together with one of his hands as he kissed you forcefully all tongue and teeth, making you moan loudly. His other hand ran down your body, hooking your leg around his waist as he rubbed his crotch against your middle.

“John…” You sighed as he left your lips, sucking on your neck. The elevator door opened with a bing.  His hand let go of your wrists to pick you up. Crossing your legs behind his hips you giggled as he carried you to the door of your apartment. Searching for the keys in your purse he set you down, hugging your from behind while he kissed your shoulder.

Finally with the keys you opened the door, throwing your purse on the table next to the door as John closed the door behind you, locking it. Without turning the lights on you walked down the hallway.

“Come and find me.” You said over your shoulder, pulling at the zipper of your dress as you walked away from him. You were just in the door of your bedroom when you felt his body pin you against the doorway, kissing you longingly. Pushing the already opened dress shirt from his shoulders you let it fall to the floor as he pulled the zipper of your dress down completely, pushing the fabric to the ground. 

His hands on your hips he kissed himself down your naked body. You held on to the doorway as he hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, his face disappearing between your legs. Flattening his tongue he licked one long strip from your pussy to your clit. Arching your back one of your hands disappeared in his hair, the other still holding on to the doorway as he began to eat you out, humming against you.

“John… Fuck….. Please I want you inside of me…” You whimpered, your legs shaking. He sucked on your clit, making you explode, your core clenching around nothing.

He looked up at you as he dipped his tongue inside of you. Pulling at his hair you brought him up, holding onto him on shaky legs. Tasting yourself on his lips as he pushed his tongue inside your mouth you let your hands run down his chest, forcefully opening his belt. Smirking he looked at you as you pushed him against the opposite doorway, getting down on your knees in front of him as you pulled his pants down. You didn’t waste any time, his cock already glistening with precum. Humming you licked from his base to the tip, making sure to catch every drop of him, your hand closing around his base, massaging his balls as your lips closed around his tip and you sucked. With a curse his hands wandered into your hair. Swirling your tongue around him, like you were licking an ice cone you looked up at him as you released him from between your lips, pumping him with your hand.

“You wanna fuck my mouth, Jonathan?” You asked. He looked down at you, his eyes wild.

“I wanna make you choke on my cock my Kroshka. Wanna mark you from the inside.” He growled. You moaned, licking on his cock. Parting your lips you took him almost to the base, making him groan loudly. Bobbing your head, you held on to his ass to get leverage as he slowly began to thrust forward. Looking up at him you hummed as you took him completely.

“I love how you take my cock…” He sighed, thrusting faster. You loved it too. Humming your eyes rolled back as he hit the back of your throat.. He was big. He was perfect, like made for you. You felt him pull out of your mouth, pulling you up to kiss you.

“Let me fuck that perfect pussy…” He whispered against your mouth, slowly walking with you towards your bed. The citylights the only light source in the room, diving everything into a soft yellow light.

He turned you around just before you reached the bed, his lips on your shoulder as he slowly pulled you down on the bed so you were on all fours with him behind you. Getting out of his pants he took his socks off, pulling your high heels off.  You looked over your shoulder as he grabbed his cock, the tip teasing your folds.

“Just fuck me already John….” You begged.

“But we have all weekend…” He cooed with a grin. Slapping your ass hard. 

“I don’t care, just…” You moaned loudly when he rammed inside you, sinking into you in on move, making you feel every vein and ridge inside of you. Grabbing your hips harshly he began a punishing pace, fucking you hard. This wasn’t about feelings, this was about feeling each other. Desperately to feel the other. Meeting his thrusts you felt one of his hands leave your hips to sneak in between your legs, finding your swollen nub as he leaned down and began to kiss up your back, ending in your neck, his chest against your back as he thrusted deeper.

“I love how you take me…” He bit your earlobe. His fingers between your legs flicking your clit, making you climb towards your third orgasm of the night.

“I love how your cock feels inside of me…” You whispered, biting your lip, as he changed the angle, hitting your G-spot perfectly. He began to thrust faster again, his fingers continuing the attack on your clit.

“Are you gonna cum for me again?” He whispered against your ear. Moaning you nodded, turning your head to kiss his lips. 

“Cum inside me John. I wanna feel it inside of me.”

“Fuck…” He groaned, kissing you quickly before he got back to stand behind you, ramming inside of you hard. His hips slapping against your ass in the most obscene sound.

He slapped your ass again. And again. And again, his handprint to be seen on your ass for days. You threw your head back as the knot inside your belly exploded, your whole body on a high as your orgasm washed over you. Deeply he fucked you through it, your name on his lips. You felt him thrust a couple of times when he stopped, his cock twitching inside of you as he spilled his load deep inside of you. Trying to steady your breathing you let yourself fall with your chest against your mattress. His cock slipped out of you. Turning around you parted your legs for him, knowing how he enjoyed to see drip his cum out of you.

Looking up at him you saw him looking down at you. Raising your hand, your fingers motioning him to come closer you giggled when he let himself fall in top of you.

“If you get out I’m leaving with you everywhere you want if you want me.” You whispered as you looked up at him. His eyes changed as you said those words, one of his hands coming up to cup your cheek.

“I love you.” He whispered.  Smiling your couldn’t help the tears in your eyes as you looked up at him.

“I love you too, Jonathan.” You whispered back, closing the distance between you to kiss him softly. 

[redgillan]

Missed Chances - part 2

Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: 13 Going on 30!AU - Steve Rogers is crazy about you, but he’s afraid his feelings are only one sided and being one of your best friends, he doesn’t want to ruin your friendship… On his 13th birthday, he makes a wish and wakes up in the body of his 30 year old self. The problem is, you’re no longer a part of his life.

Word Count: 3,845

Warnings: Language, Nudity, Implied Sexual Content, Implied Drug Use, Cliffhanger

A/N: This is so long, I’m sorry. I tried to make the descriptions fun, but idk. I added a few pics bc it was too beautiful. It took me a while to write this chapter, but I had so much research to do for this fic... yikes. I really hope you’ll like this chapter, I worked so hard on it.

Missed Chances - Masterpage

Steve woke up with a migraine, the mattress soft beneath him. His mother must have carried him up and tucked him in while he was asleep because he sure as hell wasn’t lying on the basement floor.

Soft silky sheets brushed against his naked skin and his brows immediately furrowed. He always wore pyjamas.

He tried to sit up, but soon realised that there was a weight on his left shoulder. He looked down at it and saw a mop of tousled light brown hair resting on his chest.

A woman!

His first reaction was to roll to the other side of the bed where he ended up face-to-face with another woman. A strangled cry escaped his throat, making the two women whine in their sleep.

“Mornin, daddy,” the one on his left slurred, her hand trailing up his thigh.

“Did you just call me daddy?” he asked. His voice was so low, he must have caught a cold during his birthday party.

“Isn’t that what you want, daddy?” she whispered into his ear, her hand cupping his groin.

He shirked and scrambled off the bed, taking the silky sheet with him. The two naked women sat up, concerned looks on their faces.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re naked!” Steve wrapped the sheet around his hips and gestured in their direction with his free hand.

Why did he feel like he was standing on a stepladder? His head was spinning, the room was spinning, too. He had to get out of here.

He looked around the darkened room and yelled, “MOM!”

A look of mild panic crossed the brunette’s face. She picked up her discarded dress and slipped it on. The second woman apparently had the same idea and together they quickly collected their things before they rushed out of the room.

“Wait!” Steve yelled, fumbling with the sheet as he tried to follow them.

He tripped over the trailing sheet and fell face-first onto the soft rug, accompanied by a muffled ‘oof A soft, vibrating sound made him raise his head and he watched in speechless awe as the natural light began to pour into the bedroom.

The room was large, yet simple. There was a King size bed facing floor-to-ceiling windows, offering one of the most impressive views of New York City Steve had ever seen.

Decorative pillows had been thrown to the foot of the bed. One of them even landed on a teardrop shaped settee near the door.

“Good morning, Mr Rogers,” said a sweet feminine voice with an Irish accent. Her voice seemed to come from the ceiling.

Startled, Steve sat on the floor and tugged the sheet around him while looking suspiciously around the room.

“The cook is in the elevator, he should be here any second,” the voice continued. “I’ll start the shower now. Would you like me to turn on some music?”

He had so many questions, but he couldn’t decide which one to ask first so he went with the most obvious one. “Where are you right now?”

The voice sighed. “As I’ve explained before, I’m F.R.I.D.A.Y, an artificial intelligence created by Stark Inc. I’m connected to all the devices around your apartments, including your personal and work phones and computers.”

He sat on the bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, trying to make sense of what happened. He cleared his throat, hoping to get rid of that ridiculously low voice.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I think you have the wrong Rogers. I don’t know how I ended up in this apartment, or in New York, but I’ll give you my mom’s numb-”

“I’ll ask the cook to add pain killers with your breakfast,” she cut him off, sounding amused. “Perhaps you should lay off the Norwegian liquor for awhile.”

Steve was scared to leave the room, not knowing what he’d find behind the door. He didn’t want to run into the owner, Mr Rogers.

As promised, F.R.I.D.A.Y turned on the shower and, remembering the two naked ladies in his bed, he figured he could use one.

He walked to the windows and marvelled at the view for a moment. He lived in Port Chester and rarely visited the city. On second thought, it wasn’t so bad. At least now he had a funny story to tell Bucky.

He followed the sound of running water and opened the door that led to the bathroom.

The bathroom was equally luxurious with its inlaid stone rain shower that could easily fit eight people. There was also a long vanity with double sinks and a mirror facing the shower.

Mouth agape, Steve let the sheet drop and padded to the shower.

As he passed the mirror, he caught a glimpse of a naked man and threw himself to the floor. He slowly peeked over the vanity, an excuse ready on his lips, but he realized it was just a mirror.

Frowning, he lifted his head a little and let out a small gasp as he stared at himself in the mirror.

“Oh, my god,” he swore, straightened up to his full height, “It’s me, I’m... hot!”

He didn’t look sickly anymore; he was strong and muscular and at least a foot taller. His hair was a darker shade of blond and slightly longer, too. He had a full beard and stared at it for a full minute. He’d always wondered if he’d ever grow facial hair.

“What’s happening?” he said, staring at his reflection.

He ran a hand through his hair, combing it back from his forehead. His hair seemed to naturally fall back into place, like he’d done this gesture so many times that his hair knew exactly where to go.

Yesterday was his thirteenth birthday party and today he woke up looking like a thirty-year-old man. How was it possible?

Oh, the birthday party....

I want to be an adult. I want to be thirty, I want to find love.

“No,” Steve drawled out, disbelief lacing his voice. “That’s so cool!”

It seemed completely crazy, but there was no other explanation.

