#scribbled this out in a fit of emotion last night rip. i just feel this guy so hard

[druidposting]

To give all of yourself for a cause, for an ideal, for a person. To do that for the entirety of your concious life, you will one day catch your reflection and see a crack. And when the crack chips away, you'll see that you are hollow.

To give everything of yourself to something else means you've left nothing to fill yourself.

You are then faced with the task of holding every broken piece of you together while you figure out how to make a person from nothing. To find yourself from nothing is terrifying, and all you have is a cracked, breaking carapace to crudly outline your form.

But if you can do it. If you can hold those shattered pieces in your hands and sculpt from them a new person, you might find you didnt need the boundaries of your chrystalis in the first place. To break free of your cracked and broken shell is to realize you have wings, and you can fly.

[bluecookies02]

Dabi x Reader- I Run To You /nsfw/

warnings: praise/degradation, sex oriented quirk?(meaning succubus-ish!Reader), choking, overstimulation, squirting, pinning/slightly obsessed reader.

The reader becomes a villain-->brief mentions of blood, mentions of Touya's "death".

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Maybe you're supposed to feel some sort of remorse when you see your childhood friend on the screen, blue flames hugging every corner of the building he's in, the poor glass shattering and melting as the reporters hurriedly fly around to catch every evidence and information they can.

You couldn't see much of his face, but the way he carried himself and the exact patterns of his scarred arm were enough for her. You only needed one glance.

It took a few months for you to wrap your head around it. Trying to push down the anger and grief by finding excuses for whatever he's doing. You became obsessed though, super fixated on every last trail of him you can find.

Years went by fast. Gaining the trust of other villains was fairly easy when you share the same hatred for the heroes. It brings you a sense of belonging and they listen. They listen and feel your anger, understand loss better than anyone else you tried to talk to before. You don't receive stupid condolences and bullshit like "it gets better" or "that's what faith had in store for you". You get raw emotion, telling you exactly what you yearned to hear, finally knowing that you're not crazy and that there are people who have enough braincells to see through the terrible facades the society has been smearing over everybody's eyes.

It's hard at first, watching blood and flesh rip through the air you breathe as your shoes leave red trails that follow your step...until they don't...they get mixed and lost and the footprints you once knew were yours look foreign, you don't know where you came from, you just know where you're headed.

You come back to your small apartment almost every night, writing down and scribbling each piece of information before it has the chance to be forgotten, intent on not letting a single detail slip.

You find it bizarre. You wanted to be a hero. For as long as your memory goes, you admired and glorified the kind and selfless faces you saw on TV, and in your own house.

He wanted to be a hero too? Even more than you. You're close, just a handful of months and you'd earn yourself a place. You know it.

Would he remember you?

Your pen breaks under the pressure of your palm, snapping you out of your thoughts.

You stack the notebooks neatly, locking your door before plopping on your pillow.

All of this for a boy...how silly of you...Would he be happy to have someone familiar next to him?

You feel lonely...You miss the comfort of the past and you wonder if he does too. Did he even like you back then? You dig for every memory of him smiling at you, gracing your hand while the two of you played the games on his computer.

Then your eyes wander to the pictures on your wall, collages of newspapers with his face on it. He aged like fine wine. Strong and handsome. His hands are something you can't look away from, his long fingers keeping you in a trance while you snuggle under your blanket, slipping your hand in your shorts. Just this time.

You bend your legs at your knees, head craned to look at the pictures on your walls, mouth loosely open. You take your time working your clit, imagining how he would do it. How he would take his time exploring you after not seeing you for so long.

Your ass bucks off the bed a little, humping against your fingers, almost dipping into your greedy pussy, ghosting over the slicked up hole and spreading the nice coat of the slimy wetness across your folds.

Would he be good at eating you out? Stretching his scarred jaw to fit his mouth over your cunt and lap at it, sticking his tongue out as far as it can go.

You stretch your shorts to fit your hand in, pressing two fingers on each side of the sensitive nub, using your other hand to flick at the exposed pearl. It almost burns from the pressure, too sensitive when it's not hidden under the thin layer.

What if he had his tongue pierced? Imagining the metal on you, swirling over every inch, digging into you as it bumps your clit. You can't make yourself wait anymore, pulling your shorts down and pressing your knees to your tummy. Like he's there in the room, giving him a perfect view of your dripping hole, untouched and clenching around nothing as you trail your finger across it.

You slip two of them in, too horny to drag it out anymore, you start pumping them in and out of your pussy, convulsing and shivering each time you hit that spot while you arch off the bed. Your other hand works your clit, chasing the trashing of your hips while your drenched cunt pools around your fingers, the sound making you high. It's wet and erotic, your palm slamming against your other hand, the rhythm on your clit rushed and messy, interrupting the pace you need.

You imagine his skilled fingers on you again, precisely circling your swollen nub as he stuffs you with his cock, his hot breath on your neck while his dyed hair tickles your face, wet kisses adoring your skin as he's about to stuff you full of his cum, press your legs to your stomach until they feel like they're gonna break. He'd try to go deeper than possible, holding your neck so that he can kiss you properly as your bodies rock the bed.

He'd cum first, seconds before you just to make sure that you milk every last drop as you cum and pulse around his shaft, your pussy gripping and sucking him in while he still balls deep inside you, groaning into your mouth.

The sensation of him shaking against you sends you over the edge, your breath being knocked out of you as your thighs flex and clench together, squeezing your hands and trapping them in place.

You're gasping for breath, eyes closing and ears buzzing from your high, light thrust against your clit coming to a stop as you slowly calm down.

Bliss washes over you as you lay there for a bit, chest rising and falling, your body completely relaxed.

You hope it'll all turn out to be worth it and joining the League would just be another step from many to go. Yet you still hope that your feelings were mutual back then. You experience loss too early in your teen years and a lot has changed since. But one thing was constant, you never stop loving someone even after they're gone, and Touya is the biggest proof of that.

You still had his books, pens, shirts and all of the notes the two of you passed around during dinners or classes...and you held onto them long before you found out he was still somewhere out there.

He was stoic and cold most of the time, his affections looked calculated, keeping you on the line throughout the whole friendship, not letting the two of you slip into a relationship. Pausing his flirting as soon as you seemed to get your hopes up.

If not a relationship, you want closure, and you want him, in any form you can have him.

_______________

Slowly you wake up to a pattern of knocks on your bedside table, not having the time to panic or get scared as you're slipping away from your dreams.

When you finally do see a tall white-haired man next to your bed, you raise your hands up in defense, heart skipping beats and toes curling as you back away to the headboard.

"Quiet a stalker aren't you?" Red eyes pierce through you, your quirk activating for a split second until he grabs a hold of your ankle with four fingers.

"You know what the fifth one does...so behave nicely, I'm not here to kill you" You look around the room, avoiding the uncomfortable gaze of the leader.

The shame of your interior upsetting you more than the initial fear of getting murdered.

"How did you get in?" Your locks are too good to be broken down, your alarm system expensive(but stolen) and working perfectly.

A purple portal flashes in the middle of the room. Well not so perfectly, you figure.

"I won't snitch on your obsession cause I couldn't care less, I want you in the League. Pack your shit or run." Your eyes are wide open, watching as the man slips into a portal and disappears, the purple mist still glowing in front of you.

You hurriedly grab a small suitcase, stuffing everything you know is important, already having some luggage packed in case you had to move fast for whatever reason. It comes in handy being organized.

You hide the newspapers you took off your walls, slipping them between your clothes and zipping the suitcase. First impression matters, so you risk wasting a bit of time to pick out an outfit, making yourself look presentable before you slip into a mellow cloud, dragging your stuff with you.

Your heart is pounding, blood rushing to the tips of your ears and the pads of your fingers, pulsing and warming you up.

The leader greets you again, grinning as he leads you to a room, telling you to make yourself at home.

"I wanted to give you a roommate, but that would be distracting" he teases, his teeth still showing as he closes the door behind you. The room is warm and surprisingly not messy at all. Yes, some things are carelessly tossed on the bed or draped over the chair but everything else is neat. You figure out fairly quickly that it was probably occasionally used.

You take your time to explore the room, piling up the stuff that wasn't yours in one corner of it. You unpack one of your suitcases and half of the other, cursing yourself for bringing the evidence of your little plan.

You don't know why you brought it, it seemed useless after you found out where you're going, but you guess it's for sentimental reasons. You didn't plan for it to happen so fast. But they were indeed a bit low on numbers after recent attacks so they must've gotten impatient and started seeking out more people.

You did do everything in your power to get noticed so you do want to take some credit. You smoothen out the sheets before you sit on the bed, thighs rubbing together from nervousness.

Is he on a mission?

How can you play it cool?

What's his favorite food now?

What are his interests?

Does anything make him particularly happy...maybe a hobby?

Should you try using your quirk to lure him in?

Does he know you exist?

Will he recognize you?

Would he remember you even after you tell him?

Maybe you shouldn't tell him.

You stop before you get too deep in your thoughts, deciding that you should make yourself comfortable. It's very likely that he's not there anyways, and he might not even show up soon, sitting there all alone is just making you more anxious.

You decide to leave the room, curious to meet other members that you heard in the hallways a few minutes ago. They were all headed to the same place, so you decided to go to what you figured was the living room.

The smell of alcohol got stronger, and the small giggles and banter got louder. You fixed your clothes one last time before opening the door, seeing the all too familiar faces in the room.

A blonde-haired girl ran to you, almost tumbling them both to the floor as she giggled excitedly.

"I was dying for more girls in this dump, they all stink" she whined, sniffing your shirt. She was grabbed by the collar by the boss, his pinkie up as the girl huffed.

_________________

So that's exactly how you met everyone, sitting on the bar as you silently wished the last member showed any desire in greeting you. He was sprawled out on the sofa in the far end of the room, a beer in hand and a cigarette in his mouth. You've never seen someone so unapproachable before, and it had to be him of all people.

Yet you didn't take it to heart. He was always like this...well minus the alcohol. New people didn't phase him, even more, he hated new. You're not worthy of his time until he deems you as so and you figure he never met "you" before.

But you do glance at him. The whole fucking night, chatting with others but always slipping and almost getting caught. They pointed it out but you just brushed it off as being curious to why he doesn't look like he's enjoying himself.

Even tho, you can practically feel his gaze on your back each time you turn away, feeling flustered you sip on your drink through the night, blushing when you catch him averting his gaze.

He is intrigued, to say the least. The way you move and talk is intoxicating, your voice feeling like something he had forgotten a long time ago. It reminds him of his past and it makes him fairly angry...but it brings some form of comfort he didn't feel in a while. He'll be selfish enough to indulge himself.

And he does. Months. Seeping into years.

________________

Missions are exhausting, so far you've been on more than you could bring yourself to count. On the run for weeks with little to no rest wasn't the luxurious lifestyle younger you dreamed about.

The comfort of the not so soft bed never felt more heavenly than now. A cheap motel wasn't your form of rest either, but you had to deal, hopping in for a not so relaxing shower with water that jumped from freezing to burning hot every second, tho it did an amazing job on easing the coil in your stomach.

Your quirk is taking a toll on you, control over it fading away as soon as you are laying clean and fresh on the bed. Too much...You were working too much and just teasing the victims never seemed to satiate your quirks' hunger. You second guess your path a lot, especially when you end up alone and exhausted, but you never think about quitting...as weird as that feels. It has its perks you guess...

Him being your partner wasn't one of them. He's practically eating you up, showing off in front of you but ignoring you all the same. You feel like crying from frustration, huffing to yourself before digging into your backpack and grabbing your small toy. It's been a few weeks since you could indulge yourself, the tension of your muscles painful.

Tears are almost freely rolling down your cheeks, your quirk making you feel dizzy as you slip the toy against your clit.

His voice is rough and quiet in your head, the conversations you had playing on repeat, searching for anything that you might've missed.

Every time you thought of one, it was followed by a memory of him pushing you away, smirking before going to do his own thing. He always had a smart mouth, flirting with you but making sure to step right off when he feels like he's dancing on that line.

You bit back equally though, returning the snarky comments and putting up a tough facade all while you tried to cling onto every thread of hope he threw your way.

He was almost sure he heard you though, his real name followed by a muffled cough as you tried your hardest to drown it with small talk. A moment of pure joy after you both made it out alive and safe made you let your guard down.

And when he called off the rest of the mission for the day out of nowhere, you were almost sure too.

But he isn't here now. He didn't follow you, and you're certainly all alone in this empty room. He'll come around...or he'll leave in the middle of the night. You wouldn't be able to blame him for either.

He's in the room right next to you, his fist wrapped tightly around his cock and his eyes squinted shut. He knows exactly who you remind him of, knows exactly what he felt as soon as you joined. You were always similar to her.

Awfully similar.

He knows.

It doesn't feel fair. Not to you or him. But he can't think. He can't focus and he can't stop himself from moaning out your name as his cock slicks up with pre-cum, his other going to his balls and squeezing them lightly.

He feels drunk, even though he didn't drink...well more than the usual amount... his body is burning like it's on fire...which isn't a foreign feeling to him. But it's different, the blood in his veins is warm, surging to the tips of his hands and toes as he fucks into his own fist. He's almost in a haze, fighting the urge to get up and slam your door open. If he runs away now, you'll be safer, maybe quit the League if he's lucky.

But he can't win, messily pulling his pants up and slipping on his shoes, grabbing your door handle in less than a blink as he tries to go back one last time. He has a primal need that pulls him towards you, even when he's not in the same room, it urges him to reach out and chase you, grip on the last straw of sanity and happiness that happens to be you.

Your toy buzzes faintly, sweat gracing your body while you so desperately try to cum. You're too sad and it doesn't help in reaching your high at all, but if you don't do it you feel like you might explode. He knows and he doesn't want you. You wasted your life away. You deserve it for being a creep.

He opens the door cautiously, feeling his cock pulse against the loose buckle. The lamp highlights your tear-stained cheeks and it's criminally hot, illegal even, making his toes curl.

You notice him immediately, dropping the toy on the mattress and using the sheet to cover as best as you can.

"I can't believe you" he whispers.

"Please..." you whine, drinking in the sight of him, wiping the tears with the back of your hand. To leave or to stay...any of the two.You know desire when you see it, praying that he came to quench it.

You're so desperate, craving him, letting go of your quirk and sending hormones to clash and bite against his skin.

You'll lie if you have to, say how you couldn't control it for a second more.

Nothing matters now when he's crawling up your naked body like a starved man, ripping the sheets away, digging his nails into your sides as he ravages your skin like it's the sweetest thing he's ever tasted.

And it probably is, the soft nibbles turning rough and hungry as you struggle to hold one, tangling your hands in his hair. You try to pull on it, yearning to kiss him and pour everything you feel against his lips, even if you're just a fuck, you need him to know that you never forgot him.

He doesn't budge, instead, he makes quick work of his pants, pulling you to the edge of the bed.

The room is too warm for you, the air too thick to breathe. You don't know if you want to stop and talk first....maybe you'll have the chance later?

"This is your fault" he huffs, slipping one hand to his boxers to ease the tension, gripping his cock tightly. He'll have to rush it, groaning when your legs subconsciously twitch and spread to let him fit in between.

"I feel like a fucking teenager" he argues, cupping your pussy and hunching over you.

He's missing a few steps, but seeing you so desperate and aching to cum urges him to help you out first.

"Since when did you start luring me in with your stupid quirk huh? Part of your little plan?" he questions, not letting you answer.

You're shaking your head, trying to mumble how you never tricked him into wanting you, not until this exact moment. But words are not your friend right now.

His eyes pierce through yours, beautiful blue swallowed up by the black of his pupils, half-lidded stare stripping you naked. Bare and vulnerable as your back arches, ghosting his fingers over the right spots and making you moan out a soft "Dabi".

It doesn't sound right on your tongue, and he sees the way it rolls off your lips, strained and dishonest.

His large hand wraps around your throat, holding you in place as he works the small bud, lowering his lips dangerously close, whispering across yours.

"Don't close your eyes." he demands.

It's in his arms reach, and everything is so close to making sense. If you look at him, he might start feeling like himself again. One of his fingers slowly dips inside your warmth, dragging the pad of it gently while he presses his thumb against your clit.

Your soft lips fit on his, your hands pulling him in by the back of his neck. He wants to make it slow and romantic, a nice reunion, yet he lets you slip your tongue in his mouth, deepening the kiss.

He's not holding himself up anymore, his body's weight shifting onto you with each thrust of his finger, the clacking sound of your pussy urging him to move even faster, make you feel even better. He adds in another one, watching you mewl and relax.

"That's fucking right, you wanted it, you fucking planned this, you sick fuck" he muses, catching you off guard. There's something bittersweet in the fact that he'll never be able to leave every little aspect of his life behind.

Before you even try to mumble something out, his lips are slamming against yours, teeth clashing and pulling on your soft skin.

You clench around him, riding his fingers greedily and roaming your hands across his back, fisting and gripping at his shirt.

You can feel the blood on your tongue, hissing when he pulls out only to slap his palm over your clit, causing you to yelp and pull away from the kiss.

"Touya, listen-" He shakes his head, nails digging into the flesh of your ass.

"You little stalker...how much work did you do for this cock huh?" he presses against you for good measure, making you feel his hot length on your cunt.

"You have no fucking idea" you snarl, gaining some of the confidence back, wiggling from beneath him.

He kicks his shoes and boxers all the way off, getting on your bed and pulling you to him.

His shirt is thrown messily to the edge of the bed, his hands pressing on the small of your back so that you can tower over him, trapping him between your thighs as he leans against the headboard.

Your ass slides over his cock, your hips moving slowly while he trails your figure, gliding his warm fingers across your thighs and up to your breasts.

Both of his hands cup the soft mounds, eyes glued to yours as he sticks his tongue out of his mouth. Hypersensitive to every little touch, your body shivers as he takes gentle, almost there swipes across your nipple, moving his arms back to your sides while he slips the sensitive bud in his mouth.

He lowers his thumb to your clit, flicking it slowly while he nips at your tits, biting and sucking marks across the smooth skin. His cock hooks and prods at your hole each time you both sway against each other, teasing you until the knot in your belly becomes too tight, skin crawling with pleasure wherever his body meets yours. He can hear your breath hitching in your throat, grinning while he speeds up the work on your clit, patiently waiting for you to start arching into his hand. He's gonna make you feel so good...convince you that chasing after him was the best decision you made in your life. Make up for all the years you had to deal with everything on your own.

He can feel your pussy clenching around the tip of his cock, making him push up in one slow and deep motion, immediately feeling the spasms of your soft walls gripping tight around his length. You let out a shaky breath, riding out the first high that finally satiates your quirk if only for a bit, making you drop your weight on him.

"There we go...Feeling better?" the ground might swallow you up, but when his hips start to lazily buck into you, you get distracted...You didn't notice how full you are, every inch pushing and stretching perfectly. You realize his finger never really stopped, only slowed down while he built up the agonizing pace he's bouncing you on.

You know your quirk makes you needy, but it makes everyone even more so, the realization that he probably feels like 9 circles of hell causing your hips to move, meeting his thrusts more roughly.

His head moves back to the headboard, eyes glued to yours as you ride him, propping yourself on his shoulders.

He ignored the burn of his body, too intoxicated and keen on making you feel better to focus on his aching cock, getting drowned in pleasure now that he can experience everything clearly.

You're beautiful.... and he wants to break you, make you blabber his name as you cling to him like he's the only one that can make you feel good. And he's gonna make sure he is. He admires you for a moment, cheeks heating up while watches your tits bounce, your eyes averting under his stare.

Your world turns upside down, your head sinking into a soft pillow as your legs are pushed as far as they can go.

You're scared to look away now, his gaze never breaking when he starts plowing in and out of your cunt, slamming his cock all the way in with each thrust.

His feet dig into your mattress, making the cheap bed creak.

You don't know where to put your hands, switching from the sheets to your thighs.

"Dumb little whore...is this all it takes?" he moves lower to you, pressing your spit coated lips against his.

You manage to hook your arms around his neck, swinging your legs behind his back.

He's plowing too deep, his navel bumping against your clit. He can't make himself pull out at all anymore, stuck on humping inside your pussy, slamming and angling his cock until you cry out.

Panting and groaning against your lips, he manages to slip a few curses, hissing when he tries to stop himself from cumming. Your quirk is cruel.

His fingers tangle in your hair, holding you still as he bottoms out completely, feeling his cock throb and spill, your walls tightening up against his shaft as hot cum paints them white.

He's high and addicted, already fucking his cum deeper, making sure it goes into every little crease and pore it can reach. You slip your fingers to your clit, trying to get yourself off while he rocks both of you.

"You wanna cum? Wanna milk my cock again huh? Want me to knock you up?" He's stammering it out, words spilling from his mouth in a rush, feeling the burning of his sensitive head as he picks up the pace again, slapping your hands away.

He raises just a bit, pressing one of his large palms on your belly.

His other hand slips to your clit instead, circling and flicking it to make you reach your high before he fills you up again.

Your whining does nothing to slow him down, his motions too rough and almost painful, your cervix bruising up when he presses even harder on your tummy, making your hips buck off the bed.

"Want you to cum...want you to make a mess..." he urges, a low rumble in his throat.

You can only nod, grabbing both of your thighs and spreading them further for him, your pussy open and on display to him to watch as it hugs his cock, slick and dripping.

You have to close your eyes, too embarrassed as you feel the burning sensation surge through you, eyes watering from the pressure as you finally let go. Your whole body tenses up, a low scream slipping out of your mouth when clear liquid splashes over your thighs and stomach, leaking onto his cock.

"Fucking hell" is all you can hear before he stuffs you full again, this time dropping onto your chest as his knees and feet numb out, hot breath tickling your neck as he moans against your skin.

Your weak hands slump on his back, muscles relaxed and barely working.

Someone is supposed to say something...minutes passing by quickly.

Your tired voice fills the room, a soft "Touya..." reaching his ears as you trail off. You're not sure what you wanted to say, but he holds you a little tighter, heart beating faster at the sound of his name.

He kisses your cheek softly, snuggling into the crook of your neck. "Fucking creep".

[spxllcxstxr]

Yellow Sticky Notes • R.L

(Gif not mine)

Request: maybe an imagine where the reader is dating remus and puts sweet love notes into his books to constantly remind him how loved he is 🥺 — anon

Summary: Remus finds your lovely paper trail in his books while in the hospital wing

Warnings: mention of food, mentions of injuries, mention of full moon, Remus being a bit insecure, fluff

Word Count: ~1k

A.N: Do me a favor? Disregard the fact that Post It Notes were invented in 1980. Let’s just push that date back a tad...I honestly don’t know how I feel about this one? I love Remus so much so maybe that’s why I can’t seem to love the things I write about him because I feel I don’t do him justice. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Love you all ❤️

****

Remus sits alone in the hospital wing, all his friends stuck in class, while he’s forced to suffer in the all too familiar scratchy bed.

The full moon the night before gave him deep purple bruises all along his abdomen, a foot facing the entirely wrong way, and a brand new inflamed scar running from the bottom of his left earlobe all the way to the corner of his left eye.

When Madam Pomfrey reluctantly held up a mirror in front of him earlier in the morning, he almost snatched it out of her hands in a fit of rage and threw it across the room. He would’ve, if he wasn’t too weak to even lift up a finger.

But that was before James made his way down with a plate of breakfast, Sirius with an armful of jumpers, and Peter with a fluffy pillow from Remus’ very own bed.

You had come running down with his school bag filled to the brim with his favorite Muggle novels.

Just seeing them gave him the strength he needed to get through the rest of the day.

The four of them stayed as long as possible, but Slughorn made it very clear the last time they were late to class that detentions would be the least of your problems. He was threatening to write home, and no one wanted that.

You pressed a quick kiss to his lips before dashing out, his eyes trailing after your retreating form.

He sighs before picking up the novel closest to him on the nightstand. It’s one he’s almost done with, only a chapter or two left.

Remus opens to the dog-eared page, but notices something different about the paper.

Smack dab in the center of the page sits a pale yellow square, your elegant scrawl resting on top of it. Bringing the book closer to his face, he reads out your note.

Dear Remus,

Over the summer, Lily sent me a pack of these Muggle things called sticky notes. I think they’re absolutely fascinating, don’t you? There’s this sticky stuff on the back and that’s what makes it stick onto stuff. Sometimes I think these Muggles are geniuses! There’s one hundred in a pack and I’ve decided to use them all. Let’s see if you can find the other ninety-nine.

Love forever,

(Y/n)

Narrowing his eyes, he turns his head to look at the other books you brought down for him.

Slowly, he closes the book in his hands and grabs another one from his bag.

Sure enough, on the first page, there’s another pale yellow sticky note with your handwriting.

100 Reasons Why I Love Remus Lupin (even though the list is ever expanding)

#46. You’re extremely kind and willing to help everyone. From helping first years with Herbology homework to quizzing me on History of Magic revolts because Merlin there are too many, you’re always happy to help. I don’t know how much you hear it, so thank you.

His thumb traces over the dried ink, soaking in the words. His heart swells as he bites his lip.

He repeats the process with another book.

100 Reasons Why I Love Remus Lupin (even though the list is ever expanding)

#96. You never complain when I fall asleep after begging you to read to me in bed.

Remus snorts, remembering all the times you’ve begged him to read to you while cuddled up underneath a mountain of blankets and then hearing your light snores in the middle of the chapter. You liked to tell him it was because his voice was so calming, but he never really believed it until now.

There were four more books in his bag and he lifts the rest of them onto his bed as fast as possible. His body groans in pain, but that doesn’t matter to him.

100 Reasons Why I Love Remus Lupin (even though the list is ever expanding)

#29. You are so strong. So much stronger than you believe. And your strength gives me hope every single day.

A blush runs up his neck, painting his face pink. Maybe because his emotions are running rampant, but he feels tears welling up in his eyes.

He swallows roughly, picking up the next book, it’s spine cracked from use.

100 Reasons Why I Love Remus Lupin (even though the list is ever expanding)

#7. Your smile. The way it lights up the room. I know you don’t like it so much because your canines are tinted a bit yellow and your front tooth is crooked, but honestly, love, it’s beautiful. Every time it makes its way across your face I forget how to breathe and my heart skips a few beats.

Instinctively, said smiles grows wide. He must look crazy, sitting all alone, smiling maniacally at some novel but he couldn’t care less.

Excitedly, he grabs another.

100 Reasons Why I Love Remus Lupin (even though the list is ever expanding)

#15. How on my bad days you’ll curl up in bed next to me and just hold me close to your chest. You’ll let me cry and make a snotty mess on your jumper. I swear I’m an ugly crier and yet you still look at me like I’m the most stunning person in the castle.

This note has a little heart scribbled in the corner, something he finds extremely cute.

He quickly flips open the cover of the last novel.

100 Reasons Why I Love Remus Lupin (even though the list is ever expanding)

#78. Would it be shallow of me to say that you’re extremely attractive? Because Godric, Rem, you are so fucking amazing to look at. Like a work of art. And I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking about your scars. Well guess what Lupin, those are beautiful too. It’s my mission to kiss every single one of those scars and I’m no quitter.

He brings his hand up to trace over the new scar, wincing. Before, he was feeling insecure about another white monstrosity ripping through his skin, but knowing that soon enough your soft lips were going to trace over said line, he felt a little bit better about it.

Though his smile has turned into a goofy grin, he’s saddened by the fact he has no more notes to look at. It’s probably for the best, so he can save them for another time.

You don’t get around to visiting your boyfriend in the hospital wing until after classes.

James and Sirius had Quidditch practice, so they dragged Peter with them so you could have some alone time with Remus.

You open the large oak doors quietly, hoping not to disturb him.

You push your way through the white curtains surrounding his bed, greeted by the sight of him surrounded by the books you brought down for him.

“How was class, love?” Remus asks, patting the spot next to him.

You take your seat, pressing your shoulder to his own.

“Quite boring, honestly—“

You’re cut off by Remus’ chapped lips connecting to your cheek. He repeats his actions, peppering seven kisses all around your face.

“What was that for, Rem?” You ask, your fingertips hovering over the spots he kissed.

“One kiss for every lovely note.” He replies, flashing you that bright smile that just makes your knees weak.

“Well in that case,” You smirk, gazing into his honey brown eyes. “I can’t wait for the other ninety-three.”

•

All Character Taglist: @aspiringsloth20

[verai-marcel]

Forever and Always (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur x F!Reader)

Summary: You reminisce about your life and have a sweet moment with your family.

Author’s Notes: I was listening to a podcast about wedding dress design and got inspired.

Tags: pure fluff, Arthur x F!Reader

Word Count: 1644

AO3 Link is right here, darlin’.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Twenty-five years.

A quarter of a century.

Funny how time flies, and all of a sudden you're nearly fifty years old. Looking back, you can see the crazy turn of events in your life like some kind of movie, detached and yet feeling every single emotion as if you were there in that moment.

***

Fresh out of college, you remembered the night you found your partner sleeping with your roommate. The white hot rage and cold grip of disbelief sent you fleeing into the rain, into the streets, into a bar in the middle of the night. As you meandered between sadness and anger, a bartender had given you a cold glass of orange juice, soda water, and a bit of ice, with a shot of grenadine.

"Here ya go, sweetheart. On the house."

You had looked up and drowned in eyes the color of volcanic springs, finding the same warmth and comfort in his kind gaze. Taking a cautious sip of the drink, you found it to be the perfect drink, not too sweet, and took your time savoring it.

"What brings you here tonight?" he had asked.

After a moment of silence, he held up his hand. "You don't need to tell me if you don't want to."

He leaned in close. "But I'm happy to listen, whenever yer ready."

His sweet smile undid you, and you poured out your heart. He seemed to nod along with your story, as a stranger would, but there was a steadily growing fire in his eyes. After a while, after a few interruptions from other customers ordering drinks, you had finished venting, nursing the last of your drink and debating what your next move should be.

"Alright folks, last call!" the bartender shouted. A few people came up and got one last drink before he started to clean up.

"Well, thank you for listening to me," you said, dropping a tip on the bar. "I really appreciate it."

"I didn't catch yer name."

You told him.

He smiled. "I'm Arthur. Could… could ya wait a bit? I'll walk you home."

You slumped. "I don't want to go home."

Arthur raised an eyebrow at you. "Where were you goin' to go, then?"

You shrugged. "Walk around until sunrise, I guess. Not feeling sleepy."

He tilted his head as he observed you. After a few moments, he shook his head. "If you don't mind, you can come sleep on my couch. You need some rest, darlin'."

"Um…" As sweet as he was, you had just met him.

Arthur pulled out a pen and scribbled something on the back of a bar coaster before giving it to you. "Here's my address. You send it to someone you trust, so they know where you are."

Touched by his offer and his understanding of your hesitation, you agreed. You texted his address to your best friend who lived a city away and told her that you were staying with a new friend and that you'd call her in the morning and tell her everything.

Then you waited until Arthur was done with his shift and followed him home.

***

That was years ago. He had helped you deal with the whole situation with your ex-significant other and ex-roommate. He stood outside as backup while you confronted the two of them and told them that you were leaving. Then you found yourself temporarily moving in with Arthur, bunking on his sleeper sofa for a couple of weeks while you searched for another place to live.

And then you slept in his bed. And your temporary move became permanent.

Life continued. You slept together, in the adult sense of the term. You got pregnant. You dated. You gave birth. He proposed. You got married. He finished college. You became the breadwinner while he worked part time and took care of your daughter.

Nothing went in the 'normal' order of things, but what was normal, anyway?

Looking at the photos of your wonderful daughter when she was a small child, you smiled as you heard the doorbell ring.

"Hey Mom!"

"Hi Avery!" You greeted her with a warm hug. She was twenty-three now, working hard during her first year out of college. You got to see her a couple times a month, and each visit made you smile, no matter how grumpy she might be.

Today the two of you were just hanging out, having tea and going through some of the old boxes in the attic, when she pulled out an old scrapbook.

"Wow, didn't know you did scrapbooking."

"I didn't, I only made one for my wedding."

Together the two of you looked through your silly notes and hand picked photos, telling her the story behind each one, and who each person was.

"Do you still have your wedding dress?" she asked after seeing the photos of you and Arthur, dressed up in a tuxedo that barely fit his broad shoulders.

"I do, somewhere."

After some time searching, you found it, brushed it off, and held it up to your body. "I don't think it'll fit, I've gotten a bit wider since I wore it."

"C'mon Mom, just try it!"

Smiling, the two of you went to your bedroom and you managed to shove yourself mostly into the dress. Except for the shoulders.

"I've gotten more buff," you joked as you pulled the dress off yourself. "You try it."

Avery took the dress, stared at it for a moment, and with your help, pulled it on. It looked like it fit, until she moved her arms.

The sound of a seam ripping made you both pause.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry–"

You patted her shoulder. "It's fine, sweetie. It's just a dress, it can be fixed. And you look beautiful in it."

Your daughter grinned, and you could see Arthur's eyes and smile on her face.

After she spun around a few times, she took it off and handed it back to you. Out of curiosity, you checked which seams had torn.

"It might fit you now," Avery joked.

"Sure, why not?"

You pulled it back on, and sure enough, the seams that had torn were the very ones stopping you from fitting your thicker arms through. You turned around and looked in the mirror. Twirling around a bit, you suddenly felt young again, remembering the first time you had tried this dress. Your two closest friends had been by your side, encouraging you to buy the dress because you were so pleased with it.

And you remembered the last time you had worn this dress, walking down the aisle with Arthur, hand in hand, the two of you grinning at each other as if there was nothing else in the world, just the two of you, happily in love.

"Let's take some photos outside!" Avery suggested, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm.

Smiling at your daughter, you walked through your house and out to the small backyard that Arthur lovingly cared for, with a small waterfall and herb garden.

He was there, kneeling in the dirt, planting some new basil plants. He turned around at the sound of the back door opening.

"What're you two doin'–"

Arthur's words stopped abruptly as his jaw dropped. He hadn't seen you in that dress since the wedding, and for him, time stopped and all he saw was his beautiful lady, dressed in white, smiling like a goddess.

He quickly washed his hands with the garden hose, wiped them on his jeans, and came towards you.

"Beautiful, just like an angel," he said in awe.

