#the average person would sooner throw out their back just trying to lift that thing 😭

[trashyvanillabean]

With Yunli being a dancer, artisan and practicing swordplay, I would imagine that she has to eat quite a bit in addition to vigorously training (probably somewhat more than Yanqing) in order to keep herself physically fit and healthy. It wouldn’t be surprising if she even visits the Alchemy Commission to ask about nutritional guidelines and such. I mean, her weapon of choice is a giant sword about her size (if not bigger than her).

What surprises (and somewhat worries) me is that considering her résumé so far, she’s…actually pretty petite.

[britishassistant]

The Villainous Paranoiac Experiences Culture Shock

The Hannya of the Gracey and its Kitsune.

Tricky, cruel, deceptive, jealous, ungrateful.

That’s what you’ve been called ever since Nanji settled. It’s been whispered behind your backs and said outright to your faces.

Ever since Chichiue told you to take a more appropriate form if you both were going to eat dinner properly with the family, and his eyebrows drew down when you stuttered out that you were trying, you were, but Nanji couldn’t change back from the red fox that quailed under the glare of Chichiue’s eagle.

You were sent to their room in the middle of the meal because of that, Asahiko-nii-sama’s exaggerated faces of disgust, Leota-nee-sama’s quiet yet smug vindication and Enji-nii-sama’s open glares of disapproval following you both as you left.

Seven isn’t an…uncommon age for a dæmon to settle. Unusual, to be sure, enough to raise and lower eyebrows, prompt the start of a inquiry before the asker remembers which family they’re about to question.

But it’s just edging into more common for “early bloomers” that it’s usually assumed that you were closer to eight than seven when Nanji did settle. Besides, there are kids out there who have had their dæmons settle at younger ages, after all.

All the studies you’ve read say this phenomenon is near uniformly a result of a traumatic event or hostile living environment. But that’s probably more of a generalization than anything.

Still. At least the names and insults weren’t so bad. They were just words after all.

At least the people using them would steer clear. Keep at least a two foot distance between themselves, the Hannya of the Gracey, and its Kitsune. As though you and Nanji actually had any power to curse anyone with.

At least they wouldn’t try to keep fucking touching your dæmon every five minutes.

So pause. Rewind a bit. You and Nanji and your old middle school crush and his dæmon (who you’ve certainly gotten over, and who does not look any better than he had in middle school now his Sonata has settled, thank you very much) have been transported to another world. This world is called Twisted Wonderland.

The people of this world are soulless assholes.

Because none of them have dæmons.

And the vast majority of them you have met so far are assholes, in some shape or form.

You have yet to ascertain whether the latter is dependent on the former.

And yet they keep acting like normal people in spite of this absence, rather than the traumatized wrecks that are in textbooks in history class, all dead-eyed and unresponsive. So maybe there’s something to the headmaster’s claim that their dæmons are…inside them, somehow.

Though that just gives you the awful mental image of a person lifting a mouse or an insect dæmon to their lips and just…swallowing. Nanji nips your hand for putting that lovely idea in both your heads.

But back to the topic at hand: The people here don’t have dæmons. They have never had dæmons. So it’s understandable that initially all of them don’t quite understand that there’s a difference between them and just another talking animal, like Grim.

That it is NOT OKAY to try to scoop them up or punt them around like they do to Grim (and honestly, you’re not really okay with them doing that to Grim either— it’s why you and Yuuken trade off who has the monster cat perched on their shoulders or in their arms and out of harm’s way whenever you both can). That’s just down to cultural differences. You can understand it, if you cock your head, squint your eyes, and are very, very sleep-deprived.

What is not understandable is the assholes who think it’s hilarious to try to keep touching Sonata and Nanji even after you’ve repeatedly told them “no”.

Some of that might be Nanji’s fault. Though at the time it hadn’t seemed like a bad idea, considering how many curious would-be touchers immediately jerked away and lost interest permanently after he blurted out, “It’s a sex thing!!”

(It’s not exactly a sex thing, more of an intimacy thing at most. But there’s something much more visceral and back-the-fuck-off about “touching a dæmon is like shoving your hands down a stranger’s pants” compared to “touching a dæmon is the realization of a very deep and intimate bond between you and your partner”.)

But of course, many is not all.

And there’s always going to be some assholes who think that seeing how easily they can get away with harassment is a “fun game” rather than a creepy and messed up power play. Just like back home.

Yuuken and Sonata have it much worse than you and Nanji.

You’d thought the muskox form she settled into was noble, dignified, a perfect embodiment of Yuuken’s diligence and strength. (No, it has not made your crush on him worse, shut up.)

The only problem is that a muskox is not as small a creature as a fox. So while you can physically pick up Nanji and move him out of reach if some punks decide they want to cause trouble, poor Sonata has no such defense. She has to move away if they get between her and Yuuken, and their distance limit is so much smaller than your own, and both of them look so trapped—

It surprises everyone but Nanji and yourself when you take a page from Deuce’s book and ball your fist up to punch the asshole trying to bury his hand in the thick fur of Sonata’s flank.

The resulting crack is not from the asshole’s nose breaking, unfortunately.

You haven’t ever really punched anybody before, hadn’t ever been in a situation where you were justified in your retaliation.

Of course you manage to fuck it up on your first try.

Nanji does not thank you for the resulting limp in his one good leg until your hand and his paw heals, even if he understands why you did it. You give him lots of petting in apology, carefully avoiding the spots where his fur is now patchy and the skin is ridged with scars.

(And isn’t that a fun experience, whenever the ex-overblots’ eyes wander over him, catch sight of what they inflicted on you both, and suddenly can’t look at anything else fast enough. None of them have actually, explicitly apologized to either of you for it.)

Yuuken and Sonata hover over you both like concerned mother hens, despite how often and repeatedly you tell them this is not their fault and you’d do it again in a heartbeat. Sonata actually offers to let Nanji ride on her back while he heals.

You try joking you’d get jealous, so it’d be better not to, only for Yuuken to offer to piggyback you around campus as well.

Ace teases you mercilessly for how strangled you sound when you squeak out that that won’t be necessary, and Nanji buries his head under his tail and refuses to come out for the rest of the day.

Deuce is more concerned with teach you how to throw a punch properly, so you don’t hurt yourself next time.

Jack provides Nanji with a smaller version of the splint he sometimes uses if he hurts his paws when in Wolf Mode, which does help a bit, even if it does feel slightly surreal to feel the phantom press of the medical implement on your hand.

Grim delights in setting the assholes on fire whenever they’re within reach. Whether he can get away with it is another factor he doesn’t seem willing to take into consideration.

Crowley scolds him and the rest of Ramshackle by extension for “violent behavior on school premises”, and resorts to subtly threatening to cut off your food money whenever you try to pressure him to actually do something about your harassers, as though it’s somehow your and Yuuken’s faults for having dæmons.

As though it’s Sonata and Nanji’s faults for existing.

You resort to scribbling increasingly insulting caricatures of the stupid birdbrain headmaster for your theory wall to vent your frustration, in absence of any concrete way to get back at him. Nanji chews the cushion in your armchair to near rags as you pin them to the wall with more force than is strictly warranted.

Yuuken and Sonata turn out to be far more proactive than you when it comes to dealing with grudges of this kind.

Or, at least, more willing to go along with plans that allow them to do so.

You know Ace had a hand in it. His brand of vindictiveness and humiliation is pretty distinctive. Ortho is also clearly a culprit, thanks to the technological mishaps that had one of your tormentors in actual tears. From the garish, clashing pink and petty sparkles that have been added to Crowley’s attire, you’re fairly sure Epel was involved too.

Sebek…is a participant you’re on the fence about, for his conflicting claims that it was a childish prank to pull on the bullies and headmaster and that both parties had whatever fate they now suffered coming to them. Even if he wasn’t directly involved, you’re pretty sure he was in on it enough to not spill the details.

But the sudden influx of logs, which would require someone with an above average level of strength and/or the help of an animal that specialized in moving large burdens over distance?

Combined with the fact that Jack and Deuce were as mystified as you, Grim, and Nanji at the results of the prank?

Well, even if Yuuken hadn’t shot you a subtle wink (which most certainly did not have your cheeks heating, no sir) in Ramshackle’s kitchen while the two of you prepared dinner to the sound of Sonata’s quiet laughter, you’re pretty sure you would’ve worked it out sooner or later.

For now, you and Nanji are just glad that they’re both here with you to help navigate this Twisted Wonderland of soulless assholes.

Even if some of them aren’t as bad as the others.

[fuckyeahharryhart]

THE ART OF SEDUCTION  PART 2 - UPDATE

KINGSMAN III: REDACTED (MAIN FIC)

Wanted to add this on to Part 2, but tumblr said that it was just too much..Had to add as another post..

------

Harry felt as if he had been broken open. Not only was he vulnerable physically, mentally and emotionally with all of his being, another part of him had been laid bare. The surface of who he was felt burned away, revealing a new unguarded self without the shields that he had held up against anyone who sought more than he had to give.

At times, in the past, he had thought himself incapable of finding love. His hand had been dealt.  One year would pass by, followed by the next and no one would come to stir his heart. Years became decades. And then the decades had almost become a lifetime. Surely, it would have happened, with all the people that he’d met throughout the years. He had experienced affection, fondness, admiration and respect, and yes, lust and desire for the handful of women who had at one point, entered his life.

But he never felt the visceral sensation of wanting more of a person, not just physically, but more of everything. To experience more of them and experience more with them. The idea of revealing who he was to someone was foreign to him. It was the first time he felt compelled to share not only his life, his space, his time, but share more of who he was. The first time he wanted someone to know more about him.

He had spent his life guarding his privacy. Erecting boundaries so he could maintain a proper distance with the world around him and its inhabitance. He could count days worth of time skirting topics that threatened to glimpse inside the stronghold that held his most personal thoughts, feelings, experiences, emotions. He had blocked off countless attempts that tried to push deeper into his life beyond what he offered. The part of his life that was accessible to others, were the parts of his life that were visible, tangible, concrete things. He could share an evening, a dinner, a drink. Sometimes he could even share his bed. But once someone began to pry under the surface, wanting him to share his feelings, his history, his desires, his fears, he knew it was time to move on.  

Part of his disinclination for closeness was his life both as a soldier and a spy. He not only possessed the ability to turn off his emotions at will, but there was also the ability to armour himself against the emotions that others wanted him to recognise in themselves.

Of course he would recognise the emotion, anger, sadness, confusion felt by others, but these feelings failed to rouse in him a comparable response. Some women had wanted to matter more to him. How many times had he been forced into a situation where the only answer he could provide was, “Not as much as you would like me to.” Harry Hart was never one to fake an emotion he did not feel.

All of his relationships and friendships followed a pattern. They always ended. Merlin had been his closest and oldest colleague. His was the most recent loss. The remaining connection that he has was through Eggsy. Eggsy was the last remaining link to his past.

Part of his distance was in self preservation, but there was another aspect to his mindset.

He was in his late fifties, already past the age that most agents never get to reach. Not because they were no longer working. Not because they had retired. But because they had been killed in action. He could not begin to count the number of close calls that he experienced in the past. He had come out of circumstances that others wouldn’t have a prayer escaping. And when he thought the end had finally come for him, one afternoon in Kentucky, telling him his time was up, that all of his cards had been played, he pulled one last ace from his sleeve. Harry Hart had cheated death, too.

One could only skirt death so many times. Being a soldier and being a spy made one very familiar with death and mortality. They were ever present. Harry accepted his mortality long ago and he knew that his end would inevitably come. That it could every time he went on a mission. He was comfortable with his death.

What disturbed him was someone, who was not prepared to lose him, finding him gone suddenly, one day, without warning and unable to cope with the loss, never being able to know where, how or why. With closure never in reach. He did not want to leave behind someone who would grieve his passing. He could not bear the thought of leaving behind a beloved alone. He did not want a beloved to feel the pain of his loss.

Of course his colleagues would mourn, just as Eggsy and Merlin had mourned him when they thought him dead. And now, as he and Eggsy mourned Merlin at his passing. But agents knew what the life of a spy entailed. They were aware and prepared for the sacrifice.

And now here he was. Without ties as he had wanted. He might not be as spry as he was in his twenties, but was still one of the best agents to have ever donned the iconic Kingsman suit. The rigours of the life hadn’t worn him down. Plus, he had decades of experience and knowledge, which at times was even more valuable than physical prowess. However, inevitably, there would come the day when he was not fast enough, his mind not quick enough, his reflexes not immediate enough. When being Harry Hart would not be enough.  

Kingsman would go on without him. Even though he had no heirs, Kingsman would carry on his legacy. If he left someone else behind, outside of their circle, they would have no support to help with the loss. No memorial. Not even a grave to visit if they ever felt alone and needed something physical to represent that he was once a part of their life.

It was a suffering that he did not wish to impose on anyone, let alone someone he loved.

Where did that leave Gwendolyn and himself? The law of averages said that his time would come sooner rather than later and also sooner than hers. She admitted the day she joined them that, like Harry, she was leaving nothing of value behind. If they were to get involved, how would she feel then? Could she face another loss? She was a strong and capable person, one of the strongest that he had ever met. But that was an enormous burden to ask one person to carry. Since she had not officially dedicated herself to Kingsman, the support of the agency was not guaranteed. She was able to operate without a full commitment because he was Arthur and he gave her allowances that in turn gave her the room and space to work in such a way she felt comfortable. It was ironic that commitment made her insecure about her future.

Perhaps her refusal to plan was the same as his refusal to allow anyone to become close to him. A way for them each to hold pain and suffering at bay, whether it be their own or for the ones who could one day love them.

He had dug down far enough into the rabbit hole of “what ifs”. He pulled himself away from his thoughts and dedicated the full of his attention to simply be with her. The scent of her hair, the warmth of her skin underneath him, the feel of her body against his. She was spent. The intensity of the experience had left her in a state just below consciousness. A rest that was not quite sleep.

Carefully, so as not to disturb her, he slowly drew himself from inside of her. All the while he was still firmly against her, pressing soft kisses to the side of her face and hair. A sigh escaped her lips, but her eyes did not open. He wanted her to know that while he was leaving her in one way, he was still fully present, and that he was with her in another.

As gently as he could manage, he gathered her up. Tucking an arm behind her knees wrapping his other around her back and under her own arm, he lifted her off of his desk and held her to his chest. Her head rested gently in the curve of his shoulder.

With quiet steps, he carried her over to his settee. Her presence, her strength, her skill, made him forget how slight she really was. She felt delicate in his arms. Not a word he would associate with her. Unless he was thinking about the shape of her mouth. One of his first thoughts about her, upon seeing her for the first time, was that her mouth was delicate. She had automatically wrapped her arms around his neck which allowed him to spread a knitted ivory throw over the sofa so she wouldn’t be resting on cold leather. Holding her tenderly, he lowered her onto the blanket. Rolling onto her side, she pulled her knees into her chest and drew her elbows to her knees.  One by one, he unfolded a leg so he could remove one of her heels and roll down a stocking, and then the next. When he was done, she curled up again.

A secure little ball. Her hands made little fists underneath her chin. She looked heartbreakingly beautiful to Harry. Perhaps the most beautiful he had ever seen her. Completely natural, and without any shields. No caution, or a look that said she was trying to be strong. Her face was relaxed, without any need to hide an expression she did not want him to read. Her lips were soft. She felt real to him in a way that no other person had before.

He unfolded a second throw, a warm white, which was larger, softer, with a texture like fur and draped it over her entire body from her toe tips that were drawn close to her body, to under her chin so only the glow of her face and the darkness of her hair were visible.  He reached for a pillow for underneath her head. A large one also, with down batting that she could sink into.

Harry knelt down next to her head and simply stroked the side of her face. Making sure that she could feel his presence. She had taken, what was for herself, a great risk, and let herself be vulnerable. She trusted him to guide and protect her and he took his responsibility very seriously. So as long as she was with him and in his space, he would keep her safe. It was an unfamiliar sensation. There were never a great many occasions where he simply desired to just touch a woman in a delicate way, only because he wanted to feel the fragility of her skin, the softness of her hair. It was tender in a way that was both soothing to her, but also for him.

In case she could still hear him, he whispered in a deep, low voice, to make sure she wasn’t alarmed that he might be leaving her alone.

“I will be right back. I’m not going anywhere.”  

He stood up, adjusted himself and walked over to his closet, picking up his shirt and her blouse and skirt and any other articles of clothing were tossed aside on his way there. He removed the rest of his clothing, draping his slacks over the hamper. He pulled on a pair of relaxed drawstring silk trousers meant for lounging and reached for the dark, wine coloured dressing gown along with his slippers. He always had a spare set of essentials kept in his office. Not that he expected to use them for an occasion like this, but one is always best prepared.

He shrugged the robe around him and tied the belt loosely about his waist. He quietly stepped over to the bar and poured a glass of water before returning to Gwendolyn. He set the glass down gently on the end table, on top of a marble coaster. He eased himself onto the sofa, in the space between the top of her head and the arm rest. Feeling him taking a seat with her, she woke up enough to snuggle further up the couch so she could lay her head on his legs. He offered her the glass of water and he held her head as she took a few small sips. After she was finished, she turned to her other side and nestled into Harry’s lap.  He helped her rearrange her pillow and adjusted her blanket so she was comfortable, covered and warm. 

Reaching for a smaller pillow to support his head and neck, he settled in as well. He would rest here with her for the rest of the evening, into the night. Gazing down at her sleeping face, he felt a sudden surge of protectiveness that demanded she never be hurt. He knew it was impossible, but he felt it nonetheless. Kingsman followed the credo that life is only risked to save another. But if faced with a situation where Gwendolyn was in danger, he felt the primal instinct that would drive him to kill or destroy anyone or anything that would cause her harm.

He knew that he would not sleep, but would remain in a state that was rest. Morning would bring whatever it chose to bring. During the time from this moment until the sunrise, he would be with her soley, feel the rise and fall of her chest, the sound of her breath, the weight of her resting on his lap, her stillness when he placed a palm over her hip, or shoulder or hair. Harry would be with her.

[obxparadise]

Rebel Love Song

JJ Maybank x Female Reader 

Word count: 3,836

~JJ’s had enough of his abusive father and life on the Cut, so he tries to convince you to run away with him~

Song: Rebel Love Song by Black Veil Brides 

A/N: Leave a comment please :) 

*GIF is not mine, but found on Google. Creds to the owner!*

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

I cannot hide what’s on my mind

I feel it burning deep inside

A passion crime to take what’s mine

Let us start living for today

“You are a worthless piece of shit.”

“Shut up!”

“Your mama knew!”

“Shut up!”

JJ’s fist strikes his bedroom door, although he wishes it were his father’s face. It probably wouldn’t be as painful, and he’d feel good about it. But his dad would retaliate like he always did, and JJ’s face couldn’t handle another black eye or split lip. Luke had already done a number on his face twenty minutes prior.

Luke turns up the volume of whatever rock song is playing throughout the house, and JJ clutches the sides of his head, digging his palms into his temples, the thoughts in his head drowning out the song. What the hell was he listening to anyway? Judas Priest? Black Sabbath? He had no fucking clue.

He should be used to it all by now. The loud music. The constant drinking. The verbal violence. The physical abuse. The mental manipulation. It’s been going on for years. And there’s no way to stop it.

The cut on JJ’s lip burns as a salty tear mixes with the dried blood. He drags his fingers across the bottom of his lip, wincing. Thirty grand in restitution for a boat he didn’t even sink. He should’ve seen the punch coming, anticipated it as soon as he slid in the passenger’s seat of the beat up pick up truck. But it happened so fast, over and over, until Luke’s knuckles were painted red with blood.

He doesn’t regret taking the blame, though. Even if he now has to scramble to come up with thirty thousand dollars, JJ’s glad that he did the right thing for once in his life. Pope was a good kid, had too much to lose. But JJ? He had nothing.

The music dies down in the living room and JJ peers toward the door, heart hammering against his chest as he waits for Luke to bust into his room. His fists are balled by his sides, ready to attack if necessary, but the door never opens.

JJ takes it upon himself to crack open the door, just enough for him to peer out into the living room and see Luke passed out on the sofa. Empty beer bottles are scattered along the coffee table and a pill bottle is just barely sitting in Luke’s hand that dangles off the couch. Just another typical Tuesday in the Maybank household.

It’s times like these JJ wishes he wasn’t an only child. Although he’s glad no one else is subjected to Luke’s abuse, the house gets lonely. Talking to his father is impossible. His mother is nowhere to be found, and he resents her for leaving him to live with a monster, to fend for his life.

He could always talk to his friends, though.

Ah, scratch that. They’re all busy tending to their own lives.

Pope’s in and out of scholarship interviews.

Kiara’s working overtime at the Wreck.

John B is glued to Sarah Cameron’s hip.

But there’s one more person left. One person that would always make time for him. One person he could confide in no matter the circumstances.

JJ retrieves his phone from the back pocket of his shorts, typing out a quick message.

Can you meet me at the dock?

He smiles as your name pops up on the screen, promising to meet him in ten minutes.

~

You watch from afar as JJ stands at the edge of the dock throwing rocks into the bay. The sun has begun to set, the sky now painted a light orange and pink, and there’s a slight chill in the air thanks to the open water. Tugging the sleeves of your hoodie down to cover your hands, you shuffle quietly along the wooden boards.

JJ’s body instantly relaxes when your arms circle his middle, forehead resting against his back. The cologne on his body mixed with his natural scent is what keeps you still against him until he turns around to hold you. He needs this hug. You can just tell.

“I owe thirty grand for sinking Topper’s boat.” His voice is defeated, arms limp around your body.

Wherever trouble was, JJ found it. He was always getting into scuffles with the teenagers on the other side of the island, parents turned their noses down at him, and the cops had no problem blaming JJ for crimes he didn’t commit. The boy was an easy target.

You shake your head, refusing to believe his story, but asking the question anyway. “Why’d you do it?”

JJ pulls away, stuffing his hands in his pockets, eyes downcast on the dock. He doesn’t want to tell you the truth, but you have a guess as to who he’s protecting. “Just sick of everyone treating us differently because we live on the poor side of the island. Money isn’t everything, but it’s all these people on Figure Eight know.”

He’s not wrong. The rich kids on Figure Eight can’t separate fantasy from reality. They’ve never known struggle. They’ve always had designer clothes, food on the table, a roof over their heads, plus the perks. Motorcycles. Boats. Cars. Status. Friends. Opportunities. So much more than the average person could afford, or wish for.

And you were one of them.

It’s a wonder how you and JJ became friends. You knew of his hatred for rich kids before you’d even met him. But JJ saw something in you. You weren’t like the rest of them. You had a pure heart, kind soul. Being rich wasn’t a personality trait for you.

“I just,” Dragging a hand through his hair, JJ gazes at you sadly. His frown tugs at your heart. “I just want to get away, you know? I can’t hide it, but I’ve had thoughts about leaving the Cut, the OBX in general.”

Now that’s something you never would of thought would come out of JJ’s mouth. He lived and breathed the Outerbanks. He didn’t know anything else.

“Where would you go?”

He takes a seat on the end of the dock, feet dangling just above the water. You join him, sitting close, head on his shoulder, toes skimming the cool water.  “Paris. England. The Yucatan,” JJ chuckles, nudging you. “That’s long term.”

“What about now?”

JJ exhales, thinking hard. “Maybe Florida. Or Texas. California, possibly. I want to go somewhere warm, like OBX, with a beach and some palm trees,” JJ looks down at the top of your head, resting his cheek on your hair. Your presence calms him. “And I’d take you with me.”

He knocks the breath out of you. You were never one to plan for the future, but the future is all JJ can think about it. And he sees you in his future, wherever he decides to be. How could you possibly tell him that the life that was destined for you would always be in the Outerbanks, breaking his heart in the process?

“Don’t you want to start living? The way we want to?” JJ asks softly, fingertips grazing your leg. Goosebumps rise on your skin at his intimate touch.

“I already am,” you say, considering his words. “My life is here, JJ. I can’t leave it behind.”

“No, it’s not,” JJ retorts instantaneously, voice unwavering. “This life you’re living? It’s not yours. It’s your parents’.”

Bringing your knees to your chin, you reposition yourself to look at JJ, whose staring out at the bay, blue eyes scanning the water, tuffs of blonde hair dancing in the breeze. It’s the first time that night you really took notice of his face. Dried blood dots the corner of his mouth, and a purple bruise rings around his eye. There’s a tick in his jaw and his fingers drum quickly on his leg. He’s tense. “How so?”

He’s never been anything other than blunt. He hides nothing, letting you know how he thinks, what he feels. “Because you don’t stand up to them. They drag you to yacht parties on the weekend because you’ve never told them who your real friends are. They think Susie Milligan and Delia Pratton are your best friends, except they have no idea that you can’t stand them and would rather be surfing with Kie and John B. They make you stay in and study your dad’s old college textbooks, convinced you’re going to be the world’s greatest attorney, but you complain to Pope that the material is dry and you’ll never be happy working as a prosecutor.” Pulling a cigarette from his pocket and then lighting it, JJ takes a drag, puffing out the smoke before turning to face you. “You let them dictate what should be your life. What is it that youwant to do? You never talk about the future, but one day it’ll be here, and it’s sooner than you think.”

His eyes are focused as he waits for you to consider his question. The truth is, you know what you want, but you’ve never said it aloud. No one ever cared to ask, except for now. Except for JJ.

“I want to be a marine biologist,” you’re confident in your answer, and it leads you to spill more. A weight lifts off your shoulders. “I want to go to school in Hawaii or Australia and learn about animals, nature, sea life. I want to surf, fish, and wear flowers in my hair, embrace my free spirit.”

JJ’s smile encourages you. Opening up to him is so easy because he understands. He listens. And he wants the same freedom as you do. The only difference is, JJ will chase after his dreams.

“I want to learn how to play guitar, climb a mountain, run a marathon, learn Chinese, ride in a hot air balloon,” you take a second to catch your breath, feel the chill of the breeze on your legs. “I want to find love. Maybe get married, have a kid or two. Adopt five kittens. Build my own home with a pool that has a waterfall. I want to try escargot, visit a rainforest, and see the Northern Lights. I want so many things, JJ.”

“Then let’s do it,” JJ says, standing and pulling you to your feet. A smile lights up his face as he grabs your hands in his. It’s the happiest you’ve seen him in the last hour, but it contrasts with what you feel inside. “Let’s start living.”

~

Never gonna change my mind

We can leave it all behind

Nothin’s gonna stop us

No not this time

“Hawaii, huh?”

You look up from your soup. Kiara leans against the bar top, watching you curiously. JJ has gone off to the bathroom, the perfect opportunity for Kiara to grill you with questions.

“He seems pretty adamant,” she remarks, flipping hair over her shoulder. “What’d you say?”

The spoon clinks against the metal bowl as you set it down, dabbing your lips with a napkin. “I didn’t answer.”

“Don’t you think you should?” Kiara asks, playing with the beads on her bracelet. “From what JJ said, he seems pretty sure that wherever he goes, you’re following.”

“Oh, he’s set on us moving to the west coast, but I can’t just leave the OBX,” you counter, shoulders slumping. “My life is here.”