He took a step back and checked himself out in the mirror. His body was, for lack of a better word, impressive. Wide shoulders, broad chest, tiny waist, massive arms and thighs...

“Tattoos?” he whined, inspecting his body closely. He had one on his left shoulder, a quote under his clavicle and another one on the right side of his chest. “Mom’s gonna kill me!”

The shower was already running, the steam fogging up the mirror. He stepped into the shower, his eyes focused on his blurry reflection.

Showering was a strange experience. He ran his hands over the hard planes of his broad chest and tight abs, discovering this new body more intimately.

His breathing hitched and he felt himself growing hard. Chancing a glance down, he saw the evidence of his arousal sticking up straight from his body. Then, suddenly, the water turned ice cold and he hurriedly leapt out of the shower stall.

“What the hell?”

“You always end your morning shower with a blast of cold water,” the A.I replied. “It increases alertness and closes up the pores.”

“Yeah? Let’s not do that again.”

“Very well, sir.”

“You can call me Steve,” he said, wrapping himself in a fluffy towel. “So, um, I live here?”

“Yes, Steve, 45 East 22nd Street, apartment 60FL. Is there anything else you need?”

“Clothes?” he replied with a shy grimace.

Following F.R.I.D.A.Y’s direction, he took a deep breath before he opened the bedroom door. He was scared to run into someone, even though the A.I. had informed him that it was just him and the cook.

He entered the walk-in closet tentatively and gasped when F.R.I.D.A.Y. turned on the lights. It was twice the size of his bedroom, with a round sofa in the middle of the room and a small staircase that led to another closet with mirrored sliding doors.

Suits, shirts, trousers, jeans, shoes; there were enough items for him to open his own store. He took his time and tried on several outfits before he found the perfect one.

“Steve,” the A.I. interrupted, “Your morning coffee has just finished brewing. Breakfast is served. I should also remind you that Mr Rumlow will be expecting you in the hall at 8 a.m.”

“Brock?” Steve squealed, suddenly excited to see a familiar face. “I’m still friends with Brock! That’s awesome!”

“Indeed, it is,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. replied in a monotonous voice. “Are you sober enough to find the dining room?”

He bashfully told her he had no idea where the dining room was and she provided directions again. She sounded like a real person: annoyed, sassy, amused... It was strange to think she was just a voice in the wall.

What Steve had seen so far was nothing compared to the living-slash-dining room. It looked like a page out of a magazine.

There was a large and modern dining room table for formal meals that led to a windowed eat-in kitchen with marble countertops and custom-designed cabinetry.

The living room was spacious and bright, decorated with modern artworks and furnishings. Thanks to the floor-to-ceiling windows, he had a 360-degree view of New York City, looking over the borough of Brooklyn.

“I could get used to that,” Steve whispered to himself.

He sat at the breakfast nook and glared at the tray of food in front of him. His breakfast consisted of a green concoction in a tall glass, a slice of grapefruit and a bowl of sliced bananas in plain yogurt. He poked the grapefruit with his spoon and screwed his face up in disgust.

“Um, ma’am,” he spoke, looking up at the ceiling. “Do you have cereal?”

“You cut out sugar from your diet,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. replied.

“That sucks!”

He ate a few spoonfuls of yogurt before he pushed the tray away. It was almost time to meet Brock downstairs so he took the elevator down to the lobby, excited to see his friend.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” a voice startled him as he stepped into the lobby.

A man, most likely in his thirties, stared down at him, incredulous. His black hair was short and styled with gel and he wore a perfectly tailored beige suit with no tie.

Steve looked down at his own clothes and frowned. He was wearing a pair of jeans with a matching jacket and a light blue shirt.

He really liked this look and it was really popular, especially after the American Music Award where Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears showed up wearing matching denim outfits.

“Denim-on-denim?” Brock said with a smirk. “Trying to bring sexy back?”

Steve cocked his head to one side. Was that a reference to something? He had no idea. “Brock? That’s really you? Whoa, you’re old!”

Rolling his eyes, Brock turned on his heel. “Fuck off, Rogers.”

Brock was on his phone when the doorman opened the door for him. Steve trailed after Brock like a lost puppy and greeted the man at the door with a polite smile. The man looked at him incredulously before his face broke into a similar friendly smile.

“Where are we going?” Steve asked as they walked to the car parked in front of the building.

“Work, dude.”

“We work together?” Steve said excitedly. “That’s awesome! Okay, what do we do?”

Brock threw him a side glance. “I knew I should have stayed last night. The party must have been wild, you look so stoned. What’d take? Cocaine? Heroin? Meth?”

“What?! No, I don’t do drugs,” Steve objected.

“Yeah, right,” Brock scoffed, “me neither.”

It only took fifteen minutes to go from his apartment to his workplace in the garment district of Manhattan. Steve looked out the tinted window as the chauffeur pulled to the curb before a large mirrored-glass building.

His bodyguard opened the door and Steve slowly climbed out of the car, his eyes widening when he saw a plaque above the double doors that read ‘STEVE ROGERS HEADQUARTERS NYC’.

“Nice outfit, sir,” his bodyguard said, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

“Thanks,” Steve replied, still flabbergasted.

Brock rounded the vehicle and pulled Steve aside. When Steve continued to look around in wonder, Brock grabbed his shoulders and shook him once.

“Man, you gotta pull yourself together,” he whisper-shouted. “You’re a fucking fashion designer. You can’t enter this building looking like Justin fucking Timberlake on Prozac.”

Brock glanced around to make sure no one was listening and spotted paparazzi on the opposite side of the road. He moved in front of Steve to block their view.

“Here’s what you gonna do,” he continued. “You’re going to enter this building, drink a large fucking coffee and lock yourself in your office. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything, but you owe me big fucking time.”

Steve gave him a hard look. “You say the F-word like a lot.”

Brock sighed, his eyes never leaving Steve’s face. “Man, I don’t know what you took, but next time I want in.” He pulled him into a hug and patted his back. “Stay hydrated, ‘k?”

They entered the building together. There were a lot of people in the atrium; tall, skinny models who turned their heads when they recognized Steve and employees who watched him with a mixture of fright and admiration.

They seemed to move out of his way like he was Moses parting the Red Sea. Steve was too speechless and confused to focus on them. They took the private elevator and stood in silence while the elevator made its long ascent.

“I’m a fashion designer,” Steve spoke quietly, mostly to himself.

“Yup,” Brock mumbled as he pulled out his phone and started typing a text message. “Time’s person of the year in 2012 and 2017, youngest billionaire in the world and the wet of every boys and girls on this fucking planet.”

“I must be dreaming,” Steve said slowly as he processed what Brock had just said. “Ow!” he cried when he pinched the tender skin on his neck.

“Not dreaming,” he said, “now let’s go.”

Brock walked over to a woman with long golden hair. He leaned in and whispered something into her ear. She gave him a thumbs-up and turned to Steve with a bright smile.

“Oh, my God,” Steve cringed, looking for a place to hide. His employees were busy looking busy and didn’t pay attention to them.

Brock and the woman walked back to him. “Wanda’s gonna take care of you.”

Steve took Brock aside and explained that he woke up next to this Wanda girl just a few hours ago. Brock laughed and called Steve a ‘fucking stereotype’ before he headed toward his own office. Steve turned back to Wanda with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry about earlier,” he said. “So, um, who are you again?”

“Wanda Maximoff, your assistant for the past two years,” she replied with a frown. “You really scared us this morning. Mr Rumlow said you weren’t feeling well.”

Steve replied with a casual shrug while she led him to his office. She informed him that Brock had already transferred the files he needed for the meetings and that he was free for the rest of the day.

“Clint will drive you home when you’re ready, sir.”

“Ok, cool,” he replied.

Involuntarily, she let out a loud laugh as the words passed his lips. He was always so professional and stern, definitely not the kind of boss who treated their employees like family members.

But when he was not at work, he was completely different.

Wanda had run into him in a very select bar the night before. He had danced with her, offered her fruity cocktails and she had really liked the attention. When he invited her and her friend over to his apartment, they eagerly accepted the invitation.

“Oh, by the way,” she turned back to him and handed him his personal phone, “I took your phone by mistake this morning.”

“Oh.” He looked down at the rectangular device in his hand.

She left the room, closing the double doors behind her. Steve plopped down on one of the sofas in his office and took a good look around the room. One thing was for sure, his 30 year-old self was a materialistic person.

His office was a mess, which was strange since his apartment was absolutely spotless.

There were mannequins everywhere, sketches and pieces of fabric clipped onto wooden boards for future reference. He also had a large collection of fashion magazines, sharpies, pencils, erasers, rulers and sketch pads.

He sat in the comfortable leather chair at his desk and flipped through various files. He soon realized that work was his whole life and that he probably spent more time in his office than at home.

Steve loved to draw; it was his safe place. His mother didn’t make enough money to buy him GI Joe dolls or remote controlled cars, but she always came home with pens and scraps of paper stuffed in her bag.

He was looking at some of his drawings when an alarm on his phone went off. He had never owned a phone before, but Bucky’s mother had one –a Nokia 3310- and it didn’t look like this one at all.  He managed to turn the alarm off and read the reminder.

Chez Francis, 8PM

The computer on his desk was a lot thinner than what he used to use at the public library, but he recognized the Apple logo. He was relieved to see that Google was still a thing and after a quick search, he found the restaurant located in Greenwich Village.

Since he was technically allowed to leave, he asked his chauffeur-slash-bodyguard to drive him home. Clint was a quiet guy. He seemed nice, though a bit on the scary side.

Steve learned that he owned ten apartments in the tower; the penthouse, the first five floors, which were for his employees, and four others for his guests.

Like Uncle Scrooge, Steve was swimming in money.

But something was missing.

No one had mentioned his mom, you or Bucky and it was starting to stress him out. Plus, now, he had a dinner date with a mysterious guest. He could have bailed on them, but his mother had raised him better than that.

He arrived at the restaurant with ten minutes to spare and decided to stay outside while he waited for his guest. It seemed like a lovely place; French food, but not too pretentious. He hazarded a glance inside, but the lights were dimmed.

French food and dimmed lights? This wasn’t a casual evening, it was a date. A wave of nausea hit him and for a second he thought he might throw up. If he had a girlfriend, then he was the world’s shittiest boyfriend.

He woke up that morning with two naked women, neither of them seemed to be his partner. As a kid, he’d promised himself he’d treat his partners with respect, especially after his father left his mother for another woman.

His mother was his hero, but as far as he was concerned, his father could rot in hell.

Outside the sun had set and there was a distinct chill in the air. Steve tightened his coat around himself and looked around. There was a man, not far away, busy typing away on his phone.

He was tall, probably in his late twenties, and dressed smart casual. His shoulder length hair was tied up in a bun and he was wearing a long coat above a navy blue shirt.