You went to him, holding your hands out to him. He took them and brought them close to his heart before lifting your hands to his lips and kissing your fingers oh so so tenderly.

"Amazin', I feel the same as I did on our weddin' day, seein' you like this."

"I'm a little wider now…"

"That don't matter none," he said, leaning closer to you. His forehead touched yours and he looked into your eyes. "Yer always lovely."

"Awww!"

Avery's exclamation brought the two of you back to reality. She had her phone out and had been taking photos of the two of you, a giant grin on her face.

"I'll send these to you later, after I touch them up a bit," she said. "I, uh, got an errand to run. Bye Dad, bye Mom, I'll catch you later!"

She left, giving you a conspiratorial wink. You looked back at Arthur to find that his eyes hadn't left you for a single moment.

He was in his late fifties now, streaks of grey in his hair, giving him a sophisticated appearance. He smiled much more these days, finding happiness in tending his small garden and being outside in the sunlight. He was still strong, still broad shouldered, but he had filled out a little from your delicious home cooked meals.

And he still looked at you like you were his entire world.

"Should we go inside?" you asked with a mischievous smirk.

"I got mud on me," he said, although he didn't resist when you pulled him into the house.

"I'll get you all clean," you said. "Then we can get dirty."

"Darlin'," he said as if he was chastising you, yet he was chuckling softly as he let you lead the way.

***

That night, looking at the photos Avery had emailed, you realized how the two of you appeared, so deep in love. You both looked younger in her photos, and you wondered if it was because of the photo editing.

Showing Arthur, he just smiled and kissed your cheek, his whiskers scraping your skin lightly as he nuzzled you.

"See? Told you my feelin's fer you would never change." He pulled you into his arms and held you close.

"You'll always be my shinin' star."

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

End Notes: I started with a small idea and it kinda got longer. Oops.

[outlawsworld]

Trusting Strangers - Chapter 3

Arthur Morgan x Female reader

Summary: The reader gets to know Arthur better and she finally goes out on her first job.

Warnings: Just fluff 🤠

Notes: This was my favourite chapter so far. It's not as fast pace as the previous two but I just think it's cute! If you like it please let me know and reblog 🤠❤️

Chapter 1

--

The morning light peered through the flap on your tent. You could hear the rain falling and the wind blowing harshly. Grabbing your coat from your chest you made your way to the horses. You took some hay and put them in small piles on the ground so the horses have a bit more to eat. The weather was bitter and cold so once you were done you headed back towards your tent for shelter. You were already drenched and shivering slightly as you stepped into your tent. The rest of camp was beginning to stir and you could see that Arthur, John and Bill must have gotten back to camp in the middle of the night as Arthur was finally resting in his cot. He placed his hat over his face and his arm was hanging from the cot limply. This must have been the first time you had seen him sleeping.

You sat at the entrance to your tent with the flap tied back when Pearson came over to pour you a cup of coffee. The heat was radiating from the cup as you held it with both hands close to your chin to try and warm yourself. With the weather as bad as it was Mrs Grimshaw assured you that you didn't have any chores to do today. You were dreading your chores in this weather so you breathed a sigh of relief at this.

''That only means you'll have twice as much to do tomorrow Miss (Y/N)'' she scoffed at you before making her way round camp. She must have seen the smile on your face and had to remind you that you don't get days off without consequences. You respected Mrs Grimshaw because although she was harsh and bossy, she did a good job at keeping the camp running smoothly. At least she made sure everyone was doing there bit.

You enjoyed sitting in your tent watching the world go by. There was something relaxing about watching the rain fall and seeing the camp quiet for once. Most of the gang remained in their tents seeking shelter from the wet and cold weather. You watched as Micha and Lenny went out but they seemed to be the only ones to leave camp this morning.

Tilly and Karen came to your tent and brought some dominos to play.

''Fancy a game?'' Karen asked as she sat next to you on the floor.

''I don't see why not'' All three of you played a couple of games. You won two games and Tilly won one.

''I never liked this game anyway'' Karen spit at you and tilly as she started to pack the dominos away.

''Someone is a sore loser'' Tilly laughed at Karens remarks. You couldn't help but join in with the teasing and you all sat there giggling.

''Well....I'm going to do some stitching. Poor Kieran had about 5 rips in his shirt after being tied to that tree for so long'' Karen sighed as she stood up to take her leave.

''Kieran? The O'Driscoll boy?'' You questioned. A couple of days ago you finally asked John who the O'Driscolls were. You had been accused of being one when you first arrived so you wanted to know who these people were. Turns out it's another gang. Dutch fell out with the leader, Colm O'Driscoll, many years ago because they both killed someone the other cared about. Nasty business. So Dutch and Colm have had a hatred for each other ever since.

''Yeah, turns out he never really liked the O'Driscolls and our boys managed to take one of their camps out last night with his help'' Tilly answered as she also stood up to leave. ''You comin' (Y/N)?''

You shook your head in response with a smile ''I think I'm finally starting to dry off'' you pointed out your wet clothes that clung to your skin still.

With that Tilly gave you a smile and followed Karen back to their tent. You leaned back against the foot of your cot looking out across camp. Your eyes landing on Arthur who had just woken up. He stretched his arms and grabbed his journal and scribbled something down before sitting on the edge of his bed. You couldn't help but stare at him, he was very easy on the eyes but he also had something about him that always intrigued you. Maybe it was the way that he could flip his mood from tough outlaw to caring man in the blink of an eye. Or maybe it's the mystery behind this man that caught your attention. You noticed Arthur never talks much about anything. Not his past, or what he's feeling. He just seems to nod and get on with it. You have now had a couple of conversations with him and he knew everything about you but you were none the wiser about him.

''Mornin''' Arthur's voice woke you from your daydream. He was standing at the front of your tent soaked through from just walking from his tent to yours.

''Mornin', come in'' You gestured for him to sit next to you and get cover from the rain. He took a seat next to you and lit a cigarette before taking a drag. ''Shit ain't it'' you looked out to the rain that seemed to be getting heavier.

Arthur couldn't help but laugh at the foul language you used. ''You know a lady like yourself shouldn't use that sorta language''.

''Well maybe you've never met a 'lady' like me before Mr Morgan'' you teased him. He smiled under the brim of his hat.

''You're right, I don't think I have'' he looked at you with those blue eyes and a grin plastered across his face. His smile was infectious because before you knew it you were smiling right back at him with blushed cheeks.

"How was last night?" You questioned.

"What with the O'Driscoll kid?" He muttered. "Well, we took a couple of the men out but Colm wasn't there. Bagged a bit of cash though so it wasn't completely useless" he looked at Kieran as he made his way to the horses.

''I talked to Hosea last night'' you met his eyes and you saw them soften. ''I told him everything. He took it well, told me I fit in more than I care to realise''.

''I hope you don't mind that I mentioned to him we spoke, swear I didn't say anymore then that'' Arthur took another drag from his cigarette and the smoke got lost in the rain as he exhaled. You shook your head with a smile in response. ''But he ain't wrong. You definitely fit in with these bunch of idiots''. You quickly punched his arm after his comment which only made him laugh more. You couldn't believe he was already teasing you about things. You barley knew him but you knew just how to give it back as good as you got.

''Well... you're the biggest idiot of them all Mr Morgan'' you fired back as you both laughed.

''Have you not met John yet? He got half his brain eaten by wolves and you are calling me the biggest idiot'' Arthur was quick to defend himself.

''I have met him actually and I happen to think he's a very interesting man. Least he has plenty of stories to tell'' you teased. Arthur shot you a look of slight hurt at this which was your intention. It seemed that the thought of you finding John more interesting then Arthur struck a nerve with him.

''Oh I have plenty of stories, just haven't had a chance to tell you 'em yet'' he scoffed.

''Well it's a good job this weather isn't getting any better'' you looked out to the rain again before turning back to Arthur. ''We got time'' you gave him a cheeky wink which he didn't expect. Using the same line he used on you the other day made him chuckle and throw his hands up in surrender.

''Alright, alright you got me'' he shook his head ''What do ya wanna know''.

You wanted to know everything about him. He was not one to sit and talk for too long so you didn't want to miss your opterunity. You had spoken to everyone in camp and had an idea of who they are and where they came from but you were clueless when it came to Arthur.

''Let's start with how you ended up with Dutch and Hosea'' you watched him as he told you how his dad was no good to him and how his mum had died when he was young. He kept it brief as you imagined he would. Arthur didn't seem like the type to go into details about his past as he seemed to almost be afraid of reliving it all.

''You've been with 'em for twenty years?'' you couldn't believe it. You had assumed Arthur had been with the gang for a while given their relationship. He was more than loyal to Dutch but you didn't realise just how long he had spent on the run.

''hmm'' He replied in a hushed tone. ''They taught me everything I know. How to read and write. How to shoot a gun''

''How to rob a bank'' you smirked at him.

''Yeah, all that too'' Arthur turned his attention to the weather outside which was beginning to clear up. For the first time you really looked at Arthur. The way the stubble graced his weathered face except for the one spot on his chin where a scar was. The rough calluses on his hands showing all the heavy labour he had done. He had a genuine smile upon his face as he was speaking to you about his first bank robbery. He didn't smile much. Well, not a lot from what you had seen. He always held a serious face around camp unless his was antagonising someone. But that wasn't a genuine smile, this one, the smile he had now was. Yes, he was a big, broad, intimidating man but in this moment he was just a normal guy talking about his past. You were thankful for the rain as it allowed you this time to actually get to know Arthur. Before now you never knew what to think of him. He was just a well oiled machine that Dutch used to do his dirty work but this conversation with him changed your mind. He was human, he did have emotions, he just chose to not show them. Even when he was talking to you, you could see him cursing himself as he let his guard down slightly. Hiding his smile under the brim of his hat, to not show you what he was really feeling. Although it didn't stop him from talking about his first attempt at robbing.

''Sorry if I'm boring ya'' he paused as he realised he was talking a lot.

''Not at all, I'm enjoying it'' you smiled at him reassuringly. ''Who would 'av thought, Arthur Morgan the boy who didn't know how to use dynamite properly'' you teased him after he told you about his botched job on the bank robbery.

''Never made that mistake again'' he laughed at your comment. It was around mid afternoon when the rain had finally stopped and you couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed. You were really enjoying getting to know Arthur and you didn't know when would be your next opportunity.

''Well now the weather has cleared we can go see about that house'' Arthur stood up to leave your tent. ''You still up for it?''

You had forgotten all about the job Arthur had asked you to do with him. With that you jumped to your feet and grabbed your coat that was still wet.

''Lead the way sir'' you gave him a nod and followed him over to the horses. Charles was stood at the hitching post tending to the horses.

''How you doin' Charles?'' Arthur asked as he started to saddle up.

''Good thank you Arthur'' Charles turned to you and helped you saddle up Dallas. ''Where are you both headed?''

''I overheard a rich fella talking about going away for a couple of nights with the Mrs. Leaving an empty house. Just gonna check it out'' Arthur replied. ''Might have a bit of money lying around. (Y/N) is comin' with me. Always good to have an extra pair of hands''

''Need me to come along?'' Charles offered as you and Arthur mounted up.

''Nah, I'm sure we can handle it but thanks anyway'' Arthur kicked his horse into a steady trot.

''Alright'' Charles shouted after Arthur. He turned his attention to you ''be careful out there'' he gave you a smile and patted Dallas' neck.

''Always am'' you smiled at him before trotting to catch up to Arthur. You could feel how powerful Dallas was. He was raring to go and you were getting bounced out of the saddle with his big strides. You gave him a pat and tried to steady him before Arthur turned to you again.

''Want to see what that horse can do?'' Arthur cocked his eyebrow and a cheeky smile appeared on his lips. You knew it was a stupid idea with the ground being so wet and slippy but you couln't help it.

''Is losing to me once not good enough for you Arthur?'' you teased. His face turned dark with competition. ''To the tree line over there'' you pointed to the distant woods and without a second word you both kicked your horses into a full gallop. The thunder from the horse's hooves was roaring through the heartlands as you raced to the woods. You were neck and neck, both pushing your horses as fast as they could possibly go. Dallas was gaining speed by the second and you could tell he had a lot more to give if you just pushed him on that bit more. Spurring him on slightly, you felt his stride open up until you started to pass Arthur and Siego. You let your reins loose giving Dallas control of his head and before you knew it you were in the lead and gaining distance once again.

The tree line came up quickly and you struggled to pull Dallas into a steady trot. He had a lot more gallop in him and he was a lot stronger then most of the horses you had ridden before. You gave him a good pat as Arthur came up beside you and you were finally able to pull him up.

''Keep up next time would ya'' you gave him a cheeky grin. He scoffed at you as he gave his horse a good pat. You both had bright red faces and were struggling to catch your breath.

''I shoulda kept that horse for myself'' he gestured at Dallas. ''Got a lot of run in 'im don't he''

''Sure does, still don't think that was as fast as he could go either'' you kept at a steady walk now to cool off.

''Alright, no need to rub it in'' Arthur laughed with you. You followed behind Arthur for the rest of the ride to a big farm house just outside Strawberry. There were no other houses nearby so it would be an easy job to do without being spotted. You left the horses just outside of the grounds and crouched behind a bush.

''Doesn't look like anyone is home but keep an eye out'' Arthur handed you one of his pistols. ''Here, you may need it if things go south''. He told you the plan where he would knock on the front door to see if anyone is home while you go round the back and into the house. You nodded at him in reply and started to make your way round the house.

You reached the back and peered through the window and saw the house looked empty. Arthur had knocked with no response so you were ready to go. Lock picking was a skill you picked up when you were on the run, many people had locked chests full of valuables so it was a good skill to have which was quiet enough to not draw attention. You picked the lock on the back door and made your way inside. By this point Arthur had made his way round the back and caught up to you.

''You check to see what you can find down 'er, I'll check upstairs'' he patted you on the shoulder and quietly made his way up the creaky stairs with his pistol at the ready. You started in the kitchen taking bits of food and liquor before going into the dining room. There were a few jewels but nothing of too much value. You could hear Arthur fumbling about when you saw the weird dust pattern near the fireplace. Arthur came stomping down the stairs ''Well.....there ain't much here. What a damn waste of time'' you could sense the frustration in his tone.

You made your way over to the fireplace to investigate. It looked like someone had fumbled about here not too long ago. You reached into the chimney and felt around until your hand landed on some papers. Pulling them out you saw a couple of bonds and at least $400 stacked together. You held them out to Arthur.

''They must have known we were comin' or they wouldn't have hidden all this'' you smiled up at Arthur. Your hand was still feeling around in the chimney to see if you had missed anything. Arthur quickly glanced through it all clearly seeing there was a lot of money that could be made from it by the look he gave you.

You stood up and headed towards the kitchen when you heard a horse and cart pull up to the front door.

''Shit!'' Arthur muttered as he looked out the window to see the couple had cut their trip short. Keeping your head down you both quietly snuck into the kitchen and out the back door. You headed round the side of the house waiting for the couple to go inside before making your escape. The couple were arguing about some of their belongings being stolen whilst on the road to their destination. You couldn't help but think it was ironic that they had been robbed twice in one day.

They made their way into the house and you made your way down the drive back to where you left the horses. Arthur followed close behind, you both looking behind you to make sure you hadn't been seen. As you got to the horses you heard a woman shriek and yell ''It's gone''. You didn't stop to watch the show, so you mounted your horses and pushed them into a gallop as far down the road as you could without raising suspicion. 

You couldn't hold it back anymore as you began to laugh. Arthur gave you a look before joining in with your fit of giggles.

''Could you imagine the look on 'er face when she noticed'' you were crying with laughter at this point.

''Well least she'll learn not to openly talk about her empty house again'' Arthur laughed back at you. ''Nice job Miss (Y/N)'' he threw your half of the money to you.

''That was fun'' the smile on your face said it all.

''That it was'' Arthur admitted. He sounded almost defeated, like he didn't want to admit that he had enjoyed your company today. You both smiled at each other before laughing again.

It was starting to get dark as you were riding back to camp. You ended up telling Arthur about the first time you tried to rob someone. It had gone horribly wrong because you never had any experience doing things like that. You got caught and had to gallop away from the law but still managed to steal the man's pocket watch and $5. Arthur smiled at you and shook his head in amusement as you rode down the track and into camp.

''I enjoyed riding with you today'' Arthur said softly as he hitched his horse up.

''Me too'' you caught his eyes as you spoke. You looked at each other for a moment longer not quite knowing what to say. Arthur was clearly not one for giving complements and you could see his face racing to find the right words to say.

''I think you should tell Dutch about what you found'' Arthur broke the silence and gestured over to Dutch's tent. ''After all it was you who found all this'' he passed you back the bonds. You couldn't help but feel grateful, even though it was Arthur's job he was willing to give you the credit. On the same note you weren't the type to take credit for something that wasn't fully yours to take.

''You comin' with me? It was your job, I can't take all the credit' you glanced at Arthur as you headed over to Dutch's tent. When you both reached the tent, Dutch was sitting on his cot reading a book. He looked up and closed his book as he saw you approaching.

''Well hello there Miss'' he gave you a shy smile. ''Arthur'' he nodded in Arthurs direction. ''How can I help you''.

''Arthur had a tip on a house so we went to check it out, we may have found something'' you held out the bonds and money to Dutch to inspect. Dutched flicked through the papers you had handed him and a huge grin appeared on his face. He was very clearly happy with what you had just passed him just as Arthur was.

''Did you run into any trouble?'' he looked at Arthur now.

''Not really, we got out just before they got home'' Arthur answered. ''(Y/N) found the bonds hidden in the chimney. Apart from that, there wasn't much to take'' he nodded in your direction as to direct Dutch's attention to you.

''Well Miss (Y/N) you've done good. You've done very good'' he stood up and patted you on the shoulder. ''We will have to get you out on more jobs if this is the sort of thing you bring in'' he paused looking at you and then Arthur. ''You two make quiet the team''.

''Thanks Dutch'' you nodded at him before taking your leave. Arthur turned to follow you out of the tent.

''Arthur, I need to speak to you'' Dutch stopped him in his tracks. You gave them both a smile and left them both to talk.

None of the girls were sitting at the fire tonight but you saw John and Sean and decided to join them.

''There she is'' John called after you as he saw you. You took your seat on the log next to him and he passed you a warm bowl of Pearson's stew. The stew warmed you up right to the core and you had to take a second helping. ''How was the job?'' John nudged your arm impatiently waiting for an update.

After you finished your second bowl of stew you told them about the job and what you had managed to steal. They both looked at you approvingly. As you finished your story Arthur left Dutch's tent and joined you round the fire. He grabbed himself a bowl of stew and lowered himself onto the log opposite you and John.

''Arthur'' Sean cheered. ''Is (Y/N) gonna be comin' on jobs with us now, eh?''

You shot Sean a look before shyly looking at Arthur. He took a mouthful of stew before looking up at Sean.

''I'd rather have her there then you'' Arthur smirked. ''Least she can hit a target'' he glanced at you and gave you a blushed smile before turning his attention back to his stew. Sean was visibly offended by Arthurs comment but you couldn't help but feel flattered. You were not sure if he meant what he said because you knew he liked to tease Sean. However, you felt like some part of him meant it.

''You can shoot?'' John interrupted Sean from saying anything back to Arthur. He looked at you with an impressed smirk.

''Yeah I guess'' you looked at your feet and blushed.

''You are one impressive woman (Y/N)'' John nudged you again. The heat ran to your cheeks as you blushed. You knew full well they were all teasing you but it felt nice to be included. Arthur muttered something under his breath but you couldn't quite make out his words and before you had a chance to ask he stood up and said goodnight before going to his tent. You sat with Sean and John for a little longer before you also took your leave.

As you were on your way to your tent you saw that Arthur was still awake and scribbling in his journal again. You wondered what he had in his journal, maybe it was a diary or was it just his own ledger that he kept. When you reached your tent you closed the flap behind you before getting undressed into your night wear. It was nice to finally get out of the wet clothes you had been in all day and the dry fabric warmed you almost instantly. You laid on your bed before your thoughts wandered again.

Only this morning you were questioning Arthur and now you had spent the day with him, that had all changed. Today was the most alive you had felt in years and that was all thanks to him. You had proven to Arthur what you were capable of and he had vouched for you to the other men and to Dutch. Maybe now you wouldn't be stuck in camp as often with Mrs Grimshaw doing chores. Maybe now you could go on some real jobs.

--

Chapter 4

[davidmann95]

So... Morrison’s 10 part interview on All-Star Superman, along with all other older Newsarama articles, just seem to have ceased to exist. One does not simply live without having those interviews available to reread... Can I find them anywhere else?

Rejoice! I finally borrowed a computer I could put my flash drive into, and emailed myself my copy of the Morrison interview. Here it is below the cut, copied and pasted direct from the source way back when, available again at last:

Three years, 12 issues, Eisners and countless accolades later, All Star Superman is finally finished. The out-of-continuity look at Superman’s struggle with his inevitable death was widely embraced by fans and pros as one of the best stories to feature the Man of Steel, and was a showcase for the talents of the creative team of Grant Morrison, Frank Quitely and Jamie Grant.

Now, Newsarama is proud to present an exclusive look back with Morrison at the series that took Superman to, pun intended, new heights. We had a lot of questions about the series...and Morrison delivered with an in-depth look into the themes, characters and ideas throughout the 12 issues. In fact, there was so much that we’re running this as an unprecedented 10-part series over the next two weeks – sort of an unofficial All Star Superman companion. It’s everything about All Star Superman you ever wanted to know, but were afraid to ask.

And of course there’s plenty of SPOILERS, so back away if you haven’t read the entire series.

Newsarama: Grant, tell us a little about the origin of the project.

Grant Morrison: Some of it has its roots in the DC One Million project from 1999. So much so, that some readers have come to consider this a prequel to DC One Million, which is fine if it shifts a few more copies! I’ve tried to give my own DC books an overarching continuity intended to make them all read as a more coherent body of work when I’m done.

Luthor’s “enlightenment” – when he peaks on super–senses and sees the world as it appears through Superman’s eyes – was an element I’d included in the Superman Now pitch I prepared along with Mark Millar, Tom Peyer and Mark Waid back in 1999. There were one or two of ideas of mine that I wanted to preserve from Superman Now and Luthor’s heart–stopping moment of understanding was a favorite part of the original ending for that story, so I decided to use it again here.

My specific take on Superman’s physicality was inspired by the “shamanic” meeting my JLA editor Dan Raspler and I had in the wee hours of the morning outside the San Diego comic book convention in whenever it was, ‘98 or ‘99.

I’ve told this story in more detail elsewhere but basically, we were trying to figure out how to “reboot” Superman without splitting up his marriage to Lois, which seemed like a cop–out. It was the beginning of the conversations which ultimately led to Superman Now, with Dan and I restlessly pacing around trying to figure out a new way into the character of Superman and coming up short...

Until we looked up to see a guy dressed as Superman crossing the train tracks. Not just any skinny convention guy in an ill–fitting suit, this guy actually looked like Superman. It was too good a moment to let pass, so I ran over to him, told him what we’d been trying to do and asked if he wouldn’t mind indulging us by answering some questions about Superman, which he did...in the persona and voice of Superman!

We talked for an hour and a half and he walked off into the night with his friend (no, it wasn’t Jimmy Olsen, sadly). I sat up the rest of the night, scribbling page after page of Superman notes as the sun came up over the naval yards.

My entire approach to Superman had come from the way that guy had been sitting; so easy, so confident, as if, invulnerable to all physical harm, he could relax completely and be spontaneous and warm. That pose, sitting hunched on the bollard, with one knee up, the cape just hanging there, talking to us seemed to me to be the opposite of the clenched, muscle-bound look the character sometimes sports and that was the key to Superman for me.

I met the same Superman a couple of times afterwards but he wasn’t Superman, just a nice guy dressed as Superman, whose name I didn’t save but who has entered into my own personal mythology (a picture has from that time has survived showing me and Mark Waid posing alongside this guy and a couple of young readers dressed as Superboy and Supergirl – it’s in the “Gallery” section at my website for anybody who can be bothered looking. This is the guy who lit the fuse that led to All Star Superman).

After the 1999 pitch was rejected, I didn’t expect to be doing any further work on Superman but sometime in 2002, while I was going into my last year on New X–Men, Dan DiDio called and asked if I wanted to come back to DC to work on a Superman book with Jim Lee.

Jim was flexing his artistic muscles again to great effect, and he wanted to do 12 issues on Superman to complement the work he was doing with Jeph Loeb on “Batman: Hush.” At the time, I wasn’t able to make my own commitments dovetail with Jim’s availability, but by then I’d become obsessed with the idea of doing a big Superman story and I’d already started working out the details.

Jim, of course, went on to do his 12 Superman issues as “For Tomorrow” with Brian Azzarello, so I found myself looking for an artist for what was rapidly turning into my own Man of Steel magnum opus, and I already knew the book had to be drawn by my friend and collaborator, Frank Quitely.

We were already talking about We3 and Superman seemed like a good meaty project to get our teeth into when that was done. I completely scaled up my expectations of what might be possible once Frank was on board and decided to make this thing as ambitious as possible.

Usually, I prefer to write poppy, throwaway “live performance” type superhero books, but this time, I felt compelled to make something for the ages – a big definitive statement about superheroes and life and all that, not only drawn by my favorite artist but starring the first and greatest superhero of them all.

The fact that it could be a non–continuity recreation made the idea even more attractive and more achievable. I also felt ready for it, in a way I don’t think I would have been in 1999; I finally felt “grown–up” enough to do Superman justice.

I plotted the whole story in 2002 and drew tiny colored sketches for all 12 covers. The entire book was very tightly constructed before we started – except that I’d left the ending open for the inevitable better and more focused ideas I knew would arise as the project grew into its own shape...and I left an empty space for issue 10. That one was intended from the start to be the single issue of the 12–issue run that would condense and amplify the themes of all the others. #10 was set aside to be the one–off story that would sum up anything anyone needed to know about Superman in 22 pages.

Not quite as concise an origin as Superman’s, but that’s how we got started.

NRAMA: When you were devising the series, what challenges did you have in building up this version of the Superman universe?

GM: I couldn’t say there were any particular challenges. It was fun. Nobody was telling me what I could or couldn’t do with the characters. I didn’t have to worry about upsetting continuity or annoying people who care about stuff like that.

I don’t have a lot of old comics, so my knowledge of Superman was based on memory, some tattered “70s books from the remains of my teenage collection, a bunch of DC “Best Of...” reprint editions and two brilliant little handbooks – “Superman in Action Comics” Volumes 1 and 2 – which reprint every single Action Comics cover from 1938 to 1988.

I read various accounts of Superman’s creation and development as a brand. I read every Superman story and watched every Superman movie I could lay my hands on, from the Golden Age to the present day. From the Socialist scrapper Superman of the Depression years, through the Super–Cop of the 40s, the mythic Hyper–Dad of the 50s and 60s, the questioning, liberal Superman of the early 70s, the bland “superhero” of the late 70s, the confident yuppie of the 80s, the over–compensating Chippendale Superman of the 90s etc. I read takes on Superman by Mark Waid, Mark Millar, Geoff Johns, Denny O’Neil, Jeph Loeb, Alan Moore, Paul Dini and Alex Ross, Joe Casey, Steve Seagle, Garth Ennis, Jim Steranko and many others.

I looked at the Fleischer cartoons, the Chris Reeve movies and the animated series, and read Alvin Schwartz’s (he wrote the first ever Bizarro story among many others) fascinating book – “An Unlikely Prophet” – where he talks about his notion of Superman as a tulpa, (a Tibetan word for a living thought form which has an independent existence beyond its creator) and claims he actually met the Man of Steel in the back of a taxi.

I immersed myself in Superman and I tried to find in all of these very diverse approaches the essential “Superman–ness” that powered the engine. I then extracted, purified and refined that essence and drained it into All Star’s tank, recreating characters as my own dream versions, without the baggage of strict continuity.

In the end, I saw Superman not as a superhero or even a science fiction character, but as a story of Everyman. We’re all Superman in our own adventures. We have our own Fortresses of Solitude we retreat to, with our own special collections of valued stuff, our own super–pets, our own “Bottle Cities” that we feel guilty for neglecting. We have our own peers and rivals and bizarre emotional or moral tangles to deal with.

I felt I’d really grasped the concept when I saw him as Everyman, or rather as the dreamself of Everyman. That “S” is the radiant emblem of divinity we reveal when we rip off our stuffy shirts, our social masks, our neuroses, our constructed selves, and become who we truly are.

Batman is obviously much cooler, but that’s because he’s a very energetic and adolescent fantasy character: a handsome billionaire playboy in black leather with a butler at this beck and call, better cars and gadgetry than James Bond, a horde of fetish femme fatales baying around his heels and no boss. That guy’s Superman day and night.

Superman grew up baling hay on a farm. He goes to work, for a boss, in an office. He pines after a hard–working gal. Only when he tears off his shirt does that heroic, ideal inner self come to life. That’s actually a much more adult fantasy than the one Batman’s peddling but it also makes Superman a little harder to sell. He’s much more of a working class superhero, which is why we ended the whole book with the image of a laboring Superman.

He’s Everyman operating on a sci–fi Paul Bunyan scale. His worries and emotional problems are the same as ours... except that when he falls out with his girlfriend, the world trembles.

Newsarama: Grant, what are some of your favorite moments from the 12 issues?

Grant Morrison: The first shot of Superman flying over the sun. The Cosmic Anvil. Samson and Atlas. The kiss on the moon. The first three pages of the Olsen story which, I think, add up to the best character intro I’ve ever written.

Everything Lex Luthor says in issue #5. Everything Clark does. The whole says/does Luthor/Superman dynamic as played out through Frank Quitely’s absolute mastery and understanding of how space, movement and expression combine to tell a story.

Superboy and his dog on the moon – that perfect teenage moment of infinite possibility, introspection and hope for the future. He’s every young man on the verge of adulthood, Krypto is every dog with his boy (it seemed a shame to us that Krypto’s most memorable moment prior to this was his death scene in “Whatever Happened To The Man of Tomorrow.” Quitely’s scampering, leaping, eager and alive little creature is how I’d prefer to imagine Krypto the Superdog and conjures finer and more subtle emotions).

Bizarro–Home, with all of Earth’s continental and ocean shapes but reversed. The page with the first appearance of Zibarro that Frank has designed so the eye is pulled down in a swirling motion into the drain at the heart of the image, to make us feel that we’re being flushed in a cloacal spiral down into a nihilistic, existential sink. Frank gave me that page as a gift, and it became weirdly emblematic of a strange, dark time in both our lives.

The story with Bar–El and Lilo has a genuine chill off ammonia and antiseptic off it, which makes it my least favorite issue of the series, although I know a lot of people who love it. It’s about dying relatives, obligations, the overlit overheated corridors between terminal wards, the thin metallic odors of chemicals, bad food and fear. Preparation for the Phantom Zone.

Superman hugging the poor, hopeless girl on the roof and telling us all we’re stronger than we think we are.

Joe Shuster drawing us all into the story forever and never–ending.

Nasthalthia Luthor. Frank and Jamie’s final tour of the Fortress, referencing every previous issue on the way, in two pages.

All of issue #10 (there’s a single typo in there where the time on the last page was screwed up – but when we fix that detail for the trade I’ll be able to regard this as the most perfectly composed superhero story I’ve ever written).

I don’t think I’ve ever had a smoother, more seamless collaborative process.

NRAMA: The story is very complete unto itself, but are there any new or classic characters you’d like to explore further? If so, which ones and why?

GM: I’d happily write more Atlas and Samson. I really like Krull, the Dino–Czar’s wayward son, and his Stalinist underground empire of “Subterranosauri.” I could write a Superman Squad comic forever. I’d love to write the “Son of Superman” sequel about Lois and Clark’s super test tube baby.

But...I think All Star is already complete, without sequels. You read that last issue and it works because you know you’re never going to see All Star Superman again. You’ll be able to pick up Superman books, but they won’t be about this guy and they won’t feel the same. He really is going away. Our Superman is actually “dying” in that sense, and that adds the whole series a deeper poignancy.

NRAMA: Aside from the Bizarro League, you never really introduce other DC superheroes into the story. Why did you make this choice?

GM: I wanted the story to be about the mythic Superman at the end of his time. It’s clear from the references that he has or more likely has had a few super–powered allies, but that they’re no longer around or relevant any more.

For the context of this story I wanted the super–friends to be peripheral, like they were in the old comics. The Flash? Green Lantern? They represent Superman’s “old army buddies,” or your dad’s school friends. Guys you’ve sort of heard of, who used to be more important in the old man’s life than they are now.

NRAMA: Some readers were confused as to how the “Twelve Labors” broke down, though others have pointed out that Superman’s actions are more reflective of the Stations of the Cross (I note there’s a “Station Café” in the background of issue #12). Could you break down the Twelve Labors, or, if the cross theory is true, how the storyline reflects the Stations?

GM: The 12 Labors of Superman were never intended as an isomorphic mapping onto the 12 Labors of Hercules, or for that matter, the specific Stations of the Cross, of which there are 14, I believe. I didn’t even want to do one Labor per issue, so it deliberately breaks down quite erratically through the series for reasons I’ll go into (later).

Yes, there are correspondences, but that’s mostly because we tried to create for our Superman the contemporary “superhero” version of an archetypal solar hero journey, which naturally echoes numerous myths, legends and religious parables.

At the same time, we didn’t want to do an update or a direct copy of any myth you’d seen before, so it won’t work if you try to find one specific mythological or religious “plan” to hang the series on; James Joyce’s honorable and heroic refutation of the rule aside, there’s nothing more dead and dull than an attempt to retell the Odyssey or the Norse sagas scene by scene, but in a modern and/or superhero setting.

For future historians and mythologizers, however, the 12 Labors of Superman may be enumerated as follows:

1. Superman saves the first manned mission to the sun.
2. Superman brews the Super–Elixir.
3. Superman answers the Unanswerable Question.
4. Superman chains the Chronovore. 
5. Superman saves Earth from Bizarro–Home.
6. Superman returns from the Underverse.
7. Superman creates Life.
8. Superman liberates Kandor/cures cancer.
9. Superman defeats Solaris.
10. Superman conquers Death.
11. Superman builds an artificial Heart for the Sun.
12.Superman leaves the recipe/formula to make Superman 2.