“Then why did you tell him all the things you wanted to do if you don’t ever plan on doing them with him?”

The million-dollar question.

“Because I knew he’d listen,” you say quietly. “I didn’t think he was serious about us leaving together, though. We’re sixteen, Kie. What sixteen year olds do you know drop everything and leave their home behind? And besides,” your laugh comes out strangled, “My parents would never let me leave. You know how they are. They don’t even like that I’m friends with JJ. They think he’s trouble, a bad influence. How do you think they’d react if I just up and left with him?”

Kiara leans in close, whispering, “That’s why you don’t tell them.”

You roll your eyes as Kie laughs. “I’m not going to change my mind on this, Kiara.”

Her face turns serious as she chews on the corner of her lip. The gears turn in her head as she contemplates. “Would it matter if I said JJ’s in love with you?”

Your eyes roam her face, waiting for a laugh, a smile, a teasing wink, but her composure is kept intact as she stares at you. Your face falters. “He—what?”

She nods. “What boy asks a girl to travel the world with him if he’s not in love with her?”

Color creeps up your neck, mouth dry, heart beating irregularly. Your body is jelly, almost sliding off the bar stool, but you slink back further into the chair, hands gripping the arm rests. “Are you sure?”

“If I was a gambler, I’d bet it all. That’s how sure I am.”

“I—no,” you dig in your purse for some cash, slapping the bills down in haste. “I’m either going to disappoint JJ or my parents, and I can’t disappoint my family. So, no, JJ being in love with me doesn’t change anything,” you say, exhaling a breath. “I’m not going with him.”

“Well, that’s good to know.”

Kiara’s eyes expand, and you freeze. JJ’s boots pad against the floor as he pushes through the front door, angrily stomping into the night. You thank Kiara for the dinner before rushing outside to chase a visibly irritated JJ.

“JJ, wait!” Your hand clamps down on his shoulder, spinning him around. The look on his face is disheartening. You try to cradle his cheeks, something you normally did to comfort him, but he pushes your hands away. “Please, stop.”

“You were never planning to come with me, were you?” JJ questions, twirling a few of the rings on his fingers. “You were just…what? Entertaining me?”

“JJ, my life is here, in the OBX!” The words that use to flow perfectly off your tongue don’t even sound right anymore. Part of you doesn’t believe them. “I can’t just leave it all behind. And my parents…God, JJ, they’d never let me go with you. I mean, we’re so young.”

JJ nods, although he doesn’t understand. He knows you. He knows your heart. He knows where you really stand. But he can’t persuade you anymore than he’s tried. “I’m taking my dad’s boat and I am leaving tomorrow. I’m getting out of here because I know what I want and nothing is going to stop me.”

JJ turns, and your heart squeezes as you watch him leave. Your fingers twitch, begging to reach out to him. This can’t be it. He can’t be leaving you. “Is it true?”

He stops in his tracks, glancing over his shoulder.  “Is what true?”

You choke back a soft cry, voice croaking. “Are you in love with me?”

JJ faces you, staring absentmindedly. He wants nothing more than to hold you in his arms, kiss your breath away. But he keeps his distance, shoving his hands back into his pockets, whispering, “It doesn’t matter, because it wouldn’t be enough, anyway.”

~

Back home, you’re surprised to see your parents still awake, chatting softly at the island in the kitchen. You hastily wipe away any leftover tears before they can hound you with questions.

“You’re home late,” says your father, giving you a look. He’s the stricter parent of the two. “I assume you have a good reason?”

You keep the conversation short. “I got caught up talking to JJ. I lost track of time.”

Your mother wrinkles her nose, wine sloshing in her glass as she takes a sip. “How many times have we told you to stay away from that boy, Y/N? He’s trouble.”

“He’s not trouble,” you fire back, wishing you had come up with a lie instead of telling them the truth. “You’re just judgmental.”

“That’s enough,” your father snaps. He runs a hand over his tired face. Being an attorney has aged him ten years. And to think he wanted to send you down the same dreadful path. “I’m having lunch tomorrow with DA Lance Nicholas. I figured you could come along, ask him some questions--.”

“No.”

Your mother stares at you quizzically. “No?”

“Is tomorrow a bad time?” asks your father, loosening his tie. “I’m supposed to meet with him next week as well, if that’s better for you.”

You feel the rage building up inside of you as you remember JJ’s words. You let them dictate what should be your life. What is it that you want to do? “No, dad, there will never be a time that’s good for me to meet the DA, because I don’t want to meet him. I don’t want to be a lawyer.”

You’re sure they’ll yell, give you a hard time, but the laughs that come out of their mouths are surprising. You don’t understand why they’re laughing, but you’re determine to stand your ground, speak up.

“You’ve never once asked me what I wanted to do with my life.”

“Well, yes, because—.”

“Because you planned it for me.”

Your mom glances at your dad, unsure of how to continue the conversation. “Sweetie--.”

“I’m not going to law school,” The light dims in your father’s eyes, face growing red as your tone grows serious. He’s silent, but it doesn’t scare you. “Because I want to be a marine biologist.”

“Honey, listen,--.”

“I want to travel, see what the world has to offer me. I’m tired of being your puppet. I’m tired of pretending to like Susie and Delia. I’m tired of going to stupid yacht parties with out of touch rich people. I’m tired of reading college textbooks about a career I don’t even want while I’m still in high school. This is my life, and you don’t get to choose how I live it.”

Your mom speaks up after what feels like an hour of silence. Her eyes are full of sorrow, voice low, disapproving. “What happened to you? You’re so…outspoken.”

“It’s that damn Maybank kid,” your dad’s forceful voice cuts right through you. He slams his fist on the counter, startling your mom. You stand your ground, unflinching. “I always knew he’d corrupt you sooner or later.”

“Corrupt me?” A laugh escapes you. He can’t be serious. “He helped me, dad. He taught me to stand up for myself, which is what I’m doing right now. He taught me that there’s a life outside of our world in Figure Eight. JJ helped me realize that I don’t belong here,” your mother’s face drops. Guilt briefly flickers across your face. “I belong with him, wherever he goes. Whether it be California or Texas or Hawaii. I belong with him.”

“You are sixteen years old,” your father reminds, looking at you in disgust. “You have no clue what you’re talking about or what you are doing. Go on, get out of my sight.”

You shake your head, turning your back on your parents. It didn’t matter what they said. They wouldn’t be able to stop you from chasing your dreams, from living your life the way you wanted to. They could say you were too young, too naïve, until they were blue in the face. But you know what you want, and no one, especially not your parents, would stop you.

~

So take your hand in mine

It’s ours tonight

This is our rebel love song

Staring down at the note in your hand, you exhale a sigh before dropping it on the kitchen counter. You sign it with a kiss, letting your family know you love them, before venturing outside, quietly closing the door behind you.

The last night in your house was spent packing, constantly checking that your bedroom door was locked to keep the helicopter parents away. There wasn’t much you could fit into the duffel bag, but you squeezed as much as you could, the contents varying from clothing to toiletries to small mementos you didn’t want to leave behind.

The plan was to surprise JJ at the dock. Tugging your duffel higher onto your shoulder, you walk with a content smile.

When you reach the dock, your heart rises to your throat. JJ stands with his back to you, one foot on the dock, the other in the boat. He’s ready to take off, and your legs break out into a sprint, daring him to leave you behind. “JJ!”

The voice makes his ears perk up. He turns, wide-eyed, smile brighter than the gleaming Carolina sun. JJ’s heart swells as he watches the girl he loves run after him, one hand waving frantically in the air, the other tugging the bag higher on her arm.

“JJ, wait!”

But he’s not going anywhere. He’d never go anywhere without you.

You drop the bag onto the dock, launching yourself into JJ’s body. He wobbles slightly, arms coming around your middle, pulling you as far into his chest as you’ll go. You fit perfectly.

“You came,” JJ breathes into your hair, kissing your forehead. The soft pecks are quick, friendly.

It’s not enough for you, though.

You grab his cheeks, pressing your mouth to his, hard. Your heart reacts, beating wildly. The feeling in your body, the sensation you get from kissing JJ, it feels like sunshine. Warm. Blissful. Happy.

There’s no hesitation as JJ kisses you back. His hand creeps up your spine, pressing you impossibly closer to him, almost as if he’s testing to see if you’re real.

It’s all real. You, the kiss, the moment.

He pulls away, slightly breathless. His eyes flicker to the dandelion lying on his drawstring bag, and a smile tugs at his parted lips. He’d picked it for you on his way to the dock, just in case.

“It’s true,” JJ says, reaching down to tenderly pick the flower. Doe-eyed, you watch as he tucks the dandelion behind your ear, shielding the stem with a few strands of your hair. “I am so deeply in love with you.”

“And you were going to leave without ever letting me know.”

“A part of me hoped you wouldn’t let me leave without you,” JJ answers, helping you settle into the boat.

“You’re right,” you smile. “I couldn’t let you leave without knowing I’m in love with you, too.”

The kiss that follows is better than the first. It’s softer, more intimate, and it feels like a rainbow.  

It completes him.

It completes you.

After grabbing your bag from the dock, you help JJ untie the boat before joining him at the wheel. The boat rumbles to life, sailing slowly across the open bay. A new life is just in the distance.

“You ready?” JJ asks. There’s nothing in his eyes other than hope, nothing in his grin other than happiness.

Taking his hand, you smile. “I am now.”

[inkrabbit]

I haven't posted much, but I have been writing little snippets here and there when I'm not doing something else. So I decided to gather all the snippets I liked and put them together to show what I'm working on, and what I want to eventually work on. Most of these are stories I have planned for WD: Legion, but a couple are for my own personal works.

Unnamed Prison Love Story

Of course the other inmates had liked her. Most of them hadn't even seen a woman in years. But apparently she had more to offer them than just a pretty face to stare at. Everyone had said how nice she had been, talked softly and treated them with respect. She let them vent and talk about whatever they wanted, and she was a lot more lenient than any guard would ever dream of being. She would remove their cuffs and set it on the desk next to her chair, and she would sit only a few feet away. She pushed every boundary she could, and she took every chance with the inmates. She even argued with the guards who told her otherwise.

Sitting before her now, he finally understood the excited rumors he heard in passing. A calm and serene vibe had filled the warm room, and for a moment, he almost forgot he was trapped in prison and would soon be escorted back to his small, cold cell. She had kept a smile on her face, spoke softly and respected his boundaries when he didn't want to talk about a subject. She made him feel safe and acknowledged, encouraging him to talk about his day or how certain things made him feel. She made him feel like he was more than just another number in the system.

What's more, the woman was free. She didn't dress in the finest threads, opting for shirts that displayed band names he had almost forgotten, and her hair was never pulled back like it should've been. Another boundary she pushed; a test for him. To see if he would lunge at her like some of the others would try, use her hair to their advantage. But why would he? Sitting across from him, a notepad in hand, she didn't ignite anything violent inside him. If anything, she calmed down whatever fire stayed lit.

She became his breath of fresh air, and he found himself almost anxious for each session with her. The sweet scent of her perfume would always make his head spin as it filled the room. He had considered asking her once before in the beginning what it was, but the Devil on his shoulder had forced him to stay quiet. Back then, he had hated the woman and would refuse to talk, figuring she was just as bad as everyone else and that these little “therapy” sessions were just a way to find any weaknesses he had. But she never seemed exhausted or irritated by his silence. She gave him time, sat there with her soft smile and blank notepad and told him they would talk whenever he was ready. He never intended on giving in, but the one day he had gotten blood on his hands, he heard that change in tone.

The soft voice turned to concern, but she didn't throw accusations at him like he had expected. Oh no, she had actually asked him what the other inmate did to make him upset. The adrenaline that coursed through him had calmed down and he had finally opened his mouth. Not once did she interrupt him. She sat there and listened, scribbled down whatever she seemed important, and went back to listening. And when he was done, fists clenched and his body barely shaking at the rage that threatened to rise up, she finally moved. Slow and almost hesitant, testing the waters. He watched her carefully, how her rings shone in the bright sunlight that poured in through the windows, silver bands with various symbols. He let her approach him, and he let her take a seat on the old couch with her. Her touch was gentle and warm when she took his hand in her own, admiring his bruised and busted knuckles, flecks of dried blood decorating the skin that hadn't been properly washed.

“You did what you felt you had to,” she told him softly, “Maybe you overdid it. Maybe you should've stopped sooner. But you stood your ground for what you believed in. There's nothing wrong with that.”

It was the first time he had looked her in the eye, and he had immediately gotten lost within them. The feeling that quelled his rage had scared him, a certain type of vulnerability that made it seem like the woman could read his deepest and darkest thoughts. And yet, a part of that excited him.

WD: Legion – Dark AU – Love Path

“Daniel!” Sabine’s steps are hesitant as she walks forward, gun trained on the Irishman sitting on the edge with his back to her. He’s fiddling with something in his hand, a soft light illuminating his glove.

“Don’t suppose you found her on the way up?” he calls back, not even picking up his head.

“Who are you talking about?” He hadn’t mistook her for one of his members, had he? No, she was certain he recognized her voice. He had easily picked her out before.

She flinches when he starts to move, fist closing around the item in his hand as he slowly curls his legs back and lifts himself up. It’s the first time she’s seen him actually hunch over, and those once cold hazel eyes are alight with an emotion she’s not certain of. Still, there’s a slight smile that’s pulling at his lips, but it’s not the normal confident and smug grin she’s grown accustomed to.

“I always thought Dalton was a right idiot for liking you,” Dan laughs softly, “Didn’t understand what he felt until I experienced it meself...”

Dalton’s name leaves a bitter taste on her tongue, but she’s still focused on the man standing before her. The way he’s speaking isn’t normal, a distant tone in his voice instead of calm and velvety. Her eyes flicker over to his wrist, a silver bracelet glistening in the dull light that surrounded them. That was new. From what she knew, the only jewelry he wore were the piercings he had in his ears. He seems to perk up at this, extending his left arm and showing the bracelet off.

“She gave this to me. I’m guessing you didn’t hear?” She furrows her brows. Hear what? “Met a young woman that actually liked me. Made me feel... something. Enough to actually try and get help. I even stepped down as leader from DedSec. Let Jeremy take over.” This was news to her. From what she knew, Dan still led the group. Guess that wasn’t the case anymore. “She’s disappeared again. I thought Jeremy had something to do with it, but...” He opens his hand, tossing the item out. It was an optik, still glowing as it clattered to the ground. “I only found this when I got up here. I take it you didn’t see anyone on your way up?”

“No,” Her response draws a soft but sad chuckle from him. His step forward forces her to take one back.

“Well come on, then!” he calls out, raising his voice and straightening up, outstretching his arms to the side. She can tell he’s doing his damnedest to look normal, but that faulty smile on his face is throwing it off. It all looked wrong and out of place. She has gotten so used to doing the cocky and manipulative man. “Don’t think I wanna stick around if I can’t find her. Medicine and “fixing meself” don’t mean shite if I’m doing it for nothing.”

Something Stupid – 50's Love Story

“Did you want anything while I'm out?”

Of course he knew the answer, his second-in-command, Luciano, having been annoying him about pancakes all morning. But the look on the younger man's face was priceless, honey colored eyes widening as he stands from his crouched position. A bright smile spreads across his face as he wipes away the dirt on his hands, standing straight before his leader.

“You're finally gonna get me those pancakes?!” he squeals, “I just want those with extra syrup.”

“You're lucky I'm gettin' 'em at all,” Lighting up a cigarette, Kazimir turns his heels, headed for his car. “If that's all, I'll see you later. Gonna see if Nick is gonna cooperate this time and give us that protection money.”

“Good luck!” Starting up the engine, he waves goodbye to his friend and pulls away from the old compound, keeping the window rolled down as he takes a drag from his cigarette. There was a little diner the gang frequented that was a few minutes away. The food was average, and he hated how stubborn the owner was with the protection fee, but there was one waitress in that establishment that made it all worth while: Aurora Rossi, a beautiful Italian woman with the personality of a saint. She had treated the gang just like she would any other customer, and she indulged in the small conversations they had dragged her into here and there. He stayed quiet most of the time, knowing if he got too rowdy himself he would lose control of everyone, but he could never take his eyes off of the woman.

The parking lot is thankfully empty as he pulls in, parking in a spot closest to the door. He wouldn't be long; he knew the workers there hated him and his crew, always desperate to make them leave quickly. The little chime of the bell atop the door rings in his ears as he enters the diner, eyeing the staff. He can see them talking among themselves, scared eyes flickering back and forth between coworkers and himself. He was used to this treatment, especially in this little restaurant. No one ever wanted to help him, and if it weren't for the fact they all had a job to do, they probably would've went running.

Oh, but there's his little angel he had been dying to see, her red lips curled back in a genuine, friendly smile. He leans against the counter as she approaches, hands folded in front of her.

“Did you need to look at the menu, sir?” she asks. Her sweet voice makes his heart flutter, but he maintains his cool, shaking his head.

“Just a couple things to go,” He watches her dig out the notepad from the pocket of her apron, sliding the pen out of the metal spirals. A small smirk forms. “Nick also in today?”

“Not today, sorry. He should be back tomorrow though!” Ah, so the old man was hiding from him. Nothing new. They would come back day after day if they had to for that money. But for now, he loses himself in those green eyes, purring out his order and watching her hastily write it down. Pancakes with extra syrup, a ham and cheese omelet, some coffee to go; the list goes on and she stops him occasionally to ask for any sides, how he'd want the toast to be or how the eggs were supposed to be cooked. He knew the gang's order by now. There weren't many who hung around him and the compound they worked out of, but he preferred it this way. He had a group of members he considered close and actually cared about, and the rest ran the odd job for him when he couldn't be bothered.

Aurora rings him up and he makes sure to pull the twenty dollar bill out of his pocket, holding it between his index and middle finger as he hands it over. She looks hesitant, eyebrows raised as she inspects it, and Kazimir chuckles when she asks if he's sure.

“You deal with enough here, sweetheart,” he coos at her, “You deserve to be compensated.”

“Well, that's why I get paid,” Sweet as ever, but he finally coaxes her into taking the money, and she won't stop thanking him as she tucks it into the pocket of her apron. She gives him the estimated time it would take for the food to be ready as she disappears back into the kitchen, and Kazimir takes a seat on one of the stools at the front. He looks around the old diner, the light peach colored walls almost looking white in the afternoon sunlight, and the teal accents popping. Heaven's Diner was known for its bright but calming colors, and the staff were friendly to everyone except Kazimir's gang. Then again, he didn't blame them.

He listens to the soft music playing from the nearby radio, some blues band he didn't know the name of. It's calming, but not something he's used to. Maybe he had just gotten so used to the rock and roll that would play throughout the compound. Still, the music doesn't drown out the clanking of kitchenware in the back, and the occasional barking order from one of the chefs. He rests his elbows on the counter, lacing his fingers together and hooking his thumbs under his chin to keep his head up. Hazel eyes slip shut as he drinks in the ambiance. It was always nice when the diner was empty. He didn't have to deal with the judging looks, or the sour remarks thrown his way from some holier-than-thou old patron. The funny thing was, all of the staff workers would agree with the customers about how horrible he was. Aurora was the only one who never judged him, and had shown a hint of defense when anyone would bring up the gang.

“It's none of my business what they do. I just come here to work,” Those responses were the only time he had ever heard the woman lost her natural bubbly and friendly attitude, her tone turning firm as she would end the conversation there. Maybe that was why he liked her? She never judged them, and never shied away from taking their orders like the other waitstaff had many times before. In fact, Luciano had joked about how she was their personal waitress many times before. The group loved her personality just as much as he did, and they always made sure to leave a tip that went well over that old twenty percent rule. They normally left before they could see the look on her face, but Kazimir had caught her reaction through the window a couple times. A look of surprise that soon turned to excitement, and he cherished those memories.

When Aurora finally returns, she has little to-go boxes piled up on top of a tray with the drinks on the other side. She always was careful bringing everything out, and it's something he appreciates. He knew some of the waitresses would “accidentally” spill drinks on themselves in order to receive larger tips, but his little waitress would always take her time and set everything down gently. Maybe that was another thing he loved about her? Her dignity and pure attitude. He watches her pack them into a bag and slowly load up the drinks in a cup holder. She's slow, diligent, making sure nothing is lopsided and won't move. He can't stop the smile forming on his face as he watches her. A part of him hated how the woman affected him, wiping away that permanent scowl on his face and making his whole body feel lighter than normal. He takes the bag from her, his fingers brushing her as he hooks it around his arm before grabbing the cup holder. She stands before him just like every other time he would order his food to go: a sweet smile on her face, hands folded in front of her as she makes sure he has everything, occasionally smoothing out her apron if she felt a wrinkle in an odd spot.

“Have a good day, sir!” she calls out to him as he makes his way for the door, and he turns his head just enough to shoot a smile back at her. The bell chimes again as he opens the door and walks out, unlocking his car and sitting everything in the passenger seat, even going so far as to put the seat belt over his items so they don't fall on his way back. One last glance inside the diner, and he almost feels disappointed when he sees Aurora has disappeared. Well, he would be back tomorrow to talk to Nick anyway. Maybe he could find an excuse to get the woman's attention as well?

Unnamed WIP

By the time he pulls himself up and trudges to the bathroom, the stinging pain in his throat has faded. He looks at himself in the mirror, his neck and cheek bruised, and his eyes dark. He looks horrible, but he supposes it's not a surprise. What the Kelleys did to him – what the woman just did to him. There's no doubt his body is littered with bruises and cuts, but he can't bring himself to look again. It already caught him off guard when he had bathed in that freezing water. He didn't want to be reminded of the abuse.

The spacious bathroom in itself is cute, albeit bland. White tiles were devoid of any imperfections and dirt, and the bar of soap seated atop a colorful orange dish seems brand new. He leans against the counter, bringing his hands forward and admiring his wrists. They're still bleeding, drops of blood dripping into the sink and staining the once spotless white surface. Hesitantly, he reaches down to open the drawers, stopping once he sees a first aid kit placed in one of them. He's slow to bring it out, the ache in his wrists forcing him to move like a snail.

Everything's new when he opens it. Had the woman just bought these? He picks up the peroxide that was laying inside, tearing into the protective coating and unscrewing the cap. One more seal and it's open. Taking a deep breath, he grabs the bottle and splashes the contents onto to his left wrist, making him cry out. It stung as the cuts started to bubble, white foam covering his skin and dripping into the sink, mixing with the blood. His body is shaking, but he forces himself to douse his right next. It almost feels worse, and he has to hold onto the counter for support, his knees buckling underneath the pain. Deep breaths, anything to calm him down. He sets the peroxide on the counter, picking up the bandages next. He wraps it around his left wrist first, then the right. It stings, but in some odd way, he feels better. The bandages are soft against his skin, comforting and the only thing that feels secure.

He leans against the counter, lips pursed as he focuses on the blood and foam slowly rolling down the drain. He's lost as his body slowly stops shaking, mind blank and eyes stuck. He listens to everything going on around him. That soft hum of the light bulbs above, the beating of his heart, the sizzling in the drain as the excess peroxide runs down. Finally, he moves, turning his wrist to admire it. Blood easily shows up, a stark contrast against the white bandages, staining the area red. Why did any of this have to happen?

He glances to the side of the bathroom, a luxurious bathtub installed, the tiled walls surrounding it shining in the bathroom's light. It seemed so welcoming, the thought of a hot bath, but he can't bring himself to indulge in it. Not yet. He's too tired and too lost in his own thoughts about everything going on. So instead, he moves to the door, flicking off the light and crossing over the bedroom. The bed is soft as he lays down, trying his hardest to keep his weight off of his wrists as he lays on his side. Suppose this was his little home for now. He was scared to know what he was listed as. No doubt the woman would tell him soon enough.

WD: Legion – This Time, I'm staying – Beginning

“Arthur: the one that got away. What does that mean? The one that got away?”

“It's about losing someone you don't want to. Human stuff.”

“Am I… getting away?”

No matter how hard he had tried, that conversation replayed itself over and over, and try as he might, he couldn’t make it stop. It was like a busted record player, stuck in a loop and it was driving him crazy. The snippets he could remember before he was shut down, the thoughts of where he’d go and that fear he finally felt. It was all disgusting, to feel that weak and vulnerable. And yet… he craved more. To finally understand what the operatives felt – what they went through on a daily basis. He had heard them laugh and he had seen them smile. The fading fear in their eyes as they would return from being kidnapped, and the anger in their voices whenever they would pick fights. He wanted to finally understand.

It wasn’t exactly a request on his part, oh no. One of the operatives had caught his attention one day after they had figured out the truth, conjuring up all sorts of ideas. Make a body for Bagley, sort of like the androids and let him roam freely. At first, he had scoffed at the idea, hurling insults his way, but when the concept came up again, he gave it more thought. He was always sending out the operatives on missions, guiding them through everything. Sometimes they couldn’t even complete them properly, either being apprehended or landing themselves in the hospital. So with a bit less hostility, Bagley let the man continue.

Bradley was to be used as the base model. Same facial structure, eye color, body build – the works. Give him back the life he had lost, and the first thing that came to mind was Arthur. Perhaps, after he learned how to act more human, he could track the man down and see why he was so important to him in the first place.

WD: Legion – This Time, I'm Staying – Finding Arthur

“Down, boy,” He watches Dan reluctantly release the man and move back to stand by his side, though his pistol is still drawn. A soft sigh escapes Bagley's lips as he scans the Kelley's optik, just to be sure. Arthur Evans – Johnny Kelley's second-in-command.He knew he was right, but had hoped that he had made some sort of mistake somewhere. Still, he doesn't feel the connection he had hoped he would. Anything that would jar his memories and give him a hint of what he had with the man before Skye Larson had taken it all away from him.

“Who the fuck are you?!” The question is directed solely at Bagley, Arthur's blue eyes wide and looking horrified. Oh, the thoughts that must be going through his head right now.

“I'm Bagley!” he announces proudly, jabbing his elbow against Dan's rib when he hears a soft chuckle. He had a whole speech prepared before this, but looking at Arthur now... had he chosen the right words? He knew how complex human emotions were, and he knew how hostile the Kelleys were. And yet, the curiosity he saw in the man was enough for him to make his decision. “Dan, step outside, will you?”

“And let ya stay in here with this fucker?” he counters. Instead of replying, Bagley just shoos him away, and he's pleasantly surprised when the Irishman takes his leave. The moment the door closes, he steps forward, extending his hand.

“None of this is making sense,” Arthur whimpers out. It's not the tone, or even reaction, he was expecting. He seems dazed, confused, and almost scared. “Just who the hell are you?!”

“I told you. I'm Bagley,” He cocks his head. Had the man not heard him the first time? “I think you know me better as Bradley Lar-”

“Don't,” There's the hostility he was expecting, the hateful look as he grit his teeth. “You don't deserve to say his name!”

“Fine. Since you want to act as a child,” Bagley extends his arms to the side, showing himself off. Arthur is watching him carefully as he turns around, showing off his body and clothes. “I'm Bagley, DedSec's definitely-not-stolen, highly-advanced AI assistant! Do you know who created me? Skye Larson! And do you know whois my neural template?”