“Bucky?!” Steve exclaimed, recognizing his best friend.

The man looked up from his phone with a frown and met Steve’s eyes. Steve’s face split into a wide smile as he walked over to him.

“I’m so glad to see you,” he said, pulling him into a hug. Bucky’s body was stiff, but Steve was too happy to notice that. “Look at us, all grown up and stuff!”

Bucky didn’t say a word, he pulled back quickly and smiled tightly at Steve who was still beaming.

“The craziest thing happened to me today,” Steve continued, undeterred. “You’re not going to believe this. When I woke up th-”

“I’m so sorry I’m late. It’s rush hour, I had to fight my way into the train,” you said breathlessly. You had seen someone with Bucky, but you only realized who it was when you turned to him. “Steve?”

“Hi,” Steve replied, looking down at his shoes.

The last time he’d seen you, you had run away after Brock asked you if you wanted to play Seven Minutes in Heaven with Steve. You had broken his heart that day. It might have been 17 years ago, but, to Steve, it was only yesterday.

“Are we waiting for someone else?” he asked.

Your eyes widened. “We?”

You and Bucky shared a look, the two of you had become masters in the art of silent communication. Bucky curled his arm around your waist and tucked you against his side. The gesture didn’t go unnoticed.

What?

No...

“Steve,” Bucky said after clearing his throat. “I don’t know who you’re meeting here, but it’s not us. We,” he paused briefly, “we haven’t seen you since high school.”

That comment made Steve’s head snap up. “High school? We’re not friends anymore?”

You were taken aback by his tone. It was pleading, almost childlike and it made your chest tighten. You had to remind yourself that this man, as nice as he was trying to be, wasn’t the sweet kid you used to know.

He was a celebrity, a billionaire and women threw themselves at his feet. He lived a scandalous life. He wasn’t your Steve.

A pretty blonde with long legs and a perfect white smile came up to them and kissed Steve on the cheek. She turned to you and Bucky and greeted you with a cheerful ‘hello’.

“Looks like you found your date,” Bucky told him watching you shake the blonde’s hand.

Steve caught the gleam of the solitaire on your ring finger. Caught off guard, he stared at you with a wounded look on his face. Bucky tightened his arm around your waist.

“You’re married.”

“Engaged,” you corrected, smiling at his date when she grabbed your hand and took a closer look at your engagement ring. She commented on how beautiful the ring was and you agreed, turning your head to smile at Bucky.

He shook his head, bashful, and kissed your temple. Steve was frozen, unable to look away and unable to close his eyes. His whole world came crashing down around him.

“We should go,” Bucky whispered into your ear as he linked his fingers with yours. He straightened up to look at Steve and his date. “It was nice seeing you. Enjoy your evening.”

“Likewise,” the woman said with a smile. “And congratulations.”

Steve cleared his throat. “Yes, congratulations.”

He watched you and Bucky enter the restaurant. A myriad of emotions washed over his face, none of them pleasant.

Be careful what you wish for...

Part 3

[stories-you-wont-hear]

– due process. pt 10

this was a long time coming! i got really stuck while writing and then i was traveling and then moving apartments TT my apologies for the delay but we are certainly nearing the end! i decided to split my ideas for the end of this story into a few parts as not to overload you guys and also to make sure the components of the story, the case and y/n’s relationship with matt didn’t get lost in the shuffle. this part focuses mostly on the case, which is coming to a thrilling conclusion soon! pls enjoy and as always, leave me some love, i live for your feedback!

tag: @abcreid  @mattiemurdocksvoicemakesmesplosh @krazy-katt-lady @digicharr

“I feel like a sheep in a bar full of wolves,” you said, taking in the rest of the room. Sure, no one was about to jump you in this bar filled with prosecutors, but you certainly noticed the handful of dirty looks you got. “On the contrary,” the woman sitting beside you said, “You’re like a wolf among peaceful sheep.” “Oh,” you said, eyebrow raised, “So prosecutors are all sheep?” Your companion laughed, shaking her head, “Leave it to a slimy defense attorney to twist my words.” You returned her jab with a smile, looking down at the drink you were nursing. The prosecutor on your case, on Ben’s case, had been surprised when you had simply stated a time and this bar, but sure enough, she had taken the seat beside you at the bar when she came in. Her name was Natalie Ross and she had been a thorn in your side since your case taking on the defense of a filthy rich client that had been sued for something they probably had done, but Ms. Ross had lost her criminal case against the client and was helping the opposite side in their civil case. It was a case you had lost, one that cemented the ADA as someone who was not just a good lawyer, but the kind of person Matt would probably bow to. She seemed to have such a clear sense of right and wrong, you were almost jealous.

“Second degree,” she said after a minute. You shook your head, laughing as you sipped at your cocktail. “You can’t prove intent is not the compromise you need to be making here,” you started, turning to face her, finding her offer quite laughable, “You can’t even prove he did it.” She rolled her eyes back at you, moving to face you as you did her, “I can’t prove whether he went there intending to kill her, but the jury sure as hell isn’t completely sure your boy is innocent.” You scoffed, the liquid courage you had consumed pushing you to laugh at one of the most respected ADA’s in the district, “All I need is one juror to believe that he’s innocent and that’s a hung jury. That’s a mistrial.” She smiled at you in return, sipping at her martini as the feeling of dread began simmering in your stomach.

“Y/N,” she said, her white teeth shining as she smiled, “You don’t think that I’d retry it if it ended up a mistrial?” You sighed, turned back to take a gulp of your drink. “You would,” you agreed under your breath. “Damn right,” Natalie said, “I’m that bitch.” “That bitch indeed,” you said, giving her a little smile. “How do you do it?” you asked, looking at her perfectly sleek ponytail to her well styled but still oh so professional looking outfit, “You’re like Wonder Woman.” “I am,” she agreed, batting her eyelashes in mock bashfulness, which had you laughing. As you settled, she turned to you, sighing. You sat up, wondering what it could possibly be that had the put together woman beside you looking nervous. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this,” she started, her voice low despite there being no one apparently listening into your conversation, “Like seriously, you, of all peo-” “I get it,” you cut in with a roll of your eyes, “Defense attorneys suck.” “Yes,” she agreed, to which you groaned. She sighed, giving you a Look before rolling her shoulders back as if letting tension roll off of her. “I’m leaving,” she said, looking at you with anticipation. “Leaving what?” you asked, bringing your glass up to your mouth to finish off your drink before gesturing to the bartender for another one. He gave you a look like you had kicked a puppy as if you had defense attorney written across your forehead, but gave you another round regardless. “The DA’s office,” Natalie continued, her voice even more hushed than before. “Where are you going to go?” you asked, surprised at what her news had been. You weren’t kidding when you equated Natalie Ross to Wonder Woman, she was the closest thing to the superhero. “I am joining the dark side,” she said and all you could do for a minute was stare at her face, dumbfounded.

“You’re going to a firm?” you asked, and apparently it was a bit too loud for Ms. Ross because if looks could kill, you’d already be in a body bag. “Keep it down,” she shushed, glancing around the two of you to make sure no one had heard before turning back to you. “Malcolm Randall is starting his own firm,” she said, much to your surprise. “What?” you cried, your brow creasing in confusion. Natalie’s expression went from serious to a look of realization as she looked at you, “That’s right, you used to work for him.” You nodded furiously, your hand moving to turn off the vibration of your phone in your pocket, eager to know more. She nodded gravely, fingers circling around the rim of her almost empty glass, “He’s… not happy with the way that partner of his, Weston?” “Wesley,” you supplied. “Right, Wesley, Randall isn’t happy with him and he came to me, real hush about it, and I decided that I’ll do it, I’ll take the leap,” she said, her eyes looking across your face for a hint of how you felt. You nodded, realizing she must have felt how you did when you left your firm.

To take a leap like that, to stare into the chasm before you, not knowing what you’d face at the other side, it was a thrill but it was also a dread like no other. Staring at the woman before you, knowing that you did it and you still managed to land on your feet, you had no doubt that she’d be able to do the same. “You’ll be happy working with him,” you assured, to which Natalie nodded in affirmation. “However, you won’t be happy with the outcome of this case,” you added, finishing off your drink. Natalie chuckled, shaking her head at your cheeky comment.

“Don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched, kid,” she replied, raising her brow at you. She gave you a vague sort of smile and waved the bartender over, paying for both your drinks. “You can buy once you lose the case,” she said when you protested. You laughed as both of you walked out of the bar and into the cool air of the night. “Guess you’ll have to wait a while for that drink,” you said as you turned to part ways, Natalie flagging down a cab. “We’ll see,” she called out to you with another cryptic smile as the cab drove off.

It was a day that seemed like any other in the morning as you went through your ritual, but by mid-morning, you were standing in court, facing Andrew Bennett, the young man you had been defending not too long ago. You hadn’t missed that smug smile, that expensive suit, and those designer glasses that you knew he put on just to make himself more likable to a jury of people he would ordinarily treat like trash but now he had to pander his image to them. Yet, he sat in the witness box, looking like he was just one of you. You knew better, you knew that he thought he was better. But you also knew that he wasn’t actually so, he just happened to come from a family whose pockets ran deep. But not deep enough, you decided.

“Mr. Bennett,” you began, hoping that the jury wouldn’t see past the farce that Andrew had set up for the sake of your case, and for Ben’s sake, “you’re a good friend of the defendant, Ben Harris, aren’t you?” Andrew nodded without cracking a smile, which unnerved you a bit. “We go to school together, yes,” he replied coolly, to which you narrowed your eyes a bit. “Just a few months ago, the two of you were fighting against allegations of sexual assault, but you just go to school together?” you pressed. Andrew shifted in his seat a little, looking visibly uncomfortable with your tone, to which you internally began feeling anxious. He never had a problem lying to save his own skin, but here he couldn’t even admit to being pals with the guy when it was the truth?

“Like I said, we go to school together, and we happened to be at the same party, and we happened to get caught up in the same mess,” he said, somehow genuinely looking the slightest bit distraught and you came to a realization. A Bennett will shed their skin like a snake when it comes to saving themselves. The aftermath of the Amanda Taylor case was an era of supposed reformation for party boy Andrew Bennett, and this was the first act, separating himself from any trace of the only part of the triangle left of the thing he was calling a “mess,” and that was Ben. You couldn’t believe him. “And you happened to be at the same bodega, in line, in front of my client the night Amanda Taylor was murdered?” you said, folding your arms across your chest as you shot back a response to Andrew’s denial. He narrowed his eyes back at you, just for a second before catching himself. “So?” Andrew said flatly. You shook your head, knowing the jury couldn’t possibly believe the bullshit he was pulling. “Mr. Bennett, we have an eyewitness, the man at the bodega counter, who says he saw you...” you started, but suddenly you felt yourself struggling to force the line of thought you had laid out for questioning Andrew. You felt like you had him there when you heard the prosecutor’s voice behind you, “Objection Your Honor, the defense is floundering whilst questioning her own witness.” You turned to glare at Ross, sure she fought hard, but she wasn’t the type to cut into your line of questioning just because you needed a second to get your footing right. “Not cause for an objection, Ms. Ross,” the judge replied before turning to you to cast a look of warning, “But she has a point, get to the point, any point, Ms. Y/L/N.” You nodded, turning back to Andrew as the wheels in your head spun at lightning speed.