And one final feat, which typically no–one really notices, is that Lex Luthor delivers his own version of the unified field haiku – explaining the underlying principles of the universe in fourteen syllables – which the P.R.O.J.E.C.T. G–Type philosopher from issue 4 had dedicated his entire life to composing!

You may notice also that the Labors take place over a year – with the solar hero’s descent into the darkness and cold of the Underverse occurring at midwinter/Christmas time (that’s also the only point in the story where we ever see Metropolis at night).

It can also be seen as the sun’s journey over the course of a day – we open in blazing sunshine but halfway through the book, at the end of issue #5, in fact, the solar hero dips below the horizon and begins the night–journey through the hours of darkness and death, before his triumphant resurrection at dawn. That’s why issue 5 ends with the boat to the Underworld and 6 begins with the moon. Clark Kent is crossing the threshold into the subconscious world of memory, shadows, death and deep emotions.

Although they can often have bizarre resonances, specific elements, like the Station Café, are usually put there by Frank Quitely, and are not necessarily secret Dan Brown–style keys to unlocking the mysteries. I think there might be a Station Café opposite the studio where Frank Quitely works and the “SAPIEN” sign on another storefront is a reference to Frank’s studio mate, Dave Sapien. At least he’s not filling the background with dirty words like he used to, given any opportunity

NRAMA: For that matter, do the Twelve Labors matter at all? They seem so purposely ill–defined. They seem more like misdirection or a MacGuffin than anything that needs to be clearly delineated.

GM: They matter, of course, but the 12 Labors idea is there to show that, as with all myth, the systematic ordering of current events into stories, tales, or legends occurs after the fact.

I’m trying to suggest that only in the future will these particular 12 feats, out of all the others ever, be mythologized as 12 Labors. I suppose I was trying to say something about how people impose meaning upon events in retrospect, and that’s how myth is born. It’s hindsight that provides narrative, structure, meaning and significance to the simple unfolding of events. It’s the backward glance that adds all the capital letters to the list above.

Even Superman isn”t sure how many Labors he’s performed when we see him mulling it over in issue 10. 
When you watched it happening, it seemed to be Superman just doing his thing. In the future it’s become THE 12 LABORS OF SUPERMAN!

NRAMA: And on a completely ridiculous note: All–Star Superman is perhaps the most difficult–to–abbreviate comic title since Preacher: Tall in the Saddle. Did you realize this going in?

GM: Going into what? Going into ASS itself? In the sense of how did I feel as I slowly entered ASS for the first time?

It never crossed my mind...

Newsarama: I’d like to know a little more about Leo Quintum and his role in the story. He seems like a bit of an outgrowth of the likes of Project Cadmus and Emil Hamilton, but in a more fantastical, Willy Wonka sense.

Grant Morrison: Yeah, he was exactly as you say, my attempt to create an updated take on the character of “Superman’s scientist friend” – in the vein of Emil Hamilton from the animated show and the ‘90s stories. Science so often goes wrong in Superman stories, and I thought it was important to show the potential for science to go right or to be elevated by contact with Superman’s shining positive spirit.

I was thinking of Quintum as a kind of “Man Who Fell To Earth” character with a mysterious unearthly background. For a while I toyed with the notion that he was some kind of avatar of Lightray of the New Gods, but as All Star developed, that didn’t fit the tone, and he was allowed to simply be himself.

Eventually it just came down to simplicity. Leo Quintum represents the “good” scientific spirit – the rational, enlightened, progressive, utopian kind of scientist I figured Superman might inspire to greatness. It was interesting to me how so many people expected Quintum to turn out bad at the end. It shows how conditioned we are in our miserable, self–loathing, suspicious society to expect the worst of everyone, rather than hope for the best. Or maybe it’s just what we expect from stories.

Having said that, there is indeed a necessary whiff of Lucifer about Quintum. His name, Leo Quintum, conjures images of solar force, lions and lightbringers and he has elements of the classic Trickster figure about him. He even refers to himself as “The Devil Himself” in issue #10.

What he’s doing at the end of the story should, for all its gee–whiz futurity, feel slightly ambiguous, slightly fake, slightly “Hollywood.” Yes, he’s fulfilling Superman’s wishes by cloning an heir to Superman and Lois and inaugurating a Superman dynasty that will last until the end of time – but he’s also commodifying Superman, figuring out how it’s done, turning him into a brand, a franchise, a bigger–and–better “revamp,” the ultimate coming attraction, fresher than fresh, newer than new but familiar too. Quintum has figured out the “formula” for Superman and improved upon it.

And then you can go back to the start of All Star Superman issue #1 and read the “formula” for yourself, condensed into eight words on the first page and then expanded upon throughout the story! The solar journey is an endless circle naturally. A perfect puzzle that is its own solution.

In one way, Quintum could be seen to represent the creative team, simultaneously re–empowering a pure myth with the honest fire of Art...while at the same time shooting a jolt of juice through a concept that sells more “S” logo underpants and towels than it does comic books. All tastes catered!

I have to say that the Willy Wonka thing never crossed my mind until I saw people online make the comparison, which seems quite obvious now. Quintum dresses how I would dress if I was the world’s coolest super–scientist. What’s up with that?

NRAMA: Was Zibarro inspired by the Bizarro World story where the Bizarro–Neanderthal becomes this unappreciated Casanova–type?

GM: Don’t know that one, but it sounds like a scenario I could definitely endorse!

Zibarro started out as a daft name sicked–up by my subconscious mind, which flowered within moments into the must–write idea of an Imperfect Bizarro. What would an imperfect version of an already imperfect being be like?

Zibarro.

NRAMA: I’d like to know more about Zibarro – what’s the significance of his chronicling Bizarro World through poetry?

GM: It’s up to you. I see Zibarro partly as the sensitive teenager inside us all. He’s moody, horribly self–aware and uncomfortable, yet filled with thoughts of omnipotence and agency. He’s the absolute center of his tiny, disorganized universe. He’s playing the role of sensitive, empathic poet but at the same time, he’s completely self–absorbed.

When he says to Superman “Can you even imagine what it’s like to be so different. So unique. So unlike everyone else?” he doesn’t even wait for Superman’s reply. He doesn’t care about anyone’s feelings but his own, ultimately.

NRAMA: The character is very close to Superman, so what does it say that a nonpowered version on a savage world would focus his energy through that medium? Also, does Zibarro’s existence show how Superman is able to elevate even the backwards Bizarros through his very nature?

GM: All of the above. And maybe he writes his totally subjective poetry as a reflection of Clark Kent’s objective reporter role. The suppressed, lyrical, wounded side of Superman perhaps? The Super–Morrissey? Bizarro With The Thorn In His Side?

But he’s also Bizarro–Home’s “mistake” (or so it seems to him, even though he’s as natural an expression of the place as any of the other Bizarro creatures who grow like mold across the surface of their living planet). He feels excluded, a despised outsider, and yet that position is what defines his cherished self–image. He expresses himself through poetry because to him the regular Bizarro language is barbaric, barely articulate and guttural. And they all think he’s talking crap anyway.

It seemed to make sense that an interesting opposite of Bizarro speech might be flowery “woe is me” school Poetry Society odes to the sunset in a misunderstood heart. He’s still a Bizarro though, which makes him ineffectual. His tragedy is that he knows he’s fated to be useless and pointless but craves so much more.

NRAMA: Zibarro also represents a recurrent theme in the story, of Superman constantly facing alternate versions of himself – Bar–El, Samson and Atlas, the Superman Squad, even Luthor by the end. Notably, Hercules is absent, though Superman’s doing his Twelve Labors. With the mythological adventurers in particular, was this designed to equate Superman with their legend, to show how his character is greater than theirs, or both?

GM: In a way, I suppose. He did arm–wrestle them both, proving once and for all Superman’s stronger than anybody! And remember, these characters, along with Hercules, used to appear regularly in Superman books as his rivals. I thought they made better rivals than, say, Majestic or Ultraman because people who don’t read comics have heard of Hercules, Samson and Atlas and understand what they represent.

For that particular story, I wanted to see Superman doing tough guy shit again, like he did in the early days and then again in the 70s, when he was written as a supremely cocky macho bastard for a while. I thought a little bit of that would be an antidote to the slightly soppy, Super–Christ portrayal that was starting to gain ground.

Hence Samson’s broken arm, twisted in two directions beyond all repair. And Atlas in the hospital. And then Superman’s got his hot girlfriend dressed like a girl from Krypton and they’re making out on the moon (the original panel description was of something more like the famous shot of Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr kissing in the surf from “From Here To Eternity.” Frank’s final choice of composition is much more classically pulp–romantic and iconic than my down and dirty rumble in the moondirt would have been, I’m glad to say).

Newsarama: Tell us about some of the thinking behind the new antagonists you created for this series (at least the ones you want to talk about...): First up: Krull and the Subterranosaurs...

Grant Morrison: We wanted to create some throwaway new characters which would be designed to look as if they were convincing long–term elements of the Superman legend.

We were trying to create a few foes who had a classic feel and a solid backstory that could be explored again or in depth. Even if we never went back to these characters, we wanted them to seem rich enough to carry their own stories.

With Krull, we figured a superhuman character like Superman can always use a powerful “sub–human” opponent: a beast, a monster, a savage with the power to destroy civilization. For years I’ve had the idea that the familiar “gray aliens” might “actually” be evolved biped dinosaur descendants, the offspring of smart–thinking lizards which made their way to the warm regions at the Earth’s core.

I imagined these brutes developing their own technology, their own civilization, and then finally coming to the surface to declare bloody war on the mammalian usurpers! It seemed like we could develop this idea into the Krull backstory and suggest a whole epic conflict in a few panels.

Dom Regan, the Glasgow artist and DC colorist, saw the original green skin Jamie Grant had done for Krull, and suggested we make him red instead. Jamie reset his color filters and that was the moment Krull suddenly looked like a real Superman foe.

The red skin marked him out as unique, different and dangerous, even among his own species. It had echoes of Jack Kirby’s Devil Dinosaur that played right into the heart of the concept. A good design became a great design and the whole story of who Krull was – his twisted relationship with his father the Dino–Czar, his monstrous ambitions – came together in that first picture.

The society was fleshed out in the script even though we see only one panel of it – a gloomy, heavy, “Soviet” underworld of walled iron cities, cold blood and deadly intrigue. War–Barges that could sail on the oceans of heated steam at the center of the Earth. A Stalinist authoritarian lizard world where missing person cases were being taken to work and die as slaves in hellish underworld conditions.

NRAMA: Mechano–Man?

GM: An attempt to pre–imagine a classic, archetypal Superman foe, which started with another simple premise – how about a giant robot villain? But not just any giant robot – this is a rampaging machine with a raging little man inside.

Giving him a bitter, angry, scrawny loser as a pilot turned Mechano–Man into a much more extreme and pathological expression of the Man of Steel/Mild–Mannered Reporter dynamic, and added a few interesting layers onto an 8–panel appearance.

NRAMA: The Chronovore – a very disturbing creation, that one.

GM: The Chronovore was mentioned in passing in DC 1,000,000 and would have been the monster in my aborted Hypercrisis series idea. It took a long time to get the right design for the beast because it’s meant to be a 5–D being that we only ever see in 4–D sections. It had to work as a convincing representation of something much bigger that we’re seeing only where it interpenetrates our 4–D space-time continuum.

Imagine you’re walking along with a song in your teenage heart, then suddenly the Chronovore appears, takes bite out of your life, and you arrive at your girlfriend’s house aged 76, clutching a cell phone and a wilted bouquet.

NRAMA: One more obscure run that I was happy to see referenced in this was the use of Nasty from the old Mike Sekowsky Supergirl stories. What made you want to use this character?

GM: I remembered her from the old comics, and felt her fashion–y look could be updated very easily into the kind of fetish club thing I’ve always been partial to.

She seemed a cool and sexy addition to the Luthor plot. The set–up, where Lex has a fairly normal sister who hates how her wayward brother is such a bad influence on her brilliant daughter, is explosive with character potential.

They need to bring Nasty back to mainstream continuity. Geoff! They all want it and you know you never let them down!

NRAMA: Speaking of Mike Sekowsky, I’m curious about his influence on your work. I have an odd fascination with all the ideas and stories he was tossing around in the late 1960s and early 1970s – Jason’s Quest, Manhunter 2070, the I–Ching tales – and many of the characters he worked on, from the B”Wana Beast to the Inferior Five to Yankee Doodle (in Doom Patrol), have shown up in your work. The Bizarro Zoo in issue #10 is even slightly reminiscent of the Beast’s merged animals.

GM: Those were all comics that were around when I was a normal kid, prior to the obsessive collecting fan phase of my isolated teenage years. They clearly inspired me in some way, as you say, but certainly not consciously. I’d never have considered myself a particular fan of Mike Sekowsky’s work, but as you say, I’ve incorporated a lot of his ideas into the DC Universe work I’ve done. Hmm. Interesting.

While I’m at it, I should also say something about Samson and Atlas, halfway between old characters and new.

Samson, Atlas and Hercules were classical mainstays of old Superman covers, tangling with Superman in all those Silver Age stories that happened before he learned from his friends at Marvel that it was possible to fight other superheroes for fun and profit, so I decided to completely “re–vamp” the characters in the manner of superhero franchises. Marvel has the definitive Hercules for me, so I left him out of the mix and concentrated on Atlas and Samson.

Atlas was re–imagined as a mighty but restless and reckless young prince of the New Mythos – a society of mega–beings playing out their archetypal dramas between New Elysium and Hadia, with ordinary people caught in the middle – and Superman.

Essentially good–hearted, Atlas would have been the newbie in a “team” with Skyfather Xaoz!, Heroina, Marzak and the others. He has a bullish, adolescent approach to life. He drinks and plunges himself into ill–advised adventures to ease his naturally gloomy “weighed down by the world” temperament.

You can see it all now. The backstory suggested an unseen, Empyrean New Gods–type series from a parallel universe. What if, when Jack Kirby came to DC from Marvel in 1971, he’d followed up his sci–fi Viking Gods saga at Marvel, with a dimension–spanning epic rooted in Greek mythology? New Gods meets Eternals drawn by Curt Swan/Murphy Anderson? That was Atlas.

Samson, I decided would be a callback to the British newspaper strip “Garth.” Although you may already be imagining a daily strip about the exploits of time–tossed The Boys writer, Garth Ennis, it was actually about a blonde Adonis type who bounced around the ages having mildly horny, racy adventures.

(Go look him up then return the wiser before reading on, so I don’t have to explain anymore about this bastard – he’s often described as “the British Superman,” but oh...my arse! I hated meathead, personality–singularity Garth...but we all grew up with his meandering, inexplicable yet incredibly–drawn adventures and some of it was quite good when you were a little lad because he was always shagging ON PANEL with the likes of a bare–breasted cave girl or gauze–draped Helen of Troy.

(Unlike Superman, you see, the top British strongman liked to get naked. Lots naked. Naked in every time period he could get naked in, which was all of them thanks to the miracle of his bullshit powers.

(Imagine Doctor Who buff, dumb and naked all the time – Russell, I’ve had an idea!!!! – and that’s Garth in a nutshell.

(Sorry, I know I’m going on and the average attention span of anyone reading stuff on the Internet amounts to no more than a few paragraphs, but basically, Garth was always getting naked. In public, in family newspapers. Bollock naked. Let’s face it, patriotic Americans, have you ever seen Superman’s arse?

Newsarama Note: Well, there was Baby Kal-El in the 1978 film...

(Brits, hands up who still remember the man, and have you ever not seen Garth’s arse? Do you not, in fact, have a very clear image of it in your head, as drawn by Martin Asbury perhaps? In mine, Garth’s pulling aside a flimsy curtain to gaze at the pyramids with Cleopatra buck naked in foreground ogling his rock hard glutes...).

Anyway, Samson, I decided, was the Hebrew version of Garth and he would have his own mad comic that was like an American version of Garth. I saw the Bible hero plucked from the desert sands by time–travelling buffoons in search of a savior. Introduced to all the worst aspects of future culture and, using his stolen, erratic Chrono–Mobile, Samson became a time–(and space) traveling Soldier of Fortune, writing wrongs, humping princesses, accumulating and losing treasure etc. Like a science fiction Conan. Meets Garth.

Fortunately, you’ll never see any of these men ever again.

Newsarama: How have your perceptions of Superman and his supporting characters evolved since the Superman 2000 pitch you did with Mark Waid, Mark Millar and Tom Peyer? The Superman notions seem almost identical, but Luthor is very different here than in that pitch, and so is Clark Kent. Did you use some aspects of your original pitch, or have you just changed his mind on how to portray these characters since?

Grant Morrison: A little of both. I wanted to approach All Star Superman as something new, but there were a couple of specific aspects from the Superman 2000 pitch (as I mentioned earlier, it was actually called Superman Now, at least in my notebooks, which is where the bulk of the material came from) that I felt were definitely worth keeping and exploring.

I can’t remember much about Luthor from Superman Now, except for the ending. By the time I got to All Star Superman, I’d developed a few new insights into Luthor’s character that seemed to flesh him out more. Luthor’s really human and charismatic and hateful all the same time. He’s the brilliant, deluded egotist in all of us. The key for me was the idea that he draws his eyebrows on. The weird vanity of that told me everything I needed to know about Luthor.

I thought the real key to him was the fact that, brilliant as he is, Luthor is nowhere near as brilliant as he wants to be or thinks he is. For Luthor, no praise, no success, no achievement is ever enough, because there’s a big hungry hole in his soul. His need for acknowledgement and validation is superhuman in scale. Superman needs no thanks; he does what he does because he’s made that way. Luthor constantly rails against his own sense of failure and inadequacy...and Superman’s to blame, of course.

I’ve recently been re–thinking Luthor again for a different project, and there’s always a new aspect of the character to unearth and develop.

NRAMA: This story makes Superman and Lois’ relationship seem much more romantic and epic than usual, but this one also makes Superman more of the pursuer. Lois seems like more of an equal, but also more wary of his affections, particularly in the black–and–white sequence in issue #2.

She becomes this great beacon of support for him over the course of the series, but there is a sense that she’s a bit jaded from years of trickery and uncomfortable with letting him in now that he’s being honest. How, overall, do you see the relationship between Superman and Lois?

GM: The black-and-white panels shows Lois paranoid and under the influence of an alien chemical, but yes, she’s articulating many of her very real concerns in that scene.

I wanted her to finally respond to all those years of being tricked and duped and led to believe Superman and Clark Kent were two different people. I wanted her to get her revenge by finally refusing to accept the truth.

It also exposed that brilliant central paradox in the Superman/Lois relationship. The perfect man who never tells a lie has to lie to the woman he loves to keep her safe. And he lives with that every day. It’s that little human kink that really drives their relationship.

NRAMA: Jimmy Olsen is extremely cool in this series – it’s the old “Mr. Action” idea taken to a new level. It’s often easy to write Jimmy as a victim or sycophant, but in this series, he comes off as someone worthy of being “Superman’s Pal” – he implicitly trusts Superman, and will take any risk to get his story. Do you see this version of Jimmy as sort of a natural evolution of the version often seen in the comics?

GM: It was a total rethink based on the aspects of Olsen I liked, and playing down the whole wet–behind–the–ears “cub reporter” thing. I borrowed a little from the “Mr. Action” idea of a more daredevil, pro–active Jimmy, added a little bit of Nathan Barley, some Abercrombie & Fitch style, a bit of Tintin, and a cool Quitely haircut.

Jimmy was renowned for his “disguises” and bizarre transformations (my favorite is the transvestite Olsen epic “Miss Jimmy Olsen” from Jimmy Olsen #95, which gets a nod on the first page of our Jimmy story we did), so I wanted to take that aspect of his appeal and make it part of his job.

I don’t like victim Jimmy or dumb Jimmy, because those takes on the character don’t make any sense in their context. It seemed more interesting see what a young man would be like who could convincingly be Superman’s “pal.” Someone whose company a Superman might actually enjoy. That meant making Jimmy a much bigger character: swaggering but ingenuous. Innocent yet worldly. Enthusiastic but not stupid.

My favorite Jimmy moment is in issue #7 when he comes up with the way to defeat the Bizarro invasion by using the seas of the Bizarro planet itself as giant mirrors to reflect toxic – to Bizarros – sunlight onto the night side of the Earth. He knows Superman can actually take crazy lateral thinking like this and put it into practice.

NRAMA: Perry White has a few small–but–key scenes, particularly his address to his staff in issue #1 and standing up to Luthor in issue #12. I’d like to hear more about your thoughts on this character.

GM: As with the others, my feelings are there on the page. Perry is Clark’s boss and need only be that and not much more to play his role perfectly well within the stories. He’s a good reminder that Superman has a job and a boss, unlike that good–for–nothing work-shy bastard Batman. Perry’s another of the series’ older male role models of integrity and steadfastness, like Pa Kent.

NRAMA: There’s a sense in the Daily Planet scenes and with Lois’s spotlight issues that everyone knows Clark is Superman, but they play along to humor him. The Clark disguise comes off as very obvious in this story. Do you feel that the Planet staff knows the truth, or are just in a very deep case of denial, like Lex?

GM: If I had to say for sure, I think Jimmy Olsen worked it out a long time ago, and simply presumes that if Superman has a good reason for what he’s doing, that’s good enough for Jimmy.

Lois has guessed, but refuses to acknowledge it because it exposes her darkest flaw – she could never love Clark Kent the way she loves Superman.

NRAMA: Also, the Planet staff seems awfully nonchalant at Luthor’s threats. Are they simply used to being attacked by now?

GM: Yes. They’re a tough group. They also know that Superman makes a point of looking out for them, so they naturally try to keep Luthor talking. They know he loves to talk about himself and about Superman. In that scene, he’s almost forgotten he even has powers, he’s so busy arguing and making points. He keeps doing ordinary things instead of extraordinary things.

NRAMA: The running gag of Clark subtly using his powers to protect unknowing people is well done, but I have to admit I was confused by the sequence near the end of issue #1. Was that an el–train, and if so, why was it so close to the ground?

GM: It’s a MagLev hover–train. Look again, and you’ll see it’s not supported by anything. Hover–trains help ease congestion in busy city streets! Metropolis is the City of Tomorrow, after all.

NRAMA: And there’s the death of Pa Kent. Why do you feel it’s particularly important to have Pa and not both of the Kents pass away?

GM: I imagined they had both passed away fairly early in Superman’s career, but Ma went a few years after Pa. Also, because the book was about men or man, it seemed important to stress the father/son relationships. That circle of life, the king is dead, long live the king thing that Superman is ultimately too big and too timeless to succumb to.

NRAMA: There is a real touch of Elliott S! Maggin’s novels in your depiction of Luthor – someone who is just so obsessive–compulsive about showing up Superman that he accomplishes nothing in his own life. He comes across as a showman, from his rehearsed speech in issue #1 to his garish costume in the last two issues, and it becomes painfully apparent that he wants to usurp Superman because he just can’t be happy with himself. What defeats him is actually a beautiful gift, getting to see the world as Superman does, and finally understanding his enemy.

That’s all a lead–in to: What previous stories that defined Luthor for you, and how did you define his character? What appeals to you about writing him?

GM: The Marks Waid and Millar were big fans of the Maggin books, and may have persuaded me to read at least the first one but I’m ashamed to say can’t remember anything about it, other than the vague recollection of a very humane, humanist take on Superman that seemed in general accord with the pacifist, hedonistic, between–the–wars spirit of the ‘90s when I read it. It was the ‘90s; I had other things on my mind and in my mind.

I like Maggin’s “Must There Be A Superman?” from Superman #247, which ultimately poses questions traditional superhero comic books are not equipped to answer and is one of the first paving stones in the Yellow Brick Road that leads to Watchmen and beyond, to The Authority, The Ultimates etc. Everyone still awake, still reading this, should make themselves familiar with “Must There Be A Superman?” – it’s a milestone in the development of the superhero concept.

However, the story that most defines Luthor for me turns out to be, as usual, a Len Wein piece with Curt Swan/Murphy Anderson– Superman #248. This blew me away when I was a kid. Lex Luthor cares about humanity? He’s sorry we all got blown up? The villain loves us too? It’s only Superman he really hates? Genius. Big, cool adult stuff.

The divine Len makes Lex almost too human, but it was amazing to see this kind of depth in a character I’d taken for granted as a music hall villain.

I also love the brutish Satanic, Crowley–esque, Golden Age Luthor in the brilliant “Powerstone” Action Comics #47 (the opening of All Star #11 is a shameless lift from “Powerstone”, as I soon realised when I went back to look. Blame my...er...photographic memory...cough).

And I like the Silver Age Luthor who only hates Superman because he thinks it’s Superboy’s fault he went bald. That was the most genuinely human motivation for Luthor’s career of villainy of all; it was Superman’s fault he went bald! I can get behind that.

In the Silver Age, baldness, like obesity, old age and poverty, was seen quite rightly as a crippling disease and a challenge which Superman and his supporting cast would be compelled to overcome at every opportunity! Suburban “50s America versus Communist degeneracy? You tell me.

I like elements of the Marv Wolfman/John Byrne ultra–cruel and rapacious businessman, although he somewhat lacks the human dimension (ultimately there’s something brilliant about Luthor being a failed inventor, a product of Smallville/Dullsville – the genius who went unnoticed in his lifetime, and resorted to death robots in chilly basements and cellars. Luthor as geek versus world). I thought Alan Moore’s ruthlessly self–assured “consultant” Luthor in Swamp Thing was an inspired take on the character as was Mark Waid’s rage–driven prodigy from Birthright.

I tried to fold them all into one portrayal. I see him as a very human character – Superman is us at our best, Luthor is us when we’re being mean, vindictive, petty, deluded and angry. Among other things. It’s like a bipolar manic/depressive personality – with optimistic, loving Superman smiling at one end of the scale and paranoid, petty Luthor cringing on the other.

I think any writer of Superman has to love these two enemies equally. We have to recognize them both as potentials within ourselves. I think it’s important to find yourself agreeing with Luthor a bit about Superman’s “smug superiority” – we all of us, except for Superman, know what it’s like to have mean–spirited thoughts like that about someone else’s happiness. It’s essential to find yourself rooting for Lex, at least a little bit, when he goes up against a man–god armed only with his bloody–minded arrogance and cleverness.

Even if you just wish you could just give him a hug and help him channel his energies in the right direction, Luthor speaks for something in all of us, I like to think.

However he’s played, Luthor is the male power fantasy gone wrong and turned sour. You’ve got everything you want but it’s not enough because someone has more, someone is better, someone is cleverer or more handsome.

 Newsarama: Grant, a recurring theme throughout the book is the effect of small kindness – how even the likes of Steve Lombard are capable of decency. And Superman gets the key to saving himself by doing something that any human being could do, offering sympathy to a person about to end it all.

Grant Morrison: Completely...the person you help today could be the person who saves your life tomorrow.

NRAMA: The character actions that make the biggest difference, from Zibarro’s sacrifice to Pa’s influence on Superman, are really things that any normal, non-powered person could do if they embrace the best part of their humanity. The last page of issue #12 teases the idea that Superman’s powers could be given to all mankind, but it seems as though the greatest gift he has given them is his humanity. How do you view Superman’s fate in the context of where humanity could go as a species?

GM: I see Superman in this series as an Enlightenment figure, a Renaissance idea of the ideal man, perfect in mind, body and intention.

A key text in all of this is Pico’s ‘Oration On The Dignity of Man’ (15c), generally regarded as the ‘manifesto’ of Renaissance thought, in which Giovanni Pico Della Mirandola laid out the fundamentals of what we tend to refer to as ’Humanist’ thinking.

(The ‘Oratorio’ also turns up in my British superhero series Zenith from 1987, which may indicate how long I’ve been working towards a Pico/Superman team-up!)

At its most basic, the ‘Oratorio’ is telling us that human beings have the unique ability, even the responsibility, to live up to their ‘ideals’. It would be unusual for a dog to aspire to be a horse, a bird to bark like a dog, or a horse to want to wear a diving suit and explore the Barrier Reef, but people have a particular gift for and inclination towards imitation, mimicry and self-transformation. We fly by watching birds and then making metal carriers that can outdo birds, we travel underwater by imitating fish, we constantly look to role models and behavioral templates for guidance, even when those role models are fictional TV or, comic, novel or movie heroes, just like the soft, quick, shapeshifty little things we are. We can alter the clothes we wear, the temperature around us, and change even our own bodies, in order to colonize or occupy previously hostile environments. We are, in short, a distinctively malleable and adaptable bunch.

So, Pico is saying, if we live by imitation, does it not make sense that we might choose to imitate the angels, the gods, the very highest form of being that we can imagine? Instead of indulging the most brutish, vicious, greedy and ignorant aspects of the human experience, we can, with a little applied effort, elevate the better part of our natures and work to express those elements through our behavior. To do so would probably make us all feel a whole lot better too. Doing good deeds and making other people happy makes you feel totally brilliant, let’s face it.

So we can choose to the astronaut or the gangster. The superhero or the super villain. The angel or the devil. It’s entirely up to us, particularly in the privileged West, how we choose to imagine ourselves and conduct our lives.

We live in the stories we tell ourselves. It’s really simple. We can continue to tell ourselves and our children that the species we belong to is a crawling, diseased, viral cancer smear, only fit for extinction, and let’s see where that leads us.

We can continue to project our self-loathing and narcissistic terror of personal mortality onto our culture, our civilization, our planet, until we wreck the promise of the world for future generations in a fit of sheer self-induced panic...

...or we can own up to the scientific fact that we are all physically connected as parts of a single giant organism, imagine better ways to live and grow...and then put them into practice. We can stop pissing about, start building starships, and get on with the business of being adults.

The ’Oratorio’ is nothing less than the Shazam!, the Kimota! for Western Culture and we would do well to remember it in our currently trying times.

The key theme of the ‘Dark Age’ of comics was loss and recovery of wonder - McGregor’s Killraven trawling through the apocalyptic wreckage of culture in his search for poetry, meaning and fellowship, Captain Mantra, amnesiac in Robert Mayer’s Superfolks, Alan Moore’s Mike Maxwell trudging through the black and white streets of Thatcher’s Britain, with the magic word of transformation burning on the tip of his tongue.

My own work has been an ongoing attempt to repeat the magic word over and over until we all become the kind of superheroes we’d all like to be. Ha hah ha.

 Newsarama: The structure of the 12 issues involves both Superman’s 12 labors and his impending death. Do you feel the threat of his demise brings out the best in Superman’s already–high character, or did you intend it more as a window for the audience to understand how he sees the world?

Grant Morrison: In trying to do the “big,” ultimate Superman story, we wanted to hit on all the major beats that define the character – the “death of Superman” story has been told again and again and had to be incorporated into any definitive take. Superman’s death and rebirth fit the sun god myth we were establishing, and, as you say, it added a very terminal ticking clock to the story.

NRAMA: When we talked earlier this year, we discussed the neurotic quality of the Silver Age stories. Looking at the series as a whole, you consistently invert this formula. Superman is faced with all these crises that could be seen as personifying his neuroses, but for the most part he handles them with a level head and comes across as being very at peace with himself. You talked about your discussion with an in–character Superman fan at a convention years ago, but I am curious as to how you determined Superman’s mindset.

GM: I felt we had to live up to the big ideas behind Superman. I don’t take my daft job lightly. It’s all I’ve got.

As the project got going, I wasn’t thinking about Silver Ages or Dark Ages or anything about the comics I’d read, so much as the big shared idea of “Superman” and that “S” logo I see on T–shirts everywhere I go, on girls and boys. That communal Superman. I wanted us to get the precise energy of Platonic Superman down on the page.

The “S” hieroglyph, the super–sigil, stands for the very best kind of man we can imagine, so the subject dictated the methodical, perfectionist approach. As I’ve mentioned before, I keep this aspect of my job fresh for myself by changing my writing style to suit the project, the character or the artist.

With something like Batman R.I.P., I’m aiming for a frenzied Goth Pulp-Noir; punk-psych, expressionist shadows and jagged nightmare scene shifts, inspired by Batman’s roots and by the snapping, fluttering of his uncanny cape. Final Crisis was written, with the Norse Ragnarok and Biblical Revelations in mind, as a story about events more than characters. A doom-laden, Death Metal myth for the wonderful world of Fina(ncia)l Crisis/Eco-breakdown/Terror Trauma we all have to live in.

The subject matter drives the execution. And then, of course, the artists add their own vision and nuance. With All Star Superman, “Frank” and I were able to spend a lot of time together talking it through, and we agreed it had to be about grids, structure, storybook panel layouts, an elegance of form, a clarity of delivery. “Classical” in every sense of the word. The medium, the message, the story, the character, all working together as one simple equation.

Frank Quitely, a Glasgow Art School boy, completely understood without much explanation, the deep structural underpinnings of the series and how to embody them in his layouts. There’s a scene in issue # 8, set on the Bizarro world, where we see Le Roj handing Superman his rocket plans. Look at the arrangement of the figures of Zibarro, Le Roj, Superman and Bizaro–Superman and you’ll see one attempt to make us of Renaissance compositions.

The sense of sunlit Zen calm we tried to get into All Star is how I imagine it might feel to think the way Superman thinks all the time - a thought process that is direct, clean, precise, mathematical, ordered. A mind capable of fantastical imagination but grounded in the everyday of his farm upbringing with nice decent folks. Rich with humour and tears and deep human significance, yet tuned to a higher key. We tried to hum along for a little while, that’s all.

In honor of the character’s primal position in the development of the superhero narrative, I hoped we could create an “ultimate” hero story, starring the ultimate superhero.

Basically, I suppose I felt Superman deserved the utmost application of our craft and intelligence in order to truly do him justice.

Otherwise, I couldn’t have written this book if I hadn’t watched my big, brilliant dad decline into incoherence and death. I couldn’t have written it if I’d never had my heart broken, or mended. I couldn’t have written it if I hadn’t known what it felt like to be idolized, misunderstood, hated for no clear reason, loved for all my faults, forgotten, remembered...