“Bradley Larson...” There's a moment where everything goes quiet and still. Before he can say anything else, Arthur is wrapping his arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace and burying his face in the crook of his neck. It startles him, the feeling of Arthur's breath tickling his neck. He awkwardly brings his hands up, resting them on his back and stroking like he had seen other operatives do when they were consoling someone. This was supposed to make humans feel better right?

“You bastard...” There's a wavering in his voice, something Bagley can't detect. He only realizes the man is close to crying when he pulls back, tears filling his eyes. “You left me, you know that? Planned the wedding and fucking left...”

“I didn't mean to,” he tells him softly, “Or rather, Bradley didn't mean to. I'm still trying to figure this out. I just-”

Arthur is pressing his lips against his, something Bagley easily recognizes as a kiss. This was meant to be a sign of affection, right? This was good, right? He's slow but he finally pushes back against the man, his hands traveling down to rest comfortably on his hips. He knows there's something he should be feeling right now; positive he should be feeling as desperate as Arthur is acting. There is something deep inside him that feels like it wants to awaken, but for some reason he can't make it come out.

WD: Legion – Even if I Die Tonight – Ending of Chapter 9

When the doors open, he follows her down the hall and in front of her flat, waiting patiently as she unlocks the door and flicks on the light. He nearly jumps when he sees Michael groggily sit up, eyes squinted as he looks at them. He finally smiles brightly after a few seconds, waving at Dan.

“Didn't think she'd be bringing you over!” he laughs out, “You guys couldn't have gone next door? It's late.”

Dan can feel his face heating up as he follows Rabbit to another room, the woman yelling at her friend to stay quiet. She tries to ease his nerves, telling him to not listen to him as she sits him down on the bed. The room smells exactly like her perfume and he can't help but look around, laying his jacket on the covers next to him. Just like the rest of the flat, there isn't much. A couple dressers and the bed he sat on, along with a bedside table that held a small, porcelain lamp. However, he can see the stack of books piled up across the room, though it's hard to make out the titles.

“You read?” he asks, catching her attention. She's over by the window, and he can hear things clanking around. Did she store items in a mug?

“Sometimes, when I can actually focus,” she responds. He's surprised to see a small pair of scissors in her hand as she walks back over. Just like last time, her touch is gentle as she cups his face, using her thumb to pull his lip ever so slightly. A soft warning and he hears that little snip as she cuts the thread. There's a little bit of pressure he almost doesn't even register, and once she's set the thread on the bedside table, she cut the remaining stitch.

“Do you read?” The question catches him off guard and he looks up at her. She's not smiling at him but her eyes... oh, he could easily get lost in them. There's a sort of serenity in there, overpowering other emotions he couldn't quite explain, but it drags him in and all he can do is nod. “What do you like?”

“History, mostly,” This seems to make her perk up, and he's pleasantly surprised to hear that was her favored subject. He can't help but smile, especially when she takes a seat next to him on the bed. Their conversation carries on about books, what subjects they prefer to read, and what they like overall. He's not surprised when they don't share many stories, but it's still interesting to listen to. She brings up being interested in psychology, but scoffs when he asks if she ever read any good books regarding the topic. “They're all a load of self-help bullshit.” He can only chuckle. He never really was interested in psychology himself, but she did make it sound interesting; knowing how the human mind worked, what made people tick. He supposed he saw the appeal.

He doesn't stay too long, guilt setting in that he's keeping the woman up so late. Grabbing his jacket and standing up, he follows Rabbit as she walks him out, and he can only laugh when she picks up a pillow to hit Michael when he makes another comment regarding the two. Still, they both wish him a goodnight as he exits the flat, and he can hear their muffled voices on the other side as he closes the door. He shakes his head, though he can't pull the smile from his face as he works on unlocking the door to his flat and slipping inside.

He brushes his fingers over his lip, an odd feeling of relief washing over him when he only feels skin and doesn't come in contact with that damned thread. With a small smile, he makes his way to his room, shedding his clothes and kicking off his boots. Hesitating for just a bit, he makes his way over to the dresser, pulling open one of the drawers and peering inside. He tries to bury the feeling of surprise that comes over him when he sees his gun is still tucked beneath some clothes, sitting right where he had left it.

Shutting the drawer, he moves over to his bed, crawling inside and underneath the blankets. He's not too tired; not enough to the point he'll fall asleep as soon as he head hits the pillow, but he also doesn't have enough energy to find something to pass the time. So instead, he settles on closing his eyes, letting his mind wander here and there. The new job, the hope of getting Bagley back, the newly taken out stitches, the smug look on Michael's face and the peaceful feeling Rabbit radiated. Before he knows it, he's fast asleep.

[winterwhumper]

Whumptober Day 23: Bleeding out

This prompt is sort of a continuation of another fill which I will link here if anyone is interested but it can be read as a stand alone.

This fill comes with warnings for graphic gore, Suicidal thoughts and behaviour and is overall pretty dark and intense. Please consider these things before reading.

***

They leave him in the isolation room for some time after giving him the newspaper headlining Steve’s crash. A pile of untouched food trays build up each day, leaving a ripe, dank scent that Bucky stops being able to register. The mess that is the stump of his missing arm wept through the musty bandages days ago but he can’t feel the pain of it anymore. He stops counting how many times the light turns to dark in the small square window of his cell, stops walking around to keep himself occupied. He barely thinks anymore. They’re leaving him in here to rot and for Bucky, it couldn’t happen soon enough any more. Without Steve he has no hope or reason to keep going. He’s done with pain and sorrow, he’s done with this place, he’s done with life. He’s done.

He doesn’t move at all when the door to his cell is unlocked and pushed open, not just the food slot, actually opened.

“I don’t get why they’re making so much effort with this guy. He’s finished,” a voice cuts through the long silence of the cell. “They really wanna give him to Kazimir?”

“That’s what Zola ordered so let’s get to it,” another voice responds. “The less time I have to spend in Kaz’s ‘play room’ the better.”

Bucky feels hands on him. He doesn’t move or flinch away, just lets them hoist his naked body up and drag him off out of the cell and down the corridor, zoning out until he finds himself being pushed back against some kind of caging, straps being secured around his one arm, neck, upper chest and ankles. There’s sheets of plastic under his feet and he doesn’t even care what it’s there for.

“You’re really gonna wish you’d broken sooner,” the first agent mutters to him, something in his eye that tells Bucky he isn’t just taunting and it’s enough to finally get him to frown, try to look around himself a bit, growing more present by the second. The agents finish securing him and they don’t hang around, they leave without another word.

His body wants to fall slack in the restraints. It does in a way but he’s limited by the one around his throat. His weakened, starved body has no choice but to work to hold him up. His neck sits awkwardly, the grip of the clasp not giving him much room to work with. He can turn it enough to glance around him a little bit but not much more.

He doesn’t recognise this room, nothing like the rooms he’s been in during all of Zola’s experimenting and the torture from various agents but it has its own similarity. This room is less surgical, less mechanical but still filled with vices and tables, chains and cuffs, equipment that Bucky doesn’t dare to imagine the uses for. He’s not sure how exactly but this room has a kind of personal touch, not laid out for practicality but for convenience, preference. It’s brightly lit in a way that doesn’t leave light glaring down on him and he’s not sure how that’s possible. The room seems somehow warmer even in its eerie darkness. Bucky instantly knows that nothing good will come of this place, not a single thing.

Are they really going to go back to torturing him? They can make him scream until his throat tears itself apart, he has nothing to give them. Is Zola coming back? No, the agents said a name that wasn’t Zola but he can’t bring it back to his hazy mind. He does recall that even the agents seemed somehow uneasy just by mentioning him.

Footsteps have Bucky trying to turn his head more than he can, the metal biting into his skin in response.

“Sargent James Buchanan Barnes,” a softly spoken, still somehow cool voice comes from behind him, somewhere to his right. A man comes around into his line of sight. A slight man, fair hair and pale eyes, long nose and a sharp, narrow jaw. He’s slim and angular but not weak or frail, a little taller than Bucky. “May I call you James?”

Bucky doesn’t answer him. His body is already betraying him, a slight tremble working its way into his thighs, perhaps that’s just the fatigue at this point because truthfully, he doesn’t really care any more. He’s faced everything these people have to throw at him. Anything this guy does will only weaken him further and bring him closer to his end. The sooner the better. It doesn’t matter if his death is a painful one, if he dies screaming or writhing, just so long as his time comes soon.

“Well, James, we haven’t met before. My name is Kazimir,” the man says lightly. “But friends call me Kaz.” He steps closer, enough that Bucky can smell each of the next words as they drift past his toothy grin. “And you and I are going to be such good friends, hmm?”

Bucky turns his head in a desire to put some kind of distance between them. He thinks that maybe Kaz notices and he’s surprised when he actually moves back rather than staying close to mess with him. Other agents would have, they’d have probably even touched him just to watch him squirm. This guy makes him do so just by speaking.

“I’ve been reading over your files, James.” Kaz holds up small wads of paper with slender, skeletal fingers, variously clipped together into multiple reports. “These one’s say you’ve been refusing food for some time, now.”

So that’s what this is, Bucky thinks. He’s here to force feed him. He had wondered for a little while before why they hadn’t done that yet and if they would if he refused for long enough and now here he is.

“Starvation is a slow death for the average human. Painful,” Kaz says at length. He’s talking to him like a doctor, glancing over his notes instead of at him. “But for you.” He shakes his head.

Bucky eyes him warily. This guy has got to be cracked. Bucky is human, just as human as the rest. Kaz gives him a small smile.

“Come now, don’t tell me you haven’t once wondered how you survived that fall, hmm?” Kaz walks off to the side past where Bucky can crane his neck to see and then he can hear metal and he finds himself trying to test the restraints around his body and limbs. He’s not sure what it is exactly but he needs to get as far away from this guy as he can and soon. He finds no give in any strap. “You are no longer an easy man to kill, even by yourself.”

In truth, he had wondered how he’d managed to survive that drop but flukes happen, he used to read about things in newspapers sometimes, people walking away from great feats that should have ended them, never mind leaving intact and functional. A small tiny part of him had started to fear that everything Zola had done to him before, something might have made some changes. He felt so weird after Steve rescued him, even the other Howlie’s noticed, not that they ever said anything but he could see it in their eyes they knew something was different, too. He just couldn’t let himself dwell on any of it then.

Kaz reappears in his line of sight but it’s the knife in his hand that really steals Bucky’s attention. This isn’t how force feeding usually happens, he’s pretty sure.

“You don’t believe me, hmm? You have a lot to learn about yourself, James,” Kaz breathes, stepping close and tracing the knife down the side of Bucky’s face. Bucky goes rigid, breathes shakily out his nose, not daring to move. “And that’s why I’m here.”

Kaz holds his gaze for just an extra moment before his eyes drop and then he’s plunging the knife deep into Bucky’s gut, something coming alive in those pale eyes. His eyes bulge and he throws his head forward until the metal restraint is almost choking him. He doesn’t scream though it feels like he should but he’s in too much shock. He splutters and heaves and despite every corner of his mind telling him not to, he looks down just in time to see Kaz’s hand drag the knife straight across his lower abdomen, slicing through into his gut. Kaz looks up at him for a moment, something gleeful and hungry across his face that would fuck with Bucky if he wasn’t too busy staring down at his own body. Because right in that moment, he watches the gash bulge outwards for a split second that feels like slow motion and then he can only stare in dazed shock as snakes of intestines and organs he doesn’t even recognise slither from the wound and down towards the plastic below his feet with the most sickening wet noise, jerking and bouncing and dangling from him. Blood pours along with it, striking down his legs, pooling around his feet and spreading out along the plastic, climbing around his fallen organs.

His unseeing eyes move to Kaz lifting an empty bucket to somewhere around his chest. Bucky doesn’t understand why until he feels a part of the dangling intestine rest against his thigh and he’s spewing into the bucket, nothing but bile and saliva but his stomach lurches anyway.

“The average human body cannot survive blood loss over around two thousand millilitres,” Kaz tells him as if he could even take that in. Bucky splutters and gawks. He’s aware that his entire body is shivering, completely out of his control. Nothing is in his control now. His limbs want to flail, his hand gripping and releasing nothing, his blood soaked toes curling. “Which based on this here, we are fast approaching.”

Kaz steps closer to him and holds up a hand.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” His soft voice has gone, in a way he sounds pissed. Bucky just gapes at him. He’s dizzy as hell and his breathing is all short gasps. Kaz sighs and pushes his other hand into his gaping stomach and Bucky dry heaves. “How many?”

“F-f-f-free,” Bucky stutters and gurgles against the wrongest sensation. Kaz removes his hand and takes Bucky’s jaw to keep his head turned to him, his jerking, twitching body in complete revolt. Kaz speaks quickly now. It’s not anger, it’s excitement.

“The average human body can only exist for minutes without the abdominal cavity,” he says. “If the blood loss miraculously doesn’t kill them, the rapid death of the organs will have them failing before they can be returned to the body. What I’m saying, James, is that you should not still be alive, never mind talking and counting. You best start believing me when I tell you something, James because I don’t lie.”

Kaz gets closer, until their noses are close to touching. He strokes Bucky’s hair.

“Now let’s get this back inside so you can start to heal.” That soft voice returns and the way he pets Bucky’s hair is almost fond. “We have a long way to go from here.”

[whenimaunicorn]

Can I have #25 - "I'm sorry I'm not what you prayed for" with Finan?

This prompt is just perfect for a Caribbean Era of Piracy AU!!

It could have been beautiful. The waves rolled gently intothe shore, the water a striking, crystal-clear green in the shallows thatsoftly transitioned to a deeper and deeper blue as I looked out into the seemingly-endlesssea. It looked so peaceful now, but I had learned that I could not trust thatcalm. The horizon stretched flat and clear in every direction I looked, today. Wispsof white clouds formed islands up in the sky, but nothing interrupted thedeeper blue of the ocean that surrounded me on all sides.

I had spent the first day walking the perimeter of the beach.I had hoped to reach a settlement of some kind, if I just walked the coast farenough. Someone who could tell me where that terrible storm had left mestranded. But when I reached the wreckage of my own ship again by mid-afternoon,I realized the island I had washed up upon was extremely small, and entirelydeserted.

It would be two weeks before Father might receive word thatmy ship had not reached Kingston. Perhaps the merchants with whom he had bookedmy passage would be missed a little sooner, or perhaps no one expected themurgently enough to care when they did not arrive on time.

I expected no attempt at rescue from my intended husband.

I had discovered only one measure of hope on this desertedisland. Halfway around the other side, a trickling stream of blessed freshwater led me up to a crude shed so dilapidated that I almost missed it. Itsweathered wood was wrapped almost completely in vines, the planks faded by thesalt air to the point of decomposition. There was no telling how recently anyliving soul had touched it. Inside, I found what appeared to be a sailor’ssupply dump – hard tack, casks of rum, coiled ropes and boxes of ammunition.

I waited near it the whole second day, pilfering a little ofthe dry and unsatisfying food, and watching to see if whoever had stored ithere would return.

I did fear who the owners might turn out to be. I had littlechoice, however, but to rely on any living soul that might come across me, andcould only hope for Christian clemency. And yet, I would have to keep my witsabout me. I had been told that unsavory privateers, or outright lawlesspirates, often used tiny islands like these when they needed to make secret landfalls.

I oiled up and loaded one of the pistols I found in thatshack, and took to carrying it at my waist.

It was hard to decide where my best chance of rescue lay –near the wreckage of my ship on the north coast, or at the mysterious supplydrop on the east end. I spend several days hiking back and forth between themboth, watching the sea and splitting my chances.

Near my shipwreck, I had arranged a few planks and branchesinto the word “help” on the beach, and hung the tattered remnants of ourBritish flag from an overhanging tree. I prayed for a naval vessel, or anotherhonest merchant, to pass by close enough to see it, and to launch a search forme if they did not find me sitting by the shore.

Near the supply shack, I was more cautious. I would need toassess the character of any potential rescuers that returned to the island atthat location. I constructed for myself a comfortable little platform on anoutcrop near the stream, from which to watch for any human approach. My chosenlocation caught the breeze just enough to keep the worst of the insects off ofme, and I screened it in with branches after I climbed up each day. I intendedto be able to watch any visitors to this shed for a good long while beforedeciding how to make my presence known to them.

I was drowsing in the afternoon heat almost a week laterwhen I finally heard the stirring of another living soul. The sound of bootscrunching on fallen leaves along the bank of the little stream caused me topull my recumbent body softly forward and peer between the leaves that screenedmy position.

I saw a lone man, of average height, whose complexion toldme he likely hailed from one of the northern countries of Europe. His hair wasdark and thick, the inch-long shock of it standing almost straight up from hisforehead. His full beard was trimmed just below his chin, but it was looking alittle ill-kempt. He did not wear a uniform, but rather a dark thread-bare coatand worn brown boots. In contrast to the carelessness of the rest of hisappearance, the sword at his hip was polished and gleaming. The handle of apistol poked through the gap of his open jacket as he moved.

My rescuer was not to be a soldier, then, as I had prayedfor. The man now hiking up the riverbed beneath my hiding-place might at bestbe a privateer, part of a semi-disgraced crew willing to fight for the Crown inexchange for gold. Or his allegiance could be to the Spanish, which would makethings less easy for me, but not as difficult as my life was about to be ifthis man was a full-on pirate. Then my only chance at getting home might be atransom, in which case I could only pray that I not end up too mistreated beforemy release.

I still had the pistol at my hip. Circumstances mightrequire me to put myself at this man’s mercy, but I did have some measure ofleverage with which to protect myself.

I watched him enter the little shed, striding directly up toit as if he knew exactly what he expected to find there. My heart jumped intomy throat as he disappeared inside. This was my best chance to get the drop onhim, and approach from a position of strength.

I slipped down from my perch as silently as I could manage. Myhand was on the butt of the pistol tucked into my belt, but I decided not to appearto the man with it already pointed at his face. Best to begin with an appeal tohis mercy, in case he was in actuality of a decent sort.

The stranger emerged from the dark doorway of the shed justas I was in sight of the threshold. His eyes widened, and he froze with a sackslung over one shoulder.

“Good day, sir,” I called to him, loud and clear, with astronger voice than I expected to hear out of my fast-pumping lungs. This wassurely the most foolhardy thing I had ever done in my life. But I could seelittle other choice, if I wished to avoid dying of exposure and starvation.

The man seemed to recover his confidence quickly, a shrewdgaze assessing my person as he stepped out into the light, lowering his sack tothe ground as he did. What did he see? My brown braid was loose and unwashed, wispsof sticky hairs clung to my forehead and my once-porcelain skin was surelyruddy from the sun and exertion. My dress was of good quality, but stained, shreddedat the hem and with a nasty tear through one sleeve where it had caught on abranch my first day. Hopefully, he did not immediately notice my pilferedpistol.  

We were now less than ten feet away from each other, and ifI wasn’t careful he’d end up able to draw a weapon on me faster than I couldget mine ready. I would have to think fast. “Good day to you, young lady,” werehis first words, returning my pleasantry. The lilt to his low voice identifiedhim quite clearly as an Irishman. Which did not help me much in determining hisloyalties. “The sight of a fair woman like yourself is certainly an unexpecteddelight. But can I ask what circumstances cause you to find yourself on anisland I had always assumed to be deserted?”

There was nothing to be gained in dissembling. “My shipcaught a storm at sea.” I wrung my hands, and looked demurely down at them tocheck how close the gesture had brought them to the handle of my gun. I squeezedone of my nails between finger and thumb, trying to look nervous anddespairing. “I am afraid I was the only survivor.” I looked up at him frombeneath my lashes. “I prayed for rescue every day. Some decent, Christian manto return me safely to my home.”

His countenance did not quite soften in the way that I hadhoped. If anything, he looked just a little sick. “Such a terrible trial you’vehad. Please, come with me. I’ll get ye back to my ship. My mates and I can takecare of you.”

He took a step toward me, but there was something thatunsettled me in his demeanor. His movements were jerky, like he felt conflictedsomehow in his chosen course of action. I stepped back, fast, and my fingersfound a grip on my pistol. The pistol that, as far as I knew, was actually his.

The stranger’s eyes followed the movement of my hand. Hewent still, and slowly spread his empty hands wide. “You gonna use that, lass?”

This was my only chance to claim the advantage. “I-I am not certain,”I bleated, feigning a feminine weakness, and drew it anyway.

The man before me barely flinched. “I understand,” he saidgently, lifting his hands farther away from his own weapons. “You don’t knowme.”

“I can’t trust you,” I said, dropping the lost maiden act,letting him see the real strength of my soul. “I need you, though.”

“Aye?” the man asked, voice going sharper too. “And what isit ye need me for?”

I tilted my head. “I have no other way off this island.” Wasthat not obvious?

“Sure you don’t,” the man scoffed, an edge of bitterness nowharshening his tone.

I pressed my brows together. “Of course I do not? As I justexplained—”

“Yes, yes,” the man interrupted, shaking his empty hands irritablyat me. “Shipwreck, only survivor, all that rubbish. Perfect way to get Finanthe Agile to let his guard down, throwing a beautiful and helpless maiden inhis path.” He shook his head as I struggled to process what he was saying tome. “You really do look a Lady. Hold yourself like one, too. He must have goneto the most expensive brothel in Port Royal for ye. How much did you cost him,by the way?”

“I beg your pardon?” I sputtered. Was he implying I was animposter, and a whore, at that? “Who on earth are you talking about?”

The man apparently called Finan let an irreverent smilecrack his face. “That foul, barnacle-encrusted arseling Haeston, of course. Thinkinghe could catch us in an ambush. But Uhtred’s much too clever to fall for a ploylike this.”

I was holding the pistol with both hands, arms locked in astraight line aimed at Finan’s chest. But I could see they were starting towobble. “It’s not like that,” I said, an edge of pleading creeping into myvoice. “I don’t know who any of those people are. I had passage on a merchantvessel. I’m the Governor’s daughter.” His face said he believed nothing I wassaying, but I kept talking anyway. “I’m not lying. The ship and I washed up onthe north shore of the island; I can take you there, and show you.”

“Darlin’,” Finan drawled, “if you’re just an innocent victimhere, then why are ye holding a gun to my head?”

I almost screamed in frustration. “Because for all I know,you are one of these terrible pirates yourself.”

He cocked his head, indulgent. “And if that were to be thecase, just what, then, was yer plan?”

I flicked the pistol toward the beach in an imperiousgesture, trying to look calm and in charge. “I need you to take me to yourship. Entirely unmolested.”

He actually laughed at me, though I thought I detected alittle sympathy in his condescension. “And what do you think would happen next?If I am one of these pirates that you fear, and you end up surrounded by ‘em,alone in the middle of the ocean? You think you can sleep with that pistolstill steady in yer hand?”

I wanted to break right there, but held strong. “Then all Ican hope,” I said, masking the hitch in my voice with a quick swallow, “is thateven pirates are God-fearing men, with enough Christian decency to help out agood woman in need.”

“You keep assuming we are Christian,” a new voice saidunexpectedly, from behind my left ear. I whirled, pistol and all, toward thesound, and caught a brief sight of a young man having crept up behind me. Thestrange look of him was disorienting enough: half his head was shaved, showingan outlandish tattoo adorning his scalp, and his eyes were blackened around thelids. I think I screamed at the sight of him. Before I could gather my wits,one of his bare arms came at me, and he knocked me to the ground.

The impact to my head made my vision go dark. I felt theyoung man climb on top of me, holding me down; heard the crunch of Finan’sboots as he came closer and crouched down beside me. “I’m sorry I’m not whatyou prayed for,” he said softly, and then rough hands bound my wrists.

 * * *

 “I found nothing in the jungle, between the shipwreck andhere,” the strange-looking young man said as he rowed the little boat I now foundmyself in, out to the large vessel anchored in the bay. His back was to me, andhis tone suggested he was trying to be quiet, but the sound was not too low formy ears to pick up even over the rush of the sea breeze.

My thoughts raced, picking over the implications of hiswords. So he had been scouting, while Finan spoke with me. Which meant Finan hadalready known about my shipwreck while I was pleading with him for help. Why,then, would he be so skeptical?

The boy with the evil look about him seemed to share my opinion.“No evidence of anyone else on this island. Do you still think she is a trick?”

Finan looked over the rower’s head at me, seated in anundignified bundle on the floor at the prow of the rowboat. I could have fit onthe board next to Finan, but he didn’t seem to trust me enough for that. Mypistol was now tucked into his belt, beside his own. “We can’t be certain,Sihtric.” He heaved a heavy sigh, and looked away, toward the ship ahead of us.“But she might—” the breeze gusted, taking away a few of his words “—who shesays she is.”

Sihtric shook his head. “A strange coincidence, then. Butwho can claim to know the minds of the gods?”

Finan’s answering smile held no mirth. He nodded toward theship, which we were closing in on now. “The only thing that matters is what hemakes of it, anyway.” But Finan did not look as confident as his words. Hepeered down on me for a long while after that, thinking hard but asking no morequestions.

A/N: What do you all think? I have a few plot ideas but I need a little help gluing them together. So hit me up if this opening scene gives you any ideas for what you want to happen next!

TLK taglist: @ceridwenofwales @oddsnendsfanfics@laketaj24 @thewildbeauty @geekandbooknerd @therealcalicali @tiyetiye @pokeasleepingsmaug@goldentailedmermaids @sifshoney @titty-teetee  @savismith @ariellostatci @perfectus-in-morte @axiseeu12@kingofshadowalkers

[the-noblehouseofblack]

Posting the first part of the SPN/SH crossover to see if there is enough interest to continue! Let me know if you guys want to see more!

​“Dean!” Sam’s voice was ragged and panicked over the snarl of the Impala’s engine. Dean’s calloused hand slammed against the steering wheel as he cursed under his breath, his eyes darting between each side mirror and the rearview. “They’re getting closer! We gotta figure something out!”

​Dean mumbled “think” to himself repeatedly until he recognized his surroundings.

​“Oh, come on.” He groused, ripping the wheel to the left. Sam complained absently as he slid slightly on the seat. Dean lead the Impala down a few familiar roads before skidding to a stop in front of the hulking ruins of a church.

​“Uh, Dean?” Sam questioned, panic evident in his voice. “This isn’t exactly a good solution. Demons can still come into churches.”

​“Just trust me, Sammy. Let’s go, move your ass.” Dean threw the door open and sprinted across the uneven cement steps in front of the church. His hand dug into the pocket of his canvas jacket until his fingers closed around piece of cool metal shaped like a pencil. When he withdrew it, the metal had lines cutting along the shaft of it and the top had what looked like a clear crystal attached.

​Dean inhaled a sharp breath and began to draw the tip over his skin, ignoring Sam’s look of shock when stark, black lines began to rip across his skin with the look of burning embers in the wake of the crystal.

When he’d drawn what appeared to be an eye on the back of his right hand, he tucked the metal back into his pocket and pounded his flat palm against the door of the church.

“Open up, you son’s-a-bitches! There are demons out here, come on!” Silence answered him. He slammed his hand against the door again. “You owe me this! Open the damn door! Maryse! Robert!”