“Your Honor, could we have the testimony of the bodega owner read back, back from his identification of Mr. Bennett,” you asked, pleading with your eyes for a bit of space to push your argument. He nodded, gesturing towards the typist, who cleared her throat before reading aloud.

Mr. Khan: He paid with a $50 bill. I was so surprised because no one in that neighborhood comes in with money like that, especially not a bill as clean as that.

Ms. Y/L/N: How did you know it was Andrew Bennett specifically?

Mr. Khan: I wanted to make sure the guy wasn’t handing me a fake bill, you know? And he was real agitated about it, like he wanted to get out of there quick. I mean, his face was all over the news. I knew it was that rich kid so I figured the bill was real. All he bought was a bottle of the fancy water no one else buys, and he was really particular about his change, he passed back a bill that was kind of bent in one corner and said he wanted a clean one. Rich people, right?

Ms. Y/L/N: What about the young man behind him, Ben Harris as you’ve identified? Mr. Khan: He was a lot nicer, apologized for his friend being mean. Well, I’m not sure how friendly they were since the rich kid kind of shoulder checked the other one when walking back, but kids these days ar-

Ms. Y/L/N: Mr. Khan, are you sure the two seemed to know each other?

Mr. Khan: Yes, the rich kid spoke to him, and trust me, in that neighborhood, if words are exchanged, it usually isn’t friendly, but they didn’t fight or anything. He just kind of mumbled something when he passed him. The only reason I remember is because I was excited about that crisp 50 and kept it on the bottom of the cash drawer.

You turned back to Andrew with a pointed look, mentally taking a step back before approaching your line of questioning, “Now Andrew, what did you say to Ben when you left the bodega?” Andrew shrugged before mumbling something. “Speak up, Mr. Bennett,” the judge said. “I said to get home safe,” Andrew said, and you figured he had to have been holding himself back from rolling his eyes. “And is that where you went after leaving the bodega?” “Yes,” Andrew answered, a little too quickly, “And I have a house full of staff  and cameras that all saw me.” You took a breath in, taking a second to step back to look back at the galley. Your old boss, Richard Wesley, was there, probably as counsel for Bennett if needed, as was Ben’s mom, and then there was Matt. He sat with his back straight up against the bench, a sober expression on his face until you laid eyes on him. You knew he couldn’t see you, but seeing him there made you feel a little less hopeless. Before you turned back to face Andrew, your eye caught the prosecutor. She looked different now, more serious than she had looked when you two were sharing drinks and words, but that piercing gaze was trying to send you a message. She nodded the slightest bit, and even then you weren’t sure she was doing anything but something was telling you that this witness wasn’t going anywhere. You should have known that the lack of resistance in getting Andrew to the stand would just mean resistance from Andrew himself on the stand, but Natalie didn’t seem worried. Then again, she wasn’t defending a young man for alleged murder.

Yet, the words slipped out of your mouth. “No further questions, Your Honor,” you said as you went back to sit down. “He’s gonna hang me out to dry,” Ben whispered, and when you turned your head to say something reassuring, the look of terror in his eyes almost made you cry. “You’ll be okay,” you replied, turned back knowing that if you looked at Ben longer, you would make a fool out of yourself in the courtroom. “Mr. Bennett,” Natalie said, suddenly full of energy as she stood to question your witness, “As part of the investigation on Ms. Taylor’s murder, we confirmed with your… staff that you indeed came home that night, but I have to ask you, just to make sure, you know?” Andrew nodded, but all eyes were on the prosecutor at this point. She was good, she knew it, and they knew it. “Did you kill Amanda Taylor?” she asked, and the shock value of her direct question got what she wanted from the jury, eyes on Andrew in anticipation of his reply. “No,” he replied. You knew Richard Wesley was a good lawyer, and he probably told Andrew that one-word replies were best with a prosecutor like Ross. You can’t get caught in a web of your lies if you only say one word per sentence. “Right, of course. But what were you doing in that neighborhood at that time, it’s a little far from home for you, isn’t it?” she continued, her tone innocent enough. Andrew thought for a minute, glancing over at someone behind you, presumably Richard Wesley, before replying, “I went to see Ben, he called me about something before.” “And that would be…?” Ross pushed further, little by little. “Something about school,” Andrew replied, his voice lowering to a mumble.

“Of course,” Ross agreed, “you two boys had a lot to catch up with school wise, considering being caught up in the sexual assault case and everything, I’m sure.” “Objection, is there a question there?” you spoke up, to which Natalie chuckled a bit, knowing your objection was valid. The judge agreed, pushing her to get on track. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bennett, I know how valuable the court’s and your time is,” she said, her eyes scanning over Andrew, who seemed to feel more at ease with her than you would’ve recommended him to feel, knowing her. Then again, it wasn’t like Andrew was your client.

“So, let me get this straight, you met up with Benjamin Harris, Amanda Taylor’s alleged killer, in her own neighborhood, after the both of you allegedly sexually assaulted her?” she said, and while the connotation of her words hurt the image of your client as well, the magical “alleged” in front of those words cut any chance of you being able to object. “I didn’t do anything to her,” Andrew replied. “You mean you didn’t kill her?” Ross replied, having inched closer to him as she had been speaking. “No,” Andrew said, sighing out of exasperation. You felt his exhaustion from here, he was used to being able to act however he wanted and then being able to throw money at the consequences that followed, but here he had to maintain the facade. “God,” he mumbled visible beads of sweat on his forehead. “Your Honor, please advise the witness to speak up,” the prosecutor requested, to which the judge responded with a sigh, “When you are in my court, you will speak up, Mr. Bennett.” Andrew looked back up and you could sense the mask cracking, and you were sure from where Natalie was standing it looked pretty ugly.

“Again, Mr. Bennett, by “I didn’t do anything to her” you mean that you didn’t kill Amanda Taylor?” Ross spoke, her eyes scanning the jury, and even you could sense that Andrew had lost the bit of gain he had with them. A moment passed and then another and Andrew hadn’t replied, and the judge turned again to Andrew. “Answer the question, son,” he said, and while he had addressed Andrew with a term of endearment, there was nothing endearing about his tone and Andrew meanwhile looked like he was about to explode right there.

“Should I repeat the question?” Ross asked. With no response from Andrew, Ross took it upon herself to step a bit away from him, speaking as she walked backward, her voice slowly increasing in speed and volume as she spoke,  “While you were in Amanda Taylor’s neighborhood, whom you were accused to assaulting at one time, at a bodega close to her home, seen on tape with the man sitting there, who was also accused of assaulting her and is now on trial for her murder, did you kill her?” The jury looked between Ross and Andrew, not sure where to keep their attention and at the time, you knew you should have objected her as this was far past badgering the witness but before you could, Andrew had practically shouted back at her, “I didn’t fucking kill her.” You stood up, telling yourself that while Andrew wasn’t a client and not someone you particularly cared for, the kid was not alright.

Yet, again, before you could, Ross pounced, her words direct and as sharp as a knife, “Did you rape her?” “Yes,” Andrew cried out, his hands grasping the wood in front of him so hard that his knuckles almost turned white, “But I didn’t fucking kill her.” The jury looked at each other and there was a moment of deafening silence before the galley burst into exclamations of shock, the judge banging his gavel and ordering to have the jury sent out.

Ben was beside himself, saying things to you, but all you could do was look at the prosecutor who stood amidst the commotion in the courtroom, and at that moment the conversation you had with her last night came to mind and the realization hit you; Natalie Ross was neither a wolf nor a sheep, she was a far mightier beast.

woo there it is! hope you liked it, hope you’re enjoying these twists and turns because they are for sure not done yet! xoxo mira

[niyes-lahiffe]

White Winter Chapter 2

Second and final part of my @mlsecretsanta gift for @lady-baguette!! I hope you’ve had a fantastic holiday and year and I’ve had a splendid time writing this story for you <3 I hope you enjoy the rest of it!

Ao3

Ladybug was more than relieved when she was able to meet up with her teammates again after their separation. Or, rather, most of her teammates.

She glanced around Rena's shoulder and gave her a raised brow.

"The...the akuma grabbed Carapace and then disappeared," Rena answered, eyes casting to the floor below.

"She WHAT?!" Chat shrieked, making Rena wince.

"I tried to save him!" the orange-clad hero retorted. "But she just-she just threw a thing down and then there was dust everywhere and Carapace was gone and-and-"

"Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa," Ladybug soothed, grabbing her shaking partner by the shoulders. "Don't worry, Rena. It's not your fault." Rena sniffed once and nodded.

”Good, glad that’s taken care of,” Queen Bee interjected carelessly. “Now let’s find that akuma.”

”Looking for someone?” The akuma suddenly appeared in a large puff of smoke, startling the other heroes before they quickly recovered and took their respective battle stances.

"Yeesh, who knew we'd be dealing with a ninja!" Chat quipped, earning a quick jab to the side by Ladybug.

"Where is Carapace?" Rena growled loudly, holding her flute out threateningly. White Winter simply rolled her eyes.

"Oh, wouldn't you like to know."

Rena gawked at that. "Well, uh. YES, I would like to know!"

A set of strings suddenly wrapped around the akuma, much to her surprise. Both Ladybug and Queen Bee had made the quick decision to wrap their weapons around White Winter in order to keep her trapped. Rena Rouge's distraction certainly helped.

What threw everyone off was when White Winter's akumatized outfit suddenly faded in a cloud of black, and a lordly-looking lady stood in her place. She didn't look too different, but it was obvious she was no longer akumatized.

Everyone's eyes widened to twice their size and they all took a long moment to process what had just happened.

"Might I ask why I am tied up?" the old woman muttered, glaring at the heroes snobbishly.  Ladybug and Queen Bee quickly drew their ropes back with quick apologies.

"What just happened?" Chat asked with a worried look.

The akumatized victim turned her nose to the sky in a proud matter. "I was just about to ask the same thing."

Ladybug bit her lip in concern, glancing at Rena, who wore a similar expression. "I...I think I might have an idea."

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

"You..it..Gabe.." Nino couldn't believe what he was seeing. He didn't want to keep looking at the man in front of him yet he couldn't find the will to tear his gaze away.