Writing All Star Superman was, in retrospect, also a way of keeping my mind in the clean sunshine while plumbing the murkiest depths of the imagination with that old pair of c****s Darkseid and Doctor Hurt. Good riddance.

 Newsarama: This is touched on in other questions, but how much of the Silver/Bronze Age backstory matters here? What do you see as Superman's life prior to All-Star Superman? (What was going on with this Superman while the Byrne revamp took hold?)

Grant Morrison: When I introduced the series in an interview online, I suggested that All Star Superman could be read as the adventures of the ‘original’ Pre-Crisis on Infinite Earths Superman, returning after 20 plus years of adventures we never got to see because we were watching John Byrne‘s New Superman on the other channel. If ‘Whatever Happened To The Man of Tomorrow?’ and the Byrne reboot had never happened, where would that guy be now?

This was more to provide a sense, probably limited and ill-considered, of what the tone of the book might be like. I never intended All Star Superman as a direct continuation of the Weisinger or Julius Schwartz-era Superman stories. The idea was always to create another new version of Superman using all my favorite elements of past stories, not something ‘Age’ specific.

I didn’t collect Superman comics until the ‘70s and I’m not interested enough in pastiche or nostalgia to spend 6 years of my life playing post-modern games with Superman. All Star isn’t written, drawn or colored to look or read like a Silver Age comic book.

All Star Superman is not intended as arch commentary on continuity or how trends in storytelling have changed over the decades. It’s not retro or meta or anything other than its own simple self; a piece of drawing and writing that is intended by its makers to capture the spirit of its subject to the best of their capabilities, wisdom and talent.

Which is to say, we wanted our Superman story be about life, not about comics or superheroes, current events or politics. It’s about how it feels, specifically to be a man...in our dreams! Hopefully that means our 12 issues are also capable of wide interpretation.

So as much as we may have used a few recognizable Silver Age elements like Van-Zee and Sylv(i)a and the Bottle City of Kandor, the ensemble Daily Planet cast embodies all the generations of Superman. Perry White is from 1940, Steve Lombard is from the Schwartz-era ‘70s, Ron Troupe - the only black man in Metropolis - appeared in 1991. Cat Grant is from 1987 and so on.

P.R.O.J.E.C.T. refers back to Jack Kirby’s DNA Project from his ‘70s Jimmy Olsen stories, as well as to The Cadmus Project from ’90s Superboy and Superman stories. Doomsday is ‘90s. Kal Kent, Solaris and the Infant Universe of Qwewq all come from my own work on Superman in the same decade. Pa Kent’s heart attack is from ‘Superman the Movie‘. We didn’t use Brainiac because he’d been the big bad in Earth 2 but if we had, we’d have used Brainiac’s Kryptonian origin from the animated series and so on.

I also used quite a few elements of John Byrne’s approach. Byrne made a lot of good decisions when he rebooted the whole franchise in 1986 and I wanted to incorporate as much as I could of those too.

Our Superman in All Star was never Superboy, for instance. All Star Superman landed on Earth as a normal, if slightly stronger and fitter infant, and only began to manifest powers in adolescence when he’d finally soaked up enough yellow solar radiation to trigger his metamorphosis.

The Byrne logic seemed to me a better way to explain how his powers had developed across the decades, from the skyscraper leaps of the early days to the speed-of-light space flight of the high Silver Age. And more importantly, it made the Superman myth more poignant - the story of a farm boy who turned into an alien as he reached adolescence. I felt that was something that really enriched Superman. He grew away from his home, his family, his adopted species as he became Superman. His teenage years are a record of his transformation from normal boy to super-being.

As you say, there are more than just Silver Age influences in the book. Basically we tried to create a perfect synthesis of every Superman era. So much so, that it should just be taken as representative of an ‘age’ all its own.

In the end, however, I do think that the Silver Age type stories, with their focus on human problems and foibles, have a much wider appeal than a lot of the work which followed. They’re more like fables or folk tales than the later ‘comic book superhero’ stories of Superman when he became just another colorful costume in the crowd...and perhaps that’s why All Star seemed to resemble those books more than it does a typical modern Marvel or DC comic. It was our intention to present a more universal, mainstream Superman.

NRAMA: In your depiction of Krypton and the Kryptonians, you show the complexity of Superman’s relationship between humanity and Earth even further. Krypton has that scientific paradise quality to it, but the Kryptonians are also portrayed as slightly aloof and detached, even Jor-El. But from Bar-El to the people of Kandor, they’re touched by Superman’s goodness. What do you see as the fundamental difference between Kryptonians and Earthlings, and how has Superman’s character been shaped by each?

GM: My version of Krypton was, again, synthesized from a number of different approaches over the decades. 
In mythic terms, if Superman is the story of a young king, found and raised by common people, then Krypton is the far distant kingdom he lost. It’s the secret bloodline, the aristocratic heritage that makes him special, and a hero. At the same time, Krypton is something that must be left behind for Superman to become who he is - i.e. one of us. Krypton gives him his scientific clarity of mind, Earth makes his heart blaze.

I liked the very early Jerry Siegel descriptions where Krypton is a planet of advanced supermen and women (I already played with that a little in Marvel Boy where Noh-Varr was written to be the Marvel Superboy basically). To that, I added the rich, science fiction detailing of the Silver Age Krypton stories and the slightly detached coolness that characterized John Byrne’s Krypton, which I re-interpreted through the lens of Dzogchen Buddhist thought, probably the most pragmatic, chilly and rational philosophic system on the planet and the closest, I felt, to how Kryptonians might see things.

We also took some time to redesign the crazy, multicolored Kryptonian flag (you can see our version in Kandor in issue #10). The flag, as originally imagined, seemed like the last thing Kryptonians would endorse, so we took the multicolored-rays-around-a-circle design and recreated it - the central circle is now red, representing Krypton’s star, Rao, while the rays, rather than arbitrary colors, become representations of the spectrum of visible light pouring from Rao into the inky black of space. In this way, the flag, that bizarre emblem of nationalism becomes a scientific hieroglyph.

Showing Krypton and Kryptonians was also important as a way of stressing why Superman wears that costume and why it makes absolute sense that he looks the way he does. I don’t see the red and blue suit as a flag or as rewoven baby blankets. There’s no need for Superman to dress the way he does but it made sense to think of his outfit as his ‘national costume‘.

The way I see it, the standard superhero outfit, the familiar Superman suit with the pants on the outside, is what everyone wore on Krypton, give or take a few fashion accessories like hoods and headbands, chest crests and variant colors. In fact, all other superheroes are just copying the fashions on Krypton, lost planet of the super-people.

Superman wears his ’action-suit’ the way a patriotic Scotsman would wear a kilt. It’s a sign of his pride in his alien heritage.

 Newsarama: Although All–Star Superman ties in with DC One Million, you style of writing has changed dramatically since then.  How do you feel about One Million now?

Grant Morrison: I just read it again and liked it a lot. Comics were definitely happier, breezier and more confident in their own strengths before Hollywood and the Internet turned the business of writing superhero stories into the production of low budget storyboards or, worse, into conformist, fruitless attempts to impress or entertain a small group of people who appear to hate comics and their creators.

NRAMA: Obviously, this book is the most explicit SF–Christ story since Behold the Man, only...happy.  Superman/Christ parallels have existed for decades, but this story makes it absolutely explicit, from laying his hands on the sick and dying to...well, most of issue #12.  You’ve dealt with Christ themes before, particularly in The Mystery Play, but outside of the comics, how do you see Superman as a Christ figure for the “real” world?

GM: The “Superman as Christ” thing is a little too reductive for me, and tends to overlook the fact that Superman is by no means a pacifist in the Christ sense. Superman would never turn the other cheek; Superman punches out the bully. Superman is a fighter.

When did Christ ever batter the Devil through a mountain?

The thing I disliked about the Superman Returns movie was the American Christ angle, which reduced Superman to a sniveling, masochistic wreck, crawling around on the floor, taking a kicking from everyone. This approach had an odd and slightly disturbing S&M flavor, which didn’t play well to the character’s strengths at all and seemed to derive entirely from a kind of Catholic vision of the suffering, martyred Jesus.

It’s not that he’s based on Jesus, but simply that a lot of the mythical sun god elements that have been layered onto the Christ story also appear in the story of Superman. I suppose I see Superman more as pagan sci–fi. He’s a secular messiah, a science redeemer with tough guy muscles and a very direct and clear morality.

NRAMA: Continuing the religious themes, in issue #10, you have Superman literally giving birth to himself, both philosophically and as a character – a nice little meta–moment showing how Superman inspires a world where he is only fiction.  How did that idea come about?

GM: It came from the challenge we’d set ourselves: as I said, issue #10 had been left as a blank space into which the single most coherent condensation of all our ideas about Superman were destined to fit.

I wanted to do a “day in the life” story. So much of All Star had been about this threat to Superman himself, so we wanted to show him going about a typical day saving people and doing good.

Then came the title “Neverending,” which comes from the opening announcement – “Faster than a speeding bullet!...” of the Superman radio show from 1940, and seemed to me to be as good a title for a Superman story as any I could think of. It seemed to distil everything about Superman’s battle and his legend into a single word. And the story structure itself was designed to loop endlessly, so it went well with that.

 On top of that went the idea of the Last Will and Testament of Superman. A dying god writing his will seemed like an interesting structure to use. Then came the idea to fit all of human history into that single 24 hours. And then to show the development of the Superman idea through human culture from the earliest Australian Aboriginal notions of super–beings ‘descended” from the sky, through the complex philosophical system of Hinduism, onto the Renaissance concept of the ideal man, via the refinements of Nietzche and finally, down to that smiling, hopeful Joe Shuster sketch; the final embodiment of humanity’s glorious, uplifting notion of the superman become reduced to a drawing, a story for kids, a worthless comic book.

And also what that could mean in a holographic fractal universe, where the smallest part contains and reflects the whole.

Of course the next panel in that sequence is happening in the real world and would show you, the reader, sitting with the latest Superman issue in your hands, deep within the Infant Universe of Qwewq in the Fortress of Solitude, today, wherever you are. In “Neverending,” the reader becomes wrapped in a self–referential loop of story and reality. If you actually, seriously think about what is happening at this point in the story, if you meditate upon the curious entanglement of the real and the fictional, you will become enlightened in this life apparently. According to some texts.

NRAMA: On a personal level, you’ve explored all types of religions and philosophies in your work.  What is your take on religion and how it influences humanity, and the Christian take on Jesus Christ in particular?

GM: I think religion per se, is a ghastly blight on the progress of the human species towards the stars.  At the same time, it, or something like it, has been an undeniable source of comfort, meaning and hope for the majority of poor bastards who have ever lived on Earth, so I’m not trying to write it off completely. I just wish that more people were educated to a standard where they could understand what religion is and how it works. Yes, it got us through the night for a while, but ultimately, it’s one of those ugly, stupid arse–over–backwards things we could probably do without now, here on the Planet of the Apes.

Religion is to spirituality what porn is to sex. It’s what the Hollywood 3–act story template is to real creative writing.

Religion creates a structure which places “special,” privileged people (priests) between ordinary people and the divine, as if there could even be any separation: as if every moment, every thought, every action was not already an expression of dynamic ‘divinity” at work.

As I’ve said before, the solid world is just the part of heaven we’re privileged to touch and play with. You don’t need a priest or a holy man to talk to “god” on your behalf: just close your eyes and say hello. “God” is no more, no less, than the sum total of all matter, all energy, all consciousness, as experienced or conceptualized from a timeless perspective where everything ever seems to present all at once. “God” is in everything, all the time and can be found there by looking carefully. The entire universe, including the scary, evil bits, is a thought “God” is thinking, right now.

As far as I can figure it out from my own reading and my own experience of how the spiritual world works, Jesus was, as they say, way cool: a man who achieved a state of consciousness, which nowadays would get him a diagnosis of temporal lobe epilepsy (in the days of the Emperor Tiberius, he was crucified for his ideas, today he’d be laughed at, mocked or medicated).

This “holistic” mode of consciousness (which Luthor experiences briefly at the end of All Star Superman) announces itself as a heartbreaking connection, a oneness, with everything that exists...but you don’t have to be Superman to know what that feeling is like. There are a ton of meditation techniques which can take you to this place. I don’t see it as anything supernatural or religious, in fact, I think it’s nothing more than a developmental level of human consciousness, like the ability to see perspective – which children of 4 cannot do but children of 6 can.

Everyone who’s familiar with this upgrade will tell you the same thing: it feels as if “alien” or “angelic” voices – far more intelligent, coherent and kindly than the voices you normally hear in your head – are explaining the structure of time and space and your place in it. 
This identification with a timeless supermind containing and resolving within itself all possible thoughts and contradictions, is what many people, unsurprisingly, mistake for an encounter with “God.”  However, given that this totality must logically include and resolve all possible thoughts and concepts, it can also be interpreted as an actual encounter with God, so I’m not here to give anyone a hard time over interpretation.

Some people have the experience and believe the God of their particular culture has chosen them personally to have a chat with. These people may become born–again Christians, fundamentalist Muslims, devotees of Shiva, or misunderstood lunatics. Some “contactees” interpret the voices they hear erroneously as communications from an otherworldly, alien intelligence, hence the proliferation of “abduction” accounts in recent decades, which share most of their basic details with similar accounts, from earlier centuries, of people being taken away by “fairies” or “little people”.

Some, who like to describe themselves as magicians, will recognize the “alien” voice as the “Holy Guardian Angel”.

In timeless, spaceless consciousness, the singular human mind blurs into a direct experience of the totality of all consciousness that has ever been or will ever be. It feels like talking with God but I see that as an aspect of science, not religion.

As Peter Barnes wrote in “The Ruling Class”, “I know I must be God because when I pray to Him, I find I’m talking to myself.”

 Newsarama: When we spoke earlier this year, you talked about some of your ideas for future All Star stories. Are you moving forward on those, or have you started working on different ideas since then?

Grant Morrison: I haven’t had time to think about them for a while. I did have the stories worked out, and I’d like to do more, but right now it feels like Frank and Jamie and I have said all there is to be said. I don’t know if I’m ready to do All Star Superman with anyone else right now. I have other plans.

NRAMA: You end the book with Superman having uplifted humanity – having inspired them through his sacrifice and great deeds, and with the potential to pass his powers on to humanity still there. Do you plan to explore this concept further, or would you prefer to leave it open–ended?

GM: I may go back to the Son of Superman in some way. At the same time, it’s best left open–ended. I like the idea that Superman gets to have his cake and eat it; he becomes golden and mythical and lives forever as a dream. Yet, he also is able to sire a child who will carry his legacy into the future. He kicks ass in both the spiritual and the temporal spheres!

 NRAMA: The notion of transcendence – always a big part of your work. But the debate about All Star Superman is whether or not it "transcends its genre." Superman becomes transcendent within the series itself, and inspires the beings on Qwewq, but does the work aspire to more than that? Is it simply the greatest version of a Superman story, and that’s enough?

GM: That would certainly be enough if it were true.

It’s a pretty high–level attempt by some smart people to do the Superman concept some justice, is all I can say. It’s intended to work as a set of sci–fi fables that can be read by children and adults alike. I’d like to think you can go to it if you’re feeling suicidal, if you miss your dad, if you’ve had to take care of a difficult, ailing relative, if you’ve ever lost control and needed a good friend to put you straight, if you love your pets, if you wish your partner could see the real you...All Star is about how Superman deals with all of that.

It’s a big old Paul Bunyan style mythologizing of human - and in particular male - experience. In that sense I’d like to think All Star Superman does transcend genre in that it’s intended to be read on its own terms and needs absolutely no understanding of genre conventions or history around it to grasp what’s going on.

In today’s world, in today’s media climate designed to foster the fear our leaders like us to feel because it makes us easier to push around. In a world where limp, wimpy men are forced to talk tough and act ‘badass’ even though we all know they’re shitting it inside. In a world where the measure of our moral strength has come to lie in the extremity of the images we’re able to look at and stomach. In a world, I’m reliably told, that’s going to the dogs, the real mischief, the real punk rock rebellion, is a snarling, ‘fuck you’ positivity and optimism. Violent optimism in the face of all evidence to the contrary is the Alpha form of outrage these days. It really freaks people out.

I have a desire not to see my culture and my fellow human beings fall helplessly into step with a middle class media narrative that promises only planetary catastrophe, as engineered by an intrinsically evil and corrupt species which, in fact, deserves everything it gets.

Is this relentless, downbeat insistence that the future has been cancelled really the best we can come up with? Are we so fucked up we get off on terrifying our children? It’s not funny or ironic anymore and that’s why we wrote All Star Superman the way we did. Everything has changed. ‘Dark’ entertainment now looks like hysterical, adolescent, ‘Zibarro’ crap. That’s what my Final Crisis series is about too.

NRAMA (aka Tim Callahan): Continuing with the theme of transcendence: The words "ineffectual" and "surrender" are repeated throughout the book. Discuss.

GM: Discuss yourself, Callahan! I know you have the facilities and I should think it’s all rather obvious. 


NRAMA: What was the inspiration for the image of Superman in the sun at the end? (I confess this question comes as the result of much unsuccessful Googling)

GM: I didn’t have any specific reference in mind - just that one we‘ve all sort of got in our heads. I drew the figure as a sketch, intended to be reminiscent of William Blake’s cosmic figures, Russian Constructivist Soviet Socialist Worker type posters, and Leonardo’s ‘Proportions of the Human Figure‘. The position of the legs hints at the Buddhist swastika, the clockwise sun symbol. It was to me, the essence of that working class superheroic ideal I mentioned, condensed into a final image of mythic Superman, - our eternal, internal, guiding, selfless, tireless, loving superstar. The daft All Star Superman title of the comic is literalized in this last picture. It’s the ‘fearful symmetry’ of the Enlightenment project - an image of genius, toil, and our need to make things, to fashion art and artifacts, as a form of superhuman, divine imitation.

It was Superman as this fusion of Renaissance/Enlightenment ideas about Man and Cosmos, an impossible union of Blake and Newton. A Pop Art ‘Vitruvian Man‘. The inspiration for the first letter of the new future alphabet!

As you can see, we spent a lot of time thinking about all this and purifying it down to our own version of the gold. I’m glad it’s over.

NRAMA: Finally: What, above all else, would you like people to take away from All Star Superman?

GM: That we spent a lot of time thinking about this!

No. What I hope is that people take from it the unlikelihood that a piece of paper, with little ink drawings of figures, with little written words, can make you cry, can make your heart soar, can make you scared, sad, or thrilled. How mental is that?

That piece of paper is inert material, the corpse of some tree, pulped and poured, then given new meaning and new life when the real hours and real emotions that the writer and the artist, the colorist, the letter the editor translated onto the physical page, meet with the real hours and emotions of a reader, of all readers at once, across time, generations and distance.

And think about how that experience, the simple experience of interacting with a paper comic book, along with hundreds of thousands of others across time and space, is an actual doorway onto the beating heart of the imminent, timeless world of “Myth” as defined above. Not just a drawing of it but an actual doorway into timelessness and the immortal world where we are all one together.

My grief over the loss of my dad can be Superman’s grief, can trigger your own grief, for your own dad, for all our dads. The timeless grief that’s felt by Muslims and Christians and Agnostics alike. My personal moments of great and romantic love, untainted by the everyday, can become Superman’s and may resonate with your own experience of these simple human feelings.

In the one Mythic moment we’re all united, kissing our Lover for the First time, the Last time, the Only time, honoring our dear Dad under a blood red sky, against a darkening backdrop, with Mum telling us it’ll all be okay in the end.

If we were able to capture even a hint of that place and share it with our readers, that would be good enough for me.

[ajokeformur-ray]

Spending Christmas Eve with Arthur & surprise kiss under mistletoe (headcanon) ☺️🎄

Implied smut at end.

I feel like this is really bad? IDK.

You had been planning your Christmas with Arthur for months.

Nothing and no one were going to stop you from spending the entire holiday with Arthur.

Not even you.

“Y/N, you don’t have to do this for me.” 

Though he was speaking as quietly and as patiently as he usually does, you could tell by the hopeful glint in his eyes and the anxious way that he was toying with the cuffs of his beloved yellow hoodie that Arthur really did want to do all of these things with you.

“Yeah, I do, Arthur.” At his uncertain dart upwards with his eyes do you say, “I want to.”

Whatever your usual Christmas plans are, Arthur wants in on them all, no matter how silly or childish they seem.

When you tell him that you’re deciding to spend the holiday with him, though???

Poor boi loses his mind.

He laughs in disbelief, so hard that he ends up crying.

 He shakes his head, apologising as best as he can, but you just tug him into your arms and you hold him, your fingers stroking easily through his dark locks as you calm him.

His laughing fit only makes you even more sure of your decision. 

You want him to experience every possible tradition, food, activity, game, etc. about Christmas.

Whether you’re religious or not, he wants to do everything with you. All of it. 

Whether you think he’d enjoy it or not is a moot point, because he’s with you and so therefore he would enjoy it.

Arthur loves the music of the season!!!!

You woke up once in the night, not sure of what had woken you, but as you came to you realised that Arthur’s fingers were trailing up and down your arm, his fingers tapping out the beat to the last song which had played on the radio before bed.

You smiled, pulled him closer, and Arthur crooned some lyrics in your ear; his soft voice being just what you needed to lull you back into Morpheus’ embrace, though even a deity can’t protect you as well as Arthur can.

“Arthur, honey, what would you like for Christmas? Not what I want, not what we need for the apartment, what do you want?”

An edge of frustration crept into your voice. 

You had asked him this so many times and you heard his answer in your head before he even said it:

“I already have everything I want.” His intense stare and the happiness on his face says the next word for him, which settles like a blanket of snow between your bodies:

You.

Soon enough, it’s Christmas Eve and you’re really getting into the swing of things now.

You leave out some gingerbread biscuits and mince pies for Father Christmas and his reindeer (you both know nothing’s going to touch them but you want Arthur to get the full experience; he would have missed out on it all when he was a child).

You both go to bed, giddy as children, and your jaw aching with how wide you were smiling as you pulled him into your arms, sleep finding you both quite quickly.

The first thing you decide that you need to show Arthur in the morning, on the big day, was your personal favourite thing about Christmas:

Giving presents!

You hadn’t labelled any of the presents you had gotten him, you had only wrapped them. 

You had already given other people their presents, anyway.

With Arthur out in the living room tidying up the cups and plates and emptying out his ashtrays, it seemed convenient to reach under the bed and pull out all the presents you had gotten for him.

You had wrapped all of them as best as you could, putting so much effort into it that you had even impressed yourself, and now did you take them to the living room, your knees almost bowing under all the weight.

Arthur lingered in the doorway of the kitchen, his green eyes inquisitive.

“Y-Y/N, wh-what are you doing? Shouldn’t you have given those out before today?”

With a truly happy smile on your face did you look over at the absolute love of your life.

“I have.”

You saw that he still didn’t understand and, knowing that he would respond to your next words with painful laughter, did you say, “Arthur, honey, these are yours.”

Three, two, aaaaand - 

Painful laughter ripped forth from Arthur’s throat and you nodded solemnly, crossing the room to comfort him.

You held him tightly through the attack, stroking his dark hair and kissing his temple and you stayed.

When he was calm did you lead him to the gifts you had gotten him. 

You felt bad that you hadn’t gotten him more, but you had already spent too much money this month so it was the best you could do.

Arthur only ever deserved your best.

You got him: a new journal, a proper winter coat, the biggest multipack of cigarettes you could find (even if you disliked the vice, you wouldn’t deny him anything and so with a wrinkled nose had you bought them), more makeup for work (he had literally been scraping the bottom of the barrel this morning, a concerned frown on his face as he looked at the calendar - another two weeks until payday; he couldn’t go that long without Carnival), another clown wig, and - a bright red two piece suit.

To you, it wasn’t anything special and you felt guilty that you couldn’t give him more.

Arthur unwrapped every present slowly, his flat palms tracing over every gift which was cushioned in his bony lap as he undid the tape with spidery fingers. He folded the discarded paper and you knew it’d become pressed in the pages of his new journal as irrefutable proof of this night.

With reverence did Arthur look over everything you got him, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, his cheeks damp with overflowing love as he looked up at you like you were an angel.

His angel.

He told you as much before he kissed you deeply in thanks; his lips so fierce against your own that it made your toes curl in your socks.

Then, he crossed over to the tiny desk in the corner of the room and grabbed his battered brown journal and joke book, flicking to a certain page easily and holding it out to you.

“I couldn’t afford to get you a gift,” He mumbled, embarrassed, the tips of his ears turning the same delicate shade of pink as the one on his cheeks, “But I… here, Y/N.”

You took the journal, seeing Arthur struggling so completely for words made you deeply curious, and your eyes roamed over the page, a blush coming to your own face before you focused on the very first word and read it slowly, savouring the pages upon pages of scribbles, doodles and words; some crossed out, more misspelled and some written with care.

It was all about you - your favourite things were drawn around the corners of the pages, smiley faces and crooked love hearts dotted the pages and acted as punctuation, things you had said to him or done together, things he wanted to do with and to you…. pages upon pages… you counted eighteen before a sealed envelope fell out of the journal.

Quickly did Arthur scoop it up. “T-That’s the journal finished… I - I wanted to write you something, to give you something to open.”

Arthur moved all of his gifts over to the armchair which Penny used to sit in so that you could sit on the sofa, holding the envelope in your hands.

You were getting teary eyed just seeing your name written in Arthur’s writing, and with a slight shake to your hand did you break the seal, Arthur sitting beside you and taking your other hand.

With his other hand did he pull his trick out of his trousers pocket - a piece of mistletoe.

He had refrained from buying a pack of cigarettes in order to buy it fresh and he had kept it in his pocket all day, waiting for the perfect moment.

He watched you read his letter once, twice, three and then four times; your emotions playing out on your face like a film.

He watched as you teared up, smiled, gasped softly or squeezed his hand as you read the letter a fifth time.

“Arthur, I - you - I love you so fucking much”

“I know,” A quiet murmur of truth, “I love you too. You’re my everything.” 

Distracted sufficiently by his letter did Arthur reach his arm up to hold the mistletoe over your heads.

You followed his arm up, up, and smiled.

“You know what my favourite part of Christmas is?”

“What?” You smiled even wider, knowing where this was going.

“Following traditions.”

In a rare bout of confidence which channelled his future self did Arthur claim your lips with his and the rest of the day was spent in a blissful haze of love, lust and everything in between.

The Arthur Fleck/Joker Defense Squad @writings-of-a-gen-z                      @x-avantgarde-x       @insomniabird      @mavalenovaninagavi     @itwasrealenough     @morrisonmercurymalek     @rand0ms-fand0ms     @rafaelina-casillas     @aclownthing        @vivft                  @help-i-am-obssessed      @autumnaffection       @taintednihilist   @vladtoly   @mg-woolf99      @misstgrey92  @that-s-life   @dopey-girl-blogs         @seeking-dreamland      @sweetheart-syndrome      @heartxfdesire @xmusichealsthesoulx       @0callmejude0      @the-one-that-likes-riddles        @hannibalsslut       @folliaght            @freeeshavacadoo         @bingewatchingmylifegoby       @unlovedbyeveryoneandeverything @okamiredfoxx       @sp0okysp0oky  @the-pandorabox      @mardema @jibanyyan        @honeyflvredcoughdrop         @emissarydecksetter @jokerfleckk         @epidendroideae         @chuuntas          @stillmabel       @pumpkinpeyes       @onehystericalqueenposts       @the-jokers-wolf       @nalsswa  @justahyena       @arianatheangelworld  @soullessblondbitch @gothamslittlejester  @twentyonestarrynights  @sirianfromsixties @kissmeclownman    @joker-is-my-hero  @lazyloosah  @lovesickkloxx @ladylovelyluna      @live-love-loki  @clownerybbxx   @tragicarthur    @anmach123      @rommie-chan      @arthurflock     @lucyboytom              @anti-peach       @immortal-bi-bitch    @hearthurfleck      @crazieroutthere      @curlystark     @hailmary-yramliah    @sagyunaro     @playinthedarktillitsgoldenagain     @jokeringcutio      @xenthefox   @mijachula@stcrrynightsinneverlcnd      @cheyennejonas22    @mrjfleck      @pauli1100     @smitten-susie    @actualkey     @callmejokerfleck   @jaylovesbats    @itsforyoubitch      @ridiculousnerd     @killerprotector3579       @soulsdontbreaktheybeeend     @fantasticwinnerclodexpert                  @arthurs-sweater      @pinkie44pie    @tsukiakarinobara      @prettyxlittlexpsychoxprincess   @elodia-gahan   @yours-mia    @rustyt33th     @parkdonghoons      @lady-carnivals-stuff      @hobi-hobi-kyo-kkyu      @jupiturde        @incognitofish      @j-sux      @nothing-but-a-comedy      @tahliamalfoydepp 

[athingthatwantsvirginia]

James Dean and Daria

PART TWENTY-FIVE OF THE DO YOU SEE HER FACE? SERIES

Pairing: Jess Mariano x Original Character (Ella Stevens)

Warnings: mentions of alcoholism, plentiful pop culture references

Word Count: 5.3K

Summary: Ella receives a book in the mail and attends an open house.

two years later

A Ramones song was stuck in her head, and Ella hummed along with its tune as she twirled around the diner. Her hair, freshly cut, was back in a black bandana. She blew her wispy curtain bangs away from the sides of her forehead as she served up lunch. Lane was on shift, and they bounced around together in sync. Working with her made everything a little sunnier. Lorelai had always said Ella and Lane were night and day, respectively. The thought of it made Ella smile as she joined her friend behind the counter again. Recently, Lane had been experimenting with contacts, and it was still jarring to see her without her trademark glasses.

They made a dynamic duo, as Luke was off to fix random bits and bobs at the Inn. With he and Lorelai engaged, he was over there doing repairs for free nearly half the time. During which time, especially in the afternoons, Ella was left to look after Luke’s daughter, April. To say she was shocked when Luke told her he had a twelve-year-old kid that some woman from his past had never told him about would’ve been an understatement. But soon, April was fitting into the groove of town. Ella was always glad to do homework with her (not that the brainiac ever needed help per se) or listen to the girl’s long-winded monologues about obscure scientific principles. Sometimes, Ella hardly believed Luke and April were related. The girl could talk for days without taking a breath if she had the chance. Watching April concentrate over her textbooks and scribble essays during the early dinner rush sometimes made Ella’s heart do a little, nostalgic twist. She was no longer the girl doing calculus at the corner table. To everything there was a season.

“‘I Wanna Be Sedated’?” Lane asked, breaking Ella out of her reverie.

Ella turned to Lane with a small smirk, arms crossing over her chest. Breathing out a sigh, she gave a nod. Things were finally slowing down, almost everyone with a plate in front of them. She had taken over the floor for the day. Lane’s wedding to Zach was only weeks away, and Lane was stressed enough as it was. Ella figured having Lane on register would at least be a decent method to avoid her passing out.

Lane narrowed her eyes and tilted her head at her friend. “What’s got you in such a good mood?”

Shrugging, Ella turned to make a pot of coffee. “I don’t know. I’m a college graduate. Besides, is Ramones really good mood music?”

Lane scoffed. “For you? Definitely.”

“Just happy to have all this education, maybe,” Ella said.

Though it had been a whole five days since her graduation, she was still basking in the glow of it. She couldn’t believe she had managed to get through school in three years instead of four. It meant the upcoming summer would be her first real break from school since the summer after high school. During her last finals, she had been nearly ready to tear her hair out. Suffice it to say, it was time to stop studying for at least a little while.

“So, I guess we’ll be hearing about this summa cum laude thing forever, huh?” Lane teased.

Ella’s smile grew wider. “Forever is a strong word. ‘The foreseeable future’ would be more accurate.”

Lane rolled her eyes with a chuckle.

“And what’s got you all grumpy today? That’s my job. Did a Freaky Friday situation happen without my knowledge?” Ella asked.

Sighing heavily, Lane went back over to the register, seeing some customers finishing up their meals. “I told you my mom wants me to wear her wedding dress, right?”

Ella nodded.

“Well, she finally showed it to me. And it has pants!”

Biting the inside of her cheek, Ella swallowed down the laugh which threatened to leave her lips.

“I gave it to Lorelai. Hopefully something along the lines of salvageable will come of it,” Lane grumbled, adjusting her apron anxiously.

“Hey, Lorelai made that renaissance dress I wore to Liz’s wedding wearable. I’m sure she’ll work her magic,” Ella said, turning to see Luke return as the bell over the door jingled.

“We’ll see,” Lane said, sighing again as a young couple came up to the register, ready to pay for their patty melts.

As Luke approached, Ella saw he had the mail in his hands. He looked almost haggard, with dark circles under his eyes. She knew he and Lorelai had been having some problems, but didn’t know the details. It wouldn’t be surprising if the new daughter or the prolonged engagement had something to do with it, though. Since she and Rory had fallen out of touch, Ella saw Lorelai less and less. And it wasn’t like Luke was a chatterbox.

“Something came for you,” Luke said shortly, handing Ella a puffy orange envelope.

As soon as she took it, she could tell it was a book. Confusion painted her features; it wasn’t often she got mail addressed to Luke’s. She’d been living at Lane’s for almost two years. Furrowing her brows, she looked in the upper right corner and her face immediately fell when she saw the familiar, spiky handwriting. Clearing her throat, she plastered on a complacent expression.

“I’m gonna take a fifteen, okay?” she said, clutching the package tightly in her hands.

Luke nodded. “You alright?”

Ella smiled thinly. “Yeah. Just gotta take the smell of the stock room in as much as I possibly can. I’ve only got it until the end of July.”

Rolling his eyes, Luke shook his head. “I’m counting the seconds.”

“Hey, I could quit right now! Then where would you be?!” she exclaimed dramatically, a bit which never seemed to get old.

Luke grunted doubtfully. “Don’t tease.”

Smirking slightly, she finally turned on her heel and went back into the stock room. It was dim, piled high with boxes and cans. But there was the comforting smell of dust and pine, making her feel just a touch less queasy. Sitting on the lone table in the middle on the shelves, her legs dangling over the sides with boots heavy on her feet, Ella stared down at Jess’s writing for a moment. It only made sense he would send her something at the diner. He probably had no idea where she lived, if she was still even in Stars Hollow.