“Dean, where the hell are we? Who are you talking to?” Dean pointedly ignored Sam.

“You can’t just ignore your son! I’m a Lightwood and I am requesting access to the New York Institute! Let us in!”

“A Lightwood? What does that--.” Sam was cut off when, suddenly, the church shimmered around the edges like the feeling of waking from a dream and he was suddenly faced with a massive, intricate building that looked like it had been pulled from a painting. “Holy shit…”

Behind them, there was a roar of one of the demons that had been following them and both men spun on their heels, their guns lifting to their shoulders immediately. Dean didn’t flinch when the doors behind them opened and a shimmering whip cracked forward, the glowing strand of it wrapping around one of the two demons at the base of the stairs and tearing through its flesh until it disappeared in a plume of smoke. The other demon reared back with its gnarled teeth bared, but a silver arrow tore through his throat and he was gone as well.

Dean lowered his gun slowly, his green eyes surveying the area for more demons. He barely had a chance to relax when he heard a voice that he hadn’t in years, but one that was still all too familiar behind him.

“Dean?” It was all to easy to remember the voice squeaky with youth and excitement. He took a steadying breath and turned to face the man in front of him with a cocky smile.

“Hey, Alec.” He greeted casually, resting his sawed-off against his shoulder. “You got taller, little brother.”

​******************

​“Dean, what are you…where have you been?” Alec stammered, raking his hands through his messy black hair. After being ushered inside the Institute, Alec had dragged them down the halls to the briefing room where Dean was now leaning against the table with his arms crossed over his chest.

​“Around. Making my way through the country with Sammy, taking out demons that the Shadowhunters are missing.” Sam was staring between the two of them with his jaw hanging open with mild disbelief.

​“It’s been….it’s been fifteen years, Dean. You didn’t call, you didn’t send a fire message. I thought you were dead.” Alec’s voice was tinged with anger as he spoke. Isabelle had been uncharacteristically silent through the exchange, but when Dean’s gaze caught hers, she automatically walked forward and pressed herself to him, her arms wrapping tightly around his waist. Dean’s arms went around her with a shuddered sigh, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

​“Hey, Iz.” He whispered, breathing in the scent of his sister and letting his eyes close briefly. “I missed you.” Izzy nodded slightly against his chest before she pulled back and slapped the same spot, making him flinch.

​“Don’t run off again. You hear me?” Dean chuckled softly and nodded.

​“Can’t get rid of me twice.” Alec was staring skeptically, his eyes narrowed, and laser focused on Dean. “I’m sorry I left, Alec. I should’ve told you before I went, but I knew that you’d want to come with me, and I couldn’t have taken care of you. Leaving was the best option. That’s not an excuse for not telling you, but it’s why I did what I did. And I’ve missed you guys ever since.”

​Alec’s silence stretched between them for what seemed like an eternity before he stepped into the circle of Dean’s arms, leaning down slightly to hug his brother in a crushing embrace.​

​“Don’t go again. She couldn’t handle it.” Alec’s voice wasn’t loud enough for anyone else to hear, and Dean couldn’t help the clench in his chest when Alec added, “Neither could I.” When Alec pulled back, Dean cuffed him lightly on the chin with a suspiciously damp sounding chuckle.

​“When did you get taller than me? I’m supposed to be the big brother. This is just rude. You and Sammy both. Brothers and adopted brothers are not supposed to outgrow their older siblings, that’s law.” Alec smirked and pulled a half shrug in response. “Speaking of adopted brothers…where’s Jace?” The question was laced with caution. Shadowhunters historically didn’t always live long and Dean was secretly concerned about seeing pain across Alec’s face.

​“He’s with Clary, they’re on patrol.” Isabelle supplied. Dean raised an eyebrow curiously. “Oh! Right! You haven’t met Clary. You’ll love her, she’s great. And Magnus! You have to meet Magnus. He’s a warlock.”

​“And my boyfriend.” Alec added softly, his gaze catching Dean’s with a heavy weight to it. Dean simply smiled.

​“Well, then I have a Shovel Talk to have with this warlock, don’t I?”

​“I’m sorry to break up this…reunion, but can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” Sam interjected, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

​“I, uh,” Dean scrubbed a hand over his face wearily before looking at Sam. “This is my family. My little brother, Alec, and my little sister, Isabelle. The Lightwoods.”

​“What the hell do you mean your family? I’m your family…I’m your brother.” Dean nodded slowly.

​“You are my brother. My adopted brother. Alec and Isabelle are blood.” Sam stared at him silently, obviously waiting for him to continue. “When I was fifteen, I ran away from my family. My father and mother were trying to convince me to do something that would have been catastrophic, so I left. Alec and Izzy were just kids. And Jace.”

​“But you…I remember you being there my whole life. Dad has pictures of you when you were a kid.” Sam shook his head in disbelief.

​“I worked with a warlock to put that in place. She helped me to make Dad think that I had been there forever. Both of you. I’m sorry that I never told you, Sammy, but you have to know that I would have told you if I could have. If I brought it up, the glamour would’ve worn off.”

​“Glamour? What the hell does that mean? What’s happening?!” Sam was getting louder by the second and Dean reached out a hand to steady the other man. He couldn’t hide the flinch when Sam ripped his arm away and glared at Dean. He pointed at the mark on the back of Dean’s hand. “And that. What’s with the weird tattoo?”

​“It’s not a tattoo. It’s a rune. Shadowhunters use them to enhance their natural abilities to be better, faster, and stronger.” Izzy supplied helpfully. At least Dean was sure that was the intention, instead it earned her a glare from Sam.

​“A….Shadowhunter. What the hell does that even mean?”

​“It’s a race. Humans mixed with Nephilim. They’re a race that was born to protect mundanes from the shadow world.” Alec replied.

​“If you think that explains things, I have news for you.” Dean sighed loudly.

​“Demons, warlocks, werewolves, vampires. Downworlders. That’s what they mean. We’re the race that keeps demons and their BFF’s from chowing down on the average Joes.”

​“Mundanes? We? Dean, this isn’t you. You’re my brother. You’re a hunter.”

​“I am. But, I’m also a Shadowhunter. And I’m also their brother. I know that this is probably hard to understand, but--.”

​“It’s not hard to understand, Dean. Think about all the crazy shit that we’ve seen over the years. There’s not a whole hell of a lot that I would consider hard to understand.” Sam shook his head slightly before turning his gaze back on Dean. “I just don’t know why you didn’t tell me sooner.”

​“It was to protect you. You gotta believe that, man. If you’d known about all this, about what I really am? You’d have been in danger. You and dad.”

​“For once you’re speaking some sense.” Came a voice from the other side of the room and every head turned toward it. Dean froze, the tension in his shoulders obvious.

​“Robert.” He croaked out, cursing the fact that his voice quivered.

​“Robert, is it? I suppose that a decade and a half changes how you view a person, but the last time we spoke, I was ‘father’ to you still, Dean.” Robert walked closer, his arms behind his back when he began to circle Dean.

​“Yeah, well. The last time we spoke wasn’t exactly high up on the good memory list, so you’ll forgive me if I tried to push aside the fact that we share blood.” Robert quirked a brow slowly.

​“I see your mother’s personality still runs through you like wildfire.” As if on cue, Maryse Lightwood emerged from the same door her husband had and she stood stalk still, her eyes laser focused on Dean.

​“Mom.” Dean breathed out, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides frantically. He wanted to run to her, to feel his mother’s arms around him again, but her ridged posture made his feet feel like cinder blocks.

​“Do my eyes deceive me?” Maryse questioned softly, and he wished that he could read her tone better. He shook his head jerkily.

​“No, I,” Dean cleared his throat and tried again. “No. I’m here.”

​“Bold of you to return after abandoning your family the way you did.” Her words stung like a dagger in the gut, but the tears that she was obviously trying to contain gave him hope. “Come here.”

​Dean’s feet were moving before he could convince himself that it was a bad idea, and he was stepping into Maryse’s open arms. He couldn’t remember the last time that she’d held him this way. Perhaps when he’d been sick as a very young child, but Maryse Lightwood was not quite the “warm and fuzzy” type of parent.

​“I missed you.” He mumbled out where his face was pressed to her shoulder, his arms sliding around her and clutching the black fabric of her dress for all that he was worth. He inhaled the scent of patchouli and mint, the scent that he’d always associated with fleeting affection from his mother, and he had to swallow around the lump in his throat.

​“Oh, my boy, I’ve missed you too.” Maryse’s voice was soft against Dean’s temple and her hands trailed his back a bit awkwardly. He clung to her, reluctant to let go after fifteen years without her.

​“Maryse is hugging someone…who died? And who’s the giant?” Dean knew that voice, it had been the one that he had heard through the halls while its own chased Alec through the halls when they were “training”.

​He straightened up and turned to face the doorway, keeping quiet and waiting for a response from the blonde man in front of him. Jace had grown into a tall, broad man (not that he could be surprised, it had been quite a while since he’d seen his adopted brother), but there was still a glint in his golden eyes and the quirked lips of a cocky smile that screamed Jace Wayland.

​The sound of Jace’s gear bag hitting the floor echoed through the now silent room like a gunshot, startling the, admittedly adorable, redhead beside him. His boots thudded loudly as he strode toward Dean, who braced himself for a punch that was sure to knock him off his feet.

​Instead, what he got was a bear hug of epic proportions and a snarled “fuck you for leaving, asshole” with a suspicious sniffle against his ear. Dean folded his arms around Jace equally as tight, not giving half a damn that he couldn’t breathe.

​“Missed you too, pretty boy.” Dean chuckled, his chest warm with affection. He had his family back. His whole family.

@consulalexander @tobythewise

[swishandflickwit]

Marichat — shelter 2/3

Summary: Marinette and Chat Noir get caught up—in the rain and in each other.

Chapter summary: a.k.a. in which mama sabine knows all lmao

Words: 9.3k

Rating: General Audiences

Also on: ff.net | AO3

Other writing

Part 1 | [Part 2] | Part 3 |

Absconded as he was in the privacy of Marinette’s bathroom, he indulged himself and laughed.

“Clever girl, indeed,” he muttered to himself as he held out the elusive top she had given him, a hoodie in actuality. You wouldn't think much of it at a glance—black and plain and evidently in a man's size (a fact he had focused on with razor sharp intensity as the question of who she made this for, became more clear). But then he reached the hood, and the whole jacket was transformed.

For on either side of it, was a pair cat ears.

And not just a tiny pair, but one that uncannily matched the size of his own suit ears.

But that wasn't even the best part! Sewed onto the inner back where the tag was normally stitched and in vibrant green thread, it read chaton, and instantly it was confirmed—Marinette had made this.

And she made it specifically for him.

He briefly wondered why she would ever make him anything, then decided he didn't care. She made him an original Marinette Dupain-Cheng, and unlike her hat, he got to keep it this time. He bounced on the balls of his feet. He honestly couldn't wait to try it on and subsequently, his transformation couldn't have come at a sooner time. His ring bleeped a final warning and he was engulfed by green light.

When he looked at the mirror, Adrien met him and the entirety of him was soaked. He hadn't realized just how warm the suit kept him till he was stood shivering uncontrollably in his wet clothes. Yet he surmised he had never looked brighter, eyes sparkling and smile waggish.

That was, until, “Kid! What the fu—”

“Plagg,” he hissed, cupping the Kwami in his hands and holding him close to his chest. “You're freezing!”

“No thanks to you,” Plagg scowled before nipping harshly at his thumb. Adrien shrieked.

“Ow!”

There was a rustle just beyond the bathroom door as Marinette approached. “Is everything all right in there?” she called.

“Fine! Everything's just fine!”

He could see her shadow shifting from the gap under the wood. “You sure?” she asked, worry tingeing every word. “It sounded like you got hurt.”

“I got hurt all right,” he said beneath his breath. Then, louder, “I'm fine.” He rubbed his forehead with his uninjured hand before shooting Plagg a baleful glare. “I’ll explain when I come out.”

“Okay…”

He chuckled. “Seriously, Marinette. I’m fine.”

“If you say so,” she huffed. “Just, let me know if you need anything?”

“Trust me,” he answered, admiring his hoodie once more before divesting himself of his undershirt and polo. “I’m right as rain.”

“Ha, ha.”

“I'll be out in a minute, Princess,” he said, smiling reassuringly even when he knew perfectly well she couldn't see. “In the meantime, you have my eternal gratitude for deigning to share your personal ensuite with a lowly knight such as myself.”

Outside, he heard Marinette huff. In front of him, Plagg gagged.

No one appreciated his humor.

“You're ridiculous.”

“You love it!”

He counted it as a win when instead of denying it, she merely walked away.

He turned to the floating Kwami only to be met with a deadpan stare.

“Really? We're at Marinette's, again? What is it, the fourth time this week?”

“No,” he replied sullenly. Then, from the corner of his mouth he mumbled, “it's the third.”

“Well, color me impressed at your magnanimous self-control.”

Affronted, Adrien added, “It's not like I intended to stay this time! She invited me in.”

“Truly, your restraint knows no bounds,” Plagg drawled in sarcastic-laden intonations. He sniffed snottily. “Next thing you know, you'll be sleeping in here.” Adrien rolled his eyes.

(...even if the idea did appeal to him—not that he'd do Marinette the dishonor of coming into her bed and sleeping beside her, however nice that sounded.

At least, not unless she gave him the green light)

“I hope you're happy because thanks to your little date in the rain—”

Adrien groaned though he did nothing more to dispute the notion.

“—I'm not transforming any time soon, not in this atrocious weather and certainly not without my camembert!”

“Plagg,” he said softly, drawing out the a in a whine. “Marinette's parents know I’m here and invited me to dinner.”

Plagg raised a skeptical eyebrow. He didn't blame him, he could scarcely believe it himself.

“And how exactly do you plan to keep your identity a secret if you've got a seat on their table? Or are we throwing the whole anonymity thing out the window? You know, the one where a secret identity allows you to keep yourself and the people you care about, protected?”

“I'm not stupid—”

“You could have fooled me.”

His eyes narrowed in frustration. “— Marinette has a mask for me. She has us covered.” Literally.

“How convenient,” Plagg muttered. “An evening interacting with people while it rains outside,” he sighed and with a straight face, continued. “Fun.”

“Look,” Adrien sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before pointing at Plagg. “I don't know if they have any camembert but please be on your best behavior anyway.”

Plagg's jaw dropped, possibly in outrage and shock. “What kind of self-respecting household doesn't have camembert?”

“None, Plagg, because the average household wouldn't have camembert in their pantry. You have expensive taste!”

“So I have high standards. Don't cheese shame me, I'm just trying to live my best life here!”

“Says the one who doesn't have a dwindling bank account,” Adrien scowled. “I’m pretty sure Nathalie thinks I have a camembert addiction.”

Plagg shrugged, unconcerned. “Why not? I, for one, think it's a tragedy not enough people are eating my beloved camembert. But hey,” he shot him a devious smile. “More for me!”

“I think the real travesty is that my clothes will forever smell like camembert.” He sniffed his pants, exaggeratedly gagging at the hint of the cheese the rain hadn't managed to erase to irritate Plagg (a success, he might add, the Kwami sticking his tongue out at him) before folding it in a neat pile to join his shirts, which had all ready found their place in the paper bag Marinette had provided him earlier. Another paper bag was given to him for his sneakers. He deposited both heaps by the door so that it would be a quick gather when he inevitably had to leave. All that done, he put on Tom's black sweatpants and frowned when they sagged to his pelvis and drowned his bare feet.

He pulled on the fabric till his feet came out of the holes then he rolled the waistband till it was snug against him. He bounced, then sighed. It was still a tad loose but it was to be expected, he supposed. Tom was a significantly larger man than him. He would have been better off in Marinette's clothes. He cleared his throat.

The idea made him hot.

In lieu of exploring that line of thought, he tied the mask around his head and put on his hoodie. The fabric was incredibly soft, a hundred percent cotton if he had to gander, instead of the polyester blend he expected it to be. Marinette had sowed it in French seams, unusual for a hoodie but damn if it wasn't comfortable. As a result, the lining felt velvety instead of itchy, rippling smoothly along his skin as he moved. But the most noticeable modification had to be the pockets—for in the place of the standard two-sided provision in the middle, Marinette had tailored two, separate pockets on either side of the front, much like those found on regular jeans. And they weren't shallow like most hoodies’ pockets, but deep enough that they not only covered his hands but would keep Plagg nestled and hidden comfortably. She couldn't have known about him, of course, but the alteration was astoundingly intuitive. Not that he was complaining.

It was apparent that a lot of time (and money!) had gone into its creation. When he lifted the hoodie, the cat ears didn't sag. They stood to attention yet were surprisingly light on his head.

He looked at the mirror and examined himself anew. He didn't see Chat Noir, not when Plagg was hovering by his head with a critical eye. But it wasn’t Adrien he glimpsed either, since he had a mask on. So who was this that greeted his reflection, this amalgamation of the two most prominent parts of himself, who was sharper-eyed yet had softened around the edges, unhindered and unburdened and genuinely free.

He didn't know. And maybe that was okay. All he was certain of was Marinette... and how he may have just developed a tiny crush on her. For how could he not? That she had spent any amount of time, however short or long, working on this hoodie with painstaking care and pertinacity suggested just how much she cared for him. And how beautiful it was, to know that you were thought of.

How beautiful she was.

The edges of his mouth expanded to ridiculous heights.

“So?” He spread his hands out. “What do you think?”

Plagg gave him a once over. “I think the real tragedy is you.”

He rolled his eyes but his smile remained. If anything, it broadened—because on the other side stood Marinette, and the chance to be near her overwhelmed him with excitement. He held out a pocket to Plagg. “Shut up and get in here.”

“Ugh, with pleasure you lovestruck fool.”

Plagg was still muttering about “hormonal teenagers” and “I can't believe I have to deal with this shit, every time” when Adrien opened the door.

Only to turn around right away.

“S-sorry,” he stammered. “I forgot to ask if you were done changing…”

In truth, he hadn't seen anything. Marinette had been pulling on the hem of her tank but that flash of a sliver of skin had been enough to drive him a little wild.

She laughed, low and enticing, and god was he thankful for the rain just this once when he felt his temperature rise at the sound.

(So maybe it wasn't just a tiny crush)

“I am,” she assured and bid him to turn around. “Oh!”

She scuttled to her desk and ruffled through a couple drawers before kneeling in front of him.

He gulped. This was not helping his flustered state.

“Um.”

(He could feel the rumble of Plagg's, thankfully silent, snickers. He pressed his hand against his pocket)

“I should have known Papa's sweatpants would be big on you, no matter how old.”

She opened her hand to reveal a bundle of pins.

Oh.

“I was just thinking that I was better off wearing something from your closet,” he said, hoping his voice didn't betray him by being too high or shaky. He subtly cleared his throat. “But your mom went through all that trouble.”

Marinette gave him a small smile. “That's kind of you, but I don't want you stressing over it. I know I would.”

“I really don't mind.”

She shrugged. “It's not like I can't do it. You don't need to be a fashion designer to use a safety pin.”

“But it sure helps,” he said with a wink, before unrolling the waistband.

Marinette made quick work of cinching the waist and pinning it to place. Before he knew it, she was dusting herself off the ground. She stood back to survey her work—he tried not to preen at her appreciative gleam but a bit of the model in him came out anyway as he pushed his shoulders back and smirked—then abruptly clapped her hands.

“The hoodie, it fit!”

He ran his hands over the cotton fabric. “Like a glove!” he enthused. “Did you doubt it would?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “It's not like I could Google your measurements, Chat Noir.”

“You can't?” he cocked his head. Huh, that was a surprise to him. Google knew everything.

She laughed, a hearty guffaw that had her throwing her head back from the force of it, and it was a song he wanted on indefinite repeat inside his brain. His heart grew two sizes just hearing it.

“Come on,” she looped her arm around his, leading him towards her trapdoor. “Dinner's ready by now, I'm sure.”

“Wait,” he said, ambling behind her before gradually pulling to a stop so that he trailed a path from her elbow to her palm, reveling in all the exposed skin being out of his suit and her in her tank afforded him. He weaved his fingers through her own and was surprised at how rough it was, calluses found in the pads of her thumb and forefinger. She had such small hands. Yet the scars peppering her palm betrayed their delicateness, for these were the hands of a gifted craftswoman—all strength, beauty and creativity hidden within. If he thought the opportunity to hold her at all was wonderful, then the feel of her without the barrier of his suit or her blazer impeding movements or dulling sensations was glorious. He found he was fast becoming addicted to the way their hands intertwined, for it seemed as if his fingers were specifically tailored to fill the spaces between her own.

She giggled and it prompted him to break his stare from the bridge between them that was their interlocked hands.

“What is it, minou?”

“I really do love it,” he said earnestly. “Not a lot of people can say they have a Marinette Dupain-Cheng original, you know. And one day your name will fill fashion magazines and be whispered with envy by your peers and awe by aspiring designers from all over the world. I hope I'll be around when that happens—”

“Chat,” she interrupted, face rosy so it bloomed like a flower, albeit a shy one. He smiled, tucking a midnight lock behind her ear before trailing the length of it down her collarbone. He'd never seen her with her hair down, funnily enough, but she was just as beguiling, ebony tresses spilling like the night sky around her face.

“But even if I'm not, I’ll forever get to say that one time the Marinette Dupain-Cheng made me, Chat Noir, an original, customized hoodie in the style of me, Chat Noir.”

She snorted. “Smoothly done.”

She bent to her hatch once again but he tugged her back.

“Hey.”

“What is it now?” she pretended to fume, though he noted with interest that she didn't seem keen to break from his grasp when she had all ready proven how easy it would be for her. He smothered an urge to do a victory dance. He settled for inclining their clasped hands and turning them over so that he cupped her open palm.

He lowered his lips to the succulent curve between her thumb and wrist. Then, he placed a lingering kiss there, never once taking his eyes off hers as he murmured against her warm flesh, “Thank you.”

Marinette audibly gulped.

“S-sure,” she stammered. “It was nothing.”

He shook his head. “Not to me. So, seriously—”

Adrien took the hand that had been playing with the ends of her hair to run it along the nape of her neck where he rubbed calming circles. He liked the way her eyes fluttered when he stepped closer, till they were but a hairsbreadth apart, their hands resting against his chest. She leaned into his touch as she craned her head to peer up at him. He tilted his head, eyes hooded as he repeated with breathy solemnity.

“Thank you.”

His heart was running a marathon in his chest, sprinting from beneath his ribcage and straight into her hands. He wondered if she could feel it and whether he should be embarrassed if she did, but found that he no longer cared. He had always been a little too willing, too open with his emotions. Ladybug would have attested to that. But the difference, he realized, was that this time… this time—

It wasn't one-sided. He wasn't alone.

Because there was Marinette, standing on the tips of her toes, her free hand finding purchase in his hair while he abandoned hers in favor of anchoring his arm around her waist. She hummed. She liked to do that, he was starting to discover, similar to how he purred when he was particularly pleased.

And oh, how he liked to please her.

So he'd wait for her to kiss him. He inched closer till their noses brushed, but he would follow her lead and let her decide when to seal the space between them. He nudged the crease of her cheek with the tip of his nose.

(But surely a little push wouldn’t hurt?)

“Marinette?” Sabine called. “Dinner's getting cold!”

Her summon pierced the bubble they had encased themselves in, voice wafting through the wood loudly as if she had been right next to them. Marinette groaned, burying her face deeply into his neck so his hood fell. He could admit he was somewhat disappointed, yet couldn't bring himself to be too upset—not when Marinette was so blatantly miffed as well. She hadn't even shied away from him so he chanced tightening his arm around her waist and was gratified when she further nuzzled the crook of his neck before resting her chin on his shoulder. She sighed and he relished the audible proof of her annoyance. She was so damn cute, sometimes she didn't seem real.

He chuckled.

“We should go,” he said. “Your parents are waiting.”

“My parents,” she grumbled, “have the worst timing.”

He nudged his shoulder so that he could see her, and had to bite back a laugh. Her face was twisted in a grimace, luscious lips pushed out in an adorable pout that he wanted to suckle between his own. To temper his frustration, he kissed the back of her hand and gave it a small squeeze.

“Do it for the food, chérie.”

He froze. Oops. His eyes widened at her, apologetically. The endearment had sort of just, slipped out of him. He’d always been inclined to using them, it was often Ladybug's plight with him that he wouldn't cease to call her ‘bugaboo’. He remembered their earlier conversation and how she pointed out that he always called her ‘princess’. It hadn't bothered her, but had he gone too far now? She tilted her head at him in an almost curious manner, and he thought he was done for when she pulled her body away.

But then she stayed her hand and returned his squeeze with a smile. He breathed a sigh of relief at the radiant sight.

“I’m no princess,” she said archly as she opened her door. “But I do know a thing or two about being sweet.”

“Believe me,” he ran his knuckles along her cheek, forever bewitched by the miles of skin now available to him. “I'm aware.”

She bit her lip as if to contain her smile, then stepped down, returning to their earlier discussion. “Mama does make a mean wanton,” she sighed with feigned tsuris.“For the food.”

He nodded. “Oui, for the food.”

She paused, as if warring with herself on whether she should say her next words or not.

“And then, later…?”

He was glad she did. He felt his mouth stretch to a Cheshire's grin.

“Later,” he promised, and it couldn't come fast enough.

It hadn't gone unnoticed to Tom and Sabine that he and Marinette had gone down the stairs holding hands and didn't let go of each other till they sat down the dining table, not if the looks they exchanged were anything to to by. He had always assumed that was fiction, two people communicating with a mere glance. But a conversation happened before his very eyes, one that occurred without a single word, all because Tom and Sabine met eyes. He couldn't precisely decode the meaning of their stare, but with the way they regarded him, Marinette, him and Marinette, and then back at each other, he could very well guess. He gazed at Marinette from the corner of his eye just in time to see her roll her pretty, blue orbs. She must have been used to it. But he wasn't.

That cursed blush woke anew.

“You kids took a while,” Tom began airily as he took his place at the head of the table. Well, Adrien had an explanation for the delay. Speaking of—

“I know, right?”

Plagg, the little rascal, darted to the middle of the table before he could stop him. Sabine, who had been about to sit at Tom's right, jumped to a stand.

“Honestly,” he griped. “You should put a leash on these kids.”

Beside him, Marinette gasped.

“Plagg!” he cried.

The Kwami paid him no heed. He sniffed.

“Where’s my cheese?”

Adrien grabbed him midair and held him to his chest. “Nowhere, unless you behave,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I'm so sorry about him,” he addressed the Dupain-Chengs, all the while wrestling with Plagg, who seemed intent on escaping his grasp.

“What… what is... he?” Sabine asked, stuttering between calling Plagg ‘it’ or ‘he’. He was grateful she corrected herself, else this would have gone on for eternity.

“Hungry—”

He pressed against Plagg harder to muffle him.

“He's what gives me my powers, believe it or not,” Adrien said dryly. “He's a Kwami, and by saying a specific set of words, he’s what allows me to transform into Chat Noir. But it tires him out and eating is his way of recharging, apart from sleeping. But,” he yelped as Plagg dug his claws in. When he raised his arm, he dangled from his hand. Adrien sighed. “Mostly eating though.”