"Hand me back the miraculous. Now," Gabriel said in such a commanding tone that Nino probably would've obeyed had he not been paralyzed on the spot. His eyes landed on his kwami who floated beside his best friend's father, and Wayzz quickly mimed placing a brooch on his chest as Gabe took a step forward. Taking the hint, Nino speedily pinned the brooch to his shirt.

The miraculous glowed with such brightness that caused Nino to flinch, before a small figure flew out of it.

Nino gaped at the small purple creature. A kwami!

"You...you have a kwami..."Nino murmured. He hadn't even thought about that, but he immediately felt defensive.

"Give me the miraculous before I take it from you," Gabriel commanded once more, and the kwami gasped at the sound of his voice before darting behind Nino to hide.

Feeling a sudden surge of anger flow through him, Nino seethed, "How terrible have you been treating this little dude?"

Gabriel simply sighed as an answer, lifting his arm with a stout, "I tried to warn you. Wayzz, shell on." His voice had reached a note so menacing, it gave Nino chills, yet he still stood his ground as his own kwami let out a small noise of protest as he was forcefully sucked into his miraculous.

The purple kwami zipped in front of Nino's face and, in a shrill voice, spoke in one breath, "Quickly, we don't have time to waste! My name is Nooroo, I'm the kwami of generosity. You must stop Hawkmoth! My transformation phrase is wings rise!"

Nino gaped at the creature for a moment but the sight of Gabriel currently transforming snapped him out of his daze and he nodded. "Nooroo, wings rise!"

The situation was certainly bizarre, Nino found. In one fell swoop, he and Hawkmoth had switched miraculouses.

Hawkmoth (could he even call him that now?) wore an outfit that was all too similar to his old one, with some minor adjustments, of course. He wore another suit, this time green, but he donned a shield on his back rather than a cane in his hand. Nino was the one with the cane this time, and he almost felt uncomfortable wielding it.

It felt odd to be using a miraculous he wasn't used to, but he didn't exactly have much time to think about it when the man in front of him didn't hesitate to lunge forward with outstretched arms. Nino yelped and jumped to the side, surprised to find that he was much more agile than before.

"Hey, uh, mind telling me how to use your powers?" Nino asked in a lighthearted matter, more as a way to soothe himself than anything else. Gabriel's only response was another growl and he leaped forward again. "KAY, I'll figure it out on my own, then!" the young hero squeaked, evading once more.

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

"ANOTHER akuma?" Ladybug exclaimed, exasperated.

The colorful figure standing atop the building gave them a friendly smile.

Wait, a friendly smile? That seemed uncharacteristic.

"Hey!" The akuma jumped from the building and landed before the heroes. He continued, "My name is Helper!"

"Helper...?"

Helper nodded. "I've been given a special mission by Monarch to find you guys."

"Monarch?" Chat added with a perplexed expression.

"Nino..." Rena muttered, loud enough for only Ladybug to hear.

The spotted heroine gasped quietly. "What's this special mission?"

A purple butterfly silhouette appeared around Helper's eyes and he looked up at the sky curiously as he listened. "He just wants you guys to follow me," Helper answered once the mask disappeared. "He sounds pretty desperate."

"What are we waiting for, then?!" Rena squawked, jumping from one foot to another with anticipation. Ladybug nodded and Helper leaped away, the others following without another word.

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

"GAH!" Monarch yelped when he was viciously shoved to the ground. He lifted his pole defensively as his attacker, who he had in his head nicknamed as Shell Shock (a homage to his own villain name), harshly threw his shield down. It was tough protecting himself when he didn't have his beloved shield with him, but the boy wouldn't let down.

In the short amount of time he had, Monarch had found out how to summon one of the white butterflies in the room and give a random citizen in Paris super powers. He didn't have very much time to think of a unique name or a fantastic power, but he was relieved to find a soul willing to help.

Now that he had the assignment out, Monarch could stress about the fact that he was fighting the man Ladybug and Chat Noir had been after for nearly a year and a half. To say he was already getting tired wouldn't be a lie.

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

Chat Noir and Queen Bee hadn't been told exactly why they were following this random stranger bouncing from building to building, but they figured it was important enough to not ask any questions about it.

As they neared their destination, Chat started to get suspicious. The akuma seemed to be heading towards the Agreste Mansion, and the young hero really couldn't figure out why.

The akuma stopped suddenly without warning, causing Ladybug to yelp and run face-first into his backside, which caused a collision of heroes as Rena rammed into Ladybug, Queen Bee into Rena, and Chat Noir in Queen Bee. Helper didn't seem phased in the slightest as he stood like a brick wall, turning to the heroes with a grin and saying, "We're here!"

Chat Noir gasped. He was right.

He was standing right before the very building he called his home.

The purple butterfly appeared around Helper's face once more, and he pointed to the large and beautifully designed window to the side of the building. "He says go in through there."

Ladybug nodded as Chat felt his heart begin to pick up the pace. "Thank you so much, Helper."

"Daww, it was nothing!" he replied, waving his hand.

After smiling at the akuma one last time, she told the other heroes to get their weapons ready.

Chat wasn't sure he was ready for this.

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

Both Monarch and Shell Shock gasped when the giant window suddenly exploded into a million shards.

And then Monarch gasped happily. The figures behind the broken window were none other than his comrades in battle. His plan had worked!

Shell Shock, however, gasped angrily when he noticed who had decided to join the battle. Before the other heroes could do anything, he lifted his arm and shouted, "Shellter!", entrapping both him and Monarch in a tight, green bubble.

The superhero team ran up to the bubble and started punching it, but to no avail. It didn't budge.

"Your friends are no match against this superpower," Shell Shock muttered, taking a few menacing steps forward. Monarch gulped.

"CATACLYSM!"

A sudden ooze of black surrounded the force field, soon smothering it to nothing.

Chat Noir, as well as the rest of the heroes, stepped forward with dangerous growls, holding out their weapons threateningly. Shell Shock hissed back, but Monarch took his distraction as a chance to kick the man's legs with such force to knock him back.

Shell Shock fell with a grunt but he quickly recovered, leaping to his feet again to deal a swift kick to Monarch's side.

The sudden action seemed to be confirmation that the other heroes could finally join the battle, and soon it was ultimately the enemy that was getting exhausted.

"Guys!" Monarch shouted through all the chaos. They others didn't stop fighting but, knowing they were listening, he continued, "Hawkmoth! He's-"

Before Monarch could utter another sound, Shell Shock swooped in and wrapped his arms tightly around the young hero from behind, using one of his hands to roughly cover Monarch's mouth. "You're going to regret it if you finish that sentence, boy," the villain threatened.

Obviously not caring at the moment, Monarch jabbed his persecutor's ribs with his elbow while biting his hand with all his might. Shell Shock hissed in pain, and the superhero took the moment to yell, "HE'S GABRIEL AGRESTE!"

For reasons unbeknownst to the others, Chat Noir let out a cry of pure agony and fell to his knees.

"Chat Noir!" Ladybug exclaimed. She squatted and placed her hands on her partner's shoulders. "Are you alright?"

"No no no no no...it can't be...please..." he muttered back, clutching his head in his clawed hands and shaking it back and forth.

Rena kicked Shell Shock harshly in the stomach, successfully causing the villain to stumble and fall into the same chair Nino sat in a while before. Without hesitation, Queen Bee wrapped him tightly to the chair using her weapon.

"Don't listen to the idiot!" Shell Shock snarled. "Whatever he says, he's lying."

Rena Rouge gave the man a glare intimidating enough to immediately shut his mouth. "Carapace. Doesn't. Lie."

"Bee, wanna do the honors?" Ladybug asked, arms still tightly wrapped around Chat Noir, who had yet to stop groaning with shock.

Queen Bee held up her weapon with a sinister grin. "Gladly."

"NO-" Shell Shock didn't have a chance to say one more word. Queen Bee had already stung him with her venom.

All was ominously quiet, the only sound being the heroes' shared panting and Chat's murmuring mouth. Queen Bee regarded the miraculous still secure to the man's wrist before carefully sliding it off. His transformation fell, and Chat visibly flinched at the sight of Gabriel, whose face was stuck in an expression of pure rage.

"Here." Queen Bee handed the turtle miraculous to Monarch. "This is yours."

He smiled at her before sliding the bracelet back onto his wrist. Wayzz flew out of it and immediately smothered his holder's face with relieved hugs and kisses, Monarch laughing like a goof all the while.

"C'mon, Chat..."Ladybug murmured. "It'll be alright." She gave him a reassuring kiss to the forehead and steadily helped him get to his feet.

Rena Rouge had basically tackled her boyfriend in a hug so fierce, he squeaked. She did the same as his kwami had done moment earlier and planted an endless swarm of kisses to his face, beyond relieved that he was okay and in one piece.

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

"Are you alright?" Ladybug asked her partner once the others had run off. She and Chat Noir sat atop the roof of an unsuspecting building as the sun fell, turning the sky a gorgeous blend of pink and orange.

Chat Noir sighed, still shaking slightly. "Today was crazy.." he answered simply.

Ladybug nodded, deciding to take a moment to admire the beautiful view before them.

"It's...tough to explain," he continued after a moment had passed. Ladybug turned fer face in his direction once more. "He and I had a...complicated relationship. If that makes sense."

Ladybug stared at him for a long moment. And a moment more. Chat shifted uncomfortably and opened and closed his mouth, unsure of what to do or say. He was just about to speak up when Ladybug suddenly whispered in a voice so quiet he was surprised he could hear her. "Alya was right, wasn't she?"

"Huh?"

"You're Adrien Agreste." Her statement sent Chat Noir into a ballistic fit of coughing.

"Wh-I, uh, I thought we weren't supposed to know our identities!" he squeaked once he finally found his voice.

Ladybug turned away with pink cheeks. "Well...that was because of the danger Hawkmoth could cause. But he's gone now."

Just the name of his father's alter-ego caused Chat to shudder. Ladybug placed a hand on his shoulder reassuringly. "I understand how hard it must be for you..."

"So...so we don't need to keep secrets anymore?" Chat asked, bright green eyes refusing to leave Ladybug's ocean blue.

She simply sighed and smiled. "I guess not. Tikki...spots off."

Chat covered his face as she flashed a bright pink. Part of his brain wanted to be respectful, as it always had been, but the other half that had been dying for over a year to finally see her face beneath the mask took over. He peeked at her in between his fingers and gasped.

"Marinette?"

Marinette giggled. "I can't believe it," she laughed, resting her head on Chat's shoulder. "We've been pining after each other this whole time and never even knew it!"

"What?" he replied, puzzled. "You like...you like Chat Noir?"

"No, silly!" She leaned forward and poked his nose. "I've always been in love with Adrien Agreste."