Her mind wandered to their last conversation, her night up on the plaid couch, crying. When Jess had called to tell Luke he was back in New York, Luke said Jess had told him to say hello to her. She’d told him to say hello back, a half-hearted message. And she was glad to know his trip had been safe. Glad he had apparently mended fences with Luke. But when she thought of actually speaking to him, hearing his voice, it made her feel sick with nerves. All she could see was his heartbroken expression when she had told him she wouldn’t come with him. Hear his pleading. Many times, she had pulled out the small slip of paper with his cell number written on it, had thought about reaching out. But, it simply hurt too much.

And she would have no idea where to begin. He had apologized. And she had rejected him. She didn’t regret it, didn’t feel bad about what she had said or done. But she knew there would be a shift between them. All the words they spoke would have a whispered ‘what if’ underneath. It seemed like too much to put him through. Jess probably wouldn’t like to hear her voice either, she thought. As angry as she had been before, she just couldn’t bear to hurt him anymore. It was more trouble than it was worth. So, each time Luke spoke with Jess, they exchanged fleeting greetings through him. It was impersonal, cold, but, they always knew the other was alive. The deal still stood, even after everything.

Running her finger along the address on the package, written in black permanent marker, Ella felt a storm of emotion brewing within her. Time and distance had been kind; when she thought of him, she didn’t think betrayal, she didn’t think resentment. Somehow, their final argument had cleansed her of those feelings. He had come back. She had never expected it. But, at least, he had come back for her, even if she didn’t exactly want it. Instead of anger, there was only sadness, for months. She had walked around with an aura of gloom. But then, life had gotten busier, and it faded.

Instead, as the pad of her finger curved over his name again and again, she thought of her books, filled with their writing to each other. She thought of his smirk, ever-present when she was around. And his brown eyes, guarded but so often kind. And his fears, shared only with her. And, above all, she thought of him telling her he loved her. With tears running down his cheeks, anxious hands raking through his hair.

Love. That word she had always scoffed at. While she still wasn’t one to utter it lightly, she had slowly come around. As the world moved around her, and she was finally away from her childhood home, she began to see it. Luke and Lorelai, mostly. She almost felt silly, having watched a love story unfold before her eyes in the diner for years and years. Perhaps as a teen, she had been too headstrong. Perhaps she had been unable to see how her own fears had stopped her from living the way she wanted to, a pattern she had been able to see so clearly in Lane and Jess. Without the constant reminder of her parents’ doomed union, she felt better each day. More open.

But still, she had no idea how to feel about Jess. Surely, he had moved on. She didn’t know where he was, what he was doing. Luke had only told her he was doing well. And she had never asked for details. No use in ripping open old wounds. But it seemed the ball wasn’t entirely in her court. Jess had made a move. Again. Biting at the inside of her cheek, she heaved a big sigh and ripped open the side of the package. Inside it, she found a book, as she expected.

But her breath caught as she ran her eyes over the black-and-white cover: The Subsect by Jess Mariano. Her heart skipped a beat in her chest and a grin came over her lips before she could stop it. She knew it was only a matter of time. He was a writer. He always had been. As she flipped open the inside cover, a slip of heavy, purple paper fell out. A crease formed between her brows as she took the paper in one hand, eyes gravitating to the words scribbled in pen on the novel’s second page.

Before she could begin the handwritten message, she looked to the dedication. A lump formed in her throat. For Eleanor, it read simply. Her hazel eyes shone with glassy tears, and the surreality of the moment hit her like a ton of bricks. Swallowing down the sob which threatened to escape, she turned to the inscription before she could get caught up in her emotions.

I wasn’t sure how to tell you about this. But I wanted to let you know somehow, considering it wouldn’t have happened without you. And writing in a book seemed like the best way, since it’s worked for us in the past. I included an invite to the Open House thing we’re having at Truncheon, the place which was stupid enough to publish this. You don’t have to come, and I don’t expect you to. But, in case you did want to come see what I couldn’t have done without you, you’re more than welcome.

-Jess

Chewing on her thumbnail, Ella picked up the purple invite and ran her eyes over the address. Philadelphia. She smirked at the coincidence. She could see him there. Always a city boy. And, though nerves coursed through her veins and butterflies flew around in her stomach, she knew immediately that she would soon be seeing the liberty bell.

.   .   .

Smoothing her hands over her dress, Ella took in a deep breath. Her battered blue station wagon was parked behind her on the street, and for a split second, she thought about running back to it. Driving all the way back up to Connecticut in a continuous three-hour stretch. But she knew there would be at least a few familiar faces inside Truncheon Books. Luke had offered to be a chaperone for some road trip with April’s school, and they, of course, were also invited to the open house. Initially, Luke had been wary of them both being away from the diner, but Ella assured him Lane and Caesar could handle it. And, of course, he would have to learn to deal without her by the end of the July. She and Lane would be even when Ella took all the shifts for the week of her and Zach’s honeymoon. Yes, Ella’s final week as a waitress at Luke’s was bound to be grueling.

Biting down on the inside of her cheek, Ella opened the door and entered the publishing house before she could talk herself out of it. The place was crowded, lots of people mingling at a table near the entrance and next to the coat rack. The green walls were lined with art, and the room was filled with warm, richly-toned wood. She hung her bag as her heart sat heavy in her chest. She hadn’t realized just how anxious walking into Jess’s new world was going to make her. A small smile formed on her face, though, as she scanned the crowd for Luke and April. When she didn’t instantly find them, she crossed her arms and walked toward the collection of photographs on a wall near the door. They showed visions of the city: an old newspaper stand, a rusty bike, a group of angry teenagers sat around a statue of Thomas Jefferson. She’d never been good with technology, including cameras, and she envied the photographer who could capture images like these.

Across the room, Jess spotted her. Her blonde waves fell down her back, just past her shoulder blades, shorter than he’d ever seen her hair. There was a tattoo on the back of one of her calves, and one on the inside of her left forearm. She was too far away though, and he couldn’t quite make out what they were. As expected, she was dressed only in blacks and greys, her dress checkered with the two colors. And, as expected, her all-black oxfords had no heel. Before he could stop it, a grin crossed his face, and his hand tightened around the half-empty beer bottle he was nursing. Never had he actually thought she would show up. But there she was. Matthew, who stood next to him on the stairs, instantly noticed his friend’s change in expression. He followed Jess’s eyes, and it dawned on him. Jess didn’t talk about the woman he’d dedicated The Subsect to a lot. But the blonde standing before the photography section fit the description Jess had spewed drunkenly on his last birthday almost perfectly.

Matthew raised knowing brows. “Is that her?”

“What?” Jess asked, blinking slightly as he looked away from her and turned back to the co-owner of his business.

Scoffing out a chuckle, Matthew shook his head. “That’s the girl, isn’t it? The one you wrote the book for.”

Breathing a big sigh, Jess took another sip of his drink and nodded slowly. “Is it that obvious?”

“Oh, yeah,” Matthew laughed, clapping Jess on the shoulder. “Now’s your chance.”

Jess snorted a bitter laugh, looking away from his friend and down at his shoes. “There’s no chance.”

Before Matthew could say anything more, Jess descended the final two stairs. Matthew was still chuckling behind him. No matter how much Chris and Matthew drove him up the wall sometimes, he would always be grateful. They’d published his book. They’d welcomed him into the company before it even existed, into the apartment upstairs. They’d become his family without him even noticing it. And he knew no matter how torn up he would be after speaking with Ella (and he knew he would be, at least a little), they’d get him through it. As they had gotten him through the heartbreak the first time, when he’d shown up on the doorstep of a company he’d heard about through some friends in New York, a company which didn’t even have a name, just some printing equipment. Tossing the empty beer in the recycle near the front refreshment table, Jess took another breath in. He could thank her for everything she’d done, then watch her leave without completely crumbling. Maybe if he was confident enough in himself, Jess thought, it would be so.

Walking up next to her, Jess bit down on his bottom lip and shoved his hands in the pockets of his blazer. His palms were sweaty.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Jess said, eyes on the photographs. Immediately, he regretted his words. How cliché could he possibly sound? Usually, the nerves didn’t affect his mouth. But not around Ella.

Though she startled on the inside, Ella didn’t visibly jump. Instead, she cracked a small smile. “And yet, here I am.”

“Didn’t expect to see you.”

“Well,” she said, shrugging, “I’m full of surprises.”

“Stealing my line, huh, Stevens?” he asked.

Still, they hadn’t turned to face each other.

“Funny, I didn’t know you had the trademark,” she quipped.

“Touché,” he said, feigning disappointment.

Smile growing, Ella finally turned to him. “Never thought I’d see Jess Mariano in a suit jacket.”

His hair was cut differently, parted and combed. Not as unkempt as it had once been. He had dark, shadowy stubble on his cheeks. Just as any brooding writer would. Underneath his black jacket, he wore a t-shirt with a black-and-white photo of  a little girl smoking a cigarette on a beach. Ella thought she recognized it from one of her art classes, but couldn’t quite place it.

Chuckling under his breath, Jess built up his courage and faced her. “Yeah, well, I guess corporate America finally got to me.”

“I don’t know. I think this place feels pretty counterculture,” she said, eyes flicking around the room again. “Might as well be in the Haight-Ashbury.”

“Coming from you, I feel like that’s meant to be an insult,” he said.

“Trust me, it’s not,” Ella replied, with more sincerity than he was prepared for. Before he could interject with some deflection, she continued on. “I mean...this place. It really feels like you. And the book. It was...fuck, Jess, you’re really too smart for your own good.”

He shook his head, blushing and refusing to meet her gaze. Ella Stevens was still the only person who made him blush nearly every time he spoke to her. “I don’t know. If I could do it again, everything would be different.”

Ella scoffed. “C’mon, Mariano, you and I both know how amazing it is.”

“Whatever you say, Stevens,” he said shyly.

“I’ll keep complimenting you until you accept that you’re a kickass author, who I can definitely tell has a beatnik fetish,” she warned, mock severity crossing her features.

Jess rolled his eyes. “Fine. Thank you, Eleanor.”

“You’re so very welcome,” she replied, eyes alight with a teasing, mischievous glint. But, underneath, Jess could tell how genuine she really was. It made his heart ache for her.

After a moment of awkward pause, charged air, Jess pointed a thumb over his shoulder to the table with the refreshments. “You want a beer?”

Ella shook her head. “No thanks. I don’t really drink.”

“Hm,” Jess hummed, eyes narrowing just a touch. The way she’d said it, he could tell there was more. He knew why she didn’t drink. He remembered her father smelling of liquor on Thanksgiving day. And he remembered how upset she’d been the morning after she stole her father’s tequila. Nostalgia washed over him in a wave, and he was relieved when she took the initiative and spoke again.

“And,” she said, gaining a lighter tone once again, “I’m not of legal age yet, anyway.”

“Oh, well, I certainly couldn’t break the law,” Jess said with a furrowed brow. He was always forgetting he was ten months her senior. She had always seemed older.

“Right,” she said, nodding along, “you wouldn’t dream of it.”

Again, an uncomfortable pause began. It made Ella want to grimace. Things had never been so awkward with the two of them, not even when they’d first met. It had always been easy, without the world complicating things for them. Her eyes did another quick sweep of the room.

“Have you seen Luke and April?” she asked.

Jess nodded. “Yeah, you just missed them. They had to get back to the field trip, I think.”

Ella nodded back in acknowledgement, though she immediately felt her heartbeat quicken. The idea of Luke and April being there as a kind of safety net was half the reason she’d been brave enough to come. But, she’d had a morning shift at the diner, and the traffic had made it so she had shown up only twenty minutes before the end of the open house. All of a sudden, she felt silly for thinking they would still be there. Silly for showing up at all. In the note, he’d said she wasn’t obligated at all. Why had she come again? At the moment, the panicked thoughts were too loud for her to focus on anything else.

“But Luke was here long enough to complain about all the abstract paintings and the spoken word performances,” Jess continued, noticing Ella try to grab for a necklace she wasn’t wearing, and instead fiddle with a lock of her hair. In all the time he had known her, he had never once seen her without the key hanging from her neck. Not even in bed. But he knew better than to ask about it.

Ella’s smile returned, though it was not altogether convincing. “Sounds like him. I think one of the few areas of agreement between the two of you is a natural aversion to poetry.”

Jess shrugged. “I don’t know. I might finally be coming around.” Then, he saw Chris approaching, and felt himself relax. Someone else to act as a buffer. He wasn’t quite ready for the words creeping up his throat, begging to get out. “But, my friend Chris is the real poetry guy. He hires all the acts.”

He gestured for Chris to come over. Ella raised her eyebrows at the man, tall and blonde and grinning widely. A hyper energy practically radiated off of him. She could tell why he was the one on the business end of things.

“Chris, this is Eleanor,” Jess said. “She’s an old friend.”

“Hey.” She extended her hand. “You can call me Ella.”

Somehow, Chris’s smile grew larger as they shook hands. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she replied amiably, as their hands broke from each other.

“You have a very firm handshake,” Chris commented, towering over her. Jess was tall, but this guy made Ella feel like a Polly Pocket figurine.

She snorted a chuckle. “Um, thanks. Guess those steroids are really paying off.”

Jess smirked. Sometimes, he thought Chris was to him as Lane was to Ella. Chris laughed, tickled at her wicked humor, as he called it, but soon his expression grew earnest again.

“Well, it’s good to finally put a face on the famous Eleanor,” Chris said.

“I’m famous?” Ella asked, titing a teasing nod at Jess, who blushed but didn’t have time to explain before Chris cut in again.

“Anyway, I just wanted to let you know the magazine interview went alright. I’m gonna go catch up with the beat poet and make sure everything’s squared away,” Chris told Jess.

Nodding, Jess glared slightly at his friend, unable to hide his irritation. Chris said once again how nice it was to meet Ella before disappearing back into the central swarm of people, though it was slowly dissipating. The afternoon light outside was slowly morphing from bright to dusky. Evening would soon fall.

Smirking, Ella faced Jess again. He made a pointed effort to avoid her gaze, panic rising up in his throat.

“What is it, Stevens?” he asked, sighing slightly.

She cleared her throat, biting on her bottom lip for a moment. “Nothing. Just didn’t realize I was famous around here.”

He rolled his eyes, embarrassed. “Well, I did dedicate my book to you.”

For whatever reason, the comment caught her off-guard. They both knew he had dedicated it to her. But, she couldn’t help but think about how before, Jess would have never been able to admit such a gesture out loud. Hell, at seventeen Jess couldn’t even admit fixing the toaster in the diner for Luke.

“Yeah,” she said slowly, searching for a witty remark but coming up empty. “Yeah, you did, James Dean.”

He faltered for just a moment. She had come, she had called him James Dean. It was confusing, but nonetheless, wonderful. Still, he knew there was no use in getting his hopes up. He would never have her again, he reminded himself. Furrowing her brows, Ella watched his expression fade from a smirk to a small, sad smile. Jess ran a hand over his mouth and tossed an anxious glance over his shoulder before taking a big breath in and blowing it out through his nose.

“Are you nervous?” she asked suddenly, face softening.

Jess nodded self-consciously.

“You don’t have to be, Jess. It’s just me,” she shrugged, gesturing down at herself humbly.

Regaining a touch of composure, Jess raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know. You’ve got bangs and tattoos. New shoes. Doesn’t look quite like my Daria.”

Ella broke into a full grin, and a warmth swelled in her chest like she hadn’t felt in such a long time. Something shifted within her. For a moment, she worried her eyes would fill with tears. But, instead, she only uttered a breathy chuckle. “Don’t worry. I think I’ll always be your Daria.”

Swallowing thickly, Jess echoed her laugh. Then, he looked over his shoulder again, only partly because he wanted to hide his face. He couldn’t risk her seeing hope flash across his expression. “Can I show you something?”

“Sure,” she said, nodding.

Gently, he grabbed her hand and led her through the crowd of young creatives. The room smelled like weathered books and hot ink. An eclectic variety of bohemian rugs covered the blue tile floor. Maybe it was a little more colorful than she would have initially guessed, but Jess truly looked like he belonged there. People waved and nodded greetings at him as they passed, Jess reciprocating shyly each time. It was refreshing. She had never seen him so in his element before. Something about the way he held himself, confident and relaxed. His hand was warm and familiar.

Eventually, they made it to the far wall, near the staircase and next to the small stage area. A few people sat around on the cushions and beanbags, drinking their beers and writing in small moleskine notebooks. She wanted to snort and roll her eyes at them, but she was simply too happy. The anxiety which had been so nauseating as she hesitated at the door was almost completely forgotten. Because Jess was excited to see her. He had taken her hand. When he disentangled their fingers, he gestured to the wall, with a collection of small frames.

As her eyes roamed over the framed sketches, it took her only a moment to recognize them. They were hers. Nine pictures, all those she’d given to Jess over the years. Jess’s car with skeletons in the seats, a screaming woman, a garden filled with snakes. Others she’d handed him in shining moments, lying together in bed, on shift at the diner, sitting in the gazebo with her head on his shoulder. And, in the center, the Hudson River. Drawn on Mother’s Day four years earlier, as they sat together on a dirty hill and escaped reality for just one day.

Before she could hold them back, tears stung her hazel eyes. Beside the arrangement of drawings, she saw a small, printed index card stuck to the wall.

Eleanor Stevens

Nine Untitled Sketches

Not For Sale

She breathed out a flabbergasted scoff, the ghost of a smile on her lips when she turned back to Jess. He smirked fondly at the look of pleasant surprise on her face. For a fleeting moment, she looked younger. Innocent in a way she so rarely was, shocked and alive. He missed that look, but hardly realized until he saw it again.

“Jess, I…” she said breathlessly, shaking her head in disbelief and facing the sketches again. Eventually, she gathered herself and found her words. “I had no idea you saved these.”

“Of course I did,” he said, shrugging as though it were obvious. “I knew they’d be worth millions someday.”

She snorted a laugh. “Not likely.”

“I’m serious, Stevens. People have been asking about these. But I didn’t want to set a price on them or anything, since I didn’t have your input,” Jess explained, eyes on her as she stared at her own past work.

Ella felt as though she might explode, almost too moved to bear. She sniffed and blinked harshly, unwilling to let the tears actually spill over, especially in public. Her hands were shaking at her sides, and she began wringing them together in front of her.

A few astonished giggles escaped her, and she shook her head a final time before she looked back at Jess. He had grown up, and so had she. But as she locked eyes with him, she felt seventeen again, could practically hear the Interpol song playing in her head. The urge to kiss him came over her, made her skin feel tingly and electric. She swallowed harshly, letting the thoughts fade in her mind. As if he had waited all this time for her. He would surely have a girlfriend. Someone who actually liked Hemingway, who could dance, who didn’t have a sailor’s mouth and a broken family.

“I don’t know what to say.” She fought the urge to bite at her nails.

Jess laughed quietly. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

She rolled her eyes at his teasing half-heartedly.

“You don’t have to say anything. I was the one who wanted to say thank you. For everything. I couldn’t have done any of this if I hadn’t met you,” he told her. Jess surprised even himself by being able to maintain eye contact with her.

“You definitely could have,” Ella said resolutely.

He smirked. “No use in arguing with you, I know. So we can agree to disagree but…”

Pausing, Jess sighed and ran a hand over his mouth again. He glanced behind him, and could see Chris and Matthew pretending they hadn’t been staring at the exchange as they bid people goodbye. There were only a few others left milling around. Jess still almost couldn’t believe Ella was standing right in front of him. For two years, he’d imagined what he would say. But, as usual, the sight of her was staggering. Her hazel gaze pierced his scarred heart and immediately all the scripts he’d written disappeared from his head.

“Look, do you...we’re going out for drinks after. Me and Chris and Matthew, the other guy we own this place with. I know drinking isn’t your thing, though I wasn’t planning on getting wasted anyway, and I don’t know when you have to go back but...do you wanna come? We can catch up?” he asked, hesitant.

Her small smile spread to a grin, and the dimple shone in her freckled cheek. “Sure, Mariano. I’d love to.”

[jetsandbennie]

break up with your girlfriend.

summary: it’s a long affair with roger, and guilt tears you apart over it - yet, you can’t get enough of him.

warnings: angst lol, fluff, smut (18+), female receiving oral, infidelity which i don’t condone please don’t cheat on your partners, age gap though it isn’t really detailed, bisexual reader. 

pairings: 80′s!roger taylor x reader

word count: 7k exactly

You met him when you both were drunk.

You didn’t remember exactly how you first met him, really. Alcohol was like a way to wipe your memories and you’d had just a few too many shots at the show, one for Queen, and you had booze racing through your veins all night. You could recall the blonde walking up to the bar, buying you another drink, and he was wasted too and you didn’t question it.

It was a concert. Everyone was drunk.

You told him that you’d seen him during the show but you couldn’t remember where. He laughed and said he hadn’t seen you because his eyesight was kind of bad and, and your giggles mixed with his, higher than they usually were. Then you sipped your drink and he sat on the stool next to you. Surely you had a few more drinks but whatever conversation you’d held after had disappeared from your mind.

You woke up in his bed the next morning.

--

He looks like an angel when he sleeps, the early morning light seeping through the window like water through a crack. His hair is messy and his hand is resting over his soft stomach, and you sit up in bed just to look down at him.

He’s so pretty.

The room is cold and yet the sheets are colder when you pull them up and around your chest, shielding you from - whatever. Him if he wakes up, you suppose, but if what happened last night really happened it’s nothing he hasn’t seen.

What’s his name?

You don’t fucking know. It had been so long since you’d slept with someone without knowing them. It feels wrong somehow. You’d been taught sex should be special and you don’t even really know this beautiful man’s name.

You settle back into his bed, sheets pulled up to your chin. His are kicked down to just above his waist and you try to avoid looking at him. Just look at the ceiling, thinking.

Contemplating.

After a moment a voice in the room sounds out and it only scares you the smallest bit. Perhaps you were expecting it. “You look scared.”

You pause. “Scared?”

“Yeah. All existential. What, was last night not good enough for you to be happy today?”

It’s teasing and you turn your head to the side and meet his eyes. They’re ridden with sleep. Of course, he just woke up. “I don’t remember much of it, really.” He smiles and rolls to his side, body completely facing yours. You want to touch him, place your hand against his cheek, perhaps. But instead you shut your eyes and ask, “What’s your name?”

“It’s Roger. Roger Taylor.”

It’s a good name, you decide. Fit for someone like him.

--

You left his house after scribbling down your name, number and address onto a napkin in the kitchen. Roger takes it from you and folds it into a small square, sliding it into the pocket of his jeans, and then he says goodbye and that he’ll call you.

You don’t really expect him to. It seems like a ruse, truthfully, a way to get you to look back on your small memory with him fondly and not recall him as a douchebag who fucked you and never wanted to hear from you again. But you played along. You got in your car and drove away to the nearest McDonalds and you sat at a table and didn’t get anything, just thought.

There was a lot to think about.

--

It’s a week before he does actually call you. You’re watching a movie on the couch, relishing in your roommate being out for the evening with her boyfriend, and the phone rings.

It’s Roger. You know it before he even speaks. He asks you to come over, says he doesn’t usually do this and you knew that, of course. His voice is groggy and you wonder if that’s just how he always sounds, like he just woke up.

You accept his offer. You’re not one to turn down a pretty boy’s invitation ever, and you’d be lying to yourself if you say you don’t want another go at doing him. Just to make a real memory with him, and not whatever event you’d imagined to have happened between you two. He tells you to be over in a half hour and then he hangs up, before you can confirm that time is alright.

It is.

You’re already showered but it doesn’t matter. You swipe on the tiniest bit of makeup, the could pass as natural level of makeup, and you struggle with your outfit before digging through your roommate’s closet and pulling out jeans and a sweater.

By the time you get in the car it’s been 26 minutes already. Being late is in fashion, you tell yourself, before backing out of your driveway and setting out.

--

The night was better than good. You got there and Roger wrapped one of your curls around his finger, a smile on his face as he watched it bounce, and then his hand enclosed around your wrist as he pulled you into his house. It was different during the night, though you should know that. Technically you’d been there before.

He took you to the kitchen and you hopped up onto the counter. There was only a couple minutes of smalltalk and then his body was between yours, your lips pressed together, teeth clashing and the light pink lipstick you’d chosen smudging all over your chins. His finger dragged through your folds, collecting every drop of wetness on his fingertip, and then he brought it to his lips and sucked it off, eyes on yours.

Oh, how erotic.

And so you ended up in his bedroom. Nothing you hadn’t expected.

It was better than amazing, really, the sex. Drunk you must have been having a ball because sober you could go for another thirty rounds and never tire of Roger Taylor. He started out on top, body pressed above yours, but then you pushed him over and straddled him and sank back onto his thick cock and it felt so good, better than anyone you’d ever ridden before, and his grip on your hips - bruising, surely - only increased your pleasure.

You both finished and then you hopped in the shower for a rather wet round two, and when you dried off Roger decided he needed a go between your thighs.

After that you left. You were sure your roommate would be home if she wasn’t already and you didn’t want to spend the night and go home and have her interrogating you about your whereabouts for the night.

So you said goodbye with a smile, bringing a thumb up to wipe the lipstick off of his chin, and he kissed your fingers. You didn’t let it get farther than that, just dipped out of his house and to your car, and then you left.

You’d been there for two hours and seventeen minutes. It was, perhaps, the finest of your life.

--

Roger Taylor was your little secret. You were sure you were his, too, because the pair of you never did much else besides hook up at his house.

The hours in which you saw each other varied and you couldn’t quite comprehend why. Sometimes he’d call you late at night when you were just about ready to go to sleep, or in the early hours of the morning, or the middle of the afternoon when you’re cooking lunch for yourself.

And - perhaps it was an issue but Roger made you insatiable - you hadn’t turned down an offer yet. You’d drop everything for him. Would rip off your facemask, would turn off the stove and leave your sandwich on the pan, would hop out of the shower in record breaking time.

You hadn’t been let down by it yet, though. Never had you regretted running off to meet him. Everything was new and exciting. But you didn’t tell anyone, not a single person, not even your roommate. She knew, surely, by now, that you had a secret lover somewhere but you turned down the claim when she brought it up. She loved Queen, knew every member and every song, and you knew if she heard you were hooking up with the hot blonde drummer she wouldn’t be able to contain herself.

It was fun having secrets, sometimes.

--

And it was until it isn’t.

Your roommate sent you off to get wine for a girls night and you did, making off in your car and making your way to the nice grocery store with the best liquor, and cheap, too. Two fresh-out-of-college girls weren’t exactly made of money, and if cheap wine could get you drunk you’d accept it in an instant. You figure you’ll surprise her with candy, maybe, or some other snack. The pantry had been emptying a bit too quickly recently.

So you grab a bottle of chardonnay in the alcohol section and make your way to the snacks, well aware of the budget you’ve set for yourself, but it doesn’t stop you from admiring all of the foods you could get. There’s cookies and chips and pretzels, and all the unhealthy shit that you and your roommate shouldn’t be eating, but you grab a bag of popcorn and drop it into your basket anyway.

You scan the foods again, knowing very well you can’t get much more than the wine and the popcorn, and then you stand up and turn to walk to the cashier.

And you see him.

Well, her.

She’s pretty, with dark hair and tan skin and a smile. She looks exactly like the kind of girl you’d take home and your eyes scan her body until they land on her hand, clasped with a paler one, and when your eyes follow that body -

It’s Roger. Holding her hand, buying celery and cereal and laughing at something she said. They could be friends and yet you know they aren’t, know just by looking at them.

You don’t own him. He isn’t yours.

You know it. It doesn’t stop your heart from aching as she grabs a package of Oreos and drops it into their cart, and then your eyes flit up to his and Roger looks at you.

Eyes meeting yours.

Whatever smile he’d been sporting drops away and there isn’t a ghost of it left on his face. There’s some sort of electric energy pulsating from you to him - mindwaves, perhaps. Perhaps he can feel your emotions though you can’t even really feel them.

The basket in your hand feels too heavy.

She looks up at Roger and then over to you, at the way your eyes are connected, and the ringing in your ears doesn’t allow you to hear what she says. You drop the basket and it falls the short distance to the floor, the wine clattering inside, and then you turn and walk away.

There are tears, hot on your face, and you can’t even place your finger on why.

--

You came home sobbing to your roommate, blubbering that something happened at the store and you couldn’t get the wine and you needed to go to bed. And she sat with you for a couple minutes, letting you sob into her boyfriend’s stupid fucking Queen shirt and stroking your hair. She didn’t ask too many questions. Perhaps she knew you didn’t want to talk about it.

You went upstairs and collapsed on your bed, staring at the ceiling through watery eyes. Your heart was full of betrayal and anger and sadness and it feels like a balloon set to burst, and everytime you think of it you start to sob again. Loud and ugly.

In one of your brief crying breaks the phone rang. You knew who it was - knew the only person it would be - and you didn’t answer it.

Had you thought you and Roger had something, had something beyond fucking? In the off moments, when you slid onto his dick and you stared into his eyes and he leaned in and kissed you, sloppily, sure, but it was passionate. When you rolled out of bed to pad your way to the kitchen during one of the early mornings, grabbing a bagel and slicing it in half for you two to eat. When you massaged shampoo into his blonde locks, fingernails scratching his scalp in the shower.

You’d loved those types of moments. Loved how it felt so casual, like you were in a relationship, like he was your rockstar husband and you were the love of his life.

But - he was in a relationship. He had a love of his life. She’d probably done everything you had and more. Gotten him a bagel and bacon, shampooed and conditioned his hair, done everything.

Roger was such an asshole.

The phone rang again and you resisted the urge to throw it to the ground, instead rolling over and decidedly ignoring it. It was disgusting, you thought, that he wouldn’t think to tell you about his girlfriend. Then again, you hadn’t asked - but was it so wrong to assume he was a good guy? Had him and his girlfriend fucked in the same bed you did?

You wished you could go back. Never end up in his bed to begin with, turn down one of his offers, anything to make the dull pain go away.

And the phone still rang.

You sat up and grabbed it, pressing the stupid thing to your ear. There was just a beat of silence and then Roger’s raspy voice, “Hello?”

Oh, the asshole.

“I need to talk to you.”

You rolled your eyes. “Talk, then.” Your voice was still throaty from your cries and you hoped he couldn’t here. Hoped he didn’t know that he’d made you cry.

“Face to face.”

“I’m not going to your house, Roger. Or anywhere with you. Tell me what the fuck is going on. Who was she?”

There was a long pause and you contemplated hanging up, just slamming the phone down and going about your life as if you never knew a Roger Taylor but then he spoke again. “My girlfriend.”

You blew out a breath. Of course, you already knew that, but hearing him admit it was almost worse. A tear trickled down your cheek and you sniffed, bringing your wrist up to wipe it away.

He continued after another moment. “I need to talk to you face to face. Tomorrow. At -” there was shuffling in the background and then Roger continued, “at 9. At night. Please.”

Oh, darling, this is your fatal flaw, isn’t it?

You swallowed. “Fine.” And then you hung up, slamming the phone back down on the receiver, entirely too aware you’d given in to him again and surely you’d regret it by 9 tomorrow, when you had to go to his house and know that he’d be telling you everything you hate to hear.

You’d already accepted. Maybe saying that was just a way of giving yourself a reason for not skipping, because maybe a deep part of you did want to hear him. Hear his explanation. Know if it could make anything better.

You wished you could punch that part deeper within you. Keep it from having a say in your decisions. You already knew you’d be going to his house the next night.

--

Days always go by slower when you’re waiting for something.

You’ve never waited harder for something than seeing Roger and hearing his explanation.

You hate yourself for it.

--

His smile is so sickeningly enticing. You drop your eyes to the carpet of his living room instead of staring at him. It’s easier like this.

“I have a lot to explain,” he begins, and you nod slowly, adjusting yourself on the couch. He’s standing in front of you, hair messy and cheeks red, and it’s just another reason for why you can’t meet his eyes. “She’s my girlfriend.”

You wish he wouldn’t have said it again. It’s hard to blink back the tears that threaten to fall.

“We don’t have a good relationship.”

You nod. Focus on controlling your breath, containing all of the information he’s giving you.

Not a good relationship.

“And I didn’t mean to -” you chance a glance up at him and he motions to you, silently finishing his statement, and then you snort. “I’m sorry.”

“Why don’t you break up with her?” you ask, and then you look up at him completely. His arms are crossed over his chest and his tongue darts out to wet his lips occasionally. “Why would you do this?”

“It’s complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Roger hesitates. “She’s known me for a really long time. I can’t break up with her.”

The two of you sit in silence for a while. You dig your toe into the carpet, nibbling on your bottom lip. You don’t know what to say now.

And then Roger says, “I don’t want to end this.”

You don’t have to ask what this means because you know. And you know that you agree, and you know that you still hate yourself because of it. You know his girlfriend deserves better, better than what she has with Roger, and if you truly cared you would leave right now. Never look back.

And you don’t.

The tension in the room is thick. You rest your hands on your thighs, flexing your fingers. “I feel really horrible, Roger.”

He moves to sit next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and fuck you lean into it, lean into his warm body and let him hug you, press your forehead into his shoulder and let his breath ghost over your hair. He’s so soft when you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you, your lips brushing against his neck and his breath hitches.

You need to stop.

And you don’t. You don’t stop him when he pulls back and then kisses you, and you don’t stop your tongue from swiping over his bottom lip. You don’t stop him from rolling over until his body is hovering above yours and you don’t stop him when he slides his hand up your shirt.

It’s so wrong.

Can it be wrong when it feels this good? His head feels so good between your legs.

Of course it can’t.

--

And so you wake up in his bed again.

--

You drive home the next day in a cloud of fiery guilt. You’re in the driveway, not out of the car yet, and your roommate’s boyfriend’s car is there, so you back out again and make your way through the familiar streets to the McDonalds. And you don’t order anything, just sit down and drum your fingers on the table.

There are kids in the playplace, loud and soft at the same time.

Thinking about Roger gives you a headache. It’s so unfair, making him so irresistible to you. It’s a curse from the gods, made to keep you unhappy for as long as this situation continues.