“What does he like to eat?” Marinette asked, and he wondered about the twinkle in her eyes.

“Cheese.”

“Not just any cheese, I'm not a barbarian.” Plagg interrupted. “I only eat camembert, the smelliest, most delectable, best of the best, cheese that was ever created. Oh, my beloved camembert,” he wailed. Adrien rolled his eyes. “My stomach feels empty without you. When will we ever reunite again?”

“Well, I don't know about camembert,” Tom started with an amused lilt, “but we do have fondue.” With a sweep of his arm, he gestured towards the kitchen counter where indeed—a small, ceramic, steaming pot of cheese fondue sat.

Plagg opened his mouth and Adrien was about to warn him to play nice when the Kwami literally launched himself into the pot as if it were his own personal swimming pool. Adrien's jaw dropped.

“Plagg!” he cried, mortified. Tom, however, chortled and Sabine’s tinkling laughter followed.

“What?” the little fiend had the audacity to float on his back. Adrien wanted to facepalm if Plagg wasn't all ready being rude enough for the both of them. “He said to help himself!”

He sneered. “He didn't, actually!”

“I suppose that’s one way to start a meal,” Sabine remarked as she began to pass out bowls. “Everyone dig in!”

“I thought only barbarians ate other kinds of cheese?” Marinette teased as she dove for the wanton broth.

“And as previously stated, I’m not one.” Plagg plunged into the pot and emerged with a face full of fondue. “It’s rude to refuse the host.”

“Oh, is it now?” Adrien commented acerbically. Then he turned to the occupants of the table with the most sorry expression his model-good looks could ever muster. “I can't apologize enough for his behavior. I am so, so, so sorry.”

“It's quite all right, dear.” Sabine patted his hand before taking it upon herself to give him a large serving of soup. “Marinette doesn't much stand on ceremony when it comes to food either.”

“Mama!” Marinette blushed and he only felt a little guilty that he wasn't alone in his discomfort.

“It’s true! I don’t know where a skinny thing like you keeps it all at the rate you eat.”

“Oh my god.”

“She obviously takes after her father,” Tom interjected, puffing his chest out with pride before ruffling Marinette's hair. She ducked but wasn't quick enough and suffered through Tom's petting as he stretched across the table to reach her. “Papa!” she grumbled. Adrien laughed at their antics as Marinette swatted her father's arm away before fixing her hair. Abruptly, she said, “Is Plagg always like this?”

He snickered. “Smooth,” he whispered under his breath. She glared, but he obliged the change in subject. He blew an exasperated breath.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Plagg threw a cheesy raspberry back at him. “Would you have me any other way?”

Adrien smiled at his direction, a small upturn of the lips that brimmed with content. “Funnily enough, no.” He returned his gaze to them. “I can hardly remember what life was like before I had him.”

Well, that wasn't strictly correct—it wasn't so much that he couldn't remember than it was a period he rather wished he could forget. He knew his lips had crudely slanted into a frown when he saw Marinette's own face fall. He pushed his shoulders back. The dinner table was not the place to unravel, especially in someone else's dinner table and—

Marinette had put her hand on his knee and all his thoughts grounded to a halt.

“How did you two meet?” she asked quietly.

He gave her a grateful smile as he met her fingers and intertwined their hands. Adrien took a deep breath, finding light in her touch so that it drove away the darkest of demons threatening to swarm his head.

“I came home one day and he was just… there.” Adrien shook his head fondly in recollection. “From the get go, he was all ready a glutton—he tried to eat my remote control!”

Marinette's parents laughed but she was pensive when she asked, “How did you take it?” she leaned into his space, her eyes burning with curiosity. “You must have freaked out.”

“A little,” he admitted.

“Are you kidding?” Plagg interrupted his cheese bath to say. “Kid took to it like fish to water. Transformed before I could finish explaining—before I was even fed!”

Marinette huffed a stray lock from her face as she muttered, “Of course you did.”

He would have commented further, but then he took a bite of the wanton noodles. He couldn't hold back his moan.

“This is delicious!”

Sabine chuckled even as she blushed. “I'm glad you think so.”

“The best noodles in Paris,” Tom beamed proudly.

“Can’t argue with that,” Marinette joined.

Adrien sighed. “I could marry this soup. Right now.”

So he slurped at the dish with a gusto one wouldn't expect from someone eating with just one hand. Then again, chopsticks didn't require the pair of them, though it would have been easier. Still, neither teen seemed willing to let go, happy to eat one-handed if it meant they could maintain the rare, skin-on-skin contact, even as innocent as hand-holding.

The rest of the meal passed in lapses of companionable silence and animated conversation. Adrien ate like he never had—had practically inhaled his food, be it Chinese, Italian or French cuisine, the Dupain-Chengs offered it all and so all he ate—had laughed like he never had, for Tom and Sabine had no shortage of tales to spill of Marinette's escapades as a child.

(“One time at a big family reunion, she climbed out of her high chair, crawled across the table—”

“Nooooo,” Marinette whined. “Not this story!”

“—and grabbed a huge chunk out of a whole roast chicken then sat right back without any of us noticing. We just turned around and there she was, trying to stuff her mouth with a chicken leg half her size!”

Adrien was giggling so hard he snorted. “Impressive, Marinette.”

She glowered, but when he poked her cheek she couldn't resist joining their amusement)

By the time the meal was drawing to a close, Adrien had eaten nearly half the contents of the table and felt borderline catatonic as a result. He felt full, but it wasn't merely due to the food. The dinner had been exquisite, made all the more comely for the people he shared it with. The dining table in the mansion was a time of solitary reflection for Adrien; where his thoughts were the loudest din, save for the clink of ceramics and utensils. But here, it was a symphony of colorful sound. If this were to be his first and last meal here, it would be a tune he carried with him for all time.

Even the quiet was something he relished. It wasn't empty, like that in his house. It was the kind of quiet that echoed the good times that preceded it, a quiet that came after a round of shared enjoyment so consuming, it robbed one's breath. It left you silent, sleepy… but overall utterly satisfied.

Sabine had bidden him to stay seated while Marinette and her father put food away, either in containers or in the trash. A nightly chore, he gathered, as they made quick work of it. It fascinated him to no end. Adrien may have been in his father's payroll but he'd never done housework in his life. To see everyone move in perfect fluidity, toiling to restore the kitchen to cleanliness while he remained motionless left him feeling uneasy, like he should have been helping them. He'd been in the kitchens and around the house long enough to observe the way his staff moved—in theory he should be able to provide his assistance. Wasn't that number one on his job description anyway? Granted, this mightn't have been what Master Fu had in mind, but he was Chat Noir. He was capable. It couldn't be that hard, right?

Right.

So when Sabine made to clear the last of the plates, he held his hands out and scooped them up before she could. He brought them to the sink then leaned against it as he addressed her.

“I can wash the dishes,” he offered.

“Such a sweet boy,” she smiled. “But that's usually Marinette's job.” She raised a flinty eyebrow at her daughter. “Marinette? Don't you have something to say?”

She held both her hands up.

“Mama, if he's up to the task, I'm not gonna stop him.”

He shrugged nonchalantly and with a crooked grin, joked, “I volunteer as tribute.”

“See?” Marinette clapped her hands, giddy. With a wink, she skipped to the living room and stood beside her father, who was setting up their game console. It bemused him. Was washing dishes really that terrible?

Sabine shook her head at Marinette's retreating back before turning to him. “Nonsense—”

Plagg snorted. “You said it. He's never had to do chores, like, ever.”

“Plagg!”

“What? I’m telling the truth!”

“Please. Ignore him.” Adrien glared at him before continuing. “I'll handle the dishes, it's the least I can do. You've been so kind to me all ready. Let me do this for you.”

Sabine appraised him and he bore it with baited breath.

“On one condition,” her smile returned, a soft upward tilt of her lips that made him feel small and young, younger than he had ever felt since his own mother left all those years ago. He'd have agreed to anything then, if it meant he could preserve those very sensations. He nodded with kitten-like eagerness.

“You wash, I dry,” she proposed. “Deal?”

He chuckled. “Deal.”

“Okay, if you're done here—”

Plagg dashed up the staircase. Adrien caught him by the tail, a look of incredulity plastered on his face.

“Where do you think you're going?”

“Marinette's room,” he stated with a frankness that informed him he should have known this, ergo, Plagg had every right to be there. He frowned.

“Come on, you know you can't just barge into other people's rooms—”

“Oh, cause you're so good at that—”

Adrien refused to give Plagg the satisfaction of showing his frustration by pulling his hair, though he did snarl. “Why do you even wanna go up there?”

“What’s it to you?” Plagg pulled at his tail. “Let go of me!”

“Hey,” Marinette called.

“What?” he looked at her and noticed she had turned uncharacteristically pallid. His frown deepened and he released Plagg. He took a step towards her, arms outstretched in a hug that he would will with all his might to squash whatever it was the distressed her, her parents be damned.

But she wasn't talking to him.

“You can go to my room.”

“Yes,” Plagg sighed peevishly. “I know that.”

He proceeded to float up to her chambers. Adrien bit back the inkling to shout in protest, which was just as well. Marinette beckoned once more.

“Plagg.”

To his surprise, the Kwami ceased his ascent. He faced her.

“Interesting,” Plagg's voice had appropriated a solemnity he rarely displayed. “That it's you.”

They exchanged a weighted look that he couldn't even begin to comprehend. There was a knowing glint in both their eyes, as if a message had been relayed and subsequently received. It made him… apprehensive? No, not exactly. It wasn't like they were talking about him (at least, he assumed they were talking about Marinette). But he definitely felt like there was something he wasn't getting—something he should have been perfectly aware of.

Marinette smirked playfully. “Don't touch anything that isn't yours.”

Plagg rolled his eyes, yet his grin was sincere, and dare he say—tender. Adrien gawked.

“Your… room is in good hands or,” he held out his arms. “As it were, in good paws.”

It was Marinette's turn to conceal her amusement abaft an eye roll. Adrien whirled his gaze back and forth between them, eyebrow raised quizzically.

“I'm missing something here, aren't I?”

“Don't worry your pretty, blond head about it, sunshine.”

“Do you really think I'm pretty?” he retorted saccharinely.

Plagg didn't dignify that with a response. Without so much as a backwards glance, he phased through the trapdoor.

Eerie silence remained in his wake.

“So, that happened,” Tom mused.

“Do I even want to know?” Adrien directed his question to Marinette. She shrugged.

“Not if you want to live longer.”

“I do have nine lives.”

“Trust me,” she resumed her attention to the console and the controller in her hands. “You're not ready to hear this. Not if you want to keep all nine lives.”

“That's so cryptic, Marinette!” He protested, roughly shoving his hands in his pockets. “You can't just say something like that and not explain!”

She ignored him and he tried not to sulk. When did Plagg and Marinette even have the chance to talk before now? Their incredibly brief interaction shouldn't have warranted such familiarity, yet he was convinced some sort of acknowledgement occurred between them. But what? How? Why? He couldn't help the absence that welled within—like the answers were staring right at him, yet he was too blinded by the glare of it to see properly.

“You are a strange child,” Tom declared.

“I'm your child,” she returned, looking at him askance. “If you've got a problem with the product, take it up with the manufacturer.”

“But that's me,” he whined.

“Exactly.”

The tension of earlier seemed to dissipate in the wake of their persiflage, as it seemed was the standard in the Dupain-Cheng household. Had he spoken to his father with such imprudence, he'd have been institutionalized. Had he and Chat Noir been separate people and Chat strutted into the mansion then indulged the same intimacy with him that he had with Marinette, he would have been thrown out. Forget being thrown out all together—he wouldn't have made it past the front door. So really, Adrien could only goggle at this family.

They were marvelous—easily, openly, irresistibly, wholeheartedly, undeniably, marvelous.

Beside him, Sabine shook her head. “Those two have their own world,” she sighed, with a forlornless—a longing that appeared out of place within these four walls, the weight of her emotions so heavy he felt it echo through his soul in tidal waves of wistfulness. His ebullience faded in the wake of this realization.

He knew this sadness, as well as his own heartbeat, and while he was certain this family was the epitome of healthy kinships—he found he couldn't begrudge Sabine her envy. He had only been in Marinette and Tom’s presence for less than a night, but he sensed their closeness straight away. He stared at them, and saw what she saw—how animated and engaged they spoke with each other, how when Tom would pull Marinette would push, how they may have been speaking in French but it might as well have been esoteric to them. Marinette stared up at her father with stars in her eyes while Tom praised Marinette as if everything good in the world had been made by her hands. Those two shared a bond he could only ever dream of having with his own father.

Suddenly, looking at Sabine was like looking at a mirror.

“I just don't understand them sometimes,” she continued.

He tilted his head at her, silken strands falling into his face as he spoke, lowly, compassionately, “But you love them anyway.”

And then she smiled—not just with her mouth, but with her whole body. Her eyes had slanted upwards into tiny smiles of their own while the tension she harbored all over melted till her body hummed in repose. With those words, it was like a lock had been broken and wasn't it just incredible? Wasn’t it absolutely grand? The way love conquered even the darkest of imaginings—the way love healed.

“But you love them anyway,” she repeated.

She lightly bumped her shoulder with his. “You still up for tackling those dishes with me?”

“I'm paw-sitive I can.”

That elicited an exuberant laugh from her. At least one person in this building appreciated his puns.

When they reached the sink, he rolled up his sleeves. Sabine touched his shoulder.

“This is nice,” she noted of his hoodie.

“Marinette made it for me!” He enthused, lifting the hood over his head and twirling without prompt. He struck a pose. “What do you think?”

She chuckled, regarding him with a gleam in her eyes that he couldn't place.

(It definitely wasn't a night of knowledge for Adrien Agreste)

“It suits you.”

He nodded his agreement.

“She's gonna do great things one day,” he sighed happily as Sabine handed him the sponge then drained the sink.

“You two are close, huh?”

That brought him to a screeching halt. Shit, he thought. So she had noticed their easiness with each other. Ugh, who was he kidding? Of course she noticed, they weren't exactly the definition of subtle.

“Yes,” he croaked because at this point, what was the use of lying? Though it still came out more question than statement, as if he himself didn't know the real answer.

She didn't say anything after that, merely began to hum a Chinese lullaby beneath her breath, and so he didn't expound. Maybe she knew they were close but not the hows or the whys. He couldn't fathom being so close to a parent as to share such details with them. Well, not that there was anything scandalous to their friendship (at least, depending on who was asking). But he didn't think any parent would find near-nightly visits from the opposite sex—superhero or not—to their daughter's bedroom in the after hours of Paris appropriate, no matter how innocent the intentions. Perhaps luck, little as it was, was on his side tonight.

After careful instruction from Marinette's mom and some close calls with slippery dishes, he got the hang of it, he and Sabine functioning like a well-oiled machine—he washed a pile, she rinsed and dried.

There was something soothing about the routine. It might have been the asininity of it—the motions repetitive and expected that he didn't have to think at all, and so it was effortless to lose himself. It might have been the clamor of Marinette’s gaming zeal and Tom's overly dramatic wails of defeat as Marinette expertly annihilated him in round after round of Ultra Megastrike IV that brought him serenity when the noise would have rattled anyone else. Even the dissonance of running water and clanging dishware brought him domestic bliss, the likes of which he had never known.

Because the mansion may have been his formal residence, but with the reticent staff and his hermit of a father, it was just another building—foreign and stolid and one he happened to be required to sleep in.

Compared to here though, there had never been more polar opposites. The truth of the matter was, he could have fit the Dupain-Chengs’ apartment inside the Agreste mansion and yet, he found there was no other place he'd rather be in. The organized clutter told of a life well lived and a house well loved. The raucous of continuous chatter and Sabine's soft singing and television static was a symphony to his lonely ears. This was a refuge with people who were free to be who they were and just… love.

This is a real home, he mused, and if he could, he hoped to never leave. And perhaps he never would, if Tom and Sabine liked him enough to invite him another night, if he and Marinette became just as good friends when he was Adrien, better yet if he and Marinette fell in lo—

Stop.

A crack sounded and when Adrien looked down, where there was once an unblemished surface, a tear had wrought through halfway down the middle of the plate he was washing. He gasped.

“I'm sorry! I’m s-so—I’m sorry!”

With haste he let go, only to wish he hadn't. The impact caused the crevice to widen though the plate hadn't completely split into two.

“You're shaking,” Sabine whispered.

“Oh,” he hadn't noticed. “I broke a plate,” he said dumbly. “That must have been a set, right? And you can't have a set with just three—” (never mind that the occupants of this household were that very number) “—I'll replace it. I’ll buy another one.”

I'll buy you a whole kitchen's worth of new sets.

“It's just a plate,” Sabine murmured, squeezing his shoulder. “It's all right, Adrien.”

…

…

…

…

Adrien.

Adrien?

Holy fuck, she said Adrien!

One minute he couldn't breathe and the next, he choked on air.

“Chat?” Marinette hollered at him though she hadn't averted her eyes from the screen. She crowed at a successful 12-hit combo before calling to him once more, “You ok? Choke on a hairball or something?”

She laughed at her own joke and that he wanted to laugh hysterically along with her made him cough all the more.

“I'm fine,” he managed to bite out once his fit had calmed. Sabine patted gently at his back, albeit with a modicum of reluctance. He turned to her.

“What—” Voice considerably lowered though no less panicked, he repeated, “What did you call me?”

He held his hands to his face to see if his mask had slipped. It was intact. He felt it was, so how did she…?

“I'm sorry,” she deflated when when she approached him and he unconsciously took a step back. “I didn't mean to frighten you.”

“I'm not frightened.”

She glanced down, emphasizing how it hadn't escaped her that his shaking hadn't relented.

“It’s all right, Adrien,” she said again.

Her words were meant to comfort but it was as if she was underwater and everything was warbled. His name, his civilian name, falling from her lips was like a buffer against rationalization, and it had him blanching. She flinched.

He clenched his fists and took a deep breath, then two, then three—till the gallop of his heart faded to a steady tread and his trembles abated.

“Are you going to kick me out, now?”

She shook her head. “Why would I do that?”

“You know who I am,” he lamented. “That's dangerous.”

She smiled. “Is it now?”

“It's not funny,” he whispered, looking down. “If Hawkmoth finds out about you and what your family means to me, and god forbid something happened to Marinette and mon dieu—” he returned his attention to her. “Who else knows? Does Marinette know?”

Sabine shook her head. “Just me, as far as I'm aware.” He breathed a sigh of relief before regarding her with oblique intent. “So… how did you?”

“Well, it's less clear when you're transformed. But after?” she cocked her head. “I think modeling the jacket was a bit of a giveaway,” he blushed. “The hair is pretty notable. Your eyes, too.”

He gaped. “Lots of guys have blond hair and green eyes!” he defended.

“I suppose that's true.” She laughed, before fixing him with an austere stare. “But they don't care for Marinette the way you do.”

He didn't know how to answer that—partly because he was embarrassed that he was so transparent.

Mostly because it was true.

“Adrien…” Sabine started, glancing at Marinette and Tom from her periphery to make sure they were otherwise occupied. “What happened just now?”

“I'm always breaking things,” he confessed, as if that were explanation enough. And maybe it was because the sorrow in her eyes almost had him coming undone.

I don't want to break her, he wanted to shout. And I don't wanna break my own heart too.

Because falling in love was the easy part—falling in love with the unattainable was even easier. He knew the outcome was bleak and so it was simple to be able to put on his armor of innuendo and impavidness and say it was all right that they didn't love you back.

After… after was what scared him. Reciprocation scared him. Because he was broken, was always going to be just that little bit damaged and a step behind and he didn't want anyone else to get caught in the crossfire that was his internal turmoil. Because he was lost, always lost, and he didn’t know how to be enough for someone else.

“Hey,” she said, derailing him from the dangerous path his thoughts had veered to. “Who needs a set of four plates when we're only three.” She shrugged and added, conspiratorially, “I've been dying to replace these sets anyway but Tom didn't see the point. Now, you've given me the perfect excuse. I mean, they're older than Marinette—no wonder this one broke!”

His heart lifted as they joined in merriment. What was it about the women in this family? Would he forever have a weakness for dark hair, blue-eyed females?

(If that was the case, then he hoped never to be strong)

“Besides,” she shared, everything about her so far removed from her previous melancholy that his own worries of insecurity and being discovered evanesced into a plane of halcyon where no one and nothing that would ever hurt him, could—if only ephemerally. “In my experience, the best people in life are the ones who are unafraid to show their imperfections.”

(And who was he kidding? The halcyon wasn’t some undiscoverable plane—it was here)

“So own them, darling,” she cupped his cheek, and he found himself leaning into her touch, starved as he was for motherly affection. He clutched her forearm as if for dear life, and lapped at her every word when she declared, “You'll find that the cracks are where the light shines the brightest.”

He let a little more than a fleeting moment pass as he considered her words. Could it really be that simple? Own it, she advised.

“Thank you,” he sniffed.

“Thank you for helping me with the dishes,” she grinned lopsidedly. She may have been thanking him for his assistance but he was adamant he had been the one to gain the most from their encounter.

He disposed of the broken plate and cleared the sink while Sabine put the rest of the dishes away. After, she jutted her chin towards the living room.

“Shall we see what the other two are up to? Before they get swallowed by the TV?”

Thankfully, no such misgivings had arisen since, caught up as they had been in their conversation, it slipped their notice when Marinette and Tom had moved on from the game console to their music player. Charles Aznavour's rich, buttery tones wafted from the crisp speaker as he sang Il faut savoir.

Even with the cramped space of the apartment, the father and daughter duo found a way to make a dance floor of the living room, moving in some semblance of a...waltz? ‘Gifted’ as they were with two left feet.

He chuckled and hoped the mask hid the way his eyes shone. Then again maybe not, if it meant Marinette’s countenance vivified at the sight of it.

“You’re here!” Tom bellowed, spinning her outwards with a little too much exuberance and so she fell back against the cushions.

“Tom!” Sabine shouted just as Tom squawked his apology and Marinette expelled a cute, “oof!” when she landed. Adrien pressed his lips together and tried not lay the adoration thick but—she didn't exactly make it easy.

She jarringly chided her father before expelling a greeting so cheerful and sweet, you would think they hadn't seen each other in years instead of the scant few minutes they were actually apart. She moved a smidge so there was room on the sofa for him even with her limbs aslant.

What he wouldn't give to have a camera right now, to capture the flush that burgeoned the apple of her cheeks because it was from exertion and not bashfulness, for once… to immortalize the way her eyes sparkled when she looked at him like this—unharmed and glowing and arrantly, confoundingly, heart-stoppingly beautiful.

He crouched on his haunches so he was eye-level with her and lightly swiped the tip of his finger across the length of her bangs. Her sigh was a cool breeze against his lips.

“Hello, Marinette.”

She sat up, affecting a severe air as she enounced, “I'm surprised you remember my name.”

He gestured at her to scoot over. He hunkered beside her with his legs crossed, one arm spread atop the back of the couch while the other was propped against his thigh. He rested his head on his hand and raised an eyebrow at her.

“What? Why?”

“You and my mom looked so cozy,” she teased. “I thought you'd forgotten me.”

“Oh, are you jealous then?” he shot back in acute delight. “You don't need to worry,” he leaned into her space so he could whisper in her ear, lips ghosting her skin as he murmured, “You're impossible to forget.”

She rolled her eyes then looked away, but not before he caught her gratified expression. He beamed as he pulled away.

Chiming laughter and gruff chortles had the pair of them turning to the pair before them. The sight they were greeted with was nothing short of miraculous, as Tom expertly twirled Sabine athwart the room, ebbing and flowing in a dance they appeared to have been doing since they were born.

“How come you can dance with mom that way and not me?” Marinette demanded haughtily. Truth be told, he was glad she asked. He was bewildered at the grace with which Tom maneuvered Sabine when not minutes ago, he and Marinette had been fumbling about like gravity was personally out to get them and they were desperate to outrun it.

“Don't you know?” Tom said before he twirled Sabine, first out then into his arms. “Life is but one, long dance. Sometimes you take a wrong turn somewhere and swing out of beat.” He dipped Sabine, “But other times, if you sway at just the right moment—” and, slowly, they ascended together, “—you might bump into someone who's willing to move just that little bit off beat with you, and you find you've made a rhythm that's all your own.”

Till they were in perfect alignment, her back to his chest and his chin nestled atop her head.

“Each step you take is a step towards that person so... dance. Make your move and make it right. Hell, make the wrong one too! Just…”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“Just—just what?” He goaded, endeavoring to limit his impatience as he leaned towards the man.

Marinette rolled her eyes. “Papa,” she rebuked but he could tell she was just as engrossed as he was.

Tom smirked.

“Just dance.” His lips whittled into a softer, more profound, grin. “You do your utmost to ensure you lead a successful life, but all that won't mean a thing without the right partner by your side.” He locked eyes with Sabine. “So, don't forget to dance.”

Now it was Edith Piaf's poignant voice crooning her Hymn to Love that filtered through the spaces between their bubble of conversations. Sabine elegantly twisted in Tom's arms so she could rest her head onto his chest. In absolute synchronization, they sighed, and it was the purest sound of rapture he had ever heard.

Then Tom threw them, what he must have thought was, a sly wink. “Do you?”

What?

Adrien glanced at Marinette and saw she was just as baffled as he was. With an eyebrow raised, he conveyed with her, as if to say, he's your dad—you ask him what he means! to which she rebutted with her arms crossed and a pointed, if you're such a curious cat, you ask him yourself!

(Though, admittedly, the curious cat was something he added for his own amusement)

He relented though they both turned to Tom.

“Do… we what?”

“Have the right partner?”

Without thought, his eyes found Marinette's. Marinette—who tripped even as she stood, whose belongings were forever escaping her grasp as they sprawled whenever she careened about the pavement. Marinette—whose maladroit affliction had faded when he held her in his arms and danced with her that one time.

They had fallen into each other’s gaze long enough that more than a beat had passed. Tom reverted his gaze to Sabine and the two were lost in a world of their own, a lambent pendulum as they flowed in and out of each other's gravity.

Do you have the right partner?

He had always thought Ladybug was his, through thick and thin. In some ways, she was the right partner—but he was looking for someone who was right, not just in some but in all the ways it mattered.

Tom's words reverberated like a gong in his head.

Do you have the right partner?

When Kagami had been Akumatized, Ladybug stowed him away to safety whereas he and Marinette teamed up to defeat the Evillustrator. When he needed advice, he asked Marinette. Marinette had given him his very own lucky charm. It was him and Marinette who worked so well together in Ultra Mega Strike even when they were in opposition, only him and Marinette who had been in complete awareness of Lila's falsehoods, Marinette that he went after in the skating rink.

Marinette, Marinette—in everything it was Marinette.

Do you have the right partner?

Looking at her, an ethereal beacon amongst the fluorescent and lamp lights as she watched her parents fall in love all over again, he wished he had the courage to speak up. For though he had broken down his thoughts and discovered the answer was within his grasp, he would have liked to dance with her just then… just once more—if only to be certain.

(When really, what he verily wanted was to build himself around her and hold her close)

AN: There is a part 3. I have no self-control lol.