Chat's tail flopped lifelessly to the floor as his eyes slowly grew. "You...no."

"Yup."

He looked forward and gave his forehead a hardy slap, mumbling mostly to himself, "How could I have been so blind?!" He then called his transformation off, surprising himself with how freely his tears flowed down his cheeks. Adrien engulfed Marinette in a hug and sobbed into her shoulder.

"Are...are you sure you're alright?" she asked as she reciprocated the hug.

"More than alright," he answered, nuzzling his nose further into her neck. "I don't think I'd be half as relieved and happy as I am now if Ladybug had been anybody but you."

And now Marinette was crying, clutching Adrien's shirt tightly in her hands as her heart continued to flutter at his words. He lifted his head and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips.

"You're a dork, you know that?" Marinette laughed in between tears once he pulled away.

Adrien chuckled himself. "Yeah, alright."

It was Marinette who leaned forward to seal their lips together once more, to which he reciprocated happily.

Maybe they didn't know what would happen now that their main threat had finally been defeated. But that was at the back of both of their heads at the moment, and they knew that as long as they had each other, they would be alright. They were yin and yang, after all.

[lifeonashelf]

CLASH, THE

As anyone who self-identifies as a “serious” music fan  is indubitably aware (goddammit, this essay is already pretentious and I haven’t even finished the first sentence), there are certain bands which other self-identified “serious” music fans have long-ago designated as “important” artists that all “serious” music fans are supposed to love. There isn’t any set-in-stone mandate for this, no handy reference guide which lists all of these acts for the benefit of those seeking to become “serious” music fans—actually, there very well might be, but I don’t feel like looking it up and I wouldn’t want to read such a pompous list anyway. The artists in this elite pantheon are mostly identified through accumulated cognizance, via extensive reading of material scribed by writers who self-identify as “serious” music fans and/or extensive conversations with people who self-identify as the same. Unfortunately, uncovering those exalted names is an often-insufferable process, since most self-identifying “serious” music fans are themselves often-insufferable. And doing so is also an exercise in sheer inanity, since requiring someone else to tell you whether or not a band is good defeats the entire fucking purpose of being a music fan.

I am “not” a “serious” music fan. Yes, I have written over 200,000 words about that specific subject for this project, and my every waking moment is spent either listening to records or wishing I was listening to records instead of doing whatever it is I’m doing instead of listening to records. Yet there are two notable discrepancies in my psyche which disqualify me from thriving among the insufferable: 1) My favorite album of all time is by fucking Queensryche, so I harbor absolutely zero delusions about possessing any sophisticated expertise in this field; and 2) I honestly couldn’t give a shit whether or not anybody else likes the bands I like.

That second distinction is rather important for our purposes here, since one notable attribute of “serious” music fans is a deportment of haughtiness towards people who aren’t “serious” music fans, which is usually accompanied by a reflexive disdain for anyone who does not subscribe to the putative preeminence of the “important” bands on the afore-mentioned possibly-nonexistent list. This isn’t something the aficionados I’m speaking of will necessarily acknowledge—to be fair, most of them probably aren’t even aware they’re dicks—but rest assured, if you ever tell a “serious” music fan that you think Radiohead has been awful for the entirety of this century, they will indeed think less of you.

On the contrary, I don’t think less of people who don’t exalt Operation: Mindcrime as highly as I do, nor would I bother expending energy trying to convince anyone they should share my ardor for the second-best-selling album by a band most people barely remember even existed. If you love Operation: Mindcrime, that’s totally cool—we can certainly geek out on how Chris DeGarmo’s precise shredding throughout “Speak” reveals him to be the most underrated guitar player of all time, and we can rhapsodize about how the interlocked suite of “Breaking the Silence”/ “I Don’t Believe In Love”/ “Waiting for 22”/ ”My Empty Room” and “Eyes of a Stranger” is the most exhilarating 18-minutes of music ever recorded (and it’s entirely possible I will ask you to marry me at the conclusion of our discussion). However, if you don’t love Operation: Mindcrime, that’s totally cool, too—maybe you simply prefer the band’s subsequent record, Empire, and I certainly won’t begrudge your attempt to make a case for its superiority based on the incontrovertible strength of “Silent Lucidity”, “Jet City Woman”, and “Another Rainy Night (Without You)”, because all of those tracks are also fucking marvelous. Or maybe you think Queensryche totally sucked and you’d rather chat about Animal Collective instead—seriously, that’s also perfectly acceptable (although our conversation will have to be fairly brief since I’ve still never heard that band and don’t really care that I’ve never heard them).

Needless to say, Queensryche probably isn’t on the shortlist of many music fans, serious or otherwise. They aren’t even on mine—despite the apex they reached with Operation: Mindcrime, the records they made before that are merely decent and I think pretty much everything they released after Empire is terrible. “Serious” music fans wouldn’t even mention such frivolous and undistinguished fare in passing. Though they will eagerly plunk down $200 for a Bob Dylan box set featuring 14 discs laden with endless alternate versions of the songs from Slow Train Coming, and they will subsequently embark on a thorough scholarly analysis of each increasingly redundant track until they reach a decisive verdict that Take 6 of “Man Gave Names to All the Animals” is slightly superior to the version that was used on the album, after which they will inevitably engage in spirited discussions about their findings with other “serious” music fans, who are liable to counter that Take 4 with the alternate bridge lyrics is the true superlative rendering of that number. Such things are deeply significant to “serious” music fans, which is one of the many reasons they’re insufferable. And if you were to inform these ardent votaries that you think the vast majority of Dylan’s recorded output is boring as shit and you’d much rather listen to anything in the Queensryche catalog than anything Bobby D released after 1975, they would readily conclude that you know absolutely nothing about music.

And perhaps I don’t. Because despite what every “serious” music fan has to say about the matter, Queensryche is infinitely more important to me than Bob Dylan. Operation: Mindcrime was the album that led me to pick up a guitar for the first time. Operation: Mindcrime was the album that led me to start writing songs and begin exploring my creative talents in earnest. Which means that, ultimately, Queensryche is the reason I’m sitting here at my laptop thirty years later, typing an essay about The Clash that has yet to actually say anything about The Clash. In a tangible and legitimate sense, Queensryche changed the course of my entire life. Out in the “serious” world, Dylan may be a Pulitzer Prize-winning lyricist and the most acclaimed musician of the 20th Century. But in my world, he’s just a dude who made three albums in my collection that I never listen to. So, clearly, importance is a subjective characterization.

Here’s where that applies to the topic at hand: The Clash are one of those lionized bands whose work everyone who professes to love music is supposed to love. They are undoubtedly “important.” Their records are “seminal.” I am acutely aware of this. Yet this awareness only reinforces my recognition that I must not be a “serious” music fan, because I don’t fucking care.

My valuation of The Clash tallies out to a half-dozen-or-so kickass tunes, twenty-or-so pretty good tunes, and “Rock the Casbah”, which is one of the most comprehensively annoying songs ever excreted—a ratio that doesn’t chart them anywhere on my personal best-list. A recent documentary about the group was outfitted with the ludicrously hyperbolic title The Only Band That Matters, a designation which suggests I have evidently squandered my entire life by seeking out the literal thousands of bands that matter a lot more to me than The Clash does. As with Dylan, The Clash only factors into my musical paradigm by virtue of other artists they influenced—in other words, I like most of the bands who like The Clash a lot more than I like the band they like. Since they’re “important,” this roster is extensive and encompasses a wide range of artists responsible for some of my favorite records ever. Nonetheless, even limiting my scope strictly to the track listing of Burning London—a 1999 tribute CD which features 12 Clash tunes covered by a decidedly anemic assortment of 12 bands who are not The Clash—I still enjoy listening to half of those bands more than I enjoy listening to the Clash. Which is, I think, a good indication of how little their music matters to me, since the only bands on Burning London I actually do prefer The Clash to include bottom-scraping pedestrians like The Urge, Indigo Girls, and goddamn No Doubt, whose very existence aggravates me so much that hearing their music makes me physically nauseous.

Afghan Whigs supplied a track to Burning London, and I love Greg Dulli’s work with parts of my soul that Joe Strummer’s songs have never strummed anywhere near. 311 also has a cut on there, and my fondness for them is far more long-standing and sincere than the casual appreciation I have accumulated for The Clash. So does Third Eye Blind, whose self-titled debut I’ve spun WAY more times than I’ve played my copy of The Clash, by a factor of at least 20. Even the presence of a more peripheral outfit like Cracker serves to remind me that I think “Low” rocks harder than “I’m So Bored with the U.S.A.” Sure, I like the Clash more than I like The Mighty Mighty Bosstones, but if I’m being honest, I probably prefer fellow Burning London contributors Silverchair to both of them, and Silverchair is kind of lousy by any standard.

So, does this confession reveal that I know fuck-all about music? Or does it perhaps reveal that the connections each of us forge to the artform we’re exploring here are so exclusive and individualized that any sort of flighty designation of what bands “matter” completely undermines the sacred and inimitable power of music? I propose the latter—mostly because I have to make this piece about something, and I don’t feel like writing about how awesome The Clash is because I don’t think they’re nearly as awesome as I’m apparently supposed to.

I have a friend named Celine (save it—she’s heard all the jokes) who would probably tell you that Fall Out Boy changed her life. She’s not a “serious” music fan—if she’s ever listened to The Clash at all, it likely occurred by happenstance while she was watching Stranger Things—but she is one of the most committed music fans I’ve ever met. She goes to a lot of shows, she buys hoodies from peripheral squads like Sleeping With Sirens, and she could probably sing you multiple Panic At The Disco records from start to finish. The kind of love she has for the bands that are important to her is of the purest and most zealous grade—a passionate embrace that pulls their music out of the background of her life and into the foreground of her heart, a fandom based not on what’s hip this minute but on what moves her always. Precisely the kind of love that music is fucking meant to inspire, as far as I’m concerned. And, frankly, I don’t think it matters if the band who opened that door for her is Fall Out Boy, because the open door itself is far more important that any capricious critical assessment of how “important” their work is.

The Clash have been sanctified as one of punk’s most imperative progenitors, but that doesn’t mean I feel obligated to love them simply because I love punk rock. The Clash had absolutely nothing to do with my submersion into the genre—a girl named Alison who used to play NOFX cassettes in her car when she gave me rides home from Bonita High School had a greater influence on that corollary than Mick Jones did. Alison had several tapes in the caddy she kept in her center console—Pennywise, Guttermouth, and the like—and we listened to all those, too. But it was NOFX’s masterwork Punk in Drublic that stole my heart, cuts like “Linoleum” and “Lori Meyers” and “Dying Degree” that energized my eardrums and unveiled a whole new biosphere of sonic possibilities. Punk in Drublic is the record that made me a fan of punk rock, which sort of makes NOFX the most important punk rock band of all time to me. And neither the lasting impact of that introduction nor the multitude of memories which augment my experience every time I listen to Punk in Drublic are tempered by the feeble insistence of self-appointed music scholars that The Clash and Sex Pistols represent proper punk essentiality, because in my universe The Clash is predominantly meh and the Sex Pistols are predominantly shit-awful.