You don’t need McDonalds, you need alcohol. So you stand again and make your way back to the car, and you drive to a different grocery store. You don’t want to chance seeing his girlfriend at the other one.

--

Roger Taylor is still your secret, but now something is different.

Before it was a fun secret. A boy, a cute one at that, a famous drummer. He called you during the night ad invited you over, and you’d seen his dick and watched him orgasm. And you didn’t tell anyone, because it was fun keeping that sort of thing close to you.

And now you couldn’t tell anyone even if you wanted to. Telling them forced you to admit that you were doing something so wrong and horrible, something your parents would be ashamed of, sleeping with a man who has a girlfriend.

When you were younger your mother had talked about your second cousin who had been sleeping with her married friend, and then his wife found out, and your mother spoke of it with such a shameful air. And you’d nodded along as she ranted about your cousin, talked about what a homewrecker she was, how any good person shouldn’t do something like that.

You were no better than your cousin. Your mother wouldn’t consider you a good person anymore.

It hurt so bad. And yet being with Roger felt like a medicine to that pain, like a drug of some sort. Easing you until everything kicked in again. Until you needed him again.

Which was often.

--

As it annually does, your birthday comes around.

You spend the day working, as usual, and when you get home your roommate has made you a cupcake - red velvet with just a thin layer of icing, just the way you like it. You split it with her and thank her. Things had been a bit strained between you guys and she’d elected not to mention your breakdown. Maybe that was why things were weird. Maybe she thought you were hiding something from her.

And you were. But you didn’t want her to think that.

You two watch movies all night and it’s all fun, drinking wine and eating pizza. On her birthday you’ll go out to her favourite club but she knows what you want for yours, and that’s this. Her and wine and food and movies. It’s perfect.

At one she’s fallen asleep on the couch and you’d returned to bed and here you are, showered and wrapped in your fluffy robe that one of your coworkers had given you, which was awfully polite considering you had never gotten him anything ever and you hardly knew him. You accepted the gift, of course, and you were glad you did.

The phone rings.

You pick it up without hesitating, pressing it to your ear and asking, “Hello?”

“Hey.”

It’s Roger. Of course it is. He was the person you called most, now, and who called you the most. More frequently, now, if it was possible - you needed your fix again and again. You sit up. “Rog. Hi.”

He chuckles on the other end of the phone. “I forgot to wish you a happy birthday.”

“It’s not my birthday anymore, you know.”

“Well, happy late birthday then.” You hate the overlarge smile you’re sporting. “I think you should come over. I have a birthday gift for you.”

“A gift?”

“A gift. So … come over, right now. I promise you won’t regret it.”

--

The gift is lacy lingerie, the prettiest and most expensive you’ve ever seen. The dark red contrasts your skin perfectly, and when you’ve got it on you twirl in the mirror, examining your appearance with it on.

It looks perfect. Roger agrees, when you step out of the bathroom and make your way down the hall to his bedroom. He’s lying on the bed and he looks up at you when you walk in, raising his eyebrow and reaching a hand out to you.

“Do you like it?” he questions, voice quiet as he pulls your body closer to his. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and you position yourself between them. “I love it. Think it looks so sexy.”

“I like it a lot.” Your fingers card through his hair as he leans forward to press kisses against the top of your cleavage, fingertips dragging up and down your sides. It feels so good, when he reaches down to cup your ass and pulls you onto his lap, when he wraps his lips around your nipple, when he’s three fingers deep inside of your cunt.

It feels so good, you can forget knowing this is surely a birthday gift his girlfriend has already gotten. It’s your day with him, not hers, and you force yourself not to focus on that, paying your mind to how he pushes you onto your back and positions himself overtop of you.

“Happy birthday, honey,” Roger murmurs in your ears while he aligns himself at your entrance, his cock achingly hard and heavy in his hand. He slides into you with ease, due mainly to your dripping wetness, and your moans mix together in the thick warm air of the room. His finger rubs against your clit, sensitive from the orgasm he’d brought upon you with his fingers. “Feel so good and tight around me. God, my sweet girl. Squeezing me so good, fuck, I love you, god, happy birthday happy birthday happy birthday.”

Your fingernails stop their brutal scratching at his back briefly. And he keeps going, grunting and hissing in your ear, hips snapping against yours.

You know what he said, even if he doesn’t.

Your nails resume.

--

A few weeks later Roger calls you again. He invites you over and you hop in your car without a second of hesitation, and you’re in his driveway in less than 20 minutes.

It isn’t sex. It’s dinner at his house.

Pasta set out on the dining room table, two glasses of wine, the light dim. He hugs you and then kisses you hard and your minty chapstick gets all over his lips. He licks it up and then laughs, and then he pulls out your chair for you and you sit down.

The meal is good, and Roger laughs at how much Parmesan cheese you sprinkle over your pasta. But it makes it taste better, you insist, and he brings his hand up to your face to wipe away a bit of tomato sauce.

It feels very romantic. Like a first date, even if you’d been seeing him for just about six months, now. You help him clear the table and then he hugs you, a real, genuine hug, with his hand firm on your lower back and his chin on your head.

Roger kisses you, then, soft and quiet. “I really liked this.”

“I did too.” There’s a small silence. “Break up with your girlfriend, Roger.”

He smiles but there’s no emotion behind it. “I’ll call you.”

And so, the next morning you don’t wake up in his bed. You wake up in your own.

--

You and your roommate are running dangerously low on groceries. She wants to make this special type of dessert for her boyfriend and insists you have to go to the good alcohol grocery store to get all the right ingredients, and you had already agreed to accompany her.

Being in that grocery store makes you sick. You hadn’t been there in months. Your roommate had been wondering why no good alcohol had been coming into the house.

She grabs a big cart, and you’re only a bit worried about the dent it’ll make on her wallet, but she grabs two bottles of wine so you elect not to complain. One for you and one for me, she says, and you laugh.

The cart is half full when she sends you off to go get powdered sugar, so you turn and make your way through the store, squinting up at the signs detailing what products are in what aisle. In aisle 8 it mentions baking ingredients, so you turn and begin to scan the bags and boxes on the wall.

You don’t see her until you’re right next to her, and then you’re uncomfortably aware of standing just a bit too close to someone. So you turn your head to smile at whoever you’ve sidled up next to and it’s Roger’s girlfriend.

The one you’d been avoiding this grocery store so you wouldn’t see.

It’s a cruel trick of fate.

You grab the powdered sugar off the shelf and give her a smile before turning on your heel and walking away, but before you’re out of earshot she calls, “Hey, you know Roger, right? I’ve seen you before, I think.”

You turn to look at her and give her a smile. “No, sorry. I don’t know who Roger is.”

And then you go and find your roommate, who’s holding two bags of flour and examining the labels closely. You drop the powdered sugar in her basket and then grab her car keys from her pocket, mumbling that you feel sick and you’re going to wait in the car.

It isn’t a complete lie, anyway.

--

The next time Roger calls, you turn him away.

It’s a first.

--

The next time after the next time, you accept. You need to get your mind off of things, and who better than the man who’s causing you this distress?

When you’re on your knees for him, nothing feels as bad. Especially when you look up at him and his head is thrown back, mouth open, and he mouths the ghost of the three words he’s only told you once before.

It makes you go at him with a new vigor.

--

At some point the guilt starts to eat away at you and it’s only intensified by the way Roger reacts to it all, like it’s no big deal, like you’re doing nothing wrong.

And you are. That’s the worst part. You are, and you hate that he can’t understand it. Hate how he just kisses your jawline when you ask if he feels bad, laughing that being with you makes me feel nothing at all. Hate how you understand.

Hate how, no matter how horrible thinking of his girlfriend feels, you think you’ll never be able to break away. Not now, not when he’s groaned out that he loves you again and again, when he’s invited you for breakfast and even bought you a shiny silver ring.

Roger still won’t break up with his girlfriend. At this rate, you’re sure they’ll get married.

When they do - if they do - will you still be doing this with him?

Probably. Unless he breaks up with her and takes you on.

It’s a comforting thought. Occasionally you can fool yourself into thinking it’ll happen, but when you approach eight months and they’re still together, your hope starts to dwindle.

--

Your cheek is flat against the mattress, arms having given up on supporting your weight. Your hands knead your breasts, your breathing heavy and loud, strangled moans escaping your mouth with every snap of Roger’s hips against yours. His grip is bruising on your hips, holding you still so he can hit that perfect spot inside of you with every thrust.

“Fuck, baby,” he grunts, and he removes one hand from your hips to smack your ass. “So good. I love you like this.” Smack. “Wish you could see yourself like this.”

His thrusts start to slow down and after just a moment he pulls out. You cry out, rolling onto your back to look at him, tears trailing down your cheeks. “No, Rogie, please, need you. Please, fuck me.”

“I will,” Roger murmurs, and then he stands up and grabs your wrists, tugging you up on your shaky legs. He places his hands on the backs of your thighs and hoists you up, carrying you with your legs around his waist, and your bodies - naked and covered in sweat - press together as he walks out of the bedroom and down the hall.

You know you’re in the bathroom before you see it. You recognize the scent, of lotion and cologne. Roger sets you down and turns you around so you’re facing the mirror, and then he picks one of your legs up and stretches it so it’s resting on the counter. The ache in your muscle burns, but he drags his finger through your folds, now exposed to him, and you moan loudly.

“Rogie, please. Please, fuck me now,” you whine when he presses his tip into you and then finally sheathes himself into your cunt again. He runs his fingers through your hair and then pulls so your head is forced up, staring at yourself in the mirror. Your face is red, your chest rising and falling rapidly, and with every pump of his hips against yours your eyes roll back and your mouth falls open. It’s so much more erotic than anything you’d ever done with him, watching as he fucks you. His hair is messy and his collarbone is littered with hickeys, the ones you aren’t supposed to give him, but he looks so fucking good with them, you can’t resist.

“God, fuck!” Another smack lands on your ass and you scream out, eyes meeting yours through the mirror. “So good, so good, gonna cum, baby, gonna cum so fucking hard.”

You can’t get words out, just let him continue laying hits on your ass, and you press your fingers to your clit again, rubbing desperately. Roger leans down, chest pressed to your back, so his mouth is right by your ear.

“Don’t you look so hot, baby? So hot, taking my cock so good.” his lips land on the side of your neck, kissing and sucking desperately. “Cum for me. Cum around my cock. I know you’re close, I can feel it.”

You tilt your head to the side and capture his lips in yours and it’s enough to push you over the edge, cumming so hard you practically see stars and you drop your head down onto the countertop. You roll your hips against his, fingers stuttering on your clit, choking out sobs. Roger pulls his mouth away from your neck and straightens up to smack your ass one more time before hurriedly pulling out of you, hand working his cock. Ribbons of cum spurt out onto your lower back and ass - sore from his work at it - and when he’s finished he shuffles around behind you, wiping his cum off of you with a damp rag, and then he turns you around and presses his lips desperately against yours.

You don’t speak. You don’t have to. When he presses you further back against the counter you laugh and whine that you’re sore because of what he did, and he drops his head to your shoulder and kisses the hot skin.

“Roger,” you say as you finger through his hair. “Break up with your girlfriend.”

He doesn’t speak.

“I know you love me, Rogie. You’ve - told me. I want to be with you. Really be with you.” and it hurts when he shakes his head.

“You know I can’t.”

“No, I don’t.”

He shakes his head again, hair tickling your cheek. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

And he doesn’t respond. So you blink away the tears that desperately want to come to your eyes and instead murmur, “I don’t think we should do this anymore.”

Roger looks up at you and his eyes are wide. “No. No, baby.”

“I think we have to.”

“Do you want to?”

It’s a confusing question. You look away from him, look away from the way his eyes are watery. “No. But I think we should. If we aren’t together - really together - I mean, it’s been 8 months, Rog.”

There’s so much silence the air feels thick with it, and Roger rests his forehead back against your shoulder and this time you feel some sort of wetness land on your skin, and you know he’s shedding the same tears that you are.

--

It’s been a month.

Stopping seeing Roger felt like withdrawal from a drug and you were facing the backlash severely. You’d started to go to bed later waiting for his calls, and now you sit in bed until nearly 2 am, waiting for that stupid phone call. And it never comes.

You told your roommate a week after things ended and she was surprisingly nonchalant about it, even when you mentioned the man in question was Roger Taylor, and you told her everything and she didn’t chastise you about how horrible it was to sleep with a man who’s taken. She just wrapped her arms around you and pulled you close, and it was all you needed.

And so a month in you feel nearly better about it. You haven’t heard from Roger nor have you tried to contact him. You’ve accepted, to the simplest degree, that things truly have ended and it only hurts a little bit every time you remind yourself of the moments spent together.

You check the news to hear if he’s gotten engaged. Nothing comes up. Eventually you stop checking. It’s easier to move on, you think.

--

Five weeks in the phone rings, and you pick it up so fast your head spins.

It isn’t for you. It isn’t Roger. It’s your roommate’s mother and you try to hide the disappointment as you hand the phone off to her and retreat back to your room.

--

After six weeks you go out to a club because it’s your roommate’s birthday. There’s so many pretty guys and girls and you pick one girl out, with pretty dark hair, and then you’re pressed against a bathroom wall with her body moving above yours, her being three fingers deep in your cunt.

And it’s good. It feels so good, and you’d never been one to turn down a pretty girl like her. But you can’t get the feeling to go away that it isn’t right that somehow something is wrong and perhaps it’s the lack of blonde hair and witty remarks.

You don’t let it disturb your evening with her. You take her back to the house and you’re up all night while your roommate goes home with her boyfriend, and she leaves at 4 am with a satisfied smile and her name scribbled on a sticky note.

You crumble it up as soon as she leaves. You know you won’t use it.

--

After seven weeks your mom asks to go out to lunch with you. You accept and don’t think about how the conversation will flow until you’re already sitting with her. She asks about work and your roommate, and how you’ve decorated the house, and then she asks about your love life.

“I’m not seeing anyone,” you tell her, throat dry and eyes prickly. “Focusing more on work, now.” It isn’t really a lie, anyway, but it isn’t the truth. And you can’t bear to imagine how your mother would react if she heard about Roger.

Lies - or half truths, you may call them - were better, sometimes. And Roger Taylor was still your little secret.

--

And two months in someone knocks at the door while your roommate is out with her boyfriend.

It’s him. You know it, somehow, before you even swing the door open, but Roger Taylor is there in front of you in all his glory. His hair is still messy and his smile is still just as enticing, and you resist the urge to cry just seeing him.

“Hi,” he says, and you grip the doorknob so tight your knuckle turns white. Then he leans in and his lips are against yours, sure and soft, and you kiss him back.

You failed at recovery, you suppose. But being with him, your lips on his, feels so perfect that you don’t regret it for a single second. Your hands run through his hair, feeling the soft strands against your palm. He grips your thigh, pulls it up to his waist, and then he grabs the other until he’s carrying you through the house.

He’s never been here before. He doesn’t know where to go, but he finds the living room and sets you down on the couch, kneeling between your legs.

“Roger.” you grip his hair, forcing him to look up at you. You hate yourself already, for doing this, getting involved again with him when you know the guilt that will come of it. And yet, as he hooks his fingers in your sleep shorts and begins pulling them down your legs, you can’t feel the hatred.

“Hang on, baby,” he mumbles, leaning forward to press his mouth against your clothed core. It feels so good, so much better than anyone you’d been with, and shivers rack through your body, threatening to send you over the edge already.

“We can’t do this,” you choke out, and it’s enough to make you want to cry again. Because you know you can’t. Not again. “Roger, please. We can’t.”

And he just keeps pulling your panties down, dropping them on the ground and inhaling your scent. “Yes, we can.”

He grips your ankles to pull you further to him and then presses kisses across your inner thighs, breath heating up the place you need him most. Roger places a hand on your stomach and then pushes it up your shirt, groping at your breasts, and your back arches into his hand.

Your body always betrays you.

The wetness pooling at your pussy proves that already.

“Rog,” and you place your hands on his face, forcing him to look up at you. His nose nudges against your clit ever so slightly and you take a moment to control your breathing. Your thumb rubs the soft skin of his cheekbone and he leans into your touch, hand stilling inside your shirt, and the air is heavy with the weight of the situation. “Rog.”

“Yeah, baby?” it’s surreal, having him here between your legs again, and you’ve missed him so much.

But you care about yourself. And you know what you have to do for this to work, for it to be better.

“Break up with your girlfriend, Rogie,” you murmur with a small smile, dragging your fingers back through his hair.

His eyes don’t leave yours. He just continues leaning in, wrapping his lips around your clit and your fingers tighten in his hair to the point where you’re sure strands part company with his scalp. He pulls away, resting both of his hands on your thighs, thumb rubbing into the soft skin.

And then Roger nods slowly, and your breath catches in your throat. He says, “Okay,” and leans into your cunt, licking and lapping at your folds, and it’s never felt so good.

[simpinforyoongi]

Shameless ~

Yoongi x reader

Pairing: Yoongi x reader

Genre: Angst, (a lot of it)

Warnings: none

Summary: After coming back from Yoongi's studio heartbroken, you decide to scribble your thoughts down on paper, like you've done so many times. What you didn't know was how that little poem would led to your worst heartbreak yet.

Note: Heyy guys! So i just wanted to say that this one is heavily inspired by @krreader 's fic Jealousy and you can treat it like a sequel to hers (but mine ends in angst too and I've changed a few things up). Like you wouldn't believe how much i cried when i read hers amd i just couldn't not write it!! AnYWaYS, enjoy!!

• • • • • • •

"Can i go? "

"Go wherever you want hyung, why are you asking me??" Namjoon answered as he put on his winter boots to prevent the cold chilly November winds from freezing his feet.

"No i meant...I want to go..to her.." Yoongi's voice was unnaturally small and feeble, contradicting his usual deep tone.

Namjoon jerked up, standing straight suddenly.

"But hyu-"

"Please Namjoon, I know you care deeply for her, and don't want her to get hurt anymore because of me but I just.."

Namjoon instantly started shaking his head no,

"No no hyung, go, all that happened, i know you didn't mean it to." He gave the older man a small smile "I'll let her know."

"NO! No, she, " Yoongi said with wide eyes, "She won't even open the door if she knows it's me."

"Oh right haha lol ok uh.. I won't call her then" Namjoon says fidgeting awkwardly, almost wanting to say something, but when he saw Yoongi looking at the door with a certain amount of longing, mixed with regret, guilt, fear and everything in between, he decided it was worth a shot.

"Hyung, i know you love her," They held eye contact and Namjoon continued, "and if I'm not wrong, she loves you too. And she's been hurting, for long, just like you and even longer, actually. I know I'm younger than you, but i gotta say this. don't fuck it up."

Namjoon looked down for a moment before looking back up with a sincere smile, "Best of luck! Fighting!" and with that, Yoongi left for your apartment without any bodyguards, without anything at all because that was a risk he had to take.

---

You were still in bed, Namjoon had called earlier saying he's coming, and to be honest you actually wanted him to come. You needed someone to talk to, and he was the best person for that. You were completely undercovers, and came out only when it became too difficult to breathe in the carbon dioxide that gathered inside your little blanket-bubble.

It had been two weeks since the breakup, and you had even visited them in the meantime because you were strong, and knew how to keep your emotions in control when in front of others, despite the fact that you were about to breakdown any moment. You had cooped yourself up in your little apartment for way too long and your loving friends, aka members of Bangtan had dragged you back to their apartment, even though they knew it was dangerous considering the fact that the cause of all your pain was right there. But there wasn't much they could do and places they could go because, well, they're like only the biggest boy group on Earth. So you went there, insisting you were fine.

But you weren't.

Realllyy weren't.

But once the question left his lips, you knew it was over for you. This, this facáde was instantly crushed when he asked the question.

You had been playing "Truth and Dare" because no matter how sucky you were feeling, you just couldn't seem to say no to the three pairs of puppy eyes that you received. And that landed you in a somewhat boring, somewhat funny game of Truth and Dare, and even though he was there, you seemed to have fun until he asked you that question.

"Do you love someone else now?" and it was something you never in a million years had expected.

So you sat there, completely dumbfounded, much like the rest of the group, at the question that had left Yoongi's lips. And you just, couldn't do anything.

But shortly, anger bubbled up inside you.

How dare he accuse you of loving someone else when you were literally on the verge of just ripping your heart out? How dare he accuse you like that when he was the one who broke up with you? How dare he ask you that when he hadn't even given you enough time to speak before he started yelling at you that day?? How dare he??

"How dare you?" And that's all that seemed to leave your mouth before you stood up and stumbled out of the dorm with everyone except him calling after you.

Another tear escaped as you remembered the happenings of the day. But before you could wail in your sorrow any more, a bell rung throughout your apartment.

You stood up and walked to the door with tears still decorating your cheeks,

Finally Joon is here.

You felt like you could breath better for a second but all wind was knocked from your lungs when your eyes landed upon the face that stood in front of you.

Yoongi..

With a black mask and cap, and covered completely in winter clothes, there he stood in all his wintery glory, and you still knew it was him despite only his eyes being visible, that too, partly visible.

You felt your heart constrict and your rib cage felt too small now. A brand new bolt of pain jolted up your sides, almost as if physical, and striked your heart with such force you wouldn't be surprised if you had a heart attack then and there. But you didn't, you stood there, watching him, and he stood there ,watching you.

It wasn't until you shivered from the cold winds hitting your body which was bare of any winter clothing, that you jumped back into reality.

"Do you mind if I..." He trailed off, but you moved aside letting him in. He had expected a much harsher reaction, after all, he did throw some extremelt hurtful and lewd accusations at you that day. But he was grateful you didn't close the door in his face, or throw the little dried up potted plant at him. He took that as a good sign, but with you, everything wasn't as simple.

He took off his coat and hung them on the rack beside the shoe cabinet, before pulling off his boots and keeping them aside. Then he followed you into the living room.

"Coffee??" You questioned while preparing some. He wasn't sure if he wanted one, he opened and closed his mouth for a few seconds, and finally settled on a yes.

A few beats passed in complete silence, before you joined him and handed him a simple black coffee and took a seat on the single sofa opposing him.

Another few moments passed

"You still remember," he said motioning to the coffee in his hands

"It's not that hard to remember two ingredients, Suga. Besides, it's been just two weeks."

His heart shattered when you said that, firstly, on hearing 'Suga' instead of the usual 'Yoongs' or 'Yoongles' that you called him, especially because you knew he pretended to hate, but actually loved it. Hell he would've been more happy to be addressed by his full name, Min Yoongi, rather than Suga. And secondly, because of the small and almost inaudible, crack that he heard in your voice towards the end of the sentence.

You still didn't know why exactly you were so calm and not driving him out of your home. It was as if everything stopped mattering for a moment

"Two weeks. Yea," he finally spoke, eyes not quite meeting yours.

A few moments passed in complete and utter silence.

"I didn't know you wrote lyrics too." Ah yes, the song that Namjoon was producing, you had helped him with the lyrics. Not as much as helped actually, you had just randomly written some words and sentences and somehow he noticed it. He said it fit perfectly with the previous verse he had written and asked if he could use the whole poem in his song. You were completely flabbergasted and thought he was kidding, or perhaps pitying you, but after a lot of convincing, he told you he wasn't. And you told him he could, that's why you were in the professional studio in the first place. Another reason why Yoongi misunderstood you, but it was in no way Namjoon's fault. And Yoongi knew that.

"I didn't. It was supposed to be a poem. He saw it by accident." You yourself were pretty surprised at how calm you were.

"But.. I thought i read all your poems..?" his voice had a questioning tone to it.

"You did.. It was recent.." It indeed was recent. Painfully recent. You had written it just the night before, after coming back from Yoongi's studio without even talking to him properly, because he had, and i quote "a shitton of work to do" . Shit ton of work, with her. That completely broke your heart into a million pieces. You thought it couldn't break any further but you were terribly wrong. That was when you wrote it.

The poem was about, well, you guessed it, heartbreak; loneliness. Something about empty bed sides, lost warmth, tear streaked pillows, you couldn't fully remember. Your mind had been hanging like a 2005 Dell Laptop because of all the crying.

"When?"

"That night after i came back from your studio." You smiled a little, even if your insides were aching, "speaking of that, hows the production going?"

"Oh it's.. going well I suppose." He looked immensely intrigued by his cup of coffee,

You again smiled.

"Yea, you looked...quite happy." You took a sip of your own coffee, before looking out the window. Frosty winds were blowing, it was getting darker by the minute. It looked...serene.

But Yoongi was having none of this serenity,

"Happy? What...do you mean?" His voice had a sudden change of colour. But this question had your heart clenching and unclenching at a rapid, unhealthy rate.

"You and Suran." You finally croaked out, "You looked happy..with her. It was.. a sight for sore eyes, really." Earlier, whenever you even remotely thought about this, your eyes turned to waterfalls, but now, they seemed dry of any excessive moisture.

Yoongi was dumbfounded. He and Suran?

"What do you mean me and Suran? I'm just helping her!" He semi-yelled, but you didn't flinch like you did last time.

"I know that."

"But what did you mean by happy... wait...did you think we...oh my god." He slumped down back to his seat, coffee long forgotten on the coffee table.

"Y/n why didn't you tell me that?? Why didn't you tell me what you were feeling?? Why di-"

"I DID!!" You finally broke and yelled out with tears streaming down your eyes for the umpteenth time that day.

"I did tell you!!! I texted you a thousand times!! But you didn't read any of those. I called you a thousand times but i was always directed to voicemail. And the times that you did actually listen to me you had the same excuse every time. 'Im just helping her.' I know that Yoongi, I freaking.know. But what do you expect me to think when you cancelled evey date the past three months?? When the smile that you usually had when you were with me, could only be seen when you were with her?? When the way that you looked at her, the way that you smiled at her, the way that you admired every little thing she did completely resembled the way only a lover would. What did you expect me to do, when i felt like you were her mentor, her idol, her Min yoongi, not my...not my..." You couldn't finish the sentence before you completely bursted out in tears.

And as you sobbed uncontrollably, Yoongi was left to think about what you had said. And as he recalled everything he realized that none of your words were wrong.

The fact that he had ignored you so freaking much despite you being so patient with him hit him like a truck and he started spiralling into a dark deep hole of guilt and regret when you suddenly-

"Leave."

He was shocked back to his senses.

"Y/n wha-"

"I said. Leave. " You said as you stood up on lightly trembling feet and started walking towards the door.

"Y/n just listen to me give me a chance to expl-"

"Did YOU give me a chance to fuckin' explain??!! Did you even let me SPEAK when i was begging in front of you to calm down?! No. So leave."

Your heart was pounding at such an extreme rate that you feared he'd hear it and realize, that he was still your weakness. And you couldn't let that happen.

"Suga. I'm asking you to leave." With a shaking hand you opened the door and stood aside.

"Y/n please jus-"

"Are you that shameless?!"

That effectively shut him up. Just as you expected. As he finally left with a wounded heart, you slammed the door and slid down to the floor, trembling with quiet sobs.

"Are you that shameless?? That you finally resorted to seducing one of my brothers?? What else did you do huh y/n? Did you try your luck with Jungkook too?? Oh and what about Taehyung?!"

"Hyung it isn't what it looks like. Just listen to-" Namjoon spoke, trying to calm him down but to no avail.

"Namjoon just...just stay out of it. I just can't believe she'd do this to me. I can't freaking believe she'd cheat on me with yo-"

"Yoongi stop it!" You yelled while crying as you stood in front of the man you loved and who apparently loved you too.

"Why y/n? Why should i stop?? Just so you can go behind my back again? Just so you can break my heart again? Just so tha-"

"Can you pleeasee just let me speak Yoongi. I was here because -"

"Enough! Enough of your lies! I really can't believe you out of all people would do this to me. We're done y/n. We're freaking done." And with that, he stomped out of the studio, leaving you a crying, heartbroken mess.

♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪

[dustofinsanity]

aesthetic tag ✨

rules: bold the aesthetics you relate to and add twenty of your own aesthetic qualities for others to bold

tagged by: The one and only!! The wonderful!! The amazing!! The talented and  incomparable PAPA!! Also known as @defgyus 💜

tagging: no one but, if you wanna do it, just say I tagged you.

soft

baby pink | iridescent | glitter is always a good option | no bra | minimalistic tattoos | cherry patterns | sweet scented perfumes | wearing generous amounts of blush | doodling hearts | getting excited to pet an animal | fun nails | rewatching old barbie movies | hair sticking to glossed lips | heart shaped sunglasses | taking pictures of the sunset or sunrise | stuffed animals | protecting nature | stickers everywhere | teen movies | the light rain that falls from a clear sky at the beginning of the night

dark academia

neutral tones | masculine outfits | studying languages | worn down copy of books | grey skies | turtleneck sweaters | loose fitting pants | hair tied with a silk ribbon | trying to remember a cool difficult word you read somewhere to use in a convo | thick belts | minimal makeup | windows fogged by rain | vintage jewelry | blouses with cuffed sleeves | reading a murder mystery and trying to solve it | oxford style shoes | sweater vests | subtitled old movies in a language you don’t speak | leaves crackling as you walk | annotating books to express your emotions about the story

edgy

closet full of dark clothes | fishnet tights | makeup sweating off | neon signs | searching for unknown songs | chokers | band tees | doodling on old converses | finding smoking aesthetically pleasing but not doing it | weird humor | accidentally very dramatic | dim lights | layered outfits | chain belts | chipped nail polish | messy hair | low quality pics | piercings | combat boots | scribbling on desks

seventies

colorful wardrobe | doodling flowers | wearing short shorts | using a bikini top or bra as a normal top | listening to ABBA | flowers in your hair | diy-ing everything | jamming to songs alone in your room | drunkenly telling your friends you love them | patterned bandanas | mid heeled shoes | messy braids | flared sleeves | walking barefoot on grass or sand | bold sunglasses | the good kind of tired you get after doing something you enjoy for hours | feeding stray animals | fun patterned socks | room decorated with succulents and other plants | likes to go roller skating or skateboarding

preppy casual

collared clothes | drinking juice out of a champagne glass | getting excited to see the met gala looks | thick headbands | small pastel cardigans | making your friends take your ootd pics | plaid mini skirts | tweed two pieces | watching reality tv to pass time | frilly tops | watching old hollywood movies | academically driven | long manicured nails | new year’s eve fireworks | colorful tights | layered golden jewelry | yearns for luxury brand items | decorating your room with fairy-lights | cursive and neat handwriting | lace details

cinanamon - steph

gold jewelry | slowdancing in the kitchen with a lover | sun on skin | red-tinted lip balm | lazy mornings | getting lost in foreign cities | scent of bakeries | high-waisted jeans | kissing someone’s neck | writing reminders on your wrist | sleeping in braids to have waves in the morning | growing an herb garden | gentle touches | sketches tucked between pages | flushed cheeks | tandem bikes, floating in a pool | vintage gold hand-mirror | deer grazing | softly singing while doing chores

jaesmintea - dia

oversized everything | painted nails | fairy lights | dozing off in the middle of class | tying hair up into a ponytail | round glasses | laughing so hard you can’t breathe | late night study sessions | tender hand holding | impromptu photoshoots | drowning in moondust | bathing in the light of the sunset | strawberry flavored lollipops | polaroid pictures | eagerly tugging someone down the street | handwritten love letters | smell of coffee | living with reckless abandon | crinkled pages of a journal | replaying the same part in a song over and over

naptimetea - helena

everything black | rewearing your favorite outfit | drawing late into the night | rewatching favorite shows | the bread isle | minty lip balm | falling asleep anywhere and everywhere | making green tea | useless questions when it’s 2 am | forehead kisses | sleeping in till the afternoon | love of pink | staying up to watch the sunrise | dancing in the bathroom | messy handwriting | pile of sketchbooks | talking for hours about interest | old sentimental stuff animals | hanging out on the bed and doing nothing | thick fluffy blankets

jeonginks

the thrill of leaning your body way over a balcony’s edge | the suffocating feeling when the strong wind blows down your lungs | tip-toeing barefoot | hair ruffling and cheek pinching | hugging a body pillow at night | facing the sky with closed eyes | the whimsical silence when it’s past midnight and you’re the only person awake | when you can physically feel your eyes soften when you look at someone | dancing alone with only an oversized shirt | when your sweater falls over your thighs as you stand up | humming scary but memorable lullabies | vivid imagination | w-sitting with a mini skirt and thigh high socks | heated laptop on your lap | cereal at 3 am | gliding your fingers across your thighs | bittersweet melancholy | withdrawn and distant eyes | very tight belts | wanting love but not believing in it | not cruel but not kind

scxrlettwxtches

listening to a song and remembering the times you used to listen to it on repeat | imagining yourself living in any other life than the one you have now | crop tops and high waisted jeans | forgetting to smile but not actually being upset | nuzzling your face in the crook of their neck | back hugs when you’re stressed | turning in assignments 1 minute before they’re due | wanting a relationship but getting scared the moment you’re in one | pretending that you don’t care when inside you’re burning with doubts and fears | the sound of the evening waves as you lie on the sand | lying in your bed listening to your sad playlist | exhaustion but you can’t sleep | singing loudly when you’re the only one home | feeling safe and comfortable with that person in your life | knee high suede black boots with your black winter coat | comfort over appearance | writing essays at 2 am | creative peak from 1 am to 4 am | the one that always ends up walking in the back of a friend group

hyunsracha - sav!

split-dye hair | female rappers | staying up until 6am and sleeping until 1pm | taking notes on an ipad | middle school emo music | mini skirts | late night drives | rain on the ocean | flirting with people when you’re bored | doc martens | eating ramen in the pot | afraid of being looked at | fishnets | getting joy out of making people laugh | small tattoos | crying yourself to sleep | peppermint everything | desperate for freedom | chipped black nail polish

lveletters

well-worn converse | ginger ice cream | farmers’ markets | amaretto in coffee | the sound of pen on paper | empty mountain trails | black and white photographs | vintage bicycles | roads trips with no destination | overfilled bookcases | a shoebox full of ticket stubs | granny smith apples | orange gerbera daisies | cardigan sweaters | games that tell a story | red wine in a mason jar | succulent gardens | tattoos of birds | fresh-baked muffins | a favorite pair of jeans

dnceracha - sydni

black chelsea boots | chapped lips | browline glasses | losing yourself in video games | impressionist art | pink peonies | writing down anything you need to remember | the smell of gasoline | business goth style | dangly earrings | florals | ballet flats | cuffed jeans | liking the villain | a stack of journals | generous amounts of highlighter | knives | rain on a tin roof | heavy footsteps | small-town diners

bamshine - sae

chunky black boots | not realizing you’ve been writing for hours | soft dog fur under your hand | the loud gathering of friends after an exhausting dance class | bubble tea | casual touches between friends | beach trips | airports late at night or early in the morning | coming home from travel and finally being in your own bed | leaves crunching under your foot | shopping for groceries with christmas music on the radio | loud family gatherings over a pizza | succulents | goofy singing and dancing with friends | getting so into a book you do nothing else all day except read | cool summer evenings around a bonfire | apple cider | the scent of vanilla | selfies with friends | the sting of a new tattoo

jjinyounf - cres

ocean breezes | moonlight/sunlight through clouds | sweatpants and baggy tees | empty journals | stud earrings | messy bedroom | thought-provoking movies | apple cinnamon | hot, but not sticky weather | chill big dogs | mixing flavoured vodka with ice cream | playing songs at full blast in the shower | quiet corners | the sound of bacon while it cooks | loud thoughts but quiet words | staying in bed until the absolute last second | mid-calf boots in the winter, flip flops in the summer, sneakers every other time | mental breakdowns doing anything academic-related | madras shawls | the colour combo of red, black, gold, and white

flowerbeom - kat

polaroids | saying hello to the moon | buying more books that you can read | lo-fi playlists to fill the emptiness | baking bread of saturdays | playing the same song over and over until you learn the lyrics/vocal runs perfectly | milk tea | booping your cat’s nose with your nose | keeping a stash of that one perfect pen | being the quiet listener in conversation but always has a great story to tell | sneakers over everything | watching the sunrise through cracked open blinds | leather and patchouli candles | freshly cooked rice | finding the perfect word to describe something | the crunch and squeak of walking on freshly fallen snow | writing “hello” on foggy windows | strolling through ancient forests and feeling small | kissed on bare shoulders | falling asleep to the sound of rain

focusgyeom - leena

wishes at 11:11 | leather jackets | hoop earrings | making playlists for friends | seasonal candles | bath bombs | pink drinks | late night drives | crystals | ripped jeans | starry nights & full moons | writing out your emotions instead of talking about them | loves the thought of being in love, but too scared to fall in love | black clothes | staying up till 3am writing | lip gloss | fall & winter | vampires books & shows | keeping a journal on you at all times | gel pens | sunflowers

defgyus - val

feeling at home in museums | color coordinating everything | feeling the warmth of the sun on your face | owning lots of stationery | aesthetic pinterest boards | period drama | coffee and tea are always a good idea | big windows overlooking a big city | neutral tones and muted pink | keeping a journal with your favorite quotes | fashion magazines | disney films | movie scores and lofi playlists | daydreaming in public transport | learning languages | laughing out loud watching comedy sketches | drawing on procreate | chunky sweaters and jeans | neck kisses | loving hard

defnabeom - nauan

shapped sunglasses | silver jewelry | the laugh of the people you love | this particular voice you could hear for hours | veins | ripped clothes | grungy style | cats lover | collecting everything | organized mess | cigarettes and a glass of whiskey | the feeling of being afraid to bother | old cartoons | spikes | men perfumes | noisy pictures | bucket hats | a simple touch of color in a black outfit | wine red eyeshadows and matte lipstick | the loner who needs love

[warlock-enthusiast]

Waking up slow

The Wayhaven Chronicles

Adam du Mortain x female Detective (in the future)

Detective Kat Kingston faces a murder, Unit Bravo and her mother.