ALSO, THAT MARICHAT SNEAK PEEK THO??? I SWEAR TO GOD I AM STILL CRY-SCREAMING ABOUT IT, IT IS SO SIMILAR TO MY VISION FOR THIS FIC IT'S LIKE I DREAMT IT AND IT LITERALLY CAME TO LIFE RIP ME

Update: Read Part 3 here

[pass3rby]

Caught By Your Past

23rd Part

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed Pairing: Altair x Malik Warnings: modern AU, mature, OOC, OFC; unbetaed Summary: Keeping the past forgotten is manageble as long as you don’t get confronted with it head on, right? After all, what eyes can’t see… But what if your past came right to your doorstep?

A/N: Big revival’s here! First things first: 22nd Part underwent a bit of a transformation (AKA So... I've made some adjustments. *chorus sigh*), therefore in this part you’ll see basically what you maybe already read (if you’ve read CBYP in its first form). That being said, almost every chapter had been tinkered with at least a bit (in some cases a lot), so I recommend re-reading the whole story in case you want the puzzle pieces to fit much better.

Altair was undeniably elated as of late. The downside?

“Don't worry your snarkhood is safe with me.”

The whole thing was a downside.

“My what.” Way to force a head up, Malik had to admit as he tore his attention away from the laundry he was pulling out of the washing machine. Propped against the doorframe and excluding jolly mood, Altair didn't hesitate to reassure Malik that he heard right.

“Your snarkh-”

“I hold no fear of endangerment of my 'snarkhood'. Or any other 'hood' for that matter.” Quipping up to par in exchange, he pointedly returned to his previous business.

“I was talking only about your true identity.” They were so not obviously done here. Shoot him dead. What was it.

“My true identity.”

“But of course, Ser Snarkhood,” here, Altair executed an extravagant bow, musketeer style. “Thus begins the unfolding of a story revered, of a recluse wreathed with gratitude of simpleminded, a recluse most know just as a hearsay. Escaping and rebelling against the laws of socialization, he hid in local woods since there's a price written on his head-”

“Snarkhood. Price on my head. Real charmer. Get lost, you perverse Nothing-ham.” Throwing a damp T-shirt at Altair's head was Malik's non-verbal free bonus to the reply; hopefully discouraging enough to make the riot rethink the idea of staying around. It must've been effective, because the enemy chose to beat a hasty retreat. With badly contained laughter, but Malik would take it.

Stopping in the middle of unloading the washing machine, he went over to where the unlucky piece of clothing landed after hitting its mark. The least he could do was to retrieve it after the job well-done.

Cue a sister lying in wait. And she didn't waste any time to pluck her prey.

“You're strangely open to the quip sessions you guys have. Usually, you'd throw the conversation to the curb right at the start of it.”

There used to be a time when the pure mention of washing room had deterred young people from getting anywhere near it. Heartwarming memories… cruel reality of today.

Lifting what he stalked over for off the floor, he took in her sparkling eyes and FBI profiling analyst remark.

“He's like a puppy. You gotta play with it or it dies.” The hero henley and the rest of its family reunited with a flop and Malik heaved the whole basketful up, clearly on his way out. Gie stepped aside to leave the doorway free; obviously, that wasn't a standard interrogation procedure, but he'd be the last person complaining.

“You're impossible, Malik.” Not even stopping when passing by the officer, he bestowed upon her his own parting words like a monarch.

“I try.”

Relocating into the bathroom, he pulled at the retractable washing line to get down to business.

In all fairness, he might've deserved and expected an outrageous show of madness from Altair. Granted, he toyed with the goofball a bit prior to the encounter, but it would be irresponsible and misleading to let Altair think that Malik's going to roll over and go with whatever and whenever. Malik didn't have a heart to do that. Setting limits and drawing lines was important. And so the boot camp begun. Which went along the lines of:

“Talk to me.”

“No.”

“We could-”

“Reading.”

“Come on…”

“Making a coffee.”

“That doesn't take long.”

“Feeding a cat.”

“You don't have a cat!”

As was obvious from the example – simple exercises in accepting a negative response for an answer were not only needed; they were necessary when handling an attention seeking missile. He didn't need someone permanently on his case and while Altair admittedly wasn't that bad, Malik still needed to ensure he'll have a working system present, which would send Altair a clear signal to give him a breather when Malik needs it.

He should've expected the side-effects. Due to the method chosen to pass that particular message, anyone as bullheaded as Altair was bound to turn up on his doorstep with a crazy routine after that; Malik could see it now. Therefore, as ridiculous as this attempt with snarkhood had been, it was time for a reward, so Malik'd actively joined in.

The addition of Gie in the setting threw him back into a more somber mood. While he might have not shown it on the outside, his mask didn't erase the change and the mark it left stayed with him. Malik felt entitled to continue question everything, feel off about it since looking at her input reminded him of a skipping stone. Getting to realize your crush is your brother's ex, playing into that rooftop surprise, not stabbing Malik in the gut when they got back and then ribbing him some? If nothing else, his sister was less violent than an average broken-hearted woman.

Georgie was a good girl; no angel by any means, but she was a solid human being without a question. She also had a sense of self-worth – which was probably exactly what created this 'incomprehensible' block that Malik was dealing with. He wasn't one to flog himself daily and held no desire to start with it either, however, in this case he would understand a well-aimed kick, slap or that smack upside the head that she favored so much. Instead, and quite clearly, she was okay with what the three of them evolved into. As in genuinely, for whatever reason and no matter the plans thrown out of the window, alright. Well, he was weird according to standards, there was no reason why his sister couldn't be, too. At least one answer to that. Where did that leave them, though?

Let's try to tackle the monster to the ground from a scratch. Malik wouldn't call them an extraordinary pair of siblings. In fact, they'd probably fit the norm. He was a big brother, he looked after her. Gie was a younger sister, she raised havoc. There was no science involved. You take care of your sibling, you love them and that's it. So much for the facts. There was no apparent reason for her to spare him her wrath. The only conclusion he could draw from that was that William Congreve would be either sorely disappointed or pleasantly surprised.

Staring down the freshly hanged clothes, he was loath to admit defeat.

They hadn't spoken a word about it. The facts were undeniably out there in the open, yet both of them just seemed to… go with what the other went with.

Done here in more senses than one, he retired – about to develop more senses than one as well – into his room.

Altair was absent, that was the first information that made it to his brain. Thinking back, he heard someone leaving the flat. On autopilot he sat behind his desk and switched the laptop on, blindly watching the system boot up.

He should take it at face value and stop digging into it. There were only two issues with that. First, years had ingrained into him to dig deeper and second, these 'face value' accepted things tended to blow into one's face sooner or later.

Closing his eyes, he massaged the bridge of his nose, trying to elevate the pressure building there. The action didn't result in much success, so he gave up altogether in favor of grabbing his phone to at least check the time and see how much he's got left to finish his current load of work.

An unread message. His finger went to click the appropriate button only to reveal the most wretched text message he ever had the displeasure to see:

He didn't call. Altair brought his favorite anyway.

The rest of the day saw the brunette simply sharing the same space while doing this or that.

Malik gave him a peck goodnight.

Face value it was.

Next

A/N:

William Congreve reference - he’s the author of the famous “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

[blessedbyharrystyles]

Make Me, Styles

A/N: So this was a requested imagine! Basically, you and Harry go to the same college and you bicker and act like you hate each other, but on the lowkey y’all both got a thing for each other. After a fight Harry comes over to your place and you end up fucking. ( my descriptions are trash but trust me just read it) Also I think this gif would be what Harry would look like if he was college age so let’s just go with that. Also for the purposes of this imagine let’s pretend Harry is not famous just the average college kid. Enjoy!

Warnings: Smut

Word count: 2.5k

You loved college. The freedom, the independence, the friends you made. It was your third year and a couple of your closest friends sprung for a little house off campus so you didn’t have to be confined to the closets they called dorm rooms. Everything was great, except for one thing. Rather, one person: Harry Styles.

He was the one person in your friend group you could not stand.  He acted like majoring in philosophy made him some fountain of absolute knowledge. It was pretentious and obnoxious, yet everyone else seemed to go along with it. “It’s charming” they would say. As if. Every time he spoke you found yourself holding back the urge to roll your eyes (though half the time you would just let ‘em roll because you didn’t care if you came off rude to him). It was no secret you didn’t like each other. You both knew how to get under each other’s skin and actively tried to do just that.

“Would you guys just get a room already,” your friend Jess would jab when the two of you got into a fight. Typically, they started after you would call him out for saying something that was incorrect and, being the know it all he was, he would try to prove you wrong. Jess, along with a couple of your other friends, got it in their heads that you and Harry liked each other, but that could not be further from the truth.

“Gross,” you would object, turning your nose up at the suggestion.

“In y/n’s wildest dreams,” Harry would shoot back with a wink.That was another annoying thing about Harry, he was a cocky little shit. He’d get suggestive with you sometimes, just because he knew you absolutely hated it. As much as you hated to admit it, deep down you thought he was good looking (you never would actually admit because that would go straight to his already gigantic head). But it didn’t matter how hot he was, that personality ruined it for you. 

“More like nightmare,” you would huff.

That’s basically how things would go whenever you and Harry were around each other. You always tried to keep your distance from him, but he was not easy to ignore. He somehow managed to always. Be. Right. Fucking. There.

Usually, class was your only escape from Harry. You were different majors, so your schedules didn’t crossover. But of course this semester you had something with him. It was one of those stupid general education courses you were required to take, but forgot to in your first two years. You were kicking yourself now for procrastinating it. That’s how Intro to Politics turned into your own personal hell. 

But if only it could have just stopped at just sharing class together. Oh no, your life wasn’t that easy. You had to do a partner assignment and guess who you got randomly assigned with.

“Y/n and Harry Styles.” You let out scoff when the professor announced your names together. Harry snickered, enjoying how much just the mention of his name irritated you. This was not going to be fun.

“Alright Styles-” you tried to corner him after class to get a game plan set. The sooner you got this done, the sooner you would be freed.

“Don’t call me Styles, turns me on,” he smirked.

“God you’re so fucking gross,” you snapped, making him chuckled. If you only you could slap that stupid smile off his face. “What I was trying to say Harry is that I want this done as soon as possible. Can we meet in the library tomorrow and get this done in one day so we don’t have any more unnecessary time together.” 

“Sounds good, sweet cheeks,” he replied, knowing you hated being called that.

“Asshole,” you grumbled, as you walked away.

You thought being with Harry in a group was bad, but it didn’t compare to spending time with him alone. He had to interject his opinion into everything.

“Well that’s not how we would do it in my philosophy classes...”

“Well this isn’t a philosophy class it’s a political science class.”

“Well y/n this just isn’t the way I would approach the project.”

“Well Harry I don’t give a shit.”

You went on like that, bickering for what seemed like ages. He just couldn’t accept that he didn’t have all the damn answers. You ended up biting the bullet and just putting the presentation together yourself. You hated group projects for this very reason (you always were the one who picked up the slack), but if it meant getting away from Harry, you were okay with it.

On the day of your in class presentation, you handed Harry some index cards so he could follow along. He refused them.

“Don’t need them. I got it all up here,” he tapped his forehead. Yeah right, you thought.

When you two were called to give your presentation, it was clear Harry did not “have it all up there.” It was kind of amusing to see him floundering every time the professor asked a question.

“I’m sorry professor,” you cut off Harry after he was asked a question that clearly stumped him, “Clearly my partner doesn’t know what he is talking about. In fact, he didn’t even try on this project. I did everything, so if you have any questions you can ask me. I’d be more than happy, and capable, to answer them for you.” 

Harry’s face burned red as he shot you the nastiest look you’ve ever gotten. It took everything in you to not laugh in his face. It was satisfying to finally put him in his place for once. You took the lead for the rest of the presentation. Not a single peep came from Harry. You thought it was longest he has gone without talking. It was music to your ears.

The second the class ended, you bolted. You knew Harry would try to bitch about what you said, and you were not in the mood to deal with his whiny ass. You thought you may have heard him call your name, but you ignored it. Maybe he would finally learn his lesson and leave you alone.

Later that evening you were relaxing in your house when there was a hard knock at the door. You were only one at the house, as your housemates had late classes on this particular day. You figured one of them forgot something for one of their classes and was racing back to get it. However, when you opened the door you were met by Harry. Ugh.

He was glaring down at you. You went to close the door in his face, but his hand swung up to stop you, hitting the door with a thwack. 

“What the hell do you want?” you groaned.

“Are you fucking kidding me y/n?” he snapped.

“What?”

“Throwing me under the bus like that in front of the professor and the whole class,” he growled. Clearly, he didn’t learn any lesson.

“Well if you just did the project you wouldn’t have made yourself look like such an idiot,” you fired back, stepping closer to him. You would not let him think you were intimidated. 

“I tried but wouldn’t let me! Everything I said you shot down,” he replied, leaning down to your eye level.

“Because everything you said was wrong! Jesus can’t you just accept you don’t know everything,” you snapped. You glowered at him, ignoring how good he smelt up close. Now was not the time for thoughts like that.

“Well if you hadn’t been so nasty about it like you always are maybe I would have worked better with you,” Harry sneered.

“Aww I’m so sorry. Did I hurt poor little Harry’s feelings because I gave him a reality check?” you said with feigned sincerity. 

“You ever get tired of being a brat?” he asked.

“Dunno, you ever get tired of being an insufferable know it all?” you shot back.

“Oh, would you just shut up y/n.”

“Make me, Styles.”

Suddenly, his hands were gripping your face, pulling you into him. When your lips connected to his, the tension in the room exploded, like lightning dancing across the sky. It only lasted a few seconds - you couldn’t be sure exactly how long because your head was spinning - before the two of you stepped back. You stared at each other, wide eyed.

“Did we just...?” you trailed off, taken aback.

“... We did,” Harry replied, seeming surprised himself.

“Shit,” you muttered.

“Always knew you wanted me,” Harry smirked, returning to his cocky self. Typical.

“I do not,” you grumbled, your stubbornness not letting you give in that easy.

“Really?” Harry replied, brow raised, “So you’re saying you don’t want me to take you back to your room right now and fuck you relentlessly.” He took a step closer to you as he spoke, his voice low and sultry, making your core dampen. You tried to keep your face straight, but the blush in your cheeks gave you away.

You didn’t reply, because denying that you wanted that would be a lie. Still, you didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. It was an internal battle between your pride and your desire.

“Come on, y/n, say it. Say you don’t want me and I’ll leave,” he egged you on, seeing right through your charade. He was right, you couldn’t say it. 

“That’s what I thought,” Harry smirked. The next thing you knew, he slung you over his shoulder. You gasped, shocked by how easily he lifted you. You didn’t know he was that strong. 

“Other way,” you instructed him, as you realized he was headed for the wrong room.

“Thanks babe,” he replied, giving your ass a slap. If you weren’t so turned on you would roll your eyes. Harry kicked the door to your room open, letting it swing shut behind him, narrowly missing your head.

“Watch it, Styles,” you grumbled. Harry tossed you down on your bed, smirking at you.

“Only thing I want to watch is you screaming for me,” Harry replied, pulling off his shirt. You bit your lip, looking over his toned body. Your core ached, wanting him to prove his words to you.

“We will see about that,” you replied.

Harry leaned in, his lips hovering just above yours. “Oh yes we will.” His lips were on yours again, reigniting that spark. You kissed each other hungrily, deep, sloppy kisses across lips, jaws, and necks.

Harry yanked off your shirt, a pleased smile spreading across his face when he realized you weren’t wearing a bra. He kissed down from your collarbones to your breasts, He took the time to work each one, his tongue swirling over your nipple. You let out soft moans, running your fingers through his messy dark curls. God you’ve always wanted to do that. He sucked and nipped at your skin, and you were sure there would be marks tomorrow.

You slid your hand down to the bulge in his pants, rubbing his length through his jeans. He was already so hard, just touching him made your core throb. You worked your way to his tip, applying more pressure to the sensitive area. Harry let out a low hiss.

He undid the button of your pants, allowing him to slip his hand in. He ran a finger up the slit of your core.

“So wet for me,” he stated smugly, “Gonna fuck that little pussy of yours so good.” You tried - and failed - to hide the shiver that went down your spine.

“You’re doing a lot of talking and not a lot of fucking,” you pointed out. It was the least desperate way to say fuck me now Harry. The look on his face said “challenge accepted.” His hands moved to his pants, getting himself undressed. Thank God.

As took his pants off, you reached over to your bed side table. You pulled open the draw and thanked your lucky stars that you had a condom left. When you turned back, Harry was completely naked, his cock rock hard standing proud. He was bigger than you even thought.

“You’re staring y/n,” Harry smirked. Your cheeks flushed and you mumbled a sorry, making Harry chuckle. Once he had his laugh, he returned his attention to you, pulling your pants and underwear down in one hard tug. You kicked the clothing off the ends of your feet, spreading your legs for Harry to position himself between you.

“If I’m too much for you, just let me know,” Harry said smugly, his tip brushing against your core.

“Oh, would you just get on with it al-” a gasp stole the words from your throat as he pushed into you. Harry groaned, feeling your walls adjust around his cock. He allowed you a few seconds, before repeating the action, only harder. 

Harry quickly found his pace, long hard thrusts quickly building the knot of you pleasure in your lower stomach. “So tight,” Harry growled, little beads of sweat forming on his forehead. You felt yourself slipping closer to the edge with each thrust. Your hips bucked up to meet his, getting him deeper inside you. Harry pressed his thumb over your clit, rubbing firm circles over your most sensitive spot. 

The stimulation, coupled with his deep thrusts caused your orgasm to erupt through your body. You gripped the sheets, back arched as waves of pleasure took over your body. 

“Harry,” you moaned breathlessly. His name rolling off your tongue, coupled with your walls clenching around him sent Harry over the edge. His head fell back, a string of profanities spilling from his lips as he released himself.

When you both finished, Harry climbed off of you, pulling off the condom before tying it off and tossing it in the trash. You laid there motionless, legs shaking, slightly in disbelief that that actually happened.

“Told you I’d have you screaming,” Harry smirked.

“That was better than I ever imagined,” you heard yourself say. Shit, you thought. Harry was definitely not going to let that one slide.

“You imagined what it would like to fuck me a lot?” He asked, amused. Before you could reply, another voice spoke.

“Holy shit,” a familiar voice half-gasped, half-laughed. You and Harry scrambled to cover yourself in blankets as your friend Jess laughed at you two. “I knew it! I knew you two were into each other!” she exclaimed proudly.

“Fuck off,” you and Harry said at the same time.

“Aw look at you two, already so in-sync,” she replied, still laughing. The two of you just glared at her. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave you two love birds alone.” She closed the door behind her, but you could still hear her laughing as she walked away.

“So now what?” you asked awkwardly. You couldn’t exactly go back to normal and act like nothing happened now that there was a witness. Plus, as much as you hated to admit it, you didn’t want this to end.

“Would you want to go to dinner tomorrow night?” Harry asked. For the first time since he arrived, he didn’t sound cocky. He seemed nervous actually. It was, dare you say, sweet.

“Sure,” you nodded. 

“Great,” Harry smiled. The two of you got redressed. Harry said he would text later to figure out a plan for tomorrow.

“Still hate you Harry,” you called as he stepped through the doorway. 

Harry turned back to you and smiled. “Hate you more.”

Hope you enjoyed! Send requests here!

[0nho]

a/n: the last of the prompt fills I had received is this ask. sorry it took so long, considering last month and then never really being satisfied with this piece because the subject is something I had wanted to try since I began posting my writing in ‘11 and can’t do it justice. so I’m putting it behind a cut. 

jinki/minho (platonic), jinki/taemin (relationship)

--

“When it happens to you enough,” Lee Jinki tries to smile, tone of voice humorous to hide any sign of disappointment,”..you just learn to pick up on it.”

Jinki is late, yet again, to meet a person he's dating. Sometimes it's women, sometimes it's men. Currently it's a cute male junior, Lee Taemin, Jinki has been seeing, but also flaking on him too many times to keep count of. 

The reason for his tardiness now, and often, sits beside Jinki, as Taemin is seated across the table at a small, quiet cafe. Next to Jinki is his younger stepbrother, Choi Minho, who has ended up not the average or typically desired little brother one dreams of as an only child. When Jinki's mother passed away as just a small boy, the idea of a little brother left with her. 

Jinki's father remarried eventually; a lonely man working hard to maintain a small shop once run by husband and wife. His father married a woman who was once divorced, two kids of her own already, but the parents decided through the divorce that the older son would go with the father and younger with the mother. 

It must have been difficult for her, Jinki can now sympathize as an adult now himself, tending to a disabled child on her own. Minho, Jinki's stepbrother, has the condition known as autism. Jinki had no comprehension of it as a child, but found the dream of a perfect little brother dashed by what appeared to be a little boy out of control and expected to adore him regardless. Only two years apart in age, Jinki couldn't understand why he was so different and difficult; the difference shouldn't be so severe. Those are difficult memories for Jinki to face; wishing he never had wanted a little brother, especially not that one.

But with passing years, many things changed, and with their parents still running a business, it soon fell on Jinki to be Minho's caretaker. It was difficult--still is, and there were months, maybe years, of resentment for it. But after visiting Minho when the younger was institutionalized during their teens, Jinki couldn't stand it. He couldn't harden himself to pure indifference, not from a lack of trying if he tells the truth. 

 Minho had grown, puberty producing a beanstalk; taller than Jinki, but no broader. It left Minho's mother worried about the coming and going of those alarming fits and someone getting hurt. And what Jinki came to find in that hospital for the disabled, those short days he visited, wasn't the brother he grew up with. The smile, one sweet and gentle, had been lost. Jinki decided once he graduated high school he would bring Minho home and take care of him to the best of his ability. 

That promise has been kept, though the resolve wavers some days; sometimes he wonders if he really could throw it all away and leave, reinvent himself somewhere else. 

It's not as easy dating a man, since Jinki won't risk bringing them around his parents, not wanting added stress for them by another son. Jinki's preference for men is only known by Minho. How ever much Minho understands what that means, Jinki doesn't know, but he thinks Minho understands more than he is given credit for, and in that, Jinki feels a glimmer of support by a family member. He's not looked at with disgust or questioned. 

But sooner or later, every relationship taps out because of Jinki's failed time management with his disabled brother. So here comes the break up. Jinki's getting better at swallowing it, or fools himself into thinking so. He should give up dating altogether, take up a hobby like model building--Minho would probably like that, they could do it together. 

Jinki’s attention is drawn as Taemin slouches in his seat childishly, reminding their age difference is more than Jinki has ever dealt with. The young man's gaze is continually drawn to Minho, who is bent forward, head down, tinkering with a rubik's cube in his lap; one of Minho's favorite items though he's solved it a million times, give or take. 

“He's why you are late?” Taemin deflects, attention on the person who could be blamed for why they were meeting today like this, though really it is Jinki's fault. 

Jinki presses slipping glasses back on his face, glancing at Minho, a genuine smile spreading his lips. He's so very nervous, being he really likes Taemin more than he thought he would at first meeting at a local gay club, but having Minho beside him is more a comfort than anyone will ever understand. 

“Our mother was supposed to take care of him today, but plans changed..” 

Minho was told repeatedly his mother would be home with him today, but she ended up being needed at work unexpectedly, and Jinki's meeting with Taemin he hadn't told his parents. It turned into an ordeal when Jinki needed Minho to leave the house with him after he was told what his day was going to look like then thrust into sudden changes. The meltdown caused Jinki to be late and Minho out in mismatched clothes. 

“I thought maybe you wouldn't be here still,” Jinki gives a short laugh, finding Taemin’s eyes. He's glad Taemin waited for him. 

“Honestly, I thought you were using me or something. I didn't expect.. this..” Taemin looks at Minho again, who doesn't bat an eye or lift his head. It's like he can't hear them at all.

“I'm really sorry.. I had to watch him but..” Jinki chews lips, needing to be a little delicate, rather than say he had really wanted to have sex with Taemin, see him too of course, but also sex, because the sex with Taemin has been better than he imagined, doing this wonderful thing with his.. “..I wanted to see you..”

“Does he not.. talk?”

“He does, but even less than you.”

That has a smile and laughter out of Taemin; young man hiding behind a hand, bashful. Jinki's heart flutters a bit. 

“How long did you plan to leave him in the bathroom?” 

Jinki really hadn't thought that far ahead, when he put Minho in the bathroom of the hotel he agreed to meet Taemin at after the younger’s hobby of dance; something else Jinki has promised to participate in but always bails, because of Minho and in part his two left feet. Some effort went into convincing Taemin he didn't need a shower beforehand, afraid he would walk in to where he had left Minho with a tablet to watch his favorite broadcast jockeys for entertainment; somehow he can do for hours on end. 

Jinki hadn't expected the battery to die on the tablet, nor to be frightened while screwing when his stepbrother came out of the bathroom to hand Jinki the tablet that died. Taemin was, understandably, pissed and left half-dressed. Minho had just taken Jinki's cellphone to continue watching someone on his third portion of fast food. And Jinki had punched the bed with muffled screams of frustration, wanting to run away to another country. 

So the two have ended up here, as Jinki waits to be dumped again, because of Minho, yet he can't stay mad at his little brother. It's not really his fault. 

“I screwed up, I know.” Jinki slides Minho's cup of water closer, a gentle smile as be urges Minho to drink more. 

Taemin watches, an unspoken twinkle in his eyes. 

“Why not let someone else take care of him?” Taemin’s gaze flicks to Minho, but the other has no reaction to being spoken of so casually in front of him, even as rude as Taemin might sound. It's disconcerting, but on the other hand, Jinki has him captivated.

“If I do that, I'll never see his smile again,” Jinki answers, watching Minho the entire time. There is a weight to his tone, a long history still so few know of. 

Taemin sits up and leans forward across the small table, surprising Jinki by taking his glasses from his face. 

“Hyung, could you really ever look at me like you do him?” 

Jinki is dumbstruck. “What?” 

Jinki's cellphone rings then, interrupting. He looks at his phone and with an apologetic look saying “I need to take this.. it's my dad..”

Taemin nods. 

Jinki glances at Minho, “You stay right here, okay? hyung will be right back. I promise. Don't move.”

Minho looks up for the first time, blinking peculiarly large eyes, watching through the glass windows where Jinki steps outside though still in sight. Like that, Taemin is left alone with Minho. It falls quiet, but for the soft background noise of the cafe. 

“Are you my hyung?” Taemin asks, suspecting the young man is older than him. He leans over the table for Minho's attention, recalling the same blank expression on a small face at the hotel; alarmingly large eyes gazing down on Taemin pinned beneath Jinki. Taemin had been startled there was a pervert in the room or another man Jinki was seeing. 

Minho holds up his solved rubik's cube, showing Taemin. 

“Ah! you finished it! Are you good at that?” 

Minho nods. 

Taemin, still holding Jinki's glasses, slides them on, flicking hair back. 

“That's my hyung’s.”

“They look good on me?” Taemin jokes. 

Minho doesn't answer. He actually looks a bit distressed suddenly. Taemin removes the glasses, falling back in his seat, meaning no harm but unsure how to communicate with the other.