But perhaps the problem here isn’t me. Maybe it’s just time to reassess the derisible notion that there have only been a handful of significant bands formed since the 1970’s. And maybe it’s also time to reassess how such designations are tabulated, and how often we revisit those tabulations. Because The Clash haven’t done anything especially noteworthy in my lifetime, and I’ve been around for 40 fucking years now. The last “important” record they made—1982’s Combat Rock—came out when I was 4. And despite the group’s repute as one of the wellsprings from which all things punk were born, the most enduring tracks off Combat Rock are the bare bones Kinks-esque rocker “Should I Stay Or Should I Go” (which, granted, is an unimpeachably rad song) and the utterly dreadful “Rock the Casbah”, which—near as my ears can tell—didn’t influence any of the songs in the NOFX catalog, but definitely influenced a lot of the songs in the decidedly un-punk Fine Young Cannibals catalog. The band was remarkable in their own epoch because of their anti-aristocracy philosophy and their then-novel fusing of punk and reggae, yet the lasting effects of those oft-cited dogmatic components are negligible today. Sure, The Clash lit a protest rock fuse that later motivated Rage Against The Machine to make some of the coolest music of the ‘90s, but they also accidentally invented Slightly Stoopid, so those two contributions probably cancel each other out. And, yes, they embraced vital social causes and pledged undying support to anti-Nazi groups, but the Dead Kennedys managed to issue a condemnation more blistering than The Clash’s entire combined catalog in just sixty-four seconds when they recorded “Nazi Punks Fuck Off”.

The fact that “Casbah” remains the band’s most lasting and highest-charting hit suggests that a whole lot of The Clash’s non-“serious” fans don’t ultimately give a shit about any of the reasons their “serious” aficionados have deemed them indispensable. Which sort of speaks to the point I’ve been making here. Cougars who scurry to the dance floor to shake their asses with their Solo cups held high whenever “Rock the Casbah” comes on at the club are just as welcome to the track as the Art & Activism professors who play it for an auditorium full of bored freshmen to preface their lectures on Iranian despots banning Western music. The song serves extremely different functions for both extremes of its audience, which is ultimately a point in its favor. The reason the omnipresence of “Casbah” irritates me, besides the song itself being irritating, is because its tedious one-riff groove showcases none of the band’s stronger attributes and the general goofiness of the presentation makes the whole affair resonate as nothing more than a frivolous novelty number—adopting “Rock the Casbah” as the anthem that defines The Clash is a lot like picking “Batdance” as the best Prince song.  

All of this reads like I hate The Clash, which is definitely not the case (although, I am listening to Combat Rock from start to finish for the first time in ages right now, and most of the record is actually pretty terrible). What I do hate is the sort of stuffy snobbery which has come to predominate cultural discourse on any music that intellectuals have chosen to elevate into the category of high art, whether the subject is revolution-minded ‘70s proto-punk or contemporary socially-conscious hip-hop (which has become the genre du jour of all modern pop music critics striving to prove how woke they are). And maybe my aversion doesn’t apply exclusively to the deification of bands; maybe it stems from my tenure in grad school, where I was continually reminded by English professors that authors like Stephen King and Elmore Leonard—i.e. writers whose work people without PhDs enjoy reading—somehow belong in a lesser tier than the likes of William Faulkner and James Joyce, who are deemed superior by the literary elite simply because they have been elected into canonization by that same literary elite. Maybe I’ve grown to believe that making distinctions between so-called “high” and “low” art is inherently an act of arrogance, because no matter how much activity a piece of prose or music may inspire in the minds of the cognoscente, it is the impact art has on our hearts and souls that should govern how its importance is measured. Some of us find the same rich tapestry of storytelling in back issues of Amazing Spider-Man as “serious” readers find in The Dubliners. And some of us find the same door-opening revelations in Operation: Mindcrime as “serious” music fans find in London Calling. Highbrow culture’s continued insistence that there is somehow a marked disparity between the two is false and exclusionary—and both of those sins are egregious because all art is most powerful when it serves a mirror that reflects truths within ourselves, and that kind of existential revelation is wide open to anybody who cares enough to seek it out. Any band whose music accomplishes a feat that outstanding doesn’t need to have a graduate thesis or a documentary devoted to them to be important.

If The Clash changed your life, I’m very happy for you. But Fall Out Boy changed Celine’s life, and Queensryche changed mine, and The Clash never did shit for either one of us. So, while I’m sure someone gave themselves a huge boner when they came up with the title The Only Band That Matters, an allegation like that only serves to deepen the divide between the insufferable and us lower-echelon fans who cultivate our love of music based on what it makes us feel instead of whether smart people think it matters or not. Because when you strip away politics and history and erudite mammon, there’s only one way to gauge the eminence of any band: fucking put on one of their records and see if it kicks your ass.

The Clash’s albums offer me sporadic moments of excitement, but they do not kick my ass. So if that means I’m not a “serious” music fan, I guess I’ll just have to learn to live with that. And I’ll take the $200 I’m not spending on some otiose Bob Dylan box set and buy 14 discs I’ll actually listen to instead. I may never find out whether Take 11 of “God Gave Names to All the Animals” is superior to Take 8, but I do know every word Geoff Tate wails on “Breaking the Silence”—and, goddammit, that should count for something.

 March 11, 2019

[artsyneurotic]

Unfiltered Mass Effect: Andromeda Trial Reactions

Okay so I hit the gate on the main story in the Mass Effect: Andromeda trial already (just under 3 hours in... was hoping I could play a bit further before they cut me off), so I felt now would be a decent time to summarize my thoughts from my trial experience.  As a disclaimer, these are my honest-to-god truthful reactions to the game so far; I am not going out of my way to be mean or snippy or whatever, but I want to be honest.  I know that for some reason some fans take it incredibly personally when someone criticizes this game, but realize that there are actual issues I had with the game, as well as some good things.

I haven't tried multiplayer yet, so all of this is purely based off of Story experience, but let's start with positive things first and then work downwards...

The Good-

- Vetra is great.  First impression of her is very positive, and I know she'd be one of my main squadmates.

- Drack is also great, from what little I saw.  Great intro.  I already like his sass.

- Liam's a cool guy.  He unfortunately reminds me a bit of my brother and thus I'd be too weirded-out by that to try and romance him, but he'd be a cool pal.

- Combat feels fun so far. I like the addition of the jump jets, and being able to use them so quickly helps movement feel more dynamic than past games.  I like being able to zip around and quickly reposition myself.  I also like being able to freely outfit myself with a whole bunch of different biotic and tech abilities off the bat, rather than specific ones being limited to certain character types.

The Bad-

- Someone seriously needs to re-evaluate what keys they use in the customization screens... at one point there was “Esc to Confirm” ... who the fuck uses the Escape key to confirm something??  So many times in the character or outfit customizing screens where I thought I was confirming my choices and it reset all my shit back to default.  There’s a ton of confusing counter-intuitive design choices in there.

- The Character Creator... I knew it was going to be limited, but I actually got mad at how limited it ended up being.  The problem is this game is following Inquisition in terms of Bioware games I've played, and to go from that level of customization to this is.... well, it just really sucks.  Eyes and noses are tied to the preset faces.  There's no way to select a different set of eyes or nose for the base face you choose, and that’s so depressingly restrictive.  Not to mention you can't rotate the eyes / noses, so I couldn't give my character a convex nose, and I couldn't rotate the eye corners to get at least some kind of variation on the eyes.  The sliders they do give you are too minimal to have any real impact, aside from giving your character a giant nose or one too high up / low on the face.   Every preset face had at least one facial element I disliked.  Now this is more of a personal preference for me, but it basically made me hate every preset face in some way.  And instead of more customization options for facial features, they gave us too many options for ugly face paint.  I don't need 10 kinds of unappealing eyeliner... I’d rather have 10 kinds of eyes. I'm sure there are a lot of people complaining about the character creator, so if Bioware patches in some fixes or more options, then I'd be willing to revisit this, but as of launch, it's severely lacking and very disappointing.

- Now that I'm playing it myself, the crazy-eye thing is still distracting.  I can kind of tune it out a bit for other characters, but my Ryder is still 90% wide-eyed at any given moment.  I read a post on here that the sclera being so bright white and not having enough shading could be a big contributor to that, and I think that if they patched in a fix to that it would help immensely.  But as of right now, the startled eyes and lack of expression make it very hard for me to connect with my character.

- Animation is still bad... and when I'm talking animation I'm referring to the cinematic animations.  Creature/animal AI animations and a lot of the combat stuff looks fine and passable, they aren't the problem.  It's the cutscene stuff that is frankly embarrassing.  Obviously Bioware has a history of not having the most amazing animation in general, and I acknowledge that... but this game is actually looking a bit worse than ME3 and DAI in terms of expressions, automated phonemes, and general body animation.  Before someone starts bitching at me, I am a cinematic animator in videogames, I know a lot of the pipelines and procedures for this stuff, so I can see where they've cut corners or just outright decided this wasn't a priority for them.  And yes, I know there's a high volume of animations needed for a game like this, and it’s a big workload... but keep in mind there are still main-story cutscenes that will always be visible regardless of player choices that should've gotten at least a layer or two of polish.  A lot of body animation in the cinematics look like they barely got a first pass of polish; hands are posed poorly, there are pops in some transitions, and body posture is poor in some locomotion anims.  Look whenever an alien walks on a ramp in a cutscene; their feet are often smashed.   Facial animations are the most noticeable and suffer the worst of the bunch, eyes often track weirdly and unnaturally, and the phoneme shapes look like they need another go-around to make them more accurate.  For as cartoony/stylized as it looked, I still think DA2 was the high-water mark for me in terms of effective phonemes and expressions in a Bioware game.  People looked appropriately happy/sad/pissed, and the mouth shapes were more accurate than some other Bioware titles. Basically, what I'm trying to say in all this is if you were a self-respecting cinematic animator in this game, you wouldn't use anything from this game (at least everything I've seen in the Trial) in your demo reel.  If you submitted this to a AAA company to get a job, they would laugh at your reel behind closed doors.  I'm not joking.  Anyone who thinks otherwise is in for a rude awakening in this industry (unless they're applying at Bioware apparently, lol)

- I'm not sure how I feel about the absence of Paragon/Renegade and more polarizing conversation choices.  From what I've seen so far, a lot of choices can feel rather samey or have similar results, and even with the new categories it was easy to accidentally select a dialogue choice that was different that what I intended to say.  It's like they want the personality thing from DA2 but it doesn't look like it's working as well as it did in that game.   ... But yeah there's a couple points in the Trial where I REALLY missed Renegade.  You'll probably know which ones I mean, lol.