Chapter 2: a second murder makes Kat doubt her abilities as a Detective

AO3 link

Chapter 1 

-----

I was unaware You were lighting flares Now I'm runing scared How did it come to this?

Kat rested her head against the steering wheel.

Another victim.

Another one, she didn’t protect. Garret Hayes lay dead and cold beneath the harsh lights of Verda’s lab, neck mauled and eyes milky. The sight alone made her stomach turn, though having to deliver the news to his mother took her number one spot of upsetting experiences of this day. Kate had started to cry immediately and she’d got down on her knees to pull her close and comfort her.

Even with the help of Adam’s erie, professional abilities, nothing much had come out of questioning the grieving woman afterward. Kat didn’t blame her, but she couldn’t help but wish for even the smallest trace of their killer.

Garret’s death seemed more personal somehow, closer to home than Janet’s, and Kat hated herself for lacking objectivism.

She tried to breathe and to ignore the memory of Tina’s face when suspicion had become reality. How her warm eyes filled with tears, how she firmly pressed her lips together to suppress a sob.

Kat felt exhaustion grip her whole body.

Where to go with this investigation? A vicious murder ran rampage in her town and left almost no evidence but some blood and saliva and more questions than answers. Motives? Profile? A link between the victims?

Her hands shook, as she fumbled for her keys.

Maybe she wasn’t meant to be a Detective. Maybe all of this had been a pipe dream from the beginning or an attempt to impress her mother. She’d started this career to help and to protect and frankly, Kat currently sucked at both. Good grades and tests held no value, if you couldn’t handle a real situation and failed at solving two murders. Especially, if your body crumbled beneath the first symptoms of stress.

“Detective Kingston?” Adam crouched down to look through her window. “It’s late. You need to go home.”

“Eh.” Kat sat up straight, feeling herself blush with shame. “Yes, of course. I was … I.” She stumbled over her own words and saw his green eyes squint against the streetlights.

“You need someone to take you?” Adam’s face remained passive and unreadable and she heard a note of impatience . Somehow his presence only sparked another bout of self-pity and anger towards her lacking abilities concerning this investigation. Frustration bubbled in her throat, ready to erupt.  

Oh look at you, Mister super Agent, always so sure of everything, always so strict, always lacking empathy, always so handsome. Kat bit the inside of her cheeks. “No, of course not. I can handle this.” Adam raised a brow, which clearly stated that he didn’t believe her statement. Not one bit.

“You must focus, Detective Kingston.”

“I know, Agent du Mortain. Good night!” She started her car and drove home.

Home meant her small and messy apartment, with heaps of books stacking up everywhere, and a whole collection of dirty coffee mugs, adorned with clothing and hastily written scribbles. She should really clean up her place (maybe on the weekend), but Kat’s body just longed for a hot shower and sleep.

She indulged it.

Her dreams seemed to be inconsistent and dark and awoke a feeling of dread in her stomach. Kat’s subconscious replayed her failing at her job, pictures of the murder scenes, and threw in some traumatic experiences of her teenage years.

Morning arrived to soon and yet not soon enough.

Kat hit the snooze button and crawled beneath her blankets. Just five minutes of peace, before everything came crashing down around her. Pure bliss. Hidden in her bed, she felt reminded of her childhood and how she’d waited for her mother to come home night after night, wrapped tightly in a blanket, which still smelled of father.

“Ugh.” With five minutes to go, Kat decided on just picking up clothing from the floor and putting her hair in a small bun at the nape of her neck. No makeup today, just bare exhaustion and pure professionalism.

Kat adjusted her driving mirror and caught a glimpse of her pale reflexion. “This is a new day! Be better, be smarter, Kat.”

She needed to solve this and to grant the families and the victims closure.

Douglas seemed to be missing from the frontdesk, probably late or taking a break, and she sighed in relief, because one less person she had to face today.

“Detective Kingston! Good morning, it’s good to see you.” Nate watched her entering the room, but his smile suddenly froze.

The attention of the whole team focussed on her, gazes drifting from her neck to her midsection.

“Eh, your buttons.” Felix, obviously the most helpful agent, pointed at her blouse.

“Oh, shit.” Some buttons had come undone, or probably hadn’t been closed earlier this morning, and offered a view of her sports-bra and too much skin. Kat quickly closed them, making the mistake of meeting Adam’s eyes, who didn’t meet hers, because he stared at said failed buttons.

Her heartbeat sped up and pressed against her rips. The moment stretched and stretched and Adam’s shoulders looked tense.

No no no. Close your stupid buttons!

Neither time nor place to act like this.

You haven’t dated in a while and are probably hormonal and vulnerable.

With her head as red as a ripe tomato, Kat sat down behind her desk. “We have a murder to solve, not witness my wardrobe malfunctions.”

She reached for a pen, just to hold something in her fingers. “But I’m sorry for… that.”

Felix handed her an Agency folder and patted her shoulder.  “No offense taken, Detective Kingston.”

With that, the tension seemed to leave the room. Nate got up to offer her a bit more space, while Mason excused himself for a cigarette break (finally not vanishing in a cloud of smoke any more). Douglas had rolled the whiteboard into her office earlier and she clipped Janet’s and Garret’s pictures at the top. “Lets visualize our evidence.”

Kat carefully wrote down the basic informations beneath their pictures. Names, ages, occupations, social groups, families, a blank space for the lab report.

“So, what do we have?” With her hands on her hips, she knew that it wasn’t much. The nagging feeling that somehow Unit Bravo withhold information got stronger with the passings minutes. Nate and Adam exchanged glances too often, Felix tried to charm away her questions, and Mason did was he was told without any sign of interest.

Maybe she’d call Rebbeca later today, if she got a hold of her.

They discussed for a few hours, slowly going over the evidence again, moving in circles until early afternoon. Kat dialed up Verda three times, but the hospital still hadn’t examined the blood samples. Cutting funding to a necessity would do this.

Another wasted day. More lives on the line.

Kat rubbed her temples, as she began to feel a headache build between her eyes. Her phone vibrated on her desk and she gladly excused herself.

“Bobby. Not the best time.” She’d hoped for a call from Tina or Verda, but no, it had to be him, a whole nother cause of headache. Kat brought some distance between her office and herself, but still managed to watch Unit Bravo at work. Everytime, Kat left there seemed to be some kind of argument? To be a mice in that room now.  

“Is it ever, angel?”

When Kat didn’t reply, he continued talking. “It’s your last chance to give me a statement.” Kat needed a moment to process his words and shook her head in disbelief. “Are you actually threatening me?” “No, of course not. Just gathering information to form a better picture. The people of Wayhaven deserve that.” “I know, but we follow strict guidelines.”

“You sure?” She heard his smile and her suddenly her body turned cold. Kat rubbed her hand against her hip. “Yes, but we can set up an interview in a week.” “Nah, too late.” Bobby chuckled. “Bye, Kat.” “Bye, Bo..:” But he’d already hung up.

Combat training had always been the hardest discipline for her, but she surely would’ve kicked some punching back this very moment. How did he manage to get under her skin so easily? After all those years, Kat still fumbled for words when talking to him.

“Grow up.” Kat whispered beneath her breath. She held her back a bit straighter and returned to her office.

“I’ll head to Verda now. You guys are better equipped than us. Is there a chance that your forensic experts may take a look at their clothing? Look for traces of DNA, hair?” Mason shook his head. “We’re not CSI.”

“Sadly, I don’t really know what you guys are, because no one ever told me exactly. And for all your expertise, nothing is going forward.” Kat’s cheek reddened again. This time, because anger made her irritable.

“Detective Kingston.” Nate crossed the room to stand at her sight. He smelled clean and fresh and rather unobtrusive. “We’ll take the SUV and look at that warehouse again, if it fits with your plan.” “Of course. Call me, if you find anything.” And Kat left the office and Unit Bravo to their own devices.

She shivered from the cold room and put her jacket tighter around her, while sitting at Verda's side. They examined the blood anomalies again and  the traces of saliva, which they'd found on Garret. Nothing new there, but a welcome distraction from being locked in a small office with Unit Bravo and clashing with their personalities. They'd probably thought her a total failure. Overly emotional and not able to get herself dressed in the morning.

In comparison the pathologist was kind and soft and far more bearable.

Verda and she'd quickly become friends, because both of them loved a good book and shared a knack for the science side of police work. Not to mention that he'd made her feel welcome at the station from day one.

"We'll call the hospital tomorrow. All of this takes too long." Standing up, she corrected her reading glasses.

Verda followed suit and switched his pc off. "We'll do that."

"Don't stay up too late, though. We all need our sleep."

"Back to you. I can see your dark circles."

Kat laughed and waved his concern away with a quick eyeroll.

"Bed, here I come."

Her office was blissfully empty as she returned and the sun had already set, so Kat closed her eyes, enjoyed a deep sigh, and collected her things.

She took her phone and opened a chat with Tina.

you free this evening?

- I might be? depends on what you offer

walk, talk, coffee and muffin?

- shit day?

yes.

- mine too. can’t fathom what happened to Garret

- ... - pick me up at 7.

will do.

Something to look forward to then.

[winnipegpatty]

to all the boys i’ve loved before [final] | s.m. series

a/n: this is the end wow, what a ride. thanks for coming along. pls send me your feedback and consider buying me a ko-fi (link in bio) if you want to see more stuff <3

New Year’s Eve, a time for resolutions. My life was a mess, but I could clean my room.

It was somewhere around hour two when my dad came in.

“Hey, let’s go for a drive.” He asked me.

Dad took me to the diner down the road. The diner was stuck in the past, but in that way that made people gravitate to it in search of simpler, happier times.

“Oh, here’s a song your mom loved,” my dad said as we sat down at a booth in the corner. “You know she’d go over to that jukebox and play this song. And then when it was over, she’d play it again. And again. And she wouldn’t just sit here and listen to the song with me, she’d get up and dance in the aisles. All while people were eating.” He pulled out his wallet, revealing a picture of my mom. “I used to think it was so embarrassing, but now I look back and think of how stupid I was. I should have been dancing with her.”

I looked down at the picture he’d handed me, seeing my mom look so happy, dancing her heart out. I smiled, “That sounds fun.”

“There are so many things I should have told you and your sisters about her, but I haven’t.”

“That’s okay, dad.” I whispered to him, knowing how hard it can be to willingly remember her.

“No, it’s not.” He sighed, “I’ve relied on you and Ari too much. I know that, especially when it comes to Sof. You’re seventeen. You don’t have to be an adult yet. You shouldn’t be an adult yet. That’s why I was so happy when I saw you and Shawn.”

“I don’t want to talk about Shawn, please.” I said shaking my head.

“Shawn who?” My dad quipped.

“Really?” I said completely unimpressed.

“Look, I don’t know what happened between the two of you. But I saw how you were with him, how you opened up around him. Not to us, you’ve always been open with us. But to the world. Honey, you were so happy. Seeing you light up, experience the world, you reminded me of her,” He motioned towards the picture I was holding. “I don’t want you to close yourself off to that part of you.”

“Dad,” I mumbled, feeling tears well up in my eyes, “I really miss her.”

“I know you do.”

__

It was first day back at school since winter break, and the hot tub escapade.

“I didn’t hear anything about it,” Lucas said to me as we walked towards my longer.

“No, the debate team scandal definitely knocked it out of the top spot,” Chris laughed.

“Well that’s good news?” I asked hopefully. “Officially back to being invisible.”

Lucas, looking forward, was the first to see the crowd. The crowd that was gathered suspiciously close to my locker. Pushing through the group of people, towards my locker, I finally saw what everyone was whispering about. A picture of me and Shawn kissing was taped to the locker, with black writing underneath saying, “It’s always the one’s you least expect.” It reeked of Gen’s doing, but let’s be honest, that meant nothing now. The damage had already been done, when the video was leaked.

Chris ripped the picture down, just as I pushed my way back out of the crowd, rushing down the hall, hearing Chris call after me.

“Woah, hey, what’s going on?” I hear Shawn from in front of me.

I look up, sure that my expression is tumultuous, confusion and anger all coming together in one odd, unknowable emotion. “You’re just going to let everyone believe that we had sex in the hot tub?” I screamed at him. “When you know that nothing happened? I’m sure you’re glad that video leaked.” I stalked away from him, not wanting to ever see Shawn Mendes again.

“Are you going to do something about this?” I hear Chris behind me, being the best friend that she always has been.

“Listen up, everyone!” I hear Shawn yell at the top of his lungs, getting everyone’s attention. I turn, stopping to listen to what he might have to say about this. “Not that it’s anyone’s business, but nothing happened in the hot tub. So if I hear any of you talking about Y/N or that video, I’ll personally be kicking all of your asses. You understand?” He turned towards me.

“Listen, I’m so sorry about everything, okay.” Shawn said, running in front of me to stop me from walking away. “Look, if I knew who did this I would--”

“Well, I know who did it.” I said. “So should you.”

“Okay, okay.” Shawn whispered, “Let me just talk to her, okay?”

“No,” I responded. “This is my fight. She’s not doing this because of you Shawn. It’s because she hates me. I have to handle this myself.”

__

Going up to Gen would normally terrify me. I used to be so scared of standing up to Gen, despite the horrible way she treated me and everyone else around her. But there was something that had happened to me over the last three months. Maybe it had something to do with opening up to the world, like my dad had mentioned. But I wasn’t scared of Gen anymore. I was finally realizing that Gen was just as sad and pathetic as I’d been when I was scared of her. She was insecure, just like every other high school girl, no matter how much she tried to convince other people she wasn’t.

“I know you posted that video,” I said as I marched up to her in the bathroom.

“Um, nope that wasn’t me,” She said.

I scoffed, “Please Gen. It’s bad enough that a guy would do this, but that a girl is doing? That’s fucking despicable. Girls shouldn’t be tearing down other girls!”

Gen walked away to dry her hands, “Well, like I said. I didn’t post it. But you know,” She turned to look at me. “I’m glad someone did. Because now everyone will know who you really are.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Shawn, he’s not as confident as he pretends to be. I am not as tough as I pretend to be. But you, Y/N Y/L/N, you are not as innocent as you pretend to be. Because you kissed the boy that I liked!”

“You guys are broken up!” I shouted at her.

“No, not now. Before, before we ever even dated, you kissed him.”

“That was seventh grade! You’ve got to be kidding me!?”

“You know that I liked him, and you kissed him anyway!”

“It was spin the bottle you fucking psycho! And it was tongueless”

“Okay, well it wasn’t tongueless to me!” Gen shouted back before turning around and storming out of the bathroom, leaving me alone.

I always thought no one was paying attention to what I was doing, that the only drama in my life was in my head, but it turns out, I wasn’t as invisible as I thought.

__

“I feel like I owe you an explanation,” I told Josh from my spot on the sofa.

Josh just smiled at me.

“See, all of these letters I wrote, they were based off this feeling. Just like a fun little spark, that I wanted to explore in my mind. But my letter to you, it was based off actually knowing you. You were the first boy that I ever really liked. And I didn’t really realize how I felt about you until after you and Ari had started. But over time,” I shrugged, “That feeling just faded away, and I missed my best friend. The best friend I had before you and Ari. And it wasn’t love, I was just jealous of the time she got with you because it felt like she had stolen something from me.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me that earlier?” Josh asked quietly.

“Well, I just...I didn’t really realize until Shawn.”

Josh sighed. “Right, Shawn.”

“It was real in a different way, and I’m really sorry.”

Josh looked over at me with these sad eyes, “There’s no reason to be sorry. I know where you’re coming from.”

“Did you stop loving Ari, after she broke up with you?” I wondered.

“Well, not right away. At some point it changed though,” Josh scratched at his arm, “But the longer she was away, the more I realized why she did what she did. Do you feel the same way about Shawn?”

“I know you don’t like him…” I said, not sure if Josh actually wanted to talk about this or just wanted to be polite.

“Well, I liked the way he stood up for you today,” Josh admitted. “He should have done it sooner, but I’m still glad he did it.” Josh looked at me, “Look, if you miss him. Just tell him.”

“No, I can’t,” I stuttered.

“Why not?”

I choked, not wanting to admit the reasons. But under Josh’s gaze, I didn’t have much of a choice. “Well, if it wasn’t real, then I didn’t lose anything. But if I admit that it was real, and he still doesn’t want me, then…”

“Then at least you’ll know,” Josh said kindly. “Look, Y/N you can’t sit up in your room your whole life, writing love letters that you’ll never send out. You have to tell people how you feel, when you feel it. Shawn wouldn’t even be in your life if the letter hadn’t gotten out in the first place.”

“You’re right.”

“You can’t exist in fantasy forever,” Josh whispered.

“I’m just tired of writing love letters, Josh. It would be nice to be receiving them instead.”

“Y/N,” I heard Sof say, slowly walking up to me. She was holding the blue box I had once hidden my love letters in. “I have something I think you should see. Please don’t kill me,” Sof laughed lightly, “But you were always throwing these away, and...I thought you’d want to see them one day.”

I opened the box, looking up at Sof carefully, not sure what to expect. But in the box, I saw bits of paper that I recognized instantly as Shawn’s lyrics for me. I’d never read them because I knew they hadn’t been for me. Or well, I thought they hadn’t been for me. They were just for show after all, to make Gen jealous.

Each note was addressed to me, with a heart after my name in Shawn’s scribbly handwriting. I began to read them aloud.

I get a little bit nervous around you. Get a little bit stressed out, when I think about you.

Baby, anytime you’re ready. I’m waiting.

What if my daddy’s write when he says that you’re the one?

Every single night my arms are not around you, my mind’s still wrapped around you.

And if I have to, I’ll wait forever. Say the word and I’ll change my plans. Yeah, you know that we fit together. I know your heart like the back of my hand.

I’m so sorry, we’re still stuck in the middle.

Can I kiss you or not? Cus I’m not really sure right now of what you want.

Take my hand, we’ll be fine.

Maybe I should stop, and start confessing.

And I’m not trying to ruin your happiness, but darling don’t you know that I’m the only one for ya?

“Still think you haven’t gotten a love letter?” Josh asked.

__

After Josh had left, I began to strategize with Sofia to determine the plan of action. How were we going to get Shawn back. We’d spent some time trying to write a song, thinking it would be a cute way to reconcile, to sing a song to a songwriter. Sofia had even retrieve an old out of tune guitar from their dads room. But it turns out, that while Shawn may be stellar at song writing, Sofia and I were certainly not.

“Maybe, let’s just go back to the start,” Sofia suggested. “Write him a letter?”

I shrugged, “Maybe, but don’t you think that’s a little impersonal?”

The doorbell rang before Sofia could respond. Leaving the mess of notes and Sofia on the floor, I stood to answer the door.

Shawn stood, with his hands behind his back.

“Okay, before you slam the door in my face or tell me to go home, please just let me explain everything.”

I smiled at Shawn, who looked a little shocked when I invited him inside rather than kicking him to the curb.

“Okay, first off,” Shawn brought his hands in front of him revealing a drink and flowers. “A horchata, and flowers, because I want you to know I’m being completely serious right now.”

I smiled up at him, thanking him for the items.

“What’s all of this?” Shawn asked as he came to see the mess Sofia sat amongst.

“Oh, nothing,” I rushed at the same time that Sofia said, “Y/N is just trying to figure out how to win back your affections.”

I shot a glare at Sofia, “Go away.” I gritted, turning to see Shawn smiling shyly at me.

“It’s okay,” Shawn murmured, “I’ve been doing the same thing.”

I sat on the couch, allowing Shawn to follow suit. “Listen, Y/N, the only reason I went to see Gen that night was because I went to tell her that we were over. Like completely done because I only wanted to be with you.”

“Really?” I asked suspiciously.

“Really,” Shawn smiled. “Y/N, I am so in love with you there could never be anyone else.” Shawn said sincerely.

“You’re what?” I squeaked.

“I’m in love with you.”

“I wanted to tell you that I liked you, in a not fake way,” I said quietly, looking at Shawn’s feet. “I’m in love with you too,” I looked up at him. “But I’m so scared.”

Shawn shuffled towards me on the couch, his hand coming to rest on my neck. “I”m scared too.” He shrugged. “But we’ll make it.” Shawn leaned in to brush his lips lightly against mine before he seemingly got distracted.

“Who plays the guitar?” He asked pointing to the guitar on the floor.

I laughed, “Um no one.” I ran a hand through my hair, as Shawn eyed me quizzically. “Sofia and I might have been trying to write a song for me to sing to you.”

Shawn laughed, “Really?”

I nodded shyly.

“That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard, but…” Shawn reached for the guitar, cringing at the out of tune sounds it was making. “Maybe I can be the one to sing a song to you.”

I smiled at him, as he mindlessly tuned the guitar for a couple of minutes before a soft, beautiful hum came from the guitar.

Shawn began plucking out a smooth melody, “Don’t cry or do, whatever makes you comfortable. I’m tired too, there’s nothing left to say, let’s call a truce.” Shawn crooned the words to me, his expression telling me everything I needed to know about how he felt.

“I’m so sorry,” Shawn sang, “That we’re still stuck in the middle.” Instantly, I recognized the song as lyrics from a not Shawn had previously given to me. Hearing the words in song, was somehow so much better.

“Can I kiss you or not,” Shawn smiled, laughing a little, “Cus I’m not really sure right now of what you want. Are you still mad at me? I’m hoping not.” I smiled at him, leaning closer to him, wanting to breathe in every part of this experience that I could. That’s what my dad had said right? Don’t close myself off to moments like this.

“Tell me what’s inside your head, no matter what you say, I won’t love you less. And I’d be lying if I said I do.”

Shawn ended the song and placed the guitar at his side, “So,” he smiled. “Are you still mad at me?”

I shook my head, laughing, “God no.” I crawled into his lap kissing him quickly. “You’re the best thing to ever happen to me. I couldn’t possibly stay mad, even if you deserved it.”

“I need to thank Sofia for sending me that letter,” Shawn smiled as he leaned in to kiss me again.

tagged: @peacedolantwins2 @rosecth @honestlygarbage @quirkymermaid (since its finished lol) @unhealthyobsessionwithmarvel @justanotherfangurl272 @mcufangirlqueen @my-sweet-escape-from-the-world

[billyboisfangirlarmy]

The Bowers Girl (2)

Previous part

Warnings: swearing/ sexual content

I walk in the door from the night before. I ended up staying with Beverly at her house. I’m pleased I can say I actually have a real friend… a girl one at least!

“(Y/n) where the hell have you been? I waited all fucking night!” Henry’s voice booms throughout the house. His boots making each step he takes unnecessary loud. I put my hands up in confusion. “You told me to stay somewhere else. You guys were camping.” Henry turns red faced. “Yea, we were camping. You were supposed to come with us! Who told you some bullshit like that?” I pointed straight at Patrick who is trying to hold his laughter in.

Henry turns back and glares at his friend. “Who’d you stay with?” I look back at Patrick watching his face move through emotions. “A friend.” I say trying to move past my brother and go up to my room. As I pass him he grabs my arm tightly. “What friend?” “Henry let go.” “Who the fuck did you sleep with you slut?” He yells at me pulling my arm harshly. “NO ONE!” I yell yanking my arm back and running up the stairs.

I throw my bag on the floor and slam myself on my bed in tears. Even when dads not here I still have to deal with Henry. As my tears flow from my eyes knocks on the door become present. “Go away Henry.” I yell stuffing my face back into my pillow.

My door opens and footsteps come to stop at the edge of my bed. “I told you to go away!” I sit up throwing one of my stuffed animals at him, but it doesn’t hit Henry… it hits Patrick.

He picks up the small bear and waves it around. “Aw, how cute.” I roll my eye huffing. “What do you want?” To my surprise he sits on my bed and passes the animal back to me. “He didn’t mean it. He’s still drunk.” “Still doesn’t mean he should do it. I have to deal with dad. I don’t need Henry barking up my tree too.” Patrick shrugs the bag he carries slung loosely on his shoulder. “Just needed an okay, not your life story.” I scoff. “Why’d you even come in here?” “Henry made me.” I cross my arms and lay down again. “Just leave.” Patrick chuckles moving his bag as he stands up. “My pleasure.” His lanky figure disappears past my doorway.

Why is he so mean to me? I’ve never done anything to him, but he acts like the worst person ever. I roll onto my side finding what might be my answer. A notebook. An old heavily drawn notebook with the initials PH on the front. Did he leave this on purpose? I could open it and 20 spiders could come crawling out. Maybe it fell out of his bag while he was sitting down. He would’ve taken it if he knew it was here.

I flip open to the first page with horrified eyes. Could he really be this dark? We all knew Patrick was messed up a bit, but I never imagined it to be to this extent!

I closed my door locking it as well. Then I snuggled up in my covers flipping and reading the pages with my eyes. The deeper I go the more my eyes open as doors and the images and words fill my brain poisoning it.

I woke up to yelling and screaming, and as my eyes open falling on the sight of my white curtain blowing in the wind I see my window open. I didn’t leave my window open. I never do! I reach under my bed and try to find the baseball bat I keep stored away, but alas I found nothing. A jingle of bells ring within my closet followed by a giggle. I stand up and inspect the sight for a few more seconds.

The giggling continues, along with the bells. “Pst. Come on (y/n). Come on and play.” my door pulls open a few inches revealing nothing. Until little feet tap upon the floor.

Tap

Tap

Tap

A 2 foot doll races out of the closet. Her features torn away with each step. Becoming decrepit and molded. The stain dress turns brown and eaten with holes. The giggling continues and the little doll jumps on me.

I scream begging myself to grapple the thing off me. It giggles more and nips its fingers into my skin. The mouth becoming razor sharp and digging into sections of my legs. I scream and cry out for what seems like hours until my door is busted open and my dad comes running in with Henry on his heels. My father rips my arms away from my face. “What the hell are you screaming about?” Henry runs to my other side placing his palm on my cheeks wiping my tears. “T-the doll. It changed and tore my skin. I-It hurt so bad I couldn’t take it. I just-” “What fucking doll. You’re not hurt you fucking liar.” My dad pushed my arms back against my body in one fluid motion. He stumbles out of the room slamming the door shut.

Henry looks at me with sad eyes only I see. “Are you okay?” I examine my body to see my skin in tacked, but the spots burning as if they were really there. I nod my head looking back at my brother. “You just had a bad dream (y/n).” He stands up helping me as well. “The fuck are you doing with your window open?” “I-I.. I must’ve forgot to close it last night.” Henry nods closing it and then walking out.

I waste no time getting dressed and getting out on my bike riding off into town to meet up with my friends. I ride past Patrick’s house allowing myself to let my eyes drift in that direction. He’s in the garage and… working out? Time slows as I pass him. Each curl of his arms the muscles flex and obtain my attention. Right until he meets my eyes. He’s as surprised as I am, but still plasters a smirk on his lips. I shake my head and focus my eyes forward once more.

I make my way to the ice cream shop catching my friends in sight. “Hey guys!” I say happily. “Hey there (Y/n)!” Stan cracks smiling. “What’s cooking good looking?” Richie asks wiggling his eyebrows at me. “Mhh lean in and I’ll tell you.” Richie leans in closer to me, and at the last second I smash his face in his ice cream. “HEY! THAT'S NOT FAIR!” “Aw come on Rich! Don’t hate the player! Hate the game!” I sass at him placing my hands on my hips.

After we all enjoy our ice cream we go riding around the town. As we’re riding through town Beverly stops us. “Come with me.” She says in a rushed tone. As we go to follow her a Blue car breaks right in front of me. Henry looks at me with narrowed eyes. “Get in.” I look back at my friends, but they all nod for me to jjust listen fearful of what couuld happen. I say nothing as I enter the car in the back seat with Victor and Patrick. Henry ordered me to stick by their side the whole day so I wouldn’t be poised by those losers (As he says).

I stay up in my room as the boys spend their time doing god knows what.. My eyes scan over the words scribbled in black inc in the overused notebook.

The way her hair flew in the wind making her appear as an angel. She’s not real. She’s put here in my presence to test me of my strengths. If I fail all I know will blast out in fire and the flames will melt away into the fantasy world. The fake one. Where I have no control of my world.

I killed the squirrel outside my window. Shot it with the paintball gun. It fell all the way to the ground and ceased to breathe once I got down to the ground.

Things like this line the pages line after line. Crud fantasies, and secrents Patrick holds come alive when I read this notebook. The deeper I go the more I learn about the stranger. The more he makes sense to me.

Page 38.

Nothing can compare to the touch of her. The resistance I feel breaks and I cannot strive to do anything but grasp her flesh and bring her close. The intoxication of her scent drives me wild. It did start as a test, now It’s more a mission. Yes, she is the key and the solution to my end, middle, and beginning. Each day I see her I try and make her see. Sending her messages that she’s too incompetent to receive, but I could teach her. Only if she let me touch her sweet smooth skin running along her bones. The blood that runs through her body heating up as I- “(Y/n).” I quickly look up from the notebook to see Henry in the doorway.

“Yeah?” He comes to my bed sitting on the side. “Come down stairs. We need something new. You’re good at creating things out of thin air.” “Um.. thank you?” I laugh at my brother and continue to following him down the steps to the old living room filled with the rest of the Bowers gang members.

“Hey (y/n)!” Belch stands with a red cup in his hands. My eyes move to the vodka sitting on the table. “Drinking? Again?” Henry plops in our old man's recliner sipping from a red cup as well. “No worse than shooting dads gun.” “No better either.” I mumble taking the only seat available which is between Victor and Patrick.

“Goodie two shoes.” Victor laughs as I sit. “I am not! I smoke all the time! How do you think I’m so calm all the time assholes?” Their eyes almost pop out of their heads. “You’re fucking lying!” Henry says leaning in surprised as well. “Henry, brother, do you really think I could live here if I didn’t? Why do you think my door is locked all the time?” Henry shrugs. “Guess I thought you were digging in your hole. Hell if I know! You should’ve shared!” I laugh standing once more and going to my room to retrieve a joint I had rolled not to long ago.

I place myself back on the couch placing the joint between my lips. “Aw shit, do you guys have a lighter?” Seconds later a flame is brought close to my face. I turn to see Patrick with the same look he always gives me. The same useless look, but I see something else hiding in there. Something he’s wanting to say. “Thanks Patrick.” He lights the white rolled paper allowing me to fill up my lunges with the sweet hemp. I exhale and out of the corner of my eye I see Patrick squirm. Not from uncomfortableness, but almost nervous. I turn to him passing him the joint, and he happily accepts making any effort not to touch my skin.

It goes around once, and then twice, and a third time. On the fourth round I speak up in curiosity. “Has anyone here ever done a shotgun?” They laugh as Victor grabs his crotch saying he’s too big to fit.