“Um.. so.. your hyung takes good care of you, huh?” 

Minho doesn't say anything, but a subtle light brightens big eyes charmingly as they turn to find Jinki just outside the window. 

Taemin feels a stir in himself; anger at Jinki, all the thoughts of him being an awful person, slipping off his shoulders. It makes him happy, he thinks. 

Jinki is soon back, phone pocketed as he apologizes again. Minho shows Jinki the completed cube as he takes a seat beside his stepbrother, a look on his face as if as excited as the first time ever seeing a cube finished. Charming, Taemin notes, as he sips his coffee.

“You solved it again? How long?” 

“One hour, five minutes, thirty-two seconds,” Minho says, with a quick look at a clock on the wall and a watch around his wrist.

“Really? Is that your fastest?” Taemin asks. 

“No,” Minho answers, taking a notebook and pen from the backpack on the floor beside him, not making eye contact with either young man.

Jinki bubbles up with affectionate laughter. “Minho has a book full of timeatmaps finishing that thing. It's impressive.”

Taemin blinks widened eyes. 

Quickly, Minho scrambles the cube, head lowered again, as he begins to solve the puzzle all over. 

Taemin watches with a renewed smile. 

“He's good at those cubes. He has so many..” Jinki takes a sip of his drink, looking towards Minho's lap. 

Taemin puts an elbow to the table, chin resting on a palm. He grins, impish. “Let's not stop seeing each other.. yet.”

Jinki's chest thumps, a bare face brightening, eyes creased in a smile. It's genuine happiness by this new turn of events. 

[dannybnnt]

Sick Day | Danley

Summary: Isley takes care of Daniel while he’s sick. @isleydrewwhittaker

Isley-Yesterday at 2:02 PM

Shopping bags in hand, Isley waited for Daniel to let her in. When he did, she looked him over, slightly shocked that he didn't seem to be exaggerating. "Oh wow, you look like shit." She said, walking in and setting everything down in the kitchen.

Daniel-Yesterday at 2:03 PM

Daniel dragged himself to the door, glad that Isley would be coming over to help him but at the same time feeling bad that she was always having to take care of him. He let her in and scoffed as he shut the door behind her. "Thank you, baby." He said sarcastically as he made his way back to the couch to lay down.

Isley-Yesterday at 2:06 PM

"You're welcome," She replied, equally sarcastically. "Why don't we camp out in your room so we don't infect this whole place for Ellie?"

Daniel-Yesterday at 2:07 PM

"I don't wanna move." He groaned. "She told me I should leave." He said with another scoff.

Isley-Yesterday at 2:09 PM

"Well, you're paying rent, not her, so..." Isley teased. "C'mon, babe." She put her hand out for him to take.

Daniel-Yesterday at 2:10 PM

He sighed dramatically and took her hand to get up from the couch and walk to his bedroom. He fell onto the bed and rolled himself up in the blanket like a burrito.

Isley-Yesterday at 2:11 PM

"Poor thing." She said, making sure he was comfortable before asking, "When was the last time you ate?"

Daniel-Yesterday at 2:12 PM

"Last night, but I don't know if I want to eat yet."

Isley-Yesterday at 2:15 PM

"Alright, baby. I'll be right back." Isley went to the kitchen and grabbed the Lysol from underneath the sink, then proceeded to disinfect the living room. When she finished, she grabbed a blue Gatorade from the fridge and some saltines, then went back to Daniel's room. "At least drink some of this. Replenish those electrolytes." She held the bottle out to him.(edited)

Daniel-Yesterday at 2:19 PM

Daniel attempted to sleep when she left the room but found it hard to do so. When she came back, he sat up and drank the gatorade slowly. "I just want you to cuddle with me."

Isley-Yesterday at 2:22 PM

Isley smiled at him, finding his vulnerable state endearing. "Okay." She kicked off her shoes and climbed into bed beside him. "No kissing, just cuddles."

Daniel-Yesterday at 2:27 PM

"I know. I don't want to get you sick." He wrapped his arm around her, his eyes closing. "I wish I could kiss you though."

Isley-Yesterday at 2:28 PM

"Just focus on getting better, and then you can kiss me as much as you want." She reached a hand up to touch his face briefly.

Daniel-Yesterday at 2:29 PM

"How did I get sick and you're fine? This is bullshit." he joked softly.

Isley-Yesterday at 2:30 PM

"I don't really get sick anymore. I got sick a lot as a kid, so my immune system got built up."

Daniel-Yesterday at 2:30 PM

"Is that how that works?"

Isley-Yesterday at 2:35 PM

"No idea, but I think it has something to do with it. Like I got exposed to lots of stuff from spending time in the hospital with my mom, so now my body better knows how to combat it? Not entirely sure but it sounds right."

Daniel-Yesterday at 2:41 PM

"That makes sense, I guess. What was she sick with?"

Isley-Yesterday at 2:43 PM

"Cancer. But whenever she and my dad would have serious conversations with the doctor, or she was getting tests done, they'd send me out of the room. I'd go to the pediatric floor and make friends with the kids there."

Daniel-Yesterday at 2:45 PM

Daniel thought that sounded really depressing, but he just cuddled her closer. "Maybe that's why you're such a good nurse." He said softly.

Isley-Yesterday at 2:56 PM

She smiled softly at his comment. "Maybe. Or maybe it's because I have such a handsome patient, so I'm on my A game."

Daniel-Yesterday at 2:57 PM

"I thought I looked like shit." He teased.

Isley-Yesterday at 2:57 PM

"You're shit is like, average for everyone else."

Daniel-Yesterday at 3:00 PM

"Hm... Good to know." he said with a nod. "I am starting to feel a little bit better.  I thought I was going to die most of today."

Isley-Yesterday at 3:02 PM

"That's good, babe. Think you can eat now?"

Daniel-Yesterday at 3:03 PM

"I don't know.. That might be pushing it."

Isley-Yesterday at 3:12 PM

"Alright, we'll  just stay here then. If you decide you want to try, we can start with Saltines. I put them on the bedside."

Daniel-Yesterday at 3:17 PM

"Thank you, baby.. This is why you're the best person in the entire world."

Isley-Yesterday at 3:18 PM

"Only for you." She replied, her smile evident in her voice.

Daniel-Yesterday at 3:19 PM

"No, you're just amazing always." He said, his eyes closed as he tried to relax.

Isley-Yesterday at 3:20 PM

Isley brought the hand that was wrapped around her to her lips, kissing it gently. "Roll over." She demanded.(edited)

Daniel-Yesterday at 3:21 PM

Daniel did as she told him and rolled onto his stomach. "Like this?"

Isley-Yesterday at 3:22 PM

"Mmhmm." Isley lifted his shirt to his shoulders and began to rub and scratch his back gently.

Daniel-Yesterday at 3:23 PM

He hummed contently as she began to rub his back. "That feels good."

Isley-Yesterday at 3:30 PM

"Good, baby." She said quietly as she continued. She wasn't sure if she should stay quiet to let him sleep or talk, so she just didn't say anything.

Daniel-Yesterday at 3:32 PM

Her soothing motions were making him sleepy and he wasn't able to fight it. It wasn't long before he was dozing off, softly snoring because of the position he was laying in.

Isley-Yesterday at 3:35 PM

When Daniel began to snore, Isley stood and went to the kitchen, grabbing supplies to actually clean the house. When she finished cleaning, she grabbed her favorite book, Wuthering Heights, out of her bag and read. When Daniel had been sleeping for about two and a half hours, Isley decided he needed to eat to regain his strength, so she cooked his soup and brought it to him, sitting on the edge of his bed. "Hey, baby." She whispered.

Daniel-Yesterday at 3:37 PM

Daniel slept better than he had been able to all day. When heard Isley whisper to him, his eyes struggled to open. "Hi." He said softly and sat up, feeling a little better than he had before.

Isley-Yesterday at 3:39 PM

Isley smiled as he sat up, gently brushing some hair out of his eyes. "I know you probably still don't want to eat, but you have to." She scrunched her nose at him and handed him the bowl.

Daniel-Yesterday at 3:41 PM

He wanted to say no but when she had come over and was taking care of him, he didn't want to be rude. He took the bowl and cautiously put a spoonful of soup in his mouth. After he swallowed it, he paused for a long moment to gauge if it would be okay before he continued slowly eating. "Thank you." he gave her a small smile.

Isley-Yesterday at 3:42 PM

"See, not so bad." She said, returning his smile. "You gotta have some sustenance."

Daniel-Yesterday at 3:43 PM

"Yeah, I was just worried about keeping stuff down but I think I might be getting better."

Isley-Yesterday at 3:51 PM

"It's because I'm here. You're welcome." Isley said sarcastically.

Daniel-Yesterday at 3:53 PM

"I think it might be." He said with a nod.

Isley-Yesterday at 3:55 PM

“Just needed some motivation. It just happens to be that that motivation comes in the form of my booty.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 3:56 PM

"And I didn't even have to touch it." He joked with a wreak smile.

Isley-Yesterday at 3:59 PM

She shook her head at Daniel with a small laugh. “No, but you’re gonna have to kiss up to it once you feel better.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 4:39 PM

"I usually do anyways." He said playfully, followed by a yawn.

Isley-Yesterday at 4:51 PM

“True, and it better stay that way.” She countered.

Daniel-Yesterday at 4:53 PM

"It probably will." He finished off the soup and set the bowl on the night stand beside his bed. "I think I might go shower. Or bath. I haven't decided yet."

Isley-Yesterday at 4:59 PM

“Hm, a bath sounds nice. I may join you.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 5:00 PM

"It's the only way I'm gonna see you naked while I'm sick, so let's do it." He said and slowly got up to go to the bathroom. He started the water and pulled his clothes off while the tub filled.

Isley-Yesterday at 5:22 PM

Isley laughed and rolled her eyes at him, following him to the bathroom. She took his clothes and threw them in the laundry basket before stripping his bed sheets and throwing them in the washing machine. Then, she went back to the bathroom and stripped her clothes off, stepping in the tub.

Daniel-Yesterday at 5:25 PM

He got into the tub and relaxed with his head against the back and his arms on either side of he tub. When she joined him, his arms wrapped around her. "Thank you for all this." He rested his head on top of hers for a moment.

Isley-Yesterday at 5:40 PM

Isley relaxed into him, closing her eyes. “I like taking care of you, baby.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 5:41 PM

"You've had to do it a lot.. I don't know where I'd be without you."

Isley-Yesterday at 5:51 PM

“It’s been my pleasure, but I’m sure you’d be fine.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 5:52 PM

"Nah, my life would suck without you right now."

Isley-Yesterday at 6:00 PM

“Well you make my life better, too.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 6:02 PM

"I don't see how but I'm glad that I do."

Isley-Yesterday at 6:06 PM

“If I could kiss you right now, I totally would.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 6:07 PM

"I would too." He sighed. "Instead, I'll just be miserable." He joked.

Isley-Yesterday at 6:20 PM

“Oh c’mon, we can make it.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 6:27 PM

"I'm just going the miserable either way until I feel better. Which I gotta get to feeling better soon so I can deal with mediation and shit."

Isley-Yesterday at 6:28 PM

“And the sooner you deal with that, the sooner it’s over.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 6:31 PM

"Yep. Maybe that's why I'm so sick." he joked.

Isley-Yesterday at 6:36 PM

“Probably,” Isley said, shrugging casually.

Daniel-Yesterday at 6:37 PM

"Are you gonna be mad if I wanna be alone after the mediation? I just feel like it's going to be stressful and I'm going to be mad."

Isley-Yesterday at 6:41 PM

"I don't really have any expectations about the mediation, so no. But if you wanted company, that's fine."

Daniel-Yesterday at 6:48 PM

"I just don't want us to fight because I'm nervous it won't go well."

Isley-Yesterday at 7:01 PM

“I don’t have to come see you if you don’t want me to. But I will have an issue if you decide to cope by getting shit faced and then attempt to fuck up some other shit faced dude.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 7:04 PM

"I make no promises..." He joked.

Isley-Yesterday at 7:08 PM

Isley nudged him gently with her elbow. “I know you’re joking, babe, but I’ll kill you.”(edited)

Daniel-Yesterday at 7:09 PM

"I will not go out if I get wasted. There's your promise."

Isley-Yesterday at 7:15 PM

“Thank you.” She replied smugly.

Daniel-Yesterday at 7:16 PM

He kissed the top of her head "My dad is coming on Sunday."

Isley-Yesterday at 7:19 PM

“Wow, when’s the last time you saw him?”

Daniel-Yesterday at 7:21 PM

"Before I moved from New York. I saw my mom when we went for business but he was gone. It's going to be weird, I think he's really disappointed in me."

Isley-Yesterday at 7:35 PM

“Its been a while then. And I’m sure he’ll understand, it’s not like you’ve had it super easy.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 7:39 PM

"He doesn't care about that. In my family, as long as you keep outward appearances it doesn't matter what goes on behind closed doors. I haven't been so good at that."

Isley-Yesterday at 7:54 PM

“It’s all...politics with your family. Your father, anyway. That sounds like it would be a hard life.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 7:55 PM

"I don't know. I guess every family has their issues."

Isley-Yesterday at 7:56 PM

“Well, you can’t change how your dad feels, unfortunately. But he’ll get over it, right?”

Daniel-Yesterday at 7:58 PM

"He kind of has to. I used to care so much what he thought but... Now it's just like if he can't accept my life then that's that. It hurts but I can't stay in an unhappy marriage or control feelings I have for other people because my parents think it makes them look bad."

Isley-Yesterday at 8:05 PM

“No, you can’t control it at all. And I’m glad that you don’t care as much.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 8:17 PM

"Honestly, it scares me how close I was to becoming my father. Just.. Empty. No feelings.  I despised him for that my entire childhood but the past few years, I don't know how to explain it. It's so easy to get caught up in trying to be perfect or having people think you are. It felt like my life was on auto-pilot until Avery left me."

Isley-Yesterday at 8:27 PM

Isley turned to face him in the tub. “Well, the last thing you are is empty, baby.” Isley threw the rules out the window, putting her hands on his face and kissing him gently. “And you’re definitely living your own life now.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 8:28 PM

He closed his eyes as she kissed him. "I know I'm not empty now. I have you." He ran his hand over her hair.

Isley-Yesterday at 8:31 PM

“You always will.” She gave him another kiss before turning around.  “You should get sick more often.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 8:31 PM

"Why?" He asked with a small laugh.

Isley-Yesterday at 8:34 PM

“You’re bein’ really sweet.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 8:34 PM

"Am I usually mean?" He asked playfully. "I just am really thankful for you today."

Isley-Yesterday at 8:49 PM

“Hush, you know what I mean.” She nudged him again. “Like I said, I don’t mind. I like spending time with you. Even when you’re sick.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 8:54 PM

"I like spending time with you too, baby." He rest his head back against the wall. "We should probably get out soon."

Isley-Yesterday at 9:05 PM

Isley groaned, then stood. "You stay here for a little bit and wash up, I'll make the bed." She wrapped quickly dried off and redressed, then went to get the sheets and made the bed quickly. Isley brought his dirty dish to the kitchen and put it in the dishwasher, grabbing him another Gatorade.

Daniel-Yesterday at 9:23 PM

Daniel washed his body, the act making him feel like he was washing away a bit of the sickness. When he was ready to get out, he drained the tub and stepped out, wrapping himself in a towel. Standing up made him feel sick again though and he had to lean against the sink for a moment to stop feeling nauseous. He moved to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed, feeling frustrated that he was still not feeling well.

Isley-Yesterday at 9:31 PM

“Aw,” Isley said as Dan collapsed on the bed, feeling bad that he was feeling bad. She grabbed one of the fresh blankets and threw it over him, then laid down with him.

Daniel-Yesterday at 9:33 PM

He got comfortable under the blanket before wrapping his arm around her. "I might have to give in and go to the doctor if I'm still sick in the morning."

Isley-Yesterday at 10:12 PM

“Okay babe. I hope it’s just a 24 hour thing, for both of our sakes.” She joked.

Daniel-Yesterday at 10:15 PM

"I do too. If it's not, you don't have to take care of me. I can just try to sleep it off."

Isley-Yesterday at 10:19 PM

"Well, if you're not working then I have nothing better to do. Maybe Ellie will make me go to that Corks and Canvases place again."

Daniel-Yesterday at 10:23 PM

"Yeah, I'm sure she would hang out with you. I'll pay you for all this break you're having to take by the way."

Isley-Yesterday at 10:24 PM

“Actually, I should probably study. And I’m okay, I’m not working so I shouldn’t get paid.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 10:24 PM

"You have to pay rent and stuff though. I'll cover your bills, at least. And feed you."

Isley-Yesterday at 10:25 PM

“Daniel, a few days off isn’t gonna kill me, and if we’re not living together you’re not paying any of my bills. I will take the food, though.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 10:26 PM

"What? I really think you should let me help you because I am the reason you're not making money."

Isley-Yesterday at 10:28 PM

“No, Daniel, I’m not letting you pay my bills! I’ll be okay without a few days’ pay.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 10:30 PM

"Fine. But IF you happen to need that money for rent or anything else, then let me know. I mean, it can just be considered a sign on bonus or something."

Isley-Yesterday at 10:32 PM

“I’m not gonna ask for it or take it, but okay.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 10:32 PM

"Why are you being so stubborn about it?"

Isley-Yesterday at 10:41 PM

Isley shrugged. “It feels like charity.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 10:41 PM

"How? First off, we're like.. A thing and second, I am the reason you quit your job. You have technically been working."

Isley-Yesterday at 10:44 PM

“It’s not like we live together, though. If we did, I could understand covering bills or rent for a little bit, but we don’t. And I have enough saved up to hold me over until we get on the payroll again.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 10:45 PM

"Then.. Move in." He shrugged. "I just don't want you to get behind because of me, especially when I can afford to help."

Isley-Yesterday at 10:46 PM

Isley sat up. “Did you just ask me to move in with you?”

Daniel-Yesterday at 10:47 PM

"I.. A little bit, yeah I did."

Isley-Yesterday at 10:51 PM

“Because you want me to, or because you feel bad I’m not getting paid?”

Daniel-Yesterday at 10:52 PM

"I do want you to. You could even take the spare bedroom if you think that it's too much too fast."

Isley-Yesterday at 10:54 PM

“Isn’t Ellie in the spare room? How many do you have?”

Daniel-Yesterday at 10:55 PM

"There's three bedrooms." He shrugged.

Isley-Yesterday at 10:55 PM

“You seriously want me to move in?” Isley asked again.

Daniel-Yesterday at 10:56 PM

Daniel looked up at the ceiling as he thought about it "I mean, yeah.. Why not?"

Isley-Yesterday at 10:58 PM

“You don’t think...that’s not too fast for you?”

Daniel-Yesterday at 10:59 PM

"We can see how things are after my dad leaves and mediation is over, but no.. I think it would be fine."

Isley-Yesterday at 11:01 PM

“And you want me to because you like me, not because you think you need to pay for me?”

Daniel-Yesterday at 11:01 PM

"Obviously I like you." he nudged her shoulder.

Isley-Yesterday at 11:02 PM

“I...okay. Let’s do it.”(edited)

Daniel-Yesterday at 11:02 PM

"Yeah?" He asked with a smile.

Isley-Yesterday at 11:04 PM

“Yeah.” She said, returning his smile.

Daniel-Yesterday at 11:04 PM

"Cool." He leaned over to kiss her cheek. "I might have to explain to Ellie that we are together."

Isley-Yesterday at 11:06 PM

“Babe, I hate to break it to you, but she’s not a child. I think she already knows.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 11:06 PM

"Yeah, but I haven't like told her."

Isley-Yesterday at 11:07 PM

Isley chuckled. “Okay. Do you think she’ll mind? I didn’t think she would but now i’m a little scared.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 11:08 PM

"I think if she  didn't like the idea then she would have said something by now. I feel like there's no way she hasn't heard you screaming." He smirked at her.

Isley-Yesterday at 11:09 PM

Isley slapped him gently. “Daniel!” She protested, although she was laughing. “But whose fault is that?”(edited)

Daniel-Yesterday at 11:10 PM

"I'll take blame for it." He pulled her closer. "If I could move without getting nauseous I'd make it happen right now."

Isley-Yesterday at 11:12 PM

“How are you still managing to turn me on?” She rolled her eyes at him, but silently wished he wasn’t sick. “Also, I don’t know about you, but I’ve never had so much sex in my whole life.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 11:13 PM

"I don't know, but I'm getting a confusing boner." He joked. "It's been awesome. I love that you're so into it all the time."

Isley-Yesterday at 11:15 PM

Isley started cracking up. “I don’t know how or why, you just get me so hot. All. The. Time.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 11:16 PM

"Well, I hope it lasts forever. It's been amazing."

Isley-Yesterday at 11:17 PM

“Me too. Speaking of, I was serious about bending me over your desk.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 11:18 PM

"I know you were and I will make it happen, don't worry."

Isley-Yesterday at 11:18 PM

“Good.” She replied, snuggling closer to him. “How did I get so lucky?”

Daniel-Yesterday at 11:19 PM

"I'm the lucky one. I care about you so much."

Isley-Yesterday at 11:19 PM

“I sure hope so.” She joked, but then said seriously, “I really care about you too.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 11:21 PM

He sat up a bit so he could drink the Gatorade she had brought out for him. "Good." He said with a smile before drinking. He laid back down and hugged her once more.

Isley-Yesterday at 11:23 PM

“You make me a happy, happy woman.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 11:24 PM

"You make me a happy man." He pressed a soft kiss to her neck.

Isley-Yesterday at 11:24 PM

Isley shivered as goosebumps popped up on her skin. She giggled and squealed, “Stop that!”

Daniel-Yesterday at 11:26 PM

"I'm sorry. I just want to kiss you so bad." He buried his face against her neck.

Isley-Yesterday at 11:27 PM

Isley continued laughing. “Your scruff is tickling me!”

Daniel-Yesterday at 11:28 PM

He pulled away with an exasperated sigh "let me be clingy."

Isley-Yesterday at 11:28 PM

“Okay, okay, c’mere baby.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 11:29 PM

He moved close to her once more, this time resting his head near her chest as his arm moved back around her.

Isley-Yesterday at 11:34 PM

Isley kisses the top of his head, then began to play with his hair. “Hey, I won’t have to take the subway to work anymore.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 11:37 PM

"No, you won't." His eyes closed as she played with his hair. "I think living here will be convenient for a lot of reasons."

Isley-Yesterday at 11:38 PM

“And fun. Don’t forget fun.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 11:39 PM

"And fun. I'm gonna get laid every night now." He joked.

Isley-Yesterday at 11:41 PM

“Yeah you will.” She countered.

Daniel-Yesterday at 11:42 PM

"I can't wait." He chuckled.

Isley-Yesterday at 11:43 PM

“Yeah, I think this is the longest we’ve gone without having sex.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 11:44 PM

"There were a few days when we got back from Vermont but I'm finding it much harder to refrain now."

Isley-Yesterday at 11:45 PM

“Well yeah, because we weren’t physically together like we are now.”

Daniel-Yesterday at 11:46 PM

"That's true." He agreed. "As soon as I'm feeling better, I'm gonna fix this situation."

Isley-Yesterday at 11:52 PM

“You can’t see me, but I’m rolling my eyes at you.” She paused for a moment before speaking again. “Also get better fast.”March 9, 2018

Daniel-Today at 8:32 AM

"I'm trying." He sighed. "Maybe I should just go to sleep and not wake up until I feel better."

Isley-Today at 11:06 AM

“I don’t know if you can control that.” Isley giggled. “But you do need lots of rest.”

Daniel-Today at 11:50 AM

"Then stop distracting me." He joked.

Isley-Today at 11:53 AM

“Yes sir.” Isley mocked, before settling deeper into him.

Daniel-Today at 11:54 AM

Daniel's arm wrapped around her, his hand on her breast as he settled against the pillow and closed his eyes to fall asleep once more.

Isley-Today at 12:22 PM

Isley waited until Daniel began to snore softly, then extricated herself from his arms. It was harder than she expected, but she somehow managed to do it without waking him. She gently kissed his cheek before writing him a note that said, “Baby, going shopping with Ellie. Text me when you get up and we’ll come home  -

️ I”

[allenmendezsr]

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Actually, it’s very simple. Much more simple than you could ever imagine.

You see… you ALREADY have the goods when it comes to bowling the best game you’re capable of… just not WHEN IT COUNTS.

You heard right. You’re “blowing your wad” on your PRACTICE THROWS, if you’re like 99% of the amateur bowlers in the world. And you’re leaving your best game behind. And going out on the lanes with the WORST game you have.

Let me explain.

If you’re like most bowlers, you like to warm up with a few frames before you start a game, right? At the very least, you get to the lanes every once in a while to “practice”. Everyone who takes their game seriously does this. I know I do.

The professionals spend a little time practicing, too. Throwing ball after ball.

But the pro’s do something DIFFERENT than you do. Unlike you (and every other amateur in the world)…

The Pro Knows How To “Capture” His Best Shot During The Warm-Up… And Bring It With Him To The Game!

Amateurs, on the other hand, LEAVE their best shot behind. Let me explain: There you are on your lane, warming up and testing the lane conditions, launching a fairly-decent hook, getting a strike here and there, maybe missing an occasional spare, setting up again and correcting your lift, launching another pretty damn good shot…

Wait a second. Stop right there. The difference between you and a top professional just went right by you. While you threw a strike, admired it, and then set up your next shot, the professional used his five “dirty little secrets”… and…

“Locked” That Breathtaking Shot Into His Body, Where He Could Bring It Back At Will, In The Game Where It Would Count The Most!

That’s what separates the professionals from the amateurs.

The professional “captures”

every

perfect shot he throws, and stores it in his system, where he can find it again when he’s playing “for real.” And he shakes off the bad shots, leaving them behind where they will never hurt him.

You, however, blow right past the few perfect shots you throw practicing, not storing them at all, and thus you can’t find them when it counts. Those great shots you launch on the practice lane are lost forever. Even more depressing… there’s a 90% chance the shots you do throw in the game will be among your WORST! Because, you’ve done EVERYTHING WRONG at the warm-up.

And what’s really frustrating is you don’t even know you’re doing it… because these five little secrets are NEVER discovered by amateurs! They’re the secrets that separate the guys who can make a living off the game, and everyone else who can’t buy a break.

And… just like most things that are so simple they get completely overlooked… no one has really understood how these secrets work before. Not the professionals. Not the teachers of the game. Nobody.

Until now. You know, every time I go to bowl a game, I bless John Jowdy. Because he alone has studied the game scientifically… actually coached the professionals for years and years (Parker Bohn calls him one of the best coaches the PBA Tour has ever known)… and is ALONE among professionals in his willingness to see the game the way the amateur needs to see it. John reveals the secrets the other professionals refuse to admit are even there.

These five “dirty little secrets” of the professionals will change your game forever…

And Do It Literally Overnight!

If I could just explain it all to you, I would right here. But you have to TRY these five secrets for yourself to “get” them. You have to make them a part of yourself… an extension of your game. You need to OWN them. So we put together a comprehensive guide explaining everything — literally everything — you need to know. (I convinced my partners here to sink a few bucks into the guide — even though we’ll never make our money back, because there are just too few guys like you savvy enough to understand how important this stuff really is!)