So.... yeah.  I’m still in this weird grey area where I honestly don’t know if I’m getting the full copy or not.  My first impressions of this game were of the low lukewarm variety.  Like, I know I could play it and pass time, but it’s not feeling like a must-play game to me just yet.  Perhaps that will change?  Time will tell.

[runningfromexplosions]

Chalk Drawings

------Lazytown fluff and friendship fic------

Robbie curled up in his fluffy orange chair and plopped a large tome on his lap. “Ahh, time for a relaxing read,” he sighed contentedly. He opened the volume, called “Magic and Folklore,” to where he had last left off and removed his silky purple bookmark.

“The pentacle,” he read aloud, “Is a magical symbol often used as a shield against malevolent spirits. An amulet with a pentacle carved into it can be worn around one’s neck to ward off evil.  Drawing a pentacle on one’s door is said to keep demons, elves, and other tricksters from entering one’s house. Hmm. Interesting. Wait, ELVES?!” Robbie did a double-take and re-read the sentence. “It says elves!” The cogwheels of mayhem began to whir inside his imagination. Slower, with a mischievous grin spreading across his face, he repeated to himself, “It says elves. And Sportacus is an elf, which means…”

The villain sprung out of his seat and clapped his hands together. “I am a genius!” he declared to the audience of only himself. “It’s disguise time.” He danced over to his display of costumes. “Too flashy,” he said, looking at a sequined dress. “Too clashy,” he said about an ugly leotard with conflicting patterns and colors. “Too…moustachey,” he said about a pair of moustache-print pajamas. The next outfit in line was a simple brown suit with a colorful tie, a pin that looked like an artist’s palette, a beret, and a thin moustache that curled wildly at the ends. “Perfect!” In a whirlwind of magic, the disguise disappeared from its display and reappeared on Robbie. “Now I just need one more thing…”

Ziggy was strolling through town, sucking on a lollipop (as usual), when he saw a big chalk star drawn on the ground. Followed by another big star. And another. A pathway of stars! Curious, Ziggy followed the path to its end, where the man behind the drawings was squatting and drawing yet another star on the pavement with a purple stick of chalk. Ziggy saw that the man had an entire bucket full of all different colors of chalk.

“Hey mister, what are you doing?” Ziggy asked the artist. The artist looked up, frowned, and raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to talk to strangers?” he said, waving his chalk at the boy like a chiding finger. “Hmm, maybe…I don’t remember. But you’re talking to me, and I’m a stranger to you, right?” “Go away, kid, can’t you see that I’m working on a very important public art project?” said the artist, who could not possibly be Robbie Rotten in any conceivable way. “An art project? What kind of art project?” “I’m drawing stars all over Lazytown,” the artist announced proudly, “It’s going to be a masterpiece! That is, so long as some messy child doesn’t interfere.” “I sure hope not!” said Ziggy, missing the point of Robbie’s snide remark. “Oh! Could I be your artist’s assistant? Please?” “Er…” Robbie hesitated. The brat was persistent, and Robbie doubted that the kid would quietly walk away if he told him to leave again. Besides, if Zippy or whatever his name was helped draw the pentacles, it would save Robbie some time. “Fine. But you have to draw stars like mine, okay?” “I’ll do my best!” the boy said, eagerly picking out a blue chalk stick from the bucket. Robbie went back to his work and tried to ignore the child. That is, until the kid sighed. “Aww…” Robbie put down his chalk. “What is it?” he asked offhandedly. “I don’t think it turned out so good,” said Ziggy, dropping his chalk in defeat. Well, Robbie thought, the boy’s star…had points, he supposed. Not the correct number of five, but the thing looked more like a star than it did a scribble. “Here, I’ll help you,” said Robbie, picking up Ziggy’s chalk, “I’ll hold onto the top, and you hold on to the bottom.” Ziggy grasped the bottom of the chalk as suggested. Robbie helped guide the chalk over the pavement until they had drawn a complete star. “There, see?” Robbie said. “Yes. This one looks a lot better. Thank you!” “You’re…welcome?” Robbie mentally slapped himself. He was a villain, not a babysitter, for crying out loud! Maybe the pink one had been right and he was a big softie. “Hi Ziggy!” Speak of the eight-year-old devil. There she was, a pink and white soccer ball under one arm, and…oh boy, the other children were coming over as well. The geeky one, the pigtailed one, and the greedy one- the entire Brat Brigade- surrounded Robbie. “What’cha doing, Ziggy?” asked Pixel. “I’m helping Mr. Artist draw stars!” said Ziggy. “Sounds like fun. We were going to invite you to play soccer with us, but it’s cool if you want to keep drawing.” “Ooh, chalk drawings?” said Trixie, interested. “We can play soccer later; I wanna draw!” “Mr. Artist, can my friends draw, too?” Ziggy asked Robbie. “All right,” Robbie said, realizing that he had no escape from the kids, “But be quiet, because I am trying to concentrate on my work. And remember, we are drawing these stars.” He gestured to the first star he had drawn. “What if we want to draw things other than stars?” asked Stephanie. “Excuse you, Miss Pink, but who is the artist here?” Stephanie rolled her eyes, but went to pick out a stick of chalk from the bucket anyway. Pink, of course.

Despite Robbie’s rule about only drawing stars, the children managed to be creative. Pixel drew entire constellations. Stingy drew stars which he labeled “MINE.” He drew arrows towards the other kids’ stars, and labeled those “MINE,” too. Stephanie and Ziggy worked on a gigantic smiley face design with a star for each of the eyes. Trixie drew on the side of a house. “Trixie, that’s someone’s house! You can’t draw there!” Stephanie warned. “Oh yeah? And who’s going to stop me?” “No one! That’s my house,” Robbie lied, “And you have my permission to draw all over it!” “All right!” the prankster cheered. She spent the next few minutes drawing large stars on the sides of the house until she ran out of space. At least, she had run out of space that she could reach. Trixie’s next move was to climb onto the window ledge. She raised her chalk, prepared to draw a star above the window, when she lost her balance. “Whooooa!” Trixie fell backwards, but rather than land painfully on the ground, she landed safely in someone’s arms. “I got you!” said Trixie’s rescuer. “Sportacus!” all the kids cheered at once, while Robbie growled. Sportacus gently set Trixie back on her feet. “Trixie, why were you drawing on that house?” Sportacus asked, his arms crossed. He wasn’t angry, but his tone was serious. “It’s the artist’s house, and he said I could draw on it,” Trixie explained, “Besides, it’s just chalk. It’ll wash off when it rains.” Robbie wailed. He should have thought of that. If the anti-elf magic wasn’t activated soon, Sportacus would be able to come back once the rain had washed the pentacles away. “Artist?” Sportacus said, looking at the man who had just made the anguished noise. “Yes, hello, that’s me,” Robbie said, masking his frustration with a forced smile. “We’re helping him with his art project,” said Stephanie. “Oh! Sportacus, would you like to draw with us?” “NO!” Robbie interjected. Stephanie glared at him. “Why not? You let everyone else draw.” “Yes, but…he’d ruin our work. He can’t draw! He doesn’t know how!” “I can draw,” said Sportacus, slightly puzzled. “Uh, actually, I meant to say I have a special job in mind for you,” Robbie improvised. Sportacus bounced on his feet in anticipation. “I’m always ready to help! What can I do?” “I need you to go stand in the center of that big star,” Robbie said, pointing to the largest of his pentacles. All the kids had stopped drawing to watch Sportacus move to the designated location. They wondered what the artist planned for the hero. “Like this?” Sportacus gestured to himself, now standing in the pentagon of the star. Robbie rested one hand under his chin and squinted his eyes, pretending to contemplate Sportacus as one would a work of art. He circled around Sportacus, making sure that every part of the elf was inside the star. “Yes, good. Now tell me: do you feel like…skedaddling? Running for the hills?” Robbie wiggled his fingers in the direction of the mountains beyond Lazytown. “Well, I always enjoy running,” said Sportacus, who began to jog in place. “No, no, not running!” Robbie clamped a hand on each of Sportacus’ shoulders to stop his jogging. “I mean, do you even feel a little, teensy, tiny urge to leave Lazytown?” He leaned in towards Sportacus in a way he hoped was intimidating, and whispered in his ear: “For EVER?” Sportacus laughed. “No. I like it here!” He began to do jumping jacks, and Robbie was forced to let go of him. “AAAAARGGH!” Robbie shouted, “WHY ISN’T IT WORKING?” “Was something supposed to happen?” Sportacus asked, pausing mid-jumping jack. Robbie, in a fit, plucked off his fake moustache and threw his beret to the ground. He stomped on the beret several times. “Robbie Rotten!” the children gasped. “Robbie Rotten!” Robbie mocked, “Yes, of course it’s me! I take off my fake moustache and my hat, and suddenly, it’s like you can recognize faces!” Stephanie put her hands on her hips and frowned at the villain. “Robbie, what were you trying to do to Sportacus?” “If you really must know, Pinkie, I was drawing magical symbols to banish Sportafool from Lazytown. But for some reason, they didn’t work.” “Magical symbols? They look like stars to me. I would know, because they’re mine,” asserted Stingy. The other kids giggled. Sportacus smiled at them before turning his gaze to Robbie. “You know what I think?” Sportacus said with a twinkle in his eye, “I think Robbie just wanted to be friends and draw pictures with all of you!” “No!” said Robbie. “Yes!” said Ziggy. “Robbie taught me how to draw a star. See?” He pointed to his first drawing. “I couldn’t do it at first, but he helped me!” Ziggy pointed to the star that he and Robbie had drawn together. Robbie spluttered, unable to deny being helpful. Sportacus gently laid a hand on Robbie’s shoulder. “You did a good thing, Robbie,” Sportacus said softly. Robbie suddenly felt very queasy. “Good?” he whined, “I’m a villain! I can’t be good!” Beyond embarrassed, Robbie snatched up his hat and moustache from the ground. He started to stomp away, but he paused briefly to turn his reddened face and spit out a few more words at his frie—no! Not friends! Annoying acquaintances. “S-smell you later, Sportastink, brats!” “Okay. See you later, Robbie!” Sportacus called after Robbie had turned away again. “See you later!” the children echoed. Robbie felt strangely calmed by their words. Although he had shouted rudely at the kids and the hero, they had replied with kindness. Ugh, why did they have to make it so difficult for him to keep up his grouchy act? Robbie wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone else, but drawing with the kids had almost been... Fun.