“No you idiot! It’s when one person forces the smoke into the mouth of another person.” They look around more confused. I sigh and turn to see Patrick looking at me. “Do you wanna try Pat?” He rolls his eyes. “I don’t do little smoke tricks-” “Pussy! If you don’t do it I will!” Victor chimes in from the other side of me. “Fuck it.” Patrick breaths out turing to face me more. “So what do you do? Blow it into my mouth or something?” I laugh taking a separate hit. “No. I’m going to turn the joint backwards so the lit part is in my mouth. Then you put your mouth on the other end and sucks while I blow smoke from my side.”

I place the joint in my mouth and look at Patrick. “Ready?” I try to mumble out. He nods and brings his lips to the J. Our lips are almost touching and my whole face gets hot when I see his eyes.

Patrick POV:

She’s teasing me. She knows it too. I stare at her facial expressions as I let the smoke consumes my lunges. Her eyes are pulling me in. She wants me and I know it. I want her too, but I know if I do she’ll crumble into dust. She’s not real. She’s only another puppet in my game. If she’s real they one day she’ll let me know in the most obvious way. She’ll know, understand, and believe me when I say I am the only real being. Then I won’t be alone.

She pulls away blowing the rest of the smoke out of her mouth onto my face in a sexual manor. Batting her eyelashes laughing as I blow my smoke out feeling the effects take over. She laughs uncontrollably falling over and leaning on me. I internally panic feeling her warmth on mine. I can just imagine feeling up her skin as she clashes with me.

I place my hand on her revealed arm and have to pause for a moment. It’s better than I’ve imagined. She doesn’t bother to move off of me as I began to stroke up and down her silky skin. She only sinks deeper into me drinking from a cup. “The fuck do you think you’re doing Hockstetter?” Henry stands up promptly seeing my hands on his sister. I shrug leaving my hand in its place. “Nothing?” “Get your hands off her.”

She giggles moving further up almost into my lap. “Bug off Henry. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.” Henry walk over to us in a rage. “(Y/n) get the fuck off. You’re acting like a whore.” “No. I can do whatever I want. I can even do this.” (Y/n) picks up my hand and places my open palm around her breast. My mouth drops open as I feel the flesh covered by the thin tank top.

I squeeze unintentionally making her body slightly arch back into mine. I feel myself getting hard as she moves on top of my lap. Henry becomes raged and pushes her off of me and in her spot on the couch. I grab one of the blankets and place it over my bulge before anyone could see.

(Y/n) stands up, bends down, grabs the bottle of vodka, and turns it up. Once she’s had enough she puts it back in its place. She giggles staggering her way to the steps. “Goodnight boys.” the rest say their goodbyes while I sit and stare at her. She leans herself on the railing smirking. “Goodnight Patrick.” I gulp watching her. “Night.” I state simply. She frowns and walks up the rest of the way to her room.

“Fuck dude! She’s into you bad!” Belch rushes to say. I shake my head taking another swig of my drink again. “She can be into him all she wants. He touches her ever again and I’ll kill him.” Henry threatens me. I roll my eyes over the bullshit excuses. “You can try Bowers.” I try and push off the feeling of nerves away, but am unsuccessful. I only crave more of the touch I got. I only crave her.

(Y/N) POV:

I slam my door shut in anger. Even when I make the moves he doesn’t give a fucking reaction! He’s a fucking emotionless doll! Oh, but I so badly crave his attention, and I have no clue why! His large hand upon my breast gave me a feeling I’ve never had, but know I’ve craved forever. I wanted it so bad, but I didn’t even know. I huff laying on my bed opening the notebook again for my nightly read. If I want him that badly I need to prove it, but how do you prove something to Patrick fucking Hockstetter?

[shadows-echoes]

Of Blood and Biocomponents - Pt. 3

(This beautiful gif isn’t mine! Gif source here!!)

Pairing: Ruthless!Connor x reader

Summary: A soulmate AU where injuries from one person appear on the body of the other.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence and injuries, swearing, the usual.

Word Count: 4.4k

Masterlist // Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6 // Part 7 // Part 8 (epilogue)

Working the late shift at your job wasn’t something you minded much. Obviously, it wasn’t your favorite shift but, then again, your job wasn’t exactly your dream job either. It was work; it paid the bills. In this precise moment, however, you find yourself cursing the late-night hours you were assigned and the dark, almost empty streets you were thusly left to walk down.

“Listen,” you calmly address, “all I’ve got on me is a used textbook and a broken phone.”

The lie leaves your lips easily- or as easily as it could considering the circumstances. In truth, you also have twenty bucks and a few bus tickets on you. And while the textbook is used, it still costs half a month’s worth of rent for some godforsaken reason. 

But the man standing a measly few feet away pointing a gun at you doesn’t need to know that little detail.

His face is shadowed by the distinct lack of light filtering into the grungy alley and obscured by a low hood. Even so, you’re careful to keep your eyes on him and not on the dark, semi-reflective gun he held. He looks about your age if not a bit older, from what you can tell, and his clothes don’t exactly fit the definition of clean. He looks… Well, he looks rough to put it one way, and the gun he clutches doesn’t look to be fairing much better.

“Shut up,” he barks, “just hand over your bag!”

The nerves standing on edge throughout every inch of your body and your racing, jumping mind don’t help you in the slightest, you know. So, grinding your teeth, you force down the fear. You bury the alarm- channel it into something useful, something more productive than anxiety, a flying heartrate, and shaking limbs: anger. An anger that brewed just below the surface, roused by inequity.

Did you really want to risk the possibility of being shot over some cash and a scribbled-in textbook? Yes. Yes, you absolutely do. Is it worth it- worth more than your life? No. Well, maybe in today’s economy but that wasn’t the point. You should’ve been halfway home by now, safe, and blocking out the memories of the shift you just finished.

With careful movements, you slowly slide the old backpack from your shoulders as you eye the man before you, biding your time, thinking.

You hear it just as you’re extending the bag towards him.

Sirens.

Police sirens, to be exact. And they sounded awfully close by.

It was almost comical, the way the two of you freeze, eyes darting towards the opening of the alley before darting back to each other. Watching. Waiting.

For one long breath you don’t dare to breathe, that’s all there is: sirens. Sirens, you observing him, and him observing you.

Police.

Witnesses.

Help.

Opportunity.

Internally, you smirk.

His fingers shake as he readjusts his hold, grip tightening around the handle of the gun. He jerks his head sharply in warning, no doubt guessing the thoughts running through your mind. “Don’t-”

The rest of the threat is silenced.

Holding tightly to your bag, you swing it with as much force as you can muster at his hand- at the gun. The weapon clatters to the ground and skids across the rough concrete, but just as it does your mind registers the burning sensation ripping across your chest and the gunshot ringing in your ears.

You ignore it.

The piercing sound, the searing feeling, the undoubtedly bloody consequences- you ignore all of it. You don’t freak out or lose your mind- you might not have time for that. So you swallow down the simmering anger you’d channeled, the half-foreign surge of rage urging you to deck the guy and drag him out of this alleyway and right up to the police, and instead do the smart thing. 

You use what’s left of his surprise to your advantage, and you run.

-

Your reception at the hospital went about as well as you could’ve imagined. Nurses smiled at the return of your familiar face before quickly scowling once they caught sight of blood that soaked your shirt.

The wound was not that bad, at least in regard to the others you’d received on previous occasions. It was more of a deep graze above your ribs than a bullet wound. You were even able to make your statement to the police while you were getting stitched up; it wasn’t a big deal.

At least… to you.

Within five minutes of finally, finally, making it back to your apartment at some god-awful hour in the early morning, there was a knock on the door. You had half a mind to ignore it in favor of collapsing into bed and sleeping, and half a mind to answer only so you could tell whoever it was to get lost.

You were not sure what you were expecting when you did end up opening the door, you were hardly awake enough to imagine much at all by this point, but it certainly wasn’t Connor.

Connor stands on your doorstep.

He looks identical to when you first met him two weeks ago. The staple Cyberlife jacket, the white dress shirt and charcoal tie, the dark jeans, even the stray piece of hair that fell to the side of his forehead, it was all the same. Eerily so. But… not quite as eerie as him knowing where you lived and... dropping by.

His expression is void of pleasantries. It was blank, analyzing, but his eyes… As you gape up at him, your breath lodged in your throat, you find yourself suddenly acutely pleased that looks alone could not kill.

There had been absolute radio-silence between you and Connor over the last two weeks, not a single word had passed your teeth or was transferred through your skin. It was what you expected considering what he is. What you hadn’t quite dared to expect, however, was fewer soul-wounds. Or rather, less brutal ones.

Whether you had actually gotten through to him -doubtful- or he simply desired to avoid you -far more likely-, didn’t particularly matter to you. In the end, the result was the same: two full weeks without any relatively vital injuries. It had been… nice. A relief you didn’t want to question.

Your first and only encounter proved what you had already gathered through your research when originally trying to track him down: that Connor had no limits when it came to his missions. That he has a body count and is not programmed to feel remorse. Or guilt. Or regret. That he detests, if such an emotion were possible for him, anything relating to sentimentality.

Despite this, and much to your dismay, he still intrigued you as much as he appalled you. But knowing what you did of him, any thought, any fleeting inclination to reach out, to understand, was nevertheless burned. The mere idea of it was shoved down into the dark recesses of your mind, barricaded, and dutifully ignored. It was better that way. Soulmates you may be, but acquaintances you were not. You were content so long as you were no longer forced to frequent the hospital.

“Did you know that if the trajectory of the bullet that hit you had been eleven degrees to the left it would have vitally damaged one of my main biocomponents?” he asks, the edge to his voice sharper than any knife.

The greeting -or lack thereof- immediately erases your surprise, replacing it with an incredulousness that reaches your bones.

What, so he was allowed to get shot and burned and broken and bruised until it was probably cheaper to be uploaded into a new body than be repaired, until you were littered with wounds and buried in debt, but you get grazed by one bullet and suddenly you’re the problem?

Perhaps you should’ve seen something like this coming, you idly realize, considering how well he handled you falling down a goddamn flight of stairs. Perhaps you should learn to associate that warm, instantaneous surge of frustration with him alone, considering the feeling overwhelmed you whenever he opened that mouth of his.

“No, actually,” you retort, “I was a bit too busy getting shot.” Obviously, you’d known implicitly that he was okay since you weren’t dead, but the thought of how the bullet may have affected Connor hadn’t exactly crossed your mind. A graze had never stopped him in the past. “Why are you here?”  

“As I’ve already said, your injuries are highly inconveniencing and they have now disrupted my missions on multiple occasions,” he answers flatly. “That needs to change.”

The finality of his last few words sends a shiver of unease up your spine and your eyes narrow. However daunting the words may be, however, they failed to explain his presence. Sentimentality wasn’t an option and he wasn’t here to permanently end you for being a hindrance otherwise he would have done so already. If it was a hypocritical reproach he was seeking, it could be done far more easily, more quickly, through your skin.

“You will learn how to fight in order to prevent such instances in the future.”

It’s a simple statement that leaves no room for debate and it is said with a deadly serious expression, but that does little to wither the amusement suddenly working through your system.

Something between a scoff and a laugh pulls itself from your throat in disbelief. “You’re going to teach me how to fight?”

“At this rate, it will take even longer than I anticipated but yes,” he informs. Not waiting for an answer, for an affirmation, for anything or anyone, Connor pushes past you and marches directly inside your apartment.

You whirl around, already shouting, “what are you- I haven’t even agreed yet!”

Out in the world, in neutral territory, you had no problem confronting him. But here? In your own apartment? He looked so entirely out of place in the domestic environment, in anything, you guessed, that wasn’t a battlefield. It felt like an invasion, like a crossover between the sanctity of your home and- and whatever he is. What little you really know about him all boils down to the fact that he is a deadly weapon by design. Common sense is the sole thing keeping you from attempting to force him out, you valued your life after all, but that does little to settle your rightful hostility.

“If you were opposed to the idea-” he begins, examining your apartment with a single, sweeping glance before turning towards you curtly, “-you would have tried to stop me from entering. You also do not have a choice in the matter. You will learn.”

For the second time in the last minute and a half, you are left agape. Only this time it isn’t from surprise, but from indignance and the slightest bit of trepidation which you would never admit to in a million years. But mostly from irritation because... Because he wasn’t entirely wrong.

While you still didn’t particularly want him here, the idea itself wasn’t bad. You were willing to do quite a bit to avoid needing as much medical assistance as you have since Connor was first created. So if learning appeased him, kept you from becoming gun fodder, then you weren’t exactly unwilling. You’d learned the basics of self-defense when you were younger and you still knew a couple of tricks, but tonight was evidence enough that a refresher wasn’t the absolute worst idea in the world.

Knocking Connor on his ass was also the very first thing you wanted to do upon learning of his existence so there was that too.

But it didn’t make any sense.

“Why?” you ask, meeting his predatory gaze with a calculating stare of your own. “Why would you teach me? If I’m that much of a problem for you why not just kill either one of us? You’d get a new body, right? It’s not like-”

“Your death,” he interrupts crisply, something awfully close to irritation gracing his sharp features, “would hinder my mission.”

The words make you freeze- freeze more rapidly and deeply than when you had a gun shoved in your face. More than when you stared down at your first gaping, bloody mess of a soul-wound in a stupor. More than when the idea of not having a soulmate had first seized you.

Because this was Connor, and somehow you were related to his mission.

A sickening silence ensues as your head spins trying to make sense of it, to connect the dots you couldn’t see, ones you didn’t even know existed until now.

“What’s your mission?” you ask, suddenly wary, suddenly unsure of your own footing.

Connor doesn’t deign to give you an answer.

-

“This is hardly fair, you can’t even feel pain.”

“How unfortunate. Now, attempt to punch me.”

“I really don’t want a black eye. They’re kind of a bitch to deal with in case you didn’t know.”

“You won’t get one.”

Connor only stands an arm’s length in front of you and yet you have to tilt your head up to hold his eyes- the eyes that are currently staring condescendingly down at you. He raises his dark eyebrows tauntingly at your hesitancy, and the request for further elaboration dies on your lips.

It would definitely be worth it, you decide, receiving any self-imposed soul-wounds so long as you got to punch that stupid, perfect face of his, to create some kind of change in his expression and across his skin.

Shifting your stance to align with the one he’d instructed you to stand in, the one he drilled into your brain, you form a fist with your hand and aim for the spot between his eye and nose.  

Your knuckles never connect.

Before your fist comes remotely close to making contact, Connor’s already blocked the move, taken a step towards you, and slammed the palm of his hand against your non-leading shoulder.

The hard flooring does nothing to soften your landing and only serves to knock the air from your lungs. Pain radiates through your shoulder, the one you landed on, and a wheezing cough escapes you before you’re able to regain enough breath to properly groan.

“It’s bold, unlikely, and entirely premature of you to assume your hits will land,” he intones.

Connor towers above where you lie, and, glaring up at him, the inside of your cheek stings from the force your teeth exert in an effort to prevent yourself from saying anything you would regret.

In this precise moment you decide to stop caring altogether about what wounds, soul or otherwise, you might receive through training with him. The cold expression which seemed to be a staple of his, a fixed permanent of all that is Connor, was possibly the most irritating thing you’d ever encountered in your entire life, and you decide that you would wipe it off his face if it was the last thing you do.

-

Connor catches your leg, abruptly stopping the roundhouse kick by wrapping an arm around your calf and securing it against his side, locking you in place.

“You are still leading with your leg. There needs to-”

“Be a straight line from shoulder to knee, I know,” you drone, rolling your eyes at him.

You wished you were performing the steps “incorrectly” only to pester him, to ire him for your own amusement, but that constant feeling in your chest, that need to one-up him, remained as strong as ever. Though, his opinion of human ability was already so incredibly low that you doubted there was much you could do to lower it further -not that the thought hadn’t crossed your mind a couple dozen times-. 

He’d gone over the procedure again and again by this point, and you could recite the clipped lecture word for word, perform the steps exactly as dictated, entirely certain you were doing so correctly. But, unsurprisingly, it never seemed to quite meet his standards.

You attempt to pull back your leg so you could try the move again, or maybe stand on two feet while he lectures you, but Connor holds on, his fingers digging into your skin.

“If you know then why aren’t you doing it?”

Wrestling back a scoff, you use your shin to push off against his side before yanking your leg out of his grip. It was, you learned, the best way to get out of the hold he had on you… Except Connor lets go just as you push off.

The unexpected lack of resistance sends you flying, but his hand wraps around your brachium just before you hit the ground.

But he doesn’t pull you up.

He keeps you there, hanging awkwardly above the floor as his gaze digs into your own as if to hollow you from the inside out.

“Keep a straight line. From your shoulder. To your knee.”

-

“Do you know what happened to him?”

“I’m not here to answer your questions, however vague.”

“So..?” you prod, throwing another few punches at Connor in quick succession. His words had been a dismissal, sure, but they were also all the confirmation you needed. Lines were easy to read between after all, and the things he doesn’t say are becoming more apparent the more time you spend with him.

You followed up with the police to see if they had had any luck catching the guy who shot you, who tried to mug you, but they had lost him entirely. The police said he must’ve gone underground “or something” because there wasn’t any trace of him after that night. 

Connor wasn’t the police, but if anyone knew or could find information about some random mugger it would be him.

He blocks your strikes with ease while answering blankly, “he’s no longer a concern.”

You pause mid-motion, brows scrunching up in confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Taking advantage of the opportunity you inadvertently provided, Connor seizes your still wrists and leans down, towards you, so that his words are impossible to miss. “Through you, he damaged me. He is no longer a concern.”

Something dark flashes across his eyes, something that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on edge, something that makes your hackles rise and a voice appear in the quiet recesses of your mind ordering you to run. It is only visible for half a second before it vanishes from his dark brown eyes, but it was long enough for you to realize that you had been wrong before. Looks most certainly could kill.

The words -because it had to be the words, and not his sudden unexpected proximity or the intensity he seemed to emit in waves- sends a sliver of ice down your spine and a critical awareness of your surroundings, of yourself, of every inch of him, racing through your brain.

You do not flinch under Connor’s scrutiny, instead remembering the man who shot you and the lengths he was willing to go to, the stitches you were forced to receive.

“Good.”

-

Grabbing your outstretched arm, Connor pulls and spins in one swift motion until he has you in a headlock. Not wasting a single precious moment of time, you shift to the side, behind him, and place your foot behind his. Then you simply grab onto the hard plains that are his torso and tug. Gravity does the rest.

Connor’s arm leaves your throat to brace for the impact and you twist to the side the second you’re free. You keep twisting as you fall, and rolling once you hit the ground, until all your limbs are successfully untangled from his and you come to a stop a few feet away.

It was a perfect recreation of the maneuver and a smug, satisfied smirk lines your face as you shift onto your knees. But the self-indulgent reverie is incredibly short-lived. A second later, before you’re able to congratulate yourself, throw a jibe at Connor, or even stand up, he’s on you again.

He knocks you off balance, onto your back, and follows your descent until he’s hovering above you with a leg on either side. Too surprised to do much of anything, you end up doing nothing at all in the split second it takes for him to catch your arms and pin them to the ground beside your head.

His expression is a blank mask which borders on sharp -and it’s suddenly all too close- but Connor remains silent, his arched brow saying what his mouth currently isn’t. A wordless reminder of the rules he instilled in your mind.  

Never allow yourself to be distracted.

Do not presume your opponents to be incapacitated.

Never let your guard down.

Do not stop fighting until your opponents are wholly incapacitated or dead.

You know the words. You know what he wants you to remember, but the actual thoughts which race through your brain just slightly too fast to be caught and cast out are of a completely different sort. They’re of that awareness which seemed to pop up, out of nowhere, at the most inopportune times. Of the thin layer of perspiration that covers you. Of Connor looming above, practically straddling you. Of the low electrical current running through your body and the places where your skin seemed to burn under his touch. Of the vicious whirlwind of a storm that is always -or did it just appear?- raging in his eyes.

You’re pinned down by a brutal, relentless machine, rejecting every single thought and feeling coursing through you, and all you allow yourself to do- all you can do, is laugh.

“You couldn’t even let me have that, could you?”

-

“What?”

“You are sleep-deprived.”

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. I told you I had to pull an all-nighter.”

“You are too inefficient while in this state. Go.”

-

“Do your employers know about these little side-trips of yours?”

From the other side of the room, Connor shoots you a narrow-eyed look. “You know I do not have employers. I have owners and I have missions.”

As terrible as they were, it wasn’t his words that struck you the most. It was the way Connor said them- like it was an indisputable fact, something not worth thinking twice about, something that should’ve been obvious. It threw you, created a feeling of dread in your stomach and resentment behind your ribs. Maybe it was because you hadn’t thought about the question in such terms before this point, but his answer, and the truth in it, appalled you with a striking intensity you weren’t prepared for.

“Dude, that’s fucked up,” you state, planting the water bottle in your hand none-too-gently back on the table.

To your surprise, Connor, for once, doesn’t comment. His gaze is calculating but whether he’s analyzing your words or their meaning you don’t particularly care to decipher. He wasn’t affronted by his own statement and its truth and that vexes you half as much as the injustice did.

You scoff. “Look, if you’re alive enough to have a soulmate, you’re alive enough be considered a person.”

The dry comment half spoken under your breath passes your lips without thought, without consent, and you know, immediately, that it was the wrong thing to say. That it was probably the worst thing you could say.

The moment the words are vocalized, Connor’s entire frame stiffens and locks into place. The predatory glint was all at once back in his eyes, the one that hunted, the one that saw everything- that saw too much. The change is not drastic considering Connor was methodical in his every action but… But it is.

You hadn’t realized his shoulders were not as uncomfortably and unnervingly straight as physically possible until they suddenly were. You hadn’t realized that the tension in the air was no longer one of irritation or distaste until it was once again picking at your skin, that the atmosphere was begrudgingly passable as pleasant until it was once again hostile.

Just as there existed the unspoken deal that both of you would restrict the number of vital injuries obtained, so that Connor could complete his missions uninterrupted and you stood a chance at not randomly bleeding out at school, a second deal also existed. Except it wasn’t quite a deal but rather a law. A law that stipulated the s-word was never to be uttered, the topic of soulmates never to be mentioned, and the fact that you two were soulmates entirely, thoroughly, and wholly dismissed and disregarded without exception.

“We might be… connected-” he snarls, practically spitting the word “-in some meaningless way but if you are clinging on to some foolish human illusion then I suggest you dispose of it immediately.”

Once, the dark look he was giving you, the one he wore so well, and the cutting sharpness of his voice, both tells and promises of a lack of mercy, would have stilled you. Once, his detachment that was so entirely and unavoidably inhuman, a reminder of the machine that he is, would have given you pause, made your muscles falter and your resolve waver.

But Connor had since bled before your eyes. You had since made him bleed, bruise for but a fraction of a second before his cooled, synthetic skin repaired itself. You had experienced his every injury for yourself. Connor was ruthless, preeminent, that much was a given. He was calculating and methodical and shrewd and without one single line of pity written into his code. He didn’t have a heart, literally and figuratively. He was the perfect machine. But that’s all he was. After all, those all-powerful beings couldn’t bleed.

And you’re angry now. So instantaneously and extraordinarily angry that you refuse to look at the feeling too closely, preferring the simmering blood in your veins over- over whatever else lurked there. Over what you don’t want to admit, let alone acknowledge the existence of. 

No, anger was far better; rage was safer.

“Believe me,” you snarl right back, baring your teeth at the living weapon that he is. “I disposed of that before I even met you.”

It was true.

The words are true.

You know they are, there was no other option. They have to be true.

But they leave a bitter taste on your tongue regardless.

-

A/N: I took some liberties with this one and I’m a mix of ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) and ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ because Idk how it turned out but it was surprisingly fun to write so… hope you liked it! 

Let me know what you think!

This was also supposed to be a quick little montage squished between two other scenes but it turned into its own part. At the inception of this story, I promised myself it wouldn’t become as long as The Logic of Emotion because ain't nobody got time for that but… the way things are going I might end up breaking that deal *insert ugly sobbing here*

Tags: @aya-fay @syrinxgm @quartetstarheaven @kylobien @silverconduit @dramaticalabiter @aeryntheofficial @nissistylinson @theoraekensnotsosecretlover @the-smol-onion @adaydreaminganon @warriorqueennorthlotus @swordsandserpents @deviantsupporter @iamthunderstorm18 @goddessofthegeeks @dragonempress123 @alexkunis @robin-rokossovsky @moramortar @nerdylittoyvoid  (names with a strikethrough couldn’t be tagged)

[mathryoshka]

Bench Flower. | 4

42, the number that represents the answer to mankind’s curiosity towards life, universe, and everything. —The Hitchhiker Guide to The Galaxy.

genre: angst, friendship.

chapter(s): 4/4.

summary: during pre-debut days, 3RACHA encounters empty hopes. it’s up to them to sink or conquer. (insp: track 42 by 3RACHA. (listen here )

CB97 // J-ONE // SPEARB // 3RACHA.

3RACHA.

Bang Chan is … feeling strange. Quite strange. There’s sadness within him, a little leftover from last night’s late ponder. There’s storm in his eyes; a current of strained jubilation that goes dark as the restless nights march on. The surrealism demands no end. It keeps haunting him, though not in a negative way. Everyday, each element will unfold retrograde conception of what dreams are made for—of what desires are meant to be. In one particular strand, he is told the courage of musicians. The pictures elapsing inside his dreams foretokening success; all flowers, all reflections, all cubicles, all ponds— everything makes sense. So far he’s speaking with his fervor, the embodiment of his passion. It emerges in diverse constituents in order to build a message that it can’t tell through words, for passion is a part of emotion with no ability to form speech. Classic, all sequence of surrealism is solely the manifestation of his deepest mind’s effort in battling hopelessness. Nothing transcends in between.

Chan grips the railings of the dormitory’s rooftop, leaning closer to the open air. The midnight breeze is cold enough to reduce the intensity of his fear. In tranquility he recalls his old mates in Australia, making himself again; aware of how serene his life was with no examinations and eliminations. How peaceful it is to follow community, the flowery path of common teenagers in fulfilling their common dreams; school works, P.E. classes, and academical exams instead of vocal trainings, dance practices, and trainee showcases. If only he can turn back the time, Bang Chan leans closer to the railings. His firm grip on the iron bar is getting loose. There’s a melody in his head, developed rather spontaneously. Combined with words from the most haunting dream, Chan croons, his face already touching the midnight’s cold breath. —.

“Chan-hyung!” Ji-sung’s voice screams out from the entry of the rooftop section, sprinting towards him with a panic-stricken look drawn across his bare countenance. He looks extremely frantic, clambering towards the oldest in the way a woman chases her baby’s crib stirring away on a busy pavement. When he gets closer, Chan sees his sleepless eyes glossy with fresh tears. Ji-sung pulls him away from the railings as he bellows at the top of his lungs; “Don’t you give up on us, don’t you give up on us.”

Bang Chan is rendered immobile by his odd gestures. The night is on the peak, why is he still awake? Most importantly—why is he acting so distraught? Ji-sung’s holler is more than necessary in such reclusive confinement. The way his voice cracks, the way he hauls him aside—he’s treating him as if Chan’s going to end his freakin’ valuable life … . while he’s not.

“Jisung-ah, what’s going on?” Chan pries Jisung’s firm grip away, from his bicep, flinching at the dull ache. Jisung’s tears eventually falls—slithering down his pale cheeks in rapid motion. “You’ve been acting weird since 42—I thought you’re going to give up on music—give up on us,” Chan’s tense muscles go limp. “For the sake of 3-RACHA, why should I think of giving—.”

“Spill them out,” Changbin interferes, his deep voice still hoarse with the quality of disturbed sleep. He appears from the unmoving darkness of the rooftop entrance, carefully stepping out. “You think we haven’t gotten any hunch of you? Are you trivializing us, hyung?”

Even beneath the dim effulgence of the mercury moon, Chan can observe the way Jisung’s face shifts from panic to surprise. Changbin’s emergence is truly uncalled for.

As the three enters a seemingly everlasting eye contact, Chan discerns small details that he hasn’t yet regarded in a more serious way. While Jisung shares the same black circles and a sharpened jaw from losing weight, Changbin is … what Chan might call “worse.” Not only he’s encumbered by the fear of not being able to express his passion through music, he’s also afflicted by his schoolwork—his academic dreams in achieving more. Chan can vividly recall the day when Jisung and Changbin run a fever; they both harbor the similar heat of perseverance in his eyes, although their gazes are still hazy from the illness. “I don’t want to waste another day, hyung.” They both say, their old voices now ringing repeatedly in Chan’s mind, “I don’t want to give up.”

“Talk to us, hyung.” Changbin crouches near Jisung and Chan, grief looking so clear like bright paint splashed on a dark canvas. “What happened?” Chan shudders. Changbin’s sympathy—. This is the first time he hearkens the rapper being so wholehearted to him. This is the first time Changbin sees him in the midst of a downfall, resting among his own dark thoughts. Jisung has seen him crying beforehand, but not for the deep-voiced boy he encountered a year ago. There’s an odd solitude delivered through reassurance and recurrence—the kindness he provides manages to make Chan weeps, fresh tears spilling freely along the angles of his chiseled visage.

“I was just … tired.” The oldest whimpers, his cadence unstable. “Six years I’ve been here, I got nothing in return. Debut sounds like a dream out of reach—“ He remembers the day the woman clad in brown leather coat examines the way he sings, replaying the cassette over and over again, before ends up sighing heavily; “Talented, but not talented enough. Ego is what you lack of. You deserve no spotlight with your current capabilities.” It hurts him. “It hurts to see everyone rises to the top as I stay off the ground. Is it because I’m me, not them? Where did I go wrong?”

Jisung and Changbin—once again—drown themselves in a meaningful silence, just like the other day. Chan’s on the verge of collapsing, and the two can’t develop any single equanimity. Stuck on the puzzle, stuck on their own riddles of life. Two young boys lost in the sangfroid of confusion, oscillating forever like a pendulum. They watch the leader swinging on the polar extremes, as their feet were pinned onto the grayscale; unable to stir. It’s not like their concern is somewhere else. It’s merely the inability in forming words that holds them down.

“I ask myself why a few days ago.” The captain begins again, smiling. “My dreams answer, and finally—after seemingly a long period of nightmares, I saw faces—mine. Us,”

Much to Chan’s surprise, Jisung and Changbin both slowly extend their arms and pull him into their warmest embrace. They’re trembling underneath the disturbance of cold, but deep down they know—if words can’t play the game, let action do its job. Through the haze of melancholy, Chan hugs them back. Although the rest of their withdrawal is spent along the course of silence, Chan can hear their intentions, loud and clear; “We’ll be here for you.” Jisung’s old saying echoes. “No matter what happen, hyung. I’ll be there for you.” Changbin’s old “oath” ricochets in his mind, bouncing back and forth like a noise made by broken tapes. Through the treasured quietude, Chan smiles at their memories—the moment he meets Ji-sung, the conversation they have after long hours of practice, the recruitment of Changbin, Ji-sung admitting a healthy rivalry with Changbin, 3-RACHA recording their first tracks and releasing it to websites. It’s not easy to gain acknowledgement as musicians when you begin it small, but as long as they’re here—Chan is sure his path to success is entirely secure.

Chan releases their hug with a mischievous cackle. It’s odd to see them being all sad, therefore he strives to eradicate every sadness in him by saying; “Hey, I’m not giving up on you, you know? Jisung-ah, you really are exaggerating the facts.” Upon this statement, Jisung’s face goes completely red. He bites his lower lip hard, trying to not burst with the growing shame. Changbin puts a reassuring hand on Chan’s shoulder. “Are you really all right now, hyung?” Chan nods, “In fact, I got something for all of you. Rough work for my newest production. I want to replace the gloomy 42 with something brighter—and more motivational in a good way.” “What is it?”

Grinning gingerly at his boys’ curiosity, Chan unfolds a crumpled paper jutting out from the pocket of his ripped jeans. The paper isn’t perpetually sufficient due to its abnormal size, but oddly, Chan’s long scribble fits. From his angle, Jisung takes a glimpse of the oldest’s note—it’s a composition of lyrics written in navy blue ink. “Hear me out, will ‘ya?” Jisung and Changbin tilt their head in a manner that represents pure impatience, eyes sparkling with restless anticipation.

Too far away, like a tunnel vision. The light in front of me isn’t shining yet. The day that we obviously walked, Talk that, call that, Black—darkness taking over.

Seems like our expectations from the beginning is too big, The moment my heart gets attacked, What a moment. Tick-tock, even time passes. Our music’s view count got no change. “Ah, should I just give up?” That thought haunts me.

Before I lose my mind, J-One and Spear-B who stood in front of me, They hold me while saying, “Let’s hold on a little longer.”

Now wake up Chris, we just started. By thinking that this desire is the beginning to get to the top, I start working on our music again, 3RACHA, we’re gonna make it one day.

By the time Chan finishes rapping, Jisung already has a fluttered wide grin upon his face and Changbin already has a bead of tear streaming down his face. Chan grins back at them, his rows of white teeth shown clearly. “How was it?” Jisung takes a deep breath, “It’s extremely beautiful,” Changbin grits his teeth, “I’m torn between punching your gut or hugging you tight, hyung.” Both Jisung and Chan proceeds to a wholehearted laughter. “What’s the title, hyung?” Jisung asks right after his jubilation dies down, “Or you haven’t decided anything yet?” “Worry not, I got one.” Chan folds the paper again and tucks it safe in his warm pocket, “To illustrate the weakness and the strength of 3RACHA, to draw us as a thriving musician with passions to be delivered worldwide, Even a dark shadow needs light to exist.”

Disclaimer.

The entire point of Fleur lies on the power of dreams, flower representations, and two specific songs; 42, and Even A Dark Shadow Needs Light To Exist ( 그림자도 빛이 있어야 존재 ) . These two incredibly powerful tracks were released for their second mixtape, yet they’re now gone from the official channel. For those who’re new to the fandom, 3RACHA has released so many productions and often, the most amazing ones are those which were taken down for unknown reasons. Still, let’s keep on supporting the boys.