What about the simple adjustments I mentioned?

That’s how you’ll cold-cock the competition every time. Even on a “bad” day. Especially on a bad day. Here’s what I mean:

The key to playing like a pro is pinpointing opportunities… and EXPLOITING them… before your opponents take you down like a wounded duck.

Let’s face it. You are going to have games where you’re not playing your best. For whatever reason, your regular game plan won’t be working for you. This is where these slight adjustments–your backup plan–kicks in.

It’s the difference between the winner and runner-up. (On a bad day, it’s also the difference between bowling respectably and coming in dead last.)

Tiger Woods is certainly one of the best pro golfers. But even he has his ups and downs. That’s why after one of his many victories he said, “I didn’t have my ‘A’ game today.”

In baseball, when Greg Maddux, Tom Glavine, and Roger Clemens win, they often say things like “I didn’t have my best stuff today, so I just tried to rely on good location.” That’s when you know they relied on their backup plan, their “B” game.

Basketball legend Michael Jordan averaged more than 30 points a game for his career. But when he wasn’t pounding out 35 to 50 points a game, he defended his man, blocked shots, stole the ball, set picks, made assists, whatever it took to win… with his “B” game.

The Highest Compliment In Sports You Can Get Is When Other People Talk About You As “Being Able To Do It All”!

It’s no different with Bowling.

So these adjustments are designed to get you rock solid on your backup plan…your “B” game. Because sooner or later you’re going to rely on it. And it’s usually when you least expect it.

Get ready to shock the status quo when you learn…

How to develop a killer hook that murders the pocket every time…giving you explosively powerful strike after strike! (Just think how much fun you’ll have when the other players fall flat on their faces trying to imitate your edge.)

The 5 signals that tell you you’re rushing the line–and a simple counting exercise that will get you back in the “Bagger Zone.”  

How to add 25 to 45 pins or more to your next game by focusing on your spares. In fact, picking off those one-pinners alone will rev up your score considerably. (You can lose 12 sticks on the spot from a single missed pin!)

A little-known loophole with today’s bowling lanes that even many pro’s don’t know. (Norm Duke has this down — it’s the reason he made a championship round appearance on seven different oil patterns!)

The one situation where throwing a hook will lead to disaster…and how to turn it around to put the “icing on the cake.”

          “Hooking the ball is great, but one thing you don’t want to forget is still converting your spares. Making spares is still the most important key to success in most competitive situations.”

– Parker Bohn III, Pro Bowler   PBA Tour Earnings: $2,418,864.00

        How to turn wet/dry conditions on the lane into repeated pocket shots you can set your watch to! For dry lane conditions, simply throw the ball away from the target (with an opposite laydown point) and use a bigger hook to reel it back in. Your ball will find friction, and you’ll drive ‘em all insane when your ball seeks out its target like a heat-seeking missile!

The 5 best ways to cure fast feet forever! Just one of these tips will keep your feet in step with your swing–and all 5 together are a wicked combination!

The 3 different hook methods that’ll have your ball gripping the back ends, and striking your target with pinpoint precision! (Too many amateurs try to spin the ball to get a good hook. But the real trick is to release your thumb first, followed by your two fingers. The result is a boomer with natural lift and spin.)

How to turn sport lane conditions into a guaranteed strike machine, and smoke your competition. (This trick alone will exploit your opponent’s blind-spot, giving you an “unfair”, but perfectly legal advantage!)

A simple way to keep your ball from “rolling out”. Your jaw-dropping action will leave your opponents scrambling for pins while you rack ‘em up calm as a sleeping kitten!

The 3 most common lane oiling patterns and what they mean for your shots (just try throwing hooks on a reverse block, and you’ll appreciate having this inside information!)

How simple biomechanics can jack-up your pin action and humiliate the guy who always beats you. (Your lopsided wins will have you smiling so hard your cheeks’ll hurt!)

Why sport lane conditions and today’s equipment make it easier than ever to bowl a 300 game–and how it’ll easily bump you into a “scratch bowler” averaging 200 or better…

And remember…those techniques are for your “B” game. They’ll dial-up your “A’ game too, but the real “meat” is the five insider secrets that amateurs don’t know. And that’s the way the pro’s like it.

WARNING: DON’T BOWL YOUR NEXT GAME UNTIL YOU SEE MY FREE EMAIL COURSE…

“Get your FREE sneak preview of The Ultimate Bowling Guide”

You’ll Learn…

* How a dry lane can make a plastic ball look like the latest ball of the month.

* Ball Mechanics: How it skids, hooks, then ideally rolls (end over end), just as it enters the pocket.

* How poor ball placement can affect your balance and timing.

* A slight grip change that will magically jumpstart your hooks and boomers.

Just Fill out this short easy form for FREE Instant access

Yes, I want access to the Ultimate Bowling FREE Email Course… (Your information will be kept private)

Your privacy is guaranteed.

The first of these five secrets is how you calibrate your shots for lane conditions. I’ll show you exactly FOUR shots that you’ll take one right after the other. Those shots will locate your proper breakpoint, and lock in your game to match the conditions of the lane.

Once you’ve “zeroed” your pocket shot, you’ll use the other four secrets to commit your best shots to muscle memory–and to burn four “triggers” to your mind–so you’ll be able to throw strike after strike when it counts.

It will take you only an hour or two to learn this system. And then you will possess these simple “dirty little secrets” that allow professionals to “capture”… and store their best shots–then release them on demand. And you will be able to do the same exact thing yourself, the very next time you hit the lanes. You’ll finally be that “one in ten thousand” amateur player who gets into the same “Bagger Zone” the pro’s do.

It really is that simple.

In fact, once you see these five secrets in action, they will be burned into your system forever. You just don’t know what they are, yet. But we’ll show you.

And then, the next time you throw a few shots, simply pull out the four “triggers” from your memory. You can do everything you need to do by throwing just FOUR shots, too. That’s all you need. And the secrets are “locked in“. All the things you need — stance, approach, visualization, finish, all of it… it’s all “locked in” and on autopilot from then on out.

And your game is changed forever. Just like that.

The result? Power hooks that never land in the gutter. Accurate throws that glide down the lane with head-shaking precision. More fingers with “eyes for the pins”. Perfect shots all the time, one after another, without stress, without second-guessing.

Without mistakes.

Sounds good, huh? You bet it does. It’s what bowling is all about.

I’m sorry to be so secretive here, but you wouldn’t begin to understand what this is all about without TRYING it for yourself. I would just screw it up for you trying to explain it all here. It really is simple…

But It Has To Be EXPERIENCED!

That’s why we had to make sure you tried these techniques on the lanes yourself after we’ve revealed the secrets to you in our guide.

Try It 56 Days Risk Free!

You can try it for FREE, of course, if you like. Our policy here at Yes Bowling! has always been NO RISK, with a complete, no-questions-asked, 100% money-back guarantee of your satisfaction. Take a full 56 days to try these secrets for yourself. If you are not happy, for any reason (or for NO reason at all), you’ll get a prompt, cheerful refund. And we’ll still be friends.

That’s the only way I ever want to do business. It’s the way I wish other companies treated ME. No risk. No nonsense. No bullshit at all.

Click here to try it risk free!

Anyway, here’s the deal: If you want to know the five “dirty little secrets” the professionals use to “lock in” their perfect throw, just click here to order. It’s just $35.99 — fully refundable, without question or hassle — and you can use your credit card.  (To celebrate the publishing launch of our guide, we’re releasing a limited number of copies for just $27! That’s over 20% off the regular price!)

Read the guide… and learn what these amazing “dirty little secrets” are. Then go out and see how they affects your game. (If you’re like everyone else, you will instantly add a dozen or more pins to your game, and launch the most accurate shots of your life… the very first time you try the secrets out!)

And, if you’re not satisfied, for any reason at all, you’ll get a fast refund of your money. It’s that simple. Like I said, if the secrets weren’t so INTERACTIVE with your body’s feedback, I’d just explain it here in the letter and be done with it. But I can’t. You have to TRY it for yourself.

And then you’ll know.

Please hurry, though. Once the introductory copies are sold, the cost will go back up to full price (which is still a great value). You won’t see this offer in the magazines, either — it’s only available on this website until we decide to close the door forever. (We can’t let everyone get their hands on it, or it wouldn’t be a secret anymore!)

You must order right now, while this letter is still on your screen. Otherwise, you’re gonna forget, and you’ll NEVER know what these five “dirty little secrets” of the professionals are that make their game so automatic. It’s all so simple, you’ll be amazed.

But it’s also so powerful, you’ll never bowl the “old way” again. Remember — you don’t have to overhaul your game… just “lock into” the part that is already “perfect”… and learn the five simple secrets of unleashing it in your game, where it counts.

Simple. Stress-free. Change your game literally overnight.

But you gotta order right now.

Click the button below that says, “Click Here to Order Now!” You’ll be taken to Clickbank, one of the largest payment processors in the world. As soon as you complete your order, you’ll be immediately directed to the download page. It takes less than 5 minutes…

Don’t miss out.

Sincerely,

Dean Shaw Yes Bowling!

P.S. To sweeten the deal even further, I’m also going to give you a very special guide when you order now: “The Ultimate Bowling Troubleshooting Guide.”

Does your ball hook too much or too little? Are you clobbering the pocket one minute and way off target the next? Maybe your approach timing is off, and you’re flagging the foul line. Relax. These are common problems that get to everyone sooner or later. And the solutions are easier than you think. The Ultimate Bowling Troubleshooting Guide will have you toppling your king pin again in no time flat, and it’s yours FREE when you order today!

P.P.S. Here’s a few comments from people who already know what these five “dirty little secrets” are — I thought you’d be interested:

  Dear Dean,

Bowling has improved big time. Before I read the ultimate bowling guide I had a avg 139-144. My avg is now 150 and I now have 41 200 games and I bowled 2 200s before christmas.I bowled 216,209.I even got another 500 the total is 514 and I was even 97 pins over my avg one week.I have 29 years in bowling experience and 19 trophies.I have a handicap of 266.My team on the ladies league is in 1st place.I picture the headpin who I can’t stand the most that week and I get strikes,have  bowling tips memorized I use weekly.I haven’t got a 300 yet.I almost had a triplicate a couple weeks ago and was only 2 pins off from it.It would’ve been my 1st triplicate.

– Audra Pruder

Dean,

Yes.My bowling game improved dramaticly. I fixed my timing, I fixed my release. I went from 173 average to 199 average. I got rid of my hip pain. I adjust to conditions much faster (within a frame or two), before I read the book it took me one complete game or somtiemes even longer or not at all.

I am now the best player in my club. I also bowled my first perfect game. My average is still going up. The best thing I ever bought for bowling is this great book. Thanks again!

Tomaz Erzen

One tip from the book helped me keep my ball in more control (keep the ball right side of me instead of middle of my body at the starting position). I used to bowl around 90-100. I bowled over 200 twice last week!

– Tony Kim

Hi Dean,

Thanks for your pointers on how to get a 12 lb. light weight bowling ball to hook on the lanes. Since I do have arthritis in my right wrist I am now able to hold on to a 12 lb. bowling ball with control with no problem. Yes, this 12 lb. bowling ball feels like a feather but my wrist can hold that weight and my wrist and arm doesn’t get tired. Now the problem is how to get a 12 lb. bowling ball to have more track on oily lanes.

Now I sand the surface of my 12 lb. bowling ball with a fine piece of sand paper to a dull surface before I start bowling gives the ball to react with more accuracy and control. The bowling ball looks dusty among the shiny bowling balls on the rack but who cares as long as that bowling ball is doing the job for me. From low bowling scores that I was always getting like 123, 145, 157 has now picked up in scoring and now I am bowling much higher games like 175, 198, 203, 244.

Now as being a Golden Senior I have got my confidence back into bowling once again. This has changed my life and attitude on bowling making me feel that now that these bowling problems were solved you can let other Golden Seniors know and pass this little information on to them. It works for me and now I feel that with a light weight 12 lb. bowling ball I still can bowl higher scores just by adjusting my arm speed with more swing so that the bowling ball has enough roll and power when it comes into the pocket.

When I am finished bowling my 3 games I do not feel tired at all and that I could bowl another 3 games.

Dean thank you for taking the time and interest in solving my bowling issues and the problems we Golden Seniors are having in our Golden Years.

Thanks Again!

Bob Taylor Northfield, Ohio

  Click here to buy The Ultimate Bowling Guide!

[welcometophu]

What Taekwondo Means to Me

For my second degree black belt test, I had to write an essay on what TKD means to me, and what my goals are for the future.

I wrote an essay, and I hated every word of it. When I sat down to rewrite, I had that essay, what I wrote to talk to y’all about my test, and some notes all in front of me. I wrote a brand new essay from the start, and I’m much happier with this one. The transcript is here, and it’s long (the video is a about 7.5 minutes long, but I really like how it came out).

---

In 2010, when I turned 42, I gave myself the gift of life.

I was short. Fat. Overweight, struggling with chronic pain and stress, and a little bit of depression. I had tried every possible workout out there, from step to spinning, and none of it stuck. Not a single thing tweaked the pleasure centers in my brain and made me want to come back.

I wasn't sure taekwondo was the sport for me. I thought that I'd try it, and see if I could even survive a class. I liked the idea of kicking things--I'd been a baton twirler when I was growing up, and kicking was something I liked. But it seemed violent. Difficult. Not really a sport for a mother of two who was more than a bit height-challenged, and found that workouts usually meant more than a day of recovery.

It turned out to be exactly the sport for me. That pleasurable uptick in my brain--that little light that went on and said go back and do this again tomorrow--that was taekwondo. I made it through class, and yes, I was exhausted, and sore, but I felt alive. I felt like I had found the thing I'd been looking for. This was the workout I wanted to do. This was the sport I wanted to learn.

That doesn't mean it was easy. I loved the drills and kicking targets, but I was still terrified of sparring. I was terrified of anything that required me to hit a person, or worse yet, be hit by a person. I put off buying sparring gear as long as I could, which means I was six months into training before I ordered it, and due to some issues with delivery, eight months into training before I ever received it.

The third time I put on my sparring gear, I was in a tournament. So there I was, an orange belt, and I'm still barely able to put on gear without help. And there's my opponent, a purple belt who went straight for me head first shot and knocked me on my backside so hard that I saw stars.

I got up. I kept going. I was terrified, yes, but I knew that I didn't have a choice--I was in the middle of a sparring match in a tournament and I couldn't just stop. But it didn't really help me like sparring.

For Christmas in 2011, I gave myself the gifts of courage and belief.

I started attending tournament training classes. I was the slowest person in the class. I loathed running--still do. I was tentative. Careful. I was uncertain. There was one day when we were doing lead leg head kicks and I was cautiously lifting my leg and trying to reach for the head, and I couldn't make it. And Master Nash walked by and said, "Commit to the kick."

Because you can't do something unless you believe you can. You have to commit to the action, do it as if it will succeed in order for it to have a chance of succeeding. Don't overthink it, just throw the kick and trust that your body will accomplish the goal of reaching high enough, far enough, hard enough, to strike the target. In order to get there, I had to believe in myself.

At tournament classes we trained hard. We ran, we did conditioning, we did a lot of drills. And of course, we sparred. We sparred a lot.

I stopped hating sparring, but at that point, I didn't really love it, either. I learned how to do it. And I learned how to grit my teeth and work hard and get through it. I learned that no matter what, you don't give up. If you're gasping for breath on the edge of an asthma attack, you stop, you breathe, your coach gets you the time you need and then… you go on.

In the summer of 2014, for my 46th birthday, I gave myself the gift of faith.

I received my black belt that summer, and for the months leading up to the test, I didn't feel like I deserved it. I'd trained hard, just like everyone else. I'd worked my best and done my best, and I was pushing my limits as much as I could, but I still had imposter syndrome. I looked at other people and thought they're better than me, and they'll always be better than me.

When I tested, I failed to break my brick. But at the same time, I remembered all my forms, I did my essay, and I sparred well. In fact, I sparred well enough that when I threw a spin back kick and realized that I was about to catch my sparring partner in a very uncomfortable below-his-chest-protector place, I was able to pull back and not nail him with an illegal kick. I had control. And it's funny that that kick--too low, didn't land it--is one of the moments that gave my faith in myself as a black belt.

That was also the summer where I had to look at my training, because as a black belt, my journey was only just beginning. I had to ask myself where did I want to be in a year? In five years? And I had to follow my heart to where the training would be best for me, and I had to have faith in myself that I would be strong enough to withstand it and flourish.

For the past three years, I have given myself the gifts of strength and perseverance.

I remember a few years ago when I said it's okay, you get used to getting kicked in the face and my sparring partner just started at me, boggled. I can't blame her--it's not a normal statement to make. Nor is cheering for the person who just nailed my nose with a fantastic fake, or saying I'll do it with my off-hand because I'm not worried if I break that one.

We all have limits. We have fears, and we have things that we think we can't do. I've already listed mine: I'm short, fat, old, and I have chronic pain. Taekwondo is not the ideal sport for me, but I love it. And I love it enough that I've done strength training to try to supplement my ability to kick and punch, and I've done yoga to stay flexible. When I was told that running 75 miles was part of the requirements for my second degree test, I got out and started doing it right away because the sooner I started, the sooner I would finish. I still hate running, and I'm still the slowest person here, but I whined my through approximately twenty hours of running (at a sixteen minutes per mile average pace) and I made it across that finish line.

I didn't try to beat anyone else's pace, and I'm not trying to be the best person here. I want to be strong enough, and last long enough, to be the best me that I can be.

Three years ago I said that getting my black belt was just the beginning. I know that even more now: for everything I learn, there are two things I don't know. For everything I gain, there are more things waiting for me to get there. And if you ask me now where I want to be in one year, or in five years, or fates willing, in ten years, the answer is the same: I want to be here.

I want to keep training. I want to keep living the best life I can, and taekwondo is part of that. I want to gain more courage, have faith and belief in myself. I want to be strong, and I will persevere. I will continue to grow.

Keep working. Keep kicking. Don't die.

[junker-town]

Oklahoma State’s Samantha Show is your new queen of bat flips

Oklahoma State pitcher Sam Show is lighting up the Women’s College World Series

Calling it a bat flip is a gross understatement. When Oklahoma State’s Samantha Show hit her second home run of the day — the home run that wound up carrying the Cowgirls over the Florida Gators 2-1 in the opening round of the Women’s College World Series — she lifted the bat up over her head and slammed it down on the ground. (OSU fans have already made shirts immortalizing the moment.) Technically, the bat did flip, tumbling end over end towards the dugout as Show rounded the bases.

No words #WCWS | @CowgirlSB pic.twitter.com/U1OZOhGKzY

— NCAA Softball (@NCAAsoftball) May 31, 2019

Was it a flip? A slam? A Gronk spike?

Show prefers “bat tomahawk.” “It’s funny, it’s something different,” she said on the phone, a few hours before her team took on top-seeded Oklahoma. “Personally, I’ve never seen a baseball player do anything like that.”

The East Bernard, Texas native is OSU’s marquee pitcher and hitter, with a 2.38 ERA, .333 average and 20 home runs after transferring into the program for her senior year. Show’s scrappy, no. 13-seeded squad wasn’t supposed to win at all in the super-regionals, much less defeat defending champs Florida State in Tallahassee. Their victory Thursday over Florida was program’s first World Series win since 1998, making the team textbook Cinderellas.

The textbook Cinderellas are still competing, hoping that their nothing-to-lose swagger will lead them to improbable triumph. Thursday’s game was hardly the first time Show has given a team bulletin board material. In fact, Show (conveniently, her last name rhymes with “wow”) has earned something of a reputation for putting a little extra juice on the bat when she knows she’s gone yard.

“It doesn’t happen every time,” she insists, explaining that she’ll only flip her bat if she knows instantly it’s out of the park — and if the run gives her team a tie or the lead. “Whenever the ball’s hit and I know it’s out, I have so many strong emotions inside me. If I could, I would just sit there and not know what to do. But obviously I have to run around the base pads, so my emotions come out in my bat.”

.@SamanthaShow03 may be in college, but her bat flip game (also her all around game) is major league ready.pic.twitter.com/iNNVrakLh4

— Cut4 (@Cut4) March 11, 2019

Just as it would in baseball, her propensity to flip has become a point of contention in softball circles. Before the Oklahoma State-Florida game, for example, ESPN spliced footage of Show and Florida pitcher Kelly Barnhill talking about their approach to one of the sport’s most infamous “unwritten rules.”

“I don’t like bat flips,” Barnhill said in the clip. “I understand getting hyped and excited, but ... act like you’ve been been there.” Naturally, they aired it again once the Florida pitcher and her team had taken the L — and one of the most memorable bat flips the sport has ever seen.

“It’s funny, because my first bat flip was actually off her last year,” says Show, who faced off with Barnhill during SEC play with Texas A&M. “I understand pitchers not liking it, but I’ve never shown up a pitcher when doing it. It’s always for the team — for the girls and for our fans. If a hitter were to do that to me, I gotta tip my hat to them. If they’re crushing balls like that off me, then I can’t be mad because I know I’m leaving pitches where they’re able to be hit that hard and that far.”

Show had never considered flipping her bat until last season when Texas A&M hired a new hitting coach, Keith Stein. Stein had played baseball for the Aggies, and Show says he encouraged players to show out more in the batter’s box.

“When we did hitting groups, he would tell us to stand in the box and watch our ball go — and if you wanted to, to just kind of bat flip afterwards,” says Show. “Honestly, I had never really seen it done in softball — and I’ve had some balls hit off me that are probably still going. I wound up being the only one who did it in a game. It just kind of became who I am.”

Flipping her bat is just one facet of Show’s larger-than-life persona on the diamond.

She favors thick smears of eye black that inevitably smudge over the course of the game. “It’s always just been fun to me — it’s like my softball makeup,” she says. “Softball and baseball are dirty sports. I don’t want it to look as good at the end of the game as it did at the beginning.” In high school, she painted a K on each cheek — one forward and one backward — and covered them with green glitter. “Because, ‘money,’” Show explains patiently.

The pitcher’s walk-up song is a remix of the theme from Saw because she wanted “something that would freak the other team out,” says Show. “Something that would catch them off guard, so they would say, ‘What are we getting ourselves into?’”

courtesy of Oklahoma State University Athletics

That’s the question that’s long followed Show, for reasons both good and bad. She’s tall — 6’ — strong and ruthlessly competitive, sometimes to the point of abrasiveness. The same things that make her no-holds-barred style of play so fun to watch, her fierce individuality and relentless fire, have long made it challenging for her to connect with her teammates and coaches.

“She’s kind of a polarizing person,” her coach Ken Gajewski said in a postgame press conference last weekend. “She walks to her own tune.” In the same press conference, her teammate Madi Sue Montgomery explained that they had had a players-only meeting at the beginning of the year without her. “We just let each other know that if we took what she was saying and not necessarily how she says it, it was for the best of the team,” said Montgomery.

“I know that I’m difficult,” says Show. “Growing up, when my teammates weren’t always as serious about softball as I was, I never really had a lot of friends on my team just because my main goal was winning. I wasn’t necessarily liked, but I would do anything to win.”

She was immersed in softball early; her dad was her first coach, and her two older half-siblings played softball and baseball. But even when she was just dabbling in a sport, from basketball to bowling, her father insisted that she push herself to be great. Show credits him for her drive.

“He wouldn’t let me mess around, he wanted me to be the best,” she says. “By the time I was in middle school P.E., I would be out there with the boys throwing the football around and getting upset because they wouldn’t catch the ball, or playing dodgeball and literally throwing the ball as hard as I could because I wanted to win that badly.”

Male friends provided some solace. “I would go to watch them play baseball and wish that I could be out there with them, because of how competitive they were,” says Show. She also loved watching MLB players, and still takes them as a model for how she approaches the game.

“I really admire the way that baseball players play with so much swag and confidence,” she says. “Some of them are cocky and arrogant, but if that’s how you’re going to be you definitely have to back it up with how you play. They’re being true to who they are and having fun playing the game.”

courtesy of Oklahoma State University Athletics

Somewhere along the way, she lost that swag — the swag that came from breaking into the starting lineup as a freshman in high school and earning countless all-state honors, the swag that had her painting green glitter Ks on her cheeks because she knew she was money. At Texas A&M, she never performed to her own incredibly high expectations. “Going into college it was just a whole different world, and I was trying to be someone who I wasn’t,” she says. “The competitiveness in me kind of went away.”

Show went to her mom, who told her, “I want you to go out and be 10-year-old Sam.” “When I was younger, I threw hard but I never knew where it was going,” says Show. “I was effectively wild. But I needed that — to just kind of let loose and throw the ball as hard as I can and not really care what happens. I wish I would have done it sooner.”

Then came the bat flips, the Saw theme and ultimately her transfer to Oklahoma State, where she says that she found a staff that would be real with her. “[Gajewski] has honestly been the only person who would say those kinds of things to my face, and I think that goes to show what kind of coach he is,” says Show. “He didn’t shy away from the challenge, if you will, of coaching me. I would hope that I’m not as difficult to work with now, but I don’t know,” she concludes, laughing.

Now, Show has taken on a leadership role by encouraging her teammates to — you guessed it — flip their bats.

“If there’s one thing I can really get across, it’s that you’re going to be the happiest when you’re playing as you and not trying to conform, or be a cutout of who coaches want you to be,” she says. “You have to have so much confidence in this game, and there are a couple girls on the team who I could tell right off the bat didn’t have that confidence. You have to go in there thinking you’re the best hitter — that you’re better than that pitcher in the circle. Hitting home runs is hard. You don’t necessarily have to flip your bat but if you hit a home run, admire it and be proud of what you just did. I think we should admire our hard work.”

Show knows that attitude puts some people off, that they might see it as showy or arrogant. She gets booed, and doesn’t care. “The first time, I honestly laughed,” says Show. “In my head, as weird as it sounds, I was like, alright, I’ve made it. Like, people are watching me and they don’t necessarily like what I’m doing, but they’re watching me.”

Thanks to her bat flip, there are certainly a few more eyes on the Women’s College World Series. “As crazy as it is, there are a lot of people on Twitter who are like, ‘Now I’m going to start watching softball,’” Show says. “It’s growing the sport — for good or bad, at least people know that the World Series is going on right now.”

Forever Mood #SooWhat https://t.co/KlKBD09lOL

— T A 7 (@TimAnderson7) May 31, 2019

Show’s bravado and swagger have put her on the map precisely because so far, she’s been able to back up her big talk and bigger flips. Fittingly, her Twitter location is “BIG BALLER ATTITUDE” — an allusion inspired by exactly what you would expect.

“I’m a huge supporter of the Ball family,” says Show. “Lavar Ball and his attitude — the Big Baller way, just knowing you’re the best. That’s kind of how I’ve taken this year, just knowing that if I’m facing a batter that I’m better than them and when I’m in the box, I’m better than that pitcher. Reminding myself to be the best that I can be, and reminding myself to attack every day with confidence that no one is going to beat me at what I do.”